Annabel keeps her eyes closed for a moment once Fischer pulls back; she feels her heart thudding harder than it did when she was nose-to-nose with Vollendorf. She doesn’t verbally respond to Fischer, instead raising both of her hands up to either side of her face and pulling her in for another kiss - Annabel has been hungry for this since their first encounter and every moment after that, every casual brush of hands, every held gaze over dinner. She pulls Fischer in and it doesn’t matter that she just had to kill a man, that if things had gone awry, she wouldn’t have ever had the opportunity to do this again, to see Fischer again, Rose, whatever.
This kiss is different from their first, less of the angry fire of trying to dominate each other into a different kind of submission, more of the desperation.
I’m alive. Annabel moves her hands down to wrap around Fischer’s waist. I’m alive, and so is she. This is good enough, for now.
Fischer had briefly thought she was crazy, that hysteria had finally taken over and recklessly acted, but that thought is as gone as soon as it arrived as Annabel pulls her back in. God, she had thought about this a thousand times over (even waking up several mornings filled with embarrassment for dreaming about it), but no matter how many times the memories of their previous encounter crossed her mind, they had never felt this right.
She fervently returns the kiss, taking in everything about Annabel and the comfort of her presence. Trying not to cry. Fischer moves her hands behind Annabel’s head, pulling her in closer in constant reassurance: You’re here you’re alive you’re here I love you-
Fischer relaxes her grip, instead letting her fingers gently run through Annabel’s hair. “I’m almost embarrassed to admit it,” she quietly murmers against Annabel’s lips, “but that bruise is kind of hot.”
Her eyes glance up at the bruise in question before falling back down to meet Annabel’s eyes. “God, you’re beautiful.” Frazzled and covered in blood and alive and beautiful.
“Yeah, you’ve been sayin’ that the entire time, you can stop now,” Fischer grips the steering wheel tighter as she navigates through afternoon traffic. “Just let me drive in peace.”
“Iain doesn’t look peaceful,” Morgan continues, leaning forward from the backseat. “I don’t think he’s supposed to be all white like that.”
Iain grins more of a grimace. “It’s fine, Mo. Just let Beth drive, okay?”
“I’m letting her drive. I’m in the backseat just talking. Mum drives and talks to me all the time while driving.”
“Well, Mum’s not here, so we’re just gonna sit quietly until we get to the hospital, alright?” Fischer’s voice is much more strained than it needs to be, but nine-year-old Morgan finally takes the hint and slinks back into her seat.
Fischer blares the horn as she speeds past some asshole trying to cut her off. “Bloody fucking prick,” she murmers, ignoring Morgan’s raised eyebrows that she can make out in the rearview mirror.
“Are we gonna get pulled over?” Morgan breaks her silence. “Beth, are you gonna crash?”
“Morgan!” Iain yelps before Fischer can retort. “We’re almost there, please. How about you count in your head how many more seconds it takes us to get there, yeah?”
“I know you’re just tryin’ to get me to be quiet,” Morgan crosses her arms, but sullenly appears to comply.
Fischer sends a silent thank you over to Iain, who, while even in enormous pain, still maintains a calm grip on the whole situation. This particular situation being a most likely-broken ankle as a result of an impromptu wresting match between him and Fischer.
They’re sixteen and twenty one, respectively, and should have known better. But they were also siblings, and so all logic went out the window as soon as they starting jokingly waging who could pin the other first.
Fischer can just hear her parents now, the “You were supposed to be in charge!” and “What kind of example are you setting for your younger sister!” and “We raised you to be smarter than this!”. She’s hoping their drive from Liverpool to the hospital will give them time to cool before they confront her. You know, once she actually calls them. Which she will have to do soon, because she doesn’t want Rachel to beat her to the punch-
As if on cue, Rachel is on the ground floor as Fischer wheels Iain into the ER, the look of worry/concern on her face mixing frighteningly with the look of “you lot are in huge trouble” that had haunted most of Fischer’s childhood.
“Do I even want to know?” She harshly whispers as Fischer takes the medical paperwork from the nurse at the front desk.
“Probably not,” Fischer dryly responds just as Morgan chimes in with a “They were wrestling and Beth won”.
“Beth didn’t win!” Iain retorts, only to be shushed by both older sisters.
“Mo, wheel Iain over and find a seat,” Rachel prods her younger siblings over to the waiting area while grabbing Fischer’s arm and moving her over to a more quiet corner. “I’m not bailing you out of this one, Beth. Covering up a gash from a bar fight is one thing, but I’m not taking part in you dragging our younger siblings into this.”
“I’m not dragging them into nothing!” Fischer tries to tug her arm out of Rachel’s grasp, but her elder sister is firm. “Like Mo said, we were wrestling. Simple as that.”
Rachel shakes her head in disbelief. “Wrestling, Beth? Honestly? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I could pin Iain in under twenty seconds, and I was right,” Fischer responds as her eyes skim the medical forms. “Hey, what’s Mum and Dad’s insurance number?”
Rachel grabs the clipboard from Beth’s hand. “I’ll take care of this. Go call Mum and Dad, and then hurry back, because I am supposed to be observing a surgery in fifteen minutes.”
