Content Warnings: Cheating, Affair, remarriage, no mention of y/n or the variation of 'you', Possible prequel?, third person written. Angst.
Words: 1707
Masterlist
Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics
Credit for the Divider Template: @cafekitsune
Note: You have many code names. Many. Many of them are used by certain people. Like the devil. You have many names. Boomer, Opal, Crimson and Emerald are the main ones used to refer to you. As your real name is covered in layers of black ink and confidential files restricted to the higher-ups.
Note 2: The only defining factors, I will give you, are the following: Codename. As labelled. Height. You are not small. You are rather tall, at least six feet and four inches. Roughly the same height as Ghost. Your voice is also quite deep, for reasons you can come up with yourself. As no answer is wrong or right. Might make an oc version sometime.
Note 3: I suggest listening to Moon Shadow by Cat Stevens when you read this.
Summary: “I don’t see you the same way anymore. I don’t respect cheaters, no matter the reason you might have had. You ruined this home by yourself.”
Boomer grew up on a farm in the Australian outback. Her father is an Australian Commando. Thus, she didn't see him nearly as often as her mother, who happened to cheat on her father while he was deployed. Her excuse was the lack of affection making her cheat with his older brother, Marcus. The CEO of a tech company he started up in America.
“I don’t see you the same way anymore. I don’t respect cheaters, no matter the reason you might have had. You ruined this home by yourself.” Boomer told her mother once her father came back on leave. He was immediately told by her.
Boomer decided to stay with her father, even though the divorce, and she hadn’t spoken to her mother since the end of the divorce had taken place. Her father, even though heart broken about the affair and the eventual divorce, he tried to keep a positive attitude through it all. Boomer saw right through quite often.
Pulling things apart, fixing them regardless of what it was, became Boomer's silent mantra as she grew older, mirroring the tireless work ethic of her father.
The farm grew quiet without her mother's laughter, but it grew stronger with the echoes of her father's footsteps and the occasional clank of tools as he taught her the ropes of being a true Australian commando.
She took to the training like a natural, her determination fuelled by the anger she felt towards her mother's betrayal. Each push-up, each mile run, every target hit, was a declaration of her loyalty to the truth and the man who never abandoned her.
“I don’t want to become my mother and cheat on any potential spouse, man or woman.” Boomer, adamant in wanting to be reliable regardless of any circumstances she would encounter in her life.
Her father often came home to small things fixed like the broken tractor, a leaky sink, and even a few upgrades to the farm’s security system.
Even reading into carpentry DIY projects like the bee aviaries she built from scratch. Her dedication to self-reliance grew, and so did her skills, a silent promise to never become what her mother was.
Her aunt, Alyssa, came over a few times a month to keep the house from going up in flames. Boomer showed her all the DIY things she made, often wanting to rescue bees from abandoned areas, unwanted areas and sometimes even from people’s backyards.
Her father had a slight smirk on his face when she brought home her first queen bee, a rare breed she had found in the forest. He knew she had her mother’s charm and beauty, but he was proud she had chosen a path of honesty and reliability.
Alyssa’s work as a beekeeper rehoming bees from areas where they aren’t wanted became an unexpected bonding point for Boomer. Her aunt’s gentle nature with the creatures and the way she spoke about them as if they were soldiers in a grand army, protecting the future of the planet, sparked a fascination within Boomer.
She began to see the world through a different lens, one that valued every creature’s contribution, and the delicate balance that needed to be maintained.
Her father noticed the change in her, the way she had found peace in the buzzing of the bees and the precision of their movements. He knew this was something more than just a phase; it was a piece of her soul finding its place in the world.
The farm grew not only in crops but in life as well, with more bees thriving under Alyssa’s guidance and Boomer’s care. It became a sanctuary for those who needed a second chance, a reflection of Boomer’s own spirit.
Boomer took the bee’s safety and health seriously, researching how to take care of the bees better and what ways to keep them happy as well as healthy.
