Piano keys were her childhood, but the grasp of a pistol was her reality. Polish SOE Agent, Natia Filipska, has lurked among the rubble and the shadows of her occupied-Warsaw for years, ever since the war started and ripped her from the life that ha...
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"Feeling must have rendered her numb."
― Mary Lawson, Crow Lake
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(a/n): longest chapter yet i believe today! enjoy! :D
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August 14th, 1940
London, England
The Convention Floor
1900
Death could never get a grasp of what the young Agent was feeling - for centuries he wandered past souls with whom he could read as if they were an open book - and yet this woman was practically unreadable. Her movements, though valid and with reason, and extremely calculated, were never quite what was to be suspected of her. And each time it seemed she brought something new to the chess board, to the table if you will.
One day she's shooting pistols and disarming Agent Mortem and the next she's throwing knives, and before that like some little War-machine programmed to kill as she scouts out exact locations in secret. It was rather remarkable and Death figured that by some chance, that was one of the reasons he remained so drawn to her all the time. Even if she didn't want a soul near her.
Succumbing to the shadows of the high arching eves of the convention floor, Death hung as if he were a bat, keeping an eye on the duo that moved like snakes throughout the sea of rodents milling about.
Agent Mortem with his cane, the limp following, his dark coat with the collar flipped up along his fresh-shaven cheeks, his hair gelled to perfection and a small smirk drawn up like a bow on his lips.
Agent Fidel followed - not directly behind the older Agent, no, she was better than that, better than remaining so dependent and attentive on someone like Agent Mortem - she hung back, her gaze lowered, her eyes settling on nearly every person who brushed past her. It seems she made them all shrink away from her.
Nice touch, Death thought, smirking to himself.
Death remembered Natia refusing to wear the dress recommended to her by the local tailor Agent Mortem had brought in for this supposedly rare convention and she had rejected all the ones that weren't pants. It seemed there was a deeper meaning to it all, like the dresses reminded her of the childhood where the ends danced around her knees and she had been happy. Yet now she remained happily numb.
So, Natia wore instead the collared shirt of the Polish Cichociemni, where her multiple pins lay on display along with the SOE agent pin upon the tip of the collar. She wore a skirt - it seemed the skirt made a bigger difference than the dress at least even if Death thought they were the same. And her shoes, Death just associated them with Mary-Janes at this point, followed silently across the floor. She wore no hat, like she normally did on outings, instead opting for a neat braided bun and a stern frown upon her lips. The narrowed eyes followed.
