This took way too long in coming and for that I am sorry. I want to thank the awesome SevenSeize for helping me by editing this.

Now, the long awaited return of the super spies of sexiness. The Regulars

The Regulars: Chapter 11

It's a pretty nice bar just outside Miami. While not quite resplendent, there is a spice in the air to remind the people who come in from good jobs toiling towards greatness that they still live in a beautiful part of the world. It'll be a few minutes now before that crowd starts drifting in. That's all Brian will need.
The sun is harsh against his back as he opens the door. He makes a show of lighting his cigarette and taking that first draw even as he steps in. "Sir, you can't smoke in here." The bartender tells him with a kindly professionalism.
"Oh, if that's your worst problem by the time I leave, I'll count us both lucky."
The bartender, Lloyd, is not a frail man. In his eight years working here he's seen this place deal with its share of interesting people and he knows to play the game until he sees just how interesting this stranger is.
Brian leans down and supports himself on one long arm against the bar while the other hand holds tight to the burning, noxious ember. He takes another draw and exhales it while deep in thought. "This is a nice place. Seems like somewhere someone new in town would come to make a connection."
Lloyd looks him over. "The kind of connection you're looking for, you'd have better luck downtown." This makes Brian smile.
"Is this where I lose my temper? I know who I am. I know who you are." That's a lie but it doesn't sound it. "What I'm interested in is an influx talent for jobs no one's dumb enough to use locals for. From what I'm told this is where they meet and greet."
Lloyd turns serious. "I just work here." He lays down the glass he was polishing and looks extremely ready. This amuses Brian further. He makes his own move. He tosses away his current cigarette and while reaching in his suit jacket for the pack makes sure the holster holding his especially scary looking gun is clear as day. No one's fool, Lloyd decides to live to see his next paycheck. "There's a new Russian crew in town. They come in here, don't talk to anyone and drink exactly as much as the stereotype would lead you to believe."
"Discipline with the drink is such a rare trait. But then again look who I'm telling that." With a smile he lights his latest cigarette and lets that first puff out into the air. "If I didn't believe you I'd be putting this out on your oh so polished bar. If I come back with less reason to believe you, use your imagination." He turns to leave, crushing out the spent cigarette with a sweep of his foot. And when he steps back outside it's another beautiful night in Miami.

It's less beautiful in uptown Dublin but Penguin was never the fair weather type. In nice weather people are up and about with any or no purpose at all. In a mean drizzle like this a youngish man with a days beard growth, light gray coat and the slight scent of training would only be walking the same path as you from a respectable distance if he had a reason. The kid is good at what he does and they were smart to send someone like him. Penguin can feel true spook from a mile away. Who's that clever? He'll have to ask. That pub up ahead looks like a nice place to talk.
The closer he gets the nicer it looks. It's the right ratio of real quaint to tourist quaint to attract the casual drinker. Bet you anything there's a picture of a farm inside.
But his first glance inside isn't at the walls. It's at the crowd. Just as he had hoped the bulk of it was made of young tourist types come to do the one thing they know Ireland for. There were one or two locals who looked bemused but not enough to venture to another watering hole.
Penguin is lucky enough to find a seat at the bar, where he orders a delightful local draught. While sipping at it he does take a moment to check the atmosphere. There's an overall air of joviality and the barkeep had, likely through practice, taken no offence to yet another American crowding the place. On one wall there's a picture of a field that might be part of a farm but not surely enough to call it. There's one thing he noticed the moment he came in, that the place was far too crowded to make getting a seat at the bar this easy.
Almost on cue there's a tap on his shoulder and a stranger, very politely, returning from the bathroom and looking to reclaim his spot. Penguin nods with a smile and relinquishes the spot, drink still in hand. Such nice people here. Damn shame.
This is plenty of time for his follower to case the entrance and decide to come inside and make sure he hadn't slipped out some back door. And there he is in the corner of Penguins eye. Penguin takes a sip of his drink and moves towards the back as if for a seat. Along his way he passes some young men standing and conversing. As he passes he bumps one exactly right in the elbow to make him jump and have his glass empty on the back of the nice young lady here with the athletic fellow. As he's rushing to explain the long past interloper, hilarity ensues.
Chaos, as a rule, does not take long to break out. The fight is joined by one and another until people with no idea what happened have chosen sides. The stranger at the door stands apart not knowing what he should do. Should he leave? Should he make for whatever exit was being smoke screened? Should he....."We need to talk." Penguin cracks against his jaw with a hard fist and then pulls him down into his knee. Once he's well and truly out Penguin props him on his shoulder and exits the building, looking to all the world like he's helping his sloshed buddy out of a bad situation.

In London, Imp sits alone drinking whiskey in a pub down the street from his apartment. He's been here before but today is special. Today is his birthday. It's his second birthday since he moved here. It's his second birthday since anyone in his family had talked to him. It's his second birthday since it all fell away. It's his second birthday since he stayed off the street by accepting a job from someone who didn't care he'd never have a medical license in all his life. Tonight he is determined to drink until that time is melted away. He drains his glass faster than a weakling could and then orders the next.

They're spies. Super and sexy. Based off poli regs. I swear I'll start getting these out quicker.

The Regulars Chapter 10

Two men point guns at each other while another bleeds. The two gunmen owe each other their lives many times over. One was chosen by the other for a team made of people who wherever they come from are the best at what they are. In this moment where there's time to think there is a prideful curiosity as to would the other pull the trigger.
"My home. My children. Do you have any idea?"
"No." Staff answers. If he should have hesitated he didn't.
R.G collects himself further, if only to form a sentence. "My babies had to see me kill."
"And me having to shoot you won't make that go away." Staff delivers with an absolute deadpan. He knows that the only way from this moment is to deny it momentum.
"I'll need a better reason." Good. R.G's warrior pride is trying to show itself under the rage.
If it has to come to this at least it still comes to words. "If you run it's without them." R.G is interested. His extended arm visibly tenses. "You know who they're with. If you kill me, even if you then manage to get out of this building, you'd never get to them. So I can kill you or you can kill me. Either way they won't have a father tomorrow. Or you can remember what side you're on."
R.G lowers the gun trained on Staff. Staff reciprocates the trust by pulling his own weapon skyward. The incredibly fortunate man between them has had the sense to pass out but is still clearly breathing. They'll still have to know what he knows. "Lowe" Staff speaks into his headpiece. "Lowe, we have a bleeder. Send the locals in with a medic."
Lowe straightens his posture in the lush cloth bound chair "On it, chief." He switches channels and gives the order in seconds. Upon switching back youthful curiosity gets the best of him "Why don't we have a medic?"
"One problem at a time!" Lowe flinches. "Are we up-linked?"
"Oh yeah." Lowe turns his attention back to the computer monitors. The terrorists had clearly planned on digging in. That they set up with systems in the rather appointed head office had been most fortuitous. From the screens in front of him information speeds by symbolizing its trip to H.Q and Kiether. Something flashes by his eye, and then something else.
Lowe was born with a gift and trained to hone it to a razor's edge. It doesn't take long for a master of surveillance to recognize a pattern. When next he speaks both wind and bravado have been knocked out of him. "We just got more problems."

London:

One relying on stereotypes would call this a British day. There's a dull haze to it and that unique sluggish bite to the air. All the same it's a day from grim business. He considers himself calmly before turning his gaze from the rain streaked window. "And in addition to offering our full condolences to the families of the murdered workers Sol Incorporated would also like to extend it's gratitude to the local anti-terror unit. Due to their bravery we can at least take comfort that whatever goal we'd been struck towards will not see fruition."
"Very well, sir." Jennifer, his long time assistant, takes down these final words. No mention of the stolen truck?" The question adds a momentary crease to her soft brow. While her striking features might have landed her this same job some places the factor of her lasting employment here was a tactical prudence. She didn't lose time from her work worrying about that of others.
"No need." He says flatly. "The last thing we need added to this is consumer fear that his next Sol brand product has passed through unsafe hands." He considers this further for a long moment. Have any and all records of the vehicle and its contents on my desk before you go home. If anything does turn amiss I want to be on top of it personally."
"Of course."
"And tell Public Relations to have the release sent out within the hour. That will be all, thank you." A respectful nod and Jennifer is on her way. Michael turns his attention once more to the window, or rather the world on the other side of it. The pawns have been sacrificed and now the knights come into position.

