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Here's the start of a story I've been posting on a few different sites. It's a slow burn, but any criticism is very much welcome. I think I've got thirty-something chapters written now, so might take a while to catch up with the other places I've been posting. Any comments and corrections very much welcome. Specifically, I'm never sure if I'm being too heavy-handed with foreshadowing and clues. If you can see what's coming, please let me know; so I have a better idea if it's too obvious or not. ACT I: Briefing 1. Prologues Light on the factory floor was mostly from the faint glow of furnaces, or some complex chemical process. Occasionally, the flicker of welding caused the shadows to shift for a couple of seconds before darkness returned. The machines didn’t need light to work by. The shadows seemed alive, writhing in the corners and clinging to every surface. Narrow metal catwalks lined the perimeter, suspended precariously over a sprawling industrial space. Below the walkways, massive stainless steel vats brewed and distilled mysterious chemical concoctions, bubbly liquids gurgling as gases percolated up through them. Steam rose in wispy tendrils, collecting under the catwalks and obscuring the view across the cavernous hall. A figure walked along down below, a flashlight casting to either side. Maybe a janitor or night guard inspecting the place. The days when a site like this would have required hundreds of workers to keep it going were long gone. Now, the only serious tasks were making sure that none of the machines had warning lights lit, and that there was nobody here who wasn’t supposed to be. The last intruder had been a rat, found nesting in the ductwork a month before. People were still talking about it. On the gantry above, if you looked from just the right angle, you might have noticed a couple of shadows looking a little more organic than the latticework of steel and concrete. A really careful observer, if they waited long enough, might have seen those shadows moving again after a long, cautious pause. Two figures, scurrying across a catwalk while keeping low to the ground so they couldn’t be seen from below. The larger one went first, moving with a quiet confidence, while the frustration of the second was clear in the way that it moved. Their footsteps didn’t make a sound even on the metal gantry, and the distant man on the ground was completely unaware of them as he continued surveying some of the industrious machines. As they came to the middle of the catwalk they moved more nervously; exposed in the open space, with sheer drops on either side down to the chemical basins simmering stories below. Reaching an intersection, the taller figure paused, broad shoulders backlit by the eerie green glow of a monitor as he peered down each possible path. His muscular frame was obvious even through his dark utilitarian clothes. Beside him, the smaller figure froze as someone else’s footsteps started to shake the steel beneath their feet. Their slim build was almost lost in the oversized utility uniform they wore, and they stood with a tension that said flight was an option at any moment. With a few quick hand signals, the partner indicated a patrol emerging from the left passage. Another gesture pointed towards a place where the computer terminal at the side of the walkway – maybe all the buttons to shut down the machines below in case someone were to fall – could conceal them from whoever was generating a more prominent set of footsteps. The smaller figure was moving back already, desperate to hide before they were discovered. But the larger man didn't retreat. His head turned back and forth as if considering multiple options when there was only one sane choice available. With a sudden burst of speed he charged forward into the intersecting catwalk, directly toward the oncoming guards. A dozen panicked shots ricocheted in the darkness, nowhere near their target as they reacted in pure surprise. The brute’s bellow inspired terror before he crashed into them with the force of a freight train. They had guns, but those were no use against a figure within arm’s length, ignoring his own sidearm and swinging a length of steel pipe around his head. A fierce brawl ensued, but the guards had never signed up for this kind of conflict and their reflexes simply weren’t fast enough. As three uniformed figures tumbled to the ground, one of them rolling over the side of the catwalk, the fourth member of the team just about managed to back away far enough to bring his rifle to bear. But he didn’t reckon with the second figure rising up behind him out of nowhere and tightening a cord around his neck. Seconds later he fell to the ground unconscious. The smaller intruder cringed at the reckless frontal attack, but was smart enough to know there was no sense in complaining about what had already happened. There had been so much noise in the fight, and the sound of gunfire was sure to attract even more security. They needed to complete their mission as quickly and quietly as possible. With a shudder, the slight figure pulled a security access card from the pocket of the nearest guard. They just needed to get to the records room, and they might just have time before more reinforcements arrived. Smoke was rising at the side of the vast chamber in any case, and there was an acrid smell in the air. There was more light now, an amber flickering glow, and it didn’t take a genius to guess that one of the vats on the far side of the hall could have been ignited by a stray bullet. “Thanks,” the larger figure grunted, and then kept on walking in the direction they had been moving. He didn’t bother to keep low, focusing on speed now that stealth was off the table. “Subtle as always, Dash,” his partner sighed, stepping over another fallen guard. “We don’t need subtle, Ghost. We get the job done.” He was already at the door of the records room, seemingly oblivious to the growing flames and smoke on the far side of the facility. A few seconds later his partner joined him and swiped the purloined keycard to get the door open. The records room was darker than the factory floor; there was no flicker of industrial processes here, and one computer screen in the corner was showing an endless montage of security footage from different parts of the facility. Right now, it showed a considerable number of running men with weapons, in between shots of more uniformed figures trying without success to stop a roaring blaze. Brock stared at the screen for a moment, and then flicked the lights on. Fluorescent tubes buzzed into life, one of them flickering intermittently. While he stood a little way back from the doorway, expecting more intruders, his partner dashed straight towards one of the server racks and plugged in a ruggedised laptop. A uniformed figure burst into the room, and was efficiently rendered unconscious. Brock barely broke a sweat. “How long's this gonna take?” he asked. “Organised resistance will be here any minute.” “That’s why we were supposed to avoid the guards until we’re here. I bypassed the encryption, just need to finish downloading the files. Guess there’s no point covering out tracks now.” He focused intently on the screen while a progress bar ticked across. "Shouldn't be long. But have you thought how we’re going to get out of here? They’re not going to–” A sound like distant thunder rocked the building, and the floor shuddered beneath their feet. The security monitor showed scenes of utter chaos from the cameras that were still working. The acrid smell of chemicals flooded the hallway. Brock laughed loudly. “That’ll keep 'em occupied! Explosions have a way of grabbing your attention. C’mon, let’s hustle.“ “Right!” The smaller figure sighed, hands flying across the keys. His voice didn’t betray any surprise that their mission had turned out this way; but it was clear that he was longing for a break. Moments later the computer signalled it was ready, and two figures were again running along catwalks as more explosions rocked the building. Dash was right about one thing: The guards had bigger things to worry about than two running figures. * * * Nina leaned against the bars enclosing her, trying to make out signs of anything interesting in the rest of the room. There were other girls out there, she was sure, but she hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to any of them yet. She could hear the sound of crying, which made her a little apprehensive about what might happen to her if she couldn’t find a way out of this strange place. But she didn’t really understand this place; her jailors had only ever told her what they wanted her to do, never going into why. But she could see the shape of it, and she told herself that she wanted no part of it; shutting down any hormonal fantasies that weren’t rooted in the real world. She twisted the ring on her finger, hoping that Victor would come to rescue her soon. They hadn’t taken the ring away; that must mean there was still a chance, mustn’t it? She didn’t understand the chain of events that had brought her here. They were supposed to be spending a couples weekend at a luxury spa. It would have been one of the high points of her time with him; although their whole engagement so far had seemed to be nothing but a string of high points, and the house had been nothing to laugh at either. But… But now she wasn’t at a spa. She was trapped in this weird, creepy space god-knew how many stories below ground, where nobody would ever be able to find her. And she didn’t have the first clue what the people here were planning to do with her. She couldn’t escape; the bars were more than just ornamental. So all she could do was hope that Victor would come to look for her sooner or later. Footsteps approached before two figures in white-and-blue uniforms reached her enclosure. This was a familiar routine as well. She recognised the taller figure, a woman who had introduced herself as Claudine when they first met. She was probably in charge, because she was the only person Nina had seen wearing a name badge in here, and in fact the only person whose name she had known in the last week. The other person was just there to provide muscle; nameless, and interchangeable. They never said Nina’s name either; though she had no idea whether they actually didn’t knew it, or just knew how much dehumanising her added to the emotional impact of this experience. “Time to eat, sweetie,” Claudia said with a sadistic smirk. Nina cowered back, knowing what was coming and also acutely aware that it was her own fault. She had refused to eat on her first day here, wanting to show that there were some things she was still in control of. They had proved her wrong. On the second day she had been given another chance to prove that she was willing to go along with the programme; but she had been too stubborn. They wouldn’t give her the choice again. And the knowledge that she had wasted a tiny sliver of freedom on something so petty only reminded her – every time she thought about it – that she would have more freedom if she did what she was told in future. The man beside Claudine responded to her glare by turning and fiddling with the locks for a moment. Then there were no bars between her and freedom, just two people larger and stronger than her. They picked her up without any apparent effort, and carried her between them. She was going to get breakfast now, and it was clear that she had no choice in the matter. She didn’t bother to fight, she knew that there was no point. And her new compliance earned a smile and a pat on the head, along with a few reassuring words about what a good girl she was. Nina found herself blushing, surprised by how quickly she had gotten used to this treatment. She didn’t say anything as they deposited her on the chair, and set about strapping her in so that she couldn’t escape even if she thought there might be some chance of finding her way up to the surface through this labyrinth. A rubbery bulb was forced between her lips and Nina knew better than to fight it. A moment later there was warm sweet liquid filling her mouth, and she had no choice but to swallow. And despite her fear, she found herself somehow feeling not entirely afraid in this situation. Sure, she was trapped with no suggestion of when she would get out. But they weren’t actually hurting her, and so long as she did everything they wanted, she would be pretty comfortable. