A/N: 4.3 is one of my favourite episodes for many reasons, including the fact that it still feels incredibly relevant, and I wanted to capture it from a range of perspectives. I can safely say that writing from the viewpoints of Sampson and Moran was a nauseating experience. A recent viewing of this episode would be helpful, but not essential. Reviews are always appreciated!

…..

Aunty May

The best thing about working for MI5 at my age is that I can tell everyone. I can tell my family and friends, and the man who works at the grocery store, and I could plaster it all over the Internet. Because not a single person would believe me.

Of course, I'm not one of those youthful things springing around pointing guns: I never was. I worked happily as an analyst at GCHQ for thirty years before being transferred to Five, and that's when I became interested in being an asset. It means I don't get to do all of the tricks that agents do, but still get to be a part of operations. It's exciting. Most people would think that exciting for me is cooking up a roast, or knitting a scarf. I can silently chuckle to myself, knowing the reality is a lot different.

I'd heard about William Sampson and the British Way on the radio. Sounded like a nasty bunch who definitely wouldn't be getting my vote. But I didn't know how serious it was until a lovely man from Five called Malcolm gave me a call and told me I'd be involved in the operation, playing the part of the main officer's aunt. I agreed readily. I proudly placed a pot of plastic red tulips on my windowsill by the front door and put the kettle on, waiting for the officer to pop round for a debrief.

He was a charming gentleman called Adam Carter, pretending to be my nephew Luke. He looked tired but full of energy. He also wore a wedding ring – I'm not surprised that someone snapped him up. Nice looking, but not really my type. Then again, I'm old enough to pose convincingly as his aunt, and so entertaining a little fancy like that would be unprofessional. He would be working alongside another officer who would pretend to be a postman and collect his status reports delivered to me. Then, after inhaling a cup of tea and a few biscuits, he was out of my door and among the shadows of the street. Peculiar young man. It felt like he was hiding something, a worry that he couldn't get rid of – it made me remember that despite his professionalism, he had his bills to pay and a family to fret about.

A knock on the door interrupted my afternoon cup of tea, and I opened it to the 'postman'. He grinned and proceeded to hand over a parcel. I wanted to say something interesting but ended up blurting a bright 'Thank you', to which he winked and sauntered back to his van. I shut the door, a little flustered. I might be in my 'mature years' now, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate a lovely young man when I have the pleasure of seeing one. Much more interesting than the elusive Mr Carter. He had a troublesome glint in his eye. Reminded me of a lad I used to court when I was a young one…

As silly as it sounded, I started to look forward to my visits from my fake nephew and fake postman. I felt like I was making some kind of a difference, preventing some danger in a dangerous world, being something more than just the retired, friendly lady that everyone thought I was.

I didn't need to be the hero; I just wanted to be of some help.

…...

Malcolm and Colin

The flat was an empty shell, containing only a battered sofa and the smell of stale air. To us, it was safe house thirty nine of over two hundred that we have under the jurisdiction of MI5. But, we had to transform it into the home of Luke Chivvers, Adam's legend – an angry, misguided young man and a promising candidate for the British Way.

It took the better part of an afternoon to rig the place with all of the necessary kit before we did some decorating. Picture frames featuring Adam posed with a few analysts that we poached taken outside a pub, and Adam and 'Aunty May' grinning at each other; each one authentic to the unsuspecting eye but amusingly staged for those in the know. We hid some letters from various relatives in a drawer. We stocked the wardrobe with some cheap shirts and trousers from the Thames House wardrobe for undercover operations. We supplied the kitchen with crockery and cutlery, the bathroom with shampoo and shower gel. We even took the liberty of leaving a few unwashed dishes in the sink to add extra authenticity to Adam's role.

The stage was set. We checked that the bugs were all operational, and then we double checked. And then Luke Chivvers made himself at home.

…

Adam

The tap in the kitchen was dripping but the flat was too cold to make it worthwhile venturing from the relative warmth of the duvet that I was under. It didn't matter, though. I can never sleep the night before an operation goes live, nestling cautiously into an unfamiliar bed and trying to settle into the skin of a legend. It was an unnerving experience the first time or the hundredth time, as well as an invigorating one. I wanted to meet Moran and set in motion the destruction of the British Way as soon as possible – after that, I would be able to breathe properly again. Even breathing feels different when you're pretending to be someone else, as if the air is having a different effect on your lungs because it's not really there because your identity is a false one. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline that makes every sensation sharper.

I was restless for the operation to be over so I could return to my real home, my real life, and be with my family. It's not just my own safety I have to think about; Fiona is tackling Sampson, who I'm sure will enjoy every second spent with her. I know she can take care of herself, but Sampson is the sort of person who likes getting what he wants, and it could well be my wife. We discussed this before the operation went live. It wouldn't be the first time that she, or I, invested in an operation whole-heartedly, to put it lightly, and early on she recognised the possibility that Sampson would be attracted to her. If it turns out to be a reality, she'll be able to manipulate his trust. It's just how far she'll have to go to sell the lie that worries me.