Regulars H.Q

What Lowe had gleamed and Kiether had confirmed was not good. The terrorists had files on each Regulars agent. They were well detailed yet not so much so that they lent perspective on where the hell they came from. Seven had deemed this worth telling the higher ups and for once there were no arguments. Staff glances up from the computer to see Pro approaching him with an assault rifle in one hand and an expensive coffee in the other. It's never good news when he has both.
Pro lays down the rifle across Staffs desk with a clunk before taking a long gulp off his drink." This is serious stuff man."
A summary glance confirms this so far but there's no point is wasting seconds on what he's about to be told.
"Basically, we've left the bargain basement." Pro says before another sip that you'd really think would end the cups sooner. "And then we skip right past the knock offs and house brands to the stuff your mother says you're just paying for the label."
"So, they're well equipped?" It's an honest question. While being shot at with them no one had looked for the model number.
"Oh yeah, and that's not even the best part." Pro produces a folded paper from some hidden pocket and undoes it for Staff's inspection.
"They found 9mm's in the workers we found in the supply freezer. A room full of guys holding these." He indicates the gun, in case someone forgot "And someone was filling guys with pistol rounds. One of them in particular." Another paper comes from somewhere. Coroners report. One of the bodies had 7 rounds scattered in it. Given the distribution and blood loss it's surmised he was the one who painted that hallway. Someone had fun killing him."
Sadism is what it is but in this line it can't be called surprising. Pro empties his cup, tosses it into the trashcan and then just stands there. This mean's there's more to say and it's going to be interesting.
"Yes?" Pro takes the cue to produce yet another coroners report. Staff doesn't bother pretending to read it.
"Yes indeedy. This is off one of the guys we shot. Turns out we shot him before."
This just became interesting. "Examiner found a patch-up done on the guys' leg. He looked further in and it wasn't just a patch-up. The bullet went in deep, did some bad things to veins, someone went in after it and long story short that's why we had to shoot him again."
This was the good part, so to speak. Just about anyone can give a bunch of goons weapons. An ever so slightly smaller pool could give them good weapons. But the guns, plus the Intel, plus the forethought to put said goons back together means they're dealing with someone smart who's in it for the haul.
Neither of them notices as Seven walks by. She glances at the large gun on Staff's desk and it briefly occurs to her than in some offices that would look unusual.
She leans over the desk as the courtesy of announcing herself. Pro needs no telling, takes his toy back up and gets the hell out of Dodge. "I just got off the phone. I'm going to need you call everyone into the conference room."
"What'd they say?" Staff asks with destined to be short lived nonchalance.
"I'll tell you when we get to the conference room."
Starting to resist. "I'm right here."
Seven takes a deep, measured breath. "Please just get into the damn conference room. I could make that an order."
Oh boy.

Chapter 9 or the ass kicking adventures of the super ass kicking spies based off the politics regulars. Ass is kicked

Two nights ago:
Eight men kneel, bound and gagged at their place of work. In front and behind them both armed men stand in position. The automatic weapons slung loosely over tensed shoulders give the air of a secure readiness. Their faces while almost uniformly hard-bitten bear no zealotry or joy at their task. This adds shock to the already horrific glee on the man joining them.
Father Venom struts through the loading bay door flanked by two attendants. The door behind them closes with that very certain metallic clunk. His eyes are lazy behind sunglasses that cost more than some men's cars. His clothes are tightly tailored and simply extravagant in that way only the truly rich know how to show. He clicks to a stop several paces in front of the doomed men, smiles with hastily gathered satisfaction.
"Can we be heard from here?" he asks the air.
"No sir," He's answered by the man to his left. "The building is completely sealed."
"Very good." The words roll in his mouth with some pleasing flavor. "Interruptions would not do at all. Gun!"
The man who answered his inquiry holds out his briefcase undoes it's fastenings. As it opens light shines upon a classically inlaid Luger. Fanciful designs dance upon the precious metals of it's outer casing. This piece had never seen war. This piece had been made to present to some noble or dignitary and sit behind glass. It was never meant to be fired but through the pride of true craftsman ready it ever was. And today is it's day.
Venom picks up the weapon calmly and gives the handle in his grip a loving squeeze. With a harsh motion the chamber is loaded and with a dramatic flair of his arm the weapon is aimed. His first shot strikes straight and true into the head of the first bound man. The others, shaken from their frightened stupors yell through their gags. Venom cocks his head back and laughs, adding a timber to the baseline. The next man dies from a strike to the heart, slumping over long before the blood gets to well on his shirt. The next two are mirror piece headshots, one to the left eye and the next to the right eye. When the next man strains against his bonds all it does is earn him a clean hit to his jugular. This time blood comes before the death. The sixth man takes a bullet between the eyes but to be honest closer to one than the other.
A moment of study follows. The forgiveness of the imprecision displeases Father Venom. He sneers as if among the spoils of dead men something smells bad. With a sigh he takes several steps back, more than doubling the range of his next shot. His attendants join him dutifully, if only because he wouldn't wait for them. He cocks his arm straight and considers his quarry. The man who has just seen six of his fellows die strains against his bounds, frantically tipping and flexing. His movement is complicating the shot.
"Hold him!." Father Venom screams. After a moment of silent deliberations one of the soldiers closest to the victims volunteers and grips the man below each shoulder, gripping tight against his desperation. Venom takes the time to enjoy this stability. He lines his shot up and fires. The man is hit in the upper abdomen. He cries futilely. From this death will come, but not immediately. Whether or not this was the intent will never be known to another soul. He's simply pleased with the hit.
One target remains. He opts for folly. "Untie him."
"Sir?" his attendant asks.
"I grow bored of sitting targets. Untie this man.. I will shoot as he runs. If he proves more a quarry than I a marksman mayhaps I'll even let him go! Do you like that thought, little man?" It's assumed his moans are agreement.
"Sir, this is highly irregular. If on the off chance this man gets loose he could jeopardize the entire operation. He could identify us."
Father Venom points towards the lackey with his gun and casually inquires "How would he do that? We are not wearing nametags, François." As if in shock he brings his free hand to his mouth. "Oh no! I have said your name. Your identity is compromised and this imperils the mission!" He smiles grimly. As soon as Françoise has the chance to know his fate it is carried out. The final round in Father Venom's weapon passes upward through his heart and he's watched as his body falls. Venom expends the spent magazine over the man without a drop of malice and it bounces against his belly.
"Magazine!" His remaining attendant behaves professionally in presenting a fresh load to his employer. As it snaps into place he turns his attention back to captive audience. "Untie him."
The soldier who had been holding the last man undoes the bonds and steps aside. The last of these poor souls shakes with unrelenting awareness. He knows how this ends. He say how it ended for the others. He knows there's no way it cannot end the same for him. Despite all this, whatever it is that fuels a human compels him to stand.
Father Venom speaks without ever parting the teeth behind his grin. "Run." The man turns and runs a few scant steps before a burning hits his side. He grasps the wound on instinct and looks back to his killer. "Yes, I am still here, move along." He does so and almost makes it to the door before another round finds his upper thigh. He grunts through the pain and manages to turn the knob, hobbling through. Father Venom follows, cheerfully mimicking the mans limp. He takes another shot that comes right about the man's ear. His own fault for shooting in motion. With wanton determination he whips off his golden frames for clarity. His foe starts for the corner and a round catches in the bone of his shoulder. He presses against the wall in an animalistic attempt to keep moving, to keep alive even as his own mind screams at him that it cannot be. His hunter follows but he does not hear the footsteps. All he knows is his path. He barely knows his good leg has been taken from under him until he falls. Still he will not have the sense to die. Somehow he musters strength in his good arm to shakingly lift his head from the floor, only to have it fly back downwards. In this he is finally dead and entertainment
"I trust you lot can work around the holes." Father Venom says casually as he makes his way out, accompanied by his now lone assistant, "If you need me I will return to London." He waves his gun in a slow circle across the room. "Is there any man here who should not know of me in London?" No one is stupid enough to answer. "Very well." As such he goes along his way.

