A/N: let's be real - this isn't likely to happen. But I couldn't help but wonder what their lives would look like if they managed to defeat Fittes and stay alive. This is playing with an idea I had for the end of Listen, so if you read that this'll sound familiar, but the two stories are unrelated. I don't intend for this to be some great saga, just a brief glimpse into what their lives could be like. Let me know what you think (especially since writing original characters is so tricky).

…

James had been six years old when the agents of Lockwood and Co saved his home of Aldbury Castle from the Creeping Shadow. Not nine months later they uncovered the truth behind the Problem itself, and defeated its primary Source - the great Marissa Fittes. When he was eight, they ran their first advert in the national paper:

"The prestigious psychic investigative agency of Lockwood and Company is seeking to train new employees. Potential applicants must be at least 10 years of age and possess impressive Talent. Successful applicants will be brave, honest, and hardworking. Interviews will be conducted on August 15th, beginning at 8:00 am, at our offices of 35 Portland Row."

Those few months living in terror of the Shadow and its stirred up hoard were enough to scare most of his friends away from being agents, but James was not like his friends. He'd been one of the kids to glimpse the Shadow and its black flames. He'd even stayed up late several nights in a row just to watch the agency do their work throughout the small town. The rest of the kids cowered in their beds, knowing that a battle was occurring just outside their door - they would shiver and whisper the next morning about how they knew they were safest when the agents had gone, because that meant the ghost had been conquered. But not James. To James, sneaking out to watch the agents had the same thrill as sneaking downstairs to catch Santa Claus delivering presents. By the end of their stay, he'd summoned up the courage to climb onto the roof, a fistfull of lavender in his teeth for protection.

He watched as Agent Kipps dashed about, protecting the lovely Agent Munroe from a tricky Type Two. She threw a salt bomb to distract it, giving Kips a chance to slash it to pieces with his rapier. Agent Cubbins took this opportunity to seal the Source (a keepsake hidden beneath one of the stones in the garden wall). He whooped in victory with them, sharing their elation at another Visitor sent packing as if he'd thrown his own salt bomb.

And now - finally - he was more than old enough to apply. His mother wouldn't let him go when he was ten, believing him too young and too naive. And - to his utter shame - he was too scared and insecure to face moving to London last year. Most of that was due to Danny Skinner, who had bragged to no end about how he and Anthony Lockwood were good friends and refused outright to write James a letter of recommendation. He didn't want James to embarrass him.

The shame of missing out last year combined with the resolve to show that pompous Danny Skinner he was mistaken resulted in the conviction that this year, come hell or high water, James Rush was going to knock on the door of 35 Portland Row.

There was just one problem.

There was no advert this year.

Panic gripped the poor young boy's heart. For the past three years, from July 15 - August 14, the Times had printed this call for agents. What could possibly be different about this year? Had the interviews been postponed? Did they have enough agents?

James had no concept of what it took to run an agency. Unlike the Fittes and Rotwell Group, which had survived under the supervision of DEPRAC despite the now infamous reputation of its founders, Lockwood and Co did not set much store by fancy letters or rapier levels. What he did know was that Lockwood and Co was now the most exclusive psychic organization in the country. He'd heard legends about how difficult the application tests were, and those who passed them were sworn to secrecy. Every year, articles following "interview day" speculated about what qualities the agency was testing for. None of them seemed to be able to do more than guess what "impressively Talented" or "brave, honest, and hardworking" meant. He would give anything to fit those requirements.

He ambled from his house to the creek. It was a pleasant walk, though it did take the better half of an hour to complete. Moodily, he parked himself on the edge of the bridge. His gangly legs jutted out through the posts so his oversized feet could dangle in the water.

Brushing his fingers against the rail of the bridge, he relaxed and let himself be swept up by the memories left behind in the wood. Since it had been built, hundreds of small encounters had taken place: heartbreaks and chance meetings, nefarious business interactions and public ceremonies of transition, professions of love, father son fishing trips, and death. Always death.

As far as forgetting one's own troubles went, this was not a bad place. Each time he came he could experience something new. Once he was finished with his excursions into the past, he began to conder what he could do next.

This past year had been miserable. When his friends asked why he wasn't in London on August 15th, he lied and said he couldn't afford the train ticket. In reality, that money had been saved up and stored in an old sock under the floorboards since he was nine. At this point, he probably had enough for not only a round trip but also a few nights at a hotel or inn. Maybe, if he kept coming back for a few mornings in a row, they'd give him a chance.

It was either that or spend the next year wallowing in self pity and regret. In reality, he'd made his choice when he was six. He wasn't going to keep coming back to this bridge and live other lives. It was time to lead his own. He was 12 years old now. It was time to do something.

Tomorrow, he was taking the train to London. Tomorrow, August 15th at 8:00 am, he was going to knock on the door to 35 Portland Row. Tomorrow, he would become an agent.