O.K, I’m new at this sorta thing so please be nice, criticism are appreciated. All of it. feel free to go nuts and do what ever, future plans are welcome.

Sincerely, (without wax) Queen of everything pineapple.

Keep reading.

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Chapter one

MI6 Headquarters, Canary wharf. August 2011

Office number 2724. Like the subsequent offices directly above and below it, as well as the building it was situated in, it did not exist. Its imposing nature and daunting atmosphere was did not exist. Therefore, it must have been impossible for Agent Yanlyn to knock on its non-existent door, checking her watch; even more so for a quiet voice to respond on the other side with a brief, curt “come in”.

But let us suppose that this line of logic is flawed and office 2724 is a real, solid office made up of matter and occupying a specific point in place and time. That Agent Yanlyn proceeded to step across the threshold and, unlike her first few times in the office, failed to be impressed once more. The windowless, masked room; the suave, black cabinet gazing darkly from the corner (which was, obviously, just for show: as if any of the MI6’s files had been on paper since the last millennium!); the neat, polished ebony desk. She had seen it all before: she was used to it all. However, Agent Yanlyn still did have something to fear, and he was the man sitting behind the desk, as seemingly emotionless and sober as the desk itself.

He wore an expensive, black suit, complete with silver tie, and the lightweight equivalent of a suit of body armour: a professional Kevlar vest. It had been weakened through many years of use: being a professional agent for MI6 did not come without its costs.

The spy master had straw-coloured hair, threaded with grey; a high chin; clearly defined bones, and sharp, alert green eyes. He was in his sixties and possessed an eerie aura of authority and secrecy.

“Agent Yanlyn? Another report for me to sign?”

There was no need for greetings. Apart from cutting down on efficiency and time, there was also the fact that Yanlyn couldn’t stand his typically British-gentleman accent for too long before she felt like exploding.

“Yes, sir: the de-brief for the chocolate incident, as well as some others.”

“Ahh...I take it went well?” He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes: a position he was adopting more and more lately. “How did our promising Agent Cresenti do?”

Agent Yanlyn tossed her head up so that her hair flew out of her eyes. “She’s one of our best agents, not to mention the youngest. Being the daughter of Cresenti and Fronde...she has a lot to live up to.”

He did not open his eyes, but his expression tensed. Eric and Avaline had been perfection itself, but even perfection had accidents. Fatal ones.

Ach, but this was not the time for sentiment. There was so little time for sentiment lately, so little time for moral debate, mourning or regrets.

Yanlyn was still waiting, though. He could lose himself in an old man’s fantasies later on.

“Anything else?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. The letters we intercepted from the Russians – our expert code crackers were easily able to recognize their recycled codes – suggest a plan revolving around the crown prince.

The man cracked an eye open and frowned. This had the potential to become serious, very serious indeed.

“May I...make a suggestion, sir?”

He waved his hand. No good ever came of stifling Agent Yanlyn.

“General Radanovich will most probably find it easiest to...get...the prince outside of Britain. He attends St. Celia’s Academy in Austria. It’s in the Salzburg mountain range: fairly remote, and easy to infiltrate -”

“Very well. Send Agent Grey a message.”

She almost managed to hide her smirk. almost

“Already done, sir. The new school term starts in a few days and Agent Grey requests back-up. This is a potentially massive operation.”

“Who can we send?” he asked, feeling he already knew the answer.

Agent Yanlyn avoided his eye. “H authorizes Agent Cresenti. She’s the only agent we can spare. Loven is tracking down drug suppliers in Bermuda.”

“deNello?”

“Undercover in Africa, sir.”

“Alright, we’ll send in Agent Cresenti.” He sighed. She was a brilliant agent, but...not the easiest to get along with. “Undercover, I presume?”

“She’ll fit in fine at St Celia’s.”

“Where is she now?”

“In Cambridge, sir, recovering from the chocolate incident.”

The man chuckled to himself. Yes, Cresenti was overdramatic and somewhat irritating, but she had a certain flair for the job. He flicked open his laptop to recall the details of the chocolate incident once more.

SOLVED

The Chocolate Incident

Location: Geneva

Agent: Cresenti (Guise – Ms. Selez, winner of the Buckinghamshire beauty competition 2020)

Details:

--Three workers at IMU Chocolates, owned by Mr. Aleit DeMencia, were poisoned to death within months of each other

--Mr. DeMencia had been paying the mafia billions of euros to buy poison, planning to commit mass genocide

--The agent, under the guise of Ms. Selez who had won a tour to said factory, blew up the tubs of poisoned chocolate

--She suspended the insane Mr. DeMencia in a vat of chocolate until help arrived

--Agent Cresenti had –

“Sir?”

“Oh – yes, Agent Yanlyn. Go to Cambridge, brief Cresenti, then send her off to St. Celia’s.”

The agent nodded, her roll of the eyes unnoticed. “Of course, sir. I’ll need your official authorization, sir.”

He signed the digital pad with a sleek, expensive pen and a fingerprint. The light beeped green.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take my leave.”

“Oh – Agent Yanlyn?”

She paused, wondering when the old codger would finish up already.

“Send up a coffee for me, will you? I need some caffeine in my system.”

She didn’t even honour his request with a reply, merely slamming the door behind her.

Oliver Lloyd went back to his paperwork – not that it was, in fact, ‘paper’ work. Everything was computerized these days: computerized, virus protected, encrypted, and firewalled. Even good old physical measures like fingerprinting and DNA had some computer in the middle modernizing things. A plain, simple undercover field job was so much easier to handle than gigabytes of files under that solid wall of protection.

Ach, sometimes technology just took the fun out of everything. Not even simple things like reading files – not that that was fun, of course, but there was something poetic and down-to-earth about having at typewriter at your hands and tapping away on the creaky machine until you had a file in your hands – unclassified, dangerous, easy to lose and intercept, but a nice, physical, hand-typed file nonetheless.

Everything nowadays is about computers. I wish I could just crash the system...no. The poor technicians spend all of their waking hours just perfecting this: it would be too cruel on them. A system crash? Their absolute worst nightmare.

Mr. Lloyd couldn’t stop it, though. The idea niggled at his head and he was able to pacify it and put it away in the back of his mind, but never able to quash it completely.