. . . . . I'm so sorry for not updating for . . . ugh, who knows how long. The first chapter actually somewhat cured my writers block and there was a decidedly big shift in my priorities :S And for the life of me, I don't know why – I love Lucas North! He is the archetypal tragic spy. I sort of forgot that this story even existed on my memory stick, it was only when I read this fic I was really loving and it just tailed off and wasn't completed . . . . and I thought " . . .aw crap . . . I'm that person." -_- Sooo, the guilt of leaving a story alone for too long latched on with a vengeance, so - I'm back. And this time, not intending on going anywhere. I can't guarantee uber quick updates as I have a lot of studying that needs doing over the next few months, but I'll do my best. All I'll say is that I won't be compromising quality in the interests of quick updates :) So occasionally (I stress occasionally :P) it may be a little while.

Enjoy!

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Chaos reigned in Trafalgar Square for the rest of the day; ambulances, police and fire crew littered the perimeter of the iconic London landmark. Police tape curbed off the mass of rubble and bodies near what used to be the fountain that served as a lunch spot, meeting place and all around photo-op for tourists.

Paramedics hastily ran amongst the rubble surrounding the fountain, initiating triage and carefully tending to the walking wounded and those in decidedly worse shape. Skulking in the background of the frenzy that hijacked the iconic square was a lone man, batting away a paramedic who was becoming increasingly annoying as the newly qualified young woman tried in vain to treat the cuts and bruises the ill-looking man had sustained in the bomb blast.

"Sir, if you could just come to the med-tent for a moment I can patch you up and move you on to the police so they can collect your statement –"

Lucas North gave the stout, spotty girl a glare that sent a shiver down her spine; he had no time to be 'patched up' as it were by someone who had barely had their training wheels taken off. He had seen her face as she had jumped out of one of the many ambulances, the full force of what the job entailed hitting her like a sledgehammer. For a moment he wondered if she was going to be sick.

The paramedic stumbled and quickly made her way towards the makeshift medical tent that was set up for those with less severe injuries and could afford to wait before going to a hospital. Lucas smiled wryly to himself – he was in no mood to be told what to do by an idiot post-grad who had no clue what she was supposed to be doing. He swiftly caught up to her and brushed past, leaving her rooted to the spot, considerably intimidated. Pushing through the throngs of the walking wounded that were pooling around the med-tend, Lucas sought out a quiet spot, pulling out the phone he pick-pocketed off the paramedic. He shivered uncomfortably in the drizzle as he waited for his call to be put through.

Bloody, bruised, scuffed and flu-ridden, Lucas looked like he was going to keel over. He tried to shake the fuzziness from his mind as he heard a voice on the other end of the line.

"Lucas." Harry's crisp voice answered.

"You're psychic Harry; I don't even have my phone on me."

"Keep in mind the fact that very few people know this number."

"What happens now, then? The bomb went off, the Square's destroyed. We knew there was going to be a drop. If anyone finds out we'll be lynched," Lucas leant against a stone wall as the world began to tilt slightly too much for comfort.

"Lucas, we need you back on the Grid. Don't worry over the consequences of the blast; some curious intelligence has just been passed to us. We'll debrief when you get back."

Harry sounded confident that he knew what was going on and Lucas didn't think it sounded like that whatever was behind the bombing was on an apocalyptic scale. Or maybe it was and Lucas' flu-induced haze was altering how he was processing information. Either way, Lucas trusted Harry's judgement implicitly, hazy-brained or not.

"I'll be there by –" Lucas glanced at his cracked watch. Bollocks – that was a birthday present from Harry and co. "11:15," giving Lucas twenty minutes to make his way back to Thames House.

"Oh, and don't worry about going to the hospital – we'll get you patched up here."

The phone clucked dead and Lucas palmed the small phone, casually throwing it into one of the empty ambulances after deleting the call history. He glanced at the young paramedic as she seemed to be debating whether or not to waylay him again. By the time she had decided against it, Lucas had already slip into a loitering taxi, instructing the bemused looking driver to drop him at Whitehall – he'd walk the rest of the short distance to Thames House. Lucas slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes, inhaling the off-smell of the taxi interior – cigarettes, E-numbers, something similar to popcorn . . . Lucas' stomach churned and he quickly pulled the window open, flushing the sickening smell from the car.

