The day was going smoothly—a refreshing sleep; sun warming Cammie’s skin; and an imminent breakfast.

And then the assassin walked in, pointing and swinging a gun.

“Get down, now, or I’ll blow your brains out!”

“Is this really happening?”

“Down, now!”

“You’re going to wake up my friends. And, believe me; waking up one will get you stern warnings. The other--a knife to the head.”

“I’m not gonna ask again.”

“Fine, fine,” Cammie lay down on the floor. She heard the man’s heavy footsteps stomp around her.

“Good. Now, where is she?”

“I assume you mean my knife-toting friend? Who is asleep? Who will most likely end you if—no, when—she wakes up?”

“Yeah. The assassin.”

“One moment.”

“Caaaaaaaaaaaaamie,” came a weak, tired voice.

“Right on cue.”

The assassin whipped his head around to find his target—a surprisingly young, groggy-eyed, middle-eastern-looking woman in blue striped pajamas. She—the killer of thirteen of Moriarty’s best, of ten smuggling rings, a possible human weapon—held a teddy bear lazily in one hand.

And several knives in the other.

“Who’s in the room?” she mumbled, yawning. She blinked, once, twice, seeing the man with the gun and Cammie on the floor. Slowly, her expression hardened, her eyes freezing into pinpoints of ice.

“Cammie. Did you lay on the floor because of its comfort?” she said, her child-like demeanor and tone gone entirely.

“Um, no.”

“Did that man there force you?” she said, pronouncing “man” as most would emphasize “slug” or “rat”.

“He would’ve shot me if I hadn’t.”

“And what did he want?”

“You,” the assassin interrupted. Six turned from Cammie to glare at the man.

“I’ve come to end you, on behalf of—”

And then he was on the ground—smack!—a slip of drool about to drip out of his mouth. Remarkably, he found that he couldn’t move his hand to wipe the renegade saliva away. Couldn’t stand, either, he realized. Panic entered his throat unannounced.

Silence permeated the room.

“Are you comfortable?” It took the assassin a moment to realize it was the target speaking. Slowly, he (just barely) moved his head to look at the woman. He was immediately stunned by her steely expression. Is this really the immature little bitch from just a minute earlier?

Shit. She was pressing her foot—bare, but still remarkably strong—against his neck in a way that hurt exponentially.

“Are. You. Comfortable?” she asked again in a tone too light for her actions.

He shook his head, feeling that that was the best thing to do. Placate the cunt until he got the upper hand once more and could blow her fucking brains across the wooden floor he was currently struggling against.

“Excellent.” She took her foot off his neck, pressure releasing. “Now…you threatened to shoot my companion.”

Internally, Cammie smiled as Six motioned for her to stand up. As she did, she realized how much—in spite of her origins and cruel experiences—Six really did care.

“What’s more,” Six continued, “you disturbed my slumber.” She hung her teddy bear in front of the assassin’s face. “What’s more more, you disturbed Mr. Teddles!”

Then again, her friend, while being a genius and an extraordinary combatant, was a complete and utter moron.

Clearly, the assassin-man thought along the same—albeit crueler—lines.

“You…cunt…” he managed, teeth gritted. And although Six had nary a clue of what “cunt” meant, she knew enough that it was derogatory and, more-so, that the pulmonate wouldn’t negotiate with her.

She was prepared to let him leave—although the method of his departure would be unconventionally airborne--just a few taps in certain pressure points and he could go tell his abhorrent masters of his failure.

And then he made the unwise decision of speaking.

“You…are a freak…you couldn’t handle Doctor Richard’s program.” Six narrowed her eyes. Although Cammie couldn’t see her, she knew that comment had to have hurt Six in the one way she didn’t understand.

The man was still speaking. “And…your teddy bear…is stupid.”


That morning, representatives of England’s populace, walking into (remarkably still-standing) Westminster Abbey--for one of their own’s funeral--were stunned and appalled by the weak, hanging, bruised, and sleeping body of a particular man. What was visible of his body was covered in knife slashes, just-formed scabs, and dried blood.

The police arrived within the hour. There was a note found on the man. When he was finally brought down to the ground—it took a while, the perpetrator had certainly done their work extraordinarily well--police were able to read the message inscribed:

To Whom It May Concern: Don’t disturb Mr. Teddles, myself, or my friends as long as you are unable. Regards, IIII I.