A/N: As promised, Chapter 14 :)

Chapter 14

There was no reason to feel this much fear, Dylan told himself as he paused on the front porch of the dilapidated building. This was far from the first time he had been sent on a mission, and if MI6 had anything to say about it—which they did—this was far from his last.

He rubbed his clammy palms against his pants, searching for the doorbell. Curiously enough, there was none, and Dylan was left to knock on the door, wincing as the wood moaned wildly under his knuckles. Like everything else on the exterior of the house, it was nearly broken. Dylan stepped back, tilting his head backwards to observe the windows on the second floor. Like the first floor, the windows were boarded up with planks of fresh wood. He snorted quietly to himself. Really, it was like these SOP people wanted to draw attention to themselves.

Dylan started violently when the door was suddenly thrown open, the hinges screaming in distress.

"Dylan!"

Dylan plastered a grin to his face as a mousy, brown-haired man tumbled through the battered door way, tackling him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around the man, "Dad!"

For an uncomfortable moment, Tyler Morgan didn't let go. It was the length of a normal hug, Dylan told himself as he disentangled himself from his fake father's arms. He just wasn't used to affectionate physical contact. Save for Ian, Jack, and occasionally Ben (Tom didn't count, especially because nudging and punching was his form of affection and that was quite different from a hug) Dylan hadn't had anyone. Besides Panther, Dylan amended, but that was a different matter as the soldier enjoyed clinging onto him like a sloth and laughing manically as people stared.

"How was your flight, son?" Tyler asked, steering Dylan into the house. The sheer sight of the interior made Dylan want to wash his exposed skin continuously. The walls were stained random colors, which wasn't bad by itself, but it was accompanied by various types of mold and water stains. Upon further inspection, the random colors were different types of mold.

Disgusted, Dylan refocused on his pseudo-father's face, "Long, but I slept most of the time."

A lie, but a harmless one. Tyler didn't seem to pay any attention as he steered Dylan towards an opening in the colorful walls. Stairs, Dylan realized.

"Good, good," Tyler replied absentmindedly. "I asked Ray to take you here because I want to introduce you to Rock. He's a member of the SOP, like me."

"Rock?" Dylan pulled the corners of his lips down and furrowed his eyebrows, as if confused—he wasn't supposed to know anything specific about the organization. However, from the files MI6 gave Dylan, Rock was a former soldier, and a good one at that. He wasn't 'all that bright' (the file's words—not his), but he was the closest thing to the SOP boss' right hand man.

"You'll see," Dylan had the distinct feeling that his fake-father was grinning at him as he pushed Dylan up the stairs. They creaked, bending slightly under his weight. "Don't step on that step—the termites got to it."

True enough, the wood on the seventh step was splintered and unsalvageable. Thankfully, there didn't seem to be any termites, but Dylan hopped over the step, resisting the urge to gag at the state of the house.

"Do you own this place?" Dylan hastily withdrew from the wall he was about to brush with his fingertips. "Have you given any thought to renovating this place?"

Tyler chuckled, "It's only a temporary location. The Boss and I are looking for a place for the new headquarters, but it's California. Everything is so damn expensive."

"I'm sure we can afford it," Dylan muttered dryly as he reached the last step and gave his shirt a little tug to straighten out the fabric.

"Down the hall," Tyler directed, "the last door."

It was cleaner upstairs. Oh, there was still mold and multi-colored splatters, but it seemed like someone tried to combat it by splashing bleach on the walls and scrubbing at places, then got bored halfway through. The only thing that seemed to be new was the door at the end of the hall, which was guarded by two, well-muscled men that were having difficulties standing side by side without touching the mess on the walls. Dylan almost pitied them until his eyes slid down to the military-grade weapons they were holding, index fingers resting on the trigger. Less sympathy. More wariness.

"My son, Dylan," Tyler explained to the two guards as their eyes fixated on him. "I'm introducing him to Rock: Boss' orders."

They apparently didn't have a problem with that as they awkwardly stood aside by facing each other, allowing Tyler to squeeze through. Dylan inched forward as Tyler knocked on the door. His knocks were muffled and muted, almost like the white, wooden door wasn't wood at all.

