text: "- and occasionally I drink milk out of the carton, I KNOW. I'm me," I replied sharply, turning my wrist slightly to test the cuff that held my hands to the table. The fuckers had arrested me- at least that's what they claimed it was. But they were Home Office, even had flashed credentials, and I was an American in fucking America. A few sharp questions about my friend and BAM, face down on the dining room table, hands up near my shoulder blades and cuffs on. There was no question that they were dead, I was an internationally licensed operative, upper class, and did I mention that I was an American in fucking America- where and when this was going down? But did they really have to torture me by trying to impress me first? As long as they kept their hands to theirselves I didn't necessarily have to blow up their country, but with their attitude problems it was starting to sound tempting. They were going out of their way to let me know they were monitoring me- like I didn't fucking know. I turned off my cellular, my mic, my security system, and played YouTube if I wanted to fuck- and that was just for privacy during sex. I was aware of the fact that every Tom, Dick and Harry in America wanted to sell my info, especially the Dicks. "Your mother debatably had dementia before she died, claimed it was from psychics. Do you suffer from similar ideas?" Bob asked me, his ugly mug rendered intolerable by his smug British expression. "My family was fairly openly psychic. Barring fiction, I don't believe I've ever expressed similar notions. I'm a Christian Reverend, but I imagine you already know that." The fucker punched me. People think capture and escape scenes in movies are funny, they're not. We only laugh and make jokes because the people who are holding us are dead and we're just making time until that happens, and walking away with a decent story instead of a traumatic experience. By this point I was probably going to crack Intelligence one as well, just for letting the country work itself up into a state where an Operative was considered vulnerable. Between Privates thinking we were their own personal vending machine for wishes, and their bullshit reaction to their own mercenary programme, they had it coming. "Tell us a little more about the man you were sheltering," Tom said to me. He didn't look inbred, but he had the slightly off accent that Americans associated with it. His brown hair was curly, but not every dude sprang for the gel, even in Europe. Blue eyes cruel. "Well, he refused to fuck me. Which is a crying shame, given that he's a whore and he owes me money." Bob and Tom both looked disgusted. I didn't know their real names, but I was trying to construct a framework to track them, so I could politely suggest that someone who cared infinitely less about their reputation remove them from their government positions and explain to them everything that was wrong with what they'd done. If possible I wanted teeny tiny little Christmas trees planted over their remains. I'd deliberately adopted a lower class accent. It made mouthing off easier and hunting them down afterwards even easier than that. They'd run their wrong ends about me. "Are all Americans this belligerent when dealing with Intelligence?" Tom finally asked. "I wouldn't even say that it's belligerence," I answered poking the inside of my mouth with my tongue as I paused. I was bleeding. "It's more like a natural camo. I don't think you can classify it as anything but specious." Tom got up and dragged his chair around to sit far too close to me. I was insulting him in English and he knew it. Bright one, Tom. "Domhnal McGregor. How do you know him?" Tom said. His breath was natural smelling, which shouldn't be a scent. He hadn't brushed recently, or too far in the past, and apparently didn't drink coffee. "Cor, when did we cross paths? I think I rolled the poor bastard back when you idiots were trumpeting off about your political power so badly that the EU kicked you out of your own party. You should probably show up the next time we have a war. It's slightly more intimidating than just advertising that you sent a unit in all over the telly." Bob shot to his feet so quickly that his chair tipped over. He looked impressed that I didn't flinch. I was genuinely starting to believe that I could kill these fuckers with my wrists cuffed to the table but, like I said, that sort of shit is only cool in movies. They fuck you up pretty badly if you miss. It's better to just get through it and keep the damage to a minimum. I wished they'd start questioning me about American Intelligence already, instead of my contacts. I actually needed those. Data I could trade. "Could you be more specific," Tom questioned me crisply, showing more English restraint. I eyed the cuffs, musing over the differences between American and English security devices. I had friends who were cops back in the day, I could slip them, but not quickly. "Right before you buggers got politely invited to leave, took umbrance, and declared Brexit before standing like an unruly cat with your ass in the house and your head out the door, I had the pleasure of running into one whore, Domhnal McGregor, who knocked me up, stole my plane ticket, and headed for the O.Z." "And you continued your acquaintance, despite this... indescretion?" Tom ask, distastefully appalled. "It's how Americans make friends," I answered cheerfully, "I thought he wanted to marry me." They exchanged looks. My file would have told them that I have a genius level IQ (so do some truck drivers, it's a question of what you do with it), but I was also female. Dudes still haven't gotten to the point where they believe that genuinely smarts are stored up top. They probably thought I was joking. I was actually deliberately being serious. In America, that's how he would have done it. In England, he was playing me pretty hard, it's why I still talked to him- he'd genuinely just been on a job. Tom placed the foot of his chair on my own and started leaning forward. It was painful. I also liked my feet, you know, functional. "You realize your life is at stake Ms. Jindra," He told me solemnly. "I'd like a priest," I responded, handling the whole situation with aplomb. Some of the pressure eased off as he lost control from shock. Mind you, first he leaned forward, but he backed the chair off. "A priest?" He asked incredulously. "Why on Earth would we go **fetch you** a priest?!" Bob chimed in, leaning across the table out of habit, trying to press the intimidation factor. "Well, if I'm in fear of my life, I've the right to a priest, according to international law. Also, I keep a blog, so I'd like to be able to go back and have a reliable source for recounting. I'm told you're not technically a reliable witness at a scene if it's centred around you, but I have other theories." "You're threatening to BLOG about this?" Bob lost his shit and threw his chair at me. It wasn't made of goose down. "It's billed as fiction," I explained calmly, plowing straight on, "As true Gonzo Journalism, this doesn't work at all -- and even if it did, I couldn't possibly admit it. Only a goddamn lunatic would write a thing like this and then claim it was true." I'd read them their rights, up was the only way out now, Tom punched me for forms sake but they fell back to conference. I'd have a ride out in about a half an hour, I was far to well informed on international policy for their taste and it had finally dawned on them they couldn't just dump a body (not mine anyways) and they were going to pay out the ass for everything they'd just done. In a moment of sheer lucidity they left the room, no longer wishing to add to the tab. Before the door clicked shut, my mouth opened. It happens if you pissed me off badly enough. "Return the whore as well, he owes me money. I'd hate to have to find you to collect.