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. After Claudine and her assistants had left the room, Nina still never felt like she was alone. She didn’t know that there was a doctor watching her on a video monitor; but there was something about the decor that made it feel like she had no privacy at all. It was the kind of place where there would always be someone watching. She swallowed again, feeling the warm liquid running down her throat. It was actually pretty nice, if she just didn’t think about the situation, or her lack of choice in all of this. And it was easy not to think as she drank more. She found her thoughts getting fuzzier, and everything starting to blur. A minute later she would have been smiling, but for the bulb dispensing medicine into her mouth. And a little after that, she wasn’t thinking anything at all. Nina didn’t hear the conversation between Claudine and Dr Renault, commenting on how well she was progressing, or how soon she would be ready. And even if she had heard, she wouldn’t have been able to comprehend long words like “conditioning”. But that didn’t matter at all; it felt so good to just suck, drink, and smile. 2. Irreplaceable The air was filled with the insistent click-click-click of a dozen keyboards. Everybody in the office focused intently on their work, sure that what they were doing mattered. Even when they couldn’t make any deductions right away, they were chipping away at the rock face of ignorance, and sooner or later they would manage to unearth a nugget of truth. Or at least, that was how it seemed to Isadora as she pushed a stray lock of dark hair away from her face. She knew that her own work, even if it was related to something minor like a dead-drop in the back streets of Tarawa, actually mattered, and she was determined to do it to the best of her ability. Even if her hazel eyes were bloodshot from staring at a monitor all day by the time she got back to her apartment. It would have been worth it, and she was already looking forward to being able to relax and indulge herself later. But there was no time to be thinking about that. She straightened her glasses and smoothed down her sensible blouse as the interdepartmental mail trolley rolled by. Sheila's laughter at the mailroom guy's jokes grated on Isadora's nerves. Didn't they understand how crucial their work was? Isadora would never even consider flirting with a coworker, not one of the office staff. Even having a closer bond with an Operative could be dangerous; and Isadora wasn’t the only one who looked down on the various Monitors who had reputedly hooked up with the agency’s most notorious womaniser, Agent Brock. Isadora found herself sneering without thinking when that image crossed her mind; she knew she would never fall for that kind of flamboyant playboy. She tried to put it out of her mind, and turned back to the list of cryptographic signatures in front of her. She had an iron will, and remained focused on the screen for a whole two seconds until a letter landed on her desk with a quiet flutter. Then her hands froze over the keyboard, and she wondered if this could be it. The answer she had been waiting for. She hesitated, and froze with the letter in her hands. There was just her name and desk number typed on the front, with no indication of which office it had come from. But some instinct told her that her answer was inside. The final results after eighteen months of training. If the letter said yes, she wouldn’t need to keep sitting here decrypting messages to tell Brown and Johnson where they needed to be. She could travel with an Operative and give him support in the field. She could watch dots on her screen indicating where guards might be, and give her Operative advice in real time, telling him when he needed to duck, and when he needed to fight. On paper, there was little difference between the duties of a Monitor and a Field-certified Monitor, but in practice it meant that she could do all the things that required a real time response, and it meant that sometimes she might be less than a mile from the bad guys. It was a prospect that terrified Isadora, but if it meant that she could spend more time close to Brown, and even get him to speak to her for more than a casual ‘hi’ as they passed in the corridors of Millennium House, it would all be worthwhile. Shaking, and aware that she was distracting herself from her all-important codebreaking work, she tucked away an errant lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail and then drew her thumbnail carefully through the top of the envelope. A handful of minutes later, Isadora could hardly contain her excitement as she strode down the familiar wood-panelled corridors. A part of her still couldn’t believe it, but seeing her name on that certificate had put a new spring in her step. She hadn’t told any of her colleagues where she was going, and she doubted that any of them really cared. But she wanted Brown to be the first person she told. Brown was the Operative she wanted to work with more than any other, and it was his strength that had first inspired her to try getting into the field. He wasn’t an egotistical jerk like the legendary operative Brock, whose reputation included all the chauvinism of James Bond without any of the subtlety. Brown was a consummate professional, who made it his goal to learn everything he could possibly do to make the mission go down smoothly. And to Isadora, his caring nature and attention to detail made him much more attractive than toned muscles and dark-bronze skin. She’d respected the man ever since she first heard stories of his dedication and courage, and once she had actually seen him around headquarters she had been totally enthralled. The one time she’d spoken to him on the job, passing over a bunch of schedule data for an arms shipment, she’d seen that he had other impressive qualities as well. Brown would never see a mission as a checklist of goals. He cared about the people; both the ones he was working with and the innocents they were supposed to protect. And she had found herself dreaming of how well they could work together if they could properly synergise their skills. It was Brown who had said that teamwork was an Operative’s greatest strength, after all. She clutched her certificate, heart fluttering. She knew it was a little silly to be so emotional about this. She was just going to visit the man in hospital; to share the good news that they could work together once he was discharged. She’d brought a get well card as well, of course, and a little box of dates and walnuts because she remembered him saying that he didn’t have a sweet tooth. But she wanted him to be the first person she confided in about being approved as a Field Operative. He would give her some moral support, she was sure, and advice about managing her nerves that would seem like common sense as soon as she heard it. He’d be impressed by her qualifications as well, and tell her how well she had done. She could almost see it in her mind’s eye now. Reaching his door, she had to shake away her head to clear away those mental images. Those things were just dreams, they would never happen here and now. They would have to work together, and get to know each other more and more closely, for at least a few months before the calm and careful Brown would make the first move. He was a gentleman, after all. He wasn’t Brock, or one of the agents who idolised that guy and his refusal to work by the book. Brown would take his time, and always take care of her feelings. Because he was the kind of man who would respect her; and the only operative she knew of who had never tried flirting with the girls behind desks at headquarters. After steadying her nerves, Isadora knocked sharply. No matter what, she resolved to show Brown her very best. She would make clear she was ready for the field, and that they would make an unstoppable team. After all this time, her chance was finally here. “Come in!” a voice called from inside. It surprised her a little that he sounded confident and healthy, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Brown wasn’t seriously injured, and was only still in here because his doctors had insisted on a period of observation to demonstrate that he was fully recovered. “Hi,” she introduced herself with a nervous wave, before pausing to wonder if she should address him as ‘Brown’, or ‘Mr Brown’, or even ‘Agent Brown’. In a world where almost everyone was known by surnames alone, she wasn’t sure how to be either deferential or charming without sounding a little weird. She’d spoken to him before, of course, but only in a more formal setting within headquarters, when they happened to be assigned to related projects. This was different, because today she was actually making the initiative to see him. “Hey,” Brown answered. He was lying back in a hospital bed, with bandages around his arms. But he seemed happy and relaxed, with no signs of pain. It would take more than a little misfortune to keep Brown off the case. “Isadora, right? How’s the wonderful world of cryptanalysis treating you?” “Great thanks,” she answered, heart beating a hundred times a minute as she realised that he actually recognised her. A cynical part of her mind said that being able to identify a face in a crowd that he’d only glimpsed for a second before was a big part of his job. But it still made her feel special, like he actually cared. That was a magic that the flirts and chauvinists would never care about. “I’ve just been… Well, obviously I can’t say the details of what I’m working on. But I just got…” She did her best to breathe calmly, telling herself how important it was to appear professional. If he thought she was one of the airheaded clerical workers who had a crush on some agent, he would never want to be in the field with her. And she knew that she was better than that. Her interest and admiration was professional and entirely appropriate, even if it sometimes felt like something more. While she didn’t quite trust herself to speak clearly, she held up a hand with two envelopes in. One of them she had so recently opened, while the other had Brown’s name on the front. Of course, he smiled graciously as he took the one that was addressed to him, feigning a complete lack of curiosity about the other letter. But Isadora held it up anyhow. “I got my field certification,” she squawked, already sure that she was saying the wrong thing, but desperate to say what she had planned. She wasn’t going to come right out and ask, but it couldn’t hurt to informally assess his enthusiasm for being placed together. “I’ll be a real Field Monitor, in the field. Undercover, and all that. I’m so nervous still, but I thought… I mean, is there any advice you can give me? You’re probably the most professional Operative on the roster, so if I want to get advice from the best…” “Of course,” he said with a smile. “It’s a different system now, though. When I was paired up with Doc, he was an Operative first, studying the Monitor duties in the background. So I don’t know how different it will be for you. But there’s two pieces of advice I would give you, even if they might be a little… less dry and emotionless than what they teach in Spy School.” “Oh, that’s perfect!” Isadora gasped, and then hesitated and wished she could take the words back. “I mean… learning what matters from someone who’s actually lived it.” “Modesty suits you,” he said. “And as long as you’re willing to learn, I think you’ll make an excellent Field Monitor. Have you been assigned a partner yet?” “No, I…” Isadora hesitated. There was a part of her that just wanted to ask right out if he was willing to work with a new partner while his on-and-off companion Doc was recuperating after their last adventure. But somehow it felt somehow impolite to admit that she’d been paying so much attention to his life. That sounded like something he should volunteer; even if it seemed like he could be asking if she wanted to join him. “I only found out today, but I was wondering…” As much as she knew that she would need to start showing determination, that was as much as she could stay. “Whoever it is, they’re lucky,” he said. “You strike me as a very competent woman. And not at all overconfident.” It was the perfect compliment; and the exact opposite of what she would expect from the growing number of operatives who modelled themselves after a dinosaur like Brock. His kindness made her even more determined to say what she needed to say. “Thank you. How about you? I mean… I know you were injured. Will you be waiting for your Monitor to recover before you continue?” She knew that wouldn’t be the case. Brown couldn’t bear to stop working; the next mission was the only thing that mattered to him. But she could ask, and it would sound like something a concerned friend would say. She could hope that he would open up to her then. “We both got hurt a little,” he said. “And that’s… ugh, I haven’t talked to anybody about this yet.