Two: Mornings

Mornings were worth sod all. What were they good for? Nothing! Even Polly would admit to that. Without some level of caffeine in her system, she didn't even want to know if the sun was up or a new day had failed to rise because some sort of natural disaster had wiped out half of the world's population. Humanity didn't amount to anything without coffee. Polly snuggled deeper into her pillow as the sounds of traffic, pigeons, and the shouts of perturbed pedestrians rose through the window of her fourth floor flat along the Rue de Belleville. Enough of the noise seeped into her consciousness to let the red headed geek know that life had started without her.

Again.

Polly cracked her eyes open, noting the blue sky peaking out beyond her curtains. Right, get up on three. One, two, three! Not one muscle moved. The computer brain was willing, but the body was obviously in denial. Polly groaned deeply. She needed coffee or her entire day was in serious jeopardy. It might have been wishful thinking, but at that moment, the red haired girl's nostrils flared up. Was that Italian espresso with just a hint of cinnamon she smelled? Polly's eyes opened wider and she perked up.

Her phone chose that unfortunate time to chime a digital impression of Vivaldi from her nightstand and Polly lunged for it.

"Do you have a cup of coffee?" She asked as she answered the line, skipping all pretence of caring who they were or what they would think.

The stunned voice took a second to recuperate before answering honestly, "um, no."

Anything else the caller might've wanted to say was immediately cut off as Polly killed the connection and threw the phone across the room. Why did people do this to her? Everyone who meant anything to her had known her long enough to know that Polly did NOT talk to anybody before she had at least a sip of coffee or red bull or tea. A cup of tea was that so bloody difficult to come by? A personal barista, that's what she needed to invest in next. Screw stocks; she was going into hostage taking. Couldn't go wrong with a profession like that, could you? The geek made a mental note to give Andrea a call before the day was out. The quiet former emo had taken enough prisoners in her time and not been nailed for it that Polly figured she of all people would be a good judge of how lucrative a business it could be. Baristas, professional tea brewers, the scientists behind those little 5-hour burst of energy shots...she could nab them all and leave the world suffer a wonderful morningless future. Anything was better than a caffeineless existence.

Polly took a couple of deep breaths and kicked the sheets off of her legs. Vivaldi struck up again from somewhere on the carpet, but she paid no attention to it as she rose and stomped into the bathroom. It took thirty minutes, but she was successfully showered, dressed, and ready at least to greet her kitchen if not the day.

Bare feet dragged into the kitchen as the geek reached for the refrigerator handle and retrieved a red bull, popping it open with a satisfying hiss. The first sip calmed her riled nerves and was on the way to raising her mood when Polly moved over to the window to look out over the city. Throngs of people were moving in every direction: across sidewalks, beneath pedestrian lights, and disappearing down into metro stations. The city smelled like fuel congestion and piss and occasionally food from the cafes on the corners. Everything and everyone were in motion. Bikes and mopeds wove in between tourists and cars. There was a sense of centrifugal force that was native to the arrondissement, but it lacked urgency. People didn't run for buses or trains. They walked, walked quickly, but walked just the same. It surprised Polly the different flavours one city could have from another.

The geek's native London was a completely different animal from the French capital. More modern by far, London was a place where people ran for things. There was a definite sense of contemporary urgency, of urban creep and competition and Polly preferred her cities that way as a result. Paris was only the redhead's temporary home anyway. Soon enough, she would be boarding the Eurostar and returning to London. Working for MI6 was fun and all, but Polly looked forward to the ending of every assignment with more and more excitement as the months went by. Turns out being just shy of twenty and having a high profile career paid the bills, but just about killed any other plans you might have had for yourself. Polly knew she should be grateful. Jet setting all over Europe, Asia, and the Americas, all expenses paid to plan missions of the utmost importance to national security was a dream job and to do it with no strings attached at twenty was nearly unheard of. However, Polly found she missed simpler days when she could hack into a bank or even the UN's network just because she wanted to, not because she needed to get some information on a potential security threat and not because the bloody government needed it done. Polly missed being her own boss for her own sake.

Vivaldi started up again from somewhere in the room, the red haired geek knocking back half of her red bull before she even felt like answering it.

"You're really not a morning person, are you, Owens? I'll have to remember that."

"You'd do well to," Polly warned before downing the last of the beverage. "What do you want, Bennett?"

The older techie was a home base coordinator Polly sometimes used to give her another set of eyes in the field. Very seldom though did the two talk anything but work.

"Jones is MIA," he blurted out, not beating around the bush. It was one of the reason's Polly chose to work with him instead of some of the other freelancers the agency was always sending her. He could say a fact and say it straight, but right now Polly wished he hadn't had to say it at all. There was a pause where no one said anything before Bennett's tentative voice started up again, "Miss Owens?"

Polly's mind was racing at a hundred miles a second, leaping from question to question as they popped into her head. How? When? Kelly? No way!

"Where and when was her last recorded destination?" Polly asked calmly, switching the phone from one shoulder to the other as she reached for her laptop.

"A city called Argun in Chechnya, 5 PM last night."

"Was she alone?"

"No, she headed a team comprised of at least two more agents. Both of whom have already checked in with the field office in Moscow."

Polly flipped open her computer and ran the program that connected agents to the GPS system, honing in on a device they carried with them so they or their bodies could be found if an operation went wrong. She typed in Kelly's reference number and waited. The search brought up a little red dot that flashed burgundy right next to the river Argun.

"The GPS locator says she's still in Chechnya. Are you lot sure you know what you're talking about?" Polly inquired. It was very possible that careless complacence or laziness was why the agency hadn't been able to locate Kelly. If you couldn't find a way to come to them, they wouldn't look for you. Using the GPS system was a last resort.

There was a short pause.

"Hold a moment please."

There was an audible click and elevator music came over the line. Polly stared at the iphone in her hands and contemplated throwing it again. Her love of technology had limits that were usually tested by stupid people. The music cut out again shortly though and Bennett cleared his throat.

"Excuse me Miss Owens, I apologize for the interruption. It seems I read the report wrong. My apologies." He cleared his throat again, this time finding it harder to get his voice again, "Jones isn't MIA she's KIA, shot in the field. I know you were both rather close. You have my deepest condolences. Miss Owens?"

Polly just stared down at her glowing computer screen, the blinking dot still pulsating on the page before her eyes.

"Are—are you sure?" She asked. A raw feeling was rolling through her stomach that was quickly being overrun by thoughts of delivering the news to Miss Fritton and the girls of St. Trinians' and hardest of all: to Annabelle.

"Yes, yes, miss. I am looking at the report now."

"And it says Kelly Opossum Jones born 12 August 1988 in Gravesend, Kent?" Polly pressed roughly.

"I—I think so," The flustered man stammered amidst the shifting of papers.

"Well, check again!" Polly shouted urgently, the volume of her voice rising as the empty feeling in her stomach rose up into her chest.

There was a shuffling of papers on the other end of the line and then when that ceased, nervous fingers could be heard typing furiously into a computer.

"Kelly Opossum Jones. DOB: 12 August 1988. Hair Colour: Black, Weight: 56.2 kilograms, Eye Colour: Dark Brown, Distinguishing Features: Serpent tattoo on—"

"Her left bicep," Polly finished weakly as a tear slid down one cheek. "Thank you for telling me."

"No problem, miss. If you need anything, make sure you ask. The agency is deeply sorry for your loss."

The end of the line clicked off onto a dial tone, leaving Polly to disconnect the line. For perhaps the first time in her whole life, Polly truly, seriously felt lost and alone.

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