Her Majesty's Secret Service

[Walter Harriman]

Old Farmhouse - somewhere in England

The room was dark; dusk had long since descended, and the inky blackness of night loomed ominously outside the windows. Out here in the middle of nowhere - a grubby old house tucked away in the corner of a rural farm yard in the flat and featureless fens of the Midlands - there wasn't a street light for miles, leaving the skies blissfully clear of pollution. Were it not for the eternal overcast that always seemed to hang above England, the starlight beating down would probably be blinding.

The only light came from the television screen, flickering around with some mindless trivia dancing away in the background - some movie or other; seemed to have soldiers running around shooting guns with lasers; the sort of thing that Tom could probably quote the script from, sad and geekish thing that he was. Voices spoke out from the contraption, but their words didn't register; by now, it was all just noise. And that was fine. It was late enough that he should probably think about going to sleep now anyway.

Something stirred beside him; Beth had long since surrendered her occupance of the basket he'd bought specially for her, and was curled up on the cushions beside him. No matter what he tried, the damn canine just wouldn't stay off the furnature, and he'd eventually given up in his attempts to make it so.

There was something odd about the way she moved though; or rather, the way she didn't. Her tail, which had been wagging idly against the arm rest for the last half-hour studdenly stilled; her head lifted the slightest amount, an ear raised. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed it as someone out in the farm yard, but the motion sensitive security light on the nearest of the barns hadn't activated. He would have ignored it, decided it was just a rabbit sneaking into the garden again, were his own gut instincts not already churning away.

He rose, a hand softly placed on Beth's side to make her stay; not that she would, of course. The hallway outside the living room was dark, but across from it he could see a glow from the kitchen; a glow from lights he was sure he had turned off. Silently, he cursed himself for being so unarmed and unprepared; the now-antique service revolver he kept on-hand for emergencies was safely stowed out of reach beneath his bed, and British gun laws prevented him from being able to secrete more similar weapons around the house. His mind strayed to the rifle above the fireplace in the dining room; unfortunately on the far side of the yawning maw that led into the kitchen; at his age, there was no way he'd be able to make it across, grab the rifle, load it, aim it, and fire before whoever had apparently broken into his house was able to beat the life out of him.

Weighing his options, he grabbed a heavy iron poker from beside the living room fire and, raising it aloft, advanced cautiously into the darkness. A few paces was all it took to cross the narrow hall; a few more to reach the corner of the kitchen archway. He turned; pounced; advanced at speed into the open space --

A figure turned, balanced precariously atop a wooden step, his arm buried up to the shoulder as it rummaged around in the back of a cupboard. "Ah, Walter," the voice asked, rolling Scottish tones colouring his words. "Where th' hell did y' hide the coffee?"

Walter sighed, arm slumping the fire iron down to his side. He reached over to his left, hands wrapping around a metal tin labelled 'coffee' in stylised, flowing italics. He brandished the container in the intruder's direction; the man simply flashed a grin. "What the hell are you doing here, Captain?" Walter asked with a growl, the last glowing ember of what remained of his burned-out patience beginning to extinguish. "I'm retired."

"Actually, it's just 'John'," the intruder threw back, stepping back down onto the diamond ceramic tiles of the floor, the irritating pleasant and optimistic expression not fading from his face in the slightest. "W're all just regular folk now."

Eyes narrowing, Walt gestured towards the visitor's ensemble. "Outfit says different, John," he pointed out, over-emphasising the use of his former associate's name.

John glanced briefly at the ankle-length greatcoat he wore, the same grey-blue that pervaded all levels of Royal Air Force design. "Tha'd be fashion, Walter," he bit back, sarcasm thick in his voice. He waved a hand towards the tired old shirt and non-descript trousers that Walter wore. "Should maybe do some research intae it y'self, old friend."

Scowling, Walt threw the coffee tin in John's direction. "Kettle's behind you," he muttered. "Or do you need me to draw you a map?"

Grin returning, John turned towards the device in question; a quick fumble in a couple of cupboards produced two chipped and battered mugs. "Still Standard NATO?"

Though the man was clearly facing in the wrong direction to see, Walt found himself shaking his head anyway. "Whoopi for me," he replied, joining in with the apparent inability of military men to speak in anything but code: Standard NATO referred to white with two sugars; Whoopi Goldberg to a 'black none'. Julie Andrews - 'white none' - had always been the Captain's recipe of choice; that he grabbed for the sugar and upgraded to a Mary Poppins - Julie Andrews, with just a spoonful of sugar - suggested that despite his calm and collected air, something had John rattled. Walt waited until a completely assembled coffee had been passed in his direction before attacking John with his interpretation. "Something happened, didn't it?"

That the Captain didn't have an articulate response prepared was telling enough. He simply nodded, and waited for the coffee held in front of his face to infuse cafeinated vapours into his lungs before he spoke. "Someone hit th' MI-5 mainframe," he explained. "They didnae get much, thankfully; just some old records tha' five'd recently transferred from hard copy t' electronic." He took a sip, clearly ignoring the burning sensation from the freshly-boiled drink, before setting the mug down on the counter beside him. Something changed in his eyes; Walt caught a glimpse of something unexpected, almost sorrowful. "They got th' Section 13 files, Walter. Mission reports. Personnel records." The pause was aching. "Someone is targetting our operatives. There's no' many of us left."

