Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say all the world’s a stage, and that’s the code that Agent Madeline Ashton has chosen to live by.

Everyone is playing a role. On the streets, people pretend to love their crappy jobs, little kids pretend they haven’t gotten into any trouble at school or in the park, girls on terrible dates pretend they’re having a great time with the most boring guy on Earth. Inside this museum, people are also pretending—guards pretend to be civilians, businessmen pretend to be nice so they can charm their way into becoming richer, diplomats pretend to be cordial to protect their interests and no one else’s.

Agent Ashton is, of course, also playing a role tonight. She smooths the skirt of her evening gown, checks her reflection in a polished metal catering tray, and smiles at herself. As expected, the agency have outdone themselves with her disguise; her blonde curls are perfectly hidden under a shorter, darker wig. Something simple, yet effective—hiding in plain sight, as some like to put it.

The world might have missed on a great actress, but it certainly gained an even greater spy.

Elegant music plays softly beyond the walls, loud enough to hide the sound of footsteps too quick, doors opening when they shouldn’t, alarms trying to set off, or a woman sneaking in a closed room. Madeline listens and hums under her breath from the service while adjusting the clasp of her bracelet.

It’s not merely a piece of jewelry, but a lockpick set, scrambler, and short-range EMP. The heart of tonight’s mission.

A waiter pushes past her carrying champagne flutes toward the main hall. Madeline slips neatly behind him as the doors swing open. Nobody notices her making her way into the room, hidden behind the insignificant presence of the waiter.

The grand hall of the museum shines beneath a vaulted glass ceiling. The golden light of the chandeliers reflects across marble floors and polished display cases. Diplomats, businessmen, and wealthy patrons gather beneath old and beautiful paintings, discussing art and money. Polite laughter and inane conversations ripple through the crowd.

Everywhere Madeline looks she sees money, influence, ambition. She sees people who think they’re above the rest of the world. She sees fake smiles, eyes shining with greed. And security, lots of security.

She counts automatically, even though she knows the list provided on the brief is as accurate as can be. Agent Viola Van Horn, her handler and the brains of every successful operation Madeline has ever completed, has yet to provide her with the wrong information.

Two guards stand by the main doors, all muscle but probably easy to trick, if required. Another pair near the staircase. One of them looks like he’s about to fall asleep on the spot. One plainclothes agent pretending to study a sculpture but watching the room from the corner of his eye, while another makes small talk with a group of younger patrons.

Cameras rotate lazily along ceiling tracks in a perfect fifteen-second loop, just as Madeline confirmed twice already from outside.

She smiles as she takes a champagne flute from a passing tray and merges into the crowd like a drop of rain disappearing into the ocean.

No one questions her presence. No one has any reason to do it. She looks exactly like someone who belongs here.

An ambassador with greying hair greets her with a nod. Madeline smiles politely as if she recognizes him. When a group of three women dressed in expensive designer clothes attempts to strike up a conversation, she introduces herself as Julie Coyle, wife of Dr. Coyle, surgeon and philanthropist. The women aren’t exactly moved by the tales of her non-existent husband’s bravery and altruism, though they’re quite interested in his job as a plastic surgeon. Madeline excuses herself and approaches a Singaporean businessman, claiming that her husband—no longer ‘doctor’ now, but merely Mr. Coyle—is interested in investing in his cryptocurrency company. 

People remember conversations, not names. They remember confidence, not faces.

Across the hall, under a single white spotlight, sits the only reason why she’s here tonight: a simple display case, quite insignificant considering the magnitude of everything else in the room. Inside it rests a small metal data chip mounted in a red velvet cushion. The polished plaque beneath the case describes it as a prototype satellite guidance module from the 1980s.

A simple piece of history, according to the museum. A treasure and a threat, according to several intelligence agencies.

Madeline circles the room slowly, never approaching the display directly. She pauses at other exhibits, nodding thoughtfully at sculptures and paintings from artists she couldn’t name if someone paid her. She follows a strict script, a role written by herself for herself to ensure she doesn’t raise any suspicions. That’s why she makes sure to stop longer at smaller displays, pretending to be fascinated by older pieces of machinery from the last century, by rusty scraps of metal.

When one of the guards passes by, a little too close for her taste, she turns her shoulder slightly so he can only see the glitter of her gown and the polite smile of someone admiring history and technology she doesn't quite understand.

He doesn’t look at her again before he moves on.

Madeline checks the cameras again and counts fifteen seconds.

She approaches the display the same way everyone else has tonight: with mild curiosity and a champagne glass in hand. Out of all the pieces in the exhibition, this one isn’t particularly big or flashy; most people walk past it without even sparing a glance at the case.

There are only a couple of other people next to the display. A venture capitalist beside her is explaining satellites to a woman who clearly regrets asking and an older man, who in turn seems rather passionate about satellite technology from the 20th century.

Madeline tilts her head toward the plaque, her lips curled into a bored scowl.

The nearest camera sweeps left.

Across the hall, a waiter slips, the champagne flutes on his tray crashing to the floor with a loud clatter. For a few seconds, all eyes turn to the poor fellow on the floor, his trembling body surrounded by broken glass, spilled alcohol, and the shame of a poorly done job. The music falters, just for a brief moment. No one, not even himself, will even discover that the cramp on his leg that made him stumble was caused by a dark-haired woman observing a simple microchip on the other side of the room.

Madeline isn’t particularly fond of hurting innocent people during her missions, but she figures that using a micro-needle to induce a cramp and create a minor distraction is a lesser evil.

Time is precious, so Madeline is quick. Three seconds after the fall, her gloved fingers find a pressure point beneath the display and the magnetic seal disengages with a vibration too small for anyone else to notice. The glass lifts just enough for her hand to slide inside.