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” “No, no. It’s fine. But I’ve got two tips for you, right? Things they never teach you in training. And I think this is a perfect example of the one I should have learned years ago. I wasn’t badly hurt this time, you see. But the circumstances made me think about what would have happened if I didn’t make it back. I always told myself before that one man is a small sacrifice; that the mission is more important than just me.” “That must be the hardest part of it,” Isadora mumbled, as soon as Brown paused. He seemed so intense now, and that only made her more eager to share this life with him. “Putting yourself in second place.” “Not really. A lot of people can sacrifice themselves. The hard part is realising that it isn’t all about me. Thinking about how my family would feel if nobody could tell them what happened to me. And when I think about all of it, I know I can’t do that. Sacrificing myself for the job is a small price to pay if the job gets done, but hurting all the people I care about… I can’t do that. I can’t take that risk with a clear conscience.” He hesitated then, opening the get well soon card she had brought and standing it up beside his bed. Isadora knew enough basic psychology to recognise displacement activity; a man doing some simple task as a way to put off thinking about his next words. She felt like she should say something, or reassure him. But she was just standing there with her mouth open, barely taking in what he was saying. After a long pause, he continued: “I thought about it a lot,” he said. “I’ve spent three days now, drafting and redrafting my resignation letter. I haven’t mentioned it to Forstadter yet, and I was kind of dreading it. So thank you, Isadora. Telling someone at work, someone I can trust… I think you’re already helping me over the largest mental hurdle.” “You’re quitting?” It seemed obvious, but she asked for confirmation before her brain had even processed what she had heard. It was almost unthinkable. Did that mean she would never get a chance to work with Brown? Did it mean she wouldn’t be able to see him outside work either? “Yeah. I’m sorry, I feel like I’m letting you all down. But when I imagine Dave sitting alone, never really knowing what happened to me… that’s not something I could ever do to him. I’m sure there are plenty of Operatives who can do what I do, especially with talented people like you to support them. But Dave, well… He’s only got one husband. That’s where I’m irreplaceable, and to me that’s more important than any genius with delusions of world domination.” He didn’t say any more, and for a few minutes Isadora just didn’t know how she could possibly respond. 3. Two Rules “You’re resigning?” Isadora managed to get the words out at last. A part of her was screaming inside, wanting to ask more questions, but just about everything she could have thought of to say would have been highly inappropriate. Brown had a husband? She’d had no idea. She thought that she knew him, but that revelation shattered the image in her mind. It was like there had been a part of himself that he always kept locked away; and once she started thinking about that, she was also realising that his professional demeanour had completely hidden any hint of a life outside work. She didn’t know what music he liked, or what sports he followed; let alone his family. She knew that he could talk confidently about just about any topic, but that was pretty much a job requirement for an Operative. He needed to be at home around the water cooler when infiltrating any stratum of society; and there was no hint there about which topics were of interest to him personally. “What happened?” “Davy called in for me,” he said, looking down at his hands as he spoke. “Said he had a bad feeling, was worried about me. The Monitors decided to put him through; he’d had enough background checks, and they can trust me not to say anything he’s not cleared for. But…” “Did he overhear something?” Isadora guessed. She knew so little about Brown’s latest mission that any guess she made would just be a stab in the dark. But she felt like she had to say something. She could feel that this decision was really hard, even for the man who was never scared of anything. And she needed to help him. A part of her still hoped that she could help him to make a different decision; but she wouldn’t even know whether that was possible until she knew the truth. “Kind of,” he said, and flashed the kind of smile that is only ever used to hide pain. “We were ambushed. We were preparing for the start of the mission, and Doc thought it would be okay to put him through to me, to wish me luck. But the shooting started before we were ready. I was hit, a flesh wound really. But it was chaos, and everything went to hell. Doc called back to SO3 that I was hit, and Davy heard that. I heard his response, in that moment. For weeks afterwards, I kept playing it over and over in my head. And I knew I never wanted to scare him like that again. He’s given up so much for me, and he deserves to know that I’ll be coming home from work. So…” “I’m sorry,” Isadora said, eventually. “I never even thought… I guess I’ve never really been that close to someone. And I can see where you’re coming from. But is there anyone who can do what you do? I mean… everybody knows you’re one of the best. I’m worried that important jobs might start going to the wannabe James Bond types. There seems to be more and more of them, and… I guess I was hoping you’d be a positive role model for the newer Operatives, showing them what they’re supposed to be.” She started blushing again after that flood of words, and resisted the urge to pull her bendant out from beneath the collar of her shirt. It was special to her, a single piece of jewellery with a secret meaning, and holding it always helped to relieve stress. But it was also pretty childish, so she usually did her best to keep it out of sight when she was around anyone whose opinion she valued. “I think I know the type you mean,” Brown answered with a wry smile. “And I can think of one or two who still need ideas from the movies removing from their minds. But not as many as you might think. Certainly, amongst some of the old timers, there’s a kind of hidden joke. If someone in the refectory asks how the latest job went and they don’t want to reveal compartmentalised data, they’ll describe it like an action movie. A lot of those stories enter into office gossip, but it really isn’t how the Operatives in the question act in the field. Even my old friend and Monitor, Doc, has a reputation around the break room for sleeping with a gangster’s moll on every assignment. But in reality, he sits in his room reading briefings. Everything at our classification level, every document we have access to, so that if our bandits cross over into someone else’s assignment, he’ll know who to get in touch with. Seriously, the guy won’t step outside his hotel room once until he needs to be somewhere. And then it gets to the point where the admin staff make up their own stories to paper over the gaps if they don’t know what we’ve been up to. Don’t trust the gossip, that’s one of the tips I wanted to give you.” “Oh, yeah,” she said. And even if this was a bittersweet discussion now, there was still a warm glow inside her from knowing that Brown seemed to respect her abilities. “Two tips, you said?” “Yeah. The first rule, don’t take anything for granted. When you’re assigned a partner, get to know them. Not just what people say about them, or even what they tell you, but watch the way they act. See when they react quickly and when they pause to think. See if you can understand who a person is beneath all the walls they put up, so you can know what they’re really capable of. That’s more important than most people would believe. And the corollary, make sure that you act rationally around your partner. When you’ve been working together for a long time, you can get blind to someone’s weaknesses. Like when I… When the whole business on my last mission went down, Doc put himself in the line of fire trying to help me. Didn’t stick to protocol. I appreciate that he cares, but all it meant was that we both got injured. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I feel bad about that. I should have reminded him to stay put. So that’s the rule. Know your partner, and know yourself. Know the mistakes you’re likely to make, so you can avoid them. We always talk about knowing your enemy, but knowing yourself is so much more important.” “I think Sun-Tzu said that,” Isadora responded, a little distracted by the mental image of someone getting shot in the field. It was easy to conjure up a pure-Hollywood image of diving in front of a bullet to protect Brown; that would be a true act of heroism. But when she thought about someone sacrificing themself for her, even someone completely unlikely like the irritating mailroom guy, she could see a shadow of Brown’s disapproval. It made the whole situation seem real in a new way. “One of them, anyway,” Brown said, and smiled. “You know they think The Art of War had at least seven authors, a bunch of different books put together under the name of a semi-mythical genius tactician?” “Yeah, I heard,” she said. “I guess it’s like you said, don’t trust the legends. So what’s the other rule?” “Think about why you’re doing this. I guess that’s part of knowing yourself, really. But it’s something a lot of the old-timers never considered. For so many years, I really didn’t know why I’m in this life. I signed up when I was young, because they said I was good about it. And I never thought about quitting, because people needed me. But I never questioned my own motivation. You should. Do you want to do this because you think it’s needed? Because you’re good at it? Because the movies make it seem so glamorous. Because let me tell you, it isn’t. Think about why you want this life. Think about how much those feelings mean to you. And think about who will miss you if you don’t come back, and how much you mean to them. And if you’re not absolutely certain that it’s a trade worth making, take a step back. For a life like this, you need to be sure. I didn’t think about it until it could have been too late. I was lucky. You can do better.” “I… uhh…” Isadora stammered, finding the whole conversation heavier than she had expected. “I think you’ll be a good Field Monitor,” Brown said, cutting through the tension. “I really do. And I hope you’ll be protecting the country from the bad guys. And being a good role model for the more impetuous. But I don’t want you to dive into it without really knowing that’s what you want, or without asking yourself why. You deserve better than that.” “Thank you,” she whispered. They kept on talking, and the discussion was lighter now that all the serious issues were out of the way. But twenty minutes later, Isadora’s shoes rapped slowly against the wooden floors of Millennium House as she returned to her department. She had such a lot to think about, and now she really didn’t know if she wanted to be an Operative or not. Without Brown in the picture, she felt like the whole career path was out of focus and not quite what she had expected. Had her desire to go into the field really just been a desire for one man, without her being able to admit that to herself His questions cut deeply now, in ways she had never even expected. Was she throwing away a promising cryptography career on a promotion that she didn’t really want? It didn’t help that as soon as she swiped in through the last security checkpoint, the screen told her to go straight to Kane’s office, on the seventeenth floor. That gave her a lot more time to think; as well as adding a whole lot of new worries to the mix. Emerson Kane was a veteran Monitor, one of the best of the best. Everyone in the building had heard of him, but it was a long time since he had been in the field. Now he moved in the upper circles of the Agency, managing funding and politics. He was a big picture guy, who would never need to look at an individual case; and being sent upstairs was rarely good for anyone in the administrative side of the building. Isadora spent half the walk up there wondering what she could have done wrong. When she reached the office, she found herself standing outside, too nervous to knock. Her hand closed around her pendant, grasping so tightly that the plastic edges probably left white lines across her palm. She needed comfort now; she needed to remember a time without so many responsibilities. Because everything was happening at once, and she didn’t know how to deal with all the things that were worrying her right now. Running away wasn’t the right answer, she was sure. But moving forward terrified her, and she didn’t know if there was even a point to it now. “Enter.” The word came from the intercom beside the office door, brusque and businesslike but without any obvious signs of impatience. She hadn’t even knocked, but of course her security badge would track exactly where she was within the building. Kane would have been able to watch her on the map, coming closer to her scheduled appointment. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, dreading whatever was next for her.