Walter felt a crushing weight descend on him. In twenty years he hadn't even thought about all the people he'd worked with; had cut them out of his mind and memory while his life slowly crumbled around him; but now everything came rushing back, pummelling his mind with the loss of all those friends; that family he'd once had. He forced resolve into his mind; shored up the barriers to keep the flood of memory and emotion at bay. Now was not the time to mourn or indulge. "You think I'm next?"

Despite the hint of uncertainty in his words, John's expression didn't make any such concessions. "Better safe than sorry."

"My kids." That was the first thought that dawned in Walter's mind. They had access to personnel files, and while Walter had more or less stumbled off the radar into obscurity, his family was much easier to find. Even if they were just using them as an avenue towards his location, he couldn't bear the thought of them being placed in danger like that.

John simply nodded. "We have people on the way already. But we need t' get you intae protective custody as well."

Walter's jaw clenched; he echoed the nod. "Alright," he muttered. "But first, let me get my gun."

[Kat Harriman]

'Popolos' Cocktail Bar - London

If there was one thing Kat hated, it was asking for ID; especially given the fact that, with the right outfit, she could pull off fourteen and qualify for a child's ticket on the train, at a push. It took a little sweet-talking of course, and some eye-fluttering and casual flirting; which was creepy, quite frankly, since you were trying to convince the ticket guy that you weren't old enough. It was great, knowing that you could do that; but it made her feel awkward as hell when she'd had to ask people who admittedly looked older than her, but somewhat under twenty-one, to prove that they weren't a scabby little lying teenager, and were actually old enough to buy whatever alcohol they were trying to purchase.

That was one of the things she loved about this place; some massive, burley looking guys called Steve, or Dave, or things like that stood at the entrance, and scared the willies out of anyone who wasn't actually old enough to go outside. In truth, Kat wasn't sure if they actually bothered to check ID, or if they just let in anyone who managed to lie their way past them without bursting into tears or wetting themselves, but whatever. It took the worry out of her hands, and that was just dandy. Left her to concentrate on the awesomeness of her actual job.

The bottle swept up in a tumbling arc, snatched from the air by the neck - inverted - and aimed at the waiting cocktail shaker. A three-count and it was tossed upwards; flipped; caught; vanished beneath the bar. Something else lept up in it's place; more spinning; more tumbling. Kat flashed a flirtatious eyebrow at the slightly wide-eyed and open-mouthed guy that was staring at her at the minute. No doubt his girlfriend - who he was presumably buying the cocktail for - wouldn't approve, but whatever. Bitch had gone and sat down in a table; left the poor, cute guy to wander up to the bar on his own. That put him in her territory, and that made him fair game.

The bottle in her hand felt strangely light; empty. Damn. The girl on shift the night before must've used the last and not bothered to replace it. Probably Leanne; though to be fair, the evil little midget probably had to stand on a box to see over the bar anyhow, so the constant clambering up and down to replace bottles hardly fit with the grave and ellegance of the profession.

"Yo, Bam-Bam!" she called, not taking her eyes off the audience. "Out of midori. Hit me up?"

[Amber Bamforth]

Quickly passing the soda nozzle above a line of rocks glasses, already part filled with tequila, 'Bam' put the finishing touches to an ambitious ten-glass order of tequila slammers. It was hardly the kind of stuff that she'd been hired to do – Popolos was all about flair and dazzling the money out of customers wallets – but it had the three guys waiting in front of her grinning, so at least she figured they'd tip well.

Without looking away from the last squirt of soda, Amber stretched to the left and pulled a bright green bottle from under the bar, neck first. She set it on the counter top and gave it a little nudge towards Kat. “Tell me this night is almost over?” she groaned, just loud enough to be heard over the never-ending loop of music that drowned out most conversation in the bar. This wasn't what she had imagined the pair of them would be doing, mere months after graduating from university.

[Kat Harriman]

Kat caught the glass as it slid towards her across the moisture-slicked bar, instantly inverting it and throwing it across to her waiting other hand. She waved it vaguely a few times, the contents tumbling into the cocktail shaker; a moment later it was set aside, and the shaker itself leapt from the bar and into an ambitious series of figure-eights, infinities, and other loop patterns in the air in front of her. Suitably shaken, she popped the smaller of the two lids, and emptied the contents into a pair of cliché martini glasses.

"There y' go, handsome," she offered with a flash of a smile as she slid them over to her waiting customer; the smile broadened slightly as he blushed, dumped the first note out of his wallet into her hand, and then fled into the crowd of whatever lazy harpie had dispatched him to the bar in the first place. A hand casually resting atop the handle for a beer pump, she leaned just enough to watch his too-tight jeans and shirt clinging to his too-yummy man curves as he disappeared out of sight. With a sigh, she keyed in the necessaries, and dumped the cash into the register.

Her eyes flicked towards her flame-haired friend - seriously; how come her hair was never that cool? - and offered her a brief smile of reassurance. "This night is almost over," she lied, eyeing the clock on the till screen with suspicion; surely, time couldn't be moving this damn slowly? Well, maybe it could, with some weird gravity type thing going on. That was probably the kind of thing that her brother was more qualified to comment on --

Tom. The thought provoked a wince, and a twist in her stomach. She saw enough of her eldest brother, Jace; hell, he'd practically been her dad for the last decade, what with their real father going all drunk and off the rails an stuff after mum died. She saw too much of Jace frankly, though his insanely cute daughter did more than make up for it; so insanely cute in fact that she was the only human in the whole wide world that Katrina let get away with calling her Kitty. But Tom on the other hand? He'd been living up in Scotland since uni, and then there was the move to New York; and then the 'incident' with the fire and the hospital thing when Jace had flat out refused to let her visit him because she had exams and studying and retarded stuff like that to do -- she missed him. Missed her bro. Missed the fact that even into her late teens he'd still swept her off her feet into a fireman's carry and sprinted off with her, leaving her giggling and flailing and pummelling his back half-heartedly with her fists.

