Archive of Our Own

Hurley's personality is slightly modified in the Prologue because writing about that man's personality gets on my nerves and I can't write about Dylan's character if I'm worried about perfecting Hurley for one chapter. 

There will be basically zero canonical occurrences in this story aside from some aspects of Mitch Stilinski's backstory which draws from events in both universes. Everything that occurs from that point onward, will be of my creation unless otherwise stated. (will be marked with an ! in the title if it relies on canon)

I'm also not going to use the beach scene with Katrina from the movie, it just feels wrong for me to include it so I'm going with the original version from the book with Maureen.

Mitch Stilinski's personality is going to be a very complex combination of Stiles Stilinski's sarcastic, awkward, and ambitious self along with Mitch Rapp's serious, suspicious, and loyal personality. Just get ready for it, because it's definitely interesting.

If I get to the point where there are sexual or "mature" scenes, minor or major, I will put a small separator(~~~) + trigger warning before that scene occurs as well as putting an asterisk (*) in the title to let you know. It is likely, however, that there will be no smut since I’m ace and I basically only see sexual scenes as like a routine and I don’t think that would be very interesting for anyone to read.

I have slightly oversimplified some components of the backstory but it's not super important, it's just for context.

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Hurley stood over Mitch with his eyebrows furrowed. "Rapp, listen to me kid. I can't keep helping you out like this, you need to make a choice and quick. They're on my ass about your stupid fucking behavior in Thailand."

"Oh come on, Hurley, you know that situation wasn't my fault. It would've been even worse if I hadn't been there!" He pleaded with Hurley, insisting for the hundredth time that day that his actions on the last mission had been unavoidable.

"Do I? Do I know that? Because those four collapsed buildings and seven video cameras with your face all over them would say otherwise, Rapp."

Mitch stood up now, his face growing red as the vein in his neck protruded slightly. "You weren't there... Sir. You didn't see what was going on. There was no other option, I couldn't get to the guy in time and he was wearing the fucking bomb, Hurley. What else did you expect me to do?"

"I don't fucking know, Rapp, but they're pinning this on you so now you have to choose. And if you don't choose you're done for good." He paused, "I know you don't want that and I sure as hell don't either, you're one of my best damn recruits." Hurley rubbed his forehead with his fingers, trying to think of what to say next.

Mitch banged his fist against the cold, grey wall. "Couldn't they give me some better options? I mean seriously, I either an eight-month suspension or go undercover for a year? Jeez, Hurley. I know the Agency is already prepared to send me undercover but I don't want to do undercover and I sure as hell am not letting you suspend me."

The door opened behind them as Stansfield walked in. As if his position as the CIA's Director didn't already give him enough power, his perfect posture and perfectly kept suit-and-tie made him even more intimidating.

"Rapp, buddy, Hurley over here tells me you're giving him a tough time. You went rogue, okay? This is what happens when you go rogue, you're not giving either of us much of a choice here." He patted Mitch on the back as he shook Hurley's hand.

"I did not go 'rogue'. I did my job, Director."

The Director ignored him, moving on with what was most likely a pre-rehearsed speech to convince Mitch to fold. "Look, you already know that you've got two options. You get an eight-month suspension, which will put you on complete and total lockdown. No going to the grocery store, no running in the park, no eating out. Nothing. Or, you can take the open position in the Undercover Division. Cooper is out for the year on 'paternal leave', whatever the hell that means, so we need someone to fill in. We can't have you working in Orion for now, you're a liability, but we also don't want to lose you. So, give me a straight answer, Rapp. It's up to you."

Mitch sat back down, burying his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the dark brown strands, and muttered quietly. "Fine. I'll take the job."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Hurley jokingly tapped a finger against his ear as he let out a deep chuckle.

"But! Only if I get to go overseas. I don't want to have to deal with any of those useless, domestic undercover operations that end up helping no one."

Hurley looked at Mitch, "I knew you couldn't say no."

"Yeah, yeah, so what's the job?"

"What makes you think we've already got a job for you?" Hurley was still poking fun at Mitch.

"I know you, Hurley, you wouldn't push for it if you didn't know I would actually be working."