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Fifteen minutes after his phone call, Lucas swiped his card and emerged from a lift into a hidden world of which the public knew nothing about – The Grid.

"Lucas, good to have you back. You're early. And you look awful, by the way," Malcolm greeted, clapping him on the back.

"I'll have to take your word for it, I haven't seen my reflection for a while," Lucas smiled as he wandered over to where the rest of the team was sitting on the plush, leather sofas, watching the news on a wall-mounted plasma. Whoever said the government was making budget cuts?

"Morning all," Lucas sighed, flopping down into his favourite squashy sofa.

"Shit, Lucas. You look like . . ." Beth tailed off.

"Shit," Dmitri finished, handing Lucas a cup of tea.

"Thanks," Lucas grinned.

"Do you want a dash of tequila in that? You're going to need it soon," Dmitri joked, downing the remaining dregs of his own tea.

"I think I'll manage," Lucas brushed a few flecks of dust and grit off his jeans, the rips around his knees subtly framed by dried blood. "I've had worse."

"Not what I meant."

Lucas gave him a quizzical look from behind his mug as he threw back the hot PG tip.

Dmitri grinned as Lucas was about to ask what exactly would require a shot of tequila or two . . . but if Dmitri was involved, it was more likely to turn into half a dozen.

"What do—?"

"You'll see," Tariq chipped in from behind his computer terminal.

Lucas leant back into the sofa when a shadow blocked the small amount of light filtering through his eyelids. He looked up to see Harry's weathered, knowing face studying him.

"Well, then . . . I suppose we'd better get right to it. Before you get yourself patched up Lucas, there's something we need to fill you in on, so as much as I'd like to leave you to rest . . ." Harry tailed off, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Lucas frowned as he stood up, following him to the conference room; Harry didn't usually act like this . . . it was some odd combination of craftiness, excitement – and possibly nerves? Lucas ran his hand through his hair, spreading some of the dampness to the back of his neck – Lucas was rapidly starting to despise the flu; life was complicated enough to keep up with as it was without the extra fuzziness that the team usually only got in such quantities from politicians.

"Take a seat Lucas," Harry gestured to one of the many vacant, leather-bound chairs surrounding the large desk that took up the majority of the room. The rest of the team filed in as well – apparently there was a group invitation to Harry's debrief.

"What exactly is going on?" Lucas directed at the man who had brought them in here.

Harry stepped cautiously towards the head of the table, thinking carefully about how he would summarise the situation to Lucas. Apparently the rest of the team already knew. "Our new intelligence. I received a phone call from the head of Six's International Terrorism department and Sawyers himself . . . and a face to face meeting concerning the Trafalgar bomb this morning. I expressed my disbelief at how no-one had actually been killed, making it one of the most unsuccessful terrorist attacks ever carried out – and I was duly informed that it was, in fact, not a real terrorist attack."

Lucas remained expressionless; absorbing everything Harry was putting to him for fear that the flu would somehow erase it from his brain.

"The whole event was orchestrated by them. The time, location, the mechanics of the bomb, even coinciding it with a bad forecast." Harry glanced at Lucas' face and didn't even need to ask what the question brewing behind his eyes was.

"I'm afraid I don't know the ins and outs yet, the operative they sent here only arrived a quarter of an hour ago, and needless to say, it's a very in depth subject which can hardly be compressed into a few minutes of chat. So, once you've got yourself into something cleaner and you're not looking like you've been spending the weekend in Yemen we'll all be debriefed. Thoroughly. Bring a notepad."

"And snacks," Dmitri whispered to Beth.

"In the meantime . . . let me introduce you to the operative who shall be conducting the debrief," Harry glanced cautiously at Lucas. "May I please introduce Miss Felicity Foxx," Harry gestured to the open door.

"Flick will do just fine Harry," a gentle voice floated through the room.

Lucas' eyes widened as a disturbingly familiar waif-like body drifted into the conference room. The same black jeans, the same black tank top and the same green over shirt. The only difference was she was considerably drier this time around, her waist length blonde hair was now slightly static and no longer dark and plastered to her face.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as all eyes shot between Flick and Lucas before Dmitri broke the silence.

"Want that tequila now?"