This story takes place a couple of months after Mission Improbable, and about half a year after Keeping Secrets. It's hard for me to tell, but I don't think it's strictly necessary to read the previous stories to enjoy this one, but they do contain quite a bit of background information. And as always, I will be updating the tags as the different parts are posted to avoid spoilers. The same thing applies to the title. I just haven't been able to come up with a good one yet. (Suggestions are welcome) Updates for this text will be less regular than my previous stories since I'm still in the process of writing this one. ----------------- "Damnit, damnit, damnit!" Tracy gave her office door repeated kicks as she tried to turn the key. The humidity-warped door frame finally surrendered and the key turned in the lock with a metallic scrape. Pushing the door open with her shoulder, Tracy backed through it, pulling the suitcase containing her drones and the remote control systems over the threshold. She kicked the door closed and glared out of the window across the room. The rain was pouring down outside and even the quick run across the street from the parking garage had soaked her to the bone. Tracy hated rain. At least she hated rain when she had to be outdoors in it. Being curled up with a good book or a movie while the rain was beating against the window was a near-perfect afternoon. Also, the rain made her short hair frizzy. Usually Tracy's hair would refuse to be anything other than straight, even if she used ozone layer-ruining amounts of industrial-strength hair spray. So Tracy considered the damp, unmanageable half-curls a personal insult. Tracy opened the suitcase and removed all the drones, leaving them on her desk to dry. Then she headed for the bathroom, every squishing step leaving wet footprints on the floor. Tracy kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her jacket, hanging it to dry over the top of the door. The jeans were more of a struggle to get off. Even though Tracy favoured baggy trousers, they still seemed to cling to her legs, resisting every effort to be removed. After finally managing to pull the wet denim down past her hips along with her underwear, Tracy tried to step out of the pants, only to lose her balance and almost fall face-first against the door. She caught herself at the last second and sat down on the toilet to peel off the stubborn fabric. Her t-shirt was next, landing with a splat next to the inside-out jeans. Tracy stood and leaned on the sink for a moment, staring at the woman in the mirror. She looked wet and miserable; like a kitten after a bath. Tracy reached into the shower and turned on the water. It cycled through its customary three seconds of lukewarm before proceeding to glacial, then boiling, before settling at a somewhat comfortable temperature. She stepped into the shower, feeling the water pound down on her scalp. Her entire body felt gross and greasy. I guess that's what I get from having a three-day stakeout above a fast food joint. She poured a generous amount of shampoo into her hand. As she massaged it into her hair, a flowery smell filled the room. Hopefully it would get rid of the smell of deep fryer fumes. She couldn't wait to put the entire case behind her. It had started out innocently enough: A husband suspecting his wife of cheating on him. When he left town, Tracy had followed the wife to a no-tell hotel. Something in the building next to the hotel had made her small drones go completely haywire. So after having retrieved the drones, Tracy had had to resort to renting a room below her target and using an old-fashioned borescope through the ventilation system. The wife had not been having an affair. She was either having eight different affairs, or she was working as a prostitute. Five men, two women, and one person who had arrived dressed as Richard Nixon and stayed in costume the whole time. She hadn't left the room for three days. On the second day she had taken a break from having sex to run a five-hour high-stakes poker game. Tracy had to admit she was impressed with the woman's stamina. Over the entire three days, she hadn't slept or eaten anything, consuming nothing but copious amounts of alcohol and drugs that Tracy couldn't identify. Tracy had taken pictures of everyone she could, but only to document what went on. The woman's husband hadn't paid for identification, so she would have to ask him if he even wanted that after having seen the pictures. She hoped he would, since that would mean extra money for very little actual work. Tracy would mostly be waiting while the computer did all the heavy lifting. I'm going to sleep for a week. It had been almost sixty hours of watching people having sex through a fish-eye lens with no sleep and only rushed bathroom breaks. Usually Tracy would wear diapers during stakeouts, and not just for the convenience of fewer bathroom breaks. But after having taken one look at the shower in the room she'd rented, she had decided that there was no way she was going to risk tetanus and seven other diseases by using it. Tracy rested her forehead against the wall, watching the soap suds being rinsed off her body and spiralling down the drain. She let her hand wander down her stomach. She scratched the stubble she found and sighed. I guess I'll have to fix that. She grabbed the razor and soap and carefully shaved. She didn't actually need to, but she preferred to be clean-shaven when wearing diapers. It was less itchy, and the smooth skin felt better against the diaper. It also had the added bonus of getting praise from Kat. Tracy turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, drying herself before wrapping the towel around herself. She picked up the clothes and hung them all to dry over the shower curtain rod, on the sink or wherever she could find room. The bathroom would stink of old fry oil, but at least the rest of the tiny apartment wouldn't. She opened the tiny window ever so slightly before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. I guess I'm doing laundry as well tomorrow. Tracy checked that the front door was locked then headed for the bedroom. She pulled the curtains closed and let the towel fall to the floor. What she wanted to do most of all was just to lie down and go to sleep. However, there was still one thing she needed to do. Reaching into the large plastic box under the bed, she pulled out one of her thick overnight diapers and unfolded it on the bed. Kat had picked out the overnight diapers using some very clear criteria. They had to be so thick that Tracy would have to waddle while wearing them. They also had to be big and noisy enough that they'd be pretty much impossible to hide. And finally, they had to be absorbent enough that Tracy could wear them for an entire night without risking a leak. Tracy sat down on the diaper and lay back. When she sprinkled baby powder on herself, she smiled as the fine white powder tickled her freshly shaved and sensitive skin. Spreading her legs far apart Tracy pulled the diaper up between them and held it to her stomach with one hand while taping it in place with the other. The thick material felt almost like a giant gloved hand cupping her entire crotch. It was a little too stiff to be comfortable, but Tracy knew that how to fix that. She scooted herself to the corner of the bed and sat there, rocking back and forth, using the corner to soften the material. It also had the added benefit of feeling good, but Tracy was too tired to even masturbate. She just wanted to sleep. Pulling an oversized t-shirt over her head, she punched her pillow a couple of times to give it the right shape, pulled a thin blanket up to cover herself and fell asleep almost instantly.

This story takes place a couple of months after Keeping Secrets. It's hard for me to tell, but I don't think it's necessary to read the previous story to enjoy this one, but if you want to read about how Tracy and Kat met, that's where to go. And as always, I will be updating the tags as the different parts are posted to avoid spoilers. -------------- Mission Improbable (Part 1 of 13) "Shit!" Tracy looked out of the window of her van. Big, fat raindrops splattered against the windscreen. "What's the matter Häschen?" Kat's voice on the other end of the phone line asked. "Rain. "That's going to make flying harder." A single one of those big drops could upset the balance of Tracy's little drone. It would also make audio surveillance next to impossible. Lightning flashed somewhere behind the car, illuminating the trees in front of the car briefly. The thunder that followed only moments later drowned out whatever Kat said. "What was that?" Tracy put Kat on speaker while she climbed around the seats to the back of the van. "I said 'just be careful'. I wouldn't want to take care of a zapped, little bunny. You're fussy enough when you're just wet." Tracy felt a blush creep up her neck. "Kat," Tracy pleaded, the whining tone painfully clear even to herself. God, I sound like a four-year-old. "Oh come on," Kat said. "It's not like there's anyone else in your car with you." "How do you know?" "Well, is there?" "No," Tracy admitted. She was struggling to find the neck hole inside her dark grey rain poncho. The stiff plastic of the poncho crackled slightly with static electricity as she pulled it down. The mesh of hair-thin metal wires inside the plastic would hide and distort Tracy's heat signature, making her much harder to see with infra-red cameras. She wasn't expecting anybody to be using that, but if she had to be somewhere in person, she was not going to take any chances. Tracy picked the phone up from the suitcase holding most of her surveillance gear. "Anyway, are you doing anything tonight?" Tracy didn't actually hold her breath; at least not physically. She always felt awkward asking if Kat was free. Asking a dominatrix if she's working felt to Tracy like asking 'are you fucking someone'. It wasn't like she was jealous when Kat was seeing clients. Well, maybe a little. She knew what she was getting into when she and Kat started... dating? No, that wasn't the word she'd use. Maybe 'seeing each other'? No, that didn't seem right either. They weren't two high-schoolers making out between classes. 