Much was it was for their counterparts in mundane armies of the world, there were certain things that fell to the wayside when field agents of a secret society went on a long term mission. Amita Kaur-Mitchell, officer-in-charge of the Templar response team 'D Cell,' had already gathered up the mail that had arrived over the past week.
Mail intended for the Amita Kaur-Mitchell that mundane London knew of. A graduate of the University of Guelph who had traveled to the United Kingdom to work for an old architecture firm that she had family connections to. A woman married to Donald Mitchell (originally from Chelsea), who was a nurse technician at London Bridge Hospital. They purportedly went to football matches, took picnics, and generally led agreeable, entirely boring lives.
Not traveling through a vast floramechanical extradimensional network that allowed them to journey thousands of miles in a few steps. Not deploying into conflict wracked Aden because a Templar agent had died attempting to smuggle out a dangerous artifact of Amm from the times of the Qataban. Not trying to avoid Houthi militia or GCC airstrikes. And certainly not fighting and destroying the rogue jinn sayyid that had taken the item for itself.
Dumping the mail on the small kitchen island with one hand, the black haired woman of Gujarati descent set down the paper bag she had been carrying in the other.
Groceries were another thing that went to the wayside during a long term mission.
As she did, the motion caused the recently healed wound in her hip to briefly twinge, causing her to wrinkle her hooked nose in discomfort. The combination of her Gaian regeneration and her husband's sanguinemancy had taken care of the lion's share of the damage, but that jinn's fire lance had packed a wallop.
Smirking as she started to pull items from the shopping bag, Amita briefly wished for the boring life the mundane world thought she had, then shook her head. Knowing that there was a Secret World now, and that it was full of dangers most humans didn't know existed? She couldn't lead a 'normal' life. How could anyone who knew? Membership in the Templars or not, how could she turn away?
The smirk turned into a frown as she picked up a small bag from among the stack of groceries.
“Donnie? I thought you said you'd grabbed some vegetables while I was getting the meat...”
She could hear her husband coming up the stairs that led from the front door, more bags in hand. She had met Donald during her initial training for the field cells, along with Nigel Warrick and the American Frank Calhoun. The four had formed up a field cell team, and had become fast friends. Donald, of course, she had later married. The stringy young man with the curly blond hair was a blood mage, primarily focused around healing. Well. Mother had wanted her to marry a doctor.
Close enough.
“I did!”
“Sweetheart, corn is not a vegetable.”
Amita smiled to herself as she opened the freezer door on their refrigerator, hearing her husband's confused response.
“It isn't? Are you quite sure?”
“Yes. I am. Let's see...some sprouts...more corn?”
There was rustling behind her as Donald set his bags down.
Snorting to herself, Amita tossed another packet of corn into the freezer.
“Shit, Donnie, how much corn did you get?”
“Ah, well, you said we needed lots of vegetables...I hope potatoes are vegetables at least, or else I might be in trouble...”
“No, potatoes are not vegetables! Damnit, you know this--”
She turned around, ready to lecture her husband, when she saw the mischievous grin on his round face, and the packets of spinach, not potatoes in his hands. He'd just been winding her up for the hell of it.
Yelping in feigned outrage, Amita grappled with him, ignoring the wound in her side, and the two started to man-handle each other into the living room. Giggling and gasping, soon the pair were on the floor. Always the better hand to hand combatant, Amita quickly sat astride her husband, pressing her knees against his sides, grinning down at him triumphantly.
He smiled back up at her, slowly arching his eyebrows.
Well. Mail and groceries weren't the only things they'd had to put aside for a time during the mission.
It was thus a completely unwelcome interruption when her Temple Hall issued phone started to warble from its hiding spot in her pants, several feet away from her now.
Groaning as her husband was doing several marvelous things to her bare chest with his mouth, Amita opened her eyes and glanced over at the pile of clothes. Damnation.
Sighing as she loosened her grip on his shoulders, his flesh marked where her nails had dug sharply in, Amita looked back at Donald.
“...I'd better answer that.”
“Mmrrrrf. Better not.”
Inhaling quickly as he went to work again, Amita then laughed aloud as the phone continued to demand her attention.
“Donald! There's a short list of people who ever call us on that phone—the Officer of the Watch, Mordecai Thomas, even occasionally Richard Fucking Sonnac...”
“Telemarketers, darling.”
“Telemarketers? It's a Templar phone!”
“Templar telemarketers. Worst kind. Don't answer.”
Arching a wry eyebrow at her husband, Amita placed her hands on the sides of his face and reluctantly pulled him up and away to look him in the eye. Sighing heavily, he nodded, receiving a kiss on the nose from her in return. Unlocking her legs from around her husband's body, the cell leader walked barefoot to her pants, fishing out the phone and bringing it to her ear.