"Well, you're right. We do have a case for you, Hurley and Bennett will brief you in a few minutes. Welcome back to the Agency... Officially." The Director approached Mitch with his hand outstretched, waiting for him to shake it.

Mitch shook his hand hesitantly, wondering what kind of operation they'd be sticking him on, and hoped that this wasn't just some elaborate scheme to babysit him from within the Agency. The Director quickly left and Hurley sat down in the chair next to Mitch, tapping his fingers against his thighs impatiently.

Hurley turned his head to face Mitch. "See? This isn't so bad. You still get to work and you get to travel. It's a win-win situation."

"You know it's not, but it is better than a suspension." Mitch rolled his eyes lightly.

"Hey, you know what I just realized? You're actually perfect for this job. Didn't you get a minor in French? I'm almost sure I saw that before I burned your nasty excuse of a resume."

"Gee, thanks, Hurley. Yeah, I got a major in International Business and minored in French. Why exactly is this important?" He paused for a second as Hurley let him think. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. France? Really? That's probably going to be just as boring, if not more boring, than a domestic case."

"Stop that, Mitch, just wait until you're briefed and you might even like the case. Plus, I can't believe you're judging this case for being boring when you're the domesticated dumbass who dropped out of your last year of training at the Academy just to be with Maureen."

Hurley waved his arms around jokingly, mimicking a despaired Mitch. "'Ahhhh. She was so scared. Blah blah blah. She didn't want me to get hurt.' Can't believe you ever gave up this life for a chick... and a dead one at that."

"Can we not talk about Maureen? Please?" Mitch slumped in his seat, still haunted by the wounds that never seemed to heal.

"Fine, Agent Cry Baby. I mean you lost your lacrosse scholarship for that position in the FBI and you still threw it away for her. I don't know, I'm just shocked is all."

He clenched his fists and spoke slowly, trying to maintain his composure. "I know. I get it, Hurley. You've made your point now drop it. And where the hell is Bennett with the briefing?"

Almost as soon as Mitch had voiced his complaint, Agent Bennett walked in with a laptop and two paper files in hand. "Hurley, Rapp. Are we ready here?"

"Yeah, whatever, get on with it Bennett." Hurley waved his hand dismissively at the young agent who was struggling to connect his laptop to the television in front of them.

Bennett was finally able to put his presentation up on the screen. "Okay, Agent Rapp, you leave in a week and a half and when you arrive in Paris, you will be meeting up with Agent Russo, or as he is known to the Celestins, Axel Didier. Try not to blow his cover, please. He's the only person we've ever managed to get into the Celestins' inner circle and he's also the only one who can get you in."

"The who's?" Mitch looked up at Bennett and his presentation with confusion.

"The Celestins. France's biggest mafia family. Originally from Italy, they changed their names to assimilate to Parisian norms over seventy years ago. Since then, they've managed to infiltrate every aspect of life possible, ranging from politics to agriculture, and no one has ever come close to stopping them. Your job, Rapp, is to infiltrate that same inner circle and gather intel so that we might have a real shot at taking them down. Nothing more, Rapp. I know it's not what you're used to, but please don't kill anyone and don't even try to talk to Marcel Celestin's daughter. He'll rip you in half before you can say 'hello' to her."

"Who are you to tell me who'll 'rip' me in half or not, Bennett? You've never even been in the field before."

"My talents were needed elsewhere." Bennett retorted at the comment.

Even Hurley joined in, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid. Just get on with the presentation, please. Don't make me do your job for you."

"Fine. Rapp, you will be there for the next year and at the end of that year, we will fake your death and you will return to Orion, living the same life as before. You'll have to go through a few minor adjustments with your appearance to fit in better there but it's nothing major, just a few tattoos and getting rid of that beard should do the trick. And you need to attend a four-hour French intensive every day before you leave just to make sure your French is up to par. Other than that, you should be good to go, Agent."

"Really, Bennett? 'Good to go?' You're not forgetting anything?" Hurley leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and staring incredulously at Agent Bennett.

"Uhhhh... No?"

"Gah-damnit! You didn't tell Rapp his undercover name, you idiot."

"Oh yeah. I did forget that."

"What's my name supposed to be then?"

"Mitch Stilinski. We wanted to keep your first name the same for ease, but we wanted to add in a vaguely European last name to adapt your name better to the setting." Bennett smiled at his fix.

