LOUIS🗡

Friday, 11:54pm

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SHE STILL HATES ME.

It's not even a question, because I can see the distaste in her expression whenever she looks my way, and I can hear the annoyed tone in her voice when she speaks to me. She's still mad, and we're supposed to be 'working together'.

We're proving to be dysfunctional already.

"Shut up," she'd tell me.

When I opened my mouth to say something, she'd cut me off.

"Shut up," she'd say again.

I'd narrow my eyes. "Why?"

"Because I'm pissed at you for nearly getting me killed," she'd scoff, "and it's already terrible that I have to drag you along to help me find my parents, so try not to make it worse by speaking."

It was obvious that attempting to defend myself was out of the question. She was right—I did nearly get her killed, because I was the one who helped put her in that cell, and I was also the one who let a double-agent fool me and the agency for four years. I felt like an utter fool.

But I'm not an utter fool, so get that idea out of your head. I was simply using it as a temporary example to my current state of emotions.

Considering we had to see her parents—for whatever crazy reason that may be—we had to figure out a way to get all the way from Europe to the carribean (which by the looks of it, would take an 8 hour flight). She didn't have a passport, we didn't have money for a plane ticket, and we couldn't risk getting spotted by an SIS or Ember scouting the area for us.

We were both 'criminals' on the run.

Although, I am not the criminal, bear in mind, that's her job.

Speaking of her, I was relying heavily on the success of her plan. She dragged me out of my hiding place in Winchester with nothing but the clothes on my back (which was all I really had to begin with), and was now leading me to an airport in Southampton where we'd illegally board a plane and smuggle ourselves out of the country.

"While you were sitting on your bum all week," she said, handing me the lighter from her pocket as she tied her hair back, "I was actually getting something done."

I frowned. "I was not sitting on my bum."

"It was an expression, Partridge."

"I know it's an expression."

"Then why did you take it so literally?" She scoffed, "I was simply stating that while you were eating beans in a sad, little cottage, I was here in Southampton, actually doing something productive."

I gave her a pointed glare. "Productive?"

"Yes, and that's why I know how we're going to get to Barbados," she nodded, snatching her lighter back, "try to catch up, will you?"

Sometimes I wanted to remove that smug grin off of her face, but I don't think I'd be able to reach her with all the hate that separated us. She was the most insufferable person I've ever met, and I've killed and captured people far worse than her.

But, I digress, I can complain about her later. We have to break into an airport at the present moment.

"There's always two workers who leave out the back entrance on their breaks," she told me, walking down the pavement, "I've decided that we can take their uniforms and clearance tags to get inside."

I frowned. "Stealing now, are we?"

"Don't pretend you haven't stolen anything before."

"I haven't actually, the SIS provides all agents with whatever resources necessary for a mission."

"Well it looks like the SIS isn't here to provide you with anything," she said sharply, flashing me a sarcastic grin, "be a big boy and learn to live without them, okay?"

Oh, that's the worst of it, her sarcasm.

I hate her sarcasm.

The way she phrases things makes it sound like she knows everything, and it makes you feel like you know nothing. Sometimes it left me wondering if I really did know nothing. Manipulation at its finest, it seems, her effortless way of making people feel lost in their own mind.

We were standing in an employee parking lot, staring up at the Airport building a fair distance in front of us. We had to cross a barbed wire fence in order to get onto the runway where the planes were scheduled for take off, then find a way to get onto the planes. According to Ash, a red-eye flight for the Carribean was to take off in an hour, and we'd have to take a boat to Barbados when we landed.

A hefty and risky plan that was the furthest thing away from being fool-proof.

But, considering it was the only idea we had, we had to go with it.

"Wait here," she said, handing me her lighter again.

I frowned. "I'm not a butler, stop giving me your stuff to hold."

"Oh piss off, you were the one complaining about stealing," she scowled, "so while I'm going to take care of the things we need, you can shut up and stop getting in my way."

Pursuing my lips, I watched as she stalked away from where we were standing, slipping through the parking lot cars as she eyed the entrance of the barbed-wire gate. Just as she had told me, two men strolled out from the airport runway, laughing over something in their thick accents.

I stood there awkwardly, her lighter balanced in my hand, watching as she jumped out from behind a navy Honda Civic, punched one of the men in the face, kicked the other in the stomach, and knocked the two of them out by pushing their heads together. She was merciless. I was slightly unnerved now.

"Yay!" She exclaimed, clapping her hands and waving at me, "I've been practicing that move all week, and it worked!"

I gave her a blank stare. She noticed.

"Oh, stop ogling, Partridge," she frowned, her happy expression disappearing, "you've killed people before, this should be nothing to you."

"I've killed criminals, not innocent airport workers."

"Well, they're not dead."

"That's not the point."

"The point doesn't matter," she frowned, bending down and snatching an ID out of one of the men's pockets, "stop pretending like you have morals now, it's obvious you don't."

I opened my mouth to respond, but decided it was better to just let her smack-talk me. I could take a hit, I wasn't insecure. And besides, we're supposed to be focusing on getting into the airport.

After blocking the cameras with a pile of garbage bins, we dragged the two knocked-out men over to the surrounding forest of trees, stealing their neon jackets and ID cards so that we could go undercover. They'd be fine once they woke up (although they might have a terrible headache and be utterly confused on what happened).

"Strange," I said to the girl beside me as we walked across the concrete runway, "I don't think I've ever seen you in neon."

She glanced at the bright yellow vest she had on. "That's because it's ugly."

"You or the jacket?" I smirked.

