(Original Author's Note):

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Gallagher Girls

Hey Everyone!~! I'm DiVaGiRl13, call me diva. I've read and reviewed many fanfics on here. I really wanted to write a fanfic so…here it is!

I'd like to give a HUGE THANK YOU TO :Thalia XxGallagher Girl 4evaxX …She's the one who encouraged me to write this, Check out her story "The Real Deal" It's amazing~! J

THANK YOU SO~!~!~! MUCH THALIA, IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT I WOULDN'T HAVE WROTE THIS, YOU'RE COMPLETELY AWESOME~!

JPlease review, this is my first fanfic, and I need to know how it is. No flames please, I LOVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITISIM! Go easy on me, this is my first! Enjoy the chapter 1 in Zach's PoV Set during LYKY

(Revised Author's Note):

I've finally gotten time to rewrite this chapter; hopefully it's better written and is in character with Zach. It'll take a bit to rewrite all the horrifying chapters, but it's a job I'm willing to do.

Revised on: Monday, August 15, 2011

Chapter 1: A Girl, Introducing, and A Revealed Secret

Despite everything that was going on, I was bored senseless.

The stainless steel floor beneath my feet quivered as if the earth was grinding and moving in annoyance. No one bothered to look concerned, no one ever did. So as I turned the corner and the shaking still hadn't stopped, I didn't bat an eyelash. I was the poster boy for nonchalance, my hands shoved into the slacks of my uniform.

After all, Blackthorne Institute had situations like this nearly every day—the Research and Development Department was probably on fire again (not exactly the first time, I mean, half the class was made up of pyromaniacs and arsons) and as I heard a window explode in a shower of glass and the sounds of fire alarms ringing in the distance, I could help wonder who it was that just got an A+.

As a boarding school dealing with espionage, everything from the explosives going off like fireworks on Independence Day in the other wing of the school to how any of my teachers could disarm a nuclear bomb with only a wire and a few sugar packets to the fact I was attending a Covert Operations Class soon, was as normal as could be. To the public—well, we were spoiled little boys being placed here to keep us out of jail.

Pretty ironic, if you asked me.

"You do realize you're going at the pace of a snail, right? And it won't me my fault if Solomon skins you alive for being late."

Hands still shoved in my pockets, my response was a harsh spin kick to his stomach.

Somewhere behind the both of us, were a group of scrawny looking eight graders. It seemed I had an audience—an applauding audience, at that. I smirked.

The boy with fair brown hair and eyes nearly lost his footing and every particle of air seemed to have escaped his lungs, before giving me the evil eye. Casually, I returned to striding to class, the guy walking beside me. "I'm never late, Grant." I said a crooked and amused grin on my face.

"All I really saw was the fact you can't seem to take any constructive criticism." He shot back, more annoyed than angry. Grant turned the corner after nodding his farewell and as I continued on my way, I heard the vague sound of a robotic voice: "Grant Newman. Sophomore. Height: 6'1". Hair color: Brown. Eye color: Brown. Welcome to Covert Operations."

Turning another corner, I stepped up to the wooden door that came into view. Twisting the knob, I felt the brass beneath my palm heat up, knowing well enough that it was taking in the genetic material of my skin and scanning the prints of my hands. A slot slid open and an antifreeze green light scanned my right eye as I held my head still.

"Zachary Goode. Sophomore. Height: 5'11". Hair color: Brown. Eye color: Green. Welcome to Covert Operations." An android like voice beeped, neither distinctly male nor female. The door clicked open, the soft whir of metal gears, unlocking the titanium walls that lead to my classroom.

Walking through the hall that was made from the retreating walls, I watched as the final wall slid up to the ceiling to reveal an array of cold, chrome tables for two. It looked like a cross between the FBI's forensics laboratory (which my roommate and I took a little trip to; it resulted in three really angry FBI agents, an exploding skeleton, and getting extra credit in one of our classes) and a high school science lab.

Nearly the whole class had filled the room so far; chatter creating a hum of normality in the air.

"Hey." Grant greeted, leaning leisurely in his chair. "Looks like Solomon's going to be late again and— oh yeah, I think Jonas is dead." His tone sounded like he was asking me whether it was raining outside.

I noticed three more students enter from various compartments in the walls (meaning Tim Williams had just popped out of the blackboard, Cole Jacobson crawled out from the bookcase, and John Takahashi, quite literally, fell from the ceiling.).

"He's been late for the last week, I'm not really surprised." I stated, sliding into my own seat. I glanced at the guy in front of me, his black jacket slumped over the steel desk, his black head looking either like a) it exploded sometime during the night and/or b) an angry cat that couldn't decide whether he should sleep or maul the boy's head. "Not really surprised about Jonas either, Grant."

And I wasn't certain of it, but I thought I saw a puddle of drool collecting on the set of notes his cheek was pressed up against.

Grabbing his shoulder and roughly shaking, I stepped back and dodged the fist that was aimed for my nose. "Nah, he's awake—kind of." I dismissed, watching as Jonas feebly tried to keep his head up, it looked as if the rim-wired glasses on his face weighed more than the titanium walls that concealed the CoveOps room.