Mitch got up and walked to the door, opening it slightly as he sighed, "Well then, I'm going to go home to prep for this upcoming year in hell. Thank you very much for all of that very insightful information, Bennett."

Genevieve opened her eyes, basking in the late morning sun, and stared at her ceiling as her alarm clock rang ceaselessly. It was nearly eleven and she resisted waking for as long as she could. Her head moved around slowly, taking in the features of her room as her mouth bore a wide smile. Quietly, she spoke to herself, listing all of the reasons why she loathed waking up and leaving her room– her sanctuary. Genevieve admired the high ceilings lined with hand-sculpted details, the luscious built-in washroom, and the spacious canopied bed upon which she lay. It was the only place in the house where she could truly be by herself, though she considered the library to be a solid contender. A part of Genevieve’s mind told her that those two places prevented her from ever needing to leave the house. They gave her reason to stay at home all day and all night. 

It had been almost twelve years since she had been outside. After turning fifteen, Genevieve’s father, Marcel, prevented her from leaving the confines of their home. He kept telling her that there were dumb men and even dumber boys running rampant throughout the streets of Paris and that the only way to keep her safe was to lock her up. And, to be fair, he wasn’t exaggerating.

Initially, Genevieve resisted, trying to run away and guilt him into giving her freedom back, but he was certain that his decision was the only way to protect her. Genevieve eventually grew accustomed to the long days at home, missing school to go to “business” meetings, skipping parties to learn Jiu-Jitsu, and relinquishing all companionship that did not exist solely within her books. 

In the rare event that Genevieve was allowed to wander freely, she still remained under the intense watch of half a dozen bodyguards watching her and everyone around else like hawks. On one occasion, they overreacted severely to a harmless, flirting boy, rendering him half-dead on an ER bed in what the media called “an unprovoked act of cruelty”. It wasn’t great press for the Celestin’s, but those were simply the risks that came with the territory. 

Over time she turned the loneliness into comfort and safety, twisting in the controlling and misguided words of her father so that they suited her own needs rather than his. She found solace in the perfectly manicured gardens and cold water fountains. She found a home in the library and a refuge on the balcony. And though it took years, Genevieve found it within herself to forgive her father for his cruelty.

Eventually, her mind wandered back to the scenery around her and she rolled over onto her side, facing the large, bright window across the room. She sat up and watched the long curtains flowing in the wind, mimicking the thin stalks of grass that surrounded their property. The window had been left agape overnight as Genevieve felt that it helped her sleep better. She relaxed to the sounds of howling winds and soft midnight rains and awoke to the chatter of crickets and birds as the sun moved through the sky. She stood up, then, and pulled back her curtains to examine the expanse that lay between her own home and the glimmering city of Paris. 

Though Paris was kilometers away, Genevieve could not help but compare her life now to the life she once had within the city. But, as usual, she always found a way to turn the worst thoughts into happy ones instead. Whenever she longed for the bustling commotion of the city, Genevieve would remind herself that she now lived in a home with rooms and gardens ten times grander than the most luxurious Parisian apartment, and it was indefinitely cleaner as well. She reminded herself that despite the city’s outward beauty, it was inundated with downfalls and obstacles. She thought of how vast and how populated it was, never allowing for the peace or quiet she had grown to treasure. And after quite a bit of thinking, Genevieve would come to appreciate the life she lived once more. 

Her cold feet pattered against the aged wooden floors as she made her way to the closet. Once there, she ran her hands against all of the different fabrics, taking in the different textures and weights of each item. She liked to imagine the life that every article had before arriving at her doorstep, she visualized its travel from a factory to a warehouse and eventually to her hands. 

The childish part of her still longed for a story of her own, a story like the ones she made up in her mind, but she knew she would have to wait for her father’s passing to make it happen. She picked up a soft, cotton sweater and kneaded the fabric between her hands, wondering who had perfected the tiny stitches around its collar. When she found a matching pair of shorts she decided to slip on the coordinated ensemble and take a day of leisure for herself.

Genevieve returned to her window, shutting it softly, before descending the stone steps that stopped in front of the library. Her run soon turned into an energetic skip as she entered the large library. It was her father’s, featuring brilliant wooden detailing that ran from the floor to the ceiling, first-editions of the most popular novels, and a grand leather chaise at the center. 