'Sleeping together' didn't feel right either, although it was true in the most literal sense. Tracy was so lost in her search for the right term that she missed Kat's answer. She shook her head to dismiss the thoughts. "What was that? You dropped out there for a second," Tracy bluffed. "I said I have a client all night. Sorry." Tracy sighed. "Okay." She had hoped that she could snuggle up to Kat after having had to be out in the rain. Even if it was only for a few hours. Sleeping like that was so much more restful than sleeping alone. "Aww. Were you hoping for some snuggles after you were done?" Tracy suddenly realised something. "All night, you said? Are they there now?" "Relax Häschen. It's not like they can hear you." "Still, you know I hate it when we talk like this when you have other people there." "You didn't seem to mind last week when Jessie and Uncle Dieter had us over for dinner." Tracy sighed again, almost rolling her eyes at Kat. "That's different and you know it. They think we're... you know, dating." Tracy cringed at the word. It wasn't like they hadn't gone on dates. But there was a big difference between 'going on dates' and 'dating'. At least in Tracy's mind. "We can have breakfast," Kat suggested. "Or maybe lunch. I don't know how late it'll be before I get some sleep." "Mmm-yeah. Breakfast sounds nice. Surprise me." Tracy knew that Kat could hear her smile. "Do you want me to wear my..." Tracy hesitated, "you know..." Kat laughed. "You can say 'diaper' Häschen. It iss not a naughty verd." She said the last sentence with an exaggerated German accent that made Tracy smile. "I know. It just feels weird to say it." "You know, it's funny. You have more trouble saying the word than you have actually wearing them." "Yeah, yeah. It's hilarious," Tracy said dismissively. "Scheiße, I have to go," Kat said as there was some noise in the background that Tracy couldn't identify. "Tomorrow, wear your diapers if you want to. Or not. We'll figure something out. Bye." "Uh, bye," Tracy said, but Kat had already hung up. "...I guess." She put away the phone and opened the car door, looking out into the downpour. Even before stepping outside, she imagined she could feel a greasy trickle down the back of her neck. Tracy grabbed her camera and checked the batteries. Almost fully charged. Before she slipped the strap over her head, Tracy made sure the waterproof casing was properly closed. Wouldn't want foggy lenses that I can't reach. Tracy stepped out of the van and found herself ankle-deep in a puddle that hadn't been there when she parked. "Damn." Tracy stepped out of the puddle and shook her feet to get some of the water out of her shoes. "Not exactly the greatest start," she said to no-one in particular. Grabbing a black, plastic briefcase and a small tripod, Tracy closed the door and locked it. The alarm activated with a quiet chirp. Then she trudged off into the bushes. Half an hour later, Tracy was in place. She was crouching in a bush halfway up a small hill. Below her was a footpath with a metal bench and a trash can with a couple of impressive dents. Tracy absent-mindedly wondered what could have made the dents. They looked too big to be from bikes, but the footpath was too narrow and twisting for cars. ATVs maybe? Tracy checked her watch: A quarter to one. In fifteen minutes, that trash can was going to be one of the richest trash cans in the city. Tracy shifted her weight, moving her knee out of the small brook that had appeared only minutes after she had settled down in her bush. Her mind drifted back to earlier that day. *** Tracy had been in her office, working on the final report to a client when there was a quiet knock on the door. Tracy checked the camera outside the door. Kat had insisted she install the camera and reinforce the office door after a case had gone badly, in a death-threat kind of way a couple of months earlier. Outside the door was a woman and man. They didn't look like a threat, so Tracy pressed the button to unlock the door. The lock buzzed and clicked and after a few moments, the couple entered. Tracy pushed her keyboard aside and motioned to the chairs in front of the desk. "Please, have a seat." Tracy found her trusty notepad and pencil. Then she pushed the phone to the middle of the desk. "You don't mind if I record this..." Tracy paused and studied the couple for a few moments. The man was sitting with his eyes lowered, turned slightly towards the woman, who in turn was sitting back in the chair with her legs crossed, looking relaxed and confident. Tracy figured that she was the one in charge. "... Ms? "Wilford," the woman said. "Nalah Wilford. And I'd rather you didn't. I don't want any of this coming out." "It's only to help my note-taking, but if you're uncomfortable with it..." Tracy picked up her phone and put it away. "OK Ms. Wilford, what's the problem?" Tracy tried to sound professional. "Marc here fucked up," She answered matter-of-factly. Tracy looked from one to the other and back and again. "I'm going to need a little more details than that." Ms. Wilford looked coolly at Marc. "Well? Tell her what you did." "There was this email, and I thought it was from Miss Nalah and I clicked on the link in it and-" "And the idiot opened a back-door into the system. Look, I couldn't care less that they hijacked his webcam and caught him undressing and getting into position for me under the desk in my office." "I-" Tracy began, a little taken aback. "I do, however, care that they caught me on camera as well. And as if that wasn't enough, they encrypted the entire system, locking us out." "And let me guess, they want money to unlock the system and not release the video." "Yeah, fifteen thousand." Ms. Wilford said it like it was more an annoyance than a serious sum of money. "Not to point out the obvious, but isn't this a police matter? Or at the very least, your IT department? Why hire someone like me?" "If we use yesterday's backups we lose all the logs from a crucial deposition, plus we'd look incompetent." Ms. Wilford glared at Marc. "And going to the police wouldn't get the files back in time for the trial either. I figured the simplest solution is to just pay them." "Okay? But then why hire me?" "Don't get me wrong, I'm not OK with what happened. I want you to find out who did this so I can make them regret it. And as for why you specifically? You came highly recommended from a business associate of mine. A Mrs Devereux?" "I see," Tracy said, trying to sound neutral since she didn't know how much Ms. Wilford knew about the case in question. "So, fifteen thousand. I'm assuming they didn't want to meet in some back alley with a suitcase full of cash." "Unfortunately not. They wanted the money in some stupid cryptocurrency, Ding-Dough, on a thumb drive, and they wanted Marc to drop it off at a specific location at 1 am. tonight." "So, in..." Tracy checked her watch, "...eleven hours or so. I'm assuming they gave the whole 'don't contact the police' warning or something like that. Will getting the money be a problem?" Ms. Wilford shook her head. Tracy put down her pencil. "Well, since they've been smart about the money, our best bet is probably to follow the actual thumb drive once your husband makes the drop and hopefully identify the blackmailers that way." "Oh please! Like I'd marry him." Ms. Wilford rolled her eyes. "I deal with enough fucked-up marriages at work. Marc's my personal assistant." And your executive stress relief toy, it sounds like. Tracy opened her desk drawer and rooted around in it for a couple of seconds before bringing out a bright yellow thumb drive. "Use this for the money," she said and handed it to Ms. Wilford. "Now, this is a rush job so I'm going to have to charge extra." "I expected as much. Camille told me the rates you charged her; I'll double it." That was more than Tracy had been planning on charging, so she simply nodded. "I also have a couple more conditions. First of all: My job is to follow the thumb drive, or the information on it, to the blackmailers without them realising it. That is, until they've given you the password to unlock your system. So until that happens, you're going to follow the blackmailer's instructions to the letter. Agreed? "Sounds reasonable." "Also, whatever you're planning for whoever did this, I'm not involved. Once I've identified the blackmailers, my job is over." "I wouldn't have it any other way." Ms. Wilford's smile sent a chill down Tracy's spine. It was like a cat watching a canary with a broken wing. Tracy decided she didn't want to get on Ms. Wilford's bad side. They spent the next twenty minutes getting all the details Tracy felt she needed. After Ms. Wilford and Marc had left, Tracy started planning. She would park a drone by the drop and follow whoever came to pick it up. Tracy opened the box of drones and checked the battery levels of the one with the best range. It only had a basic camera and microphone, but it was small enough to escape notice. After checking the map of the park where the drop-off was, she found that the drone should be able to follow the thumb drive to any of the parking lots in the immediate area. After that, it was just a matter of recording the licence plate and the traffic cameras would do the rest of the job for her. The thumb drive even had a tracker that she could activate remotely in case she lost track of it. If whoever picked it up scanned the drive for bugs, they wouldn't find it until it was too late. Tracy had to admit that she had a similar tracker on her car keys and that she had had to use it more than once. Content that all the technical preparations were done, Tracy went to bed. If she was going to pull an all-nighter, she should start out well rested. *** Movement on the path below brought Tracy back to the present. Somebody halfway hidden by a big, green and white golf umbrella, approached the bench. It was Marc. He looked around nervously. "Come on," Tracy mouthed silently. "Don't get creative. Just make the delivery and walk away." Marc fumbled in his pocket and brought out Tracy's yellow thumb drive. Tracy zoomed in on Marc with her camera as he kept fiddling with the thumb drive. He was turned halfway away from her so she couldn't see exactly what he was doing. "Come on," Tracy kept whispering inaudibly. "Be a good, little executive fuck toy and do what you're supposed to." As though he had heard her, Marc turned and looked in Tracy's direction. She froze, trusting her poncho, the darkness and the distance to hide her. That, and the fact that she had told Marc and Ms. Wilford she would be using her drones to track the drive. Eventually Marc looked away. Tracy slowly brought her hand back to her camera and zoomed out a little, letting it catch the area surrounding the bench. Eventually Marc stopped looking around. He looked down to his hand where the thumb drive was before tossing it into the trash can. Then he hurried off down the path where he had come from. Then there was just the almost sizzling, white noise of the rain pouring down. Tracy imagined she could hear a plink, plink whenever the faint, yellow street light flickered, but other than that, nothing happened. Suddenly, there was a flash and an almost immediate, deafening crash of thunder as the lightning struck somewhere nearby. Tracy thought she could see something in the bushes by the footpath. She switched the camera to thermographic, turning everything dark grey and black; everything except the bright heat bloom of somebody hiding in one of the bushes. "Now what do we have here?" She zoomed in, trying to get a good picture. Unfortunately, thermographics was never made for identification purposes, so the face remained an unrecognisable white blur. Tracy was so focused on the person in the bushes that she almost missed the movement by the trash can. Tracy turned the camera back and switched off the thermographics when she saw no heat signatures. Something reminiscent of a bug the size of a small plate was scuttling out of the trash, holding Tracy's thumb drive in its pincers. It fell from the opening, but instead of hitting the ground, it rose with the unmistakable whine of high-speed rotors. Shit, they're using a drone for the pickup. Tracy fumbled in her pocket for the remote control for the tracker. She pressed the button and the little light on the remote switched from red to a blinking yellow. "What the..." Tracy pressed the button again, but the light stubbornly refused to change to green. "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit." Tracy reached for the briefcase on the ground next to her. She opened it and lifted the largest of her camera drones out from its foam housing. Unlike its smaller cousins, this one was capable of operating without Tracy having to steer it manually. In one fluid motion, Tracy switched it on and threw it up in the air. The rotors started up almost immediately and it rose up with a buzzing sound like the world's biggest wasp. Tracy