"If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun."

~ Katharine Hepburn

"No."

"You've not even met the fellow, Ian."

"I don't care. The answer is no, McMissile."

"Ooh, last names, quite terrifying. What if I told you I was going regardless of what you say?"

Picking a fight with his boss in front of the other agents was one thing. Doing so in the high-vaulted ceiling and cool metallic interior of Ian's office was quite another. There was no one to worry about sending the wrong message to or scaring off. Of course, Finn was – hopefully – made of tougher stuff than the cars who frequented the main floors of the agency.

Ian's brake lights flashed a bright red before switching to a white as he reversed to look Finn in the eye. "Do that, agent, and you'll find yourself on bathroom duty for the remainder of my term as head of the British Intelligence."

Finn opened his mouth to fire back a retort and likely find himself scrubbing toilets until his undercarriage rusted out, but was saved by the arrival of one very unamused-looking Arthur.

The Ryoga's gaze traveled from Finn to his very put-upon boss before returning to rest on Finn. "It's a bit early in the morning to be grinding Camshaft's gears, don't you think, McMissile?" Arthur asked, scuffing a tire slowly against the white linoleum of Ian's office. "He's not yet into his third quart of oil."

Ian squinted at Arthur before turning his attention to Finn. "I'm sorry, Finn, but we don't know the first thing about this jet. The only thing we've got on him is that he was caught in some unfortunate crossfire this morning, crossfire caused by the largestoperation this agency's had to contend with in the last thirty years. Bloody unfortunate, but the best thing we can do for him is make sure his repair costs are covered and keeping him out of the way so that this doesn't happen again."

"Ian. I'm not asking you to make him a part of the organization today. But we need jets. You said so yourself."

"And that is not your call to make. Give me one reason – no, don't interrupt me – one reason why he's a better option than someone whom this agency has been training. He's commercial, he's not had an ounce of defense training –"

"He has."

Ian startled at the sound of Arthur's deep voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"He has had defense training." Arthur flicked a glance at Finn. "And from a rather good source, if earlier was anything to go off."

Ian and Arthur engaged in some sort of odd staring match for a few moments, which Finn gave up trying to decode after the first ten seconds. The two had served together as agents during their early years and, after "an absolutely abysmal start," as Ian frequently referred to their first few missions together as, had been an inseparable team ever since. As a vehicle more comfortable orchestrating behind the scenes rather than being in the thick of things, Ian typically remained back while Arthur, partnered with Edmund, jetted off to every part of the world. Every member of the agency was secretly glad when the two were forced to speak across a radio due to their sometimes-unfortunate and always-uncanny ability to communicate without speaking.

A scoff startled Finn back to reality. "Have it your way, then," Ian snapped, though the slight quirk to his mouth belied his lack of irritation. He swerved to face Finn head-on. "My esteemed colleague –" Arthur coughed then, though it sounded suspiciously like it was covering a laugh. Ian arched a brow before resuming, "– is of the opinion that I ought to give this Siddeley character a chance. I have my reservations, but it seems I am being overruled."

Finn started to grin at his boss's capitulation. One certainly couldn't underestimate the sway Arthur held over Ian, though Finn was certain he was likely to get two terms' length bathroom duty if he ever implied that to Ian. Ian wasn't finished, however.

"You want him to be in the agency, McMissile? Prove it. I want his files, background checks, everything, on my desk tomorrow morning. I want to know who his employers have been, where he's lived, the last time he visited his mother. You've got one week with him afterwards, provided I receive every single detail about his life. I don't trust him, and I expect you not to either, not until he's cleared."

"Of course, Ian. This isn't my first foray into the field."

Ian pinned him with a glare. "That may be true, but this isn't some point-and-shoot exercise. I expect subtlety, professionalism, and for goodness' sake, keep your head, agent. I won't have another Oslo incident on my tires; is that clear?"

Finn lowered his gaze to the ground. Though Oslo would forever remain burned in his memory as an example of what happened when an agent didn't keep their cool, he had improved a considerable amount since the infamous occurrence. It hadn't been him who was directly involved, at any rate.

The squeak of tires signaled Arthur's impatience. "Forgive me, but I did come here for a time-sensitive reason."