It only takes eight seconds for the chip to be gone. The replica replaces it before the camera rotates back.

Madeline takes a slow sip of champagne. If someone reviews the footage later, they will see a woman pausing politely to read the exhibit description, then watching a poor waiter fall with only mild concern on her face. Nothing more.

With the chip safely tucked inside her dress, Madeline drifts away from the display, heartbeat steady and the pleasure of an easy job tugging at the corner of her lips.

She loves when it’s so easy.

The string quartet playing across the hall reaches a triumphant crescendo. Applause fills the room before the muffled sound of conversations becomes the new background music while the musicians take a small break.

Madeline slips through a side corridor while everyone is looking the other direction.

Moments later, she’s pushing open a glass door and stepping onto a narrow balcony overlooking the Paris skyline. The city stretches out beneath her—buildings glowing over the river, the faint hum of traffic even at this hour. The cool night air bites at the bare skin of her arms, but she pays it no mind.

She leans against the stone railing, checking the time on her wristwatch. Viola will call in around four minutes. Madeline removes the chip from the hidden pocket inside her gown, holding it against the light to study it while she prepares tonight’s victory speech.

Moonlight glints across the metal, and Madeline’s smile drops.

Her fingers tremble ever so slightly as she flips the chip over, running her thumb across the etched markings of the edge, feeling the weight of the piece, the color of its parts.

Madeline stares at it for another few seconds.

The chip is fake.

“Well,” she murmurs softly, “ this is embarrassing.”

The worst thing it’s that it’s not a good fake either. It looks like the real thing, but the alloy composition is off and the microscopic serial etching is but an amateur’s work.

Someone got here first and swapped it.

Madeline exhales slowly.

“Not again,” she mutters, irritation jabbing at her temples. She fights back the urge of crushing the fake chip inside her fist. At least the agency will get some information out of this, or so she hopes.

A faint scrape of stone echoes behind Madeline, startling her. She turns quickly, her hand already reaching for the small gun she keeps strapped to her leg, but it freezes midway when her gaze finds someone else’s.

Outside the balcony railing, balanced on the narrow ledge five stories above the courtyard, Agent Helen Sharp is staring back at her. She’s wearing a black evening gown that blends perfectly with the night. Her posture is relaxed, annoyingly elegant for someone with a thin grappling cable trailing behind her over the roof.

Helen looks at Madeline and raises an eyebrow.

“Really?” Madeline lifts the fake chip between two fingers. “Is this seriously the best you could do?”

Helen tilts her head slightly.

“Good evening to you too, Madeline,” she says, her tone calm and casual. “Dark hair doesn’t suit you.”

Madeline huffs quietly, trying to disguise her irritation, but she can feel herself getting red in the face. If there’s something she hates more than losing or being made fun of, it’s losing to and being made fun of by Helen Sharp, of all people.

“You stole the real one.”

Helen steps lightly over the railing and onto the balcony, shrugging like it’s no big deal. With a quick gesture, she pulls out the real chip from wherever she keeps it hidden and holds it out between them, not close enough for Madeline to reach, but close enough to mock her.

“I simply… retrieved it earlier,” Helen says. Her tone is nonchalant, but Madeline sees the smug glint in her eyes, the pleased grin on her lips.

Madeline stares at the chip again, then at Helen. She could try to disarm her, but at this point she knows Helen well enough to know that it would be useless—she’d be gone before Madeline managed to move.

“You couldn’t have left me the glory for five minutes?”

“You arrived late,” Helen says pointedly. “As you tend to do.”

Madeline gestures with the fake chip, flicking the edge with her manicured fingernail. It makes a small, pathetic sound.

“This is insulting! You didn’t even try to make it convincing. It’s so… cheap.”

“You were convinced enough to sneak it out of the exhibition.” Helen chuckles with a shake of her head, hiding the chip again. “Admit it. It wasn’t that bad.”

Madeline studies her for a moment, deliberately ignoring the fact that she indeed believed the chip was real until barely two minutes ago. She wants to throw the fake piece at Helen just to get her frustrations out. Instead, she leans against the railing again, letting out a defeated sigh.

“Do you always have to do this?” Madeline asks, rolling her eyes. “Ruin my missions by arriving impossibly early?”

“It’s not my fault you chose to work for the competition,” Helen says. “I’m just doing my job, and I happen to be doing it better than you.”

Madeline opens her mouth, hoping to find a remark that doesn’t make her sound like a babbling idiot, but she’s luckily interrupted by the wailing of sirens somewhere in the streets below the museum.

Both of them glance toward the sound.

Madeline sighs. “I guess that’s my cue.”

“Mine as well,” Helen says, nodding slightly.

“I hope you get caught,” Madeline says, and she doesn't quite mean it, but she also doesn't quite not mean it.

It might be the moonlight playing tricks, but she swears she sees Helen smile. In spite of herself, she does too, and hopes that Helen doesn't notice.

“I hope you fall off the roof.”

They move at the same time: Madeline vaults smoothly over the opposite railing toward the neighboring rooftop. She can hear Viola’s stern voice calling her name in her small earpiece, and curses herself for not noticing the chip was fake on time, and Helen, for interrupting her before she can make up a believable excuse to tell her handler. Meanwhile, Helen steps onto the balcony edge and disappears down her grappling line with ease.

Within seconds, the balcony is empty again.

Of all the places to go on a mission, Agent Helen Sharp thinks that trains aren’t exactly the worst. Trains are predictable—they follow schedules, speed limits, railways and fixed routes. If all goes well, they move exactly where they are supposed to go, exactly when they are supposed to get there. If not, they’re slightly late, everyone complains, and life goes on.

People, however, are much less reliable.

