in failure, a Cipher learns or dies

Even Cipher Agents had their failures.

And those failures, alarmingly often, could so easily result in their death.

Sixteen knew that. They’d accepted that, long ago. Learned from their failures, learned from their successes, and kept tabs on the other Ciphers (at least, as well as they were able, considering Ciphers were often kept away from one another, and their missions kept classified). They hadn’t lived as long as they did, in the career that they had, by being stupid. The gray that touched their chin, around their nose, the thinning fur at their joints, streaks of their hair—they all told the story well enough of how good they were at their job. Most Ciphers couldn’t even dream of reaching their fifties, after all.

So, when Sixteen did fail that mission, the assassination going south and resulting in a vibroknife through the shoulder and then slicing across an arm, one could only imagine their frustration with themself. They hadn’t anticipated the suspected SIS spy to have one on him, hidden in his boot of all places.

Sixteen didn’t like admitting that they’d misjudged a situation. Yet they couldn’t deny that they had, this once.

With a snarl at their own idiocy finding a permanent place on their lips, they worked to wrap their arm to stop the bleeding. They’d been forced to tear their own shirt for it; the pale blue cloth wasn’t such for long. A shame, it had been a nice blouse.

Annoying as it was, the failure would serve as a good reminder. At least it hadn’t gotten them killed.