Someone miserable wandered up to the bar; the annoying, antisocial type who didn't even bother trying to say what he wanted, and just tapped the appropriate handle. Equally lacking in enthusiasm, Kat deposited his drink of choice into a glass, and cashed in the exact change that the guy had provided. A sigh escaped her lungs.

"Screw this," she muttered, just loud enough for Amber to hear. "Lets just drop everything and move to LA."

[Amber Bamforth]

Tapping two fingertips quickly against the LED display on the till, Amber gave Kat a knowing glance. A girl who'd been approaching her station on the bar made a sudden detour to get served by someone else, having noticed the less than welcoming look on the redheads face. “Just say the word...”

Unlike most normal people, it wouldn't have taken more than a matter of minutes for Amber to make the journey from London to Los Angeles. Her abilities – powers – allowed her to travel through electrical currents, making cross-Atlantic jaunts as quick and easy as a phone-call. They were also pretty handy for messing around with an electrical equipment, which would have come in handy for skimming off of the bar's tills if she hadn't had such a vocal conscience.

Of course, they couldn't actually go. For one, she couldn't take Kat with her, and more important once they arrived at their destination they'd be stone-broke illegal immigrants. Heap mutant on top of that and it was like begging to be thrown in some underground mutant test facility, the likes of which Amber was ninety-nine percent certain the Americans were running.

[Kat Harriman]

"For now," Kat replied with another sigh, slumping back a little dejectedly against the bar, back to the fortunate absense of current customers, "The word is pipedream."

Kat would have lapsed enthusiastically into a moping session right then, had something not attracted her attention from the far corner of the club. In the - admittedly unclear - reflections that played across the mirrored surface behind the bar, she saw a commotion from where the bouncers usually stood sentry. Figures were pouring in, much faster than Dave, or Steve, or Clive, or Owen or - ha, Clive Owen - ever would have allowed. Anxiety twisted a knot in the pit of her stomach.

Turning to witness the events first hand, Kat edged a little across the bar, shifting towards the reassuring presence of Amber; strength in numbers, united we stand, and all that crap. "What the hell is going on?" Kat asked, a note of panic in her voice.

[Amber Bamforth]

It took a lot to rattle Kat's cage, so when she heard the tremble in her friends voice, Amber couldn't help but take notice. Peering through the gloom, the bar only intermittently illuminated by a series of soft, pulsing lights. “Bunch of goons in suits,” she ventured, then added with a hint of hope: “Could just be the bouncers?”

It wasn't. They knew the door staff and as brusque as they were, they weren't the kind to just shoulder their way through a crowd for no reason. No one was fighting, but the newcomers were still pushing their way towards the bar. Amber looked sidelong at Kat, who had noticeably paled.

“Uh.. time for a break?”

[Kat Harriman]

A break sounded like a fantastic idea; specifically of the make a break for it kind. But something - Kat didn't have the faintest clue what - kept her frozen to the spot, unable to command her legs into fleeing. Her lungs felt tight and constricted, and when her eyes met with the nearest of Amber's goons, and she saw recognition in his face as he glanced at some small white scrap of paper in his fingers -- Oh, shit.

"Miss Harriman!" The mention of her name made the panic worse; desperate for even a scrap of reassurance, her hand crept out and ensnared Amber's, clinging desperately to it in search of some kind of safety. Her name also served as a rallying cry for the suits; they swarmed towards the bar, displacing the other patrons, forming an arc that pushed them back out of reach, out of range, and out of earshot. The apparent leader of the suits stepped forward, and Kat caught a glimpse of the scrap of paper: a photograph of her, apparently from Facebook, if the particular activity she was engaged in was anything to go by. He sighed in relief - relief? How long had they been chasing her, sick bastards? - as he leaned heavily against the bar. "Miss Harriman," he said again, "My name is Agent Bristol. I need you to come with me."

Agent? And had he said "Bristow", or "Bristol". Because the former would have been kinda cool, despite the fact that he didn't look even remotely like Jennifer Garner - duh - or Sydney's rather dashing father, the name of the actor portraying whom Kat couldn't remember at this precise moment. If it had been Bristol however; well, less cool, but still slightly cool. Kat had an aunt and uncle there. And cousins. Her insides squirmed. What she wouldn't give for her rugby-playing uncle and cousin to be here right now.

"I don't think -" Kat was surprised to find that her voice wasn't quite working; it was something she wasn't prepared for, given how accustomed she was to hearing the sound of it. She had to swallow down heard to break through the arid dryness that had formed, and even then it still felt swolen with nerves, making her voice sound weak and weird. "Who the hell are you?"

Clearly, Agent Bristol wasn't accustomed to having to exercise patience, though to his credit he did make a good attempt at it. "We're associates of your father, Miss Harriman," he revealed. His voice was grave, but had softened enough to keep the volume low; Kat had to strain to even hear. "We have reason to believe that terrorists have targetted you directly. Our agents that were dispatched to your residence found the flat broken into and thoroughly ransacked." His eyes took on a knowing gleam. "You may not believe it, but being at work tonight probably just saved your life."