Helen steps onto the train with a small overnight bag and the expression of someone traveling back home after a long week. Everything is part of the act—the clothes and the hair, too informal for her taste—except her tired posture and the long sigh that escapes her lips before she can tell herself to hold it back. The platform at Vienna is surprisingly quiet in the late evening, the station lights glowing pale against damp stone.

The doors close behind her with a soft hiss, and soon enough the train begins to move.

Inside, passengers settle into their seats with books and laptops, some sharing quiet conversations while others choose to isolate themselves from the rest of the world with music. Everything is warm and dimly lit, and nothing about the scene suggests that somewhere in the second-class carriage sits a man whose life is currently worth a lot more than most people will earn throughout their lives.

Helen walks calmly down the aisle, her steps quiet and her reflection gliding along the dark windows beside her.

In her ear, her earpiece vibrates softly.

“Status?” Agent Lisle von Rhuman asks, though it’s merely protocol. She knows and trusts Helen enough to know she’s where she’s expected to be at every moment.

Helen lowers her voice, hoping not to catch the attention of any nosey bystander. “Boarded.”

“Good. Our contact should approach shortly,” Lisle says. “Be careful.”

Helen nods once, though Lisle cannot see it, as she reaches the end of the carriage and pauses near the connecting door. The hum of the train is steady beneath her feet as it accelerates across the night Austrian landscape.

The conductor arrives then, appearing from the next carriage in the navy uniform of the rail company, cap tucked neatly under one arm and a ticket scanner in hand. Helen studies her, noting every detail and making a mental note of it—her height, the shape of her shoulders against the fabric of the uniform.

The woman stops beside her.

“Ticket, please.”

Her voice is calm and composed, almost bored, but she lowers it slightly when Helen hands over her ticket.

“Agent Sharp?”

Helen watches her in silence as she scans the ticket. It only lasts a second, but the air is tense—the two women are assessing each other, anticipating a potential attack, an unexpected obstacle in an otherwise perfect plan. 

“Yes,” she finally says.

“Carriage four, seat fourteen.” The conductor smiles as she hands back the ticket, and Helen feels her body relax for a second before the pressure of the mission weighs down on her shoulders again.

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy the journey.”

The conductor continues down the aisle checking other passengers, never glancing back to look at Helen. For anyone else in the train that might have been paying attention, the interaction wouldn’t have been remarkable at all, a conversation no longer than ten seconds.

For Helen, it’s more than enough.

She moves through the connecting door into the next carriage, and then the next until she reaches her destination: carriage four.

A middle-aged man sits by the window taking frantic notes on a worn-out journal. Even in the dim light of this train, Helen can see his features perfectly match the pictures in the brief: Dr. Robert ‘Bobby’ O’Brien.

Helen walks past him as if he wasn’t there and sits in the seat across the aisle.

For several minutes, the train glides smoothly through the countryside. The gentle silence of the night is only interrupted by hushed conversations in another carriage and a man snoring a couple of seats behind Helen. Outside the windows, the distant lights of traffic and cities flicker past like shooting stars.

Helen waits, pretending to read an old paperback with dog-eared pages, until she can see O’Brien standing and walking toward the rear of the carriage from the corner of her eye.

Bathroom break. Of course.

The corridor outside the restroom is empty, Helen makes sure of it before she follows him a moment later. Her posture is casual and relaxed as she walks down the aisle towards the bathroom. She even fakes a yawn for good measure, even though nobody is paying attention.

She waits exactly six seconds after O’Brien enters the bathroom before she knocks gently on the door.

“Occupied,” O’Brien calls from inside.

Helen’s jaw twitches slightly. The man sounds nervous, a subtle tremble in his voice. She knew he’d probably be aware that he was being followed, but the last thing Helen needs now is for the situation to escalate. She can extract a man from a train without raising any suspicion, of course, but making everyone forget a physical confrontation… that’s an entirely different thing.

She leans closer to the door.

“Dr. O’Brien,” she says, her voice low and calm, almost gentle. “You’re leaving the train with me.”

There’s a short pause before the door opens a fraction.

O’Brien stares at her with the expression of a man who fears for his life. Helen would pity him, but men’s miseries don’t move her much these days. His pleading eyes, the way his hands are shaking… All Helen wants is to slap him and tell him to snap out of it.

“I was told someone would meet me—”

“Right.”

“—in Katowice.”

Well, that’s interesting. She makes a mental note to inform Lisle later.

“There’s been a… slight change of plans,” Helen says simply.

O’Brien hesitates. He doesn’t trust Helen—he has no reason to, and like most people, he knows that trusting his instincts is the right choice—but he’s too scared, too stressed to think rationally. He’s in a position where he knows he’s in danger, and his choices are not about escaping danger, but rather about choosing the less dangerous path. All Helen needs to do now is convince him that she is the less dangerous path.

Behind them, footsteps approach down the corridor. Helen feels her muscles tense at the sound and glances over her shoulder slowly, the gesture as casual as the situation allows it. This is no time for distractions or unexpected setbacks.

It’s the conductor again. Helen steps aside politely as she passes, not even sparing a glance at them. Helen lets out a long breath, feeling her heartbeat steady in her chest as she turns to look at O’Brien again. The man looks as if she’s just seen a ghost.

The conductor pauses beside them.

“Is there a problem here?”

Helen doesn’t turn to look at her.

“No.”

“Hmm,” the conductor says lightly. “I believe there definitely is a problem.”

Helen’s breath catches. She recognizes the voice half a second too late, and she snaps her head around to look at the woman—not the agent from before, their contact, but someone else. This woman is slightly shorter, the uniform a little too big on her shoulders. Her smile is wide and mocking, one that Helen knows a little too well.

Agent Madeline Ashton.

Of every agent in the world, it had to be her. Madeline rests one elbow casually against the corridor wall, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Good evening, Agent Sharp.”

