AN: Welcome back!
This is kind of a transitional chapter. It's long, highly episodic, a little choppy, but very much needed to (finally) progress the plot.
TW: Mentions of attempted sexual assault/rape. Nothing remotely graphic, and it is just mentioned.
Disclaimer: I own Ella and her confusingly convoluted moral compass, but not Alex Rider and crew. I also don't own the amazing Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive."
Chapter 7: Loose Ends and New Beginnings
Ella:
I'm still in the hospital when I wake up again, and I have a lot more energy now. My doctor, a tall Black woman named Dr. Waters, said that after a full physical, I was healthy enough to be discharged. Her 'prescription' was for me to get more rest.
Since we are in Paris, we are speaking French. "Doubtful," I chuckle, "I start college in three weeks."
She laughs too. "Well, at least try not to completely exhaust yourself. Where are you going to college?"
"Oxford," I smile. It's true. I really am going to Oxford. Finally. My life as Agent 4-6-7: underage spy for the CIA is officially over. My life as Ella Cornell: college student has officially begun.
"That's a great school, good luck, Laila." It takes me a second–a second too long–to realize that she's using one of my many fake identities, Laila Arquette. I have many false identities, and rarely use my real one, but more on that later.
24 hours later, and I'm stepping off of an airplane. My father and I are back in Washington D.C. to tie up loose ends with the CIA and my identity and to pack for college. My new life is right on the horizon, and I can't wait.
Before we head over to HQ for the debriefing and legal stuff, I want to go home and see the rest of my family. It's been a rough few weeks, and in just a few days, I won't see them again for a long time.
When we get to the house, I see James, first. He hugs me. Tight.
"Ella! You're okay! I'm so sorry I couldn't come back for you. The whole mission just went to shit, and I just-I'm sorry."
You come back for me? Bitch, please. I orchestrated and performed your blessed escape. And I only did it so I wouldn't have to deal with your sorry ass once shit really went down. I smile at my older brother, sweet as sugar.
"It's okay, James, not your fault," I lie, "Anyways, the mission was a success, and we are both home safe," No thanks to you, asshat, "That's all that really matters." He nods, accepting this.
I'm kind of sorry, in a twisted way, that the CIA will still have to deal with his incompetence. James has only had one truly successful mission which was somewhere in Egypt a couple of years ago. He was just another agent who had no part in the planning, yet acted like he was God's gift to the entire Middle East. He is a cocky spy, which is the worst type. I honestly don't think he'll last two more years in the field. I know for a fact my dad thinks the same. However, I keep my thoughts to myself, plaster a smile on my face, and leave James to go and find Christopher.
"Ellie! You're back!" Christopher exclaims, hugging me tightly. His voice lowers to a whisper, "I'm sorry you had to deal with James. He has literally nothing to be arrogant about, yet he always feels the need to prove himself."
"Yep," I agree with my younger brother, matching his whispering tone, "He can't accept that his little sister can literally kick his ass in everything."
"And you're just so humble about it," he teases, and I roll my eyes. I open my mouth to speak but freeze when I hear a scream.
"ELLA!" I identify the yell as my kid sister, Lilia. "I MISSED YOU," She continues, "James came home without you and I didn't know where you were, Ella."
"Don't worry, Lili, I'm okay," I reassure her. She hugs me tight.
After similar hellos from my mom and Ava, more of James's holier-than-thou attitude, Lilia literally grabbing onto my leg, and hundreds of exasperated exchanged glances between Dad, Christopher, and I, I decide that I'm sick of my family, and decide to visit HQ with my father.
I change into my favorite outfit, which is both practical and stylish: Black Dr Martens, stretchy, yet fitted light blue jeans, a navy-and-white striped short-sleeved shirt, an olive green bomber jacket, my chunky white belt that includes a survival kit, and some of my many pieces of gadget jewelry. Besides my flower/knife ring, I wear a lot of jewelry with concealed gadgets that Peters, the CIA gadget man created for me. My collection of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings double as everything from explosives, to knives, to poison. Some might even say that my fashion sense is downright killer.
My dad opens the door, and I saunter into the office of Mr. Joseph Edward Byrne. I'm not technically supposed to know his middle name, but I can hardly help it when I learn such information from his file...that I stole. I sit down opposite him, swinging my feet up and resting them on his desk. It's kind of our thing. "Mr. Bryne," I greet with a smirk.
"Ella, it's nice to see you alive and well. Congratulations on a job well done."
"Yeah, no thanks to your agents. They were all terrible at their jobs, except for the medics."
"Yeah, we have much better. We purposely gave you our worst teams to see how you'd do without reliable backup," My dad shrugs, nonchalantly.
"Why? I've performed dozens of missions with little to no backup. Did you want me to die? Also, what happened to that waste of a person, Shumway? Someone remind me to kick his ass when I get the chance. Also-"
"Ella, slow down," My dad laughs, "We know that you are perfectly capable of handling yourself without backup. We just wanted to give you one last experience without it, so you'll be prepared for when you join MI6. Those Brits are infamous for denying their agents backup. We-"
"Excuse me?" I explode. I'm going to college, not to a British fucking intelligence agency. "I will not be joining any such organization, under any circumstances. I'm going to college to find a different career, away from spying. How could you even insinuate that-"
"Ella, Ella, Ella," my dad sing-songs as if I were five, "You're you. Are you really so naïve to think that you won't get into trouble somehow and get mixed up with '6? You have a knack for finding trouble, and when there's no trouble, you and your curiosity create some. There is no doubt in my mind that within a year–nay, within three months of moving to England–you will find yourself in the company of MI6 and the ever-lovely Mrs. Jones." I want to protest, to argue, but in my heart, I know my dad is right. Trouble and I? We're like two teenagers in love: we just can't seem to stay away from each other.