Setting up a mini lab to study the bees in their natural environment without disrupting them became a weekend routine. The bees had become more than just a hobby; they were her silent companions, a symbol of her resilience and unyielding spirit.
One thing her father noticed was the ebony wood varnish on the bee aviaries, making them look more like a piece of art rather than a simple shelter for bees.
He knew his daughter had a creative side to her, but he never knew it would be expressed in such a way. Her creations weren’t just functional, but aesthetically pleasing, a reflection of her respect and admiration for the bees.
Each aviary was named after a character from an X-Men comic she loved as a child. She had found solace in their stories, in their struggle for acceptance and fighting for what they believed in despite their differences.
Her favourite, the Wolverine aviary, housed the most aggressive bees, which she found quite fitting. Each name was engraved in a small brass plate at the entrance, adding a touch of whimsy to the otherwise utilitarian structures.
She would then sell the honey on the farmer’s market for her pocket money. As she grew older, her love for bees remained as she got more invested in the military. She enlisted at seventeen, she told her father she wanted to because it felt like it was the right thing to do.
“I’ll give it my best shot, I promise.” Boomer pinky swore, her eyes gleaming with excitement and determination as she held her father’s hand tightly. His calloused grip returned the gesture, a silent promise of support and belief in her.
Her expertise in heavy weaponry like heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, rocket launchers, miniguns, anti-material rifles, and even the rare use of the Predator drone grew from her time in the military. She had always been a good shot, something her father had noticed when they used to go hunting together back in the outback.
Boomer dove into electrical engineering, electrical technology, nanotechnology and even robotics. During her military training, it was an eye-opener to an even bigger world. A world she is more than a little keen on learning more about day by day. Even reading more about in her downtime.
Growing up, her pets were bees and the blue Merle Shetland Sheepdogs that her aunt brought with her, which grew into a small pack over the years. They became her loyal companions, protecting the farm and the bees from predators. The dogs had an uncanny sense of when Boomer was upset, and they’d often sit by her side, offering comfort with their soft, warm presence. Her father named her first dog, Blue, after her mother’s favourite colour, hoping it would bring some peace to their lives.
Other than beekeeping and pulling things apart. The extracurricular activities she got into before she turned seventeen were gymnastics and ice skating.
Gymnastics was a way to keep her body in tip-top shape, she was always a fast learner and had a knack for acrobatics. The strength and flexibility it gave her were surprisingly useful in the field, allowing her to navigate tight spaces and pull off stunts most wouldn’t dare.
Ice skating, on the other hand, was her escape. The cool rush of the wind against her face, the sound of the blades cutting through the ice, it was her silent battlefield where she faced and conquered her inner demons, pushing herself beyond her limits.
Boomer, at sixteen years old, rescued a nine-month-old blind cat on the way home from school once, her father saw her with it. She was determined to care for the blind cat and named her, Shadow. The cat's full name is Moon Shadow. Naming it after the song Moon Shadow by Cat Stevens.
One of her father’s favourite songs. Thus, it became one of her many favourite songs as well. A classic ‘60s song amongst the many she would listen to on repeat. She listened to it when she got ready for bed, even after he passed months after her 24th birthday.
Her father’s death was a blow she never saw coming. A heart attack in his sleep, the doctor’s said it was peaceful. But for Boomer, it was anything but peaceful.
Her entire world had crumbled around her. The one constant, the one person she had always relied on, was no longer there.
It took a while to mourn her father, taking on many short term to keep herself from going off into the deep end. A distraction to keep her moving, both in mind, body and soul.
The farm remained her sanctuary, but now it was filled with the echoes of her father’s laughter, her aunt’s gentle guidance, and the ever-present hum of the bees.
She continued her military service with renewed vigor, channeling her grief into her work, seeking solace in the structure and discipline it provided.
Most of her dead dad jokes were made to help her cope with her father’s death. If he were around to hear them. He would most likely face palm himself. Followed by an even darker one in return.