had programmed it to follow the signal from the thumb drive, and failing that, it would try to track movement below. The amount of rain, however, made the latter option a long shot. She pressed the button on the remote one more time, but the light still didn't turn green. "So much for plan B," Tracy grumbled. She rose, leaving the briefcase and tripod with the camera, and ran down the hill towards the person hiding in the bushes. Whoever they were, they were her last chance of finding out what was going on. Tracy half ran, half slid down the hill, branches and twigs scratching noisily against her poncho. The figure in the bushes looked in her direction, obviously having heard her. There was a flash and a sharp crack of thunder. No, not thunder. A gunshot. The fucker's shooting at me? Tracy wanted to turn around, or hide behind something, anything. But her legs, apparently having made a deal with her momentum, just kept going. There was another shot, the bullet hitting the trash can with a metallic clunk. The figure turned and tried to run, but slipped on the mud and fell. The gun landed in a puddle, out of reach of both of them. Tracy dove forward, landing with her elbow in the man's stomach in a move that would have made a pro wrestler proud. The man folded up, coughing and moaning. Tracy picked herself up and was about to give him a kick when she recognised him. "Marc?!?" Marc was too busy gasping for breath to answer. "What the hell are you doing here?" "Help-helping Mistress Nalah," he wheezed. Tracy had a sinking feeling. "What did you do?" Marc rolled over on his side and tried to sit up. "Tracking bug," he coughed, "on... on the drive." "Gimme." "Wha...?" Marc asked with a bewildered look. "The bug tracker. Now!" Tracy demanded, trying to sound extra bossy in the hopes it would speed things up. Marc fumbled in his pockets and held out a small, cracked, plastic rectangle. Tracy grabbed it, noting the silver company logo above the small screen. TeraTech Electronics: Fantastic range, but shitty transmitter shielding. That could explain my tracking problems. Tracy left Marc in the mud and ran back towards her equipment. "Call 'client one'," Tracy told her phone as she struggled up the slippery slope. Ms. Wilford answered almost immediately. "Yes?" "Bullit here. Is the money still there?" "Yes, it's still all here," Ms. Wilford started. "No, wait. They just moved it." "Password?" Tracy suppressed a curse as she slipped and almost fell. "Not yet. Do you have them?" "No. Still working on it," Tracy said between gasps of breath as she reached the briefcase and knelt down next to it. "There was a complication. I'll call you back." Tracy hung up and pulled out her pocket knife. She used the screwdriver to pry open the casing of Marc's tracker, cutting a small gash in her hand when it slipped. Ignoring the stinging, Tracy examined the circuitry inside, quickly finding the receiver and reading its frequency from the little sticker on it. She dropped the tracker and grabbed the drone remote. The screen showed a map of the park and the drone's search pattern. Tracy input the new tracking frequency and the drone immediately picked it up, abandoning its previous pattern and homing in on its new signal. Tracy's phone rang. "What do you mean 'There was a complication'?" Ms. Wilford asked sharply when Tracy picked up. "I thought we agreed that you were to follow the drop-off instructions, or did I misunderstand something?" Tracy glanced back down to where she had left Marc, but he was gone. "Yeah, that's the deal." "So what's the deal with Marc sabotaging my plans by putting a cheap and obvious bug on my thumb drive?" "He did WHAT?!? Where is that little fucker? Is he still there? Marc! If you can hear this, don't bother coming to work tomorrow!" There was a beep from Tracy's remote control indicating that the drone was approaching its target. Tracy switched from the map to the camera view and the small screen showed a parking lot. There were maybe a dozen cars; no lights or movement. "Look, I still have a couple of tricks up my sleeve. With a little luck, whoever they are didn't notice Marc's bug, or if they did, they're going to be greedy and ask for more since you tried to track the drive. Either way, we still have a shot at finding them. it's just going to be a little trickier and take a little longer." "Just. Find. Them." Ms. Wilford hung up. Tracy left the drone in a holding pattern above the lot and picked up her equipment. Marc had already scurried off to wherever he stayed when he wasn't under Ms. Wilford's desk, leaving the gun in the puddle where he had dropped it. Tracy picked it up before heading for the car. She didn't like guns, but leaving it for someone else to find wasn't an option. Too many irresponsible idiots running around; and not just Marc. By the time Tracy reached the car, she was panting and sweating, cursing the poncho for trapping so much of her body heat. She put the camera and the drone remote on the passenger seat. Then she pulled off the poncho and threw it in the back along with the empty briefcase. For a little while, she just stood there, letting the rain cool her down. Then, before she got too wet, she got in and started the engine. The drive to the parking lot didn't take long; maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Tracy's attention was divided between the road, which was wet and slippery, but thankfully empty, and the screen showing her drone's bird's eye view of the parking lot. Only one car had left the lot since she started driving, and she had a good picture of the car and its licence plates. Hopefully the cameras in the area would help her get a picture of the driver. The thumb drive still hadn't moved, but Tracy hadn't had time to check if the car, or its driver, had been anywhere near it. Tracy picked up her camera and used it to quickly scan the lot. No heat sources; human or engines. As the drone slowly descended, Tracy saw the thumb drive in a puddle. She got out and carefully picked it up. To Marc's credit, the tracker dot that he'd put on on the drive at least matched its colour, but it was still obvious if you knew what to look for. And Tracy had no reason to think the blackmailers didn't. They had been smart about avoiding identification; cryptocurrency payment, drone pickup and quick transfer of the money. So Tracy doubted there would be fingerprints on the drive, but maybe she was lucky and they had screwed up. She put it in a paper bag and put the paper bag in a plastic box of rice she kept in the car precisely to dry out wet electronics. Even if there weren't physical fingerprints, there would be electronic ones. Tracy picked up the drone and put it in the back of her van before climbing in herself. She started the computer and began scanning for available wifi networks. Again, Tracy doubted that the blackmailers would have used an open network when they transferred the money, but at the moment, long shots was pretty much all she had. Thanks a lot, Marc. At least there weren't too many networks in the area. Tracy shuddered to think what the list would have looked like if this had happened downtown. Since pretty much everything in the area was closed for the night, there shouldn't be too much computer traffic to sort through. Tracy loaded a sniffer program to copy the details about the last twenty minute's traffic on the open networks. She noted down the names and details of the protected networks so she could come back the next day to check them out. She debated whether she should have the last can of energy drinks while driving home. On the one hand, it was late and drinking it might keep her up even later, but on the other hand, she was thirsty and really tired. The adrenaline rush of tackling Marc had been a great pick-me-up, but the problem was that as soon as it wore off, it seemed to take with it all the caffeine stored in her system. Concern for her fellow drivers won, and at the next red light, Tracy opened the can and emptied it before the light turned green. She grimaced at the taste. She would have preferred the original what-our-chemical-engineers-think-strawberries-taste-like flavour, but the store had been sold out and all they had had left were the we'll-pretend-this-tastes-like-kiwi-but-all-you-get-is-a-furry-tongue flavoured ones. But caffeine was caffeine, and hopefully, drinking it on an empty stomach would mean that it'd kick in quickly. By the time Tracy reached home, she had gone through most of what she called the energy drink caffeine cycle. She had seen individual air molecules vibrating, had tingly fingers and a pounding pulse. Now she was crashing; her stomach was grumbling and her brain itched. She parked in the parking garage across the street and made her way back to the office, being eternally thankful for her landlord having fixed the elevator. Tracy stumbled through the door. It was a struggle to even open the boxes with her equipment so it would dry while she slept. There was only one thing she wanted to do before getting out of her damp clothes and falling into bed. Tracy opened her fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. She knew better than going to bed thirsty. She peeled off her clothes, lay back on the bed and put on a diaper before wrapping herself in her blanket. After all, she also knew better than going to sleep with a rapidly filling bladder without taking some precautions. ***

Written for @cute little kokiri girl, using the Youthlock ideas and setting explained in this post! Our plan is to release about a chapter a month, so strap in! Chapter 1 I can tell a lot about a broad by what troubles she decides are worth my time to solve. To put it in terms any Joe could understand, my services don’t come cheap, and I’m not in the business of looking glamorous. Sometimes a dame will wander in telling me how her cat’s gone missing, and it’s not because she’s mistaken me for a newsie looking to make cash on the side, it’s because she’s got too much dough and not enough sense. On the other hand, if I have a dame come in telling me her husband’s gone missing, that tells me something else–if she were rich, she’d be hiring some glitzy gumshoe who’s got his name in the papers, assuming she didn’t just place a donation or two to get the coppers on the job. You don’t come to the only youthlocked detective in Los Angeles because you’re just stirring up trouble. And that’s me–Nick Juliet, Private Eye. Don’t let my looks fool you, I might need to sit on a phonebook to use my desk and I’ve still not finished potty training, but I’ve been old enough to drink since prohibition ended, and if you take me for a kid, I’ll take you for a ride. It was just about closing time when the latest doll waddled into my office, looking cute as a button. She had it all–golden hair that curled up like a coiled spring around her shoulders, eyes like blue puddles, wearing a little pink number with lace that just wouldn’t quit. She stood maybe three feet tall even in her patent leather heels, but even though I could hear her diaper crinkle as she crossed my office, I knew this wasn’t any little child who’d wandered in off the street. Youthlocks aren’t common, but we aren’t all that rare either. The lucky ones get all the way to nine or ten before they stop aging, when they’re tall enough to reach the middle shelves at the grocery store without jumping. At a glance, we look like kids, but you can tell us apart if you know what to look for. The diaper bulge is one thing; I can’t say why, but our potty training goes to squat when the youthlock sets in. There’s the walk, too. You