Alec Trevelyan would never, ever, ever admit this in a million years, but the whatever-it-was in the Sun Room the previous night had scared him. Horribly. He barely caught a glimpse of it, but a very strong hunch told him that it was Bad News, capitals and all. For the first time, he was actually thankful to be waking up in bed. They hadn't made much progress, which irritated him to no end, but they hadn't had to tangle with that...that thing either.
He'd argued with the nurse for a bit about the clothes he'd been given to wear. Due to the scar, he was sensitive about what he chose to wear. Nobody looked good in Landel's grey, so he had to live with it. But damned if he was going to put on a ratty tartan overshirt of his own free will. When the threat of sedation was brought into play, he'd capitulated. Either way, he was going to end up in that shirt. He chose the path of least resistance.
I've got to find Javert, he thought, inspecting the inhabitants of bus two. There was no luck on the first one, so he was either on this one or the third.
"I -do- believe they usually contain such things as telephones, however, and likely without too much security around them, if things are done over here as they are at home. Houses of God, sanctity for security and all that."
Trevelyan froze. It isn't.
A quick glance told him that yes, it was - M, the bloody head of bloody MI-6 (or SIS, or whatever the hell they were calling it today) was on the bloody bus, which meant she was in the bloody Institute. Which meant that this had to be one hell of a British mind trick if they went to such lengths to bring her here, too.
Holy fuck, they really want me to crack, he thought with a sort of demented euphoria, and ducked behind one of the seats.
There! Thursday! She wasn't Javert, but she was someone to talk to. And damn, did he need to talk to someone. Now.
no subject
Alec Trevelyan would never, ever, ever admit this in a million years, but the whatever-it-was in the Sun Room the previous night had scared him. Horribly. He barely caught a glimpse of it, but a very strong hunch told him that it was Bad News, capitals and all. For the first time, he was actually thankful to be waking up in bed. They hadn't made much progress, which irritated him to no end, but they hadn't had to tangle with that...that thing either.
He'd argued with the nurse for a bit about the clothes he'd been given to wear. Due to the scar, he was sensitive about what he chose to wear. Nobody looked good in Landel's grey, so he had to live with it. But damned if he was going to put on a ratty tartan overshirt of his own free will. When the threat of sedation was brought into play, he'd capitulated. Either way, he was going to end up in that shirt. He chose the path of least resistance.
I've got to find Javert, he thought, inspecting the inhabitants of bus two. There was no luck on the first one, so he was either on this one or the third.
"I -do- believe they usually contain such things as telephones, however, and likely without too much security around them, if things are done over here as they are at home. Houses of God, sanctity for security and all that."
Trevelyan froze. It isn't.
A quick glance told him that yes, it was - M, the bloody head of bloody MI-6 (or SIS, or whatever the hell they were calling it today) was on the bloody bus, which meant she was in the bloody Institute. Which meant that this had to be one hell of a British mind trick if they went to such lengths to bring her here, too.
Holy fuck, they really want me to crack, he thought with a sort of demented euphoria, and ducked behind one of the seats.
There! Thursday! She wasn't Javert, but she was someone to talk to. And damn, did he need to talk to someone. Now.