“I loved my father. He’s got a darker sense of humour than I did and possibly ever have.” Boomer told her therapist. “I have my pet cats and my dogs. But I live on my own on the farm now.”
The therapist nodded, scribbling something down on her notepad. “How has that been for you?”
“Too quiet. I don’t particularly like the quiet as much as I used to. Maybe it was the fact I had other people around me?” Boomer answered, her voice filled with a tinge of sadness.
The therapist, Dr. Krovic, nodded thoughtfully. “It’s common to feel that way after a loss. The quiet can be deafening when you’re used to the noise of a loving home. Tell me, have you considered getting involved in any social activities? Maybe reconnecting with your mother?”
“If she wanted to, she would have made the effort ages ago.” Boomer replied.
The thought of her mother still brought a bitterness that lingered in the back of her throat. She knew the woman had moved on, living a life of luxury with her aunt’s husband, Marcus. It was a life that didn’t have room for her, not anymore.
Content Warning: Kyle Gaz Garrick the son of a billionaire from generations of old money, mental health issues touched on and briefly explored, philosophy explored to an extent, therapist and therapy session briefly inserted. Y/N is not metioned. Reader is called nicknames like: Firecracker.
Words: 5374
Masterlist
Credit for Dividers: @strangergraphics
Note: Italic writing are your thoughts are. In the case, I might need to tell you before you go ahead and decide to read this.
Note 2: Listening to Moonlight Sonata 1st movement is reccommended in my opinion. But any kind of classical music will fit as well.
Summary: You drape the black shirt over your body like a satin cloak owned by the angel of death and cut from the wings of the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, named Death.
You frowned as you looked at your paycheck, you didn’t know what to think of it. You weren’t used to having a large amount of money. Seventeen thousand pounds for the past month. It wasn’t something you felt like you could get used to anytime soon. You didn’t want to receive the pity of others.
You would rather die than receive the pity of others. Trust no one. Not even the people who call themselves your friend.
Do not mistake their kindness for affection. Show them nothing. Give them nothing.
You drape the black shirt over your body like a satin cloak owned by the angel of death and cut from the wings of the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, named Death.
A loud voice said, come and see. Behold a pale horse. The man that sat upon his steed was death, and hell followed him like a strong stench.
You had seen enough of death to know that the voice was a mere echo of your own thoughts. Taken the name of the Grim Reaper as it was yours to keep close to your heart and soul.
You didn’t care if it was never yours to have in the same sense of those of ‘the faith’. But what they wanted didn’t matter to you.
What you needed was far more substantial, in terms of ‘soul-searching’ and finding yourself all over again. What the fuck does finding ‘your truth’ mean, anyway? It sounds more like an excuse to spend frivolous amounts of money on a useless life coach they don’t need.
You had seen the horrors of war. The screams of the innocent, the smell of burning flesh, the cold touch of death, it all clung to you like a second skin. A reminder of what you had done. What you have been a part of and still work in, manners of death.
You might as well become the fourth horseman of the apocalypse at this stage of your life with all the lives you have taken by your own hand or by the hand of fate, which you had a say in.
The voice, it was, persistent, whispering sweet nothings of destruction into your ears, guiding you through the fog of war like a siren's call leading sailors to their watery graves.
My hands are covered in a sea of blood I will never wash away. Some nights I wake screaming, thinking I’m back there in the middle of the bodies of the people I have given the death sentence to.
I do not wish to be there again.
Ever.
Yet every night I am all the way back.
Over and over again. I see each of their faces painted, tattooed into my subconscious.
I want them to leave. Not only that, but I tell them to leave.
Yet they never seem to listen to me.
As if all I say is empowering them to remain in my mind.
Religion cannot save me.
Therapy is the route I have not taken seriously as of late. It is a sign.
I will go upon this path. Before hell itself consumes my soul.
Father, have I done the right thing?
Mother, are you ashamed of what I have unleashed?
I have created many men and women widows.
Created many children into a mass of orphans.
