The sun was high in the sky above London. In one corner, a young man poured himself a cup of tea. A young woman, in an underground room, shot a handgun at a sheet of paper. She was on the phone with the young man, and they spoke about nothing in particular. They were the closest of friends, so it did not matter if for which they spoke was of any real importance; all that mattered was that they were with one another. The nature of their shared occupation was a bit difficult to explain, but it required one to be quite lonesome.

They worked, on the surface, for a company. This particular company took the shape of a tailor's shop, on Savile Row. The front windows were occupied by mannequins, dressed like the British gentlemen one sees in the likes of a proper British film. But this shop was not open yet—not for customers anyways. No, for all the eyes of its employees were fixed upon a large house outside the city limits. There, nine young men were slowly trickling in. They were being gathered and checked off on a clipboard by a bald man with horn-rimmed specks. Behind him, hovered his new superior, who was extremely nervous. He was six-foot-seven with dark skin and close-cropped hair, of which the bald man envied greatly. He did not wear glasses, but they were tucked securely in his coat's breast pocket.

"When is Galahad going to get here to help oversee the training, Merlin?" He asked stiffly.

"He should be here in about an hour, Arthur." Merlin answered evenly, glancing up from his tablet. Arthur nodded.

He looked at the young men again. They were all vying to take a place left by a traitor amongst his company that had just recently passed away. They were all the bloody same, he thought. Not one of them looked different from their neighbor; not one of them excited him. On top of that, they were one candidate short, at the top of the hour, and this made him even more anxious.

It actually just so happened that the tenth candidate was coming, on the heels of the agent proposing them. The agent in charge of bringing the candidate to the mansion was running according to schedule. His name was Caleb, Caleb Jackson. Jackson was a stout man with dark hair and eyes to match. His suit was perfectly pressed, and his countenance never wavered, even as he walked up the structurally unsound steps of a cheap flat in Camden. He left an hour later, with a young woman behind him. She was dressed in the cleanest clothes she owned, and just by her step, anyone could see how tired she was. It was she, his candidate, that caused them to be so tardy. They got into a cab and sat together in silence. They did not feel too inclined to speak within earshot of their cabbie.

The car stopped in front of the tailor's shop on Savile Row. She looked out the window, her eyes wide with anxiety and curiosity. She looked back at Jackson, and he nodded slightly. With that, he stepped out of the car, and she followed. Minutes later, they would be joined by a young man, but not the one currently talking on the phone with his female co-worker on his commute to work.

"Rox, how come I've got to go back to the mansion and help Merlin, huh, with you off saving the world and all?" The young man grumbled, frowning at the countryside flying past his window.

"Eggsy, you know that all I'm doing is observing these guys. We're nowhere near ready to take them down, and I'm just here, watching them dick about in their castle." She replied, reloading her pistol, "I'd do anything to be back with you lot instead of being here in this icebox."

Eggsy sighed, "Russia. I've always wanted to go there."

"Why?" She frowned.

"Honestly, I ain't sure I want to tell you why." He replied.

"Is it because you want to see just how cold it is?" Roxy asked, "Because I can tell you that it's pretty damn cold."

Eggsy chuckled and watched the road become less proper as they approached the house. "I've gotta go, Rox, I'm pulling up the drive now."

"Good luck." She said gravely, making him smile.

With that, they both took their glasses off. She returned to the target, and he stepped out in front of a large mansion, buttoning the front of his jacket. In the city, Jackson and the candidate stood in front of the shop. Jackson slipped the dark navy button into its hole on the front of his gray suit. The candidate glanced up at him, her face riddled with nerves. Jackson noticed this and looked down the one inch he had on her. She tapped her front teeth together softly behind her closed lips absently, thinking. Suddenly, he smiled at her.

She blinked, and her neck straightened slightly. "What? Have I got something—"

"—No, I'm just glad I can finally propose you as a candidate—officially, I mean." He said, looking back at the shop and returning to his normal glower. "That pompous boy I had to produce last time was doomed. I have not been so humiliated in a long time."

She shrugged, feeling obliged to make him feel like he did not have to apologize to her. "You made a bargain with his father a long time ago, promising him a favor later, and that's when he chose to cash it in."

