MI6 agent Scott Filbury waited quietly outside the office of the head of the department. He was not told why he had been summoned, but the agents usually weren’t. He sat still; the only movement were his eyes, darting to every corner of the blank hallway, trying to take in every detail of his surroundings as he had been trained to 6 years before. He was only 28 and had been recruited after saving 3 people in a burning building, showing a ‘desire for passion and justice’ as his profile read.
He noticed a fly near the bright lamps that were imbedded in the ceiling. He knew that soon the fly would get too close and burn up in the heat, but this didn’t matter to Scott. He was more focused on why the Head of MI6, Paul Johnson, had asked him to come to his office in the middle of the day. Scott was a field agent, so he did not have much paperwork to do other than long mission briefs. He was not doing much in his office apart from finishing up on a report of a mission he recently took part in with the American’s own secret service, CIA. It had been the perfect mission to get him promoted to a well-paid desk job, but he would never take it and the people at MI6 knew that, so no job promotion was offered.
Scott did not enter the office without being told to. That was how things worked in this bare, forgotten building that housed the Secret Service’s operations. Scott was only worried because if he had a mission or some sort of praise, it was given to him by his direct superior, or the mission director. If he was asked to see Paul Johnson then it could mean one of two things. Either he was going on one of the famous missions like those in the World Wars or the recent conflict with Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, or he was going to be released for some reason. Scott could not see himself in the saving-the-world position, but neither could he think of a reason for them to let him go. He struggled with the idea in his mind and luckily, before he got too worked up, the door opened to reveal Mr. Johnson.
He was about 60 years old, Scott guessed, with a neatly shaved beard for a man of his age. But it was the expression that caught Scott the most: it revealed nothing about the man behind it. It was so blank and without emotion that it made it impossible to read him. He motioned for Scott to sit down in the brown, leather chair behind the Head of Department’s desk. Scott did and looked at the man again. He realised the expressionless face was probably good for his business. Interrogators and torturers would have trouble getting information from his looks if any ever managed to catch him and no-one would ever be able to expect what he would do or say next.
“Good afternoon Scott.” His voice was as bare as his face.
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
“You have been summoned here because of your work. In only 3 years you have succeeded in securing major relations for Britain, accomplished astonishing accounts of espionage work in the field regarding certain dictators and even saved those at the various scenes as well. You are by far one of the most exceptional agents on record. But unfortunately for you, the record doesn’t count for anything until you retire. Now, you are being called upon to save your country once more. We are in dire need of your help in a recent matter that has been brought to our attention.”
“What matter would that be, Sir?” Scott asked.
“An agent died bringing us information on new weapons being assembled and slowly mass-produced in the Middle-East. We have always been on rocky ground with the countries of Asia and the like, but now their suspicious activity with nuclear power is beginning to grow a thorn in the department’s neck.”
The casual tone in which the man talked of the death of an agent was uncanny and Scott wondered whether Mr. Johnson had just gotten used to it. He noticed a rubbish bin in the corner of the room and pondered on the thought of if it had ever been used. It was strange, but when the idea came to Scott of how many times Mr. Johnson had sat here at his desk and written letters of apology to families because of dead agents and briefings on how they died. He knew that there must have been hundreds of times like this. Why then, was the bin empty? Were there no discarded lives or objects to throw away? Was there some sort of sentimental side to the man described as ruthless for the past twenty years?
Scott knew the man had had been talking and quickly turned his attention back to his boss.
“...So if we don’t ever find out what is happening to those nukes, we could be in serious trouble. The Koreans and the Chinese would have immense power over us. We would simply not have time to retaliate. You have to infiltrate the heart of such organisations in Asia and figure out what is going on. Mr. Filch will provide you with details and equipment you will need for this mission. It is for the well-being of this country and many others that I tell you this: you cannot fail.” He leaned back in his chair and as Scott opened the door to leave his boss said one more thing, “Good luck Scott.”
It was maybe the only time he would ever be heard using any remote emotion in his voice, and it was barely noticeable, but Scott had not been called exceptional for no reason. He noticed it and wasn’t sure whether he really meant him good luck, or he was just relieved that he wouldn’t have to write any form of apology to a family if this agent died.
