Special Agent | ✓

Twenty-Five

(a/n: dedicated to haumonolus for the comment which made me get my ass up and update! cheers to you <3 finally got back to making chapter banners, too, so let's hope i stop sucking at doing that lmao)

TWENTY-FIVE

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Far, far away from the Knightsbridge HQ, Quinn O'Reilly was busying herself with pickpocketing some tourists. It really was sad, how far down she'd managed to fall, but apparently she had farther to go as she now relied on the cash from random tourists.

At least she had returned their wallets, slipping past them a second time to dump it back into whatever poorly zipped bag had held it in the first place. She could really feel herself sinking back into the nostalgia of her early youth, when this had been second nature to her — the swift movement, the sleight of hand, the quick getaway.

But now, Quinn felt clumsy. Out of place. Why wouldn't she, really, when she'd reformed her life in a way which was strictly the opposite of what she was doing now? She'd turned clean, really, in all ways. And now, now she'd been forced to go back to that dirty way of life she'd tried so hard to shed.

You weak-spined, shallow-hearted, slug-faced son of a terror. I'll hang you for this Davidson.

She had also managed to clothe herself in something other than the dirty gala dress, snatching a loose summer-y dress from some type of plaza-shop. Quinn glanced down as she thought of her clothes, to the Spongebob-printed flip flops on her feet. In some public restroom, she'd managed to scrub off the rest of the makeup from the gala-evening turned disaster. She nearly looked like a normal person.

Sometimes you have to make do. In cases where you're shit out of luck, you need to make peace with the Spongebob flip flops. You're a grown woman, Quinn. You can handle it.

But she felt ridiculous, her feet noisily slapping the pavement as she moved through the town. She'd gathered most of the money needed, and had studied the maps hanging from some tourist-carts closely enough before the vendor shouted at her to get away if she didn't intend on paying.

Quinn doubted he'd want the money anyway, after seeing her pull most of it out of her bra.

Either way, it was not supposed to be for him. It was for getting her to Prague, and letting her make a call on one of the payphones scattered around town. At least she was getting her bearings right, which stacked the current situation slightly more in her favor.

Quinn passed another gaudy tourist shop, spinning past a rack of colorful beach bags before she slipped one under her arm and hurried off in the other direction. The proprietor had been busy chatting to a pretty brunette, anyway, so Quinn could argue she'd done the woman a favor by avoiding payment and letting her continue the discussion.

Sneaking through a dark alley, Quinn dumped the money in her ratty beach bag. She really was a sight — clad in a colorful dress, Spongebob flip flops and an enormous beach bag.

With that, she headed for the nearest payphone, one she'd noted the location of previously as she'd terrorized tourists. She stepped inside, slipped a few Euros into the phone, then called a number she knew by heart. Heart beating hard, Quinn waited as the phone rang. And rang.

Finally, a voice picked up.

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Quinn. O'Reilly," Quinn said, clearing her throat, " — I'm in a situation."

"A Paris-type of situation?"

Quinn swallowed hard, "I'd say it's worse."

"You need to come here, hide out?"