Brave old bastard. First time I heard that from my agents I almost laughed. Old and a bastard, yes, that's true. Brave? No. Not as brave as my agents going into situations with fire raining down upon them like an apocalypse with barely a second thought. Not as brave as my lads facing down armed gunmen, madmen and cars with hardly a quick consideration for safety – unless it was for each other. That's where I envy them. I don't have that close connection, that companionship. They say it's lonely at the top and I'm inclined to believe them.

While I relish the idea of letting my lads loose to wreak havoc on the criminal population of London, I know that I have to balance the politics and complaints and the other services. While I try to drum some tact or sophistication into them; we all know that it's a dirty job and someone has to do it. And it is a dirty, hard job that requires you to give up your body and soul – sometimes even your mind to do.

I am not a young man anymore. My leg attests to that but neither am I an action hero or brawler. I am a chess player, a tactician. I plan operations like they were games of chess – moving rooks and knights and kings to their respective places before closing the trap. The action and adrenalin may fuel my agents but the feeling of tightening the noose around a villain's neck, and the resulting exhilaration of checkmate is my goal.

Sometimes the loss of a few pieces is unavoidable. Unavoidable doesn't mean forgivable. I have nightmares sometimes – about those I've been forced to sacrifice for the 'greater good'. Each unnecessary death scars my heart but I can't let anyone see how it affects me. I can't rely or talk to anyone about this because… I don't have anyone. My agents have each other; they all know what it feels like to be under fire, to be tortured and attacked. How it feels to choose to be a human shield – to kill. There is no one else who understands quite how my world works, how I have to be aware of every cog and gear in this machine that is CI5. How I must take everything they have to keep the rest of Britain safe.

There have been nights where I've retreated to the Scotch to sooth my dreams and musings that I might not be so different from the baddies. No black and white hats in reality. Only grey.

Murky grey.

But there is one way that separates me from the people I hunt. I care about the losses.

There are no pawns. There are only kings and queens.

My third and final character study... unless anyone has any requests?

PS My second chapter for Silver (my DW/Pros crossover) is up if anyone is interested.