As Scott walked quickly down the stairs near the office he imagined what creative gadgets Filch would have for him this time. On one occasion he had been given a pen that when the lid was turned anti-clockwise, fired a dart that rendered the target unconscious for 9-12 hours. Filch had quickly been given a raise for that particular piece of work. He had incorporated radios into the strangest materials (once a water bottle) and had always procured the odd ability to put a weapon into any shape or form. When he reached Filch’s office, Scott grinned to himself in anticipation of what awaited him. It was always fun with Filch.
“Great Scott! Hullo there my friend, how are you?” Filch smiled.
“I’m fine thanks Filch. I’ve got what has been described as a very important mission, so I hope the equipment is up to scratch.”
“When isn’t it?” He turned and rolled a table on wheels towards them so it sat between them.
“I’ve got some interesting concoctions for you Scott. I’ve also been told the significance of the secret side of your mission. I have everything prepared and I hope you enjoy it. I hear you may be in for a medal if you do this well.”
“Seriously?” Filch smirked at Scott without replying.
“Ok, first things first. You’re going to a very strict and remote part of the world in part so everything will either have to be high-tech and not suspicious which would be hard, or you would have to be poor, and then things would have to be concealed in your clothes. I personally find that boring, which is why I advised the Big B to side with me on this one.”
Scott had known for a while now that, despite regulations, Filch still referred to Paul Johnson as the ’Big B’.
“So, this is going to take a while to explain, which means we’ll have to be fast and when you get on your plane this afternoon, you’ll have to practise assembling and disassembling the components in your private area. Here we go then...”
5 hours later, Scott sat in a leather seat on the pre-paid aeroplane, which he realised, must have been booked days ago. That also meant that the boss had known he would take the job. Everyone who knew him knew he would take the job, but it occurred to him that no question had been asked. Paul Johnson needed no confirmation that Scott Filbury was going to go on a field mission for his country.
He sat there, fiddling with the pieces of his gadgets. The classic Filch pen was there along with a radio built into the very fibres of his pants, which would ensure that if someone stole his jacket or he was tortured, MI6 would still have some way of contacting him. Scott had been given numerous documents on what had been going on and the predictions of MI6 on what the Chinese and Koreans in particular were up to. He’d been forced to read fashion magazines and articles to fully understand the concept of ‘throwaway culture’, as this was linked to the problem at hand, but more specifically, up cycling. This was where things that were considered scraps were used to generate a greater value, but only because they were scraps. This is something the Koreans had discovered with nuclear weapons. They had supposedly figured out how to use nuclear remains of bombs and ones that had lost any radiation power, to generate even more ‘waste energy’ meaning they could convert this power into guns and given time, modify them for their own armies. This could be a disaster for the people of Britain and the world. Scott had been ordered to find the factories where such transitions and modifications were taking place and stop them. There would be some amount of killing involved, but Scott didn’t let his conscience get in the way of protecting his people. He was a British citizen, a national and if there was one thing for sure, it was that Scott wasn’t going to let them gain power over his home.
He noticed a fly near the bright lamps that were imbedded in the ceiling. He knew that soon the fly would get too close and burn up in the heat, but this didn’t matter to Scott. He was more focused on why the Head of MI6, Paul Johnson, had asked him to come to his office in the middle of the day. Scott was a field agent, so he did not have much paperwork to do other than long mission briefs. He was not doing much in his office apart from finishing up on a report of a mission he recently took part in with the American’s own secret service, CIA. It had been the perfect mission to get him promoted to a well-paid desk job, but he would never take it and the people at MI6 knew that, so no job promotion was offered.
Scott did not enter the office without being told to. That was how things worked in this bare, forgotten building that housed the Secret Service’s operations. Scott was only worried because if he had a mission or some sort of praise, it was given to him by his direct superior, or the mission director. If he was asked to see Paul Johnson then it could mean one of two things. Either he was going on one of the famous missions like those in the World Wars or the recent conflict with Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, or he was going to be released for some reason. Scott could not see himself in the saving-the-world position, but neither could he think of a reason for them to let him go. He struggled with the idea in his mind and luckily, before he got too worked up, the door opened to reveal Mr. Johnson.