“Agent Ashton.” Helen exhales once through her nose, trying to calm down her nerves. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Dr. O’Brien looks between them with growing alarm in his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “Who exactly—?”

Both women speak at the same time. “You’re coming with me.”

They pause to glare at each other, and suddenly Helen is pulling the man out of the bathroom and behind her as she reaches for the inside of her jacket at the same time. The pistol clears the holster in a smooth motion.

Madeline is already drawing her own, a grin plastered across her face.

The train rattles violently beneath their feet as it barrels through a curve.

“Don’t move,” Helen says.

Madeline tilts her head. “Sorry, but I need that man to come with me,” she says, her tone annoyingly sweet. “Either you let him go or I’ll have to shoot you.”

“I’ve already secured the extraction. It’s over, Madeline.”

“Hmm…” Madeline’s gaze flicks briefly to the man behind Helen. He’s shaking violently, Helen can almost hear his teeth chattering. “I’m sure you have.”

Helen shifts slightly, positioning herself between Madeline and the engineer. The corridor is too narrow—barely enough space for the three of them, a place entirely too dangerous to shoot carelessly. Dr. O’Brien presses his trembling body against the wall, looking like he’s about to start crying.

Madeline smiles again, amused.

“I must say,” she adds conversationally, “I wasn’t sure about the uniform thing, but I believe it suits me, doesn’t it?”

Helen has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She wishes she could shoot Madeline and make her shut up for good, but that would only cause her even more trouble, so she makes the smarter choice: she shoots the overhead light instead.

The corridor drops into darkness, only the dim lights of the adjacent carriages and the faint flickering lights outside the windows lighting the scene. Helen can hear a confused murmur across the aisle.

I need to be quick, she tells herself, gritting her teeth as she shoves the engineer sideways and lunges forward.

Just as she expected, Madeline moves just as fast.

The two agents collide in the dark, narrow space. Helen knocks Madeline’s gun hand toward the ceiling just in time to hear a suppressed shot thud harmlessly into a luggage rack. Madeline twists her wrist and kicks Helen’s knee, forcing her back a step. 

O’Brien lets out a loud, pathetic yelp.

“Stay behind me,” Helen snarls without looking at him. Instead of an answer, all he does is whimper in response. 

Madeline tries to reach for his arm, but Helen catches her wrist. For a moment they’re locked together, bodies trapped against each other, balanced against the sway of the train, forehead to forehead and eye to eye.

“I need you to stop ruining my missions,” Madeline murmurs.

“Ruining your missions?” Helen shoves her back. “You’re the one who keeps sabotaging me.”

Madeline scoffs. In a swift move, she grabs O’Brien and yanks him toward her, but Helen is quick to react and immediately grabs the other sleeve.

The man makes a strangled noise as he’s pulled between them.

“Please stop doing that,” he says weakly, but neither of them is listening.

“Agent,” Helen says through her teeth, “this operation is already complete. Let him go.”

Madeline pulls harder. “He’s coming with me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Helen releases her grip on O’Brien suddenly, and Madeline stumbles half a step backward with the unexpected momentum. Helen takes advantage of the moment to grab the man again and start running toward the end of the aisle, even though she knows she won’t get too far from Madeline with O’Brien in tow, maybe if she can reach the next carriage and lock the door, she might…

Behind her, something slams down with a metallic clunk.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

The shriek of an alarm going off explodes through the small space of the carriage. Madeline has activated the emergency brake, and now everyone in this damn train knows there’s something going on.

Helen barely has time to curse under her breath before the train lurches. The world tilts sideways, the metal of the vehicle screeching everywhere, and Helen loses her footing and slams into the compartment wall, O’Brien crashing into her shoulder with a wheeze.

“Move,” she snaps, dragging him upright just as the carriage doors at the far end burst open.

Two uniformed security officers flood in, their weapons raised, eyes sharp and searching.

One of them sees Helen and O’Brien, awkwardly standing in the middle of the aisle, and he instantly knows. “There!” he shouts.

Helen should probably panic, but doesn’t hesitate. She shoves O’Brien forward, and says, her voice ice cold: “Run.”

He doesn’t argue this time and stumbles ahead, clutching the seats for balance, vanishing into the next carriage like a scared animal.

Helen turns to make sure the security officers aren’t too close. She barely has a second to duck as Madeline’s arm swings for her head in the dark. They collide again, harder this time, and Helen feels the air being knocked out of her lungs. She grunts when her back hits a row of seats, the momentum making the impact stronger. A startled passenger yelps and flattens himself against the window.

“You just had to pull the alarm,” Helen mutters, grabbing Madeline’s wrist and twisting.

Madeline winces in pain, but forces herself to smile. “You know I love a dramatic exit.”

“An exit?” Helen repeats through gritted teeth, trying to shove Madeline off. “You just turned this place into a death trap, you stupid bitch.”

“It will be an exit, you impatient whore.”

A gunshot cracks past them. Both of them flinch, instinctively dropping low as the security officers advance through the carriage.

“We have to get out of here,” Madeline says lightly, leaning closer to Helen, her voice dropping. “All we have to do is move on to the next carriage and block the door, it’ll give us enough time to—”

Helen exhales sharply. “We? I’m sorry, but you must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to—”

Another shot hits the overhead panel, splinters raining down. The two of them duck as the train jolts again, slower now, grinding toward a halt. They move at the same time, then pause when their shoulders bump into each other.

Madeline gestures, mock-polite. “After you, agent.”

Helen rolls her eyes before bolting the opposite direction. As much as she hates to admit it, Madeline is right: if they manage to get to the next carriage and stop the security officers from reaching them for a few minutes, they’ll be able to make an escape. A messy escape, but an escape after all.