His jaw was clenched, and his foot tapped the cement twice. "True. And I'm not sure you would've been capable of competing with the rest of the candidates then anyways."

She let out a short huff. "If you don't know who else your colleagues are proposing then how could you possibly know that I could compete this time?"

"You were not capable of keeping to a routine; I did not mean that they were more skilled than you." Jackson turned to look at her. She gave him a look that said: not sure that's changed much.

She sighed after a moment, "So, are we gonna get on with it, or what?" She lifted a hand at the door.

He nodded, walking up the steps before her. He held the door open, and spoke as she stepped through, "Never underestimate your ability to act like you're in control."

Her brow furrowed, and she opened the next door for him. She watched as he walked in, and paused for a split second, contemplating his words. She looked up then, seeing another person coming through the first door. He was a young man, well-dressed, with a square jaw and a cocky smile upon his lips. She blinked, and then, suddenly, instead of holding it politely, she stepped through the second doors before him. She looked over her shoulder as she did it, her eyes narrowing slightly as he chuckled lightly and brushed it off. She did not like him. There was no particular reason. He looked like an ass.

He entered the shop slowly, taking his time as he walked over the threshold. She walked over to where Jackson stood at the front desk, glancing over her shoulder at him again. He smiled, and her expression soured. She turned away as she reached Jackson's side, and he turned his attention to the clothes around him. He reminisced then, upon the first time he'd entered this place; how he'd enjoyed the smell of old money and polished wood—two scents he was well accustomed to. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and taking in the aroma fully.

He pretended to take interest in a tweed jacket, waiting for them to take notice of him. A few moments passed, before the man behind the counter took a step to the side, looking around Jackson at his new customer. He glanced back to Jackson and the candidate,

"Just a minute," he said addressing the newcomer, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Just browsing." The young man said, rubbing the tail of the jacket between his thumb and forefinger. He did not look at his hands though, he stared directly into the shopkeeper's eyes.

The shopkeeper smiled, "Well, just let me know if you need anything."

As he turned back to Jackson, the young man stepped closer to them, with a bemused smile. "I see you've already forgotten me. I have to admit: I'm a bit surprised."

They all turned to him. Jackson's eyes narrowed, and the candidate ground her teeth. He stared back at them both.

"Let me refresh your memory." He reached inside his coat.

Jackson shoved the candidate away. The young man pulled a gun out of his side-holster. She fell onto her back, sprawled out on the floor. In one fluid movement, Jackson opened an umbrella he'd taken from the bin near the desk. He returned fire.

The shopkeeper ducked down. The gunman fired at Jackson repeatedly, walking closer with each shot. The candidate yelped, trying to shield her head with her forearm. She crawled behind the counter, where the shopkeeper sat crouched down, covering his ears. He lifted a wrinkled hand, pointing to a door behind her. She craned her neck to look. Frowning, she turned back. The shooting continued. A bullet from the young intruder's gun ricocheted off a metal vase in the corner of the room and came to rest in between the shopkeeper's eyes. His blood splattered across her face.

He went suddenly limp, his eyes blank, his body slumped against the wood panels. She blinked, gasping. She looked up and around, holding her hands away from her body as if they had blood on them too. "Jackson—!"

She peeked around the desk. The young man seemed to be out of ammunition. Jackson stood up from the floor, tucking his gun in his jacket. He was still behind his umbrella, using it like a knight's shield. Jackson moved forwards. The man's clip was not empty.

His arm snapped up. He tilted the barrel down, shooting out one of Jackson's exposed kneecaps. Jackson cried out, collapsing. His umbrella was no longer protecting him. The man walked passed a table of silk shirts, reloading the clip. He lifted the gun again.

"No!" The candidate suddenly screamed. The man looked away from Jackson, searching for her. Her wide and almost deranged eyes glared at him from behind the desk. Jackson began to slowly reach into his coat, hoping the man wouldn't notice.

"Come out then, sweetheart." The man spoke sweetly as he shot Jackson in the shoulder of the arm he was using to try and get his second gun.

"Stop!" She skidded out from behind the desk. She scrambled over to Jackson, squatting in front of his bleeding form. "Stop, alright, I'm here, we—I don't know what you want, just please—"

"—Enough." He snapped, still pointing the gun at her. "I didn't bring you out to listen to incessant babble."