Yet the superiors of mine clap my shoulder and congratulate me as if I had done the greatest deed man could ever accomplish.
To me? It is the greatest burden I have dealt with.
The weight of their lives on my shoulders, a heavy crown of thorns digging deep into my skin. But I wear it, for the sake of what? The country? The queen? Or the fear that I might just be a monster in the eyes of society.
Yet nothing I could have done while you were alive would have been good enough for either of you.
The push to succeed, much like my older brothers before me. You neglected what I wanted in service to your own needs.
To your own wants and desires. Inside layers of a play written by William Shakespeare.
One where everyone has their part but me. One where everyone knows what their part entails and the consequences that come with it.
But I don't. I am the puppeteer whose strings are tangled, and the puppet is dancing to a tune I never knew.
But you can’t force people to like you. To love you. To adore you.
You cannot force people to do anything.
A dance where everyone expects you to know all the steps of once you have reached a certain point in your life.
“Dr. Stone. I was sincere in hoping therapy might unearth a lot of my….emotional baggage.” You told your doctor.
Your black skirt feeling more like a twisted contraption you were dying to take off by the time you were done in the doctor's office.
Her eyes were kind, understanding, a tad bit pitying. The kind of pity which always seem to make you want to scream. She nodded gently, her long platinum blonde hair brushing past her shoulders.
“It’s okay. Your feelings are valid. The first step is acknowledging that you need help.”
You always had ADHD, but your father didn’t believe it was a cause for alarm. Telling you, it was a hoax from ‘big pharma’ to get people to spend more on medication than to actually help people.
You felt like a burden. A failure. Especially when you were diagnosed with it at seven years old. He would yell at you, scream at you, tell you that you were just being lazy and that you needed to pay more attention.
How could you when everything was a blur of colours and sounds and words didn’t make sense?
When you were diagnosed with psychosis depression, in conjuncture of Synaesthesia and sensory processing disorder, it was like a sledgehammer to your already fragile sense of self. You felt like you were drowning in a sea of emotions and stimuli, with no one to throw you a lifeline.
Your father's dismissal of your struggles only served to fuel the fire of your isolation. You had always felt like an outsider in your own family, and now you had scientific evidence to prove it.
What good was evidence when the people who were supposed to support you didn’t believe in it?
A support system that couldn’t be bothered to support you. So, you learn to pickpocket from wealthy strangers in order to get the money you need for school supplies and food to eat during the school day. Lest your parents get a phone call from the school’s administrator to the child protective services.
The last thing you needed was to be taken from your home and placed somewhere else.
Keeping a sharp knife in your hoodie’s pocket, a silent reminder of what you were capable of unleashing unto others if you were given no other choice but to defend yourself.
“Cos I'm th' one gettin' in'a more fights than thee.” You reminded him with an eyebrow raised at him.
He chuckled before his expression grew serious. “Remember, it’s not for fights. It’s for when things get really bad. You're smarter than me, you’re smarter than all of us. Use it wisely.”
“Ta.” you muttered sheepishly in a bashful thanks.
It’s a long memory from years ago. Now, he is a married man with three daughters of his own, still living back in Yorkshire. After your father decided it was for the best that your brother, Caiden, had taken over the family farm. Leaving you to fend for yourself in the city with an alcoholic of a father who couldn’t even bother to remember your birthday.
You didn’t want to think what kind of desperation your mother would have needed to go through to leave you behind and cheat on your father repeatedly. Though, you know for a fact she didn’t care much about you or your older siblings, either. At least it was what your father drilled into you since you were sent off into the military at sixteen years old.
This is the least of your worries now.
The military charity dinner held by those in a level of wealth you were given the privilege to gawk at. Gaze upon in a hopeless wonder of knowing you were deemed less than in the grand scheme of the capitalist agenda.
“I don't know whether to be insulted at the gesture or wonder why they couldn't get someone else to attend in my place.” You told her as you stared at the window past her into the light grey cloudy sky.