Today:

Information lifted from the would be kidnapper had proven to be good, leading to the staging area for something much larger. Over the weekend a Sol Solutions storage depot had been overtaken, the few maintenance staff dealt with "efficiently." Calls from loved ones were answered saying they'd left as normal. The ruse wouldn't last long. It was never meant to.
Bullets bite into the wood of the packing crate with the sound of a loud cough. In the instant between bursts Staff springs from his shelter and one shot answers many. He returns to his position pinned under fire as more guards spill through door.
Across the complex the man guarding a door needs only to turn away from it for a second for D.K to slam it open over him, shattering his nose against the cement wall. D.K takes this excuse for a man up with one arm and holds it in front of himself as others come to answer the commotion. One by one they're chopped down, some lasting long enough to return fire, which at least serves to stop his shield from kicking.
Some distance away Seven's motorcycle hums as she comes up behind the procured delivery truck that had not stopped for police sirens. She swerves out of the way as another burst of submachine gun fire dances onto the road. Drawing her pistol she fires and the body of a man dangles from the window and eventually falls out of it, fatefully forcing her to swerve again. A call comes in on her headset.
"What?"
Staff's voice is barely audible over the roar of gunfire. "We're being herded. We need backup."
Seven sighs in dissatisfaction. . "I'll be there." She synchs with Wizard on the road ahead.
"Hola."
"They're going to have to be all yours." The plan had been to flank it and force the stop from both ends.
"I appreciate your faith in me." Even over the grainy connection the swarthy arrogance is clear. There's time to deal with that later.
"Out." She turns sharply and without slowing. No way they're getting the satisfaction of dieing on her watch.
Back at the depot men are arming themselves en masse in a makeshift armory. In the center of the room a seal from the ventilation shaft crashes down with R.G on top of it. Ducking into a spin he opens a cone of fire with his twin mp7s without aiming, without needing to. Several men are taken down by the sheer volume of fire. The few that remain rush to the hallway to at least put up a fight. R.G, forgoing his usual suit and now dressed in bare armor recalling his S.W.A.T days drops his spent machine guns and draws two Glocks from chest holders, setting each on full auto. He dives into the hallway, arms stretched, firing at anyone careless enough to be there. Upon landing he rolls into a ready kneel. One lays dead from his attack and one other lives. With mechanical precision a burst is sent into the mans back, just low of the right shoulder. He falls, crying out from the sheer pain. R.G seems unaffected.
Staff's shelter is failing. Multiple volleys have eaten away at the crate and left his fate to whatever's inside. Lying in wait is all he can do. He has a gun in both hands, ready. Across the room Pro is in very much the same position, knowing better than anyone that the machinations must have their time and place. Of course being shot at didn't help his deep contemplations.
Outside an open shipping container makes a perfect incidental ramp. Seven guns her bike and hurls herself at the window. Even as it crashes around her she never closes her eyes. Her helmet and tight riding leathers protect her body from the shards of glass. Just as she hit's the floor Pro's perfectly timed flash bang bursts behind her, blinding the distracted foes. Swerving to a stop she opens fire as both Pro and Staff do the same from their posts, laying waste. It's a shame the term shock and awe is taken, as Pro is known to say.
The two men emerge and rush to Seven as an advancing front. Once the scene seems clear Staff dials up the others. D.K pronounces his health, verbosely, one might add, but there's no answer from R.G. Lowe pronounces that his channel is fine. "Damn it." He mutters mostly to himself. He could have known not to let him back in the field this soon. If the idiot threw himself in and got himself killed this was on his head. He tells the others to stay here. Seven thinks better about reminding him of the chain of command right now and allows him to go off playing cowboy. She knows the last thing he's going to be stupid about is someone else's life.
R.G stands over the wounded assailant with an iced glare. "What do you know? Who are you?" He gets only pained gasps as an answer. "You can do better than that." He kneels down, pressing the barrel of his pistol onto an existing wound, causing blood to well around it.
From the other side of the hall he hears a loud "NO!" He whips his arm around and his free gun is staring straight down Staff's revolver. "We don't do that."

Chapter 8 of the sexy adventures of the super spies who are also sexy and based on the poli regulars. Happy late birthday, guy in the last segment

It takes roughly twenty minutes of commuter driving to get from Regulars H.Q to R.G's house in the suburbs, meaning it took Wizard just over five. By the time they get there the local police have already arrived. The street is awash with porch lights allowing curious neighbors, some from their windows and some more bold, a view of the bloody scene.
The front lawn is littered with shattered glass and the still cooling bodies of several attackers. Staff and Wizard exit the car in a controlled rush. Things have to be done but nothing will be helped by running. That thought does little to calm men even as hard as they. This is family. This is home. This should be refuge. But tonight it's a lions den and the king is beckoning them to enter, in his underwear.
"What do we know?"
"Four inside. I didn't have time to count lawn ornaments." Even now R.G cracks wise.
Staff, emboldened by this, turns. "Wizard, go find out what the locals know." Though it's not strictly in his job description he nods and walks off to do so. Staff watches him navigate his way through the larger glass shards before moving on.
"Are they safe?" Rhetorical. They wouldn't be talking otherwise.
"They're fine. Ashley's upstairs with the kids. There's a cop with them."
"Good, good." More cars arrive and Regulars pour out of them. Staff proceeds to do what he does second best. " Lowe, sweep the house. Any eyes or ears they had in there I want to know about. Pro, crime scene. Fluff, get a street map and figure out how the hell they got in and out of Dodge this fast without anyone noticing."
"Staff" Wizard calls out from the front lawn. "We've got a breather." One of the assailants, despite bleeding from two holes in his side, seems to have gotten lucky. The emergency workers have started flocking to him. Staff would send the team medic with them but they don't have a medic. They should.
Back to action. "D.K, go with them and as soon as he's stable scare the shit out of him."
"Right on" he says in a gruff voice. The need everyone is feeling to go to war is most apparent on the big mans face. He would never cross the line, but there's no need to advertise that.
As the team spreads attention goes back onto the man himself. "Are you sure you're alright? Do you need to be checked out?"
"They gave me the once over right before you got here. I'm fine"
"We should have someone talk to the kids. They have to be scared ,, right ....."
"The kids think I'm Wolverine wrapped in Jesus. They'll be ok." R.G's eyes have turned back to their usual steel. "Just tell me we're going to get who sent them."
"We will, man. We will." Staff answers just as earnestly.
"Good. Now can I please go put my pants on?"
"That would be for the best."
Even with the crisp air, cover of downy snow, there's a rustic warmth to the German countryside that people who know only one thing about the country will never understand. Nitro is infatuated with neither the warmth or the cold and can only keep his mind on the makeshift rope of bed sheets providing him long overdue egress from the Baron's country villa.
Last night had gone perfectly according to the plan. He'd joined the lavish birthday festivities being held for the Baron and managed to make his way to the encrypted computer files detailing some very interesting military contacts. When the Baroness, a transplanted Australian TV weather girl, found him in the inner chambers improvisation had been called for. Cut to the next morning dangling by sheets out the back window as the Baron and his hangers on come in through the front.
Just like that his mobile starts to ring. "Blast it." He whispers as he struggles for necessary purchase to dig the damn thing out and turn it off. Having the bad habit of checking before answering he glances at the title screen. It's Keither. "Bloody hell he'd be calling for?"
That momentary distraction was all it took for someone on the other side of the window to wonder what they heard. . Nitro has only the time to disconnect the call and drop the phone in his pocket before shimmying upwards out of sight. The window sounds to be sticking as he deftly gathers up the excess line. The pink flutters out of view on the gust of the shutters being forced open. The Baron himself pokes his head out the window to see what's what. When there's nothing there he does the rational thing and hangs out further, making the offense a foot or two more accessible. Directly above, Nitro holds the loops of sheet in an iron grip and just waits hoping the old man will pass through. No need for trouble. Of course if push comes to shove there is his gun but without the foresight of a silencer that would bring every guard in the place down on his head. Of course none of this would be an issue if not for the dally with the Baroness but really one only has himself to blame for not bringing needed protection. Long seconds pass. The Baron seems satisfied nothing is here. Once again the ringing starts.
The Baron snaps his head up in just enough time to see Nitro let loose the extra cord and plant the soul of his shoe hard into his face, snapping his neck. The impact jerks the window and the heavy pane slides down, clamping the body in place. Nitro tests his free foot on a section of the dead man's chest and decides it's secure enough to take a break for a phone call.
"Hello Keither."
"Hey man, is it a bad time or can you talk?"
"I'm hanging on your every word." Nitro answers so dryly you'd need the visual to get it.
"Someone's targeting agents. You should be on the look out."
Seriously now "do I still close the existing file?"
"Of course, how'd that rendezvous I set up to get him out of the house work?"
"Brilliantly, now not to be rude Keither but you did catch me in the middle of something. Can I hear the big picture some other time?"
"Sure thing. Over and out." Nitro glares at this and it wouldn't break Keithers heart if it knew.
Nitro puts his phone away and goes back to his current situation. He pushes down on the body a couple of times and it remains to support his weight very securely.
In an utterly respectful tone. "If you kept up this well for her I wouldn't even be here."