Her eyes grazed over the shelves, catching on every detail that lined the spines of countless books until she settled upon The Secret Garden . It had been one of Genevieve’s favorite books for as long as she could remember, providing her with a sense of belonging and comfort when she went days without any company. She reveled in the visions of an unwanted, lonely little girl who discovered a new sense of self within a magical, hidden garden and Genevieve hoped that one day she would find a secret garden of her own and a companion to explore it with her. 

Genevieve removed the book from its place and casually leafed through the pages as she settled down in the towering, brown-leather chair. She positioned herself so that her back was facing a window and the light that emerged from it illuminated each beautiful word that she read. Managing to read nearly a quarter of the way through the book, she heard her stomach rumble loudly and laughed at the disharmonious sound. A little way down the hall, footsteps approached right on cue, as if they had been waiting for her hunger to emerge. In the doorway, a tall man, wearing the most lavish black suit, appeared with a dazzling silver tray that held a meal of fruits, a sandwich, and coffee in his hands. He approached Genevieve cautiously, knowing that he was not allowed to speak to her, and wondered how to bring her attention to the meal. After pondering for a minute, he noticed a little glass table that was situated near her seat and decided to place the tray upon it in hopes that she would take the cue. Just as anticipated, Genevieve raised her nose from the book’s pages and saw the meal in front of her. 

“Merci, Sebastien,” she thanked him briefly as he nodded in response.

Genevieve set down the novel and watched the man leave just as silently as he had entered. Once she was alone again, she dug in and though she was hungry, she consumed the meal slowly as if to savor every bite and every sip like they were her last. Soon enough the sandwich, fruit, and coffee had all disappeared, and Genevieve retreated into the novel once more, engrossing herself in the story just as deeply as she had the first time.

Her hands followed a mindless routine of scanning over words and flipping pages for hours more until a peculiar sound sent her concentration away. Tires crunched over the driveway’s gravel and car engines churned loudly, shaking the windows. Genevieve slammed her book shut, not even caring enough to save the page she had been on. The engines all turned off suddenly and in synch as the sound of slamming doors followed from both within and outside of the house. She turned her head to get a better view of the scene that unraveled below the window, but the chair’s position did not allow for much vision. Her legs swung over the chair’s arm and she rushed to the window, pulling the curtain back until she could see what was happening beneath. 

Genevieve saw a man that she had never met before but recognized all others. Her father’s right-hand man– Axel Didier– approached the group, shaking hands with the foremost and unknown man. This mystery man was dressed in a rich, textured, grey suit, completely different from the ones worn by her father’s goons, and he was quite a bit taller than them too. He had perfectly cut brown hair and a mischievous smile that crept onto his face as he spoke. A detailed tattoo adorned his neck,– depicting a raven, the Celestin family symbol– moving with every word he spoke. It was beautiful and tragic at the same time because Genevieve knew that tattoo could cost this man his life but she appreciated the symbol of good faith. He was clearly a new recruit, his body was certainly fit for the job, yet there was a nagging in the back of her mind that feared this stranger might not last in the position. Many recruits averaged two months, either getting fired and assassinated, or killed on the job. The raven was a symbol of life-and-death and, hopefully, it would just be life for him. 

Axel put his arm around the recruit and walked him to the front door, speaking of the new jobs and opportunities that the Celestin family was privy to. As they walked, however, Genevieve also approached the front door, hiding behind a wall that barely kept her out of their sight. She waited for them to enter, hoping to see the man more clearly. The men’s voices grew louder and louder until the sounds of their shoes rang clearly in Genevieve’s ears.

“Bonsoir, Stilinski. Ça va?” The sounds of hands meeting echoed against the pristine walls.

Stilinski smiled coyly at Genevieve’s father and shook Didier’s arm from his shoulder, “Ça va Monsieur. Je suis très reconnaissant pour cette opportunité noveau.”

The two of them turned away from the door, inching closer and closer to Genevieve’s hiding place until they turned sharply towards the stairs. She had been holding her breath, afraid of revealing her position. As the men walked by, she was finally able to get a closer look at Stilinski.

