Chapter Text
“Mega!” Director Houston was excellent at greetings, Curt thought, as he walked into her office. “Sit your ass down, you have a new assignment.”
Curt sat across from her. “What do you have for me, Cynth?”
“If you call me that again I will poison your coffee. Now…” She stood and walked around her desk to put both hands on his shoulders. “Do you know where Marseilles is?”
“Uh, France?” Curt craned his neck to look at her. “You sent me there last year.”
“That doesn’t mean you know where it is. Valencia, remember?” She patted his shoulder. “Anyway, we’re sending you to Marseilles. We’ve had some American government officials working with some Brits to fund a communist group. MI6 is also sending an agent.”
“Oh, who?”
“Some kid named Owen Carvour. Bourbon?” She held out a flask.
“Thanks.” Curt took a sip and handed the flask back to her. “Never heard of this Owen guy. Is he any good?”
“The best, I’m told.” Director Houston lit a cigarette, which in retrospect was probably the longest Curt had ever seen her without one. “He’s waiting in Susan’s office. Now get out there, and don’t embarrass me, Mega!”
“Of course not, Cynthia.” He got out of his chair and went to Susan’s office.
Susan was there, along with two other men. One was older, 40 or so, greying hair and heavy wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. The other was a lot younger, younger even than Curt, probably. He had dark brown hair, the barest hint of a stubble, and was wearing a soft canvas jacket over a t-shirt. An assistant, Curt assumed.
He walked up to the older man. “Ah, you must be Agent Carvour. Nice to meet you, I’m Curt Mega.” He held out his hand.
The younger man snickered, but the older man shook his hand. “I’m Cory Arlowe-Smith, director of the MI6. This is Agent Carvour.” He gestured to the younger man, and Curt suddenly understood his snicker.
“Ah. My mistake. Nice to meet you, Director Smith. Agent Carvour.” He put his hand out to the younger man, who shook it.
“Agent Mega. My pleasure.” He had a distinct British accent, far more pronounced than the director. He gave Curt a once-over, not even being subtle about it. “I hear we’re working together on this mission.”
“It seems so.” Curt, still a little put off by his own mishap, looked to Director Smith. “Director Houston only told me we were going to Marseilles. I’m assuming you will fill us in further?”
Director Smith shook his head. “We have a man meeting you in Marseilles. You’re getting packed and leaving immediately — please show Agent Carvour to the science department, he will be outfitted through you.”
“Alright, let’s go then. Right this way.” Curt held the door open for Agent Carvour and led him down the stairs to the science department. “So, Agent Carvour, how long have you been with the MI6?”
“Coming up on a year, excluding training.” Agent Carvour shrugged. “What was your name again? Curt?”
“Yeah.” Curt looked at him weird. “I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis.”
“Oh, I should hope we are. I’m Owen.”
“Owen then.” Curt opened the door to the science department and let Agent Carvour — Owen — walk in front of him. “We need to find Barb Larvener.”
They didn’t need to look; Barb came up immediately. “Oh Curt, it’s so good to see you! I— We missed you, you’ve been out for a few weeks.”
“Training is important, Barb.” Curt clapped her shoulder. “This is Owen Carvour with the MI6. You’ll need to outfit both of us.”
“Of course. Now, we’ve been developing some new technology…” Curt zoned out as Barb kept talking. Owen seemed to be paying attention, but he kept glancing back at Curt with an exasperated smile.
They were out of there in five minutes, which was faster than Curt was used to; having Owen do the talking seemed to do the trick. Curt led the way to the airport.
“Hey, you’re British, right?” he asked as they walked onto the small jet waiting for them.
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh, I was just wondering why you came all the way to the US just to go back to Europe. Seems like a waste of time.” Curt settled himself in one of the passenger seats, and put his bag on the floor.
Owen sat down across from him. “Well, I’ve been over here for quite a while. Had some other work to complete.” He leaned back in his seat. “Looks like we have a few hours in front of us, so do you have any entertainment?”
Curt checked his bag. “Nope. Not so much as a deck of cards.”
“Well then.” Owen gave Curt another once-over with his eyes. “Looks like we’ll have to make our own fun then.” He looked into the ceiling as they took off. “Hmm. Well, might as well talk. Where did you grow up, Curt?”
Curt was slightly taken aback by the question. “Uh, Missouri. You?”
“Oxford. Thus the accent, I’m afraid.” Owen laughed. “I moved away when I was 14, lived in London since then. Been… Well, been five years now.”
Curt, who had been drinking water while Owen spoke, almost choked. “You’re nineteen ?”
Owen nodded. “Just barely. Joined MI6 the moment I turned eighteen, been active duty ever since. I finished school a year early so I started training at seventeen.” He leaned back, arms out. “Come on, Curt, you’re not much older than me, are you?”
“No, I’m 23.” Curt drank some more water. “But I mean, I joined back in ‘45, you’ve only been around for a year?”
“Almost two, now, really. If you include training. Can’t imagine they put you in the field back in ‘45.”
“First mission that December.” Curt smiled. “Not a big one, of course. Just a small sting in Ohio, of all places.”
“Tell me about it.” Owen leaned forward on his elbows and looked up at Curt.
So Curt did. And then he told another story, and then Owen told a few stories — he was a really good spy, Curt realised, especially for his age — and somehow, they were in France.