All that it is there it is not in Miami. A self described dead man dares the heat to pass through his black on black suit as he watches the coast play with the light of a recently risen sun. "This is the best time of day" he tells himself "When the only folks out there are the ones who mean it." He stomps out his cigarette with the confidence of someone who knows no one's looking and straightens his back off of the rough stone wall. Arms rest as his hands find purchase in his pockets. "Day isn't gonna save itself." And off to work he goes.
The too nice and too trendy cars aren't out yet. People who drive convertibles without really knowing why keep inanely respectable hours. As such the street is almost calm enough for a good man to think he owns it. Of course Brian never claimed to be a good man or any other kind. That's what he loves most about this city. No one asked.
Coming upon the little slice of the street he does own, first Brian opens the door hard and steps in swiftly enough to feel the wind. He waits that moment for the metal to slide together and for the heat to compress to know it's closed. Brian E Investigations is now open for business. Old stairs creek under his feet up the entire length of the narrow upwards passage. If ever someone came to him to catch the man who put them in a wheelchair there might be trouble. Amazingly that hasn't come up yet. "You know you're in trouble when you can't even get sued" he reminds himself. "Gotta fire my ad agency."
Jokes aside the ground floor is not his office for a very real purpose. Firstly it serves as a storeroom for files that utterly should not be trusted to a computer and secondly it takes up any and all drive by bullets that might be meant for it's owner, which keeps him out of cold storage. Of course in here it's anything but cold. In fact the sole occupant of the front room would be sweating if they'd just find a way to make it elegant.
"Good morning, sir" his secretary says in a smooth voice. Brain hangs back against the wall as to not enjoy the view too disrespectfully.
He tips his head and eyes peak out from over his rust colored sunglasses. "I've told you before you don't have to call me that."
"Force of habit, sir." The "sir" is pointed this time and the moment is won. Brian can only smile and throw his arms up in surrender. "But for all my vaulted professionalism I wasn't above doing your shopping." A heavy plastic bag is produced and an already amused man is brought to Christmastime boyhood. He crosses the room in a flash and snatches the bag without a care for the hand it was in.
"Mothers milk. Cigarettes and cough syrup, both my brand."
"You know" his bemused worker says behind a glare "you wouldn't have to worry about that if you did your own shopping. The pharmacist thinks I'm the one who needs more interesting addictions."
"But, then we'd lose these touching moments." he answers with a knowing smirk. He's in turn answered with a ragged stack of papers.
"Today's messages, sir."
"Kent, what would I do without you?"
Brian sidekicks the door to his inner office closed and starts to browse the notes with stunted interest. Most of it seems the investigative equivalent of junk mail. It lands on top of less recent piles of the systemized bedlam that is his desk with barely a wisp. The more interesting package lands with a clunk and a clink. He digs inside and extracts a bottle of generic looking medicine. By cracking it open the day can now officially begin. He puts up his feet exactly the way his mother said not to and goes through the remaining notes in-between sips. Something catches his eye and he freezes.
The note is plain. It would be. Nothing to say who or where it's from. There's only the printed text Keep doing what you're doing but for more reasons.
"Sir" Kent interrupts from the doorway "Not to pull a reverse Bob Cratchet but would you mind if I turned on the air conditioning?"
"Go right ahead." Brain takes a healthy swig. "Things just got hotter."

Sycophants of Newgrounds, this one's for you. Or rather it's for the people you point it at.

Authority figure: I love you
A piano driven ballad

(flowery intro)
Oh, you have expressed some aspect that I admmmmmiiiiiiire.
When somebody quotes you to disagree it arouses my iiiiiiiire.

Because you are so awesome in the way that you
Could find some way to make my life awesome too!

Oh, Authority Figure I love you
Authority Figure I dig you too.
Authority Figure my dream on this night is you'll seeeeeeeee
(almost whispered) Something to admire like an Authority Figure in meeeeeeee.

We don't know each other but I'm happy it's your birthday anyway.
And depending on our genders what I'd do for you may or may not be gay!

Because I will gladly grant you the sexiest of sex.
Even if you're not the sex that I prefer to sex.
Stand in front of my mirror and I'll complement your pecs!

Oh, Authority Figure I love you.
Authority figure I need what is in you.
Authority figure my dream in this night is you'll seee.
Something that's desired in Authority Figures in meeee.

You're talking about some interest it's easy to gooooooooooogle
I don't see it as a cheap back door into your heart.
Indeed it's only fruguuuuuuual.
Because frugality is smart just like the smart things that I see you sayin' every day.
Did I mention those things I would do for you, in either a gay or not so gay way?

(dramatic build up)

Oh, Authority figure I love you.
Authority figure I want to hang with you.
In a place where all the great unwashed cannot post or seeeee.
The awesomeness of Authority Figures like you, and meeeeee.

Oh, Authority Figure I love you.
Whether you're inside me or I'm inside you.
Authority Figure if my wishes tonight came on a falling star, just one.
I'd wish to go with you and have Authority Figure style funnnnn.

(spoken)
You're so fucking correct.

(fade out)

The Regulars are back again with spy hijinx.