“I could, no, I would be back there on the coastal shores in a heartbeat if they said they found someone else.” You continued to stare past her.
“I could be fishing for hours out there, and I wouldn’t have a care in the world.” You mentioned your diet of fresh fish, crab and the odd catfish if you were lucky enough to catch one.
Dr Stone nodded, scribbling notes on her clipboard, her pen moving swiftly, gliding across the page like an ice skater. As she processed your words.
“It’s important to find healthy ways to cope with your past traumas and the stress of your current job. Is there something you’ve always wanted to do, a hobby perhaps, that could help you find some peace?”
“I do MMA, Kickboxing, Axe-throwing, Javelin. I’m always studying anything to do with Electrical engineering. Even though I have doctorate now.”
“I haven’t found a reason to do much else other than fish as soon as I’m on leave. I leave out crab nets to catch crabs overnight. Primrose Valley is peaceful enough for someone who doesn't need much of anything.”
The doctor nodded, her gaze never leaving yours. “But what about something more…social? Something that doesn’t involve you being alone with your thoughts?”
“I don’t venture out much. I visit London for a two week vacation every three months. I come out more often if I need to get more clothes, shoes and tech for my workstation in my office.” You answered.
“My older brother said this military function was likely an excuse to parade around a poster child of a poor sod, a poverty-stricken soul who crawled her way to Colonel without wealth to back her up.” You mentioned.
Dr. Stone put her clipboard down and leaned slightly forward, her eyes searching yours. “And how does that make you feel?”
“One. It feels too convenient for him to say it. Two. I don’t know what to feel about it. Suspicious at the timing. But grateful for the opportunity at the same time.” You answered.
“I’m sorry for being so blunt, but I need to know where you’re coming from to help you better. How do you feel when you’re around others at these events?” She asked gently.
“I would have been offended if you weren’t blunt. It feels convenient they chose this time of year to do it. They could have chosen any other time of the year. But for some reason now felt like the ‘right time’. I feel like a zoo animal on display for them to gawk at and whisper about. Like they’re all expecting me to break down and show them the horrors of war. Like that’s what they want to see. That’s what makes them feel alive. That’s what makes them feel like they’re doing something noble by pitying me. Though, what is the use of pity now?”
You sigh heavily, feeling the weight of your words. “I feel like a fraud. Like I’m wearing a mask. A mask of success, of bravery, of strength. But underneath, I’m just a scared little girl who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing in a room full of lions dressed as sheep.”
Dr. Stone nods thoughtfully. “It’s normal to feel out of place in such situations. The military has its own culture, and transitioning to civilian life can be challenging, especially when you’re thrust into the spotlight like this. But remember, you earned your rank through hard work and sacrifice. You’re not just a story for them to tell. You’re a person with feelings and experiences that have shaped you into who you are today. It’s okay to set boundaries and to choose how much you wish to share with them. They may not understand, but that’s their problem, not yours.”
“Progress without work is not real progress.” you responded remembering the first session with her.
“How about trying to find someone to talk to at the dinner tonight? Maybe someone who you can connect with on a deeper level, someone who won’t see you as a charity case or a trophy, but as a human being with a story to tell.” Dr. Stone suggested, her voice a gentle nudge towards the social horizon you had long avoided.
“Only one way to find out right?” you sighed thinking of it.
The military charity dinner was held in a grand ballroom, the kind you only saw in movies. Chandeliers sparkled like diamonds hanging from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden light on the marble floor.
The walls were lined with portraits of important figures, their stern faces watching over the event like guardians of the past. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the murmur of polite conversations.
You felt more like you were going through an outer body experience than actually attending the dinner. The room was filled with the who's who of society.
All dressed in their finest attire. The clinking of silverware and the soft laughter echoed around you.
A stark contrast to the chaos you were used to in the battlefield. You wore a sleek black dress that hugged your toned body. The fabric whispering against your skin as you moved.
It was a stark reminder of the armor you once wore. The one that actually kept you safe.