"Broken into?" Kat echoed the words dumbly, her mind swimming with the information being provided to her. She didn't even want to think about why someone would be after her; that would lead to deeper panic, and worry. What had she done? Who else was at risk? Had she put Jace, and Stephanie, and little Louise in danger too? What about her friends? What about -

"Amber?" she said softly, eyes seeking out her friend's, filled with fear and remorse.

"- Miss Bamforth?" Agent Bristol interjected, before either of the young women could speak anymore. "Given the situation, I think it would be best if you came with us as well."

[Amber Bamforth]

“Ransacked?”

Amber winced. It was ridiculous, but her first thought was for the flat's mighty bounty of electrical goods. They had a trio of third-gen consoles and two desktop computers that could have powered the entire borough if they weren't so busy downloading every episode of every cable TV show known to man. The confusion was numbing, and the throb of the music in the club made it all the more difficult to digest. When one of the suits said her name, Amber just frowned. Beneath the bar, she squeezed Kat's hand.

“Went with you, where exactly?”

[Jace Harriman]

"I'm afraid," Agent Bristol said with a grim tone in his voice, words hanging ominously in the air. "That would be classified, Miss Bamforth."

* * *

Jace Harriman's Appartment - London

Jace blinked, staring into the glowing back-lit screen of his laptop. It was late; Louise was long tucked in bed, and Stephanie was away on business somewhere in Europe. She'd called, and Jace had talked to her until she'd fallen asleep, just like he always did when she was away: but he just couldn't put his mind to rest and fall asleep himself. So here he was, clad in a pair of boxers that did absolutely nothing to make his legs feel even remotely warm, and a knitted sweater that was several times too big: it kept flopping down his arms every few minutes, forcing him to stop and shove his sleeves back up.

He sighed and stood, pacing and running hands over eyes that were tired, despite his mind being still awake. Case notes shone out from the screen, but the words had long since blurred together in meaning, an now they were visibly doing the same under his strained gaze. He grunted, and contemplated a coffee, just to keep him going for long enough to get this task finished. But then, he'd be up all night, and that would somewhat defeat the 'Working to make me tired enough to fall asleep' plan. Not that Steph ever bought that as an excuse, of couse; but it was almost worth sticking around a few hours longer just for that mix of worry and adoration that would be in her eyes when she found him sleeping on the couch again, just to avoid disturbing her.

He squinted at the time on the screen, fighting the digits to resolve and then register as something meaningful in his mind. He counted forward eight, then back, not entirely sure which one was the right direction. Gesturing in the air, he mimed the globe, trying to remember which way it span; in the end, he settled on remembering the factoid that France was an our ahead, so Los Angeles must therefore be eight hours behind. Not that it helped of course; even if he did feel capable of picking up the phone and calling his brother out of the blue, it wasn't like Tom had left him with contact details. Maybe he'd call in a few favours at work; try to track him down -

Something registered on the edge of his conscience; a sound, maybe, out in the hall? Whatever it was, it put him on edge just enough to drag his attention towards the door. He frowned at it for a fraction of a second, before it splintered inwards, flying across the room directly towards him. Out of reflex, his arms snapped out; instincts kicked in, an invisible grasp snaring it and, as if affixed to invisible chains, Jace pulled it towards him and then let it tumble away to the side, crashing - relatively - harmlessly against the wall.

Panic raced through his mind as his eyes settled on a figure looming ominously in the doorway, clad from head to toe in black that masked his identity completely. The slightest hesitation of thought allowed Jace to consider that both of his siblings would enjoy no end hearing about how his home had been broken into by a ninja; unfortunately, survival would be necessary to allow him to retell the tale and, given the menacing way in which a katana was drawn from its scabbard, the odds of that were slim.

Reaching out with his abilities again, Jace grabbed the sword and pulled with his might; it barely missed him this time, but at least it shot from the ninja's hands, embedding it in the floor some distance behind him. He thought of reaching for it, and somehow using it to defend himself and his family, but the ninja reacted far too quickly, advancing almost as a blur and leaping into a jumping roundhouse that connected squarely with the side of Jace's head.

The world descended into a haze, the ground tumbling up to collide heavily with his face and chest. That Jace barely felt the impact didn't bode well; as consciousness began to ebb, regret flooded through him that he had failed his unspoken oath to protect his family. His breathing was laboured, and echoed mercilessly in his head. Neck twisted the way it was, he saw the ninja step over to him; retrieve the sword that Jace had deprived him of. He advanced, weapon glinting slightly in the laptop light as he raised it high, a downward strike prepared to put Jace out of his 'misery'. For some reason he staggered backwards, rough craters formed in the clothing on his chest in apparent synchronicity to the distant explosions percieved in his swimming mind. With a glance to his chest and then in the vague direction of the door, the ninja turned and ran, diving for and through the living room window - three stories up - as more explosions sounded somewhere far away.

Jace heard the mumble of people entering the room; felt someone kneel down behind him, and press fingers against the side of his neck. Yeah, he thought to himself vaguely, consciousness becoming harder and harder to maintain a grasp on. I'm sleepy now.

[Walter Harriman]

The Enfield revolver clicked, the dull sound informing it's shooter that the six bullets chambered within were spent. That didn't stop the repeated efforts to cock and fire again, the barrel still trained on the window where the masked assassin had disappeared. While no projectiles flew forth, Walter doubted that it would have made a difference if they had: all six rounds had struck his target with lethal aim, and had torn through fabric and flesh to release a spray of blood.

Regen powers, Walter mused to himself, holstering the pistol at his hip. Either that, or all his vital organs are in the wrong places.

