22 May 2010
MI6, London
1008 GMT
Phillipa Parkes was on the telephone, engaged in a heated row with some MP's stingy secretary when a loud knock came from the door.
'Right, I'll leave you with those figures and you can muse on them and see how much we really do need more nose-plugs!' she shouted down the receiver before hanging up with a slam and hurrying for the door.
Standing there was an unfamiliar, relatively young (and not exactly tall) man. Ash blond hair spiked out in multiple directions and insanely green eyes blinked under equally insane eyebrows.
'Why do you need more nose-plugs?' he asked curiously.
Phillipa trembled slightly with some leftover fury from the call.
'I don't see why we can't get more!' she raged. 'With all these diving criminals nowadays, too! Why, the next thing we want is people re-using them. How utterly unhygienic!'
She paused for air, realised that the young man was staring at her somewhat listlessly and decided against going on.
'Sorry 'bout that, luv,' she smiled, returning to her usual motherly self. 'How can I help you?'
'I'm training someone. Could you please set up something with...diving...and abseiling or something like that?'
'Of course I can, sweetie!' – he flinched slightly – 'Who're you training? Some young and pretty girl?'
His eyes nearly boinged out of their sockets. 'Wh– Pardon? Qu– quite the opposite!'
'Aw, are you sure? You're very good-looking; I'm positive there must be tons of them queuing up for you to train them!'
Ha ha haaa! She'd pulled all the right nerves; Phillipa noted with slightly sadistic pleasure how the young man's face had flared into the precise shade of a slab of raw beef.
'There aren't,' he said shortly. 'Is it possible for you to have the stuff ready by one this afternoon?'
She gave him a fond, motherly smile and waved a piece of paper and a biro at him. 'Of course, pet. Could you write your name down here?'
'I'd rather not.'
'Eh?'
He pulled out an ID pass with his photograph on it. There was no name underneath it. Instead, there were the words: "Should be referred to as 'sir' at all times."
Phillipa regarded this with some surprise and blurted, 'Even if I'm older than you?'
He made a non-committal face. 'You'd be surprised.'
She frowned at him and he frowned back. How perfectly...odd. Phillipa cleared her throat.
'Well, you wouldn't mind signing here then, sir?' she asked formally.
'Of course not,' he replied, taking the pen, scribbling something and handing it back. Phillipa tried to read the signature, but it was a massive mess of curls.
'Right. Thanks. Goodbye,' he said abruptly, his face back to normal, and he beat a hasty retreat.
After bidding him a good day, Phillipa sat back down and squinted at the signature. Suddenly, something "legible" seemed to emerge from it.
The English royal arms, she thought unconsciously, but then she blinked, and couldn't see the image again.
22 May 2010
MI6, London [Ballistics Department]
1003 GMT
Italy did his best to imitate Martin. Truthfully, it wasn't the slightest bit easy with shaking arms.
'Now, just keep an eye on the target and...shoot!'
Martin released a flying orange blur which pierced through the middle of the target quite easily.
Italy's jaw and arms dropped in a fluid, simultaneous movement.
'It's your turn, have a go,' encouraged Martin.
'I can't,' Italy sniffed.
Martin looked him over and clapped in an "aha-I've-got-it" way.
'All you need to do is open your eyes! Come on. Open them. It'll be OK after.'
With all his might, Italy screwed up his face and tried in vain to peel his eyes open. With a faint pop!, one lid opened to reveal a sparkling brown eye.
'Ve!'
'Fabulous! Now the other one?' Martin chided.
But try as he might, the other refused firmly to open. Martin sighed.
'You'll have to make do with that, I'm afraid.'
'Ve,' sighed Italy.
22 May 2010
MI6, London
1047 GMT
They trotted side by side down the corridor, Italy "ve"-ing in relief and Martin walking and smiling as if trying to conceal a great pain up his bottom.
'Good job today,' Martin told Italy with a twisted expression. 'I – oh, here we are.'
The two stopped in front of the wooden door. Italy swore that he could hear talking and laughter inside. He felt confused and was about to tell Martin, but the latter had started to knock. The sounds from within stopped abruptly, and then the door opened a crack.
'Oh, it's you two,' England said, widening the gap. Italy couldn't see anyone else in the office. England ushered them in and started pouring out tea. The atmosphere was static with awkward silence (with the exception of Italy's "ve"s and the mental chirping of imaginary crickets).
'Uh, so...um...how did it go?' England broke the awkwardness awkwardly (the mental chirping of imaginary crickets abruptly cut).
'Ve!' Italy cheered cheerfully. It had been highly frightening, of course, but in the end he did manage to pull the trigger... Not sure where the bullet ended up, though.
'Er...' Martin mumbled, taking his tea and gulping before yelping due to his burnt tongue. Then he looked at England with wide eyes.
'Oh, I see,' England smiled uncomfortably.
'Wha-?' said Italy, puzzled.
'Th-that you did...uh...fantastically!'
'Ve!'
Martin and England gave him identical wonky grins, the former's lip swelling with a blister.
22 May 2010
MI6, London
1100 GMT
'Well! Now he's gone, we can actually do something!'
'V-ve?'
Still remember me?
Four-month hiatus, sorry. Thanks for all reviews, faves and alerts during the time.
Constructive criticism highly welcome.
Rating went up due to some T stuff in chapters to come.
Tabbyprincess is the genius who figured out the answer to Question 1. *applause*
-Fobwatch
