Beta'd by BookQ36, to whom all due thanks!

"Reporting as ordered, sir."

The briefcase was placed on the desk almost soundlessly.

The man opposite didn't even touch it. He hardly glanced at it. Whatever it contained must be important, but doubtless it wouldn't be opened until after he was alone.

"I'd like a mission report, Major." Unexpectedly, there was a gesture to the chair in front of the desk.

Leo blinked. Usually their encounters were limited to the delivery of whatever information or material his team had been tasked with obtaining; he didn't expect thanks and never received any. The fact that he hadn't had to report any casualties was the only testimony required to the success of the mission, and the paycheck that would arrive with unfailing promptitude in the bank account of each of his team was the only reward. That said, fulsome praise would probably have unnerved at least two of the team so badly that they'd have to go out and shoot someone to get over it.

He sat down, feeling a little uncertain; a sensation which was in itself unnervingly unfamiliar. "Sir?"

The office was dark. The furniture was dark. His boss's clothing was dark. Only an angle-poise light shed a pool of radiance on the desk, and directly underneath it was a small stainless-steel dish containing, of all things, three sugared almonds.

Harris sat back in his chair. "The new recruit."

He was in no hurry for a reply. He very rarely was, at least to outward view. His craggy face in the dim light was as informative as a brick wall, his hands calmly and lightly clasped on the desk in front of him.

Leo transferred his gaze to the sugared almonds and considered what to say. Though at a guess his boss already knew quite a lot of it, so this could be as much test for himself as a request for information about the new boy.

The English kid hadn't done badly, for a first time in such a high-pressure situation, operating with a team he didn't know. He was very withdrawn, gave away nothing about himself, obeyed orders without question and killed without hesitation when he had to. Only one thing had drawn a faint smile from him, and that had been the award of his codename, Jaguar. It had been felt appropriate for him in view of its dual meaning as the make of a classic British car as well as one of the felinoid names that the rest of the team bore. Of course, it soon became 'Jag', just as all the others had acquired abbreviations, according to their owners' and the team's sense of humor. His own 'Lion' hadn't lasted a week.

The mission had gone well. Not without event, but nothing had happened that they hadn't been able to cope with.

It had, perhaps, all gone too well. Which was probably why there had been a backlash when they made a stopover at Draylax, basically to provide a cover story for their having been out there.

The details weren't pretty. The team had had to pull Jag out of an ugly situation, and they'd probably have hit him harder afterwards if every one of them hadn't gone through something like that themselves. As it was, what in some way had felt like a rite of passage had been got through without major incident and he'd ended up in Pard's bed all the way home. A development which carried its own risks, but which was a sign of acceptance from one member of the team at least, even if the others withheld a final judgment for the time being. Pard was a veteran; she knew the rules (such as they were) and the dangers, and she could be trusted to hold the line. Jag would have to learn the hard way, just as they all had.

"He knows his stuff," Leo said at last. "He'll be useful. I think we could have done a lot worse."

A faint, sardonic smile greeted this economical report. It suggested that Harris had contacts on Draylax. Which wouldn't be in the least surprising. "If you can keep him out of trouble."

A shrug. "If he was up for a safe life he wouldn't be with us. He'll learn." He paused. The sugared almonds were beginning to exert an almost hypnotic influence on him: two white, one pink. Arranged perfectly in the middle of the dish. This was, of course, deliberate, as was everything Harris did.

One of the eyebrows on the older man's face lifted infinitesimally. "You want to ask me something?"

The massive African tore his gaze with some difficulty from the dish of almonds and fixed it on his boss's face. "He's English."

"Yes. His accent does sort of give that away." The answer was only mildly ironic.

He sat back in the chair in his turn, determined not to be intimidated. At a guess, he wouldn't get any answers, but that wouldn't stop him asking the questions. "So what's an English guy with his know-how doing in Starfleet? And in the Section? Why doesn't his own government want him?"

A faint shrug. "You'd have to ask the British government. Maybe they don't have much use for a loose cannon on board."

"Bullshit." The word left his mouth before he could think better of it; over the course of his career he'd met more than one employee of the government in question who could fit that description with space to spare.

"Well, maybe you're right." A shadowy smile played around Harris's mouth. "But let's say their loss is our gain."

Leo looked at him closely, but that was plainly all the older man was going to say.

Hell, we stole him. He wondered if Jag knew that, and if so, what he felt about it. It might explain much about whatever it was he could sense simmering away, fathoms down beneath that rigid exterior. Though that rigidity bothered him a little; what won't bend will eventually break. And he wouldn't want to be in the same half of the Universe when Jag broke. Not with that facility with weapons and his passion for explosives.

Well, it wouldn't necessarily affect his usefulness to the team. Hell, half of them were crazy anyway; they were just good at hiding it when it mattered. A crazy Brit with a thing for blowing stuff up wouldn't be all that badly out of place.

The squad leader shrugged. "I guess it is."

The interview was over. He stood up. "Was there anything else?"

"No. There'll be another job for you in three days' time, but till then the team can stand down. Unless something crops up in the meantime, of course."

"Of course." Section 31 operatives didn't work on a five-day week; they had to be ready to up and go at a moment's notice, and to be away for months, if not years, at a time. They were all single, without family ties of any kind.

There was no necessity for formal leave-taking. Leo inclined his head slightly and turned to the door.

Outside, he was faintly and irrationally surprised to find that the sun was still shining. In an odd way, he felt as though the shadows in Harris's office should have followed him out, and darkened the daylight.

The team was waiting for him, loitering on the plaza. At a distance, a pair of male officers in regulation Starfleet uniforms were walking, obviously deep in discussion. Jag's head was turned to watch them, and something in the tension in the normally uncommunicative pale face said that the Englishman was paying more than usual attention. The taller of the two officers said something at which the shorter and fairer man threw up his head, laughing; a snatch of the breeze off the bay brought the sound clearly, with an accent that said Florida.

Jag turned away again. Once more the expressionless mask had dropped into place.

It was Leo, not Jag, who watched the Starfleet officers walk away, and as he rejoined his team he looked closely at the Englishman; but even he couldn't pierce the shuttered gaze. Nevertheless, his long experience told him that there, with those officers on the respectable side of Starfleet, was where Jag truly belonged. It might take him a while to realize that, but in the end, the realization would come.

In the meantime, he would be useful. And maybe the things he would learn would one day be of benefit to him when he too wore Starfleet blue and had pips on his shoulder. If, of course, he survived that long.

And that, only time would tell.

All comments and reviews received with gratitude!