February 2nd, 1987

2352 hours

Rachel

I always find myself telling my little sister that the worst part of being a spy isn't the danger—it's the paperwork. After all, when you're on a ship home from Naples with a defused bomb in your suitcase, the last thing you want to do is write a report about it. And indeed, I stand behind that claim wholeheartedly. Sure, the Stockholm mission was fun and all—Grace and I could always have a good time together—but it was hell transcribing the events of that week onto paper.

It was almost midnight and I was still at my desk in HQ at Langley, exhausting myself over the last few pages of said mission report. There were photographs ranging from grainy and taken from hundreds of feet away to so perfect I could make out facial scars, frantically scribbled notes in my handwriting and copies of things Grace had written, and at least seven plastic bags of evidence like hair or parts of documents. It was awful conduct to have all of my evidence strewn around the table, but it wasn't a problem until someone walked by.

"Oh! I had no clue someone was still here, I'll just-I'll just go." The intruder/speaker was ordinary in every way, shape, and form—dishwater blond hair, eyes whose color I couldn't fully see in the dim lighting, and an average CIA agent musculature underneath his jacket and jeans. Matthew Morgan, Blackthorne alum, Georgetown graduate, infamously good pavement artist, and the man I'd spent five days with in Prague two weeks ago. He had a plain, worn-out messenger bag hanging at his shoulder and a bottle of water in his left hand.

"Matthew! Hi!" I said in surprise, standing up. And of course, in standing up, I hit my desk and half my things went flying. "Crap…"

He rushed forward like a gentleman, putting down his things to offer me aid. "Oh no! Let me help you out with that…" He knelt down to grab the things that had flown a bit farther and I took care of what had fallen under the desk. He carefully deposited everything back onto my desk and then paused. "Haven't seen you since Prague."

"I know. You did some good work."

Matt grinned. "Are you referring to losing that KGB tail in the middle of the restaurant, or the fight that came after?"

I smiled back without totally meaning to. "Both, now that you mention it." I replied. He was charming, if not a bit dorky for my tastes.

"Are you… Not to be too personal, but did you graduate from Gallagher?"

"Oh. Yes, yes I did." This particular agent was becoming more and more interesting by the minute. Now that I was standing in front of him, studying him like the spy I was, I realized I'd seen him quite a bit before, at debriefs and talking with Joe in the third floor break room and working the punching bag in the lower levels. He was a pavement artist, and I had seen him, which was quite a feat. "You have the clearance for that?"

"It's not hard to get. From what I hear, they give it to high school girls." From lots of people in the AlphaNet, the phrase would've been condescending or rude, but from him, it was teasing and genuine, without a hint of disrespect.

"All the time, Mr. Morgan." I didn't mean to give him my shy smile, the one almost no one alive had ever even seen, but it came out anyway; it felt almost foreign on my face. "As much as I enjoy chatting, I do have a mission report to finish."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Matthew gave me a quick little bow before grabbing his bag and his water bottle, and I bit back a chuckle. "I'll leave you to it, then, madam" He gave me one last smile before disappearing into the darkness that was Langley after 11 PM.

I started to sort through newly disorganized mess and raised an eyebrow when I saw a new slip of paper, sitting between a Ziploc bag and a bullet casing. I unfolded it to reveal a message written in thin, scrawling, almost illegible handwriting: Care to talk altitude countersurveillance methods over dinner? From what I've heard, you've got some interesting views on the subject. –MM

"Oh. Well then, Mr. Morgan."