Madeline laughs under her breath and vaults over the seat instead, cutting across the aisle. They weave through panicked passengers, using the chaos as cover.

At the far end of the carriage, Helen reaches the door first. Seconds later, when it bangs open again, both women reach the emergency latch and pull it at the same time, pressing their bodies against the door to make sure it’s securely shut. For a moment that feels like an eternity, they stare at each other in silence, their breathing ragged, heartbeat drumming in their ears.

Madeline’s lips curl into a smile, her hair a mess and her eyes bright. “See? My plan worked just fine,” she says with a chuckle.

Helen is about to insult her again, but then—she remembers.

She turns around quickly, her eyes scanning the dim carriage in desperation. Aside from the frightened whimpers of the passengers and the murmurs of confusion, everything is quiet.

O'Brien is gone.

“Don’t tell me,” Madeline says. “You lost him.”

Helen spins on her. “This is your fault. You stopped the train. You alerted the guards. You—”

“You interfered with my mission.”

Helen steps closer. Madeline doesn’t back away this time.

“My mission was already complete and you ruined it.”

Somewhere behind them, the chaos continues. The screams and shouts grow louder, closer. The sound of boots mingles with that of radios, alarms, weapons being cocked, and cries for calm. The rest of security is catching up.

If they don’t run now, they’re dead.

Madeline tilts her head, studying Helen. She seems serious, for once. Almost thoughtful. “We make a good team,” she says, her tone oddly neutral.

Helen stares at her like she’s just said something deeply offensive.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re right. This was a disaster.” Madeline grins. “But it was kind of fun, wasn’t it?”

Helen scoffs and shakes her head, opening the door control panel and pressing a few buttons. The train door opens silently.

“Next time,” she says, glancing over her shoulder to look at Madeline one last time, “stay out of my way, Agent Ashton.”

Madeline moves past her, brushing her shoulder. The gesture is deliberate and fleeting, but Helen doesn’t have much time to think about it before they’re gone in opposite directions, protected by the quiet and the cold of the night.

A few hours later, Helen sits in the quiet safehouse kitchen, a cup of untouched tea in front of her and a blanket around her shoulders. Even though she's safe now, her breath is still a little ragged from the chase on the train; her brain keeps replaying the scene, analyzing every little move. What could she have done differently? What made her fail this time?

It's not the first time she hasn't been able to successfully complete a mission and, realistically speaking, she knows it won't be the last. She's only human after all, but—she hates failing. She hates it so much it makes her blood boil.

Lisle’s voice crackles through the speaker on the table.

“Well done,” she says without a hint of mockery.

Helen says nothing.

“You lost the engineer,” Lisle continues conversationally, “but you avoided capture, escaped without being identified and without causing any civilian casualties. We have enough agents deployed around the area for this to merely become a minor inconvenience. With everything we know now, I’m sure he won't be able to avoid us for more than a few hours at most.”

A pause. Helen stares at the cold cup of tea in front of her, and presses her lips into a thin line. She wishes she could see the glass half-full. She wishes she could make Lisle understand how heavily each failure weighs on her, how she needs to be perfect and under control. She doesn’t want missions to take a few unexpected extra hours or to be halted by minor inconveniences; she wants—no, she needs—everything to be perfect.

“It seems like you encountered your rival again,” Lisle adds. “Quite a fascinating pattern, don’t you think?”

Helen’s eye twitches at the mention of Madeline. The image of her smile as they parted ways, after she ruined Helen’s mission just because, will haunt her for a long time. It’ll be a good enough motivation to keep improving so she can ensure that, next time, she won’t let Madeline Ashton get away with anything.

“What pattern?” she finally speaks, anger seeping through her voice.

“Your nemesis improves your performance,” Lisle says, amused. “Very healthy dynamic.”

Helen considers several possible responses—some that would probably cost her her job, or at least her cordial relationship with Lisle—but chooses none of them. She takes a deep breath, trying to push the memory of Madeline far, far away.

“Send me her file,” she says instead. “I need—I need to check something.”

There's a chuckle at the other end of the line.

“Helen, as you might have already guessed, no new information has been added to Agent Ashton’s file since the last time you checked it, which I believe was…” There's a short silence, and Helen can just picture Lisle pretending to check her calendar just to spite her. “Two days ago.”

“You know what, never mind,” Helen says, rolling her eyes, though she can feel herself blushing. Thankfully, Lisle isn’t there to see it. “I don’t care.”

“I have already sent it,” Lisle says cheerfully. “But Helen, please—don’t obsess too much over this, okay?”

“I won't. I promise,” Helen lies. She’s made the same promise before, and has failed to fulfill it every single time.

Helen opens the file on her tablet. She’s greeted by some pictures of agent Madeline Ashton, most of them blurry, all taken from different angles by someone who did their best not to get caught. None of them manages to truly capture that annoying glint in her eye when she smiles, that stupid smug expression on her face. None of them manages to capture the mocking tone of her voice whenever she greets Helen, the way her posture relaxes ever so slightly around her. The pictures only show a beautiful rose, not the thorns.

And still, Helen can’t help but stare. Just a second too long, before she decides to turn off her tablet and take a nap.

All she needs is a good night’s sleep, and Madeline Ashton will be out of her mind in no time.

The elevator hums softly around Madeline, a low mechanical vibration she barely registers anymore. The mirrored walls reflect her from every angle—perfect posture, not a strand of hair out of place. She checks herself anyway, flipping open her pocket mirror with practiced ease.

Her lips press together, then curve into a satisfied smirk. She feels the familiar pull to read the email again, but she resists. There’s no need now. She’s gone over it enough times in the past few hours that she can recite it word by word.