The Regulars: Chapter 7

It's a night like many others. R.G lays in bed with his arm around a woman who knows everything about who he is but will never know how she saved him. Together they're resting that one true rest you only get with the right partner. Of course sleep is only one of the things that goes out the window when you have children.
"Wake up. Wake up, Dad." Adam repeats while rocking his father's shoulder. The little boy is just the right height to stand beside the bed and push straight with both his arms and he knows how to use his leverage. Smart children are both a blessing and a curse.
"What is it Adam?" R.G croaks out without opening his eyes.
"Boogie man tried to get in my room. Go get him"
"What is it honey?" Ashley croaks out, starting to role over to face the crisis.
R.G turns his head to address her and hears the familiar cracks of a neck that thought the day was over. "I'm on it hon." Turning back with slightly fewer creaks. "Now you stay in here with your mom. The boogie man is scared of her." With that he lifts his boy up and watches him scamper over and cuddle his mother for all she's worth, which to him is the moon and stars. It's a heartwarming scene but R.G has no time to enjoy it. He has a job to do.
Clad in the international boogie man hunters uniform, a t-shirt and boxers, he begins his patrol. This won't take too long. The house isn't large but it's more than adequate for a family of four and was right up until the fifth member arrived. It's a bit of a drive to work in the morning but the sounds of said fifth family member fussing make it clear once again why it's worth the time. The whole point of this move was to make a real home. Since it's clear from the doorway that Jamie isn't cooing in the gentle embrace of a boogie man it's time to move on to the older kids room.
No sign of boogie men in here. No sign of little girls either. Kari's bed is where it usually is but it's conspicuously empty. The empty cup on the nightstand gives some clue as to where she went.
They'll be wanting their own rooms in a year or two. It's only because they're twins that it's been excusable this long. They'll probably have to move Jamie in here and re-do the nursery for a growing girl. This is the bigger room so it's more equipped to take two. There will be a few complaints from Adam having to share his room with the baby but gender lines are the safest way to do this. Parenthood is all about planning ahead.
He checks under each bed, just so he won't be lying when he's asked. There's some clutter he's far too tired to start a fight about but nothing that's going to reach out for him. Something falls over in the closet. Perchance he owes this whole trip to haphazard stacking. It wouldn't be the first time. That's filed along with the mess under the bed as a discussion to have by daylight. That's one completed boogie man search. Now to get back to bed before the boy cuddles in too close to leave any room for him. But first things first, to the bathroom.
The door is open and the light is off. Kari isn't in here. She's always preferred the downstairs bathroom. She says it has prettier colors. Her proclivity is now his convenience. As tired as he is the fewer steps possible the better. After the direst of debates he decides against turning the light on. He's a grown man and he's just searched for monsters, it's fine. In only the ambient light he finds where he has to stand right next to the half closed shower curtain and proceeds to go about his business.
He does not hear the soft steps from the shower. In the low light he sees no reflection of the black shape behind him. Finishing his business, and a one, and a two and his hands shoot up to feel the hard bite of the wire that was meant for his neck. Moving almost faster than reflex he leaps and kicks hard with both feet against the toilet tank. He and his attacker fly backwards. The bathroom mirror shatters against the attackers head, which hits hard enough to leave spots of blood. Pushing to regain his hands R.G shoots out from his weakened foe and brings his marked fist to his temple with force glass can only aspire to. The instant he's hit the floor R.G has sprinted over his body. The crash and commotion have woken Jamie up and the terrified infant is wailing. He has to get to his son first of all and he needs to get a gun in his hand.
He races into Jamie's room without a thought. The poor child is in his hands before it occurs to him to look back. There's no one there. "It can't be like this" He tells himself "That would have been the perfect time to kill me. I can't afford to get foolish." With slightly more caution he exists the room. He moves with just enough discretion to see if there's anyone in his way. Stealth is not an option with a crying baby in your arms. When he reaches the master bedroom he closes the door hard with the weight of his body. Then taking just the time for a breath he goes to hand the boy to his mother who, while shaken, is still who she is.
"What the hell was that?" She asks while clutching her youngest close.
"In the bathroom. Someone tried to kill me." As his speaks R.G opens his nightstand drawer. With practiced care he pulls out the gun box and starts to work the combination lock. "Adam" He says too angrily "Where is Kari." Adam curls in close to his mother, not knowing what to do. With his unloaded pistol in his hand, pointed in the opposite direction of his loved ones R.G turns to ask again. His voice is cooler now but it could not be called calm. "Adam. Your sister is still out there. If I'm going to get her safe I need you to tell me where she went."
Adam's little fingers are all but dug into his mothers skin. He has no idea what is going on. He only knows that it's bad and daddy is going to set it right. "Kari went to the potty."
"Good boy, good boy." He manages while trying and failing to control his breathe. He tells himself "This is your family. This is your home. They need you together." He closes his eyes and with his free hand smoothes out his jet black hair. When he opens his eyes the game is on.
"Ashley." He says placing locking the clip into his Glock. "Call the office. Call the Regulars."
"What?" For all her strengths she's not a soldier. She was never meant to have to be. "I.... I don't understand. Can't we call the police?"
"The police will be here soon enough." With a trademark metallic click he loads the first round into the chamber. "We need the Regulars."
She knows the number, she starts to dial as R.G places his spare clip the only place he has for it, against his hip and held in place by the waistband of his boxers. He starts to walk out before turning back. "Lock the door behind me and stay clear of the windows." There's no time to say he loves her, even if it would be for the last time.
Starting against the wall he points his pistol out with both hand and slowly turns to claim more and of the hallway. With a spin he starts with the other direction and only then does he step out. He stands there a long second allowing for his eyes to adjust fully to the dark. He gains a modicum of control hearing the click of the lock behind him. Now the world consists only of he, his daughter, and God only knows.
He starts to stalk with two steel like arms extending his gun in front of him. It's only his service pistol but it's not his nature to own a pop gun. With a flick of a finger it can turn from semi-auto into the worlds lightest submachine gun. That might not be needed. He may have stopped the one intruder without a weapon. There may be one more, for which a single clip is more than enough. The cold metal against his leg may be a complete waste. But he cannot count on it to be.
He makes his way straight in the direction away from the rooms he's already been in toward the stairwell. Each small step and each new millimeter of view is painstaking. He cannot miss one detail. Missing what he missed in Jamie's room could have been fatal. Someone could have waited behind the door and struck at him at will. Of course he would have done whatever he could have back but being unarmed and having a baby in his arms wouldn't have made that much. There's no way it could have ended well.
The barrel of his gun pokes out from behind the wall long before he does. From here he can see downwards to the start of the den. There's not enough to see but it will have to pass for a secure opening. To aid this he listens. Any sound of movement, any hint of a voice, one that deserved to be there or not, would tell him volumes. He listens and peers but hears nothing. There's another small drop from the twin's room. Like a lightning flash he turns to it. He walks, he does not run, towards the room. He doesn't know what has made that noise but right now the fact that he's heard it and it has not heard him is his only advantage. He's not going to spend it until absolutely necessary.
R.G enters the room with caution, turning as to show himself to nothing he isn't ready to kill. There's nothing in the open so he turns the gun back to the closet. With sights firmly on the closed door he moves more completely into the bedroom in utter silence. Every muscle in his honed body is tensed. Something is in there, someone. This he knows but he does not know enough to fire.
Kari could be in there, having returned from the bathroom and hidden when the violence started. But he cannot call out to her. The mortal equivalent of Adam's nightmare could have decided to hole up and wait for the children to return. Making a sound would make him a target. In the darkest place he has to consider the very real possibility that they have her and are holding her unable to speak between them and her father's bullets. There's a cold pit in his stomach and sweat on his brow. In his mind he calls out to the universe. "Come on, give me something." It feels like an eternity before the downstairs toilet flushes.
Rounds pour out of R.G's gun and only when they stop does he hear a fall through perforated wood. Taking one hand off the weapon he opens the door and the spent shape of something that used to be a man tumbles out along with blood spattered children's toys. They can get more toys. They only have one Kari and with he has to get to her.
Running to the stairs he catches himself on the bathroom doorframe. The shower strangler is still alive. "Can't have that." Two shots to the chest end his groans. Now in a full run R.G reaches the stairs and forgoes them completely, sliding down the banister on the smooth fabric of his boxer shorts. He rolls into his landing and comes up in a crouch, sweeping back and forth for signs of movement, there are none. He pats at his side for the extra clip. It's still there. To kill through the door took several bullets and there wasn't time to end the other live efficiently. This is why he has so many bullets, so he doesn't have to waist the time lining up one kill shot. It's a philosophy that's saved his life more than once.
He rolls into a standing position and makes a mad dash for the bathroom. Turning the corner past the kitchen he reaches the hall just ahead of another masked man. He throws himself down onto the hardwood floor just ahead of the stream of bullets meant for him. The impact causes him to slide several feet back against the wall where he empties his gun into the man's meaty chest.
R.G expends the empty clip and replaces it with it's extended counterpart. Just then the bathroom door opens. "Daddy!!" Kari cries out, her face red and tears of terror running
down her cheeks. R.G runs to her and scoops her up with the hand he doesn't need for his weapon and runs to get back to the stairs and reunite his family. Such is not to be.
From the windows of the den he can see movements. Shapes. Humans. Masked. They can't escape. There's no damn time. "Kari, cover your ears." Tiny hands cover tiny ears and the flick of a thumb sets fire mode to rock and roll. Burst after burst of fire crash through glass and into flesh. In this moment he is all he is. Father and warrior are one as the quiet of this perfect neighborhood is penetrated by deserved deaths to end meaningless lives. He fires until nothing moves.
From the street he can hear a car peeling away. There's no way for him to chase it. All over the street houselights come on. In a minute there will be sirens. Soon the team will be here. It's over.
"Are you ok sweety?" He asks in his softest voice. She nods without taking her hands from her ears. He yells upstairs. I've got her. It's safe now."
He can hear the door opening and feet shuffling to the top of the stairwell. "Don't come down. It's a mess." No need to elaborate around little ears.
Ashley takes in the carnage and asks the natural question. "What happened?"
Adam provides the answer. "Daddy killed the boogie man."

The sixth instalment in the super spy satire that is the Regulars.