He was even more beautiful up close and his devious smirk never seemed to leave his face. Stilinski’s hair was the deepest brown, fluffy, and styled immaculately while his face was cleanly shaved. Normally, a nice haircut would be a positive indicator, but unlike many of his counterparts, he hadn’t cut his own hair, and Genevieve could tell. One common factor amongst all of her father’s employees was that they had always been too busy conning and fighting and killing to care about a trip to the barber’s, even before their employment with the Celestins. It became clear, in those few seconds, that Stilinski didn’t act like the others, uptight and cocky. No, he seemed friendly and humble. Marcel cracked jokes with him and spoke excitedly about this “new job” of theirs. And while all of the other goons hid their faces, this one looked valiantly ahead. There was something unusual about this Stilinski man, and it wasn’t just his hair or smile.

Mitch and Marcel exited the foyer after a long introduction and walked along the clean marble hallway. As Stilinski followed Marcel, he cautiously scanned the walls admiring the outdated yet stylish design. The heels of his oxfords clicked vibrantly with each stride, echoing against the tall ceiling. As their steps approached Genevieve’s hiding spot, she scampered back into her sanctuary. She stole a quick glance into the hallway, locking eyes with Mitch.

The sudden and unintended eye contact with Celestin’s daughter drove a stake through Mitch’s heart and invoked the dozens of warnings that Didier and Hurley had drilled into his head the prior week. Whatever you do, Stilinski, don’t engage with his daughter. Hey, Stilinski, remember that Marcel Celestin will literally rip you to pieces if you fuck up. Don’t forget: if Celestin even suspects you might be interested in his daughter, you’re deader than dead.

Mitch averted his eyes and gave his head a quick shake, ridding himself of the ridiculous internal commentary. He clearly understood the severity and danger of his employment, but he struggled to wrap his head around the notion of a father as overprotective as Marcel. Mitch never had anyone worry about him like that. When he joined the CIA, he was only able to do so because of his complete lack of family, friends, and life. He had always seen himself as expandable to a certain extent. Stilinski would put his life on the line, time after time, because he just could not fathom anything more important than his mission. In attempting to understand Marcel’s neuroticism, Mitch realized that Marcel’s mission was handing off his “business” to Genevieve, and that– like him– Marcel would stop at nothing to see his mission through. Even so, Mitch questioned the validity of the horror stories he had been bombarded with regarding the Celestins.

A lock snapped loudly, bringing Mitch out of his trance, as another one of Marcel’s employees opened the door for them to enter Marcel’s grand office. The walls were lined with glimmering trophies from Marcel’s past and photographs of him and Genevieve; Mitch was struck with surprise to see a mafioso’s office look so ordinary. The floor here was no longer made of stone and was instead a smooth dark wood. In the center of the room there lay a large, illustrious rug with a heavy mahogany desk sitting atop it. On the wall behind the desk, two grand windows brightened the room and gave it life.

Marcel continued walking in front of Stilinski, making his way to the looming chair behind the desk. He sat himself down, motioning across the desk, and told Mitch to take a seat. Mitch pulled out a chair and rested his body weight on the arm as he lowered himself onto the seat. He then leaned forward and looked at Marcel, waiting for further instruction.

“Stilinski,” Celestin began, “After Didier assesses your physical abilities today, I have a job for you. Tomorrow, I want you to take my daughter, Genevieve, to Paris. It’s been years since she’s been to the city and I’m having a soireè next week so she needs a new outfit. Your job is simple, keep her alive, make sure she gets something nice, and obviously don’t fuck up.”

“Of course, Sir. It would be my pleasure.” Mitch replied immediately, though his mind was churning.

“Let’s consider this a gesture of good faith. You get her there and back in one piece and you get to keep your job, you fail and… Well, I think you know what happens then, don’t you?”

Stilinski took a deep breath, “Yes, Sir. I am aware. Thank you for this opportunity, I won’t let you down.”

Celestin nodded his head towards the door, indicating that Mitch should leave. “Good, I wouldn’t want to lose another half-decent guard to incompetency.”

Mitch nodded while he got up and walked to the door. As he reached for the knob, the door swung open and he came face to face with Genevieve. Again. He looked down at her, unintentionally, before quickly backing away and letting her pass in front of him. She kept her eyes on him for another second before waltzing towards her father’s desk.