Madeline can already see the scene crystal clear in her mind: Viola patting her back, a proud smile in her usually contained expression; their boss shaking her hand, thanking her for her service, congratulating her for being the best agent this agency has ever seen.

She has prepared a speech, not because she thinks anyone will expect her to give one—this part of the business is rarely that theatrical, much to her dismay—but because, frankly, if anyone in this agency deserves to get a little dramatic with it, it’s her.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.

“Looking great, agent,” Madeline says lightly as she steps out, already smiling.

Viola is waiting exactly where she expected, still and composed and beautiful, hands clasped behind her back like a statue.

“Try not to look so pleased with yourself,” she says. The moment her eyes land on Madeline, she turns on her heel and starts down the hallway without waiting.

Madeline’s mouth twists into a small pout, more out of principle than actual offense, and she falls into step behind her. The one time she makes the effort to be punctual…

The corridor stretches long and quiet, polished floors reflecting the sterile overhead lighting. Their footsteps echo in measured beats as they make their way to conference room 3B, and Madeline has to stop herself from grinning when she notices a couple of younger agents staring at them like they’re some kind of celebrities.

“You’re in a good mood,” Madeline says, tilting her head slightly to study Viola’s posture.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Madeline insists.

Viola exhales slowly, but there’s no real bite behind it. “We were called in directly after a successful operation. That usually indicates debriefing and reassignment, nothing else. We have no reason to believe—”

“Or commendation,” Madeline cuts in, unable to help herself. Her expression brightens, the idea far too appealing to let go. “And I think we have earned that, haven’t we?”

Viola stops just short of the door. She turns, fixing Madeline with a look—measured, lacking its usual severity, softened at the edges in a way most people wouldn’t notice. Madeline does, of course, and takes it as a sort of personal win.

“Do not assume anything,” Viola says.

Madeline smiles, unbothered. “I assume that we make an excellent team, and that’s served us well so far.”

Viola rolls her eyes and pushes the door open.

Madeline steps in first, already shifting seamlessly into her most charming expression. Her shoulders square and her smile widens, her hand brushes down the front of her perfectly tailored suit, smoothing wrinkles that don’t exist. She’s the perfect image of an agent, the mirror in which everyone should want to see themselves.

“You,” a voice says across the room.

Madeline’s smile drops quickly. Her hand moves before the thought fully forms, the gesture practiced and precise. The pistol is in her grip in a second, arm extended and firm, aim steady and unflinching.

Across the room, Agent Helen Sharp mirrors her perfectly.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Madeline says, voice sharp with disbelief.

Helen’s aim doesn’t waver. Her voice sounds calm as ever when she speaks. “I could ask the same.”

Behind Madeline, Viola draws her own weapon with quiet precision, her stance shifting just enough to cover angles and assess the threat without escalating. Even though she has never encountered Agent Sharp in person before, she knows. Only one other agent could get Madeline this riled up.

Next to Helen, another woman lounges in her chair, watching the entire situation unfold with visible amusement. One ankle rests over her knee, her posture loose as if she wasn’t caught in the middle of a standoff. 

“Don’t mind me, please,” she says lightly. “This is exactly how I hoped this meeting would start.”

Madeline tilts her head, studying Helen over the barrel of her gun. Her gaze is sharp, assessing, and as much as it irritates her, curious. After all, it’s not every day that a rival agent shows up in your conference room.

“You’re not welcome here, Agent Sharp.”

Helen’s eyes narrow just slightly.

“I wasn’t told you’d be here.”

Viola shifts, barely noticeable to anyone else, but clear to Madeline: a quiet warning. A request for restraint and for care. Not here, not now, is what she’s trying to say. But Viola doesn’t understand. She doesn't see the real threat before them. Unlike Madeline, she has never had to deal with Helen Sharp.

“Stand down,” Viola mutters.

Madeline doesn’t move.

“I’d rather not.”

The woman beside Helen sighs, long and theatrical, like she’s starting to get bored by the entire situation.

“If you two shoot each other before we even start,” she says, “I’m going to be quite disappointed.”

“Start what?” Viola snaps.

“Excellent question.”

The screen at the end of the room flickers to life, almost on cue. The sudden glow and the static cuts through the tension like a blade. Madeline recognizes the silhouette immediately—the blurred figure, the distortion masking a face and a voice that she blindly trusts. The same presence, always watching.

“Stand down,” a modulated voice that Madeline recognizes commands. The order echoes through the room, sharp and clear.

Madeline holds her aim for a fraction longer. Across from her, Helen does the same, neither willing to yield first.

“Agents,” a second voice adds, calm but edged with authority. “That is an order.”

A second goes by that seems to stretch for eternity. Madeline exhales slowly through her nose, then lowers her weapon with controlled reluctance, but doesn’t holster it.

Helen mirrors her again. Madeline can see the slightest twitch of her jaw, the way her arms move but the tension doesn’t quite leave her body.

“Well,” Madeline says lightly, though something colder now threads beneath her tone. Her good mood is now ruined, all thanks to Helen Sharp, “this is not the reward I was expecting.”

Helen frowns. “Reward?”

“Oh, you know. My immaculate execution. Successful missions—though, of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that.” Madeline gestures vaguely. “I assumed praise was involved.”

Helen stares at her, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“You… You thought this was a commendation meeting?”

“I still might,” Madeline replies. “This could all simply be a very elaborate surprise.”

She steps further into the room, circling the table with slow, deliberate steps. Her attention never leaves Helen. She then realizes that this is the first time she’s been able to observe her this closely without either of them having their lives at risk. There’s no guards or police officers following them, no darkness of the night protecting their identities.

In the light of an ordinary conference room, Agent Helen Sharp is just… a regular woman.

“So,” Madeline says. “Let’s address the obvious problem.”

Helen crosses her arms. “You mean you?”

