Section F: The Arse-Kickers

Chapter Eight

While a combination of experience and natural inclination made Fields wary of extravagance and indulgence and luxury in general, he had to admit they had their appeal. And after the trials of his first day of superhero-recruiting, crisp linen sheets on a king-size bed in a pristine, climate-controlled guest suite really felt like nothing more than his due.

The previous evening, having barely started on his second kebab, he'd found the events of that day catching up with him. Eyelids growing heavy, he was about to excuse himself from Peregrine and the Spinster and head off in search of coffee, when he was surprised to have his partner beat him to the punch (which came as a pleasant change from her more usual beating him with the punch—Peregrine's displays of affection tended to be of the enthusiastically physical variety). 

"You look done in, Fields. Why don't you head back to SHAP HQ and get some shut-eye? Danni and I can take it from here. Ooh, and I'll take that kebab, if it's going spare."

While showing no signs of agitation or inclinations to violence, the Spinster had been subdued since leaving the Cenny, speaking only when spoken to and restricting her replies to monosyllables and nods. Fields couldn't help but wonder if perhaps his undeniable and culpable maleness might be contributing to this reticence; already drawn to the alluring prospect of sleep but hesitant to bail on a job half-done, this additional excuse to depart was all he'd needed to call it a night.

Now, his new and exciting collection of bruises notwithstanding, with a good night's sleep behind him and a gourmet room service breakfast laid out before him, he felt refreshed and, if not actually bursting with enthusiasm, then at least curious to see just what day two of this new and challenging assignment had in store.

Although not much given to introspection, in this rare moment of calm Fields pondered on that sentiment, as he loaded up another forkful of crispy bacon and creamy scrambled eggs. Was that why he'd elected to stay in Section F? Curiosity? For the challenge? For the sheer not-knowing-what-the-hell-was-going-on-half-the-time-but-having-to-bloody-well-deal-with-it-anyway-ness of the role? Maybe all of the above?

Nothing much in either his academic life or early career had suggested the radical detour from the everyday engendered by his latest role. It had been the straight and narrow path for Fields, through school, university, the Academy and finally the Agency itself, recognised with accolades and awards, assured of advancement, always confident he knew precisely where he was headed—until, that is, the moment life hiccupped and Section F came along to smack him right in his smug and uptight face with the shocking realisation of just how serpentine and wide the path could be.

And the thing was, while Section F seemed like no place for Fields the straitlaced scholar or Fields the by-the-book agent or Fields the non-emoting adult, there had once been another Fields. A larval Fields. A wide-eyed and knock-kneed weed of a Fields, a little kid with a fantasy-head, obsessed with dragons and deep space and deeds of derring-do, a fledgling Fields who sailed his bed through pirate-infested seas and ran aground on shores of pure imagination, who cried when Charlotte died and cheered when Charlie found his ticket and who crept into wardrobes when no-one was looking, anticipation in every step and hope in his fast-beating heart.

He'd thought that Fields was gone. Withered away in the ever-growing shadow of an absent father and relentless expectation of an uncompromising mother, denied and repressed, abandoned as redundant and banished to the deepest recesses of memory and history, never to return.

But perhaps not. Might it be, when Section F came calling, somewhere deep within Fields's psyche that wide-eyed kid had stirred? Had stared into the abyss and considered the chaos and been drawn to what he saw? Had weighed up his options, decided the hell with the book and the straight and the narrow and the prosaic mundane certainties of the everyday world, and opted for something more?