“Fuck, Rach, this ain’t gonna interfere with your education,” Fischer reaches for the clipboard. “I’ll handle all of this-”
“No,” Rachel smacks Fischer’s hand away. “I want to see you make the call.”
Fischer sighs but pulls out her phone. This was not going to be fun.
And it wasn’t. As the minutes tick by in the waiting room - Fischer impatiently staring at a magazine rack, Morgan sitting precariously off the edge of her chair as her plugged-in GameBoy charges in the inconveniently-placed wall plug, and Iain awkwardly sitting between the two trying to pretend he wasn’t in agony - Fischer tries to fight the rising void of dread cementing itself in the pit of her stomach.
Her parents had thankfully kept the call short and were already driving back to Manchester. But Fischer knew that this was the calm before the storm, and she hated that storm would be striking in a public place in front of so many people (and her sister’s place of employment, no less).
“I think the lawn was uneven,” Iain finally says. “I wouldn’t have fallen so easily otherwise.”
Fischer scoffs. “Still fussing about how I beat you?”
He shrugs. “We shoulda gone best two outta three.”
“Yeah, we’ll take care of the other two after that ankle of yours gets snapped back together.” Fischer tries to mimic Iain’s ability to make even an obvious lie sound naively sincere.
Picking up on it, Iain softens. “Hey, mum and dad will get over it. They’re just worried, but I’m gonna be alright. Besides, this is on both of us - if they’re mad at you, then they gotta be mad at me as well.”
“Thanks,” Fischer mumbles, slinking down further into her seat. She glances over at the ICU doors and wishes she was in there instead of out here.
Iain is finally called back moments after their parents finally arrive, the sudden commotion giving Fischer ample opportunity to slip out. But she doesn’t.
“Elizabeth Adelaide Fischer,” her father turns to face her as soon as the doors close behind Iain and the nurse wheeling him in. “What on earth were you thinking?”
Fischer lets out a breath, stalling for time as she tries to think of the words that had suddenly escaped her. “Well,” she awkwardly scratches her neck, “I was mostly thinking that I should be taking Mo home. It’s gettin’ late and she’s got school tomorrow.”
“You’re supposed to be grown up, for Christ’s sake,” her father holds up a hand to interrupt Morgan’s protests of “But I can miss school tomorrow, really”.
“Things are getting out of hand, Beth,” her mother inputs. “We have respected you by not trying to interfere, but now that your brother and sister are involved-”
“Oh my god, why is everyone actin’ like I took ‘em to a cult initiation or something?” Fischer tries to keep her voice low. “We were just messing around like we always do. For fuck’s sake, I had dinner cooking while this was going on! Everything was perfectly normal and under control.”
“Your brother is currently in the emergency room,” her father’s voice remains firm and steady. “He could be seriously hurt. And what about his future? He was getting attention from scouts, he was in talks for scholarships-”
“I didn’t intentionally sabotage him!” Fischer scoffs. “None of this was intentional. You guys are just mad because I’m still around, making the neighbors nervous.”
Her mother places a hand on her husband’s arm, stopping him from rebutting. “We’re concerned about you, dear. Ever since-”
“No,” Fischer jabs her finger at her mother. “I’m not talkin’ about that. You both know damn well that’s off-limits.”
“You have to talk about it sometime. And since you refuse to open up to a therapist, you’ve been channeling everything into this self-destructive behavior-”
“Off. Topic.” Fischer is close to yelling, despite being aware of how many curious eyes are now on her family. Out of the corner of her eye she can make out a security officer slowly inching his way closer. “I don’t have to take this shit.”
Fischer grabs her jacket off the hospital chair and begins to make her way toward the exit.
“Elizabeth,” her father’s voice warns. Fischer pretends she doesn’t hear the worry.
“Don’t worry,” she calls back, “when I do self-destruct, I’ll be far enough away where none of you will be in the blast radius.”
“Beth!” Fischer can hear the scrape of a chair as Morgan scrambles out of her seat. “I’m going with you, Beth.”
“I’m not going home, Mo.” She makes a point to not look at her little sister, because she knows if she looks then all of this will fall apart. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
“Beth, no.” Small hands grab at her jacket sleeve. “Don’t go.”
As Fischer yanks her hand out of Morgan’s grip, she hears her father come up and scoop up her sister. “Come on, Morgan.”
“No! Let me go!” This time it’s Morgan’s increasingly-frantic cries that Fischer pretends not to hear. “Beth! Beth, come back! Beth!”
Fischer hears one last cry before she is out the door, the cool night air stinging the tears starting to well in her eyes. She makes it all the way to her car and several blocks down the road before she lets the tears fall.
“Shit,” she mutters to herself, wiping her eyes as she keeps driving through the busy night traffic. Pull yourself together. The job ain’t done yet.
Two neighborhoods over was a house where she had a contact waiting with all the proper fake identification Fischer needed to get herself out of the city. It was a bit sooner than expected, but regrettably, the accident today was the ripe opportunity to land the final blow to the cracked relationships she had so painfully built up between her and her family.