Looking for a seat painted. Coated. Dyed. Twisted inside the depths of both darkness and shadow.
The dinner was a masquerade ball of sorts, the kind where everyone wore their masks of charity and compassion while their true faces remained hidden behind a veil of wealth and privilege.
You walked through the crowd, the heels of your black stilettos clicking against the marble like the ticking of a time bomb, drawing glances that ranged from curious to pitying.
You felt like a wolf in sheep's clothing, armed with your sharp wit and the stories no one genuinely wanted to hear.
You were sipping on a potent amber liquid in the corner out of the view of those who would rather pity you from afar than muster the courage to speak to you.
The gentle tapping upon your shoulder you were determined to ignore. Yet as you pretended to ignore them as if they were not quite there. A deep voice, the accent of the queen’s English breaking through his lips as if they parted in gentle parting waves rather than words.
“Excuse me, colonel, if I may, your presence here is quite the talking point.”
“I suppose it would be. Most oddities of the norm are spoken of. Are they not? Those who do not fit within usually stand out as clear as daylight or a black sheep born from white.” You responded fixing the leather gloves enclosing your hands from view.
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that seemed to fill the empty spaces in the room. “I suppose that’s true. But you, Colonel, you’re more like a diamond in the rough, aren’t you? Shimmering brilliantly amidst the coal of our mundane existence.”
“I find the apt description of a black sheep more befitting. A black sheep need not take dye to turn into a different colour, it is simply born that way. Wool worth more because it doesn't need to change into a different shade. It is just as it is meant to be but is often discarded for not fitting in with the flock.” You replied, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips.
“I’m Kyle Garrick. But you can call me Gaz. I’ve heard quite the tales of your valour, Colonel.” He extended a hand, his grip firm but not overpowering, a sign of respect.
“Of that I have no doubt.” You took his hand and shook it firmly, looking into his eyes without blinking, as if to prove that you were not intimidated by his status. “Tales are often exaggerated to suit the teller’s needs. And I suspect that in this room, the truth is as elusive as a mirage in the desert of deception.”
Gaz chuckled again, his smile genuine. “Fair point. But I’ve seen enough of the world to know that true grit isn’t something that can be faked. So, tell me, Colonel, what brings a diamond in the rough to an event like this?”
“Other than being invited to it?” You questioned the young man.
He nodded in understanding, his eyes never leaving yours. “Indeed. Besides that, I mean. Is there something you’re hoping to get out of tonight?”
“I suppose I don't know. London is nosier than Primrose Valley. Lacks the sea air I have become accustomed to.” you answered.
Gaz leaned against the wall beside you, his eyes scanning the room as if he were assessing the situation. “I can understand that. The city can be...overwhelming at times. But there’s also something to be said for the energy here. The constant movement, the stories hiding in every corner. It’s like a battlefield in a different way, isn’t it? Just with less danger and more champagne.”
“You are just as likely to drown in it as to swim inside it.” you quipped. “Also, I don't know what battlefield you've been on. Most of mine have been as hectic as the daylight savings.”
Gaz’s eyes searched yours, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. “You’ve seen a lot, haven’t you?”
“One would certainly hope so. I started at sixteen at the behest of my father. My mother left one night, and she hadn't come home back since.” you answered.
Gaz’s eyes widened slightly, and his smile faltered. “That’s...young. Too young, really. But I suppose necessity is the mother of all invention, isn’t it?”
“Necessity breeds innovation. Innovation breathes in the soul of the desperate.” You said, taking a sip of your drink, your eyes never leaving his. The liquid burned down your throat like a trail of fire, a comforting pain, a familiar one. “Mr. Garrick, why do you find yourself here this evening, you do not strike me as a charitable soul.”
He chuckled, a sound that seemed to resonate with the very walls of the ballroom. “You’re right, Colonel. I’m not exactly the charity type.
But, my father’s a high-ranking general, and he believes in supporting our troops.