He turned slowly, surveying the damage; eyes sweeping for any evidence that the attacker might have left behind. If they called in a forensics team, there was a possibility of pulling DNA from sme of the spatter; maybe sequence the metagene, and get a read on the powers this guy was carrying around from him.

As his eyes settled on his accidental partner for the evening, it was clear that John's mind wasn't even remotely on the same page. "He'll be fine, Harry," he assured.

Walt offered a dismissive grunt. "Of course he will," he muttered. "Didn't raise my kids to be useless."

A creak caught his attention; instincts firing faster than one might expect from a man his age, his hand shot back to his holster. The gun might be empty, but anyone trying to sneak up on him wouldn't necessarily know. He changed his stance in an instant however as only the bottom half of the doorway became filled, a tiny pyjama-clad form wandering sleepily out from her bedroom.

"Grandydad?" she asked, a mix of confusion and surprise on her tired face.

Walter's grizzled and miserable face suddenly transformed, brightened by a smile that no one could have expected it to ever display. "Hey, little one," he offered, and warm and reassuring as he could muster. "Did we wake you?"

Louise padded barefoot towards her grandfather; Walter was quick to close the distance, scooping her up into a hug before she strayed towards the crime scene. Louise's head came to rest gently against his shoulder, pretty blue eyes peering behind him at her father lying prone on the floor. She hugged a little tighter. "I heard gun noises. Did daddy fall asleep with the tellyvision on again?"

A stab of regret twisted in Walter's gut, and he silently berrated himself for not shielding his grandchild against the sight of her injured father. The innocence of youth seemed to be his salvation, fortunately. "That's right, sweetie," he replied softly. He rocked her gently, hoping to prevent her sleepiness from slipping away. "Where's your mummy?"

A little yawn escaped from Louise. "Daddy said she's gone to Bruskles. Is that where sprouts get buyed from?"

Stephanie was out of the country - that was quite a relief. A threat against his eldest and youngest children was worrying enough; but the chances of the same group being responsible for pursuing his daughter-in-law to another country, or targetting his other son in Los Angeles for that matter, was relatively slim.

It was enough of a relief to let a hint of a chuckle escape at Louise's questions. "I suppose so, sweetheart." He weighed his options: with her mother absent, Walter couldn't simply abandon Louise; but he couldn't bring her with him either, especially if he planned to hunt down Jason's attacker himself. That left him with only one obvious solution. "How would you like to go and see your Auntie Katrina?"

Louise squirmed a little, but for the most part seemed to like the sound of that idea. "Auntie Kitty lets me have ice cream," she informed her grandfather, in a very matter-of-fact tone. "But don't tell daddy."

"I won't," he promised, offering a thin smile. "Come on, munchkin: lets get you dressed."

"Can you close the window, grandydad?" she asked, as Walter carried her back towards her bedroom. "Imma bit chilly."

[Kat Harriman]

Lord Falsworth Memorial Hospital - London

Kat glared at the wall. It was a stupid wall. Some idiot had come and painted it in exactly the wrong shade of almost but not quite white, and it was really grating on her nerves. They'd missed a spot too - apparently they'd been too lazy to paint up behind the pipes properly, so there was an inch-square patch of sickly green that was staring back at her: and taunting, probably. Luckily, she didn't speak wall: she turned up the voltage on her glare instead, just to make sure it got the message.

In all honesty, she was freaking out. Situations like this were awesome on TV, but when it was happening to you - when it was you plucked from work, driven around in a suspiciously non-descript mid-range black executive saloon, and then dumped in the waiting room of a hospital without any explanation of why you were there, it was decidedly not cool. Suddenly, she realised how all of those random characters on TV must have felt, when the script writers forgot to include the part where they explained what the hell was going on, purely because it had already been explained to the audience in a previous scene.

It all felt very spy drama, and she didn't like it one bit. Not even the arrival of Richard Armitage, to offer them some gravelly-voiced reassurances could make her feel better.

Well okay. Maybe that would work. It would depend on what shirt he was wearing. Or not wearing.

Preferably not.

The doors at the end of the corridor opened, and for an instant Kat allowed herself a glimmer of hope. Unfortunately, rather than one of Britain's sexiest actors, the man who appeared in the doorway was her father. Under normal circumstances she would have been pleased to see her dad: but given where her mind was at, he was one of the last people she wanted to see.

A sizeable consolation came a moment later when, with an excited cry of "Kitty!", her niece came charging out from behind dad's legs, sprinting down the corridor towards her as fast as her little feet and unsteady balance could carry her.

Kat barely had time to slide off her chair and drop to her knees before the one-girl stampede crashed into her, arms flung around her neck. Kat returned the hug with equal enthusiasm; a little careful adjustment of how the weight was distributed, and Kitty rose to her feet, limpet-niece still attached.

The presence of one relative and the absense of two others filled Kat with a flicker of dread. She turned towards her father, trying to keep her voice as calm and steady as possible. "Stephanie? Jason?"

"Stephanie is out of the country," her father explained. "Jason is a little bashed and bruised, but nothing that a night in bed surrounded by nurses won't fix."

Relief pushed against her like a wave, and were it not for the added weight of Louise pulling her forwards, she would have easily slumped back into her chair. Still standing, she gave her niece a little squeeze, unsure of what else she could possibly do. "Who?" It was the only question she could muster.

Her father's jaw clenched gravely. His voice said: "I don't know," but his eyes and body language suggested that the truth was somewhat different. That scared her even more: break-ins and secret agents were terrifying enough, but if her father had been clueless, at least they'd seem like innocent victims in all of this. The fact that he seemed to know more than he was letting on changed things completely.