Elizabeth Fischer had a calling, but with every step she took down that path, the closer she dragged those close to her into the fray. And so, Elizabeth Fischer had to break away, and she had to make it look like everything it wasn’t. Whenever someone would dig deep enough to her past to find out Elizabeth Fischer’s story, they would find a blowout with her family she was no longer close to, and if they poked around further, everyone would attest to the fact that Elizabeth Fischer had become a rebel with no future who clashed angrily with her well-meaning parents, until it all blew up and no one heard from her again.
Fischer wishes things would have been easier, but if they were, then they really weren’t worth giving up in the first place. She tries to tell herself that to comfort herself. And several years later, she’ll eventually believe it.
These are the thoughts going through Annabel’s head as she struggles for breath, Casey Vollendorf’s right hand holding a firm grip on her neck, his left holding the knife, her earpiece smashed on the ground beside them. This is a mess. I’m dead. Thoughts of Fischer flash through Annabel’s mind. I can’t die. Fischer would fucking kill me.
It’s only been three weeks in, and Fischer has proven to be exponentially more competent than any ISA agent Annabel has worked with. There’s no way she’s giving up now. She grunts as she manages to effectively knee Vollendorf’s groin, Vollendorf falling back in pain. He’s managed to get a few punches in, Annabel’s nose bleeding and a cut on her arm from his knife.
Vollendorf wasn’t supposed to be here; he had walked in as Annabel finished taking photographs of the file put it back, on the phone with a coworker. If only I’d been a few minutes faster -
“Heard about your promotion, Duke,” Vollendorf sneers, regaining his balance after Annabel’s shove. “Read about it in the ISA upkeep folder. How’s it feel to be a high-ranker in this shithole of an agency? Feeling good about yourself? Feeling -”
Annabel interrupts him by clocking him square in the jaw, managing to reach down and grab the knife he dropped in shock. She drops down beside him, holding his knife to his neck.
“This could have been done without blood, Vollendorf,” she breathes, knowing that the only way to keep him quiet is to kill him. He struggles against her for a few moments, defiance in his eyes, and Ann draws the blade across his jugular, setting the knife down beside his writhing, then lifeless body. The leather gloves she is wearing should have her clear of fingerprint identification.
She moves quickly - someone is sure to notice Vollendorf’s extended absence, especially since his phonecall was cut off so fast. Ann picks up the broken earpiece, does a quick sweep of the room, scanning the area for any giveaways of her presence, but she sees nothing obvious. Fischer had disabled all cameras.
Annabel makes her way over back to her car, parked in the back alley, and races back to Fischer’s apartment, entering with the various keys Fischer had finally entrusted her with.
As she walks in, she suddenly feels very aware of the dried blood underneath her nose, the bruise on her forehead, and the cut on her arm.
“Miss me?” she calls to Fischer, who is sitting at her computers. “Sorry I’m late, darling.”
Fischer impatiently presses the next key, pulling up one camera feed after another as she desperately searches for any sign of Duke. Nothing. A whole lot of bloody nothing.
She needs to do something. She can’t just sit here, doing nothing but wait until news comes to her. She should go to the building herself, even if Fischer had to fight through whatever reason it was that made Duke go dark. She’s angry with worry and filled with enough of it to fight an army.
She’s so wrapped up in her desperate search that she barely pays any mind to her own security feed until the respective monitor starts flashing a small red light, indicating attempted entry. Fischer’s hand is already halfway to her hidden bat underneath her desk before she recognizes the face of the person at the door.
Fischer half-trips over her chair in her rush to get up, delaying her long enough for Duke to open the door before she has a chance to get there. Fischer straightens herself, struggling to compose herself, when Duke finally walks in.
“Jesus,” a strangled sigh escapes her throat, “it’s about time.”
Her eyes strain to make out Duke in the shadows, desperate to see her, to reassure herself that everything was fine. Was it? Fischer takes a tentative step forward, then another, then another.
Her fingers tremble as she reaches for Duke’s face, faintly brushing against the dried blood on her lower lip, then the bruise on her forehead, then her cheek. When Duke doesn’t fall to ash at her touch, Fischer slowly rests the entirety of her hand against Duke’s cheek, using the unbroken flesh to steady herself.
Duke hasn’t stopped her and Fischer brings her other hand up to cup Duke’s face in her hands. She feels as if in a trance, the shock of worry stubbornly refusing to fade. “I thought...” Fischer stops the trembling thoughts from falling out. Words didn’t seem right.
It doesn’t matter what you thought. She’s alive. Fischer is suddenly aware of Duke’s face being much closer than it was several moments ago, but Fischer is the one leaning in closer. Before she can stop herself, Fischer closes the gap between them, careful of the dried blood as she gingerly pressing her lips against Annabel’s.
The ball of worry that had taken heavy root inside her suddenly loosens and drifts away. Fischer breathes out with it, pulling back from Annabel and resting her forehead lightly against the other woman’s.
“Sorry,” she murmers, somehow unable to remove her hands from Annabel’s face. “I’m just relieved to see you.”
As she rolls over on the sofa, Rose can’t quite tell if the banging is real or if it’s just the dull thump of an impending alcohol-induced headache. Wrestling with reality and a vague sense of conciousness – Is that … Fischer? Kicking off the blanket, Rose wobbles to her feet.