“Jinx,” she said simply, answering with her field name. Once upon a time, she'd been called 'Whisper.' Her growing talent with Chaos magic had brought about the change. Nodding at what she heard, she looked over at her husband who was now lying on the floor.
“Yes, we're ready to go.” She did her best to stifle a laugh as Donald mouthed no we are not!
“I mean, the opening of Orochi Tower. Clearly something we've all been waiting for,” she continued, pointing at her bra. At mention of the tower, Donald blinked and pushed up off the floor, tossing the bra overhand at her. It landed on her head, perching there like a pair of lacey antlers. Amita continued to converse with the Officer of the Watch, unfazed.
“We can be in Ealdwic in twenty. Matchlock is still seconded to X Cell, though, and Thimble isn't done recovering from that mess in Tegucigalpa. Oh? Replacements? Who...oh, yes. Yes, they'll do nicely. Thank you. We're on our way.”
Donald had already somehow managed to jump back into his clothes.
“Replacements?”
Amita grinned as she put her bra back on and secured it.
“You'll never guess.”
“Gamze wasn't none too happy with ya, sounds like.” Frank gave Nigel Warrick a lopsided grin as he bent to adjust the fit of his drop leg holster, then slotted a Swiss manufactured pistol inside. Nigel rolled his eyes expressively as Frank straightened, his old family Webley already resting in his shoulder rig.
“To say the least, lad. And this was just because she thought I'd been untrue.” As always, Nigel Warrick looked like a drowsy bear that had been hastily dropped into Templar war-gear. His shaved bullet head gleaming in the midday Ealdwic sun, Nigel stood a good six inches taller than Frank, and was far broader in frame. A heavy bladed sword sat in a long scabbard on his back, and it was from his love of swords that Nigel had received his call-sign: Xiphus, from xiphos, a Greek short-sword.
Given they would be in close quarters, Frank had a sword as well—the forward pitching falcata blade Evie Kensington had given him as a gift. Unlike Nigel, the shorter more compact Frank was a rifleman by trade, and generally wanted to avoid using a blade at all. Frank's weapon of choice today was a H&K G36C, a cut down weapon well suited to close quarters. Usually he'd be a marksman—but there really wasn't much call for a marksman in office hallways. And where they were bound apparently had office hallways to spare.
“But things are patched up now between th' two of ya?” Other heavily armed men and women hurried past where they stood just outside the derelict tube station that served as an impromptu market just above the subterranean entrance to Agartha. Agents of other societies, no doubt, all scrambling back to Kaidan upon news that Orochi Tower was breached. The pair paid them no mind.
“Oh, yes. A misunderstanding, after all. And the boils faded after a few days...”
Nigel reached an armored gauntlet to rub at his backside with a frown, much to Frank's amusement.
“Well, pal, try not to tick off the blood mage yer datin'. Could be worse. Y'coulda been datin' th' sister, Gizem. Elementalist. She'd just have blown ya into a bazillion pieces.”
“Ah, you're free to try your luck with Gizem. Gamze is the restrained member of the twins...”
The two shared a chuckle, then stopped as a new voice joined the conversation.
“If you two are finished discussing your love lives...?”
Turning, both Templars smiled widely at who they saw.
Amita and Donald Mitchell had just stepped into the market, grinning right back at them. The quartet exchanged handshakes and hugs, not having all been in the same place at the same time for almost three years.
As Nigel and Amita verbally sparred a bit at the fact the latter was going to be in charge of the mission (Amita having been Nigel's subordinate once upon a time), Frank took stock of the husband and wife team.
In some ways they remained the same as he had first encountered them that fateful training rotation years ago. Donnie was still tall, thin and lanky, his curly blond locks covered by a blue Chelsea FC cap. Amita, a few inches shorter, still very much had the sprinters build she had brought from her track days at the University of Guelph. Her sable hair was worn much shorter now, however, just barely below her ears.
Adjusting the retention sling on the subcarbine, Frank noted the differences as well. There was a leanness, a sharpness to them now that had nothing to do with weight so much as presence. Living a life constantly throwing ones self at occult horror and very real monsters took its toll. It hardened someone, inured them to experience that would break other men and women.
Their eyes were changed as well. When they looked at someone outside of their small confraternity, there was a weighing, an assessing. You were measured and judged in short order: Threat? Or not a threat? There was no malice, no ill will. It was simply a matter of knowing just how dangerous you were—and wanting to know just how dangerous those around you were as well. Confidence and experience meant their gazes didn't settle on the other agents and citizens of Ealdwic around them for very long.
Frank knew that more or less that was how he looked now, to others. How his eyes worked now.
There was no going back to what they were before, he remarked to himself as the pleasantries ended and Amita directed their attention to a bracer on her right arm with a display on it.
“This, my fellow discipline problems, is Orochi Tower.”