"Daddy, are you a spy?"

The moment the words tumbled out of her mouth, Kat realised how stupid they were, and wished she posessed the ability to actually think about what she was saying before her tongue kicked into action. She winced, but by the time her eyes opened again, her father hadn't said anything to brush off the remark: in fact, he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Her eyes widened. "Are you?"

Walter's jaw clamped shut tightly, and he turned towards the next set of doors. "I'm going to check on Jason," he said quietly. "Look after Louise until I get back."

With that he disappeared, leaving Kat to stare dumbfounded at his retreating back. She felt her arms begin to give way, and out of reflex she stooped a little, placing her niece back on her feet. Her mind was elsewhere for moments more, until a persistant tug on her sleeve finally attracted her attention.

She offered Louise a quick smile, and settled back down into her seat. "Sorry, sweetie."

Her eyes strayed to her right, settling on where Amber had been sitting patiently, keeping her company the whole time. Eyebrows contorting, she shot her roomie her best "What the hell?" look.

Not at all pleased about being excluded from their silent conversation, Louise padded over to Amber, and clamped her stubby arms around Amber's legs.

[Amber Bamforth]

Louise threw her arms around Amber's legs, squeezing as tight as her little arms could. Amber tousled the girl's hair and said hello in the voice she reserved for small children and animals, two groups who failed to elicit the fawning and cooing that society expected from her. She smiled a little uneasily then lifted her eyes to Kat.

“Is it just me, or do you feel more confused since getting here? I mean, I know talking to your dad can be like reading the cryptic crossword clues sometimes but... a spy, seriously?”

[Kat Harriman]

Kat felt her shoulders sagging, as if someone had hooked her innards up to a vacuum cleaner. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, she supposed, but in all likelihood a metaphorical lyposuction session wouldn't actually make that much of a dent in her thighs, unfortunately.

"I don't know," was all she managed to say; her voice hardly even put in enough effort to force out those words. "I always thought my dad wasn't -"

A momentary pang of phantom embarassment crept out from the back of her mind, recalling all the birthday parties and teenage sleepovers that her dad had turned into an unbearable red-faced nightmare with his jokes, and his stories, and his milkshakes that were the wrong colour for the flavour they were, just to confuse the hell out of the kids invading his house. Her eyes fell.

"- cool enough to be anything like that." A melancholy smile formed on her lips for an instant. "The coolest thing he ever managed to do was convince my friends at school that he was Harrison Ford's stunt man."

Her mind raced but in slow motion, great unstoppable thoughts tumbling like boulders through her head. She tried to push them back into the deep corners, but she was far from an immovable object: before long she was running away through the maze of her mind, the boulder-thoughts chasing after her like some great temple of doom.

She met Amber's gaze with a pained look of her own. "I wish Tom was here," she said aloud, but inside she was thinking something much more profound. I wish mum was here.

[Nathan Godfrey]

Thames House - London

Activity swarmed around him like a raging ocean storm, but at it's centre Nathan Godfrey stood, completely calm. His attention was focused on a small stack of papers, bound together with a staple in one corner. It seemed like such an innocent document, and on the surface it was: nothing more than an inter-office memo. Of course, when you considered that it had been sent between two offices of the Security Service, it began to gain a little extra gravitas.

His eyes rose at the sound of a slight commotion - nothing serious, though the recognisable words "You don't have clearence to be here, sir," did carry across the room; as did the gruff counter of "Get out of my bloody way." Though decades had passed since the two had last met, it was clear who the newest arrival was: the fact that he was still wearing the same blasted hat after all these years helped a great deal, of course.

Nathan set the memo down on the table in front of him, carefully twisting it with his fingers until it sat parallel to the edge. His eyes didn't rise again for some time; much to the irritation of his visitor.

"I thought you'd be at the hospital," he said simply, his voice calm like a summer sea.

[Walter Harriman]

"Standing around doing nothing, when I know damn well that the answers are all here?" Walter countered with a growl.

A narrowed pair of steely eyes fixed Nathan, scrutinising Walter's former collegue. While the years hadn't been particularly kind to Walter, they most decidedly had been to Nathan: he looked as if he'd aged three years in the last thirty. It was no doubt a side effect of Nathan's particular brand of mutation, but Walter quickly decided it was was particularly unfair.

To his credit, Walter didn't flinch. He even managed to unfurl his age-addled shoulders; not enough to tower over anyone, but certainly enough to burst the illusion that he was nothing more than a tired old man.

"You know something," he said simply. It wasn't a question, nor a mere statement of fact: the words tumbled from Walter's mouth as an accusation. "You've got a name. Or at least you think you do."

Threat crept into his words. "He's after me, Nate. You have to tell me who he is."

[Nathan Godfrey]

Nathan's tongue traced across his teeth, his eyes momentarily thoughtful. They met with Walter's for the briefest fraction of a second, then fell away.

"Regretfully, the Security Service does not know the identity of the assailant who attacked your son."

He could feel Walter bristing already at those words. He shot him a brief look, his tone softening ever so slightly. "We don't, Walter. We don't have anyone bulletproof or with regenerative abilities unaccounted for in our records, and the -"

He paused, finger tracing along a few lines of script from the memo before him. "- 'figure clad entirely in black, armed with a single-edged sword' doesn't match anyone on the terror watchlists." He shook his head dismissively. "Whoever this guy is, he's been completely off the grid until now. Or, he's doing a damn good job of confusing the hell out of us."

[Walter Harriman]

"But."

