A Babe Without A Name (A Brian May / Queen fan fiction)

18

Maria

It had been a long day for sure. I was just settling into bed, glass of wine in hand, when I got the first call. I let the phone ring- once, twice, three times before I finally assumed it was important enough to tear myself from the warmth of my comforter. With an exhausted sigh, I traveled the length of my studio apartment to reach the mint green phone mounted on the farthest wall.

The man on the other end sounded no more listless than I, while he explained that I was being summoned for an urgent matter. When I asked about the details of the job I knew I wouldn't even be able to refuse, I was simply told I would need to interpret for someone.

Well, obviously, I had thought to myself, that's all I do. But I knew the man on the phone was in no position to fill me in on any other details, for he was just a lowly messenger. The most I could get from him was that I'd need to pack my things right then, and board the next flight to London.

So with that, I hung up the phone and did just as they told me.

I thought I might be lucky enough to catch some shut eye on the plane, but then again, when did I ever get lucky? The ride was miserable, long, and the dry air in the plane made my sinuses close up. I could hardly breathe until I stepped foot on the tarmac of the Heathrow airport.

If it isn't obvious, I hate my job. And this impromptu "mission" is but another straw placed precariously on the camels back.  I don't mind the interpreting aspect of it, but I do loathe all of the rest of the nonsense that comes with working for these men.

When I say men, I mean it. Nearly the entire agency is male- and what a piggish bunch they are.

Way back when I was first offered my current position at the bright eyed and bushy tailed age of 23, I felt like a sheep entering the lions den. Now that I'm pushing 35, I've learned to deal with their crass behavior, and less of it too; as it seems they're only interested in pestering the younger, newer recruits.

I at least expected to be offered a hotel room for the night when I got to London, but the agent who picked me up at the airport let me know that we'd be heading straight to work instead. Now, let me assure you- I was beyond fuming at the fact I'd be going in sleepless, but the urgency of this job started to sink in as we traveled along. I was curious to find out why everyone was in such a panic, and why I was so desperately needed at this hour.

                                        •••

"State your business," a guard asks the agent I'm driving with when we pull up to the entrance of a large fenced-in compound.

"George Smith, and Maria Stevens, CIA." Mr. Smith flashes our badges at him, and we're allowed entry.

We park the car, and are greeted by a suited man who introduces himself as "agent Wright".  Mr. Wright fill us in on the situation as we enter the building, and are led through a chilly, sterile hallway.

"Miss. Stevens, you'll be interpreting for a young woman, whose approximate age is early 20's. You'll need to gather some basic information from her first,  such as her name, home address, age, and anything else under that category. Then, we'll bring in Agent Ocasta who will instruct you further."

This is definitely a unique situation. With the security of the building, and seriousness on everyone's faces, I expected to be interpreting for a dangerous individual, not a 20 year old girl. But perhaps I'm underestimating the power this girl might have, given the fact they're bringing Ocasta in to handle this.

"If I may ask, what is the story behind this?"

Agent Wright nods, willing to give me more information. He leads us into a room where a horde of people are gathered in front of a window overlooking an interrogation room. I furrow my brow at the scene ahead of me, noticing the equipment that's set up inside of the room. There's gadgets in here I've never seen before in my life- and I've seen all the latest things while working for the CIA.