spend thirty years practicing, you’ll have a swagger to your step that few tots will match. In this case, though, I didn’t need any of my observation skills, just a pair of eyes. This wasn’t just any dame who’d walked in off the street, it was Shelly Chapel. The Shelly Chapel, the starlet with more than thirty hit films to her name. “You must be Nick Juliet,” she said, stopping in front of my desk. She had to stand on tip-toe to see over it, giving me a view that only showed her precocious eyes and a stare that’d stolen the hearts of audiences across the world. “And you’re Shelly Chapel,” I replied, glancing past her. My secretary had stepped out. Hopping down off my desk chair, I walked around, pulling out the seat for her. Prepared for a Youthlock, I had a spare book I kept on the edge of my desk at all times, but sizing up the actress, I quickly realized I’d need more height than just one book offered. Stacking a couple newspapers beneath it, I offered her a hand, pretending that I couldn’t spot her diaper beneath her dress as she got onto the boosted-up seat. “I thought you’d be shorter,” she commented, looking down at me from her perch. I had a good six inches on her at least, the result of my youthlock setting in a couple years past hers. Walking back to my own seat, I clambered into my own chair, feeling the need for a pick-me-up. “How can I help you?” I asked, reaching into the pocket of my vest and producing a package of candy cigarettes. Extending one, I offered her first pick of the pack, but she shook her head. “They say you’re good at finding things,” Miss Chapel said, her golden hair flopping adorably over her shoulder as she tilted her head to eye me. It felt odd, seeing decades of suspicion in eyes that belonged to a preschooler’s face. “They say you’re discreet, too, but I don’t know much else about you.” Setting the candy stick between my lips, I sat back, letting the slight sugar rush give me the energy I needed. “Funny thing about keeping secrets,” I said as chalky sugar dissolved down my tongue. “If you never share them, nobody ever knows how good you are at keeping them.” “Well.” Shelly nodded thoughtfully at my comment. “Thanks to the paparazzi, my life’s an open book. I can’t take a nap without a camera finding its way between the crib bars. For once, I’d like to be ahead of the tabloids.” I nodded, taking the notepad from my desk. “Ahead of the tabloids on what?” “My manager, William Waters. He’s a chisel, and a bastard, and he’s trying to kill my career.” She sat back, eyeing me, as though waiting for me to call her crazy or question her story. I knew this part all too well. Dames who came in my door weren’t always looking for the truth, they just wanted to know that someone believed them. I’d learned a lesson or two from the girls on fourth street: So long as they paid, it never hurt me to play the pal. Nodding, I clicked my pen a couple times, jotting down names. “Give it to me,” I prompted. “From the beginning.” “You know who I am,” she began, stating it as an observation, not a question. I nodded anyway, and she continued, “I’ve been in the business for a long time–hell, I started playing six year olds when I was actually six. I’ve had the same manager for a decade and a half, and I’ve been at the same studio for the past eleven years. And let me tell you–I’m just about sick of it.” Her gaze drifted out the window looking wistful. I raised an eyebrow. “You’re done with acting?” “I’m done with Shelly Chapel,” she replied. “Little girl, sings and dances, cute as a button–it’s so goddamned sweet it makes me want to choke. I’ve been acting for my whole life, Mr. Juliet, but it seems like I’ve only ever been cast in one role.” Nodding, I chewed on my thoughts, and on the tip of the candy cigarette. “Alright. So what’s the problem?” “I’ve been auditioning for new roles,” Shelly explained, reaching down to dig into her purse. “And my manager–he’s worthless. He’s not able to do a damned thing for me. With my resume, I should be able to walk onto any set I please and get a part, but no, it’s like a kid wandered into a factory, they just want to coo over how cute I am and then usher me away. I was beginning to suspect something, and then this happened.” Producing a letter, she tossed it onto the desk. I leaned forward, unfolding the wrinkled paper and skimming the note. It was written in a tight cursive script, jotted down by someone with good penmanship. Phone call from Candor Taurus of Erikson Productions, asked to pass along: He’s confused why you didn’t accept the part, but they’ve decided to go with someone else. He asked why you never responded, after you were so enthusiastic at the audition, but he had to make another choice to get production moving and couldn’t wait any longer. I frowned. “Candor Taurus? The director of It Occurred One Evening?” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Why didn’t you respond?” “Because, I never got told I’d been accepted!” she snapped bitterly. “Calls don’t come for me directly, I’m too busy to answer the phone on set. Typically, William will accept them for me and let me know if anything’s important, but my manager claims he never got this one.” “Who wrote the note?” I asked, holding up the paper she’d given me. “One of the receptionists.” Shelly reached over, taking the message back. “If nobody’s around to take the call, they’ll pass along messages and have them delivered.” “Could several messages have been missed?” I asked. “A few phone calls in a row?” She shook her head, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Impossible. If nobody picked up, his studio would call back. Someone got the message, and just didn’t pass it along to me.” “Or several messages, by the sounds of it,” I said, frowning as I thought it over. “So, you think your manager killed your chance at a new role? Why would he do that?” “You know what his job is?” Shelly asked. When I shook my head, she explained, “It’s to sit around and collect a paycheck while I do all the work. A manager’s supposed to find new jobs for me, but we’ve been working on the same lot for more than a decade. All he’s had to do was get a bonus whenever someone calls up asking for an endorsement or product sponsorship–if I start working for new companies, taking on serious work, he’ll actually have to get off his ass for once. Clearly, he’d rather keep the easy ride going.” “So fire him,” I suggested. “You’re the biggest youthlock name in town, I’m sure there’s managers out there who’d blow their wig to scoop you up.” “He’s got me in a bulletproof contract,” she glowered. “Locked me into it before I was old enough to know better: If I fire him without cause, there’s a do-not-compete saying I can’t bring on anyone else. I need proof he screwed me so I can take his ass to court and hire his replacement.” I nodded, mulling it over. Her story sounded plausible, but I didn’t just take every plausible case that wandered in off the street, no matter how cute she looked when she gave me a pleading look. “Miss Chapel,” I began. Her expression fell, then I saw the beginnings of an angry snarl. “You don’t believe me?” “I believe you,” I promised, quelling her anger, “But if you’re right, if your manager took the calls and then buried them, or he threw away notes from the telephone operators, that’s going to be almost impossible to prove. I’d need to get him to admit it, and it’s not often you’ll convince a man to incriminate himself. You’d be wasting your money if you hired me.” “But there’s a chance?” she asked, leaning forward. “Right?” “Not a good chance.” I shook my head, biting the end of the candy cigarette into pieces and chewing on it. “Even if he’s got loose lips, once a private eye shows up on set and starts asking questions, he’ll clam up like a wet diaper in winter.” She nodded, thoughtful. “I might be able to do something about that–I can get you onto set without it being too disruptive.” “I don’t want to take your money and leave you without answers.” I shook my head, leaning back in my chair. Persisting, she dug into her purse again. “I understand. Payment up front, then.” Taking out a stack of bills, she dropped it onto my desk, where the fresh green cash sat between us. I frowned. I had a hard time saying no to dames in desperate straits, but I had an even harder time saying no to cash up front. Leaning forward, I took the wad of bills, riffling through them like a deck of cards. “What’s your plan to get me on set?” I asked, nodding. “Call you an extra,” she explained. “We’re filming a scene at an orphanage in two days. Kid actors are cheap, but they’re hard to work with–Youthlocks are better if you can find ‘em willing to act.” Thinking on it, I pursed my lips. “I don’t care to have my picture taken.” “You’ll just be a kid in the room,” she promised. “Please, Mister Juliet. There’s nobody else I can trust with this.” I considered a little longer, but my heart was already made up long before I nodded my head. “I’ll take the job,” I said. “Call my secretary, Miss Brown, tomorrow, get her the details for when the filming starts.” Smiling, she pushed to her feet, falling down to the floor. I could only see her eyes over the edge of my desk, but I saw relief in them. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet,” I replied, staying in my seat. “I still don’t think I’ll be able to get much out of him.” She waddled out of my office, skirt flouncing as she reached up to turn the handle on my frosted glass door. I mulled things over while she left, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. A film set–a whole studio full of people who lied for a living, and a case that it’d be impossible to prove before any judge. (Why do I even take these jobs?) I thought to myself, sitting back and putting my feet up on the desk. There was something foul in the air about this whole situation, but I couldn’t place my finger on what. As I pondered, my door swung open a second time, but now it was a familiar face who walked in, carrying a paper sack. Margaret Brown, the best damned secretary on the west coast. She was just a little younger than me, but stood a solid two feet taller, actually looking like a woman in her mid twenties. “You’ll never guess who I walked by on the street!” She exclaimed, excitement shining on her face as she set down the sack. “You’d be surprised,” I replied coolly, hopping off my office chair and walking over to her. “Go on,” she prompted, removing a package of diapers from the bag. “Guess.” “Shelly Chapel?” I suggested, eyeing the package. “No, it was–” she began, before pausing to look down at me. She sniffed, disappointed. “How’d you know?” “Because, we’ve got our next job,” I replied, reading the label. “‘Coddles’?” “It’s the new disposable diaper brand,” she explained smoothly, before guiding the conversation back on track. “We’re working for the Shelly Chapel?” “The one and only.” I frowned. “I don’t see what’s so bad about terry cloth and plastic–old fashioned diapers have never done me wrong in the past.” “You’re not the one who has to do your laundry,” she replied haughtily. “And, on that subject, I smell a soldier who needs a change–let’s get you freshened up, boss.” I rolled my eyes but took her hand, waddling behind her to the bathroom where she hefted me onto our changing table. Smiling as she undid my diaper, Margaret asked, “So, what did the little starlet want?” Crossing my arms and wrinkling my nose, I stared at the ceiling. I could have changed myself, but Margeret was faster and did a better job, so I took the opportunity to get her help whenever I could. “She wants to be taken seriously.” “Oh?” Margaret inquired, mostly making the sound as a prompt for me to keep going while she wiped my thighs clean. “Bottoms up.” Pushing to raise my hips off the table, I let her pull my diaper away and wipe to get everything else clean. “She says someone’s sabotaging her career, trying to keep her out of serious film.” Margeret nodded, dusting me down with fresh baby powder, filling the room with an overbearing cloud of perfumed talcum. “And do you think she’s right?” “I don’t know.” I pondered it quietly for a little while as Margeret folded up my new diaper, taping it down. I still didn’t see the issue with good, old-fashioned cloth diapers, but the sticky tapes did seem to be easier to apply. “I don’t trust her.” “Really?” Margaret seemed genuinely surprised as she sat me upright and moved to wash her hands. “Shelly Chapel? That girl seems like she’s a saint in her films.” “That’s the thing about actresses,” I replied. “She’s made a career out of trying to be someone she’s not–so, call me skeptical, but I’m not taking a bite ‘til I know that the sweet isn't just there to cover up something sour.” ... Support for this fiction is provided by readers like you! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

