Kelly Doyle had been correct, thought Frank as he ambled up to the apartment building she'd directed him to. It was in fact not the Savoy. The three story building, constructed of fading brick and stone that had a faintly yellowish hue, had once been offices for some minor industry in this part of Southwark. They'd been converted to apartments—flats, Frank reminded himself—sometime in the 1990s.
On Walworth Road, the collection of flats were cheap enough that Kelly and her room-mate could afford to live there on the pay of Templar support specialists. Many outside the Order assumed everyone on Red Team was living in mansions. Frank cracked a brief grin as he hustled up the stairs, lugging a pair of duffel bags with him.
No, not all Templars lived in mansions.
The interior floors, and the stairs, were covered in some kind of tannish carpeting that might have been in style a few decades ago. Frank started up the stairs, and then was forced to backtrack as a woman started coming down with a basket full of laundry. There was no way both of them were going to fit. So, he settled back, put his duffels aside to let her pass with a quiet “Ma'am.” She smiled politely at him and continued on her way to the laundry room. Picking his bags back up with a grunt, Frank made his ascent up to Kelly's floor.
As he hunted for her room number, he recalled the phone conversation he'd had with her during his tube trip over. It had only been a few hours since his release. Fortunately it was a Saturday, otherwise he'd have to wait for Kelly to actually get home from...whatever ARTEMIS was known as now.
“An' yer roomie is okay with this?”
“Yeah, Bluegrass, stop worrying already, okay? She, uh, has the same people cutting her checks as us.”
Even over the phone, Kelly was cautious.
“I'm bringin' some of m'tools over. That won't be a problem?”
A snort.
“As long as you don't clean them in the kitchen, no.”
Coming up to her door, Frank considered which duffel to drop so he could knock on the door. Having already had to drop them down once, and not wanting to do so again, Frank smirked and tapped on the door with the toe of his boot three times. He could hear someone move up to the door on the other side and look through the peephole.
“Oh, hey Frank. Just a second.” There was the sound of a deadbolt being unlatched and two locks being undone, then the door was open. Doyle was in a pair of ubiquitous gray sweats, her typically unkempt hair even more disheveled than normal. She held the door open wide so he could squeeze inside.
“Jesus. Did you pack your whole hillbilly family in there?” Chuckling as Frank rolled his eyes, Doyle walked over to a threadbare couch and plopped herself down on it, plucking up a bowl of what appeared to be soup. There was a low, well worn table in front of the couch, with a scattering of newspapers and take out menus on it. An old CRT television sat on a stand, and was playing what Frank presumed was 'anime.' Heather had tried to educate him about the genre one day, and how to tell the various popular series apart.
Given that this one seemed to feature naked people, explosions and rapid fire Japanese, that meant that it...fit about seventy five percent or more of what she had tried to tell him about, as far as Frank was concerned.
“So yeah. My roomie, Vicky, is at the store. We're kinda out of everything. We got ramen—we always got ramen—and there's some leftover pizza in the fridge. Not as good as what we got back in the States, but you're welcome to it. I figure it's better than the gruel you were getting in the slammer.”
Doyle wiggled her eyebrows at him, and Frank chortled softly, setting down the hefty duffel bags by the couch. He started to leave the room, then paused, looking back at Doyle with an arched eyebrow. The bony young woman pointed with a spoon.
“Kitchens that way, numbnuts.”
The kitchen itself was sparsely appointed, but very clean. Frank opened the refrigerator—a pale green piece of machinery that possibly came from the same time period as the carpet—and found himself a few slices of the pizza. It was veggie pizza, but he was hungry enough not to care.
As he returned to the living room, wondering idly who the fuck put broccoli on a pizza, Kelly looked up from her anime watching again.
“We don't have a lot of space here, but there's a little side room we've been kinda using as a storage space...cleaned it out, there's a mattress and...okay, there's not much else. But at least it'll be your space. Figured its better than the couch.”
The technician shrugged, swallowing down another mouthful of soup as giant robots on the television screen were interrupted by some kind of surreal dream waltz sequence.
Frank grinned over at her around his pizza.
“Thanks, Kelly. I'm obliged.”
She shrugged a second time.
“Yeah, well, I hate owing people shit, you know? Just remember I gave you your own mattress when it's time to rescue me from awful monsters again.”
“I'll aim to.”