“One of the guards gave me a note telling me to meet you down here, what’s going on?”

“You know what, Genevieve, you got here just in time. Stilinski, stay here for just another minute and shut the door, will you?”

Stilinski closed the door again, “Yes, Sir.”

“Genevieve, I want you to meet our newest guard, Mitch Stilinski. He’s going to take you into Paris tomorrow to pick some things up for the event I’m planning for next weekend.”

Genevieve turned and glared at Mitch, slightly squinting her eyes, “Really?”

She had not meant it in a rude way, but she was truly shocked that her father would let the ‘new guy’ take her into the city.

“Sorry,” Genevieve continued. “That sounds like a brilliant idea father.”

Marcel smirked and waved his hand, dismissing the both of them. Mitch re-opened the door, holding it open for Genevieve. She walked past him without so much as a glance. Genevieve slipped back into the library, slamming the door loudly behind her.

Mitch, as confused as ever, shut Marcel’s door quietly. He walked rapidly away, trying to figure out where the gym was. He eventually found it, the first door to the right of the foyer, and saw Didier patiently waiting inside. Didier was leaning against a padded wall, wrapping his hands, dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants.

Didier greeted him nonchalantly, “So, Stilinski, how’s the first day going?”

“It could be better. Celestin already gave me an assignment and I don’t know if I’m anywhere near ready to take on this kind of responsibility.”

“Well then, you better learn soon.”
He chuckled at the quip and rolled his eyes, “I kinda figured that out on my own, Axel. I’m gonna go change but I’ll be back in a minute.”

Stilinski stumbled into the locker room, trying to find the locker with his number on it. When he had been tattooed with the crow on his neck, he was assigned a number. Mitch had been given the number 7 following the death of the original number 7 in a gruesome shoot-out. The number was hidden within the bird’s eye, forever marking him as one of Celestin’s disciples. He scanned up, down, and across until the number 7 caught his eye. It was hidden in the far right corner of the locker room and when he opened it, it contained the same black shirt, pants, and hand wraps that Didier had. Mitch carefully took off his suit, hanging it in the locker, and put on the black ensemble. He wrapped his hands quickly as he walked out of the locker room.

Mitch and Axel sparred for over an hour, neither one could seem to knock the other down long enough to win. It seemed that, though years ago, Hurley’s training had stuck in their minds. Both of their hands were covered in bruises beneath the wraps, only a few punches away from dislocating a knuckle. They panted heavily as they threw punches and kicked at each other with sweat dripping into their eyes. Mitch approached Axel, hoping to win the match with a final punch, but Didier was more experienced and used Mitch’s own momentum against him. He punched Stilinski sharply in the jaw, knocked him onto his back, and held him down with one knee.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1… I win!” Didier lifted his knee from Mitch’s chest as he stood up.

“You know,” Began Stilinski, “I would normally be mad that you beat me, but I’m so tired right now that I couldn’t care less.”

“Yeah right, Stilinski. I know I hurt your ego.” He held a hand out to Mitch.

Stilinski stood up, “I’m serious, the jet lag, the sparring, and the weird threats… I’m exhausted from all this shit and it’s only day one.”

“You’ll get used to it. Why don’t you tell me more about this new assignment of yours while we do a few miles on the treadmill?”

“Great, running and talking. My two favorite things. I’ll agree to it this once, but only because I don’t have the slightest fucking idea about what to do tomorrow.”

A few rooms down, Genevieve continued obsessively daydreaming about her outing to Paris. She could hardly even remember what stores she used to shop at in the city, let alone how to dress for an event as nice as the one her father was planning. Along the bottom row of the library shelves, there was a handful of fashion magazines, they were all a few seasons old but she figured they would hold up well enough. After all, how much could fashion really change?

Genevieve leafed through the pages, dog-earing the outfits she thought might be appropriate for the occasion. She closed her eyes, letting the sun seep through her eyelids as she pictured herself walking down the long staircase in a shimmering sage dress.

