It wasn't that Charlus was fond of following orders. Back in the day, he considered himself an outcast, someone who goes in despite clear instructions not to, raids places like a manic, helps save Delia from the mouth of those monsters and... well, he guessed that was it.
Now that he thought about it in length, being an outcast was something he wanted, not something he was. If Charlus went inside, that was because he knew help was coming; if he raided something, it was because he knew they couldn't fight back. And, if he tried to save Delia, it was because he was with James... following his orders.
It took him Ash and Gary's leaving to realise that his life looked like something written from the perspective of a teenager. A classic bad boy who wasn't who he thought he was and in actually was just a blubbering fool.
"I have never seen you so deep in thought,"
Charlus looked up. To his surprise in front of him was Ailsa... his mother.
"Mom," he stood up.
The lady frowned as she walked towards him, "Haven't heard that word in a while."
"Mom?"
She nodded, "I believe the last I heard it was from James."
"James called you mom?"
"Once or twice," he sat down, "I was his godmother. He was my son in a way."
The brunet wanted to ask her whether or not she considered him to be 'her son' as well, but it was as if the teenager writing his story had grown into an adult. For once in his life, Charlus saw the fault in his stars. He clenched his fist, wallowing his pettiness and smiled.
"You do think I am a good soldier?"
"No,"
Shocked by her abrupt answer, the man dropped his jaw. "That is a little—"
"We're not soldiers, my dear." She said. "We're spies."
"Is there any difference?"
"Oh loads. Good soldier follow orders. Good spies don't follow orders. I've had both under my wing."
"Really? Who?"
"James was a spy, Delia and Grace were soldiers, and the rest fall in between. Especially you and Joanne."
The brunet scoffed, "Donot put me in the same category as her. At least I get up and move my ass which is unlike her who just rides the desk all the damn time. Who are you going to compare me to next? Mark Jorum!"
Charlus laughed, but Ailsa didn't share the sentiment. "I've only ever trained two good spies, son. Mark was one of them. If you knew what he did for you all, you wouldn't talk about him the way you do."
The brunet pursed his lips, thinking about a snide comment how the only thing he was capable of achieving was death.
"It's getting late," she said, "make sure you get somewhere with the little runaways tomorrow."
Ailsa left, her stilettos hitting the ground in a perfect beat.
Now is your chance, Delia. She thought.
. . . . . .
Ailsa was back at the orange islands.
She looked down at herself, her body was once again hazy. This has only happened to her once when she'd met Luke after years. The first was a dream about Mark Jorum, she reckoned this the same.
"Madame," Mark said. He looked no more than 18, younger than Gary was currently. His sandy blonde hair hung in the air, like they had were brushed mere minutes ago. He stood at attention, like a solider who was introducing himself to his general.