She hits her foot against the leg of the coffee table. “Fuck”. Bottles rattle against each other and one falls off the edge, smashing against the floor. “Shit.” Fischer’s been gone for barely a day, and already the place is a tip. “Bollocks.”
Rose stumbles across to the door and can hear Fischer on the other side. She struggles with the locks, hazy, fumbling. Her finger catches in one of the mechanisms. Rose winces and tries not to think about how sore the eventual blood blister will be once it forms.
The door opens, finally, and the sight of Fischer is sobering. Rose tries not to look at the blood and the head wound and ignores the lack of clothing. She quickly steps forward, using her body to support Fischer before she slips to the ground. “The fuck happened to you, man. Get inside.”
Fischer is still seriously contemplating moving the few feet down to the ground when the door opens, making her sway as the door’s support is so suddenly taken away from her. She reaches out and grabs Rose’s shoulder, gripping it as if her life depended on it.
“Fuck, man,” she mumbles, eyes still shakily trained at the inviting looking ground, “fucking bastards, you know...”
It takes a lot of focus, but she lifts her head to look at Rose, and the sight makes her almost trip. Rose’s face sent memories of Hawking’s face lurching back into Fischer’s mind.
No, no, no, Rose wasn’t Ava Hawking. Fischer tries to reassure herself of the fact, but then holy shit, she remembers why Rose looks so similar to Hawking. “What the fuck, dude,” she tries to push away from her, only to spectacularly fail in her efforts, as her arm is still firmly gripping the younger woman’s shoulder. Shaking her head, Fischer releases her grip and quickly throws herself forward, making several wavering steps inside.
Fischer leans against the wall, eyeing the fridge several more steps away from her. Reinvigorated by her panic, Fischer closes the gap and launches open the fridge door, grabbing a beer. Only then does she slide to the ground, letting the cool of the open fridge blast on her back as she holds the cold bottle to her head. Fuck, her head hurts.
“I feel like shit,” she slowly states as she stares confusingly at Rose, half out of the foggy haze she was still in, and half out of anger. Why had Rose not told her about Ava? Why hadn’t Annabel? What the fuck?
Never in her life has Fischer hating being stuck in front of a computer this much. She normally preferred it and the sense of security it offered, far away from imminent danger. But normally, she was never this worried about the person in the line of fire.
There were a lot of reasons for someone to go dark in the field. Static interference, a short circuit, the operative intentionally turning it off to avoid suspicion. Though all valid and sound reasons, Fischer doubts them.
Annabel Duke was out there, in the middle of the night in the “office” building of a known Division officer. The building was discreet, off-the-records, and filled with security with no quarrels with shooting first and asking questions later. Duke was good at what she did, she was always careful, but she had never gone dark before.
Fischer feels like vomiting.
It was supposed to be a quick in and out mission - locating a specific file and photographing it - going in and out before anyone was the wiser. Fischer was back at the apartment monitoring the private radio transmissions of the building’s security - she was supposed to be assuring Duke could be in and out without any suspicion. Those private radio waves had broadcasted nothing in the past twenty minutes. Either they had switched over to an even more private channel, or they too had gone dark. Neither option was comforting.
She’s monitoring local police waves and whatever few security cameras she can hack into, but so far she has nothing. Duke is out there, somewhere, either alive or dead. Fischer has all but forgotten about the mission.
She’s already cursing herself for letting Duke into her life - letting the past several weeks press on with the other woman a suddenly permanent fixture. But she and Fischer worked so well together, clicking together like a lock and key. They had already taken care of Cahill long ago, in what was one of the easiest ops of Fischer’s career. Fischer had let herself get swept up in the thrill of their connection, the rush of collaborating with the woman she still sometimes sees in her dreams.
Fischer refreshes her feeds, desperately hoping to see a sign of anything that wasn’t Annabel Duke’s dead body.
Fischer appreciated that no one had gaped at her on the tube ride home. Of course, her mind was still foggy from the drugs and blood loss, so the sense of appreciation was a bit muddled, but nonetheless there. Not that she would have blamed anyone for staring - after all, a tattooed woman in nothing but boxers and a ripped tank top holding the torn, blood-soaked bottom half of her shirt to her head was not the most normal sight to see on the early morning commute.
But it wasn’t the most unusual, either. When Fischer finally reaches her stop - wearing the oversized shoes she had talked off a drunk a few stops back and feeling an uncomfortable draft around her midriff where she tore her top - she pauses to gain her bearings. She could make her way back to her apartment in her sleep, but if everything could just stop spinning...
Miraculously, she makes it home without much conflict or unwanted attention. As Fischer stares blankly at her doorknob (like... it was supposed to open, right?) it slowly dawns on her that her keys are in her jacket pocket. On her apartment floor. Inside. Behind the lock. She lets out a deep sigh and leans forward, her forehead resting on the cool metal of the door. Think, Fischer. You have a spare. Get the spare.
But where was the spare? Her eyes glance over the wall beside her - one of the bricks was loose, and contained a cryptex-inspired device that contained her spare key. That was... that was a lot of work. Fischer lets out a quiet curse. Why did she have to make things so complicated?