He was about 60 years old, Scott guessed, with a neatly shaved beard for a man of his age. But it was the expression that caught Scott the most: it revealed nothing about the man behind it. It was so blank and without emotion that it made it impossible to read him. He motioned for Scott to sit down in the brown, leather chair behind the Head of Department’s desk. Scott did and looked at the man again. He realised the expressionless face was probably good for his business. Interrogators and torturers would have trouble getting information from his looks if any ever managed to catch him and no-one would ever be able to expect what he would do or say next.
“Good afternoon Scott.” His voice was as bare as his face.
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
“You have been summoned here because of your work. In only 3 years you have succeeded in securing major relations for Britain, accomplished astonishing accounts of espionage work in the field regarding certain dictators and even saved those at the various scenes as well. You are by far one of the most exceptional agents on record. But unfortunately for you, the record doesn’t count for anything until you retire. Now, you are being called upon to save your country once more. We are in dire need of your help in a recent matter that has been brought to our attention.”
“What matter would that be, Sir?” Scott asked.
“An agent died bringing us information on new weapons being assembled and slowly mass-produced in the Middle-East. We have always been on rocky ground with the countries of Asia and the like, but now their suspicious activity with nuclear power is beginning to grow a thorn in the department’s neck.”
The casual tone in which the man talked of the death of an agent was uncanny and Scott wondered whether Mr. Johnson had just gotten used to it. He noticed a rubbish bin in the corner of the room and pondered on the thought of if it had ever been used. It was strange, but when the idea came to Scott of how many times Mr. Johnson had sat here at his desk and written letters of apology to families because of dead agents and briefings on how they died. He knew that there must have been hundreds of times like this. Why then, was the bin empty? Were there no discarded lives or objects to throw away? Was there some sort of sentimental side to the man described as ruthless for the past twenty years?
Scott knew the man had had been talking and quickly turned his attention back to his boss.
“...So if we don’t ever find out what is happening to those nukes, we could be in serious trouble. The Koreans and the Chinese would have immense power over us. We would simply not have time to retaliate. You have to infiltrate the heart of such organisations in Asia and figure out what is going on. Mr. Filch will provide you with details and equipment you will need for this mission. It is for the well-being of this country and many others that I tell you this: you cannot fail.” He leaned back in his chair and as Scott opened the door to leave his boss said one more thing, “Good luck Scott.”
It was maybe the only time he would ever be heard using any remote emotion in his voice, and it was barely noticeable, but Scott had not been called exceptional for no reason. He noticed it and wasn’t sure whether he really meant him good luck, or he was just relieved that he wouldn’t have to write any form of apology to a family if this agent died.
As Scott walked quickly down the stairs near the office he imagined what creative gadgets Filch would have for him this time. On one occasion he had been given a pen that when the lid was turned anti-clockwise, fired a dart that rendered the target unconscious for 9-12 hours. Filch had quickly been given a raise for that particular piece of work. He had incorporated radios into the strangest materials (once a water bottle) and had always procured the odd ability to put a weapon into any shape or form. When he reached Filch’s office, Scott grinned to himself in anticipation of what awaited him. It was always fun with Filch.
“Great Scott! Hullo there my friend, how are you?” Filch smiled.
“I’m fine thanks Filch. I’ve got what has been described as a very important mission, so I hope the equipment is up to scratch.”
“When isn’t it?” He turned and rolled a table on wheels towards them so it sat between them.
“I’ve got some interesting concoctions for you Scott. I’ve also been told the significance of the secret side of your mission. I have everything prepared and I hope you enjoy it. I hear you may be in for a medal if you do this well.”
“Seriously?” Filch smirked at Scott without replying.
“Ok, first things first. You’re going to a very strict and remote part of the world in part so everything will either have to be high-tech and not suspicious which would be hard, or you would have to be poor, and then things would have to be concealed in your clothes. I personally find that boring, which is why I advised the Big B to side with me on this one.”
Scott had known for a while now that, despite regulations, Filch still referred to Paul Johnson as the ’Big B’.
“So, this is going to take a while to explain, which means we’ll have to be fast and when you get on your plane this afternoon, you’ll have to practise assembling and disassembling the components in your private area. Here we go then...”