The Regulars: Chapter 6

It's a beautiful, sunlit morning, the kind where you can look at snow through a window and still feel like summer. It's this kind of day when the world you have means a bit more than what you have to do to keep it. This lightness is not lost on the Lounge residents, even the one who actually resides there.
"So, what'd you think of him?" Fluff asks as she hands Seven her morning coffee. Once both hands are on her own cup again her fingertips drum against it nervously.
"That's not what I was there for." Seven answers, trying to balance friendship and professionalism and failing in the way you only do with true friends.
"I know." Fluff stares intently at her drink. "But come on, I want to know." She looks up, failing to avoid a slight blush
Nodding her head in defeat Seven sighs. "He seemed nice enough. Cared if you were alive after the first date."
This brings a grateful grin to Fluff's face. "Yeah he is nice, and cute. Did you think he was cute?"
"Generally I cut off that part of my mind in interrogations."
"Yeah, I know, but this is very not general."
There's nothing worse than smart friends. "Ok, he looked good."
"Just between us I appreciate that, but we know what the real issue is. What did he say about me?"
Ceasing to attempt any show of propriety "I didn't ask him that." Fluff looks back down at her coffee cup. "But he did say that when he picked you up you looked nice in that outfit."
"Yesss" Fluff almost whispers while miming a celebratory arm pump. "Good thing, seeing as it's the only one I have now." Down turned eyes now examine her clothes, which while conservative enough are a bit bright for office work.
"I'll take you out shopping when we get out of here. We can make a girls night out of it."
"Thanks, now that dresser in my bunk will stop staring hungrily."
"You know, you don't have to stay in there. Like I said before you're welcome to come to the hotel with me. It's plenty safe there."
Fluff looks up, her smile now sly. "I appreciate the offer but I'm fine here. Besides, with these guys " indicating the men of the Regulars going about their varied business "us staying together would have tongues wagging. At least in the more accurate stories." She takes a long draw off her drink as for just one moment Seven's eyes lock with hers. Now it's her turn to blush.
There's no blushing in the London office of Michael Sol. There's not even room for a smile in this particular kind of business. From his expensive if not all-together lavish seat he looks evenly, respectfully at the grimly professional men cross from him. "So it's all understood then."
"Yes" he is answered in Russian accented English "Upon delivery of the supplies by your manufacturers our contacts will see to safe transport and distribution." Vladimir is getting old but his mind is as sharp as ever. The better part of his life has been given to the Russian mafia and in this moment he is every bit the businessman Michael is. The two men flanking him, while brutish, serve much the purpose of headcount in any meeting. They say that they follow someone who is important and powerful. They are not lying.
The two executives stand and shake hands, and in doing this like happens a million times every day every day of the week the world is changed.
Time passes as is it's way.
The Lounge shooting range is two levels below ground. This insulation both contains the noise and adds the air of sobriety anyone who handles a gun for a living requires. This is where Staff goes to hone himself on what he does best
In a rare feat of good design the range shares this floor with the armory. The quartermaster, Henry, has an odd genius about him where he believes this is exactly his lot in life. The quality of his work is undeniable. All of the vast and specialized armaments kept in the Regulars cache, even the things Pro invents that never come down with a cleaning manual, are eternally pristine.
Despite loving toys as much as the next man, unless the next man is Pro, Staff simply signs off on boxes of .44 magnum and the needed range appeal .Henry gives him the approving wave off one gives to another as they go about their business. Building a support staff that was not only qualified but willing to work in an English speaking facility had been nearly a miracle but the aging yet solid man was actually glad of his duty. That's a lesson Staff would do well to take with him as the years go by.
As he lays out his gear and sends off the target Staff cannot help but ruminate. "Years, it's already been five years." As he lays his Rugers beside the first, now opened, box of bullets, the topic expands. " For five years my life has been about these guns." It's not that they're inferior weapons, far from. They could be the stars of any shooter's collection, as opposed to a collector's collection. Solid, American made revolvers were what he had sought. Though to be honest the fact they looked like cowboy guns was a notable draw as well. Along with some alterations by the local armament wizard for weight and accuracy they became worthy of the gunslingers and cowboys of old. They're double action of course, for the cowboy of today
"Cowboy. That's what they called me for choosing these." But it's so much more than that. His trainer, with all the patience and reverence of a martial art sensei had helped me to understand what revolvers meant. He remembers this as, forgoing speed loaders, he weighs and places each heavy round into it's chamber.
Patience is something vastly needed right now. It's been almost a week without any word from Penguin. But these things cannot be helped. Penguin is a professional. He takes his time to do things right. Patience was the first lesson of the revolver, as the second was prudence. "The first thing you do with only six shots" the trainer had said "is learn to make every one of them count. The last thing you do with six shots is take on seven guys."
Right now there's only one target and it's resting several yards, not meters, down the range. Learning to lift kilograms had been hard enough so this he was never bending on. Taking a firm stance and lifting his right hand gun with two hands he starts to shoot. This is how it always is, two handing the right gun before switching the stance for the left. Readiness under all circumstances is the goal. Now front then profile right and front and profile left. It's an awkward substitute for the true nature but these narrow booths just weren't made for practical duel wielding. A violently warm grin comes to his face. Even the Savate, where he eventually did get his name, came from these guns. "If your two hands are going to be full" the master savateur had said. "Then one must learn to use your legs." And learn he did. He learned every aspect of the style even extending to the armed form of Baton Français, originally adapted from a system for gentlemen with walking sticks with which they could defend themselves from criminals. While he was never a gentlemen he was a tool for violent defense, and from that he became known forevermore as Stafffighter.
Shot after shot goes where it's supposed to, load after load, all the time the pure discipline in mind. When the ammunition is exhausted only then is it time for fun. One and then the other, perfectly balanced guns spin on the axis of his pointer fingers before going home to their holsters. The right hand gun is in it's home and the left hand gun, in turn, is in it's own. It's an arbitrary difference but it matters. Pure gunslinger theatrics some would call it, that along with the trick shots and the quick draw. More wrong they could not be. After all "Shooting straight will make your bullets count, but only once you get the gun in your hand." A more innocent smile greets and then as suddenly leaves Staff's face. It's time to let the old masters rest now and rejoin the world they readied him for.
The ride up is short as is the peace of mind. On the office level it's usually quite this time of day, early night, but now people are running. Staff hooks Wizard by the arm and demands to know what's going on.
"They just called. Someone's in R.G's house." Without bothering with a grimace Staff joins Wizard in the race for the door.
"You're driving."

I just think that's a name that suits him. Credit to Seven for making him based on my origional idea.

Yet more from the double lives of politics regulars. If the italics are messed up just assume that where you see that particular mess it means italics.

The Regulars: Chapter 5

A broad, dull ache in her neck greets Fluff as she awakens. She's always had this trouble while sleeping in unfamiliar beds. She fights opening her eyes both out of base humanity and to spare herself the glare of the flat, white ceiling above.
Lounge quarters were designed as if someone had decided to open a hotel out of army bunkers. Attempts at comfort were made. Actual, if midrange, beds graced the rooms as well as some basic furnishings one expects in civilized life. Against the wall there's a small writing desk and a chair that just looks like it should squeak. A sterile looking dresser stands waiting to accept personal affects, for all the good that does her at the moment. "note to self" she thinks "first on the agenda, get some personal affects." Still, nothing she could bring to this place would make it feel like a home. It was never meant to be a home. This is where you go so people don't kill you. To the cynical corner of her mind the décor adds to the reason to resolve the issue quickly. She does not want to get used to this bed. In a halfhearted attempt to keep the waking world at bay a bit longer she thinks back to the night before.
The drive in with Pro had been awkward. He had been understandably nervous seeing as earlier that night her apartment had been blown up and he had vocally admired the detonation device, only to find out she was in the room. In the car she hadn't felt like talking and he wasn't bold enough to put on any music. So both of them were left alone with their thoughts, which of course made them that much worse.
Things didn't improve much when they arrived. In a fit of unthinking chivalry he had offered to carry her bags. She just glared at him for the long second it took him to figure that out. Neither of them said a word for the rest of the long walk through the building to the quarters. Once again the silence only adds to the problem. The Lounge is so quiet that it feels like a closed airport at night. At least she was finally indoors again. That was a big trade up that particular night.
The door slid open mechanically with a sound almost like an airlock. That befit the look of the place perfectly. Not only was it white but it was sterile, looking as if it was in waiting. In a way of course it had been. Now Pro finally has something to talk about.
"Ok, your bathroom's over there, your TV is over there and, ah, you know where the caf is." He gestured as he spoke and when it was all over nodded like someone both self satisfied and highly infused with caffeine.
She just took a deep breath and put her hand on his shoulder. "It's ok, really. Besides, I know if someone shot you with a long gun I'd think it was cool." What's creepy is that he completely got that.
"Yeah, I can dig that. You cool here?"
"As cool as I'm getting." She said while sitting on the bed and taking up the television remote, all this while still made up for night on the town. Fortunately it was cold out so she was bundled within reason to fashion. These things get cable.?"
"Just the basic package."
Already flipping through the meager choices "I'm living like a fucking savage."
With a warm laugh Pro excuses himself, closing the door behind him. And that's how the rest of her night had gone, not really watching anything until finally sleep came to call her.
It's hot like a bitch in Cairo. The man known only as Penguin is sweating through his khaki shorts and blue Hawaiian style shirt. He had contemplated getting a gift shop pith helmet to go over his thick framed sunglasses but had decided against it. The number one worst way to hide an American agent is to make him not look American but still he does have a modicum of taste. He had made sure his sandals went with the shorts.
He didn't stand out one bit in the tour group busing it around through all of Egypt's most predictable sights and treasures. The plan is to meet his contact at the next stop. It's just touristy enough that no one will be dumb enough to bring a gun. That makes talking a lot easier.
At the moment's he's taking pictures with a high end digital camera for ret-con, cover and aesthetics. A feign at attempting artistic shots gives him all the excuse in the world to shoot at the angles he needs. His cover comes under strain when a fat man wearing a Sphinx t-shirt comments to his wife about how the scene makes him feel like Indiana Jones. Breathing deeply Penguin reminds himself. "You're wearing sandals, fight the urge to act educated." To spare him further monolog his phone rings. Fitting perfectly with character it's a slightly digitized version of something classical yet recognizable. The sound grows as the phone is fished from the khaki pocket. He flips it open and the display says it's cousin Jim, as opposed to the Jim he's not related to. After stepping away a bit for the privacy anyone would want for a phone call he answers. "Hello" he says with a perfect non-regional accent.
"Hello back." The voice is exactly who it should be. "How's your trip going?
Status?
"Alright, little dull though."
Yet to make contact, no complications.
"Good to hear." It is.
"How're things back your way?" He assumes the call is for a reason.
"Not good."
Crisis.
"What's wrong?
Nature?
"It's Mom and Dad. They're fighting again."
Trouble at home. Agents targeted.
"And what's it about this time?"
Nature of threat?
"You know how it is. She's on him about wasting money on his big boy toys again.
Unknown. Assumption arms dealer.
"Wait, is this still about that thing before?"
Related to existing op?
"Yeah, we think so."
Assumption. Yes.
It's a misnomer that assumptions don't exist in the spy world. Yes one thing means another but that does anything but lay a clear road in front of you. More often than not said road is cobbled as you go and if you're smart and lucky you get to the right place. He knows they were in Russia and now that shootout that was in all the papers was indeed them. "Anything I can do?"
Orders?
"You were always Mom's favorite. You could try talking to her."
Seek out the source. Intel/non-confrontation.
"Can do."
I'm on it.
"Cool, I'll let you get back to your trip."
Current mission unaltered.
"Ok, send everyone my love."
"Just one thing though. How's the food over there?"
"Not great. What are you having?"
"Just some leftover Chinese."
Chinese.
"Goodbye."
"Bye." Penguin hangs up his phone and only on hearing a dial tone does Keither close the line. Now there are two things to do today. That, and fat ass remembers seeing pyramids like this in the DaVinci Code. It's going to be a long day.
In the afternoon in London a still sleep groggy Father Venom asks "Did not you say that......"
"I said not directly." Michael states, not even looking up from the papers on his desk. "At least not until things are in place. What has just happened is very important in the grand placement of things. Now get your boots off the table."
In France the same events are being questioned but in a decidedly different manner. In an interrogation room very much like those of any city in the western world a young man named Paul is being asked about his date last night. The use of these facilities was yet another benefit of local cooperation. There's no need to let everyone know there's a big dog in town. But it's still what it is and he's sweating in a way that would make a protective father smile. Thus far all he'd been told is that she's alive and in protective custody. "What happened in her apartment is very suspect, you see. So we're questioning the people around her to try and make sense of the situation."
"Why would I want to blow her up?" Paul insisted. "I just met the girl. And what is a woman from the American south doing asking me?"
Seven glares down at him. "First of all. You're only going to be on the answering side of questions today. But I will tell you this much. A lot of really bad people do things for a whole bunch of bad reasons and the more you act up the more it's gonna take to convince me You're not one of them. Do we understand each other?" He nods. "Good, now you're not exactly local either." His voice is clear enough to the trained ear but reading it from a file is so much more intimidating. "It says here you're originally from Wales. And that you were transferred here three months ago for your job at....."
"Sol industrial. I'm a graphic designer. I'm not a bomb...." Seven slams the files she was trying to read onto the table with a deafening thud.
"You will answer every one of my questions, little boy, but only when I have asked them!" He doesn't dare move or breath. It's as if the ice in her eyes has taken his very being. "Is this understood?"
He has to breath before speaking, yes.....yes it is."
"Good." Her voice has softened now, almost brightened. She lifts the file back up and straightens the pages, all on his time. "Now 'Paul the graphic designer from Wales.' Tell me all about what you did last night." And so he does.