"Fuck," I mumble, admitting my defeat.
Joey Byrne chooses this moment to change the subject. "That fool, Richard Shumway, we reassigned him. Don't worry, Ella, he won't be able to spread any information about you, because for the next 5 years, his assignment is counting sheep in Siberia."
"Mr. Byrne? I didn't think that there were sheep in Siberia," I giggle. Serves the coward right.
"Exactly. Whenever a new level of incompetence is achieved here at the CIA, I make it my mission to find the worst hellhole I possibly can for whoever is responsible to go and count sheep for half a decade."
I laugh vindictively. "That's a great mission statement, Mr. Byrne, you should paint that on the front doors." This merits a laugh from both Byrne and my father.
Byrne clears his throat. "On a more serious note, Ella, we need to discuss your identity."
"I think you mean identities, Mr. Byrne," I say bluntly.
He coughs. "Yes, well, since your real identity, Ella Marion Cornell has no official ties to the CIA, that is the one you are to use at Oxford. Cornell is a fairly common American surname, and despite your father's high rank in the CIA, it is unlikely that anyone will make the connection, especially considering he has no relations in his file. You will, of course, have to make a few minor changes to your identity. I have prepared a file so everyone has their stories straight."
"So what you're telling me, Mr. Byrne, is that you made me a file on myself? Like, my true self?" This is funny, in an ironic sort of way.
"Who even is your 'true self,' Ella?" Byrne asks, only partly joking, "Because I'm not sure anyone will ever really know, yourself included. Think about it like this. Your next and final mission is Operation: Normal Life, and you just need to learn the basics of your new self in order to be successful." I nod, because this makes a lot of sense. "Now," Byrne continues, "Is the issue of the Agent 4-6-7 file. Most of the criminal underworld knows of 4-6-7, though few know anything concrete, as it is a lot of rumors and speculations, some of which contain bits of truth, whilst others were no more than lies spread by the CIA to confuse people. The way I see it, you have four options with what to do with your 4-6-7 file, and I'll let you choose. One, we simply close the file, and Agent 4-6-7 is forever off the grid. Two, we leave the file open, but we don't add or delete anything. We leave it open, just to be ambiguous and to confuse any enemies. If you ever need to, you'll be able to fall back on the identity and use 4-6-7's connections if need be. Three, we fake 4-6-7's death. The file is closed, but you will never be able to use 4-6-7's identity or connections again. I know you want out of this life for good, and this option will accomplish that for you, though there is no coming back from it. And four," he says the last option very hopefully, "You go to Oxford, but come back when we need you as a legal employee. Obviously, your father and I want you to continue working for us under choice four, but it is inevitably your decision."
And it's not a difficult one. "Option two. Keep my file open, so I can fall back on the identity. I don't want to commit to this life, but as Dad said, I have a knack for trouble, and the will to help people, and I may need the connections someday."
"A wise decision," Byrne declares, and my father nods in agreement. "Now. I know that over the years, you've created quite a few fake identities for yourself to fall back on, in case of emergency. This was good thinking. I don't know what the future holds, but you may well need to use them someday. If you give me all of the information you have on them by tomorrow, in exchange for this knowledge, I will legitimize all of them by the time you leave for England. I will get you legit papers, passports, documents of citizenship, bank accounts, and places of residency. There will be no questions concerning the legality of any of your current identities."
"Mr. Byrne, that's incredibly generous of you," I smile softly. I know that the CIA will have all of my fake identities' information, but that's a small price to pay for what Byrne is offering me. I'm not naїve enough to believe that the CIA will never be in my life again. Of course, they'll be watching my every move and between us, I'd be shocked if I never ended up working alongside or for them again. I don't bring any of this speculation up because if there's one thing I've learned, it's to never pass up the opportunity to help yourself later. These identities being legitimized by CIA backing may be the best-case scenario for me. If nothing else, it can't hurt having an agency I (loosely) trust to always know my whereabouts.
He flashes me a genuine smile. "So, Ella, is risking your life on something you didn't believe in for 13 years. You deserve this. You earned this."
I've been creating false, backup identities for myself since I was twelve, so it takes a comically long time for me to write all of the information down for Byrne. Before he got promoted from field agent to Byrne's number two, my dad would often take me with him on his missions. I was his best child, his most prized possession, and he wanted me to set up a web of different connections and identities.
When I was 15, he got shot in the leg. He was in the middle of the Amazon, and the wound got infected, rendering his left leg nearly useless. His right leg still works perfectly fine, but he now walks slowly with a limp and a cane, making it difficult for him to be a field agent. This is when he got promoted. After that, I traveled the world alone for two years, only coming back to receive missions from him and Byrne.
During this period, I created as many false, backup identities as I could. Some were much easier to form than others, and they all have connections to the criminal underworlds in their respective countries. To do this, I immersed myself in the local language and culture, which was much easier in countries in which I spoke the language fluently. My official list of languages I speak fluently are English, Dutch, German, French, Spanish, Italian, Russian, Arabic, Hebrew, Indonesian, and Mandarin Chinese. I also know enough of several other languages to get around and survive. I've always had an ear for languages, and growing up, I had lots of free time, so I used my time to become fluent in as many languages as possible.