She swallowed. Jackson choked slightly behind her. She tried not to flinch.

"Help him up." The man said.

She shook her head, "He's too weak, he can't—"

"—Just do it!" The man bellowed.

She did not move.

He moved the gun about an inch to his left. He shot a hole right in the desk, next to Jackson's other shoulder. The shopkeeper's lifeless body convulsed as this bullet nested inside his skull, a new neighbor to the first. She cried out, her hands moving absent-mindedly towards her ears. She looked back at him.

"Do it! Or I will shoot him again." The man cried.

She turned around without another word. Looping her arm under his good shoulder and gripping the edge of the desk, she heaved them both to their feet. Jackson leaned heavily against the table. He was in so much pain he was unable to protest or process what exactly was happening. The gunman jerked his weapon towards a door on the right of the shop. She began to move. Jackson murmured something unintelligible, to which she shushed him.

The door was ajar. She used her foot to kick it open all the way. The room was decorated with small trinkets and tools used most commonly by tailors. The room's centerpiece was a three-paneled mirror on the back wall, the dusty glass shining in the dim light. She looked back at the man through it, her eyes flickering to the reflection of his pistol. She stood in the threshold, Jackson leaning against the doorway next to her. She started to turn and the man gave a grunt from behind her. She stopped and stayed still. Her eyes lifted back from the ground and met his again in the middle panel of the mirror. Her hand came to rest on the door's handle.

Suddenly, and without warning, she threw her weight into Jackson, shoving him to the floor. She slammed the door behind her. She pressed her back against the wood and fumbled with the lock. She shifted slightly. The young man took a shot at the door. She screamed, and got down lower, not removing pressure from the door. She looked up and saw that the bullet, however, did not get past the wood. It warped the surface, but for some reason, it did not penetrate the room. She straightened, stepping backward and staring at the door in awe. Jackson let out a weak sound, and she turned around quickly.

"What the hell are you doing?" She hissed as he half crawled, half dragged himself—with a wounded leg and shoulder—over to the mirror. "Jackson—?"

He collapsed onto the ground then but did not go limp. She leapt over, kneeling down next to him. She held most of his weight then, practically cradling him, stomach-down, in her lap. She watched him move speechlessly. He used his left hand to pick up his injured, right arm by the wrist and lift it to the mirror. Her lips parted in confusion, her head tilting slightly as he used a substantial amount of energy to hold his hand there. A red light appeared about his fingertips like the mirror was scanning his palm. She blinked.

"Come on, you bloody bastard—" Jackson murmured, and then there was a loud bang on the door. The whole room seemed to shake in response. The young man had obviously found something heavy to try and break the door's lock.

She looked back, flinching as the man banged on it again. She turned back to Jackson, and the light turned green. He relaxed, turning over. The bang came again. The door pulled away from the frame slightly, and her eyes widened. The ground lurched beneath them, and she yelped, watching the floor fall slowly down, like an elevator. The door shook again.

"I'm coming for you!" The man screamed from the other side. He knocked again.

She turned from the door when Jackson put a hand on her arm. She slouched closer to the floor, adjusting his head in her lap. He was trying to speak, but the man outside was being too loud. The hand closest to her reached inside his jacket. She watched, unable to understand him. There was another bang, and a piece of the door frame splintered. They were about ten feet down in the fitting room's shaft. Jackson pulled a full clip out of his suit pocket. He offered it to her. She took it, confused. The man hit the door again. She looked up to check the door's integrity. She turned back, and Jackson had pulled a gun out of his other pocket. Her eyes widened.

His hands quaked, holding the gun above his chest. He released the empty clip, and it fell onto his stomach. His eyes betrayed the pain that caused him. Hers began to well up. He held the gun up, and she helped him, pressing the full clip into the bottom. A tear fell down her cheek, in response to watching his weak hands shake as they tried to cock the gun. She pulled her hands from his wounds, and placed them over his, helping him finish preparing the gun that was probably going to be his last. He let his hands fall down next to him. The pistol was left in her open palms.