For a few moments the two were silent, Doyle watching whatever-the-hell-it-was, and Frank avoiding the broccoli on his pizza. Then she glanced over at him, slowly moving her spoon around the bowl.
“I'm betting the Hall hasn't decided where you're assigned yet, huh?”
He shook his head, chewing. He'd only been free for a few hours now; it would take Temple Hall many weeks, possibly longer, to decide just what it was they were going to ultimately do with him. That he would be sent back to the field was almost a given. The question was where. He said as much once he'd downed the the pizza he was eating.
“Tell y'what, though, I know it won't be back t' ARTEMIS. Or whoever they are now.”
Kelly Doyle managed to keep her face neutral as she shrugged narrow shoulders lightly. Frank suspected she was probably not supposed to tell him much of anything now that he was out of the shadowy organizations employ.
“So what are you going to do to make money, Bluegrass? I can't see you stocking shelves at a Tesco.”
Frank chuckled dryly, starting on the second slice.
“Can'tcha?”
Doyle rolled her eyes.
“Fucking shit, Frank. It'd be like...God, what's that movie. Oh yeah. Under Siege. Steven Botox-face Segal as a fucking SEAL who ends up as a cook. Frank the Templar commando, making sure all the cans of beans have their labels facing outward in the aisle...”
“I'm not as badass as a SEAL, Kelly. Not even close.”
“Yeah, well, neither is Segal. So, what, you are going to stock shelves?”
Sitting down on the couch, Frank exhaled, pizza in hand.
“No. No, I'm gonna make Pax doin' what I'm good at. There's folk what need stuff done within m'skill set. An' I know th' folks offerin' th' work.”
“I dunno, Frank. Some of that shit could be pretty shady. You're kinda already in trouble.”
Looking over at her, Frank nodded.
“I'm gonna be careful of what work I take. It's Secret World stuff, Kelly. I'm not gonna join some half assed idea to over throw Equatorial Guinea. It's helpin' deal with a nest of strigoi, or running supplies to folk. That's what m'first job's gonna be, actually. Convoy duty to th' Marya.”
Doyle finished her soup, and put bowl and spoon on the floor next to the couch.
“Okay. Yeah, okay. I mean, you're a dumb redneck, but I figure you're not completely fucking hopeless. Just watch who you work for.”
Frank gave her the patented Calhoun mouth-full of-shit grin, as if to say, 'hey, it's me!' This only got another eye roll in response. Then Doyle pointed over at his duffel bags.
“I guess some of the tools of the trade are there, then.”
“Uh huh.” He nodded and hauled one over with one hand, pizza still in the other.
“Some of it, anyway. Couple days til th' job, so I picked up some of my stuff t' go over. Rest is at th' Hall in holding. Here, I'll show ya one.” Dropping the pizza slice onto what looked like a Chinese to go menu, Frank reached down for the bag.
Unzipping the duffel, Frank pulled out the small plastic case that housed his carry piece. While he was in limbo with the Hall, he wouldn't be drawing equipment from them. All he had was what he owned. Opening the case, he pulled out the small pistol secreted within, sans magazine. Locking the slide back to show it there wasn't a round in the chamber, Frank placed the empty weapon on a newspaper.
“A Glock?” Doyle had cocked her head to the side. Grinning crookedly, Frank shook his head, reminded of the tongue in cheek poster detailing what civilians thought when they saw a pistol. Everything was a Glock.
“This here's a SIG Sauer P239. Bought it from Pete Chesterton.”
“...Pete who?”
“Guy back with ARTEMIS. We worked together a couple times.”
He then proceeded to instruct Doyle on the Swiss manufactured pistol, even letting her pick it up. As she handed it back to him, there was the sound of the apartment door unlocking. In swept a taller woman, right around Doyle's age, grocery bags in hand. Taller than Doyle, with pixie cut blonde hair, this newcomer must have been Doyle's roomie.
“Oh, hello! I'm Victoria. You must be...Frank.”
She had started cheerily, smiling. Then her eyes were drawn to the handgun that Frank was putting back into its case, and the bright smile slipped a bit. Frank stood up, and offered to help with the grocery bags.
“Oh, I'm...fine, thank you. Kelly, can you help me put these away, please?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.”
As the two women made their way into the kitchen, Frank could hear Victoria speaking to Doyle in what Frank assumed was supposed to be a surreptitious whisper. Anima enhanced hearing made a mockery of that, though.