Fiona can take care of herself; I knew that as soon as we met. But one day, on one particular operation, she might cross an opponent who is a second quicker, a touch more intelligent, and find herself seriously compromised. I told myself it wouldn't be this operation, not just after she's returned to work, as if the universe wouldn't dare put her in danger because it would be too unfair. But operations are never wholly fair. At least one person comes out of it hurting, and we have to be thankful when it's not scores of people. But I'll always rather it be me than a civilian, a member of my team, or her. And every time we both come out of an operation alive, I tell myself it'll be the same the next time, and the next. Otherwise, how else would I keep doing what I do, day after day?

It's an odd equilibrium. I lie to, manipulate and betray others: but I do the same to myself. Saying it's for the sake of my country makes it seem more honourable, but in reality, betrayal is always a bitter pill to swallow, for whatever purposes it is diagnosed.

…..

Howell-Davis

Harry Pearce, stirring up trouble once again. I'd only met him briefly a few times but had sensed a reckless streak, and today it became very clear that it wasn't just my imagination.

I agreed with some of the policies of the British Way. Did that make me a criminal? The point of a democratic society is to be able to exercise such views through the voting system, and yet authoritative chaps like Pearce resort to blackmail to achieve their own ideas of political stability, roping in crude allegations about my sexuality to ensure my cooperation.

But, as much as I loathed to admit it, working with William Sampson did allow me to see just how insufferable he is. His illusion as a decent man of the people was just that: an illusion, albeit a bloody good one. Suddenly I was glad to be working for the 'good guys', despite my earlier reservations. I want Britain to be a safe and stable place, but I will not stand with a party that promotes violence and a downright lack of human empathy. It took every fibre of my being to not walk right out of the room when Sampson made a crass comment about the murdered girl in Hull. If he represents the British people, I don't want to be British.

….

Sampson

Hull was bloody freezing. I wish I'd worn a jacket, but my only jacket had gone missing after I left it on the coat stand in Howell-Davis' office, along with my umbrella. Bloody fantastic, especially as it poured with rain all the way home and I hadn't any cash for a cab. This had all been concocted to inconvenience me, of course. No-one gets this much bad luck without someone pulling the strings, trying to make someone else's life difficult. I was the unfortunate victim in this circumstance, but fortunately I'm not weak enough to let a few dirty tricks mess me about.

And so to Hull, crammed with uneducated yobs swaggering about poaching handbags and a bunch of dense schoolkids seemingly unable to speak proper English. Not my sort of environment, but I knew it was essential to cosy up to such plebs in order to appeal to the masses. I could at least pretend that I was the same as this bunch of benefit scroungers, even though I had a decent education and can string together a sentence.

My PA put out a nice little quote about me taking flowers to the scene of the child's murder. Melodie something. I'd been so caught up in this campaign that I'd forgotten some flowers, and had to stop off at a petrol station. Five quid for a bunch of tatty flowers? Still, if the gesture won me the vote it was worth forking out for.

Thankfully I'd remembered that the kid was called Melanie, not Melodie. That could have been disastrous. I made a rather gripping speech at the scene of the crime, her mother looking up at me in awe, lapping up every word I said. Before I left I pushed a campaign pamphlet into her hand and gave her a warm smile, encouraging her to vote for me to see real progress, to start kicking out some of the scum claiming England as their home who do nothing but cause grief for the decent hardworking rest of us.

I didn't dwell on it, though. I was saving my anger for the press conference tomorrow, when I could finally make everyone see that the British Way is the only way forward. You belong here, or you don't. Under my reign, Britain will be for the British, and a better place it'll be for it too.

…

Moran

The air was cold and sharp, ringing with birdsong. I waited, amongst the trees, weapon in hand: ready.

The treacherous bastard and his simpering bitch of a colleague were dropped off by my men. I allowed them a couple of seconds to untie their binds – who says I'm unreasonable? – before firing my first bolt towards them. It was supposed to miss, of course. It'd be no fun killing them off without making them scared first. I'd watched hawks circling in on tiny birds a thousand times, making them flutter desperately, trying to find an escape, before realising the crushing inevitability of their demise. It was an intoxicating position of power that I was emulating, and it made my blood race.

Luke Chivvers, or whatever his real name was (I knew he was a sodding journalist or something, I knew it in my bones) might be fast on his feet, but I've been to this place a thousand times. I know where the woodlarks nest, and the pattern of the bark on the oaks, and the densest clump of trees where they'd be sure to hide. Steadily, efficiently, I advanced. The predator, closing in on its prey.

I readied another bolt, allowed a smile to twitch on my lips, and prepared to savour the moment.

…

Ruth

Once again, I was thankful for the central heated bliss of Thames House. The forest had been freezing and my thick coat had done little to keep out the cold.

My first port of call had been the ladies, to scrub the dirt from under my fingernails and from my face. Being dropped from a van onto the muddy ground had also ensured that my hair was encrusted with dirt and some strands of dry grass. It might have been amusing if it wasn't accompanied with memories of being hunted by a maniac with a crossbow.

