File 2

Between

A picture: me, hanging in Mike's arms, my body visibly limp, blood is trickling down my chin, and blood is smudged on Mike's face along with dirt and gunpowder, his facial expression unreadable as he looks down on me; paramedics frozen in the motion of running towards us; behind us the White House, or what is left of it, with the black holes and still sizzling fires; the sky a bright blue, there's no shadow anywhere just what our bodies throw to the ground. When I first saw this picture, in a giant version on the front page of a prominent newspaper, it took a few minutes for the realization to hit: when that photo was taken I was already dead. Not many people have the opportunity to look at pictures of their dead bodies. Once it was a terrifying sight, twice was slightly disturbing, thrice was disgusting and still disturbing, and every other sight since then filled me with contempt for the media and the overwhelming sense of dread. My psych would call it PTSD. I would call it the very natural reaction to seeing a fucking photo of your fucking dead body. Okay, maybe it has something to do with PTSD.

Apparently, this very picture was the one every single newspaper, tabloid, blog and whatnot used when covering the attack on the White House. Every. Single. Goddamned. One. Other than my gut reactions, it was a strange feeling that a picture of me circulated everywhere in the world and became the poster photo of the whole incident. Not a picture with the President walking out of the House, not the House itself, with the artistically scattered bulletholes and burnt marks on the white paint, no, but the picture of me and Mike. Fame was trying to capture me, what with all the talk about my mysterious person. Everyone knew who Mike was, but me? Oh boy, the things I've read… People have awfully active imaginations, I have to say. I think my favourite theory was that I was a goddess from outer space, who came when hearing humanity's cries for help. Well… While this was certainly flattering, I must confess that I was born on Earth, and not as a goddess. Unfortunately.

Among all the theories were some very good guesses. Pinpoint exact. The most suspicious thing was the silence on the government's part. Total, eerie, awkward silence. It wasn't even funny anymore. Just plain embarrassing. They interviewed me about the whole mission at least a hundred times, I'm not even exaggerating here. The first few times the interviews were held in my hospital room, I'm surprised they didn't shut down the whole ward for the occasion. Then after I got out of there, about a month later, at Langley. By the time they got to know everything about everything - including, but not limited to precise information about what I ate at particular minutes - I was halfway out of the CIA. Not in the literal sense, but in the sense that I had lost my job. Bummer.

The incident, instead of giving a blast to my career, blew holes in it, quite literally. Holes which suspiciously looked like my face if you happened to look closely. I, or more like my facial structure, became famous. Not fortunate. I've never heard of a spy before - let's not count James Bond here - who was happy to hear the following words in this particular order: I've seen you somewhere before, didn't I? Well, no, being famous effectively put a halt in my otherwise promising career at the CIA. Needless to say I wasn't too happy. And Mom just had to be an asshole about it. You'll see it's better like this, Bathsheba. You don't have to lie anymore. And we won't worry too much about you either. When I happened to mention that lying wasn't a problem until now, and they weren't worrying because they didn't know anything, she gave me the stink eye and I shut up. Mom has that killer look which makes you swallow your tongue, probably groomed to perfection by twenty plus years in the teaching profession.

Anyhow, with my face plastered to every imaginable surfaces in the world, I could hardly keep being a covert agent. Office work, on the other hand, was just not for me. Following orders didn't become my forte over those 24 hours while I let Banning take the wheel. To think that I might have to be ordered around 24/7, without as much as a wink of independent decision time, made me sick to my core. I didn't become a CIA agent for that. If I wanted order and discipline to dominate my life, I would've chosen the military. So I was essentially without a job, to my greatest chagrin, and to my parents' greatest relief. They weren't exactly smug about this to my face, but I knew them enough to see how glad they were. This fact made it infinitely hard to wallow and whine to them about my situation. Which left Banning as the only person with whom I could talk.