Fischer thinks. She had to get inside. She didn’t think she could hold out long enough to obtain the spare key. The brothel upstairs would be a last-ditch effort - despite being on friendly terms with most of the people there, the last thing she wanted was any unnecessary attention drawn to herself and the shitstorm she had found herself in. But-
Rose. Rose should be home, right? Rose wasn’t there when Fischer was taken, but she wasn’t supposed to be gone long. She should be back. Rose should be inside.
Mustering up her strength, Fischer pounds once, twice, on the door. “Rose! Open the door.” Fuck, talking was a lot of work. The words felt thick and heavy falling out of her mouth.
She pounds once more. “Oi! Dipshit!”
Fischer pauses, once again resting her forehead on the door. When was Rose coming? Fischer’s other hand was sticky from pressing her shirt against her wound, and she briefly wonders if it will stay stuck there.
Gathering more of her increasingly-fading strength, Fischer brings her fist against the door again. “Rose...” Talking was too hard. Fischer decides to stop. Her eyes slowly fall downward. It wasn’t far of a stretch to see herself lying on the ground. She feels at peace with the idea. Resting would be nice.
Rose grins and takes another sip of beer. “You know, I know he says he wont, but I reckon he’ll step down, full of disgrace. Fucking arsehole.”
She can tell from Fischer’s tone that this is not a time for intense emotional conversation. That’s what the television is for - to negate the need to say anything. Rose is a little disappointed, but … she should know better. It’s not the sort of people they are; this isn’t a friendship, not really.
Sure, they happen to like the same kinds of music, and laugh at the same dumb internet jokes (”Hoe don’t do it” is a definite favourite), and think the same politicians and public figures are total fuckwits, but who needs common interests and friends, right?
She takes a bite of pizza to prevent herself from exhaling too loudly. For some reason it bothers Fischer (“You sound like an asthmatic manatee”) and Rose doesn’t want to generate any tension.
“Nope, definitely not. I don’t understand why people find him attractive at all.”
Fischer has to admit, she enjoys being able to banter about football again. She grew up in a household where football was the closest thing her family got to religious after the annual Christmas mass, and Fischer lived and breathed the sport. Fischer hadn’t talked football outside of casual pub talk in years - not since she left her family behind - and it was a nice comfort. An even greater comfort was finally doing something about the widespread corruption tainting her (and Rose’s) favourite sport.
“Wonder how much effort it’d take to bring an entire club down...” Fischer wonders, half to herself. She shrugs. Perhaps later. FIFA was good enough for now, but there were much larger things at stake.
Fischer takes a few moments to study the face onscreen. “And there are nine seasons of this? God, I hope Gillian can balance out the... potato-ness of it all.”
As nice as it was to talk with someone else, Fischer can’t help but feel guilty as time drags on and Rose still remains in the dark concerning the truth about her sister. Rose was a bright girl, and she would figure it out sooner than later, with or without Fischer. And the longer it took, the more time spent aimlessly talking and sharing pizza and bickering about football, the bigger the blowout that would occur.
Fischer seems to have a horrible track record with Dukes. Even worse, the Dukes never saw what Fischer was up to before it was too late. Rotten fucking luck.
Annabel raises an eyebrow at the other woman, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. “Remotely? You insult me, truly.”
She lets out a quiet huff, mulling over her options. “With my new ranking, I have access to folders and information that I wasn’t even allowed to look at with an ‘agent’ ranking. So, that’s that - but my mission, my real mission, is still to capture you.” Annabel feels the brunt of the drunkenness fading into a slight headache. “I can’t come back empty-handed every time the general asks me about progress. We have to be efficient about things. I’d say I have maybe three, four weeks before they start getting suspicious of me coming up with nothing.” Ann smirks at Fischer. “So. Can we make this a quick one?”
Either Fischer was desperate, or Duke was hitting on her right back. And admittedly, as much as Fischer would enjoy reliving certain things with her, it was not exactly a priority for either of them. Plus, you know, Duke did just have a gun to her head days ago. It didn’t matter how much opinions have changed, that was still an obstacle of sorts to work around. Still, Fischer can’t help but play along. “Oh please, don’t take it as an insult. If anything, I’m complimentin’ the fact that you were attractive enough to distract me from the, you know, threat of arrest and physical harm.” (Not like those weren’t turn-ons in themselves, but that seemed like something for Fischer to figure out on her own time.)
Fischer quietly snorts in amusement as Duke mentions her still active mission. Leave it to the ISA to finally send someone competent enough to corner her, only for that person to be too good to finish the job.
But as Duke continues to talk - Fischer ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks as she raises an eyebrow at Duke’s “proposition” - she can already begin to feel the wheels turning in her head. “Oh, I’m not entirely partial to quick ones myself. I prefer to draw these things out, you know.”
She leans forward, reinvigorated with the rush of a new plan. “We could turn this into a long game. Convince ‘em that you’re playing double agent, playing me like a puppet. ‘Cept instead, you’re the one feeding them false information. After all, you are one highly convincing woman. We could play this out much longer than a few weeks.”
Annabel’s gaze on Fischer softens slightly. I wouldn’t mind a re-enactment of our first meeting, she almost says in her filter-less, drunken state, but instead she opts to smile sheepishly, taking another sip of her water, and then, out of habit, running her finger along the rim of the glass. She inhales deeply, and closes her eyes as she exhales. When she opens them again, Colin Cahill’s file appears in front of her, and she rifles through it, immediately recognizing the face in the photos.