I begin writing Byrne a list, alphabetically by country name. I can't wait to see the equally shocked and impressed looks on his and my dad's faces when they see this list of false identities.
The next afternoon, I'm back in Byrne's office with my father, handing them my list of soon-to-be-legal false identities. There are 36 of them from countries all across the world. For anywhere I don't look like a native (which is unfortunately confined to The US, Canada, and Northwestern Europe) my back story is usually the daughter of a diplomat or Expat.
I have bank accounts, occupations, and residencies for identity that I also give to Byrne so he can fully legitimize them for me.
"Jesus, Ella, you have more fake identities than I do," My father marveled.
"Well, I learned from the best," I say, arrogantly. Byrne laughs.
"Jesus," My dad repeated, in awe.
"It's really quite impressive. I've never seen anyone with this many identities. How did you–" Byrne pauses, thinking for a moment, "Actually, I don't want to know how."
These identities were built on, to put it nicely, questionable legal terms, so he really doesn't. I nod my agreement.
"I'll have these legalized before you leave for Oxford. Please, come back to my office the day of your departure to collect the papers," He pauses again, "And to say goodbye."
"Mr. Byrne, it's not like I'm going on a suicidal mission, it's just college," I tease. He laughs, reaching over his desk to shake my hand.
"I'll see you then, Ella," he smiles, and I grin back. Joe's not a bad guy. He's like my uncle or my grandfather or something, but it's hard to enjoy your time with someone who sends you off to your death so goddamn often. I will miss him, I think.
I zip up my last suitcase. It's weird to see my entire life packed up into just four bags. I gaze around my now mostly empty room. It's weird. It's over. It's strange to think about how much my life is about to change, though most of the thoughts are pleasant ones.
No more manipulation, no more guilt-tripping, no more CIA, no more spying, no more missions, no more near-death experiences, no more saving people, no more Byrne, no more Dad, no more Christopher. I really will miss my family, even Byrne, although we're not blood-related. That will be the hardest part of all of this. Leaving my family behind, but I'll survive. Ella Cornell is nothing, if not adaptable, and a survivor.
I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I laugh out loud, thinking of the song by the same name. I search it up on my iPhone and Gloria Gaynor's voice rings out.
"At first I was afraid, I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side
But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong
And I grew strong
And I learned how to get along
The CIA really is like my toxic ex-boyfriend.
And so you're back
From outer space
I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key
If I'd known for just one second you'd be back to bother me
The CIA had better not
Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
'Cause you're not welcome anymore
Hell yes. CIA is not welcome anymore!
Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye
Do you think I'd crumble
Did you think I'd lay down and die?
Ella Cornell will never lay down and die
Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive
I will survive, hey, hey
I will survive! At this point, I am dancing around my mostly empty room, jumping over suitcases and twirling. It feels great to dance off all of my pent-up nerves and anxiety.
Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
'Cause you're not welcome anymore
Do you think I'd crumble
Did you think I'd lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive
I will survive
Now, I've picked up a hairbrush, and am dramatically singing into it like a microphone. It feels freeing to just be twirling and singing at the top of my lungs. Music really is the best de-stressor. I only wish I played more instruments.
Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
'Cause you're not welcome anymore
Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye
Do you think I'd crumble
Did you think I'd lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive
I will survive
I will survive"
The song finishes up, and I've actually broken a sweat from the singing, the dancing, the twirling, and the jumping. It's the best I've felt in ages: carefree. I'm entering a new life. One where I can be loose and easy-going. One where I can dance and sing around my room without fear of being killed. I'm free, and I will survive.
The day of my flight, I arrive at HQ rolling a suitcase behind me. I walk slowly, taking deep breaths, trying to take it all in. For the very last time. I have so many memories here from playing hide and seek with my siblings, to getting gadgets from Peters, to plotting how to steal Joe Byrne's files, to studying languages in the library. The whole thing still feels surreal. I am leaving my home, my life, my family. As happy as I am to get the hell out of here, I literally grew up in this building. I spent so many hours training, learning, working, studying, and playing here, and I think I'm going to really miss it. I take a shaky breath as I knock on Joe's office door. For the last time.
"Hello, Mr. Byrne," I greet him for the last time.
"Ella, it's good to see you," he smiles back.
I walk over to one of the chairs opposite him, as casual as ever, and put my feet on his desk.
For the last time.
Yeah, this needs to stop.
But Ella, you need this constant reminder of what you'll never do again.
I SAID STOP!
I ignore my internal civil war, and smile at the head of the CIA for the last t-
GODDAMMIT!
"You too, Mr. Byrne," What else is there to say?
"So, Ella, I have a few things for you," he announces awkwardly, "First," he begins, handing me a large stack of manila envelopes, "Here, Ella, are your fake identities. Passports, bank accounts, citizenships, birth certificates, the works. All completely legal."
"How did you get these all finished so quickly?" I marvel as I place them in my suitcase.
"Let's just say you're not the only one with a few tricks up your sleeve," he winks at me. I laugh. "Anyways, I looked at the language list on the identities paper you gave me, and I got you a sort of going-away present." Standing up, Byrne pulls out a stack of eight beautiful textbooks from behind his desk. I swing my legs off of his desk and pour over the covers. Dari, Portuguese, Croatian, Serbian, Hindi, Korean, Japanese, and Thai. The eight languages that my identities need, but I am not yet fluent in.
