Part six: Getting the job done
In which Keira is given to understand that MI-13 can be very efficient.
It's a nice day. Clear, with a bit of a breeze that's enough for you to feel it but
not enough for a chill. It was getting stuffy in there, not to mention intensely
boring. all they were talking about was procedure, magic as applied to
dimensions and politics and a bunch of other stuff that doesn't concern her, so
Keira decided to take a break and leave them to it. The interior of the building
as a whole's stifling, the paper and data and filing cabinets and rules sometimes
seeming liek they're about to fall over and crush her while she's eyeing it warily.
So it was time for fresh air, so she came out here to work on some upcoming
proects, ones very firmly not related to this place, picking a spot and getting
comfortable, pulling out her laptop, the solar charger she picked up and a few
notebooks and get to work.
She's tapping away at her laptop, cross-referencing images of painters and
travel plans with the latest security measures at airports when the door to the
building opens and there's an "Aye, well, it's not like it's all that much of a night
out there." in a Scots accent, which indicates Alasdair's come out for a breather.
Another one for getting twitchy, but he hides it better. "You'd be better following
the crowd in that respect, sad to say. Just because it's an effortlessly cool hole
in the wall doesn't mean they're going to have competent staff behind the bar."
"I can do very well in some very dismal places. As long as they serve good
vodka and attract... interesting people." Kamarov says, moscow accent carrying
well.
He's been around for the past couple of weeks and become a regular visitor
before that. Any time the Russians have to send someoen to discuss a job, an
international matter or just as company for an artefact through customs, he
always somehow pulls a few strings and wrangles it so that it's him. Everyone
knows it's because he's coming over to check on Gwen and the baby,more so
since it was born, but no-one ever speaks a word about it, tiptoeing around the
matter. Weirdoes. It's like they can't bear to acknowledge it, or've been
infected by the civil service. Keira's had dealings with a few of those over her
career, and they're probably the slimiest folk she's ever met, unable to speak a
direct truth even if you dumped an entire bag of gold in their lap. Admittedly
given the tangled, spread out nature and very, very long history of MI-13 -
which she probably knows better than the official histories of the place do, given
her talents - some of them are civil servants. Infection begins at home.
Anyway, due to that she's gotten to know him fairly well. As well as you can
know someone who's been described as 'perfect old skool KGB material' in not
so hushed asides. He's turned out to be a complete tosser, but a charming one,
which means he gets on with most people except Gwen. They keep their own
personal detente going for the sake of letting him see his kid. Seems some
appearances aren't deceiving, even in this world.
"I could've sworn Brennan came out here." Alasdair say, looking around. "I can
bloody smell her, she's got to be around here somewhere. It's not like she can
vanish into thin air."
"Perhaps she has recently left?" Dmitri says, sounding amused. "You should not
always rely on your senses."
"Covers most of it." Alasdair shrugs. "And they're more accurate most of the
time."
Another pause. "I believe I have found her." Dmitri says, gesturing upwards for
the benefit of McAvoy, indicating where Keira's sitting. Which is up on one of the
high juts shaped liek a dragon in an attempt to give the outside character and
act as a conduit if they need it in something. Pretty and functional, as most of
the odder things in this place are. If it looks like corporate art, it almost
certainly isn't. Aside from that painting in corridor three on floor five, which was
hastily bought down Paperchase to cover an accident with a gryphon. the
dragon's wide enoguh to be comfortable to sit on and out of the way, which suits
Keira just fine.
"Do you have to sulk up there?" Alasdair asks, amused. "I'm aware it was
getting boring for someone not involved with that part of the job and of your
talents, but surely it's easier to sulk on ground level?"
" 'M not sulking, 'm planning my next job." Keira says, tying up a few last
association strings, then folding up her laptop, stuffing it and the notebooks in
her rucksack and slinging that on, springing for the next griffin waterspout, then
the ledge for a handhold to swing round, get her feet on the ledge above it, use
the momentum to somersault backwards and land at Kamarov's feet. Kamarov
slow claps her, amused look firmly pasted on. "Something you wanted?"
"Stop showing off." Alasdair says, rolling his eyes. More at Kamarov for
encouraging her than anything.
"It's at least a useful skill." Kamarov points out.
"So what's this about?" Keira asks, adjusting her rucksack so it sits better and
the laptop's not poking her in the lower back. "Davies finally tearing her hair out
and discovered the answer's 42?"