“I’ve met with him a few times,” she says quietly, shuffling through the papers. “I always thought he was a bit of an off character, but…God. He was right in front of me. I could have -” Annabel closes the folder, running a hand through her hair in frustration. She looks back up at Fischer.
“Sorry for, ah, holding a gun to your head. I’m sure that wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences.”
“You might as well get used to that feeling,” Fischer frowns as she collects the tablet. “I’m afraid you got a lot more of those comin’.” Fischer has an entire hard drive dedicated to such people, but decides now is not the best time to mention it. Duke has had enough shock to last her a few more days.
Fischer lets out a solitary laugh, absentmindedly running her fingers through her hair. “Eh, you weren’t the first person to hold a gun to my head. But I gotta say, that was the only time I’ve remotely enjoyed the experience.”
Oh my God. You’re not hittin’ on her, are you? For fuck’s sake, Fischer.
She licks her lips, trying to figure out where to go from here. As much as she had thought about it the past few days, Fischer still had difficulty wrapping her head around the fact that she now had a bloody ISA officer on her side. Oh, the places they’ll go...
“Well, now that I know for certain that you’re not goin’ to arrest me,” Fischer smirks, “I guess I’ll be including you in my plans from now on. Major Annabel Duke of the ISA...” she pauses, cocking her head as she finally takes the time to fully observe her new ally, “I’d say you’d be the turning point of this whole thing.”
Rose glances at Fischer with a raised eyebrow. “A fan of Gillian, eh? Nice.” She turns to the television and takes a few mouthfuls of beer. “She’s pretty hot, and her character’s great.”
She returns the bottle to the coffee table and grabs a slice of pizza. Strings of cheese dribble down her chin, and Rose wipes it off onto the sleeve of her cardigan with a shrug, knowing full well Fischer will be glaring at her.
“They should do a programme about us: just two fantastic hackers, fighting the system. It could be like The Office, some kind of documentary where I can be as sarcastic as I like.” Another pause, another bite of pizza. “Can you imagine, the media would shit itself if they knew it was really us that fucked with FIFA.”
The two of them don’t converse much when they are working, not really, and Rose is grateful of the opportunity to actually talk to Fischer. Now that she’s left her old life behind, and now that she’s lost Annabel, Rose has no one. Christ, she even misses Joseph or Andrew or whoever.
“Thanks for this, by the way. Letting me help, I mean. I don’t know if I ever said that.”
Fischer very pointedly ignores Rose’s poor table manners (not like she was much better herself, but at least she had the decency to pretend otherwise around others). Still, she can’t help but roll her eyes. “Somethin’ tells me our characters wouldn’t be all that popular.”
She can’t help but snort into her beer. “If our identities go public, then I’m takin’ the opportunity to march down to Switzerland and kick Blatter in the groin myself.” Fischer reaches for a napkin on the floor (okay, a used napkin, but it was still a napkin and Rose should damn well take note) and wipes beer off her face. God, was she always such a pig? Or was Rose a bad influence? (Eh, probably both.)
Fischer feels awkward all of a sudden and tries to focus on wherever the plot had taken them on the show. She had gone to extreme measures to cut herself off from her friends and family - anyone and anything that her enemies could use against her. And yeah, Annabel was an exception, but she had signed up for the same shit Fischer had. It felt different with Rose. Maybe because Fischer still sometimes sees flashes of Morgan in Rose. It felt unfair, almost, to cause her little sister such pain, only to replace her.
She shoves more pizza in her mouth. “Whatever. It’s less work for me, and I ain’t gotta pay ya.”
She swallows and gestures to the screen. “So am I the only one wondering why Mulder looks like a potato?”
“Clean yourself up, Elizabeth,” Ava says, squeezing her shoulder one last time before leaving the room. Fischer is furious, and Ava loves it. Angry people tend to make the most rash decisions, one that makes it even easier for Ava to handle them. This could still be too easy, yet. “Aden will show you the way out.”
Once she’s out of the room, Ava goes to the bathroom to wipe off the small traces of blood on her hands. She feels different from the way she usually does after interrogations. During and after her interrogation of Jonathan Connolly, she felt hopeless, pathetic, lost - now that Elizabeth Fischer has given her more of a direction with Annabel Duke, Ava feels amazing - limitless, even.
The nights spent as a child crying in bed, wondering why she was abandoned, left under the control of emotionally abusive and manipulative parents; knowing that the Duke siblings were living exuberantly, a lush life, without her; they can finally receive their retribution.
“Thank you, Elizabeth Fischer,” she whispers to her reflection in the mirror. “Thank you very, very much.”
First I’ll bash her bloody head in then I’ll throw her to the ground and beat the half-living shit outta whatever’s left. But Fischer sharply inhales, forces a smile, and says nothing else. Fuck Ava Hawking. Fuck her and fuck whatever pricks she’s working for and fuck it all. There was no way that slimy asshole was getting anywhere near Annabel, or Rose.
Fischer turns to glare at Aden. “I don’t care what that bitch pulling your chain thinks she has over me. If I see your face before our designated meeting time, I’ll remove any traces of pretty you have on it.”