"Mr. Byrne...I don't even know what to say...these are beautiful," I stutter. They really are. This is the most meaningful gift I've ever received, and I love my new textbooks. "Thank you so much," I manage.
"Thank you so much, Ella, for risking your life so many times for us. If ever, you need anything, you have a friend in a very high place." He smiles at me warmly.
I walk around his desk, after putting my textbooks in my suitcase, and hug Joe Byrne. I bury my face into his collar. He pats my back, awkwardly. "Mr. Byrne," I whisper. I'm crying now. Tears are spilling down my face, and wetting his shirt. This moment is both embarrassing and comforting for us both. Thankfully, he just lets me cry and doesn't try to console me and tell me it's okay. Because it's not okay. It's really not. You are seeing Joe Byrne for the last time.
And it's okay to honor that.
Another minute goes by, and I sniffle and pull away. Byrne gives me an understanding look and hands me a tissue, both of us ignoring my puffy, red, tear-streaked face, and the giant wet spot on the shoulder of his blue collared shirt. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I'm done crying now. I'm done. I look Byrne in the eyes and shake his hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Byrne."
"Thank you for your service, Agent 4-6-7. It's been a pleasure. And goodbye, Ella." I hug him again, quickly this time, grab my suitcase, and stalk out his office.
I park my car in the driveway of my house. For the last time. It's weird that I won't be driving her again anytime soon. Her name is Samara, Guardian in Hebrew, and she is a silver Mercedes-Benz CLA-Class. She has been my companion and protector–my only escape–these past 2 years and I'm sad to leave her in the States. "See you at Christmas, Girl," I pat the top of her roof.
All evidence of crying is gone from my face. I walk inside, put my other four suitcases into my Dad's trunk (his work car, the BMW), and prepare to say goodbye to my family.
I decide that one at a time is the best course of action. James first, because you save the best for last.
I knock on my older brother's bedroom door. "Are you leaving now, Ella?" He asks as he cracks open the door. I nod. "Well, goodbye, little sister, good luck at college. I'm sure you'll be Dad's favorite, even from 3,000 miles away," He reflects, bitterly. What a weird thing to say to another person.
I sigh, and hug him quickly, mostly just for show. "Bye James. Good luck at the CIA." There. Quick and painless. The easiest goodbye is over, and the others are going to be impossible.
Ava, next. I'll truly miss her, though we aren't very close anymore.
When we were little and training together, we were tight, since we were only a year apart. However, Ava took a desk job in the coding department of HQ, so we've kind of drifted apart after a change in paths. I'm glad there are no hard feelings between my older sister and me, mainly because we were never in any sort of competition with each other. I followed our dad's footprints into the field, and she followed our mom's into code analysis. Hell, there was never any competition between James and me either, because I've always been so much better at both languages and fieldwork, but I digress.
"Ave," I call out, knocking on my sister's door.
"Come in!"
I open the door into her bedroom where everything is so neat and organized. I, quite frankly, have no time in my life for trivial things, such as cleaning, so my bedroom tends to be a bit of a mess. Who has time for tidying when you have over 30 fake identities and eight new languages to learn? "Ava, I'm leaving for the airport now. I came in to say goodbye."
"Wait, Ella, before you leave, I have something for you," My sister pulls out and hands me what appears to be a yellow legal pad. It's a little heavier than expected. "Here. I worked with Peters to develop it. It's a way for us to send each other coded messages. I have the same one, and when one of us writes on it, the other can see it. Here, it comes with a special pen that you can erase."
"Thanks so much! It's really great, Avie, you're the best."
"Aww, Ellie," she says, wrapping her arms around my torso.
"Ave, I'm really going to miss you."
"I'll miss you too, Ella, but it'll be okay. You'll do great in England."
Next, I track down my kid sister, Lilia, who is sitting on her bed, head in her hands, and tearing up. "Lili, what's wrong?"
"I don't want you to leave me, Ellie," she sniffles, "I want you to stay."
"I'm sorry, Lili, but you'll be okay, I promise. You can Skype me every night if you want to. And besides, you'll still have Christopher." I say, trying to console her.
"It's not the same. I just wish that you'd stay here with me."
"I know, Lili, but you know I can't."
"I love you, Ella, I'll miss you so, so, so much."
"Me too. Bye, Lili," I say, picking her up for a hug. There probably isn't much longer where I'll be able to do that. At 12, she is already 5'4 and is on track to keep growing. Curse my tall Dutch family.
I go and find my mother next. She has always been kind to me, though a little distant. She had four children to focus on, while my dad put most of his energy into me. Being the best, my dad always gave me his full attention.
"Elsje," she sighs, hugging me, "Your father is heartbroken about you leaving."
"I know, Mama, but I can't do this anymore. I can't keep putting my life on the line, and abandoning my morals, and killing people, and ending up in the hospital."
"I know, honey. Just remember, he did truly believe that this was best for you, so don't judge him too harshly. He really does love you." My mind flicks back to scenes of manipulation and horrible parenting, like when he sent me off at only 10 years old on my first mission, or when he was never truly able to show me any sort of praise for all that I've accomplished. But then, it goes back to when I was little, and how patient he always was, teaching me martial arts, languages, and physical skills so I could be just like him. My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship, but my mother is right. He really does love me.