It had been subtle, but Walter picked up on the split-second hesitation from Nathan, and his overly-careful choice of words. He knew something - maybe not much, maybe just a suspicion, but something - and Walter was determined to know what.

Though rusty, even after decades his ingrained skills hadn't completely atrophied. And unlike most of the candidates he'd been trained to scrutinise and interrogate, Nathan wasn't trying nearly so hard to mask things.

Bureaucracy says you can't tell me outright, Walter mused, But loyalty says you have to.

"You don't know who attacked Jason," he echoed carefully. "But you think you know who broke through your security."

[Nathan Godfrey]

"No."

Nathan's denial was perhaps a little too quick. Still careful with his words, he clarified. "We have no leads on the hacker responsible. Cybercrime is tracing it down now, but it looks like they were a real professional, and covered their tracks well."

He winced. "However, despite breaching our entire computer network they only accessed a handful of files. Mostly they took mission reports, but they also downloaded one personnel file."

Nathan's eyes were heavy with implication. "Think about it, Walter. Over the course of your career, how many people have you pissed off badly enough for them to want your kids dead."

[Walter Harriman]

Walter's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Casius."

Nathan didn't nod; he didn't need to. All the clues were there; and really there was only one man who made sense. Of all the mutants, foreign agents, and opportunistic terrorists that Walter had ever confronted, only Casius was sufficiently derranged - and sufficiently wronged, at least in his eyes - to go after Walter's children.

It had been years ago now; Walter had barely even begun his career with the Service. He'd been held back while the rest of his unit moved in to take down a dangerous cell of mutants. Something had gone wrong, and the mission had exploded into chaos; one of the mutants had broken the perimeter, and charged; without hesitation Walter fired.

The mutant had been Casius' daughter.

A grim realisation settled over Walter. "If it is Casius, there's no way to stop him: no amount of guards and security is going to keep him out."

[Nathan Godfrey]

"My thoughts exactly," Nathan echoed, darkly.

There was something weighing on him; a guilt that even the current grave situation couldn't quite explain. Walter was a friend yes, and it was partly through their own collective failings that a man like Casius was still allowed to roam free; but it was deeper than that, and more personal. But like all guilty feelings that came from deep, dark secrets, Nathan planned to take the truth to his grave.

Such a shame that time's gentle touch was making his journey there so slow.

"You should be at the hospital," Nathan pointed out. His tone turned hesitant. "Unfortunately, I'm not authorised to let you leave the building with this information."

[Walter Harriman]

Walter's eyes glanced around him, drinking in the surroundings. An office full of government employees yes; but most were clerks and analysts, and few were armed. Only those near the entrance were carrying; and in such a target-rich environment, they'd hopefully be reluctant to open fire.

"Are your men authorised to stop me?"

[Nathan Godfrey]

Nathan's jacket fell open, just enough to make an inviting display of his sidearm. A faint twinkle crept into his eyes, and a hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he met Walter's gaze.

"They're authorised to try."

[Kat Harriman]

Lord Falsworth Memorial Hospital - London

"No..."

Kat's voice was weak; it didn't quite achieve as much force behind that sentiment as she'd intended. She swallowed, trying to get a little extra moisture into her progressively tightening throat.

"No, Tom," she tried again. "There's nothing you could do even if you were here."

Her eyes were red, and the mascara from the night before had streaked, smudged, and pasting her eyelashes together. Someone had mustered together some clothes, but she hadn't had the time or inclination to worry about her appearence; and the lack of sleep had robbed her of the effort to even smooth down her ruffled hair.

"I mean it. He's stable, and the doctors are looking after him. There's police everywhere. All you'd be able to do is stand around and feel helpless like the rest of us. And when -"

Her voice cracked, and a few fresh tears tumbled down her face. She sniffed, and fumbled the worst of them away before she tried speaking again.

"And when he comes to, I don't think an argument with you is what he'll need."

Tom tried to disagree; she cut him off. "You always do, Tom. He'll say something insensitive, and you won't be able to keep your mouth shut. Just -"

She sighed. "I'll call you later, okay?"

[Walter Harriman]

Doors were flung open as Walter Harriman burst through. He wasn't alone, either; though the registrar who'd been chasing after him since he'd declined to sign in at the entrance was clearly struggling to match his brisk face, and to dodge the spring-loaded doors that kept trying to swing into her face.

Walter didn't care. He was a man on a mission, an urgent mission, and absolutely nothing was going to distract him from -

His eyes settled on Katrina, his baby girl, and on the tear streaks plastered across her cheeks. Whatever wind had been filling his sails suddenly vanished; and his normally ironclad heart shattered in two.

In an instant he'd wisked her into his arms, gently cradling her head against his chest. He felt the moisture of her tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt, and his shattered heart sank into his gut. The only word she could muster was 'Why?', and Walter didn't have the strength to give her an answer.

"It'll be okay," he said, in as reassuring a tone as he could muster. "I'm going to make it be okay."

He pulled away, though Kat's vice-grip around his middle threatened to prevent that. "There's something I need to do," he said firmly, but gently, looking her square in the eyes. "Something I need to do to make sure that you'll all be safe." He stroked a hand across her head, smoothing down the wavy ruffles of her hair. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Kat made another half-hearted attempt to stop his escape, but Walter broke free. It was a good thing too; any longer, and the tear he'd been fighting to keep locked in his eye would have escaped instead.

* * *

The lights were dim as Walter advanced down the corridors of intensive care. A pair of Godfrey's action man soldiers had tried to stop him a couple of doors ago, but a gruff announcement that "I'm the father," had been enough to make them step aside.