He looked so tired I almost told him that the disconnected words: "thus carbonic acids," "used in major world wars concerning chemical warfare," and "written by Jonas North" were smudged backwards on his face. Written in Catalan, of course.

Jonas may have been one of my roommates, but the guy was going to ram his fist into my face for waking him up—I never claimed to be the greatest friend, now did I?

"By how many minutes and seconds ago was I supposed to be here?" A voice boomed, a native Italian accent rolling off his tongue and bouncing off the walls like an echo.

In unison as a class, we all shot back the response in Italian: "Eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds."

Turning to the door, Joe Solomon strode in with his typical white dress shirt and black slacks. The only sounds audible in the room was the thuds and thumps of Solomon's shoes. In fluent Vietnamese he threw back, "As of today, how many paces have I walked in this very room? And the foot I started on, name it, Mr. Baker."

Corey Baker didn't hesitate: "Seventeen paces. Your right foot, sir."

Solomon leaned forward on his desk, his reflection visible from the steel. He continued, not missing a beat, this time in Croatian. "There are three phrases on Mr. North's cheek, what are they, Mr. Goode?"

After repeating what Jonas' face had read, I watched as Jonas' hand shot to meet his cheek. I suppressed a laugh—but like Grant, he was more irritated than mad. A moment passed as each one of us sat at the edge of our seats waiting for his next question—would it be about how the third light from the left had started flickering—would the next language be Hindi? But neither of those things came as the seconds ticked by, Solomon's green eyes seemed to be burning a hole through the back wall. He slowly straightened and I practically heard everyone inhale, awaiting further questions in a different tongue.

But the question had nothing to do with observations, or was even in a foreign language.

Reverting back to English, Solomon walked to the front of his desk before leaning against it, crossing his arms comfortably across his chest. "Who can tell me what the Gallagher Academy is?"

My mind raced—Gallagher Academy, obviously a school. What was it for—etiquette? Delinquents? The certifiably insane? Or was it a regular school dictated by the government?

Through all of this, no one made a sound. A pause. "Then who can tell me who the surname Smith belongs to and why he is famous?"

Tim Williams' arm shot up like rocket. "Former Blackthorne alumni. Known for quick disguises from missions including the Pompeii Case, the Moroccan Condition, the Soviet Union Militia Event—"

"Not what I was asking, Mr. Williams." Solomon cut off; his eyes swept the room quickly. "I suppose you could call this 'story time' now, gentlemen. Because you see, you are all very self-centered, which is actually quite normal considering the circumstances." Several students stiffened.

I eyed our teacher, the way his stance was so casual, yet eyes completely expressionless as if he was just looking at an empty room, rather than a class of agents. "You believe that this institution is one of a kind—but it's not. There is another school specializing in espionage—" Eyes widened. Breaths were inhaled. And it seemed everyone's hearts stopped in unison, like we were answering another question. "—and it is called the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women."

The room seemed to explode in sound—shocked exclamations were made, demands were being asked, and in all of this. I sat there and stared at the teacher and how he almost seemed amused. Truthfully, I wasn't too surprised—after all, not all agents around the globe were men. Solomon snapped his fingers; the crackle loud over the voices, like that single snap had took away everyone's ability to make noise. They—we—it was as if they trained us to be their obedient little dogs, I thought disgustedly.

"To tail," Solomon barked in Danish. "Define it, Mr. North."

"To pursue a subject unseen." Jonas shot back immediately, his photographic memory working like a master computer.

"Now, I'll give you a bit of an expose of a certain student at Gallagher Academy, the only student in her class to have successfully tailed Smith on an operation." Solomon said smoothly. A shocked silence seemed to clog the air.

Fingering through the files of my mind, I couldn't help but be impressed. The girl had tailed an agent who was wanted in many countries (ninety-eight in counting) and had probably gone through plastic surgery more times than all the celebrities in Hollywood combined. Not mentioning the fact Smith was also widely known for his paranoia (which could have been a medical condition, but was never checked out due to the fact Smith refused to see a doctor—something about a psychiatrist in Cuba and a rather deadly toothbrush, if I remembered correctly.)

Our teacher continued: "A pavement artist. Define it."

A voice that sounded like Mario Rodriguez threw back: "One who tails and gather information and date on The Subject in an operation."

"And you see," Solomon said, as if he hadn't just drilled the class. "This student is a pavement artist. Her codename is Chameleon."

I listened carefully to Solomon, and to anyone looking, I looked impassive, but I had to say, the girl seemed actually genuinely interesting. A natural pavement artist, huh? Inwardly, I grinned. It looked as if I had finally found a new challenge. With the infamous Chameleon of Gallagher Academy.

It looked as if my boredom had finally ended.

(Original Author's Note):

Please Review, they're always appreciated! :) So...keep or delete?

~diva~

Further Revision of this story has begun, feel free to reread it, although no major facts shall be changed! -sincerely, diva