"I'll miss you, Mama."
She hugs me again, tighter this time. "I know, Elsje, but you'll do great at Oxford. You're an amazing person, and you'll achieve great things." She pauses, collecting her thoughts, "Just please, don't spend all of your free time studying languages. Get out and make some normal friends. Have a real college experience! College is so much fun, and I'd hate to have you miss out on that." I don't know how my mother does it, but she always knows exactly what I'm thinking about.
"Yeah, I totally wasn't planning on learning eight languages in the next four years," I say, as innocently as I can manage. She rolls her eyes.
"Sure you weren't. Remember: have fun, use your instincts, and don't go looking after or creating trouble out of boredom."
"Why, mother, I would never," I say, dramatically, though that last thing on the list does sound a lot like me.
"Goodbye, Elsje, and good luck. I love you." She says, kissing me on the forehead.
"Bye, Mama, love you too."
Leaving the kitchen, I realize how hard these last two goodbyes are going to be. Christopher is one of my favorite people on this planet, and I almost can't bear to leave him. My dad, oh god, he was always my biggest supporter, though he never showed it. I am not looking forward to leaving either of them. I get a text from my dad, telling me that he and Christopher are waiting in the car to drive me to the airport. I look around my childhood home for the last time, take a deep breath, and walk out of my old life and into my new one.
About 90 minutes later, we arrive at the airport. On paper, it's a 40-minute drive from my family's house in Alexandria to Dulles Airport, but this is Northern Virginia and that is extremely wishful thinking.
My dad and Christopher, despite my protests, help me with my luggage. They stay with me until security, which I bypass. Being the CIA's princess does have its benefits.
I hug Christopher first. I am trying so hard not to cry, but I am really struggling, and a solitary tear runs down my left cheek. Ella, come you can do this. You will survive. "Goodbye, Christopher," I say, taking a shaky breath, "You always were my favorite." He laughs and hands me a cyan gift bag. "Christopher? What is this? You didn't have to-"
He cuts me off. "College survival kit, Ellie, open it on the plane," he laughs. We hug again and say goodbye.
I turn to my dad. "Dad, I don't even know what to say."
"Me neither, Ella."
We stand there for another minute, awkwardly. Now, my dad is the one trying not to let the tears fall down his face, but he is failing, miserably. "If you ever want your old job back, or ever need anything at all-" He starts.
"Dad," I whisper, hugging him.
"Godspeed, Ella," he sighs, and I walk away, never turning back.
I open Christopher's survival kit on the plane when my seatmate gets up to use the bathroom.
Inside was a first aid kit, with a note attached that read:
"Ellie,
Here's something that will help you out if ever you decide to disobey Mom and find/create trouble.
Love,
Christopher"
I smile to myself. How nice it is to have someone who knows me so well. Christopher and my mother are right: despite my hatred of the world of espionage, I always manage to find trouble, and when there's no trouble to be found, I create some.
I manage to get a couple hours of sleep on the plane. My Dad had paid for first class which certainly helped. I split my time awake between reading an old Afrikaans textbook and listening to my freshly curated British Bands playlist. The textbook was purchased right before I went to Switzerland. I grew up speaking Dutch so Afrikaans has slipped into my brain without much effort. The playlist contains everyone: the Beatles, the Who, Pink Floyd, Queen, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, ELO, and Cream. I'm finally moving to the land of all my favorite music and it's time to psych myself up.
One plane and one train later, I finally arrive at my new home.
The Oxford campus is beautiful, and it feels so good to be here. After I collect my registration information, I walk to my dorm with a cart full of suitcases. When I arrive, I just stand in the open doorway with my eyes closed taking deep breaths, and relishing in the chaos of move-in day.
"Excuse me, but are you Ella Cornell?" A female voice asks from behind me.
I whip around. "Who wants to know?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I swear I'm better adjusted than this.
The owner of the voice is another girl, who appears to be my age. She is tall, about 5'11. She has a Dutch accent, long, straight red hair, and deep blue eyes.
She just laughs. "I'm your roommate if you are Ella. My name is Leah Geneva." She reaches out her right hand, and I shake it.
"Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you, I'm Ella," I say awkwardly. She just laughs again, and I am mesmerized by her eyes. I step out of the way, so she can move her stuff into the dorm room.
It's pretty small, with two twin beds, two wooden desks that have seen better days, and one of those minifridges with a microwave on top of it. I love it.
We unpack our things for the next two hours and both finish at around 4:00pm. My side of the room has a few posters: The Velvet Underground, the Beatles, and one of the big 5 Washington Sports teams (the Nationals, Capitals, Wizards, United, and the [Author's note, we're still 4 years away from DC's NFL team not being a slur. Once we reach 2022 in this story, I will call them the Commanders, but until then they will be referenced as the] Washington NFL team). Also on my walls are the Pansexual pride flag, vinyls of Abbey Road and Wildflowers, and a map of the world above my desk. It's eclectic, but it's me. The real parts.
I immediately feel inferior when I look over at Leah's side of the room. She has a poster of the Netherlands Women's Soccer team (badass), a blown-up photo of two golden retrievers I assume are hers, and worst of all, dozens of photos.
Pictures with friends, family, and soccer teammates are taped all over her side of the room. I didn't bring a singular photo with me–I know that I can't just have pictures of my family and friends out in the open–but I feel a profound and unexpected loneliness as I'm looking at Leah's.