"Discovered a long time ago, sadly. It appears to be a bit nastier than it first
appeared." Dmitri says.
A lot nastier, it turns out. There's a mess of running about trying to chase down
leads and whereabouts - which of course means that keira's the one doing most
of the running, bouncing up and down walls and over the roofs of London and at
one stage through some bloody horrible sewers, going places where there aren't
ladders or steps. Good old victorian engineering, still going strong and built with
chimney sweeps in mind. Add data tracking and they end up facing down half of
A & E in Euston hospital, not much more than ten minutes' dash from their base
of operations. Or to put it in Hardwicke speak, "Why do you think we bloody
picked here?"
The nurses and doctors are trying to cope or hiding, there's a roiling black cloud
circling the ceiling, and they've got a host of christ knows what possessing the
bikers from that pile-up on Marylebone. If you're going to be doing a drive
through in honour of someone, the last thing you want is sudden engine failure
in a good third of them. Apparently it was like Stig's relatives had got lashed
and gone for a drive. And they're hostaging at least three geriatrics.
"So which one's the lynchpin?" Davies asks.
keira shakes her head and grimaces from scanning for the presences. "They all
are. It's hopping and leaving bigger traces each time." She fiddles with her
earring. "Hate to say it, but it really does like the smell of motor oil, so there's
not much chance of it jumping out of the bikers unless it's desperate."
"Right. Discussion, people." Hardwicke says. They go off into a huddle. call
some people, leaving Keira to catch eyes with the receptionist huddling behind
their desk which she's leaning against and make a sympathetic shrug. Takes all
of ten seconds, the discussion, but the spike she gets from intent makes her
swallow, and resist the urge to curl up into a ball.
There's growling from in the midst of the bikers - which isn't any one specific
throat, but rather a rippling of noise gradually going throgh all of them. they're
not stupid. Pity, because they simply don't react hard and fast enough to the
sudden melee that MI-13 starts, efficiently laying into them with claws and teeth
on behalf of the couple of werewolves in the team, a bit of lightning and throat
constriction from teh weather worker, and good old fashioned bullets.
There's a pile of twitching leather clad bodies in hat corner in the space of a few
minutes, blood everywhere, and in the midst, Davies is jerking one's head back
and snapping it, looking liek a very efficient angel of death.
Two minutes after that, they're calling in clean up - physical and for whatever
traces that thing left, asking where they can get a cuppa and asking the nurses
to go back to what they were doing, especially the triage nurses, please,
because they don't want waiting times to be too disrupted, they know what it's
like waiting to be seen.
The receptionist stares. "Are tehy for real?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." keira swallows, feeling sick at the sudden
precision violence. "I'm just a freelancer."
then come the repercussions. They try and hush this kind of thing up, but of
course pictures get out. And the picture with the only clear face is of course, by
sod's law, the one of Gwen breaking one biker's neck. It flashes up on
websites, news reports, the front of the tabloids.
McAvoy and Keira are sitting in the hall while hardwicke's laying down the
repercussions for Davies. "I am quite aware of the seeming unfairness of this,
but the point of the matter remains that yours was the face seen. given the
circles you and this agency travels in, you're going to have to disappear. I'm
quite sure becoming an easy target for anyone with a grudge against the agency
and hate figure is something you're equipped to deal with if you stay in this
country. Which means you're packing a bag and getting on the plane to a nice
cosy arranged CIA job and new identity at 3 o'clock." Pause. "Yes, I'm quite
aware that that's in less than eight hours' time. it should give you enough time
to say goodbye to close family. We'll take care of such things as your personal
effects, flat and bills and put them in storage or get the pertinent necessaries
shipped to you." Pause. "Your baby? oh, I'm sorry, did you get the impression
that - no, your parents will be taking care of her. Do you understand the
concept of a new identity? You'll be allowed contact, but as for setting foot in
this country or on this continent until the heat has died down, I think not."
"Fuck." McAvoy breathes.
"Fuck indeed." Keira says, swallowing, mind still going from the bloodbath and
then the quick disposal.
The door opens, Davies striding out, head held high and face white. Hardwicke
looks down at them as she gets to the lifts, and comments "Like all UK govt
agencies and militia, we're polite, ruthless bastards on a budget. Please don't
forget that. Now bugger off, I'm sure you've got something better to do than
eavesdrop."
