Portrait Of An Agent

The following is an odd entry. But, nonetheless interesting in its own way:

Her name was Anna. At least as far as I know. She had other names. She was partial to Hindi-Arab code names and refs. One would start a flurry of 'inquiries' and bring back an old air of memory.

She was an attractive young woman with medium build, ash blond hair worn often in a ponytail and mild features. She could blend in or stand out, depending on the situation. One thing that stood out always, her eyes. They were stone cold like the eyes of Lucifer. She could, of course, appear to be the cypher, but there was always the hint of predator, ready to pounce.

Her interests were, likewise, rather common yet stark. Art, especially photography occupied her off time. She was prone to angular and bleak pictures of bridges, trees, empty countrysides. Sometimes the images would soften round the edges. Was she running to something or away? Also, she enjoyed eating well, rather eclectically. At times she would prepare her own, but her travels lent her to restauranting. One of her favorites was homemade bread. She was easily conversant, in person and online. And not.

These things described her personality. Outwardly, she was open, witty, even humorous. Upon examination, trying to recall her, people have said they could only recall a nice young lady but just could not recall much else.

For those who got to know her better, as it were, she always had an 'edge'. Through the light conversation there seemed to be deeply felt urgency. It was as though she would just as soon dispense with the amenities and get to what she wanted.

For those very few who became familiar with her, again conditionally, underneath the exterior, at the core, was a hard knob of dark dense metal. Things kept in, locked tight, sealed off. Self hatred or hatred of others? Denial? Fear? Then again, the only fear exhibited was when she was directly threatened.

She did the bidding of people equally or moreso dark. Perhaps the reference to Lucifer is not too far off for those. In this, she was never alone. She was always on duty. Analyzing, decyphering life like a puzzle to be taken apart rather than to be put together. I once played a tune for her and asked her what she thought. Her answer bespoke the notion it was a code. Everything had an angle. (It was both code and tune -s-)

She had come and gone like a dream, with dark borders and a hint of dread. Smothering might describe encountering her. She did her job well. Yet not well enough.

Afterward:

Well, I promised this was offbeat. For those who know, she could well be real. Or this is merely a character note.

One thing. In war, there are different levels. Encountering 'Anna' or her ilk is not unusual, in a certain scenario. Fighting takes many forms. War of words, spoken, written, enhanced, deemphasized. War of wills, of worlds.

War is fought not only with guns, but with minds. Ultimately war is fought with spirit.