She clears her throat, standing up to her full height. Fischer is still woozy from whatever drug cocktail Hawking had her jacked up on, and she knows the loss of blood isn’t helping. But right now, she was still deep in enemy territory, and Fischer had absolutely every intention of leaving this place with her head held high.
She raises an eyebrow at Aden and gestures to the door. “So. Shall we?”
Annabel murmurs a ‘thank you’ when Fischer hands her the water, and takes a sip out of it as she listens to Fischer speak, watching her closely. God, you’re beautiful, Annabel thinks as her eyes sweep over the contour of Elizabeth Fischer’s face, the curve of her lips, upturned nose, bright eyes -
She has to shake her head slightly to snap her drunk self out of it. What happened that night won’t happen again. You did it for the mission. Annabel shifts slightly in her seat, her eyes moving down to her hands, unable to help the guilt she feels for growing up as an (undeniably) privileged person. Of course she didn’t see any of what the ISA was doing. Annabel didn’t have to. She had never been cheated in the way that Fischer surely was, never had any unjust run-ins with the authorities (except for when it came to Roslyn, but she isn’t sure if they were necessarily unjust).
Fischer has a story. This much is certain. Annabel is itching to hear it, but she doesn’t know what kinds of lines she can cross; now that things have been more clearly established, she is far less willing to pry, to question Fischer. Annabel begins feels a newfound degree of respect for her.
Annabel merely nods. “Looks like it,” she says, sighing. “I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know who’s involved, I don’t know how to stop it, and I don’t know how to bloody dismantle an entire agency.” She looks back up at Fischer. “There are a few good ones. Ones that I’m certain can’t be involved with what you’re talking about. I can’t be the only one not involved. How do we weed those ones out?”
Fischer relaxes as Duke doesn’t press her for a more detailed story. But she had a feeling that Duke wouldn’t - a sort of instinct, maybe, an assurance that Annabel Duke was a genuinely good person. The same sort of instinct that Fischer had felt ever since they first started talking in the pub in what felt like a lifetime ago. Fischer trusts Duke, for whatever ungodly reason.
She holds up a hand. “Okay, first of all, you’re thinking too big here. Though believe me, dismantling this entire bastard is the ultimate goal, you gotta approach this logically. This ain’t an action film where the hero goes in, guns blazin’, and sets everything right with a few machine gun rounds and witty one-liners.”
She pauses before continuing. Duke had good intentions, and Fischer appreciated that about her, but... “You can’t weed out the good ones. Not easily. You can’t prove anyone’s innocence until you drag them through all the blood and grit. Or,” she tries to suppress a grin, “have ‘em half-naked at gunpoint.”
Her lack of sleep was getting to her. “We’re still working on the long-term plan. It’s a difficult bit. Right now, me and a few of my... associates are focusing on cutting off a few heads. Sure, more always take their place, but we can’t forget the reason why we’re doing this in the first place.”
Fischer reaches over to the counter that’s just within reach and grabs her tablet, opening a few files and sliding it over to Duke. “This guy? Cahill? He’s tryin’ to add to welfare exceptions. If his bid goes through, we’ll have an estimated half a million recipients suddenly without aid in the first year alone.”
Her voice grows somber. “People are sufferin’ and dyin’. And the things set in place to help ‘em are what’s doing the real damage.” Fischer looks at Duke looking at the tablet. “And it’s just not fuckin’ right.”
Ava shrugs. Taking out Roslyn will be much easier without Fischer and Annabel in the picture, anyway - she will take what she can get.
She raises a hand when Aden lets out a quiet “excuse me?” at Fischer’s comment, and smirks at Fischer again. “Fair deal,” she says. “Although, I wouldn’t want you thinking you can…run away after we finish up here. I’m going to get Aden here to follow up on you every once in a while. Ava stands, and Aden follows. “Uncuff her, Aden. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Ava makes her way to the door, placing a hand on Fischer’s shoulder and leaning in to speak in her bloodied ear. “Thank you for co-operating.”
Fischer’s gaze shifts briefly to what’s-their-face-Aden. Fucking prick. It didn’t matter what they had over her, if Aden crossed any boundaries “following up” on her, Fischer would cross some boundaries of her own. Nothing serious. Maybe a punch to the face.
Just as Fischer stretches her uncuffed hands, a surge of rage shocks through her again as Hawking’s hand touches her shoulder. The mixture of blood boiling and the urge to vomit was making Fischer nauseous. “Yeah, it’s been a real pleasure,” she scowls. “You have quite the effect on people.” Fischer thinks about slamming Hawking’s skull into the wall and allows her scowl to turn to the faintest trace of a smirk.
“Water would be nice,” Annabel says, trailing after Fischer and taking a seat at the kitchen table. She refuses to deal with the indignity of a wine hangover the next morning. God, I’m wasted. This is an embarrassment.
“I got a promotion,” she says in a droll tone of voice, resting her chin on her hand, elbow on the table, “I’m now Major Annabel Duke. I’m of an extremely high ranking in an agency gone to shit. I don’t know how I didn’t catch it before. It’s quite fucking obvious, now that it’s all been laid out for me.” Annabel lowers her hand, leaning back against the chair. She glances up at Fischer, tilting her head to the right.