It's a nice day. Clear, with a bit of a breeze that's enough for you to feel it but
not enough for a chill. It was getting stuffy in there, not to mention intensely
boring. all they were talking about was procedure, magic as applied to
dimensions and politics and a bunch of other stuff that doesn't concern her, so
Keira decided to take a break and leave them to it. The interior of the building
as a whole's stifling, the paper and data and filing cabinets and rules sometimes
seeming liek they're about to fall over and crush her while she's eyeing it warily.
So it was time for fresh air, so she came out here to work on some upcoming
proects, ones very firmly not related to this place, picking a spot and getting
comfortable, pulling out her laptop, the solar charger she picked up and a few
notebooks and get to work.
She's tapping away at her laptop, cross-referencing images of painters and
travel plans with the latest security measures at airports when the door to the
building opens and there's an "Aye, well, it's not like it's all that much of a night
out there." in a Scots accent, which indicates Alasdair's come out for a breather.
Another one for getting twitchy, but he hides it better. "You'd be better following
the crowd in that respect, sad to say. Just because it's an effortlessly cool hole
in the wall doesn't mean they're going to have competent staff behind the bar."
"I can do very well in some very dismal places. As long as they serve good
vodka and attract... interesting people." Kamarov says, moscow accent carrying
well.
He's been around for the past couple of weeks and become a regular visitor
before that. Any time the Russians have to send someoen to discuss a job, an
international matter or just as company for an artefact through customs, he
always somehow pulls a few strings and wrangles it so that it's him. Everyone
knows it's because he's coming over to check on Gwen and the baby,more so
since it was born, but no-one ever speaks a word about it, tiptoeing around the
matter. Weirdoes. It's like they can't bear to acknowledge it, or've been
infected by the civil service. Keira's had dealings with a few of those over her
career, and they're probably the slimiest folk she's ever met, unable to speak a
direct truth even if you dumped an entire bag of gold in their lap. Admittedly
given the tangled, spread out nature and very, very long history of MI-13 -
which she probably knows better than the official histories of the place do, given
her talents - some of them are civil servants. Infection begins at home.
Anyway, due to that she's gotten to know him fairly well. As well as you can
know someone who's been described as 'perfect old skool KGB material' in not
so hushed asides. He's turned out to be a complete tosser, but a charming one,
which means he gets on with most people except Gwen. They keep their own
personal detente going for the sake of letting him see his kid. Seems some
appearances aren't deceiving, even in this world.
"I could've sworn Brennan came out here." Alasdair say, looking around. "I can
bloody smell her, she's got to be around here somewhere. It's not like she can
vanish into thin air."
"Perhaps she has recently left?" Dmitri says, sounding amused. "You should not
always rely on your senses."
"Covers most of it." Alasdair shrugs. "And they're more accurate most of the
time."
Another pause. "I believe I have found her." Dmitri says, gesturing upwards for
the benefit of McAvoy, indicating where Keira's sitting. Which is up on one of the
high juts shaped liek a dragon in an attempt to give the outside character and
act as a conduit if they need it in something. Pretty and functional, as most of
the odder things in this place are. If it looks like corporate art, it almost
certainly isn't. Aside from that painting in corridor three on floor five, which was
hastily bought down Paperchase to cover an accident with a gryphon. the
dragon's wide enoguh to be comfortable to sit on and out of the way, which suits
Keira just fine.
"Do you have to sulk up there?" Alasdair asks, amused. "I'm aware it was
getting boring for someone not involved with that part of the job and of your
talents, but surely it's easier to sulk on ground level?"
" 'M not sulking, 'm planning my next job." Keira says, tying up a few last
association strings, then folding up her laptop, stuffing it and the notebooks in
her rucksack and slinging that on, springing for the next griffin waterspout, then
the ledge for a handhold to swing round, get her feet on the ledge above it, use
the momentum to somersault backwards and land at Kamarov's feet. Kamarov
slow claps her, amused look firmly pasted on. "Something you wanted?"
"Stop showing off." Alasdair says, rolling his eyes. More at Kamarov for
encouraging her than anything.
"It's at least a useful skill." Kamarov points out.
"So what's this about?" Keira asks, adjusting her rucksack so it sits better and
the laptop's not poking her in the lower back. "Davies finally tearing her hair out
and discovered the answer's 42?"