5 hours later, Scott sat in a leather seat on the pre-paid aeroplane, which he realised, must have been booked days ago. That also meant that the boss had known he would take the job. Everyone who knew him knew he would take the job, but it occurred to him that no question had been asked. Paul Johnson needed no confirmation that Scott Filbury was going to go on a field mission for his country.
He sat there, fiddling with the pieces of his gadgets. The classic Filch pen was there along with a radio built into the very fibres of his pants, which would ensure that if someone stole his jacket or he was tortured, MI6 would still have some way of contacting him. Scott had been given numerous documents on what had been going on and the predictions of MI6 on what the Chinese and Koreans in particular were up to. He’d been forced to read fashion magazines and articles to fully understand the concept of ‘throwaway culture’, as this was linked to the problem at hand, but more specifically, up cycling. This was where things that were considered scraps were used to generate a greater value, but only because they were scraps. This is something the Koreans had discovered with nuclear weapons. They had supposedly figured out how to use nuclear remains of bombs and ones that had lost any radiation power, to generate even more ‘waste energy’ meaning they could convert this power into guns and given time, modify them for their own armies. This could be a disaster for the people of Britain and the world. Scott had been ordered to find the factories where such transitions and modifications were taking place and stop them. There would be some amount of killing involved, but Scott didn’t let his conscience get in the way of protecting his people. He was a British citizen, a national and if there was one thing for sure, it was that Scott wasn’t going to let them gain power over his home.
The sun fell on Amber's face and she woke up by the heat of it. She rubbed her eyes, trying to orientate, as she saw a man sitting next to her. He looked familiar. As she tried to recall she felt an insistent pain in her neck. She lay her hand on it, to see what it was.
"I bit you, that's why you're in pain" Stefan explained. Amber looked at him. "Who are you?" she asked, crawling backwards. Stefan reached out his hand. "I'm here to help you" he said softly.
Amber shook her head. "No, stay away from me!" she said terrified. Stefan didn't move an inch. "You need help. You're in transition, it's not a nice feeling if you don't feed anytime soon. I bet you're starving" he said.
Amber shook her head heavily as her stomach rattled. "I'm going home" she said with a breaking voice. "Leave me alone!" She scribbled up and staggered away from Stefan.
"I bit you, that's why you're in pain" Stefan explained. Amber looked at him. "Who are you?" she asked, crawling backwards. Stefan reached out his hand. "I'm here to help you" he said softly.
Amber shook her head. "No, stay away from me!" she said terrified. Stefan didn't move an inch. "You need help. You're in transition, it's not a nice feeling if you don't feed anytime soon. I bet you're starving" he said.
Amber shook her head heavily as her stomach rattled. "I'm going home" she said with a breaking voice. "Leave me alone!" She scribbled up and staggered away from Stefan.
Did you hear? SOPA is at it again. They want to ban Fanfiction, DeviantArt Youtube, Scratch, and lots of other stuff. I know, as a club dedicated to fanfiction, we don't want this to happen! So click on the link at the bottom, send it to your friends, sign the petition today! Just help me stop SOPA!
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Release date: I'm not sure of that right now, but hopefully before the end of the year.
Other info: You may add a character, provided you post for them. Onyxia and Josh are both 12
Since I made the choice to put off the rest of the story "In The Background," I've started thinking about fanfics based off of it. Yep, fanfics off a fanfic. The first one's going in Harry Potter.
Most of these will be post-DH (based on canon-time). I'lltry to be careful of spoilers, but I will usually assume you all know the basic storyline.
If that ISN'T the cse, by some weird twist of fate, just avoid the fanfics altogether.
Oh, one last thing. They're all one-shots. Some are first person, some are third. So far, they're all from Hailey's POV. Of course, if you have an idea for a one-shot, but need more information on Hailey, just let me know!
Most of these will be post-DH (based on canon-time). I'lltry to be careful of spoilers, but I will usually assume you all know the basic storyline.
If that ISN'T the cse, by some weird twist of fate, just avoid the fanfics altogether.
Oh, one last thing. They're all one-shots. Some are first person, some are third. So far, they're all from Hailey's POV. Of course, if you have an idea for a one-shot, but need more information on Hailey, just let me know!