"Come in."

Tyler twisted the handle and scurried in, looking more and more like an excitable rat rather than a person. Dylan followed, closing the suspiciously light-weighted door after them. Upon further inspection, he realized the door was made of cheap wood—the kind that was almost similar to styrofoam—and painted white. And Dylan was under the impression that SOP had rich benefactors. He nearly snorted.

"Rock, this is Dylan, my son," Tyler used the palm of his hand to spin Dylan around and propel him forward into the cluttered room. On one side of the room, boxes of different sorts of papers—color coded, apparently—were stacked precariously on top of one another. On the other, there were crates of guns and even more crates of ammunition. It was enough for a small army, Dylan realized with a jolt. These people were preparing for war.

"He looked taller in the pictures," a man grunted back, half hidden behind a desk. It was more organized there. Papers were pushed off to the side and the desk was cleared off, save for an assault rifle, which the man, Rock, had been examining. "Come here, boy."

Dylan approached hesitantly, flinching slightly as Rock snagged a pistol from one of the boxes and slid a magazine into the open space between the magazine walls.

"Can you handle a gun?" Rock asked, a particularly nasty smile adorning his face. It might have looked like it belonged on the man's face if he hadn't had huge muscles with crude images tattooed on, a ripped, black leather jacket, studded with silver spikes, and a gun directed at Dylan's right knee. Dylan tensed, ready to launch himself backwards, if need be.

"I've had some experiences," Dylan replied candidly, pretending to be unconcerned with the way Rock's index finger twitched down to the trigger. "Dad taught me. It was a while ago, so I'm probably rusty."

"That needs to be fixed," Rock muttered gruffly before spinning the gun around and handing it to Dylan, grip first. "Keep it. You might not know when you'll need it."

Obediently, Dylan tucked the pistol into his waistband.

"Sit," Rock commanded, pointing at a chair that was sporting a box, overflowing with papers. Dylan spared a glance back to his father, who was grinning broadly at the two of them. He waved his hands in a 'go, go!' fashion. "You're British."

"English," Dylan corrected before he could stop himself.

Rock gave him an odd look, then slowly and deliberately spoke, "Yes, I'm speaking English."

"No, I mean—" Dylan didn't know whether nor not to laugh. He shook his head, trying to dispel the amusement, "I was born in America, but after Mom and Dad got a divorce, I moved to London with my mom."

"School?"

"I just graduated university last year," Dylan repeated the lie written in his file. "I've been accepted to attend law school at Stanford." Cue the puffed up look that made him look like a proud penguin. From Dylan's observations, this was the favorite look among rick folk.

"Where are you staying?"

Dylan raised his eyebrows, as if the answer to the question was obvious, "The same hotel Dad is. At least, until I can find a flat—sorry, apartment—I can rent out for the upcoming academic year." He turned to send Tyler a little scowl before facing Rock again, slumping his shoulders like a little kid that didn't get what he wanted, "Dad wouldn't let me buy a house."

"That's because you don't need one," Tyler let out an exasperated sigh behind him. "Besides, you agreed that we would use the money to buy SOP a new headquarters."

Dylan crossed his arms, scowling, "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Rock held out a silencing hand before Tyler could argue back. Behind his heavy frowning lines, Dylan detected a spark of amusement—almost fond familiarity? His thoughts wandered back to the mission files. There hadn't been anything on Rock's personal life, but if that expression was anything to go by, the man must have a father-son relationship with someone. Dylan tucked the information into a metaphorical pocket in his mind. It was always good to collect information, no matter how small it seemed. Pressure points, Jones liked to call them.

"I think the Boss is going to like you," Rock's mouth twitched into a menacing smile. He offered a beefy hand to Dylan, "Welcome to the mission, kid."

A/N: As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, and giving this fic a chance. I know I've been super sporadic with my updating, but thank you for understanding. Chemistry and pre-med courses leave no room for creative writing, unfortunately. Anyway, good luck to you all in school, especially with finals coming up! Much love *MWAH*