As he drew closer to where his son lay however, his pace slowed. Every footstep filled him with dread; every sound could be a potential threat. In all his years of service, fighting for Queen and country, he had never felt as scared as he did in those moments. Justified or not, he had to admit that Casius' methods were certainly having the desired effect.

His eyes landed on the appropriate numbered door; his hand reached for the handle, and turned.

The room was silent, apart from the occasional beep of medical equipment, and the steady breathing of two people - the shallow breaths of the son, mixed with those of his doctor. Jason seemed peaceful, sedated; Walter kept his voice low anyway, as if he was trying to avoid waking a child.

"How is he?" he asked, addressing the doctor.

[Hurucan]

The doctor turned, gently tugging down the elasticated mask that had shrouded his face. Years had addled his features, but the resemblance - especially those cold, vicious eyes - was unmistakable.

Casius' eyebrows rose into an expression of mock sincerity. "Oh, I am so sorry, Mr Harriman," he purred, his melodious voice laced with a sinister edge. "I don't think he's going to make it."

Walter's hand snapped into his jacket, reaching for his trusty sidearm; Casius was faster, a hand placed upon Jason's chest. "Careful now," he warned, his tone mocking. "I can stop his heart faster than you can pull that trigger." He glanced around him. "And do you really want to trust your son's life in the hands of the NHS?"

[Walter Harriman]

In his youth he might have challenged Casius' claim, but while both men had aged since the last time they'd met, Walter knew the years would have affected his gunslinging skills far worse than Casius' electrokinesis.

Walter's lip curled into a snarl. "What is it you want, Casius?" he challenged.

He risked a step closer. "What is this about? You sent someone after my son so you'd draw me out of retirement; get me here, so you can kill me and exact your revenge?"

[Hurucan]

"Casius is dead," he growled darkly. "He died the day you murdered my son."

He fell silent, his eyes watching Walter like a predator. "I have a new name now." There was a lilt in his voice that didn't sound entirely sane; and yet sounded entirely deadly. "Now, they call me Hurucan. I'm the Mayan god of storms."

A hollow laugh tumbled from his lips. "And no, Walter. I don't just want to kill you. Thirty years ago, you took my son from me. If I could travel back in time and return the favour I would but, well -"

The mirth faded. The darkness in his eyes returned. "First, I will kill this son. Then, I travel back to America, and dispose of young Thomas. And then, then -"

His lips curled into a smile fit for the devil himself. "Then I hunt down little Katrina. Each in turn, I will watch your children burned alive by lightning beneath my fingers; and you will be powerless to intervene."

[Walter Harriman]

A fist clenched around Walter's throat, and around his insides. Never had he been so afraid; and yet a tiny spark of salvation flickered into life, as a burning rage began to simmer in his heart.

"There's no way you can succeed," Walter snarled. "You've blown it - wrecked your cover; ruined your chances. The government will hunt you down and lock you up. And even if they don't -"

The glare from his own eyes was almost a match for Hurucan's. "- I will stop you."

[Hurucan]

There was almost pity in the look that Hurucan cast. "No, Walter -"

An explosion of static flooded the room, and for a split second, Hurucan disappeared. A blink of an eye later he appeared once more, fingers wrapping tightly around the scruff of Walter's shirt.

Another flash of light, and the room desolved; the bitter stench of ozone bit at the back of Walter's mouth as sky replaced ceiling, and eight stories of nothing replaced the floor beneath his feet.

Triumph shone in the eyes of Hurucan, as he pulled Walter close enough to stare into his very soul. "- I'm afraid you won't."

Fingers loosened, and Walter fell; hurtling towards the car park below.

[Kat Harriman]

Katrina crept carefully down the corridor, the polystyrene cup of coffee clutched gingerly in her fingers. Her caution was more due to it being over-full than because of it's temperature; while her mutant power seemed trivial and useless for the most part, her ability to channel heat into objects allowed her to mix drinks cold, and then heat them on arrival.

Besides, dad never drank his coffee while it was still warm anyway.

She frowned as she reached Jason's door, peering through the mesh-filled safety glass at a scrubs-wearing doctor - or nurse, probably - that she didn't recognise. The expression deepened as she noticed the total absense of her father, who'd disappeared in this direction earlier, and hadn't returned.

Gently, she pushed open the door, careful not to spill anything - coffee stains on cream converse was not a good look - calmly announcing her presence in the hopes of not making the nurse jump out of his skin. "Excuse me, have you seen -"

The coffee tumbled from her fingers as she saw the arcs of electric blue crackling from the fingers that the nurse had just placed squarely on Jason's chest. Her brother spasmed as simulated nerve signals fired off muscles all across his body.

"No!" Kat screamed, leaping towards the nurse before she even knew what she was doing. Her hands closed around his, trying to wrench them free. She channeled her powers, focusing with all her might; she felt his skin blister beneath her fingers.

Finally he recoiled, wrenching himself free of her grip, staring down at the angry red handprints slowly scarring their way into his skin. "Damn it, girl!" he shouted angrily. "It isn't your turn!" And without another word he vanished, disappearing into impossibility.

Kat didn't have time to process what was happening. Her hand fumbled at Jason's neck, searching frantically for a pulse; she felt nothing, and not a whisper escaped from his lungs.

She threw herself back towards the door, half tumbling out into the corridor. "Help!" she cried, the volume tearing at her throat. "Somebody, help!"

* * *

Continued in: A Nice Day For a Funeral (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=21956)