She didn't respond to that, instead smacking my arm with the back of her hand and continuing to walk. As I've said before—we aren't friends—so insults are insults. I don't have to worry about sparing her feelings, and she doesn't have to worry about sparing mine. We don't do feelings.

We know what happened the last time we tried that.

(Need a summary? Imagine a nuclear explosion).

In order to get onto the plane that was leaving for the Carribean, we'd have to go through the airport building, out the other end, and somehow get past security. The ID and jackets could only take us as far as we could go unnoticed. If someone asked to see our identification, they'd see the photos of two blokes with beards and mustaches―not us.

I followed [y/n] towards the back end of the left-wing, waited till she scanned the ID card on a scanner, ducked my head under the doorway as we snuck in, and traveled up a flight of stairs until we were emerging into the terminal building.

People were milling about as they waited for their top-of-the-morning flights, eyes tired and arms jittery from what I'd assume to be two cups of coffee.

"Keep your head down," she whispered to me, beginning to walk down a tiled hallway, "they could have eyes on this place."

I didn't need to question who 'they' was being referred to: either the SIS or The Embers.

"I know that," I whispered back, "I'm not stupid."

She pursed her lips together. "It was a reminder, not a lesson."

"You made it sound like I didn't know how to be undercover."

"Just shut up and take this," she hissed.

I was about to question what she meant, but she quickly redirected her path, swerving through the stands of a pop-up shop on the left side of the terminal. To the untrained eye, it would look like she was taking a detour. But to the trained eye—which I have—one would notice the way her fingers brushed lightly against a sunglasses stand, plucking two off as she disguised the sound with the click of her boots against the ground.

And they would also notice how she pretended to double-back and whisper something into my ear, when she was really just slipping a pair of shades into my back pocket.

Impressive.

"Put those on," she said as soon as we left the shop.

I cocked a brow. "You think sunglasses are a disguise?"

"Yes, I do."

"Who wears sunglasses at night?" I scoffed, "that'll only attract attention, not divert it."

I expected her to ignore that comment like she did the others, but instead, she stopped walking, holding out her arm to stop me as well. Not breaking her gaze, she ripped the tag off with her teeth, sliding the stolen glasses onto the bridge of her nose until I couldn't see her eyes anymore.

"It's not about the civilians, Partridge," she said with a hushed whisper, "it's about the cameras."

I took a quick glance around the room to see the familiar black spheres sticking out of the walls. The red recording light was noticeable from even this far below.

"We're wearing neon jackets, which destroy the light balance of the footage," she said, "the reflective panes of the sunglasses will flare our faces well enough so we aren't recognized by anyone who's watching."

I nodded my head. "I see."

"So put those glasses on and stop questioning everything I do," she frowned, "I may not be an Agent like you, but I know what I'm doing."

She was right.

She wasn't an Agent.

And now that I think about it, I've been holding an unconscious sense of superiority over her just because I thought she was a common criminal. I thought my years of training were better than the years of hiding she went through, and I thought the numbers on the back of my neck were similar to the insignia she had marked onto her wrist.

But it wasn't true, was it?

I've been wrong about her before, and maybe I'm wrong again. I shouldn't compare us. We're separate people joined to save ourselves and London from utter destruction—my arrogance is irrelevant.

"I apologize," I said, putting on my glasses, "you're right."

Nodding her head, she removed her arm, resuming her walk through the terminal. I decided I should keep my mouth shut. I'd end up looking like a fool if I tried to discredit her again, because she was the one with the plan, and I was just there to follow.

And even though I hate 'following', I have to in this case.

So I didn't say a word, keeping closely behind her as she led me to the far end of the terminal, through a fire escape, down a flight of stairs, and onto another airport runway. We didn't have a ticket, so we couldn't go through the docking passage—we had to find an alternative solution.

Heads low and sunglasses high, I followed her towards our targeted plane, assisting her in taking out anyone who tried to get in our way. All she had to do was wave her hand at some poor bloke approaching, and I'd have them unconscious on the floor a few seconds after.

And I wondered how we'd get on the plane, but she seemed to have thought of it, because when she waved for me to take out a burly man pushing a cart of suitcases, I watched as she hopped onto the conveyor belt, letting herself get scooped up with the luggage and deposited into the trunk of our plane.

How the hell did she think of that?

I don't know, but it somehow works.

"Time to get cozy," she said when I came stumbling out of the baggage tunnel, "we'll be in here for hours."

The back of the plane was stuffy and dark, and I could barely see her eyes from where I was now huddled in the corner. I nearly flinched when I felt the side of her calf accidentally brush against my leg when she moved.

It made me want to say something, but I knew better than that. She'd just think I was being foolish again, and I would be, thinking that a simple touch was enough to spark a conversation.

So I asked something else instead.

"How's your arm?" I said.

I could sense her eyebrows raised in the darkness. "It's fine."

"You never can get used to it," I laughed weakly, "hurts every time."

There was an awkward pause in the air, where none of us spoke, but it was clear we wanted to. I leaned my back against the curved inside of the plane, waiting for her to say something in response.

"You've been shot before?" She asked hesitantly.

I nodded. "Three times."

"Oh."

"It's been a while since the last one, though," I reassured, "how did it feel?"

I wasn't sure why I cared, or why I bothered to ask about a wound that was nearly healed, but it was the only thing on my mind. Ash didn't seem bothered by it, even though I couldn't see her face.

"Scary, I think," she said softly, "but thank you."

I blinked. "For what?"

There was a moment of silence, where it seemed like she struggled to find an answer. Then I heard the sound of a sigh escape her lips, and she turned her head. At that moment, I wished there was some light in the space, because I just wanted to see her face. I wanted to know what she was thinking.

But then she answered my question.

"For asking."