Special Agent | ✓

One

ONE

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The day started just as any other. Quinn had brewed a pot of scorching coffee, nodding along to the cheerful 80s tune streaming from her old radio. There was a blanket of cold over her kitchen, the last signs of a thawing winter as spring slowly rolled in. Her wafer-thin apartment windows did little to ward off the chill, so Quinn had chosen to slip into a large hoodie.

Her hair was haphazardly shoved into a bun at the nape of her neck, her eyes mere slits as she peered through her glasses at the book in her grasp. The Viking Spirit: An Intro to Norse Mythology had successfully ensnared her attention for the past day or two. Not an easy feat, considering the mountain of books on her nightstand, which she habitually promised herself she'd finish someday. Someday hadn't come for quite some time, though.

Hands curling around a mug patterned with flowers, Quinn carried her book over to the lone chair by her kitchen table. She lived alone, without pretenses that she'd ever have guests. Because the morning was just as any other, she spent a little too much time with her coffee and her book, and too little time actually preparing to get ready.

When she finally noted the time, a curse slipped from her mouth and she shot up from her chair. The Viking Spirit was abandoned by the kitchen table, where it'd surely remain for another day before she remembered it existed. The empty coffee mug was unceremoniously dumped in the sink. Quinn herself had shimmied out of her pajamas, tugging on a presentable sweater and a pair of nice jeans. As she wrestled her earrings on, her feet were attempting to successfully end up in boots. She needed to look halfway decent, because this morning they'd scheduled a mission briefing —

"Shit! The briefing." As if she'd turned into lightning, her speed nearly tripled. Quinn actually despised briefings.

For most people, they were just opportunities to ask about whatever information she'd unearthed pertaining to the mission. To other people, they were opportunities to needle and poke at any and all details of her intelligence.

I hope to hell you're out on a mission today, Gavin fucking Locke.

The affectionately named 'Agency' operated in two major groups: special, field agents and intelligence analysts. Quinn belonged to the latter since four-ish years back, spending most days with her eyes scouring one or five screens, listening back to audio captures and tracking down whatever criminal who'd had the misfortune of being assigned to her by the Agency. She passed this information on to her primary partner, Special Agent Cameron Kent.

Cameron Kent was a whirlwind. She'd spent the better part of the past half year undercover, doing intel work as a drug mule for a tangle of Triad-associated networks in Shanghai. Quinn was the primary analyst on that case, monitoring the bigger parts of the intel passing through the Agency and channelling it to Kent. The dynamic duo had bonded from the moment they'd been assigned their first case, and the Agency hadn't dared separate them since.

Kent and O'Reilly gave the Agency results — damn good results — and they wouldn't dare mess with the track record they were building. The world was a cleaner place with them paired up, taking names and kicking ass.

Which reminds me, Quinn mused, of Kent's scheduled contact tonight.

All undercover agents were required to touch bases with their primary analyst at some point during their cloak-and-dagger mission. The last time had been roughly two months ago, and it was now time to check up on Kent once more.

Tapping out a quick reminder on her phone, Quinn shrugged into a black coat and locked the apartment door all in one motion. She took the stairs one landing at a time, considering the damages sustained if she were to just drop straight down the center of the stairs. A half second of entertaining that notion made her shut it down.