Looking more like a human being, I returned to the Grid and made myself a cup of tea – I've always found tea to be a lifesaver after a stressful operation – before starting my post-op report. I tried to erase the memory of Moran's sneer, of the drowned asset in the bath, of the thug holding a knife at my throat. I don't envy Adam, or Fiona, or Zaf, dealing with these sorts of scenarios when on undercover ops. It makes me feel small and scared. I'm better behind a screen or engrossed in paperwork; it's how I work best. Some people thrive on adrenaline but I'm certainly not one of them. I can keep calm if it's an in-house situation, but if I'm actually there when the action is unfolding then quite frankly I'm terrified.

I wondered how Adam always managed to remain so effortlessly cool. Maybe it was years of practice, or he was just naturally unfazed. Either way it's an admirable skill, and an invaluable one in this line of work.

I think he was a little bit proud of me when I bashed Moran over the head with that branch.

To be honest, I'm rather proud of myself for that too.

….

Juliet

Harry looked remarkably chipper for someone who probably hasn't slept more than an hour a night since the beginning of the operation. Then again, neither have I, but my enthusiasm is fuelled by my constant drinking of coffee. Fatigue comes with the job title, and isn't compensated by the paycheque. I'm one of the lucky ones who can remain on autopilot for hours when necessary.

A satisfactory outcome. Sampson discredited and left to skulk in the shadows. Moran set to rot in jail thanks to his own revelation about being a murderer – about time he paid for it. One casualty – an asset – but nothing major. The debrief was short and sweet, and I sent Harry home to sleep.

First week in the job of National Security Advisor, and I've managed to prove I'm cut out for it. I love it when a career proves to be so satisfying.

…..

Zaf

The operation felt like it'd been neatly wrapped up and I was ready to head home and get a decent night's sleep. But then I encountered Adam as I was heading to the pods, wearing a grim expression and bearing the news that 'Aunty May' had been murdered by Moran's men. I couldn't stop the shock that hit me like a wave, which quickly turned to anger. I bid goodnight to Adam and began walking home, gritting my teeth.

There's always a downside to an operation. We don't often get to see it because it affects someone else, someone small and unimportant. That's the lie that we're sold but I've never bought it. She wasn't small. She was full of life, and generosity, and even though she'd only played a small part in my own life she'd had a life as important as mine. She wasn't a nobody who didn't deserve recognition. She was a somebody, a key cog in the operation and someone worthy of a better fate than being drowned in her own bathtub.

That last detail made me feel sick. I couldn't get the image of her smile out of my head. It was a genuine smile, one that made a dark day a little sunnier.

On nights like this, when it's freezing and the streets are quiet and even the Thames seems intimidating, its surface rocking and breaking angrily in the wind, it's difficult to remember why I chose this career, why tomorrow I'll wake up too early and do the same thing all over again.

But then the doubts are softer in the morning, and the illusion that everything will be fine returns. Because the truth is that we do get to make a difference in this line of work, and we do save lives. But it always comes at a cost. Something, or someone, gets sacrificed.

And the game always goes on.

….

Fiona

The night lumbered on past one o'clock, then two, and I was still awake in bed staring at the ceiling. The wind was assaulting the window panes and Adam was snoring – I couldn't decide which sound was worse, but neither were the real reason for my sleeplessness.

It was the thought of Sampson, wearing that leering grin and leaning towards me. He smelled of sickly aftershave and stale breath. His eyes slithering across me, from my bare neck to my calves and then, unsurprising considering his lecherous personality, focussing on the undone top buttons of my blouse and a good several inches to the south. I wanted to slap the smile from his face but had to return it, demurely, pretending his blatant ogling wasn't both inappropriate and invasive.

There's an incredibly high probability that I'll never see him again, but the thought fails to comfort me. I've still got the memories of him, pushing to ask me out for dinner, laughing that horrible cackle of his, bearing his teeth in a smile that looked nothing but predatory.

This part is undoubtedly the downside of the job. Dealing with unsavoury characters who are actually in a position of power is a terrifying prospect. There's one thing dealing with thugs and fanatics who'll only ever have five seconds of fame, but it's something else when they have public support and a loud voice and aims that have the potential to ruin the ideals we stand for.

Who'll be the next William Sampson? How far will we go to stop him?

…..

Harry

Dismantling a racist political party was a satisfying way to spend this week. Informing the family of our murdered asset via the phone was not.

Then again, there's no such thing as a perfect operation. I was naïve enough to think it possible once, but experience tells me there's always someone who comes out of it hurting. I just have to be thankful that this time it wasn't a catastrophic number of people. That's what I'm supposed to focus on, of course – facts and figures, human beings as statistics. Most people in Britain will sleep safely in their beds tonight, but a family in Luton are planning the funeral of their loved one, another casualty of the Service who's been chewed up and spat out by the system for the sake of the majority. She served her country admirably, but it's little consolation when faced with the pain of her loss.

Tonight, I can heave a sigh of relief that the democratic system won't being polluted by the likes of Sampson or Moran for much longer, but then tomorrow a new derogatory duo peddling their vitriolic viewpoints will materialise to mock me. It's an ongoing battle of tackling threats that'll inevitably appear again elsewhere, albeit in a different form, as soon as you've neutralised them.

An exhausting and often fruitless process, and the pleasure's all mine.

…..