[A/N] August 29th, 2016 - Originally posted on August 11th as a ficlet request from ibuzoo on tumblr, and a Happy Birthday to Ginny Weasley. There is potential to continue this story arc but for now it is a one-shot.

Prompt: If you die, I'm going to kill you.

She'd let her hair grow too long again; a single fiery strand flickered in and out of her vision in time with the air blowing around the top of the building. Without moving, to keep her position protected from any curiously wandering eyes, she vainly blew short gusts of air out between her lips to attempt to move the hair. Instead, it defiantly scratched the edge of her left eyebrow.

Fuck it, she thought to herself petulantly

Language, Ginevra.

But she was never really by herself, was she?

Ginny longed to pop the miniature transmitter out of her ear, and crush it in her cybernetic palm. I sincerely hate you in my ear, Tom. You're not helpful.

I am under the impression you'd still have two hands if this technology was ready on the last mission, Tom's clipped reply sprang back.

I don't get my own fucking thoughts to myself!

You can have them back after you're back at base.

Fuck off.

Likewise.

The moments of petty arguments helped the crawl of time pass by. Even in the dark of ten minutes past midnight, sweat pooled in the dip of her collarbone, dripping from her chin, even her earlobe. The tendons of her left arm, newly healed, itched at the unfamiliar wires and cables mixing with sinew. As much as she hated the obvious mark of her own lack of judgement, she admitted the bone-crushing power of the metal fingers would be infinitely useful. Granted, she wasn't rushing to replace any other portions of her anatomy with cybernetics.

Unlike Tom. He was likely more machine than man now, not that she'd gotten close enough to find out. Or that she wanted to. Only Bella truly knew what lay beneath those impeccably tailored suits and mesmerizing eyes.

Focus, Ginevra, two minutes and counting. If you die I will be forced to kill you.

Promises, Tom. She couldn't tell if he'd been reading her or not, but she discarded the idle thoughts to focus on the soft countdown in her ear.

Fifteen minutes, tops, and she could return to blessed air conditioning. The rumble of the rusty wheels of the public transit in the ground several stories below her crested in a swell of distraction, covering the scratch of her boots and hand gripping the coarse bricks on her descent.

As predicted, a sleek black car, that clashed vibrantly against the impoverished neighborhood walls, stopped with a jerk below her, the moon roof open enough for her to slip in.

A flash of light from the overhead lamp shattering, the grunt of a man who just had ten stone of woman fall on him, and she was in.

"Right on time, G," her partner in this task, Regulus Black, said as he finished recoiling his piano wire to put in his endlessly surprising bag of tricks. Beethoven's Midnight Sonata floated through the speakers, in an ironic twist of events.

Ginny eyed him, aware of his dramatic flair, but he shrugged and grinned, confirming her suspicions. Rolling her eyes as hard as she could, she held out a hand for the one thing she couldn't get through airport security lately: her knife set. There were enough hassles with her metal hand now in the detectors and every single checkpoint insisted on putting her through an X Ray. As if Tom would make it easy for them to see anything but wires and bolts.

The second-level dignitary watched in horror as the woman straddling him selected the shortest knife in the set and brought it to his throat.

"You've got something we need," she said, the sweaty stickiness of her skin making it extremely hard to have patience. The car continued to roll beneath them through the poorly lit streets and over rough cobblestones. "And I don't think I need to tell you how we'll get it if you…resist."

Splendid time, Ginevra, Tom's voice crooned five minutes later as the man bled out on the carpeted floor. New record. You'll need to follow Regulus back to the British Embassy, he's got your gloves. I trust you can handle the rest from here?

Get out of my head, Tom. G, out.

A well placed smoke bomb, her own blood curdling scream, a few smears of dirt from the road on her face, and the two unsuspecting foreigners on their honeymoon holiday were caught up in an attempted terror attack. Regulus and Ginevra Black clutched at each other, Regulus smoothing her hair as they were corralled by police for questioning, her party dress ruined by sitting on the steps of the embassy. Her wails only increased as they watched the body of Secretary Ford float away from the scene on a stretcher, the unfortunate target of a concentrated attack, which only escalated tensions further, building towards the war Tom orchestrated more fluidly than a symphony.