"Discovered a long time ago, sadly. It appears to be a bit nastier than it first
appeared." Dmitri says.
A lot nastier, it turns out. There's a mess of running about trying to chase down
leads and whereabouts - which of course means that keira's the one doing most
of the running, bouncing up and down walls and over the roofs of London and at
one stage through some bloody horrible sewers, going places where there aren't
ladders or steps. Good old victorian engineering, still going strong and built with
chimney sweeps in mind. Add data tracking and they end up facing down half of
A & E in Euston hospital, not much more than ten minutes' dash from their base
of operations. Or to put it in Hardwicke speak, "Why do you think we bloody
picked here?"
The nurses and doctors are trying to cope or hiding, there's a roiling black cloud
circling the ceiling, and they've got a host of christ knows what possessing the
bikers from that pile-up on Marylebone. If you're going to be doing a drive
through in honour of someone, the last thing you want is sudden engine failure
in a good third of them. Apparently it was like Stig's relatives had got lashed
and gone for a drive. And they're hostaging at least three geriatrics.
"So which one's the lynchpin?" Davies asks.
keira shakes her head and grimaces from scanning for the presences. "They all
are. It's hopping and leaving bigger traces each time." She fiddles with her
earring. "Hate to say it, but it really does like the smell of motor oil, so there's
not much chance of it jumping out of the bikers unless it's desperate."
"Right. Discussion, people." Hardwicke says. They go off into a huddle. call
some people, leaving Keira to catch eyes with the receptionist huddling behind
their desk which she's leaning against and make a sympathetic shrug. Takes all
of ten seconds, the discussion, but the spike she gets from intent makes her
swallow, and resist the urge to curl up into a ball.
There's growling from in the midst of the bikers - which isn't any one specific
throat, but rather a rippling of noise gradually going throgh all of them. they're
not stupid. Pity, because they simply don't react hard and fast enough to the
sudden melee that MI-13 starts, efficiently laying into them with claws and teeth
on behalf of the couple of werewolves in the team, a bit of lightning and throat
constriction from teh weather worker, and good old fashioned bullets.
There's a pile of twitching leather clad bodies in hat corner in the space of a few
minutes, blood everywhere, and in the midst, Davies is jerking one's head back
and snapping it, looking liek a very efficient angel of death.
Two minutes after that, they're calling in clean up - physical and for whatever
traces that thing left, asking where they can get a cuppa and asking the nurses
to go back to what they were doing, especially the triage nurses, please,
because they don't want waiting times to be too disrupted, they know what it's
like waiting to be seen.
The receptionist stares. "Are tehy for real?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." keira swallows, feeling sick at the sudden
precision violence. "I'm just a freelancer."
then come the repercussions. They try and hush this kind of thing up, but of
course pictures get out. And the picture with the only clear face is of course, by
sod's law, the one of Gwen breaking one biker's neck. It flashes up on
websites, news reports, the front of the tabloids.
McAvoy and Keira are sitting in the hall while hardwicke's laying down the
repercussions for Davies. "I am quite aware of the seeming unfairness of this,
but the point of the matter remains that yours was the face seen. given the
circles you and this agency travels in, you're going to have to disappear. I'm
quite sure becoming an easy target for anyone with a grudge against the agency
and hate figure is something you're equipped to deal with if you stay in this
country. Which means you're packing a bag and getting on the plane to a nice
cosy arranged CIA job and new identity at 3 o'clock." Pause. "Yes, I'm quite
aware that that's in less than eight hours' time. it should give you enough time
to say goodbye to close family. We'll take care of such things as your personal
effects, flat and bills and put them in storage or get the pertinent necessaries
shipped to you." Pause. "Your baby? oh, I'm sorry, did you get the impression
that - no, your parents will be taking care of her. Do you understand the
concept of a new identity? You'll be allowed contact, but as for setting foot in
this country or on this continent until the heat has died down, I think not."
"Fuck." McAvoy breathes.
"Fuck indeed." Keira says, swallowing, mind still going from the bloodbath and
then the quick disposal.
The door opens, Davies striding out, head held high and face white. Hardwicke
looks down at them as she gets to the lifts, and comments "Like all UK govt
agencies and militia, we're polite, ruthless bastards on a budget. Please don't
forget that. Now bugger off, I'm sure you've got something better to do than
eavesdrop."