“I mean you.”

Viola pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Care to explain what’s going on?” she asks, turning toward the screen.

The first voice answers, steady and controlled and clearly not amused by the constant banter between Madeline and Helen. “You are all aware of each other’s… history.”

“History is a generous term. I would call it ‘repeated operational interference’,” Helen says, huffing softly.

Madeline glances at her.

“You say that like it wasn’t mutual.”

“It wasn’t!”

“Regardless,” Viola interrupts in, sharper now, “why are we here?”

“Because,” the second voice says, “despite your conflicts, you have both consistently completed your objectives.”

Madeline smiles faintly, pleased at any sliver of praise she can get from her superiors. At least that's something she can rub Helen’s nose in—she is the better agent. “You’re welcome.”

Helen rolls her eyes. “That’s not—”

“We have identified an unexpected threat affecting both organizations. Although the standard procedure would be to act independently,” the voice continues, cutting her off cleanly, “we have determined that your combined skill sets are necessary for the success of this mission.”

There’s the subtlest shift of Viola’s posture. Madeline watches her out of the corner of her eye as she crosses her arms over her chest, her expression now focused and alert. When it comes to a mission, she takes everything with the utmost seriousness—even when there are two enemy agents in the room.

“Define ‘combined.’”

The screen changes.

A new image blooms into view: a sprawling coastal resort drenched in sunlight. White stone gleaming under a cloudless sky, the bluest of seas stretching out on the horizon, palm trees sway lazily in the breeze as people share drinks and laughs underneath the gentle shade of their leaves.

Madeline’s brows lift.

“Well,” she murmurs, “that’s promising.”

“Location: El Amor,” the first voice says. “A luxury resort on the Spanish coast with high-profile clientele and a private and secure environment. Ideal for covert activity, as you might have already guessed.”

Helen leans forward slightly, studying the image with focus.

“Our target is an independent data broker, specialized in acquisition and resale of high-level intelligence.” The image changes to show several photos of men and women of different ages. “They’re hiding within the guest network and their identity remains unknown, but these are our main suspects.”

“And how do we know our target is still there?”

“In twelve days,” the second voice says, “the resort will host a private technology summit. Attendance is restricted to high-profile figures in cybersecurity and private intelligence sectors, all of them guests in the resort.”

Helen’s hums thoughtfully. “A marketplace.”

“Indeed.”

The screen zooms in—all kinds of documents, from conference layouts to guest registries. When Madeline takes a closer look, she feels something cold settle between her ribs as she recognizes the images before her: agency insignias, operational summaries, records of on-going and completed missions, security schematics.

The air in the room shifts, the tension becoming heavier.

“We believe that our target intends to auction a package of stolen intelligence during the summit,” the first voice says.

“That intelligence,” the second voice continues, “contains sensitive information from both of our organizations: active operations, embedded assets, strategic infrastructure…”

Viola’s voice cuts in, low and controlled. “How compromised?”

“Significantly.”

Helen’s jaw tightens.

“If that gets out—”

“This could dismantle our entire network,” the voice says.

“So you want us to stop the sale,” Madeline says

“We need you not only to retrieve the data,” the first voice clarifies, “but to identify all parties involved and neutralize the transaction. We need to ensure this doesn't become the seed of something bigger.”

Viola crosses her arms. “Security?”

“On-site surveillance and biometric access restrictions within the resort, as well as private contractors for many of the guests,” the voice says. “We expect some of our suspects to remain insulated until the exchange.”

Helen studies the screen, the schematics reflecting on her glasses and making her eyes shine somehow.

“So we can’t just walk in and take our target.”

“No,” the voice confirms. “You will need proximity, so you will enter as guests.”

“At least that’s straightforward,” Madeline mumbles.

There’s a short silence before the voice speaks again.

“You will enter as a married couple.”

The words slam into the room like a bomb detonating. For a second, no one moves. No one breathes.

Madeline makes a small, confused noise.

Her brain, so quick to anticipate outcomes and assemble believable lies and characters, stalls completely. Of all the possibilities she had prepared for—for praise, for reassignment—this had not even crossed her mind as a distant, absurd thought.

Slowly, she turns her head toward Helen.

Helen is already looking at her.

For the first time since Madeline has known her, Helen Sharp looks genuinely unprepared. The composure is still there, held together by sheer force of habit, but no amount of training could have prepared her for this.

Madeline lets out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound edged with disbelief.  “No.”

“Yes,” one of the voices says, their tone sharp as if they’d anticipated this response.

Madeline shakes her head immediately.

“No, we can’t—”

Helen exhales, running a hand through her hair, pushing up her glasses just to get another couple of seconds to try and understand the situation, then lets out a huffed chuckle, tension snapping back into her posture.

“That’s not going to work.”

“It has to.”

“We can’t even tolerate each other,” Helen says, her voice tightening.

“Then you will learn.”

Madeline drags a hand down her face, fingers pressing briefly against her eyes as if trying to wake herself up from a very bad nightmare.

“Seriously? With her, of all people?” she says, her tone a little too frantic for her own taste. “How can we even trust her? It would be better if we worked with someone we already know, not with an agency that’s tried to ruin our work for years. I mean why can’t I just go with Vi—” She glances at Viola, looking for support, but all Viola gives her is a subtle glare. “—with Stefan! He’s trustworthy and—!”

“We appreciate your input, Agent Ashton,” the voice says. “However, Stefan is merely an assistant, not a field agent. As for Agent Van Horn, her proven reliability will be essential to the mission’s intelligence and communications.”

Traitor, Madeline thinks, watching Viola’s expression brighten up ever so slightly at the praise.

“This is a terrible plan.”

“On the contrary,” the first voice replies, utterly unmoved, “it is the most effective. Given your track record of mutual sabotage each other, working side by side is the only way to ensure the mission's success.”

