Editing Emerald Morning (section)

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The camera zooms out, and we see the inside of the lab - absinthe light, angled shadows, a hazy veil of tobacco smoke hovering over the room. The holographic projector, a flat, silver discus embedded in the floor, crackles to life. The image snaps like fissuring ice, then coalesces into a human shape.

He is a boy who could not be a day over sixteen. His hair is a messy array of spikes the color of conifer leaves in winter. The hardened plates of Tactical Reactive Armor cover his body, stitched into the steelsilk polymer (five hundred dollars a square inch, imported from the cloistered Orient!) of his jumpsuit. His lips are pulled into a whimsical grin that doesn’t fail to reach his grey-green eyes. Though small of stature, he radiates a sort of irreverent familiarity usually reserved for drunken nobles or Daoist Immortals. His body, on the other hand, is a single coiled spring of ferocious energy, bundled muscles appearing to hum with power even at rest.

A box pops up, in front of his chest, and words begin to scroll...

''Operative Second Class

''Mr. Emerald Morning (Designation #0091)

''Birthdate: XX, XX, XXXX

''Height: 5’6

''Weight: 165 lbs.

''Blood Type: AB+

''Significant Ancestors: Mother’s side unknown (Oriental), Father’s side - Lancelot of the Lake

''Clearance Level: 19A

''Preferred Weapon: Electric Double Bass

''Current Status:'' '''Transferred (Invisible Hell Killers).'''

Exhale. A halo of cigar smoke floats away.

"It's a shame, losing him like that. What's this world coming to, eh?" A chuckle.

The camera spins, whips around: a matronly figure materializes out of the shadows. Short and furious, her silver-white hair glows like a bird's nest in the sullen light. Her voice is witheringly unimpressed.

"I don't believe so, no. After all, his departure prevented more crimes than his presence ever did."

The man gives a barking laugh. "Got too friendly with the criminals, he did. They started committing crimes just to land time so they could chat with him!"

"He was too friendly with everyone. Not proper behavior, that. We have a reputation to uphold - what would we do if all our agents were as well-socialized and sunny as that?"

The man shakes his head. "Well, we trained him from grade school up! It should have been conditioned out of him. I just don't know where we went wrong. It's such a shame to lose a fighter like him, too. Descended from Lancelot himself!"

The woman shrugged. "Enough sentimentality. Close his file."

"Yes, ma'am."

A tapping of keys. The bolded word disappears, to be replaced by another.

Current Status: '''Discharged (Attending Secondary Education).'''