Plus, it’s a good way to network, keep an eye on the new recruits, and maybe, just maybe, find a bit of the excitement I’ve missed since leaving active duty.
And you? What’s your reason for being here?”
“Do I require one?” you answered.
“No, I suppose not. But it’s always interesting to know what brings people together in a place like this. Besides, I find that the most intriguing people often have the most intriguing stories to tell. And I’d wager yours is quite the tale.” Gaz said, his eyes still holding yours, a challenge in his gaze.
“Not quite for those who cannot stomach the taste copper.” you responded.
“I see. Then tell me, what do you do in your free time?” Gaz asked, his gaze never leaving yours.
“MMA, Kickboxing, Axe-throwing, Javelin. I’m always studying anything to do with Electrical engineering. I haven’t found a reason to do much else other than fish as soon as I’m on leave. I leave out crab nets to catch crabs overnight. Primrose Valley is peaceful enough for someone who doesn't need much of anything.” you answered looking at the ornate fork on the table.
Gaz’s eyes lit up at the mention of MMA and kickboxing. “Now that’s a side of you I wasn’t expecting. Most women in the military I know prefer the more…traditional forms of relaxation. How did you get into that?”
“I'm a close combat specialist as well as a sniper. Best of both. A combination of two deadly worlds. I enjoy the rush and the discipline it brings. It keeps my mind sharp and my body in check. Plus, it’s a good way to let off steam. As for electrical engineering, it’s always been a passion of mine. Something about the chaos of circuits and wires makes sense to me when nothing else does. It’s like a puzzle, but instead of a picture, you get to build something that actually works.” You replied, your eyes never leaving the fork.
“Fascinating. You're a woman of many talents, Colonel.” Gaz said, his voice filled with genuine interest.
“You have to be. To survive and thrive in this type of world you need it. You require it. You must find yourself utterly complete inside and out.” you replied with a shrug of your shoulders.
“Ah, I see. So, tell me, what’s the most thrilling part of your job?” Gaz asked, his gaze still on you, as if he was trying to piece together the puzzle of your life.
“The technology. It adapts faster than we can ever learn to use it. Delightful to see the older generations scramble around as they shriek, 'How do I use this?' in different words. But the question always remain the same.” you snorted.
“But the most thrilling part would be when you can outsmart it. When you can use it in ways it wasn’t intended to be used. That’s when you know you’re truly ahead of the game. Like using a smartphone as an explosive device or a simple USB stick to bring down a network. The simplicity is the best part. It’s like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, except the rabbit is a bomb and the hat is your enemy’s security system.”
Gaz’s eyes widened, a spark of intrigue lighting up his expression. “Remarkable. It’s not often you find someone who can appreciate the beauty in chaos quite like that.”
“Chaos is everywhere. From the sea, to the sky and the creatures just below the ground. To the very sciences. We know less of our ocean than we do about our moon.”
“Indeed. But chaos is predictable if you know the patterns. And when it comes to technology, I’ve found that the patterns are quite…beautiful, in their own destructive way. Like a tornado, you see it coming, you know the path of destruction, but there’s a certain…elegance to it, isn’t there?” Gaz replied, his voice low and intense.
“Not quite. It is safe to assume we know because of what we already do know.” you pointed out. “A fool assumes he has all the answers. A fool denies truths revealed later to writhe in his 'limitless' ignorance. A smart man knows he does not know everything. A smarter one knows the right questions to ask to find the answers he does not know yet. And the smartest knows when not to ask at all, for fear of what he might find out.”
Gaz nodded thoughtfully, his gaze still locked with yours. “A philosopher and a warrior, Colonel. Quite the combination. I can see why they picked you as the face of this event. You have a way with words that could charm the birds from the trees.”
“My therapist recommended most of the books I have read on Existentialism Absurdist philosophy. It made life seem to look like it had more sense than it truly does. Like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, or a goldfish than happens to be koi fish. It's all in how you look at it.” you said with a shrug.