Speaking of Mike. After I woke from the coma he visited me almost every day at the hospital. It was unnecessary, but I understood his need to talk to someone who was there too. I needed that too, his company did wonders to my state of mind. Especially after the first interview with my superiors, when I had to talk about killing an American for the sake of my mission. Nightmares were the least of my problems. Sometimes I broke out in cold sweat suddenly, my heart rate dangerously elevated, my chest tightening; once the nurses came running because they thought I was dying. It was just a panic attack. Mike said it will be better, but coping was made harder not knowing the triggers. I mean I didn't even know what set off the attack, so it was hard to avoid it. Sometimes it happened with Mike being there and he led me through the steps to calming down like a pro. I'm guessing he had experience. He helped me through the worst, he was with me during physical therapy too, and slowly but surely we developed a very strong relationship. It wasn't attraction, and not exactly friendship, but the unique experience we lived through together, the knowledge that you can trust someone with your life - in my case, literally -, it created an unbreakable bond. Then we realised that we could be friends too, and we became just that. So when, after two months or so, during one of our outings in Washington, sitting at a bar, sipping drinks, Mike offered me a job as a Secret Service agent, I wasn't surprised at all.

"No way."

Mike's eyes widened, he was clearly confused.

"Why the hell not?!"

"I told you, I'm shit at following orders."

"But you said I could be your boss."

"Just for that mission, Banning, just for that. I cannot operate with other people telling me how to. I had enough of that during my childhood."

Mike slugged down the rest of his beer before speaking again. We touched upon a topic I rarely brought up, but I knew that Mike was dying to know more about. I let him simmer in uncertainty and curiosity for long enough.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"Well, you've met my mother, right?"

"Yeah…"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I love her very much, but she's the very definition of overbearing. And a control freak to top it. My childhood, even if it seemed pretty happy and all sugar and rainbows, was a charade of me trying to live up to expectations, and learning on the way how to pretend to be something I'm definitely not."

Mike hummed. "I see."

"I doubt it. But okay, you don't have to understand. You can't, unless you were in the same shoes."

"Well, my father was a marine. I know a thing or two about discipline."

I nodded, it was true. It wasn't the same, though, but close enough. Still, Mike came to live by that discipline, while I did everything to get out of it. We were fundamentally different in this sense.

"Okay. But you have to understand, I can't live by orders. I have to make my decisions myself."

He nodded, then ordered another round.

"I still can't believe you don't drink beer. Who doesn't drink beer?"

The topic change was welcome, even if I hated when people did that. I mean talking about beer. No one I've ever met and liked beer could wrap their heads around me not liking it. I rolled my eyes.

"I just don't like it. I can pretend I do, if you want."

"Jesus, no. You don't have to pretend, you know. Not with me."

I couldn't help smiling at him. Mike became sort of my best friend along the way. Not like I had any actual friends besides him anyway. It was pretty hard to keep up relationships when one has to travel incessantly on top secret covert missions. And it goes for romantic relationships too. I didn't miss it, but sometimes I felt a tiny bit lonely like this. Even if I loved my job essentially.

"It's already too late for that, isn't it? I'm an open book to you."

It was supposed to be a lighthearted joke on my part, but Mike tensed up, and avoided my eyes. It didn't last long, but it was enough for me to become embarrassed too, even though I had absolutely no idea why.

"Yeah, anyway, back to me being your boss…"

"No. Just no. Thanks for the offer, but I'll find something else."

"With your attitude, I doubt-"

"Hey! You know, my qualifications are perfect, I have a college degree, and all. And five years of experience in the CIA must mean something, right?"

"If they'll let you write that in your resume."

My mood quickly waned. "Ugh, now that you mention it…"

That was definitely a problem. I had to check with my ex-superiors, it shouldn't be classified info that I was employed by the CIA at one point.

"How do you plan on finding a job where you don't have to follow orders?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Well… My offer stands, if you fail."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

He had the courage to grin smugly at me. "Anytime."

Two weeks later I accepted his offer, becoming a full-fledged member of the Secret Service. I realised that with my very specialized expertise and qualifications, combined with my utter reluctance to tolerate someone commanding me, any other job was quite impossible to hold down. I decided that if I had to follow orders, I'd rather they come from Banning than anyone else.

The monday morning I started work Mike greeted me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So, who's the boss now?"

"Shut up."

I hadn't really done any cleaning up in this chapter, so forgive the mistakes I made.

And as always, thanks for reading!