May Rogers. If anyone asked, Clara would say it was a random name that came to mind. For those that were actually paying attention, though, they would notice that she would, somehow, always have the name ‘May’ in her undercover persona. It was her own way of remembering the only parent she had really had; and even then, she witnessed as her mother hung from the ceiling, her neck with a DIY rope around it. Tight. Unforgiving. Just like the feeling Clara felt the moment she laid eyes on that scene; she was far too young to greet death like that but the past can’t be changed. After her father left her and her sister in an all girls catholic school, relinquishing any rights over them to the state, Clara thought she’d find some peace. It was a catholic school after all. However, all she got was kids mocking her and her sister about the way her mother had died, telling them she had gone to hell because of it. Amanda always managed to control her fists; Clara, however, had gotten in all kinds of trouble because of how easily she would punch her peers.
It was a trip down memory line that she didn’t like taking, even if someone paid for her ticket. It was filled with landmines that she had a knack for stepping on and Clara wasn’t about to let those ruin her cover. As far as anyone, including her fellow Agents, was aware of, she was May Rogers — college dropout, freelance photographer or aspiring to be. Taking odd jobs, one of them being this dinner gala one. Walking around, Clara began looking inside of everything she could think of, looking for anything that could be potentially be dangerous to the stranger that they were supposed to protect just because he paid good cash for it. It seemed like an easy enough mission, but Clara never trusted those.
Furrowing her eyebrows, she turned around to meet Ten, looking at him for a second before she changed her expression to a more neutral one. “Should I be worried?” Clara began, a teasing tone lacing her words, her eyebrows raising slightly as she spoke. “You seem to have given this a lot of thought…” Clara let her words trail off as she looked at Ten’s credentials, “Drew.” The Agent had a mischievous look on her face. “Been thinking ‘bout me when you can’t sleep? Even if it is about hiding my dead body.”
Harry wasn’t completely sure what they were supposed to be looking for down here, it wasn’t like a hitman would just leave their assault rifle, knife or poison lying around for anybody to find. If their even was a hitman in the first place, which Harry wasn’t convinced their was. The Deputy Director had said it herself at the debriefing, they couldn’t say whether the intel Mcgee’s reliable source had given him meant somebody was trying to assassinate him or his fortune. Harry sighed to himself in frustration, he didn’t like working on possibilities, he liked the cold hard facts and so far they only had the word of this source to go on and their identity was being concealed from all of them. Maybe it was for their own safety or maybe McGee was just a paranoid fool who didn’t share the identity of his source because there wasn’t one.
Harry threw her a casual shrug of his shoulders, calloused fingers opening another cardboard box and rifling through the contents. Despite his concerns about McGee’s credibility, he wasn’t willing to throw in the towel on the mission at hand or put another man’s life on the line just because the semantics weren’t to his liking. ❝ I’ve had a lot of spare time on my hands up here at the top, I had to do something while I watched you struggling to keep up with me. ❞ His words were dripping with arrogance, his lips curling into a smirk that he only wore around her — one that was privy to her eyes only. He wasn’t sure why that was, only that it was and when ever he was around her he felt the urge to pull at her pigtails and tease her relentlessly. ❝ Oh yeah, ❞ Harry chuckled softly to himself, abandoning his search through the cardboard box once he was satisfied it contained nothing of a threat to their client. ❝ You’re all I think about when I’m lying in bed at night. ❞ He rolled his eyes at her, his voice laced with sarcasm. He was about to suggest they move on with their search after nothing turned up on the lower levels until the familiar voice of agent sixty one cut through the coms, loud and clear; The mission had been compromised.
Harry lifted his head from the cardboard box, panic setting deeply into his hazel coloured eyes, darkening them now. He cast a worried glance towards his partner, wanting to confirm with her that she had received the same broadcast from the other agent as he had. It felt all too familiar to Harry, the panic and dread setting into his bones like cement. Only instead of the vibrant, flashing lights of police cars and several guns pointed towards his chest as he planned his escape from the bank he had just robbed it was the unfamiliar tone of fear in Agent Sixty One’s voice. He’d be damned if this was another repeat of his last heist, no agent would be getting left behind tonight.