"Of course." Ian drove around his oddly and impractically small desk to a sagging black filing cabinet. "Finn, if you please," he said, gesturing meaningfully towards the door.

"Right." Loathe as he was to miss a debriefing of any sort, Finn recognized that this was not his present issue to deal with. He had some research to do.

"Nothing at all?"

Finn stared at their resident tech genius. "What do you mean, there's not a thing on him?"

The dark green Land Rover Defender didn't spare him a glance. She scrolled through a few more pages of text before finally sighing and fixing Finn with her bright emerald eyes. "Exactly what I said. Oh, there's a few bits and pieces about his recent work – he is a private jet, has to find work somehow – but you go back more than five years and it all falls apart."

Finn blinked once. "Enlighten me, Clara. How does someone's past just fall apart?"

Clara Leyland rolled her eyes before twisting a tire at the screen of pixelated words as she adjusted the reading glasses perched atop her hood. "See this? It's all a dead end. It's meant for cars who don't need to look very deep. They need a private jet, they search the books, his name pops up, they're done. Sure, they might want to dig a little deeper, find out his history, what past clients have said; no problem. He's got some great reviews – oops, except the one that was posted this morning, dear me, can you use language like that in a public forum? – his bio details that he grew up not far from London, has flown for various companies ever since he graduated the Academy. No sweat. But it's all just a cover. If you click far enough through everything, you're just directed to the same sites. Most cars wouldn't care. For your purposes, however, this is a huge red flag. I can't even find a birth record for this plane!"

Finn scanned everything Clara was looking through. Siddeley certainly looked a mystery on paper, but if anything, it was more alluring than some dull plane that simply flew to and fro at the beck and call of others. He drove over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered two of the four walls of Clara's workshop and peered out over the bustling streets of London. Rather than many of the other technical experts he'd run into over the course of his life, Clara preferred a lot of natural light and open space. Her quarters were filled with stacks of paper, books, and maps opened and pinned to the walls at various points. "So you're saying that I'll need to do this the old-fashioned way."

Clara glared at him over the rims of her glasses. "What I'm saying, McMissile, is you should scrap this entire cockamamie scheme of yours and go meet with some of the new recruits in our hangars. Newer than you, that is."

"Oh la-di-da, where's your sense of fun, Miss Leyland? This is shaping up to be quite the adventure." Finn tried desperately not to laugh at Clara's incredulous look. For someone who spent a vast portion of their time reading up on the emotions and expressions and mental states of others, she was remarkably easy to tease.

"My sense of fun has gone right out the window with your sense of danger, apparently. You can't be serious, Finn! This plane has dangerous written all over him. Ian will have you strung up by the hubcaps if you chase after this guy."

Finn laughed, but drove closer to the technical genius and spoke in a hushed tone. "Clara. Listen to me. This plane is one in a million. You should have heard how quickly he picked up on my nuances and how well he handled the entire 'getting shot at over the Atlantic Ocean' situation. He could be dangerous. But every single one of us here at this agency is dangerous. I am. You certainly are." Clara smirked at him. "I can't avoid him simply because he may pose a bit of a threat."

Clara sighed again, but this time smiled slightly as she did. "I can't stop you, Finn. But do make good choices while you're out there."

"Of course." Finn glanced through the list of information one last time before driving towards the exit of Clara's office, carefully picking his way through the maze of papers. "Can you cover for me while I'm gone?"

Clara followed him to the door, grabbing a book from a teetering pile as she went. "Don't I always?" she said sweetly, opening the book to the middle as she fidgeted with her glasses.

"You're the best, Clara." Finn spared her one of his debonair smiles before dodging the pencil she threw at his fender.

"Out of here with you!" she laughed as he tossed it back her direction. "I've got plenty of other agents to help who will actually take my advice."

Finn drove to the elevator and impatiently jabbed the down button. Time to go find that jet and solve the mystery of who exactly Siddeley Harrier Astraeus was.

A/N: Surprise update! It's been...a while. I got a lovely review yesterday and thought I ought to update, if only for the individual who's quite invested in the tale. Thank you for your kind words, Nitro Indigo. This one's for you.

I picture Clara as a 1988 Land Rover Defender.

Thank you all for reading!

~RR