Viola steps forward slightly, her tone controlled as usual but edged now with something firmer. “There are alternative infiltration methods.”

“Not for this target.”

“This only increases the risks.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Agent Van Horn. This will mitigate greater risk,” the second voice counters. “You require sustained access to restricted areas, shared accommodations, and unquestioned social integration. A couple provides all three.”

Madeline’s lips part, then press together again. She lets out a slow breath through her nose.

Helen mutters under her breath, her face slightly pale, “Unbelievable.”

Madeline glances at her, quick and sharp. For once in their lives, they agree.

“Other agents will be deployed day by day to avoid arousing suspicion and to ensure that all bases are covered on the day of the summit. You will be supported by Agent Van Horn and Agent von Rhuman on-site,” the second voice continues. “They will be operating under civilian cover to ensure the operation is safely completed.”

Agent von Rhuman lights up immediately, her delight bright and unfiltered. “We’re going to get along so well.”

“We are not,” Viola says flatly, without even looking at her.

Madeline barely registers the exchange, her mind already racing ahead, assembling scenarios she doesn’t want to consider. The mission is going to be a failure. No matter how good of an actress and a spy she is, there’s a kind of familiarity that can’t be faked unless it’s constant. The mutual understanding, the unspoken pull between two people. Something she and Helen could never replicate, not even if they wanted.

“Nobody’s going to believe that we are married,” Madeline protests weakly, knowing it’s futile. “I mean, have you seen her? Why would anyone want to marry her?”

“I’m already married,” Helen says, crossing her arms over her chest, her expression smug, “to the job.”

Madeline blinks once, twice.

“See? How’s anyone going to believe this?”

“They will have to,” the first voice—the one Madeline knows so well—says. “You have carried out far more outlandish undercover missions before, Agent. We’re confident that working with an old rival won’t be a problem for someone with a track record like yours.”

“And if we refuse?” Madeline asks, not letting the praise get to her head.

“You will not,” the voice replies without hesitation. “You both have been selected because you are our best agents. Failure to complete this mission would force us to reconsider your position within the organization.”

Helen’s gaze drops for just a fraction of a second, the calculation visible in the tightening of her jaw before she looks back up. Something shifts in her expression.

Madeline feels it too—there’s no other choice.

“That’s not fair,” she says, quieter now.

“You’ve never cared about fairness before, Agent Ashton.”

Madeline’s jaw tightens, her gaze flicking away for a moment before returning to the screen. She hates how easily they can corner her with nothing but the truth.

“Madeline.” Beside her, Viola’s voice is grounding and calm. A reminder of where she is and what’s at stake.

Madeline closes her eyes briefly, takes a deep breath

When she opens them, she turns to Helen again.

Helen meets her gaze immediately this time. There’s something steady there now, something resigned but unyielding.

They both understand: the only way out of this is together.

“Fine,” Helen says at last.

Madeline’s head tilts.

“You’re agreeing to this?”

“We don’t have a choice.” There’s no dramatics in her voice, no frustration spilling over. Just a statement of fact. “This is what we do. It’s just another mission.”

Madeline studies her for a second, searching for hesitation, for weakness. For anything she can push against.

She finds nothing.

Madeline exhales sharply, a sigh of surrender.

“I guess we don’t.”

Viola straightens beside her. “We accept.”

“Good,” the first voice says. “You depart in forty-eight hours. Full briefing to follow.”

The screen cuts to black without ceremony. The soft hum of the system lingers for a moment, then fades, leaving the room in a silence that stretches through the conference room, heavier than before.

Across from her, Helen moves first, turning slightly as if to leave, but not quite committing to it yet.

“It’s just a cover,” Helen says, almost as if she could read Madeline’s mine, where the word married married married keeps flashing in bright, red lights. “Don’t overthink it.”

Madeline tilts her head, watching her more closely now. A faint, dangerous smile curls at the corner of her mouth.

“I could tell you the same, darling.”

Helen groans, rubbing her eyes underneath her glasses.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely going to call you that,” Madeline says, her tone sickly-sweet. “Unless you prefer something different… Honey? Sweetheart?”

“Stop it.”

Viola pinches the bridge of her nose, already regretting everything.

“This is going to be a disaster,” she mutters mostly to herself.

Madeline’s smile sharpens, something bright and challenging settling into place now that the initial shock is wearing off. Ten days to torment Helen Sharp, to get revenge for every assignment she’s ruined before. It doesn’t sound that bad, now that she thinks about it.

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” she says, her gaze still fixed on Helen. “It'll be... interesting.”

Helen lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Viola clears her throat, soft but pointed.

“That will be enough,” she says. “We leave in forty-eight hours. I suggest we use that time efficiently.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Agent von Rhuman says, already moving toward the door. “We’ll need to coordinate wardrobes, backstories, dates… We need solid emotional arcs.”

Viola’s expression tightens. “Emotional arcs are not part of the mission.”

“They are, if you want these two to be believable,”  Agent von Rhuman replies, glancing over her shoulder.

Helen exhales, clearly done with the conversation. “We’ll review the materials and reconvene tomorrow.”

“Already giving orders?” Madeline teases, raising an eyebrow.

Helen’s gaze snaps back to her. “I was merely making a suggestion.”

“Hmm,” Madeline hums. “Sounded like an order.”

Helen ignores that, turning toward the door. Her tolerance for Madeline has reached its limit for today.

“Looking forward to working together!” Agent von Rhuman calls, winking at them before disappearing through the door.

Behind her, on the edge of the doorway, Helen slows slightly, just enough to glance back over her shoulder.

Her eyes meet Madeline’s, but before Madeline can quite understand what lingers between them, Helen is gone.