“How did you get tied up in all of this? How did you figure it all out?”
Fischer nods and busies herself with getting a glass of water. She catches herself just before she responded to Duke’s news of promotion with an absent-minded “I know” - that was, perhaps, not the most sensitive thing to say at the moment. Not to mention, it skirted on the border of “Yes okay maybe I was keeping tabs on you, but it was all in self-defence and I am not a creep I swear”.
She instead settles on a casual shrug as she places one glass of water in front of Duke and sits across from her, holding a glass for herself. “It’s been this way since the very beginning. They didn’t make it this far without learning how to exist in the shadows, just out of sight.”
Fischer looks down, half out of embarrassment at how her stomach lurches upon making eye contact with Duke and half due to her suddenly wondering how to answer Duke’s question. “I was born and raised in Manchester - Beswick, to be precise,” she treads carefully, not yet completely trusting Duke, yet not wanting to lie.
“I think people living in poverty are more open to seeing these kinds of things - the way the system works against them. And I was always messing around with computers,” she shrugs again. “You give a bored, angry kid with no future and above-average computer skills access to the internet... they’ll find shit out.”
She takes the moment to take a drink, still looking away from Duke. Fischer supposed that was as good as it was going to get without outright telling the truth or a lie. Duke didn’t come here for Fischer’s life story, but Fischer doesn’t know what else to say.
“The past doesn’t serve any purpose in this life. The shit goin’ down in the present, it’s enough to fuel a thousand fires. What we gotta do is take that and make it work for us. Because those pricks bleeding this country dry? They don’t have that righteous anger. What you and I have,” Fischer finally makes eye contact with Duke. “Because you’re in this now. Guess you’re stuck with me for awhile longer, eh?”
Annabel more or less stumbles into Fischer’s apartment and she quickly backs out of Fischer’s grasp, smoothing down her collar. She straightens up, taking a step closer to the other woman and eyeing the bat firmly in Fischer’s grip.
“I’m here to say that I believe you,” she says, her words slurring the tiniest bit but coming out right nonetheless. “I fucking believe you. This is all a load of horse shit. Fucking hell.” Annabel runs a hand through her hair. Major Annabel Duke of the apparently very corrupt ISA. She feels like a joke. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Fischer quickly shuts the door behind them, looking up and down Duke for any signs of weapons. Nothing visible, and a pat-down was probably not the best idea for them right now, so Fischer will have to deal. She shrugs as Duke eyes the bat. Could Duke blame her?
Damn. Fischer raises her brow as the unexpected profanity falls from Duke’s mouth. That was... definitely not a turn on. Absolutely not. She sighs.
“I’m sorry about this. Really, I am. Finding out about this shit... it can wreck a person. Must be even worse for someone who dedicated their life to it.” Fischer carefully leans the bat against the wall and makes her way further into the apartment, gesturing for Duke to follow her. “C’mon, I’ll make you tea or something. Unless you want a beer, or whatever it is that you chugged down before coming over.”
Fischer really, truly, honestly feels bad for Duke. Annabel Duke was that rare kind of special person who actually believed in the greater good, the only kind of person Fischer trusted in government. Except now the wool was pulled from in front of her eyes, leaving her to fumble in sudden darkness. Fischer could only hope that Duke wouldn’t break, and would instead continue to fight for what was truly right.
Ava raises an eyebrow, folds her hands together on top of the table. Too easy. Fischer hasn’t given in yet - that much is certain. Ava currently has no guarantee that the minute Fischer leaves this room, she runs without a trace, goes to Annabel and Roslyn Duke to warn them off, leaving Ava with even more work to do. Ava has men who could track down her every move, make sure she’s doing exactly what she’s being told. FIscher could very well lead her straight to her sisters.
But Ava wants a formal meeting. She wants to be able to look all three of them in the eye when she ends them. That can’t happen with Ava’s coworkers observing from a distance.
She inhales, holds her breath as she thinks of an alternative that would work for both herself and Fischer, and exhales.
“I’d love to take that offer, Elizabeth,” she drawls, “But see, you and I - we don’t trust each other. And I don’t trust that you’d be entirely honest with me if we did meet up without Annabel Duke. I hope that’s understandable enough. Not to mention, I’d like to meet my sisters. So, how about this? You and I set up a meeting for all of us to meet - all of us being you, me, dear Annabel and Rosie, and my associate, Aden, here. You set up the terms and conditions of when and where we meet. How does that sound?”
Hawking doesn’t respond right away and Fischer tries not to panic. She didn’t believe me. I’m still good as dead. She inhales.
Oh, Fischer most definitely does not want Hawking anywhere near her supposed sisters. Even if Fischer didn’t have a sinking feeling that Hawking isn’t exactly looking for a heartfelt reunion, the look on Hawking’s face alone was enough to make up her mind for her.
“How about we take everything about that deal,” Fischer starts carefully, “’cept we leave Rose out of it. She’s not a part of this. And anyway, she wouldn’t like you. Too arrogant and long-winded.”
Fischer shrugs. “So how’s that? Annabel, me, you, and Twiddledumb over there in the corner.”
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
discoholicmusic
areudirty