“Why...does that man...have a gun in our flat?!”
“I told you he was Templar, just like us. That's part of his work. He's a field agent.”
“You never said he was a field agent! Kelly, those people are dangerous!”
Frank's eyebrows arched. Well, yes, of course they were. To monsters and bad guys. He didn't see himself as that threatening to a twenty-something Londoner.
“Oh, come on! Frank's not dangerous.”
“Dangerous or not, this isn't bloody Ealdwic. He can't have those here.”
Sighing, Frank picked up the second slice of pizza again, and leaned back into the couch. He debated going in there and joining the conversation, then shook his head, and stuffed a bite of pizza into his mouth instead. Getting in between two women arguing was somewhere right around leaping into a pack of varculac with just a stick, in his mind.
“I know this isn't Ealdwic--”
“It is illegal for him to have a gun in London. Ealdwic has rules all its own, but London has laws we have to follow!”
“...we're in a secret society, Vicky. Most of the shit we do is illegal.”
“Kelly, I don't think you appreciate this. We could be evicted at the very least! He can't keep those here.”
“They're part of his job; he's going to have to keep them.” Their voices, while still soft, were starting to get more heated.
“Then he can't stay. I know he's your friend, but no.”
“Jesus Christ, Vicky! Why do you have to be so fucking stuffy about everything?”
When Victoria responded, Frank could hear the exasperation.
“Why do you have to insist on being so reckless? The incident with the snake is only two months old! I don't think the property manager has forgotten just yet...”
A huff from Doyle.
“...that wasn't that big a deal...”
“Kelly, I...I am going for a walk. When I get back, either the guns are gone or he is.”
Frank kept his face carefully blank as Victoria came back into the living room, walking swiftly. She stopped in front of Frank, suddenly smiling again as if she hadn't just been arguing with her room-mate.
“I forgot to get something at the supermarket. I'm going to go back and fetch it. Oh, and I bought some biscuits if you'd like some. That's...what we call cookies. Nice to meet you!”
She spoke the words breezily, and exited the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Frank blinked, and ate another bite of pizza, this time getting some broccoli he realized with a smirk.
Doyle came out of the kitchen a few minutes later, red faced.
“Frank...I...”
“I heard.”
“You heard?” She stared at him, eyes wide.
“Yeah. I could always hear good. Better since th' Bee sting.”
“I...Frank, I'll talk to her when she gets back. This is bullshit; you do not have to leave.”
“Kelly...”
“No! You can stay! I told you can stay, and that means--”
“Kelly, no. An'...in some ways she's right. You could get into a lot of trouble if someone figures out I got these here.”
“It's not like you're going to wander around waving them in the air!”
Chuckling to himself, Frank nodded.
“True. But still. This is not gonna work, an' I don' wanna cause friction between th' two of you.”
“Vicky can fucking deal with it--”
“Kelly.” Frank's voice was firm as he locked eyes with her. The young woman sighed heavily, leaning against a wall.
“I told you I could give you a place and now I can't. That pisses me off, Frank. And I don't like owing you still.” She folded her arms across her chest, staring down at the carpet.
Frank finished off the pizza, dusting his hands off on his jeans, and got off the couch, walking the short distance to Doyle.
“Kelly Doyle, you don't owe me a thing. Th' fact y'tried means th' world t' me. It really does.” He gently placed a hand on her arm, and her face started to turn red again.
“I. Well. Okay. I still wish I could do something, even if you say I don't owe you.”
“Y'can buy me a drink some time.” He withdrew his hand, and walked to gather up his things.
“Where are you going to stay?”
“Well...it's gonna have t' be cheap, within Ealdwic, an' on short notice. I think I know where t' go.”
Doyle nodded absently, glancing at her arm briefly, then suddenly going back into the kitchen. As Frank made for the door, duffels in hand, she returned, holding a tin.
She grinned wickedly as she presented it to him.
“She did say you could have some cookies.”
Five minutes later, Frank was walking back to the tube—with two duffels and an entire tin of cookies.
A few hours later, he was ensconced in a small apartment in Darkside. As he'd moved in, neighbors in the rat warren of apartments and bolt holes built up, down and sideways in the Ealdwic ghetto had watched him suspiciously. Now he sat on a bare wooden floor, field stripping the P239, a Styrofoam container from Ayiti next to him.
“Home sweet home,” he muttered with a wry grin.