"So, Ella," she interrupts my spiraling, "How does ordering Chinese food and introducing ourselves sound?" Suddenly, nothing in the world sounded better than a plate of chicken fried rice, and a friend to share it with.
I nod. "Sounds great," I smile.
An hour later, we were sitting and talking at our respective desks, our plates piled high. It felt so good to have a friend, or at least the beginning of one, here at Oxford.
I learned that my roommate, Leah Geneva, is in fact Dutch, and she moved to Oxford from Amsterdam. She's here on a partial sports scholarship, and she's the keeper for the women's soccer team. Her major is psychology. She speaks English, German, and Dutch, and she has one older brother and one younger sister.
"So, tell me about Ella," Leah says. I have been pretty quiet all night, just listening. I smile and begin reciting my cover story. It feels less like a friendship, and more like a mission.
"Well, I moved here from Washington D.C., where I lived with my parents, two brothers, and two sisters. I'm the middle child, too. Let's see," I say, trying to sound genuine. "I'm majoring in Political Science, minoring in geography, and I also speak English, Dutch, and German, as well as French and Spanish."
Yes, I'm majoring in political science. I know how basic and predictable my major is, but realistically, something like Biology or Physics would not serve me as well when I inevitably go back to doing exactly what I've always done. I'm not admitting defeat, I'm just living my life with the brutal practicality I always have.
"That's pretty impressive that you can speak five languages," Leah considers, interrupting my train of thought. I suppress a smile, thinking about how this is just one lie of many.
"Yeah, well, I was raised bilingually with English, and Dutch, because my mother is from the Netherlands too," I explain. This is actually true about my mom, though I'm not sure why I said it. Connection, I guess. However, this is partially untrue about how I was raised. I was raised trilingually, with German as well, and learned to speak all three languages at once.
As I lie down in my bed later that night, unable to sleep, I reflect on my conversation with Leah. She's really sweet–funny too–but it doesn't really feel too much like a friendship. It feels like a cover mission, because I have to lie so much. I don't want to let out the truth about my past or make anyone suspicious. It still feels weird, unfair, even, that I'm lying to this girl so much on the first day we met. It's this, or the CIA, I realize, and small talk is already much better than cold-blooded murder.
I lie in bed missing (some of) my siblings and missing my actual friends. They are mostly people I have met through my family or the field, but I love them all the same.
I consider texting someone, but it's late here and most of my friends are European or Israeli anyways. My phone lights up, just as I'm about to give in and message my best friend, Noa. We spoke earlier today, but I wish it was her across the room from me instead of Leah.
I swipe open my phone and see that I actually missed two texts. One from Christopher and one from Noa:
Chris(topher) Cornell:
Hope Oxford is good, Ellie! Send pics tmrw!
I smile at my brother's message and quickly type back to him. Then, I open up my chat with Noa.
Noa Yaron
buck up, Cornell
Me:
i'm fine
Noa Yaron
yeah sounds like it
how is it so far?
Me:
it's alright!
the new roommate is nice, even though we really have nothing in common
I pause for a second before sending a third text.
Me:
being friends with normal people is so weird sometimes. like, i don't really care that you miss your dogs, i was stopping an atomic bomb three weeks ago
Noa Yaron
and yet you stay so humble and open-minded.
you got this, Ella, keep at it.
Me:
thanks, Noa
talk soon
I put my phone away, careful not to disturb Leah. Talking to Noa and Christopher made me feel a lot better and sleep comes much easier.
The next day, Leah and I are walking around together, just touring the campus, when I hear a muffled scream. I whip my head around, realizing that it was coming from the dumpster behind the mess hall. Leah and I exchange glances, quickly, before running in the direction of the yell.
We arrive, a few seconds later, and realize what's going on. It's a girl, lying on the ground, who, based on the quickly-forming bruise on her head, appears to have just been knocked unconscious. She is topless, and there is a man there, undoing her belt. No. No, no, no. This is not going to happen. I am not about to let this girl get assaulted.
"Call 999," I hiss at Leah, "British emergency services. Get a police car and an ambulance."
Throwing all caution to the wind, I run over to the scene, and with a cry, I throw myself at the perpetrator, tackling him off of the poor girl. I have him pinned to the ground in a second, and for a moment, he and I are struggling, before he headbutts me in the nose, causing me to loosen my grip in pain, and starts running. I am not about to let him get away with this. Rape is never okay and he needs to be brought to justice.
Something I call my 'Agent 4-6-7 mode' kicks in. 'Agent 4-6-7 mode' is what I'm like on missions: cold, fast-thinking, and dangerous. I stop at nothing to complete the task at hand, and all of my survival instincts are on overdrive. This piece of shit just chose the wrong person to mess with.
That poor girl. He is about to feel my fucking wrath. I roll over twice, before getting up and chasing after him. He isn't too far ahead, and I could easily outrun him and subdue him, but this needs to be something more memorable. Blood dripping down my face, I look around to find something that suits my needs. I finally see it, up ahead, and a twisted plan begins forming in my head. I continue chasing him, purposefully leading him to the left.
We arrive at a gas station, on the outskirts of the campus. Using all of my speed, I run ahead of the perp, and shove a £20 note into the nearest gas machine. I grab the trashcan next to me, and taking out the trash bag, I begin filling it with gas. As it's filling, I peek around the machine. He is still running, though a little more slowly now, as he presumably thinks that he's lost me. He has never been more wrong in his life. Well–not including morally wrong.