The banging had continued throughout this, but now, the door was really on the verge of falling. She stared at the gun in her hands. She looked at him, and he nodded. He reached up, cupping her neck firmly and guiding her head down as if to whisper in her ear. She bent down to accommodate him. With a piercing cry of agony, he used his bad arm to shove his body off the floor. She fell onto her back, and he laid atop her. The door flew open, twenty feet above them, banging against the shaft walls and coming off its hinges. She screamed as the man emptied the rest of his clip into Jackson's back. She squeezed her eyes shut, and fell silent as the man finished. She lifted one eyelid, watching him standing above her and re-loading his gun at a leisurely pace.

Slowly, her hand shifted out from under Jackson. She lifted her pistol. Air hissed past her lips as she took a deep breath. The gun went off once. The man's hand went to cover his arm. He looked down at her as if he were offended by her shot. She screamed and shot again. She didn't see where it landed, just watched him tumble down to the ground next to her.

Quickly, she shoved Jackson's corpse away. She crawled over to the man's crumpled body. He was on his side, facing away from her. She pulled his shoulder. He snapped about, bloody and deranged, clawing at her face. She cried out, trying to escape. He got above her, as she fell onto her back. Instinctually, she lifted her legs, using both feet to kick him off of her. He flew a few feet to her right.

She scrambled back up straight. She grabbed the gun she'd dropped in the chaos. She tried not to look at Jackson's body next to it. She turned and aimed the gun at the young man. He was lifting his broken body up off the floor again, currently on all fours. She turned away and squeezed the trigger four times. When she was done the pistol felt so much lighter.

She opened her eyes, and there she was, staring back at herself in the left-most panel of the mirror. She didn't look at the young man directly. She could see his bloody hand lying on the ground just at the edge of the mirror. She did not allow herself to follow it to the rest of his body.

Instead, she turned to her right. Jackson's body laid face-up on the dark carpet. She scooted over to him, a sob shaking her to the core. Her hands hovered over his chest, trying to find somewhere to start. They fell when she saw that his lungs were still. She let out a horrible moan, crying uncontrollably. She rested her face onto his chest, gripping his shirt and coat in her bloody fingers. Her body quivered with every breath, and she sat back on her heels.

Tilting her face upwards, she began to scream through her tears, her eyes squeezed shut. She covered her face with her hands, and hunched over herself again. She stayed like that until the room shuddered to a halt. She paused, sniffing. She looked about, and then saw a small pod waiting. She stood slowly. Her hand adjusted around the handle of the gun. She used her free hand to smudge the tears and blood across her cheek. She peeked out, looking from side-to-side. Her eyes fell back on the transport. She made up her mind to stop crying.

Eggsy trotted down a series of steps to the mansion's sub-level. The first room at the foot of the stairs was the infirmary, where a young woman was standing. She was tall and thin, a pair of cat's-eye spectacles on her nose, with light brown skin and curly hair tied back into a tight bun. She was looking pensively at a clipboard, a white lab coat on over her chenille sweater, tie, button-down and plaid pencil skirt. Eggsy frowned, and kept walking. He came to a control room at the end of a series of hallways, where he found his friend.

"Eggsy, good on you for finally showing up." Merlin greeted the young agent as he entered the room.

"Traffic was terrible getting out of the city—who was that in the infirmary?" Eggsy replied, coming to stand next to Merlin, looking up at him with a frown.

"Doctor." Merlin said simply, "She'll be in and out throughout this."

Eggsy accepted that he was not going to get a better answer out of Merlin right now, so he turned forwards, crossing his arms. There were two screens in front of them, one with resumes and other text, and another that was security camera footage of a room that looked very familiar to Eggsy.

He lifted a finger to point at it, "Is that—?"

"Aye." Merlin nodded once, "Those are the new recruits."

"Oi!" Eggsy cried suddenly, "How come I didn't get to pick someone?"

Merlin looked at him. "You've barely started, Eggsy."

"So?" He replied.

"Do you have anyone in mind?" Merlin asked.

Eggsy frowned. They both knew he didn't. Merlin continued to type into the computer.

"So, what's going on? No one's died, have they?"

"No," Merlin typed something into his clipboard, and nine or so pictures of young men, and one girl showed up on the screen, "Our new Arthur was pulled out of retirement, like all the others before him."

"He was retired?" Eggsy interrupted, "He's not that much older than you, is he?"