Yet another installment of the sexy super spy adventure fun of my poli lounge buddies and I. This is a long one so pee now if you have to.

The Regulars: Chapter 4

The fiery remains of Fluff's apartment have long been put out by the time Staff pulls his bike in to the cluster of police vehicles already on the scene. The gaping hole in her building had been visible for some short time. As he gazes at it an overly enthused rookie approaches and demands to know who he is. As beautiful a language as French may be Staff does not take kindly to being yelled at in any form. Very calmly, very slowly he opens a slight gap in his jacket and reveals the top of his left hand revolver. At this sight the youth mutters excitedly and fumbles for his service pistol. By the time he has it up the barrel is staring down Staff's badge. Staff doesn't even bother to smile. He merely says in a patient voice "Kid, you would not have had half a chance."
By this time the commotion has raised the attention of two senior officers, one of them escorts the young man away while the other remains to fill Staff in on what has happened thus far.
The presence of The Regulars, and a deeply edited version of their function, had been known to local authorities since the site had been chosen. While there were the expected territorial barks and growls all in all the cooperation made life a lot easier.
Seven arrives at the opposite end of the blockade, still made up to the level she'd been earlier in the day. Does she sleep in those suits? The two make eye contact and without a word it's agreed that he'll continue to talk to the officials while she sees to Fluff personally.
The aforementioned sharpshooter sits wrapped in a fire department blanket sipping at coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Aside from seeming vaguely mesmerized she doesn't appear to be hurt. She wasn't in the building when this had happened. That was the one detail she'd given over the phone before Seven scrambled to rally the appropriate troops and get herself dressed for a night back out on the town.
The story, as it fleshed out, was that she was walking home after a more than decent date when ahead of her it happened. A fireball erupted out and after it bits of building materials and personal possessions rained into the street. "Hell of a way to end an evening" she ruminates, lifting her cup up in a mock toast and taking a deep drink. "We could gab about it over ice cream but they took my fridge with the car it landed in."
"It's probably melted anyway." Seven smiles warmly for Fluff's strong spirit and sits down next to her for support. "So you'll be ok?"
"Yeah, there wasn't anything irreplaceable in there. First rule of this business, don't have irreplaceable things."
"Speaking of the business. You know we'll have to talk to your new friend about this."
"I figured" In a voice both confident and pleading "Just, just don't tell him any of this or what I do or anything. Telling a guy you could catch him cheating at a thousand yards really isn't first date stuff."
In her softest tone "I'll do what I can.
Staff has concluded his discussion with the local police and makes his way over to them. Fluff isn't as shaken as most would be right now. The woman is a rock, but still it couldn't hurt to check.
"You gonna be alright?"
Both of them look up at him Fluff answers "Eventually, yeah."
"They're writing this up as a gas leak. Pro is up there with their guys now finding out what it really was."
Fluff strains a bit in standing up. "Ok, let's go."
"Are you sure you're all right?" Seven asks as in questioning a sick child.
"Yes, I want to do this." She faces Staff and predicts his objection. "If someone blew up your place and your fish you'd want in too."
"Ok, first of all, don't even joke about that. And secondly, come on."
The three of them make their way, passing debris and officers questioning other residents of the building, all of whom seem unharmed. The lack of damage continues inside the building. It's not until they reach the hallway where her door had been flung against the wall that they saw any damage. Fluff, to her credit, is the first to enter, Seven and Staff following in quick order.
Fluff takes in the vision of charred remnants of her life. She's quietly saddened by this. The place was never much but it was home. That meant something. Pro is in the back bent over the worst of the mess along with the police bomb squad. Staff wait's a respectful amount of time before breaking rank to see to solving this. He stops behind the group and kneels down to approximate their view. "What do we know?"
Pro doesn't have to look up as his time is better spent where it is. "Shaped charge. Made to do maximum demolition to this place without taking out the neighbors. I've seen buildings imploded with less precision. Also, check this out." In his gloved hand he holds up the remains of some gadget. "Long range remote detonator. With this baby the call could have come from anywhere within a mile, almost unheard of with this level of miniaturization. Seriously a cool little toy."
Fluff's voice calls out "I'll get one for your birthday."
Like a deer stuck in headlights "Sorry." After a long moment he turns his head to look Staff in the face. The two share a meaningful glare. "There's only one guy around here who could have done this."
In unison they speak the name "Jean-Claude."
"And just who is Jean-Claude?" Seven asks, attempting a semblance of order.
"Local contractor. High skill and high rent. Runs a dance club downtown. It looks like we'll be paying him a visit."
Fluff flashes in anger. "I'm going. I want to look in this fuckers eyes."
"No." Staff proclaims. "You know you can't. It's protocol." It is, but that's not why he said it.
Seven lets Staff keep talking. These moments are where his skills shine. She'll step in if something big picture comes up. "Alright." he says. "First priority is keeping you safe. Pro, can you get her back to the Lounge?"
The Lounge was considered to be the most secure place someone under personal attack could be. Comfortable quarters had been built in for exactly that purpose. There are several of them but so far they've never had to use more than one or two at a time. So far being the key phrase.
"Yeah, sure." Pro says hesitantly. He's understandably unenthusiastic about taking the trip with someone who's home destruction he'd just admired.
"Good. We'll need some muscle on this. Who's brave enough to wake up D.K?"
The club fits every stereotype of it's genre. The lights are at once gaudy and faux-artistic. The architecture is from some trendy part of Europe and that's likely the same place the beating that's called music that can even be heard from outside comes from. There's a line of supposedly hip youngsters waiting for entry while on occasion a limousine comes to deliver those who don't wait in line.
Seven pulls her rented car, which is barely a grade below the type this place is used to, on the side of the road approaching the Mecca of excess. She steps out from the drivers side, Staff from the passengers and D.K from the back. The big man stretches his neck to shake the last bit of sleep out of his head and just listens to those up front arguing.
"If this guy's so bad why do you even let him operate in your town?"
"We don't let him do anything. Like you're so fond of telling us there are rules to follow. Plus it's always fun to beat Intel out of a familiar face."
The three approach. A glance in their direction and it's clear they don't belong to this kind of place. Seven in her tight but not coquettish suit and Staff in his trademark jacket and jeans glared a bit more brightly than D.K. Having been resting blissfully when called to action he had been the only one with the opportunity to dress for the occasion. Ever the fashion plate he threw on a clean shirt and slacks, picked a minimal coat to hide his shoulder holster and topped the whole thing off with steel toed boots.
Outfits aren't the reason Staff hates walking next to him. The differences between the two are striking. While both men are well built at five foot nine compared to D.K and his six foot three Staff is built a lot closer to the ground. It doesn't bother him much but it bothers him as much as anything does anymore.
They don't bother with the line. As they approach the door the large man who's partially large in the bad way and desperately overdressed for outside work puts up his hand. "And just who the hell are you?"
Seven does the talking. "Would you believe I'm Michelle Branch and these are my body guards?"
After a quick glance "Yes." He signals to those behind him to open the door. Seven is slightly annoyed at how easy it worked where as the men find it hilarious. "Enjoy your evening Miss Branch." He calls out behind them.