As soon as the can is filled up, I pick it up, and sprint towards the perp, who is almost half-a-mile ahead of me, doubled over. I get there in under three minutes, hatred and adrenaline fueling my run. When I finally get close enough, I shower him with the gasoline inside of the trashcan. This stuns him for a few seconds, allowing me ample time to execute phase two of my plan. I rip off my chunky white belt, the one that doubles as a survival kit, and slice it open, using my ring-knife. I scramble for a second, before my fingers grab hold of a pack of matches. Perfect.
The perp is on the ground now, clutching his ankle, having tripped over the trashcan in an escape attempt. I quickly use the trashcan to scoop him up, and put the trash can upright again. This is working out even better than I ever could have expected. I quickly light the book of matches, and throw myself sideways, rolling off of the sidewalk, and onto the damp grass. I hear the trashcan go up in flames before I see it. I stand up, wiping off my hands on my jeans, and admire my handy work. This sorry excuse for a human got what he deserved.
I'm still standing there with a smirk on my face when the police arrive. The fire had been put out about a minute ago, and the man was on the ground, with someone performing CPR on him. "Did you do this?" A young officer demands, incredulously. It's quite obvious who did this, as she's the only one at the scene with a stupid smirk on her face, and she reeks of sweat and gasoline.
"Yes, sir. And I'm glad I did it." I am about to explain the situation to him, but he catches me off guard in all of my cockiness, and in a second, I am in handcuffs. "Wait, what? I just saved a girl from being raped by that horrible man. I did nothing wrong or immoral." And I believe that, too.
"Save it, kid," The officer says, "You're coming with me for interrogation, and it's not going to be fun." Interrogation? Hah. I passed the CIA's RTI training, which included torture and waterboarding, at age 5. I can take anything that the local police throw at me.
He drags me over to his police car, but I keep my head held up high, knowing that I did the right thing.
An hour later, I find myself alone in the cold basement of a police station, labeled "Interrogation Room." I figure that I'll be left alone for a while as an intimidation tactic, so I pull the map of Oxford out of my back pocket, and activate my ring-that-turns-into-a-pen, and begin illustrating, in as much detail as I can, the series of events. Thankfully, I wasn't searched, and nothing was taken from my body. It was very lucky of me to not carry a knife today, like I usually do, as it would probably only serve to further incriminate me.
It's two hours later when two men in gray suits come into the basement. They question me about my identity and what happened. For my identity, I lie fluently through my teeth, using my college cover story. As for the events, I explain them in as much detail as I can, using the map with drawings to further illustrate my story. They seem to accept it, but say that they need to interview witnesses and review CCTV tape to see if my story checks out. This makes sense to me.
They move me into another room, this one is small and square.. It contains a cot with a threadbare blanket and a solitary dresser with a glass of water. I don't trust this water, so I ignore it and begin searching every inch of the room. There is one singular camera, but it's unreachable on the ceiling. I do find three bugs, which I stomp loudly with the heel of my combat boots, just to fuck with whoever's listening. The dead bugs get dropped into the glass of water.
They leave me there overnight, before another man, different from the ones who interrogated me, shows up to collect me. I have been raised as a spy since birth, and trained to remember every little detail, but this man has a truly forgettable face. I could probably see it again, an hour from now, and legitimately believe I'm seeing it for the first time. Great quality of a spy.
"Hello, miss," the man with the forgettable face greets me in a posh London accent, "My name is John Crawley. It's nice to meet you, Ella, or should I say Agent 4-6-7?" My face pales. How the hell? What? Who? My brain can't form a coherent thought. I am truly at a loss for words. I've been in England for less than 30 hours, and already, someone has figured out my true identity.
"Agent Who?" I ask weakly, trying to convince him that I'm not who he thinks I am. This is a last ditch effort, however, as he clearly is a government official with a wealth of knowledge about me and my past. Fuck. "My name is Ella Cornell, and I'm just a student at Oxford. Today is only my second day on campus. Who is this agent you speak of?" I channel years and years worth of acting classes as I try my hardest to plead my case. I can bullshit with the best of them, my dad made sure of that much, and I need to use all of my mental resources to feign innocence. I don't know who this John Crawley is, or what he wants, but it can't be good for me, if he knows my other name.
"Your act is very convincing, 4-6-7, but I know you are lying to me." He says, his voice perfectly level.
"Lying? About what? You can go to Oxford and ask. I really am just a student there," I plead, allowing my voice to fill with hysteria. I need him to see me as a scared young woman, not a threat.
"Oh, I believe you go to Oxford, though, you're lying about your identity, 4-6-7."
"Who is this 4-6-7?" I demand, frustrated and hysterical. Though my voice and demeanor were far from it, my thought process was calm, cool, and collected. I was, however, freaking out just a little. My internal alarm bells were going off at John Crawley and his cryptic information. "I am Ella Cornell, I swear, if you can just take me back to my dorm room, I can show you my papers. I have an American birth certificate, my passport, and my education visa. I promise you, sir, that I'm just Ella Cornell, a college student!"