Since my other weekly story post is fairly short, I decided to post the first part of one of my longer stories as a bonus. This story is not connected to my other stories and takes place in a near-future setting (about ten or so years into the future). It's my first attempt at a detective story and I have to admit that it was actually quite fun to write. To avoid spoilers, I will not be adding tags to this story until the tagged elements actually show up. Keeping secrets I look out the window at the rain pouring down. The clouds are as grey as lead over a city where life is equally bleak. The only light in my office is from the desk lamp. The bottle of whiskey next to it makes reflections that I'd probably find interesting if I was the artistic type. But I'm not. I study the bottle. It's almost empty; two, maybe three shots left. It's a good thing I have six more in my gun. And if I'm really lucky, I won't have to use them all tonight. There's barely a hint of movement outside the frosted window on the door before it opens and she walks in. I lean back to take in the whole package. The long, blonde hair, short dress and legs that go on for miles scream out 'trophy wife' but the sunglasses big enough to hide a serious shiner and the long-sleeved coat despite the weather hints at something darker. "Ms. Bullit?" "That's my name, doll." "Excuse me?" she says, indignation obvious in her voice. "Oh shit, you're real. One moment." Tracy quickly focused on the top right of her field of view to switch off the AR. Colour flooded back into the world, washing away the image of a 1940s office with a significantly more modern one. Tracy reached back behind her right ear to eject the small chip. "I'm sorry about that. I wasn't expecting anybody to actually be here." Tracy put the chip in the open desk drawer and rose. "Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea?" This was the first client for more than a week and she couldn't afford to lose her. Not with the rent being due in only a few days. "Um, no thanks," the woman said, seeming a little off balance at Tracy's sudden change in demeanour. She sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Tracy sat back down again and placed her phone on the desk between them. "Do you mind if I record this, Ms...?" Tracy looked expectantly at the woman. "Uh, Smith," she said, obviously lying. Tracy sighed. "Look, Ms. 'Smith'," she said calmly. "I track down information or people for a living, and I happen to be pretty good at it. So unless whatever you want me to find out isn't related to you at all and you're planning on paying me with cash, asking your name is more of a formality than anything else." Tracy didn't add 'or if you didn't turn your phone completely off before entering my office, or took a taxi here and didn't pay with cash, or got caught on the surveillance cameras in the shop next door', or any of the five other ways she could find Ms. Smith's name out in less than ten minutes. After all, there was no point in scaring her off. The woman seemed to deflate a little as she sank back in her chair. "Devereux. Camille Devereux." Tracy restarted the recording on her phone, erasing the last twenty seconds. "So, Ms Devereux, do you mind if I record this? It'll make it easier for me to write up my reports for you later and you have my word that whatever you say will be one hundred percent confidential." That last bit wasn't entirely true, but 'one hundred percent' sounded more reassuring than 'mostly'. Ms Devereux sat down opposite Tracy, resting her handbag on her lap. If it wasn't for her clothes, she could have been ripped straight from Tracy's 1940's AR. "It's my husband," she said after a couple of seconds. Of course it is. Tracy leaned forward, trying to seem interested although she wasn't expecting to hear anything she hadn't heard a hundred times before. "I think he's having an affair," Ms. Devereux blurted out. She seemed almost relieved after getting that off her chest. God, what I wouldn't do for an interesting case. It wouldn't even have to be anything serious. "What makes you think that?" Tracy pulled a notepad and pencil out of her desk drawer. Audio recordings were all well and good, but sometimes you wanted notes that you could set fire to and be sure that they were irrevocably destroyed. "I'm not sure exactly when it started. Dennis has always been a little secretive about his work." "So what is his job?" "He works for an investment firm. Smith & Smythe. The second one is with a 'y' and an 'e'," Ms. Devereux said, anticipating Tracy's question. "Nothing big or important. He always says he's just moving papers and making sure all the t's are dotted and all the i's are crossed." Tracy looked up from the doodles in the margin of her notepad and raised an eyebrow. "I know," Ms. Devereux said, "but that's how he says it." Tracy nodded. "Usually he's as regular as clockwork. Leaving for work at eight and back every day just after six." "Mm-hmm." There still wasn't anything that told Tracy that this case would be anything out of the ordinary. Ms Devereux continued. "Every other Saturday is date night and... and..." She sighed. "I know it sounds boring, but I love him." "And what changed?" Tracy asked. "What makes you think he's cheating on you?" "He started coming home late, or not at all. Forgetting things. And then there are weird charges on the credit card. It just isn't like him." "What kind of charges?" "I don't know. They were all to those anonymised online services. You know, like wemovemoney4u.com. I tried to find out where the money was going, but I couldn't even get access to their login page." "I'm not surprised. You usually have to use a single, specific device connected to your account there." "So I'd need his phone or computer?" "Yeah." Tracy sucked her teeth and stroked her chin. "You do realise that all of this doesn't necessarily mean he's having an affair, right?" "I know, but we've even stopped..." Ms. Devereux hesitated awkwardly. "You know..." "Ah." "I just need to know." Ms. Devereux sniffed She looked like she was about to cry. Tracy decided that a distraction was called for, so she put down her notepad. "So, just out of curiosity, what made you come here. My ad says pretty clearly that I specialise in online stuff." Tracy briefly touched the plastic port behind her right ear for emphasis, trying to make it look like an absent-minded gesture. Ms. Devereux smiled sheepishly. "Dennis isn't really what you'd call charming if you meet him in person so I figured that whatever he's doing, it's going to be online. That's how we met. He's so different online. Caring and funny and..." Her voice trailed off. "OK," Tracy said, "I'll see what I can find out. But you might not like what I find. You have to be prepared for that." "Oh, whatever it is, I'm sure we can work it out." Riiiiiiight. Like I haven't heard that one before. I'm going to find him fucking your sister or something, and you're going to 'work it out'. Oh well, at least it'll pay the bills. Tracy spent the next half hour getting all the details she felt she needed about Dennis Devereux from his wife. Then, after transferring the initial fee and Tracy promising to let her know as soon as she had something, Ms. Devereux left. Tracy transferred the audio file on her phone to a speech-to-text program and read through the transcript before saving it. Next she double-checked the information Ms. Devereux had given her. It wasn't that she didn't trust her, but Tracy didn't want any surprises. It all checked out though. Luckily, Smith & Smythe wasn't the only company in their building, so Tracy didn't have any trouble finding someone who had time to see her the same day. It was still three hours until Mr. Devereux would be done at work, so Tracy went over her equipment, making sure all the batteries were fully charged and all the memory chips were empty. The only thing she needed to do was to fill the tank of the car and she could do that on the way. As she lugged the two heavy suitcases down the stairs, she cursed the landlord for not fixing the elevator and she cursed herself for picking an office on the fourth floor, even if the view was nice. Once she was on the ground floor, the suitcases became more managable although the little wheels would find every little crack and bump as they rolled along the floor. Tracy managed to block the closing door with her butt and backed out onto the sidewalk. It was like walking into a wall of heat. The heat had already dried most of the rain, leaving just a rank smell and air that felt almost sticky. Beads of sweat immediately began to form on Tracy's forehead. She looked quickly up and down the street before walking briskly across it, eager to reach the shadow of the parking garage on the other side. The old security guard at the entrance looked up from his newspaper when she came closer. "Hi Jamal", Tracy said cheerfully. "What's new?" Jamal ran his hand over his grey hair. "Not much," he said. "The world is still going to hell, politicians are still lying and athletes are still cheating." He smacked his paper for emphasis. Tracy wasn't sure exactly how old Jamal was, but it had to be at least eighty. He had been working the security booth in the garage when she moved in to her office four years earlier and he always seemed to be there. Tracy suspected he lived in one of the cars. He was also the only person she knew that still only read newspapers on paper instead of just using a tablet. "Maybe you should switch to books instead. At least the plot makes sense in them." Jamal snorted softly. "Work?" he asked and nodded to the suitcases. "Well, a girl's got to eat, you know." Tracy smiled and ducked around the barrier blocking the exit. "Just be careful then." "Stop worrying Jamal, You know I don't go anywhere near trouble. That's what I have my little friends for." She patted the suitcases. Tracy made her way down the ramp, trying to ignore the smell rising from the lower levels. She stopped at her van: a greyish-beige, medium-sized one that was about as non-descript as possible. After deactivating both alarms, she opened the side door and loaded in both the suitcases and the small backpack she was wearing. Then she got in and started the engine. OK, first the petrol station and then Smith & Smythe.

Recently, I have been interested in the '90s cartoon Duckman: Private Dick/Family Man.