In her mind, the ideal dress would be fuller than full, putting at least two feet between her and everyone else; it was to have a laced corset bodice covered in lilac petals and small beads; and the straps would hang loosely off of her shoulders, brushing her skin ever so slightly. Unfortunately, however, Genevieve knew that it would be impossible to find such a dress on such short notice. She continued flipping through dozens of magazines until dinnertime, jotting down the names of certain shops and designers that were based in Paris, and hoped that one of them might be able to produce a miracle. Soon after, Genevieve’s night came to a close and she drifted off to sleep dreaming about the following day’s adventures.

“Genevieve, my darling, it’s time for you to get up. You’ve got to go into the city to find an outfit. Remember?”

Marcel sat down on Geveieve’s bed, rubbing her shoulder softly. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. At only seven in the morning, the sun had just begun it’s work and shone weakly along the horizon. Its rays reflected off of the curtains and into Genevieve’s eyes, causing her to turn away from the window.

“Yes, I remember.” She sighed with uncertainty, “Papà, I’m not quite sure I’m up for this today. This seems like such a big step to take… for me, and for the new guard.”

Genevieve’s stomach churned and her heart began beating quickly. Suddenly, it felt like the whole world– despite its beauty– had put her into a chokehold. She breathed with shallow gasps, never seeming to get enough oxygen. Her arms grew weak and she laid back down, praying that the horrible feeling would subside.

Her father’s eyebrows furrowed together, “You’ll be okay, my darling. I would never let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Marcel got up and opened Genevieve’s door, calling out for someone to bring a glass of water.

“But what if something did happen? What if…”

Marcel cut her off, “I know you’re anxious. I know, but give it an hour, and then you can decide if you want to go or not.”

His words, while not very helpful, provided some comfort. For some reason, Genevieve had a nasty habit of developing nauseating anxiety in the early morning. It had been happening since she was a child, but as she had not woken up before nine am in many years, she had grown unaccustomed to the feeling. It used to just set her back by a few minutes, only occasionally proving to be a real problem. Now, however, Genevieve felt like she had been hit by a two-ton garbage truck.

The same man who had brought her lunch yesterday walked in with a tall glass of water. He handed it to Genevieve who sipped on it slowly.

“Well, I’ll be in my office if you need anything. I’ll check back in an hour to see how you are. Sebastien, let’s go.” Her father patted her head and walked out, Sebastien closing the door behind them.

Genevieve sat up and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply and naming everything in her vicinity. She saw her bed, her hands, the door, the windows, and the glass of water on her bedside table. Her skin felt the cool fabric of her bed, the cold glass between her palms, the single feather poking out of her pillow, and the wall behind her head. Her ears could pick out the faint sound of voices outside, birds chirping, and the wind blowing. With each inhale, she could smell breakfast being made in the kitchen mixing with the fresh scent of her bedsheets. Taking a sip of water, she noted that she didn’t quite taste anything, but that always seemed to happen when she got to the last step.

During the next fifty-five minutes Genevieve’s breath became more natural and her heartbeat slowed. Still leaning against the wall, she bent over to place the empty water glass on her bedside table, wondering why she held onto it for so long. Her father came in soon after as if he had telepathically sensed her newfound calm.

He sat beside her, taking her hand in his, “So, was I right? Are you feeling better now, Genevieve?”

“Yeah, I guess I do feel better.” She let a small smirk take over her face.

“See, daughter, all you needed was some time. That is our most precious resource. Not our money, not our network, not our assassins… It’s the one we take the most for granted, our time. One day, you’ll see just how little time we really have.” Marcel let go of her hand, “Now, you go on into the city to find something nice to wear.”

Genevieve stood up and ushered her father out. She figured it was time to get dressed since she had already wasted so much time. After changing, she brushed her teeth and rushed downstairs, hoping to make the most of her time. While Genevieve was not necessarily excited to be going shopping, it was an opportunity that she had not been able to experience in a long time.

Her father led her to a car that was waiting out front with Mitch behind the wheel. He tilted his head down by an inch when he noticed her as a sign of respect. Genevieve slid into the back seat quietly, pulling her backpack over her knees. As she looked back towards him, Marcel shut the car door and gave her a soft smile. He patted the side of the car and Mitch slowly drove away, the sounds of gravel crunching beneath the tires. Genevieve turned solemnly towards her home, watching it shrink into the horizon. This outing was a new type of adventure for both herself and Mitch, and neither of them knew what to expect.