As the dinner came to a close, you were left with your thoughts and memories stirred up. As you walked over to your car, the cool London night air slapped you with reality. You were still the Grim Reaper, haunted by the ghosts of your past. You looked at you car, a 1966 black dodge charger, a symbol of your old life.
As you placed your vinyl leather handbag, until you heard your name, your heart skipped a beat. You turned around to see a man in a sharp navy blue tuxedo with a crimson tie walking towards you, a smile playing on his lips.
“Colonel, I hope I’m not interrupting your quiet moment.”
“If you call heading back to a hotel room as a 'quiet moment' then I would hate to see what you define as a party.” you replied dryly.
The man chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Fair enough. But I must admit, I found your company quite refreshing tonight. A breath of fresh, if not salty, sea air.” He extended his hand once again. “John Price, at your service. And before you ask, no, I'm not related to the hotel chain.”
“I was thinking of of a tinned fish brand than a hotel chain.” You said as you took his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Price.”
Price's grip was firm, but not overpowering. His smile remained, but his eyes searched yours, as if looking for something hidden beneath the surface. “Please, call me John. And the pleasure is all mine, Colonel. I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Gaz. Quite insightful, really. Rare to find someone who understands the complexities of our line of work.”
“I would hope so getting shot at at the ripe age of 17 is not something I would have wanted my own children to go through.”
“Indeed, it’s a path that shapes us, whether we wish it or not. Tell me, Colonel, are you ever haunted by the ghosts of your past?” John Price asked, his voice carrying a weight that suggested he was all too familiar with such hauntings.
“John. No one can kill someone and come back the same as they were. It’s like trying to walk through a forest fire unscathed. The heat changes you, the smoke fills your lungs and alters your breathing forever. You’re never quite the same.” You replied, your voice a mix of honesty and resignation.
John’s smile remained, but his eyes grew serious. “Wise words, Colonel. And I suspect you speak from experience. I’ve seen enough of those fires to know that you can’t escape them untouched. But sometimes, those ghosts can be…useful. They can drive us to do things we never thought possible, push us to be better than we ever imagined we could be. And sometimes, just sometimes, they give us the strength to keep walking when we feel like we can’t go on anymore. Have you ever felt that way?”
“On and off. Most days yes. On others I want to be on my boat and fish for two hours.” you answered.
John's eyes searched yours, a silent understanding passing between the two of you. “Fishing, huh? I’ve always found there’s something peaceful about being out on the water, just you and the fish. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos we deal with in our line of work, isn’t it?”
“Nothing like catching a fish, cutting it up and eating for dinner later.” you smirked.
John chuckled, the sound echoing in the emptying ballroom. “Indeed. But tell me, do you ever find that the quiet of the water gets too…quiet? That you miss the rush?”
“Covert ops. Those ones are the ones I liked most of all. Its the combination of the James Bond spy feeling and the reality of it all. You get to save the world and look good doing it, minus the fancy cars and the women of course. Just me and my trusty boat, a fishing pole, and a whole lot of patience.” you said, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips.
John’s eyes lit up, a spark of shared experience in his gaze. “Ah, the quiet before the storm. The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the catch.
It’s quite a rush, isn’t it? The adrenaline pumping through your veins as you wait for the right moment to strike, knowing that one wrong move could mean the end of the mission. And yet, when you succeed, it’s like nothing else in the world.”
You ended up giving him your number to him. You don't know why you did. You felt compelled to do it. It was a choice you have decided to do in the heat of the moment.
Thinking nothing of it. As you drove to the hotel you booked to stay in for the duration of your stay in London. It wasn’t as nearly draped in luxury expenditures as one of the wealthy would have.
However, it wasn’t the cheapest either. It was the perfect kind of ‘safe’ middle ground you could find. It was enough to satisfy your needs without making you feel guilty for spending your hard-earned savings.
You decided to text your friend to check on your home along the coast. You weren't sure what to feel about this London trip. It was a new thing for you. A time for just yourself. And your mind. Everything else is extra.
