Good evening, morning or whatever time of day it is for you readers. Quick PSA: writer's block is the worst, but rest assured I am still working on To Mend A Soldier.

I had planned to post a chapter of this story and this one, but no such luck. At least I still have enough chapters stockpiled for this story to do another double update, but it will be the last unless I get writer's block with this story too. Next month will be one chapter only.

Now enough talking from me. Enjoy, everyone.

…

The sight of a man, or indeed anyone, lying in a drunken stupor was hardly dignified, and rather embarrassing from the point of view of an onlooker. But for Sandra Friis, it was all the more so, since the man in question - Henry Haddock - was her boss now, and this was her first interaction with him.

So it seemed fitting for Sandra, to break one of the empty bottles of beer close to his head to wake him up.

Wake up he did, but Sandra didn't expect him to ensnare her arm with one hand and press a gun to her midsection with the other, almost faster than she could register the act.

Her previously low opinion of Henry had just gone up quite a bit.

"Who are you?"

"S-Sandra Friis, sir."

"Oh," the gun was returned to its holster. "You're the one Sigrid said would show. Well then, make yourself at home. Sorry for the mess. You can blame a larger and different kind of mess for that."

She took a seat across the aisle from him, for they were in a private plane and she could do so. "It's fine. Well no, actually, not really. Do you get drunk often?"

Hiccup blinked. "Only when people bite the bullet. And in my line of work… yes. I do get drunk often. I ought to choose a different career. But enough about me. Bekker! Ingerman! Friis is here! Time to meet your colleagues on this thing."

"Uh, no, that's okay, you don't need to-"

"Avoiding people? That's a good way to spawn dislike, which can cause anger which can get you killed. You don't want to increase your chances of that in this line of work. Trust me."

"That's a tad hypocritical of you, Haddock," said a redheaded woman, who approached from further down the plane, having emerged from a large door that divided the plane. Advancing, she glanced at the new arrival before opting to slide into the next row of seats from Sandra, all the while Hiccup spoke.

"Oi! Bekker, when I criticise Johann or as of late, Sigrid, I have good reason for that and you know it. Even if I didn't, my point would remain. Anyway, introduce yourself to our resident brit here."

"Uh, I'm not british," Sandra saw fit to mention.

"We've read your file," Fishlegs interjected, and Sandra's gaze slid from the redhead to a large blonde-haired man, who moved to sit on the bed-chair that Hiccup had been occupying, forcing him to sit up or be otherwise crushed.

"You were born in Copenhagen but your parents were divorced when you were young and your mother took you to live in Newcastle. You only exist on the DDIS radar and are here today because you and your father kept in touch and he, being the DDIS agent that he is, recommended you for service on your 18th birthday, three years ago. And so you moved back to Denmark, to Skagen, and drew the attention of your peers as an analyst and-just last year-as a drone operator. One of only ten in the country. Last of all, you have a limited understanding of Danish as a language; preferring to speak in English because, quote, 'I've always been terrible at languages.' In that regard, you're not in good company since all three of us are bilingual and my friend over there-" Fishlegs paused mid-speech to gesture at Hiccup, "-knows sign language and a few words in Dari as well as Danish and English."

Sandra blushed. "How…?"

Fishlegs shrugged. "Let's just say I'm fond of reading and your file was quite detailed."

"In other news, deserts lack water," drawled Hiccup. "So, Bekker, want to say anything or can we get down to business?"

"Business it is."

"Alright-"

"Wait! You mentioned something about a large mess and that was why you were drunk when I arrived. Um, what was the mess?"

"Confrontation with a Muslim with traditional beliefs who tied his brother to a post and set it alight, then sent his buddies to try and kill us three. Aimal survived the fire but died early yesterday morning, after it seemed he would make a full recovery. The guy who caused the mess is still to be found. Any more burning questions?"

"How did Aimal die?"

Fishlegs pressed a hand to his face with a groan and Hiccup sighed. It was Bekker who replied. "Suicide. Death by AK-74 if you will. Welcome to our shitty world. Ready to try and make it a little better?"