"We're the same age, actually." Merlin replied in a flat voice.

"How come he was retired, then?" Eggsy did not notice Merlin's tone.

"He was unable to physically do the job anymore."

"How come?"

"Would you stop asking questions, already? We've got things to do you know." Merlin snapped.

Eggsy rolled his eyes, "Alright, alright, Arthur was retired, yeah, and?"

"And, this is the man who took his place after him." Merlin brought up his picture. Eggsy thought passively that Arthur's replacement was not nearly as handsome as he was. Eggsy and Roxy had met the new Arthur a few months ago, and were both sufficiently impressed with him. He was short-tempered and well spoken—two traits that went exceedingly well together. "This bastard turned out to be working with Valentine—we know because his head blew up when we set off the implants."

"Fuckin' spectacular, eh?" Eggsy smirked, imitating Merlin when, months before, they blew up the heads of Valentine's friends. Merlin ignored him with a blank stare.

"He was on 'medical leave' or some such when his implant blew, so we just found out about it. This is for his spot at Kingsman."

"These are the candidates?" Eggsy pointed to the screen.

"Mm." Merlin gave a single nod.

"Alright," Eggsy nodded, "so what am I here for?"

"Well they told me that I should have at least one other agent on hand to help me with the selection process, and since you just went through all of this, I requested you." He tucked his clipboard under his arm, facing Eggsy, "I'm gonna go get them settled, would you like to come?"

He spoke in what appeared to be a cheerful manner, but Eggsy still couldn't really tell with him. He decided just to nod in response.

Eggsy followed him out of the tech room, and down the hall. They stepped into the dormitory, and Merlin began talking to the recruits. They all stood with their hands folded behind their backs, listening respectfully to Merlin. Eggsy eyed each of them in turn, recognizing Amelia in the back. Other than she—whom he knew to be a double agent for Kingsman—the recruits looked exactly the same. They were all handsome, and clearly of "good breeding." Not that he should treat such an important part of his agency like entertainment, but he couldn't help feeling bored just looking at all of them. Slowly, they all began to look horrified at something behind Merlin.

Merlin stopped speaking, and turned to glare at Eggsy, "Goddamn it, Galahad, what the bloody hell are you—" but he too began to stare at whatever was behind him. "—oh lordy."

"What?" Eggsy asked confusedly, spinning abruptly to look behind him, "Holy shit." His eyes widened.

There, in the doorway, a woman stood. Her white shirt, pale skin, and the dark roots of her hair were caked in dried blood. As she let go of the door behind her, her palm left a faint imprint. She took an unsteady step forward, and Eggsy spotted the contents of her other hand: a Kingsman, standard-issue, pistol. She looked back and forth between Merlin and Eggsy, her empty hand twitching as though the blood were making her feel uncomfortable.

"Woah, woah, woah," Eggsy raised his hands, and all the candidates began to stumble over each other in fear. Eggsy ignored them and stepped closer to her.

"Shoot her!" Someone yelled.

"Get yourselves together!" Merlin snapped at the recruits, and they shut up.

Eggsy took another step, and she didn't protest. She was staring at him with a blank expression. It took him a good few seconds to truly comprehend just how much blood was on her. It was all over her face, soaked into the knees of her jeans, on the tips of her eyelashes, crusted into her brows and filling every pore of her skin. She looked insane—almost rabid—and yet so still.

He took another step. He was now close enough to touch her. He surmised that she was in some sort of shock, and not about to shoot eleven unarmed people—Eggsy and Merlin were not allowed to carry live weapons around the recruits for obvious safety reasons. He moved in closer, staring into her eyes. They were a deep emerald sort of green, dull next to the blood. She swallowed, watching his face as his hand moved to take the gun from her. He didn't look away—he couldn't—and she offered no reproach.

"Will one of you just shoot her already?!" A recruit yelled desperately.

"Shut the fuck up!" Eggsy snapped over his shoulder.

He turned back to her. The blood pooled in her palms had a slight stick to it. He pulled his hand away, gun grasped gingerly between his fingertips. Her shoulders suddenly relaxed, as if the gun had been weighing her down.

"Please," she whispered, "will one of you tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"As soon as I've found out," Eggsy smiled easily, touching her hand, "I'll let you know."