John Crawley laughs, though it's a gruff and humorless sound. "Just Ella Cornell?" He challenges, "Well, according to your 'precious dorm room,' you are also Azita Jan Arman, Yasmine Habib, Augustina Torres, Charlotte Williams, Lucie Vertonghen, Yarah Oliveira, Alice Thibault, Huang Mei Lan, Isabella Moreno, Bura Mandžukić, Juanita de la Cruz, Kamilah Antar, Laila Arquette, Greta Müller, Avanti Parikh, Sari Hasanputri, Hadara Seif, Yetta Blum, Elisabetta Rossi, Miko Miyamoto, Sonia Meyer, Adana Musa, Yolanda Rivera, Noorje De Vries, Viktoriya Petrov, Teodora Mitrović, Ardo Sharif, Elna Bekker, Valentina Ramos, Zuna Adank, Sanoh Bunnag, Elham Khan, Julie Thompson, Amelia Richmond, Meredith Evans, Natalie Abbott, and Agent 4-6-7." He lists off all of my identities flawlessly and clinically, without even taking a breath. At this point, I am fucking terrified. Who the hell is John Crawley, and what the fuck does he want?
There's no point in lying anymore. John Crawley knows exactly who I am. Everyone I am.
"H-How?" I stutter, equal parts terrified and perplexed.
"Your identities were in a suitcase under your bed. You might want to hide them better, next time. We searched your dorm room, by the way, and we got suspicious when we found the identification papers of 37 women. Some research and a few lengthy, yet informative, conversations later, we discovered a bombshell. Agent 4-6-7, in all her glory, was right here, on British soil, setting people on fire."
"He was trying to rape someone!" I protest, attempting to change the subject.
"I am well aware. We would have arrested him, if you hadn't killed him." The perp is dead? I file away that interesting piece of information.
"Serves the fucker right," I mumble.
"Anyways, 4-6-7," John Crawley continues, "You are under arrest for the murder of Paul David Duncan."
"Let's see how that holds up in a court of law!" I protest, "Imagine the outrage when the young college student who heroically risked her life and prevented the rape of an innocent young woman goes to prison."
"Imagine the outrage," John Crawley says, levelly, "When the American public finds out the CIA is using child spies. Your father, Joe Byrne, they will be ruined."
My face goes pale. No. No. No. This cannot be happening. I look John Crawley in the eyes, defeated. "Is there anything I can do to get out of this? I can tell you want something. Spill it."
"I want you to come and speak with my boss and me. Just a little business meeting, nothing more."
I raise my eyebrow, suspiciously. "Just one little business meeting, and you'll let me go?" I challenge, "Who do you even work for, anyway?"
"One little business meeting will discuss the arrangements behind your release. And you'll find out my employer in good time, Ella."
And with that, I am sitting in the back of a black bullet-proof car with none other than John Crawley.
The drive takes about two hours, as there is a lot of traffic. We are in London now. We turn onto Liverpool street, and pull up to a tall building, advertising itself as the 'Royal and General Bank.'
"Did you bring me here to sell me a loan?" I say, sarcastically, "Because the CIA is already paying for my college." John Crawley rolls his eyes and leads me out of the car, and into the bank. We walk past the tellers and security guards, and into an elevator, where he presses the button labeled '17.'
Seventeen floors up and a short walk later, and I find myself in an office, sitting across from a Black woman with drab hair and a silver brooch, who is sucking on a peppermint. "Hello Ella," she greets me. Her voice is sickly-sweet. "My name is Mrs. Jones. You've met my deputy, John Crawley. It seems to me that you are in a bit of a legal predicament. You have officially been arrested for the murder of a man called Paul David Duncan."
"Technically," I interrupt her, lifting up my feet and placing them on her desk like I do with Joe Byrne, "I have no proof that he's dead."
"Well," she sighs, "You and Crawley can take a trip to the morgue when we're finished up here. Anyways, 4-6-7, the way I see it is you have three options. One, you plead guilty of 2nd degree murder, and rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life. Two, you take the case to trial. If you lose, you rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life. If you win, we release everything we know about Ella Cornell, Agent 4-6-7, and the CIA to the American public. Three, you work for us."
"Work for you?" I splutter, "Who the hell even are you?"
"All in good time, Agent 4-6-7," Mrs. Jones promises, "Anyway, what'll it be?"
"I can't agree to work for you if you don't tell me who you are."
"I'll tell you who we are after you sign this contract," She says, thrusting a paper and pen in front of me.
"All this says it that I'll work for you on one singular occasion, starting three weeks from now," I read, "If I choose not to, I suffer the penalty of life imprisonment, and all information that you have about me is to be released to the American public. This is blackmail," I realize.
"Just sign the paper, Ella," She says. It goes against my better judgment, but I sign the stupid contract, curious about what will happen. Eh, what the hell? It's better than prison.
"Great, thank you Ella. Now, let me explain. We are with the British Intelligence Service. MI6, to be precise." My face falls as I realize how badly I've been played.
"You're fucking hypocrites!" I protest, "If you were to release any information about the CIA using child agents, they would release similar information about you doing the exact same fucking thing! And now, I'm stuck in a fucking contract with you lying bastards, or else I'll be thrown in jail to rot for the rest of my miserable life. Fuck."
Jones replies. "That just about sums it up, though I personally would have sworn less." I give her my very best resting bitch face, and flip her off.
She starts talking about my mission, but is soon interrupted by a blaring alarm.
AN: Broke the chapter length record again!
What did you think of this chapter? What do you think will happen to Ella? Are you surprised at how quickly she got mixed up with MI6? Her dad sure isn't…