Chief Inspector David Detector.

Minx pours over the pages of press copy David hands her. Press clippings, plans for interviews and coverage.

Miranda Lawrence was attacked by a stalker at Royalton Motors party. Her assailant was shot dead by her private security. Since then, she had been convalescing in an undisclosed location.

At least that was the public story. The story they were building now.

The truth was always more complicated.

Special Agent Minx had her covers blown during an operation to infiltrate a corrupt organisation. Thankfully her boss, Chief Inspector David Detector what there to cover her.

But now, after month of recovery time in the bar, she was ready to go home and back to work.

After her cover was re-established.

“Do I really have to go back to modelling?” She asks, toying with script she needed to memorise for the press. “I mean I don’t need the money. And it would give me more time to work with X and the Star. I could make the Harbringer of Boom the fastest and most feared racer on the track.”

David put out a placating hand. “Racer X does well enough with the time you have. And the Shooting Star is already the fastest car of the track. As for feared - that’s his mission, not yours.” His bright blue eyes hold hers. “We need you, and your high society contacts. Your cover as Miranda Lawrence gives both you and Alex Sterling legitimacy. And you and I both know X’s cover needs all the help it can get.” There’s a fondness in his tone, not just for Racer X but for the public couple Minx and X show in front of the public.

Minx frowns and shrugs. “I’m going to lose my Angel status anyway. Victoria Secrets will keep me on for a little while, as a public show of sympathy. They might let me one or two more spreads, might even make a thing of showing off my scars if I let them but after that, they’ll cut me out. I’m too old already.”

David shakes his head. “You walk a path through a world none of us have the skills to navigate. That’s why we need you.” He takes her hand and holds it for a long moment. “That’s why I need you to stay out of the field for a while. To re-establish your ties in that community.”

Minx drops his hand, fury in her face. “Out of the field? Out of the office too?”

“Yes.” David says flatly. “Until late August, the racing community is on pre-season break. Between now and then, we will be keeping Racer X away from the track, away from the scene. X’s racing and your cars will be our main weapons in bringing down Royalton and those like him. But not until August. It’ll then, I need you and Racer X to be Miranda Lawrence and Alex Sterling.”

Minx starts. Stops and starts again. “David, I-” She gives up and steps away, storming to the bar.

{to here)

[From here]

David leads Emcee to his room, taking a moment to dim the lights and light two little white candles on the little altar in the corner of the room.

"You asked me what I wanted." David says softly, offering to take Emcee's coat. "You will forgive me that I don't find it easy to express these things. But I wish... I want to go slowly, to enjoy the pleasure of your company. I don't... the urges that led me to be so..." He swallows, struggling to express his desires.

{from here.}

The key leads to a spartan training room with a lockable door. The bamboo floor is slightly sprung and comfortably warm.

David enters a few moments after Eric, dressed in a simple white karategi. He closes the door behind himself and locks it, bowing to Eric.

After a resent encounter , David found himself in need of an outlet. There are darker parts of himself; parts he believed he had under control but now...

He finds his way to the firing range which thankfully he has to himself and locks the door. He needs to be alone right now.

He sets up targets on either side of the range and unpacks his pistols. They are simple things, neat and perfectly balanced. They are as familiar to him as extensions of his own body. The weight of them in his hand as they warm to his grip helps to centre himself.

Taking off his glasses and closing his eyes, he shots. Over and over, reloading to do it again. He moves as he fires, pacing back and forth, his arms crossing as he shoots.

He controls his breathing as he shoots; his heart rate slowing as he works through the exercise.

On the final shot, he exhales; lowering the pistols. He feels calm now. Perfectly calm. He puts the pistols away and gathers up the paper targets. The bullet holes form complex patterns like Fibonacci spirals on each and every one of the targets. He rolls them up and takes them with him to destroy later. There needs to be no record of this

Time perhaps for a cup of tea.