Warning: Implied non-consensual themes.
The Truth Will Set You Free
The work you and I do is always going to be tough. Much tougher than Harry and Lucas can ever know. Which is why you and I have to be much tougher than them to do it.
They had been warned about the dangers. Right from the onset, in the small print at the bottom of the page, the brief, impersonal statement that this was a dangerous job. That in some life or death situations, it wouldn't be you who came out the fortunate one. That to 'die trying' was a harsh reality for those who put their life on the line, and juggling appointments with death became almost a daily occurrence.
There were reminders, too; a fallen comrade, a colleague, a friend. A lover. Faces that faded from memory because the names weren't mentioned – the taboo subject – or because it was simply too painful to remember. But then came another phone call, worried glances, hands over mouths. Another funeral that preceded another clearance of a desk, and another life packed away into little red boxes and passed onto a grieving family.
Sometimes there weren't any warnings – things they hadn't been prepared for as such – but that was okay; hopefully they were good enough at their job by now to find their own way out. And if not, well... with the job came the heavy price. At least they had been forewarned.
This was different.
It wasn't that they hadn't been warned, but that they had actually been reassured to the contrary. Those ten crucial words at the bottom of the contract that alleviated weights off shoulders and set minds at rest.
MI5 does not use female officers as honey-traps.
Like hell they didn't.
They did their job to protect the country, but when told to 'lie back and think of England', had the country really earned that from them? Had they really deserved it?
They certainly hadn't asked for it.
No matter the operation, the cover-story, the need to prove themselves to a target in order to save their own life, it all came down to this one thing.
They hated the service, for what it had made them do. They even hated their country, for being in need of saving. Hated their boss, or whoever had sanctioned the operation, or their female colleagues would could have been here instead of them.
But mostly they hated the lie.
As they lay pinioned to the bed of the new ghost in their dreams, the new nightmare, even their deepest defences penetrated and shattered, hopes of physical respite worthless because the memories would remain, they thought back to the lie.
And they hated themselves for believing it.