The inside of the club is every bit as typical as the outside. Beautiful people are sweating to something that is not music. In booths and corners some attempt mockeries of conversation while others are honestly going about their romantic business. At the bar a tough yet sensuous looking woman mixes drinks from the display of all things bottled behind her. Upon it are labels the everyday working drunk will never see and from the looks of the people it's been going down like water. Doubtlessly it's being assisted but nothing is being used overtly. There is some semblance of the desire for this to be a respectable club. As the music dies down the proprietor of this myth takes to the stage in the far corner.
"Hello gentlemen and ladies. Welcome to Le' Claude." His voice is tenor and deeply accented. Whatever else he is he is also a born showman. "Just for you, my friends, tonight will not be just another night of blessed vice. Tonight....." A member of his staff approaches the stage and whispers something into Jean-Claude's ear. The content of the message has no affect on his smiling face. The employee scampers off and once again he addresses his masses. "Once again, tonight is going to be a special night just for you, friends. I have procured a spectacle of entertainment that needs no introduction." As he steps to the side and makes exaggerated arm motions of greeting, a perfect woman in skin tight red steps out. She acknowledges her host, who mocks dismissing himself in her presence. A show biz chuckle follows.
As the music starts Jean-Claude excuses himself from the stage and accompanied by an entourage of bruisers makes his way to the private V.I.P area , the door of which is slammed behind them. With music once again filling the air and being joined by a crystalline voice the live entertainment begins. All but three sets of eyes are on her, the others are on the door.
The three move with no particular rush through the undulations of the crowd. Their movements have a particular grace about them. In this world of frivolities they are hunters walking straight into the lion's den, which is just to the left of the bar.
In front of the door stands a slightly higher class form of bouncer. His duty is to define between gods and demigods. "Sorry ma'am. Private party tonight."
Not feeling like using the same trick twice Seven produces her badge. While it's not of any nearby agency the look of the things is fairly universal. "Here's my invitation from 'You'll be making friends in jail before sun up." He wisely steps out of her way.
"Health inspector." Staff says while showing his card.
" 've got a gun." Is D.K's joke on this theme. Once the door is closed the punch line resisters and bouncer make tracks.
Inside the agents regain their unison. While putting their identifications away they observe the environment that's observing them. From darkened booths eyes judge them yet no one raises an objection. Whether they were too high to care or too high to stand doesn't really matter. Sometimes you have to take life's little gifts at face value. Slowly they make their way past the booths that line the corridor. There are scents and sounds about them that would distract the undisciplined. These, however, are professionals and someone's just done something very bad to a friend of theirs. The door at the end marked "employees only" isn't even locked.
Inside Jean-Claude is calm as can be, breaking a freshly set pack of billiard balls. With four bodyguards in the room with him the ease is well founded. "Would you get the door behind you please?" He asks, reasonably enough. D.K closes the door and stands beside it, opposite a guard. Staff moves to the other side in a wide arc leaving Seven front and center. It's her Jean-Claude approaches, stick in hand.
"Now, these gentlemen I know" indicating the male Regulars "But you're new."
"We have some questions to ask you."
"Oh, you are definitely one of them. Always business first. Never time for the pleasure." He steps back from her. "Do you play?"
Seven eyes the table. "I have once or twice."
Oh, to me that sounds like an understatement. Tell you what, let's make this fun. There are eight balls on the table here. Sink all of them within four shots and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Alright." she says, accepting the cue stick from him with only some of the imagery.
She circles the table, noting all there is to note. When she's ready she bends deeply and lines up her first shot. She takes it and the white ball is sent on it's way. It clacks the touching three and five balls. The three ball speeds into the corner pocket while the five ball makes contact with the with both the wall and the two, sending the latter into the opposite corner.
She moves then for her next shot, giving the men of the room a new view. A hard strike deals first with the errant five ball and then bounces back to send four into the side pocket.
The guards move in closer to her for obvious reasons. She doesn't let this stop her from lining her third shot. The cue ball hit's the six straight on. Pushing it to a corner pocket. In response the cue ball itself is thrown back at just the right angle to strike the nine into the sister corner and retain just enough momentum to nudge the eight ball into the as of yet unused side. All that remains is the seven, appropriately.
Jean-Claude's guards are duly impressed. She's playing pool well too. Three of them move in uncomfortably close to her. With a controlled breathe she pulls the cue back between her delicate fingers and she shots. The exhale comes lightning fast as she drives the cue into the gut of the man behind her. With a whirl she catches the butt end of the stick against the chin of the man on her right. Before he can react the man of her right gets the point of her weapon to his throat and then the shaft across the side of his head. The last man by the door attempts to spring to the aid of his fallen comrades. D.K and a haymaker prevent that from happening. Jean-Claude thinks better and reaches for the gun on the small of his back. Before he can as much as touch it he feels the end of a large caliber revolver against his spine. "Nah uh." Business dealt with, Seven tosses her pool cue onto the now empty table. In all the excitement no one had seen the seven ball sink and then the cue ball on a four point rebound.
Several minutes later the door to general admittance opens. D.K steps through it first, then Seven, and then Staff making sure to keep his right arm and the gun in it obscured from view. Several feet away the bouncer from that particular door is standing along with him from the outside and a few of their friends. The outside man seems to be taking things rather personally, tapping his fist into his open palm while softly muttering "Goodbye to you."
D.K very deliberately reaches his hand over for his .45. Staff steps out from behind Seven, his own gun now in full view. "Now this doesn't have to get ugly. A nice place like this getting shot up isn't publicity any of us need." It's true of both sides but only one has the brains to listen. With a yell that's trying like all get out to be tough the primary adversaries pounce. Inside man gets a right cross to the jaw while outside man has his shin taken out from under him only to fall onto a presented knee. That maneuver would get him kicked out of any sanctioned savate tournament but this isn't a gym. "I tried to talk to them."
"I heard." Staff leaps onto the nearby table and from there lands a flying heel onto his attacker. In the same moment D.K has pulled the chair out from that same table and broken it over the back of the fool taking him on. Landing hard Staff spins his six shooter and returns it to it's home, rising with an uppercut. A straight kick to the man bits merely doubles over the last bouncer. It's D.K grabbing him by the belt and flinging him over the bar into the oh so expensive bottles that finishes him. Given a moment of peace it occurs to Staff briefly that the music has stopped, which is a shame. It had such a nice melody. Looking out he sees that the attention of the crowd isn't on the stage.
Carefully, not timidly, he steps back over to D.K and the men stand as a united front with their fists out in their own styles. While Staff sizes up these new threats all D.K can see are the pub rats back home. He wasn't afraid of them then and he isn't now. There's no shake to his voice.
"You just had to throw that fancy shite around, didn't you?"
"We're not all born with your gifts."
Without warning there's the bark of a gunshot behind them and a ceiling light erupts into sparks. They look at each other and then back. Seven is there without a drop of sweat on her determined brow but with a smoking pistol in her hand. She has the attention of everyone in the room, as it should be. "Alright, the three of us will be walking out of here. Does anyone object?" A path slowly grew out of the human sea. She leads the way out, over the bodies and under the sparks. Sometimes men just don't understand subtlety.