MI6 agent Scott Filbury waited quietly outside the office of the head of the department. He was not told why he had been summoned, but the agents usually weren’t. He sat still; the only movement were his eyes, darting to every corner of the blank hallway, trying to take in every detail of his surroundings as he had been trained to 6 years before. He was only 28 and had been recruited after saving 3 people in a burning building, showing a ‘desire for passion and justice’ as his profile read.
He noticed a fly near the bright lamps that were imbedded in the ceiling. He knew that soon the fly would get too close and burn up in the heat, but this didn’t matter to Scott. He was more focused on why the Head of MI6, Paul Johnson, had asked him to come to his office in the middle of the day. Scott was a field agent, so he did not have much paperwork to do other than long mission briefs. He was not doing much in his office apart from finishing up on a report of a mission he recently took part in with the American’s own secret service, CIA. It had been the perfect mission to get him promoted to a well-paid desk job, but he would never take it and the people at MI6 knew that, so no job promotion was offered.
Scott did not enter the office without being told to. That was how things worked in this bare, forgotten building that housed the Secret Service’s operations. Scott was only worried because if he had a mission or some sort of praise, it was given to him by his direct superior, or the mission director. If he was asked to see Paul Johnson then it could mean one of two things. Either he was going on one of the famous missions like those in the World Wars or the recent conflict with Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, or he was going to be released for some reason. Scott could not see himself in the saving-the-world position, but neither could he think of a reason for them to let him go. He struggled with the idea in his mind and luckily, before he got too worked up, the door opened to reveal Mr. Johnson.
He was about 60 years old, Scott guessed, with a neatly shaved beard for a man of his age. But it was the expression that caught Scott the most: it revealed nothing about the man behind it. It was so blank and without emotion that it made it impossible to read him. He motioned for Scott to sit down in the brown, leather chair behind the Head of Department’s desk. Scott did and looked at the man again. He realised the expressionless face was probably good for his business. Interrogators and torturers would have trouble getting information from his looks if any ever managed to catch him and no-one would ever be able to expect what he would do or say next.
“Good afternoon Scott.” His voice was as bare as his face.
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
“You have been summoned here because of your work. In only 3 years you have succeeded in securing major relations for Britain, accomplished astonishing accounts of espionage work in the field regarding certain dictators and even saved those at the various scenes as well. You are by far one of the most exceptional agents on record. But unfortunately for you, the record doesn’t count for anything until you retire. Now, you are being called upon to save your country once more. We are in dire need of your help in a recent matter that has been brought to our attention.”
“What matter would that be, Sir?” Scott asked.
“An agent died bringing us information on new weapons being assembled and slowly mass-produced in the Middle-East. We have always been on rocky ground with the countries of Asia and the like, but now their suspicious activity with nuclear power is beginning to grow a thorn in the department’s neck.”
The casual tone in which the man talked of the death of an agent was uncanny and Scott wondered whether Mr. Johnson had just gotten used to it. He noticed a rubbish bin in the corner of the room and pondered on the thought of if it had ever been used. It was strange, but when the idea came to Scott of how many times Mr. Johnson had sat here at his desk and written letters of apology to families because of dead agents and briefings on how they died. He knew that there must have been hundreds of times like this. Why then, was the bin empty? Were there no discarded lives or objects to throw away? Was there some sort of sentimental side to the man described as ruthless for the past twenty years?
Scott knew the man had had been talking and quickly turned his attention back to his boss.
“...So if we don’t ever find out what is happening to those nukes, we could be in serious trouble. The Koreans and the Chinese would have immense power over us. We would simply not have time to retaliate. You have to infiltrate the heart of such organisations in Asia and figure out what is going on. Mr. Filch will provide you with details and equipment you will need for this mission. It is for the well-being of this country and many others that I tell you this: you cannot fail.” He leaned back in his chair and as Scott opened the door to leave his boss said one more thing, “Good luck Scott.”
It was maybe the only time he would ever be heard using any remote emotion in his voice, and it was barely noticeable, but Scott had not been called exceptional for no reason. He noticed it and wasn’t sure whether he really meant him good luck, or he was just relieved that he wouldn’t have to write any form of apology to a family if this agent died.
As Scott walked quickly down the stairs near the office he imagined what creative gadgets Filch would have for him this time. On one occasion he had been given a pen that when the lid was turned anti-clockwise, fired a dart that rendered the target unconscious for 9-12 hours. Filch had quickly been given a raise for that particular piece of work. He had incorporated radios into the strangest materials (once a water bottle) and had always procured the odd ability to put a weapon into any shape or form. When he reached Filch’s office, Scott grinned to himself in anticipation of what awaited him. It was always fun with Filch.
“Great Scott! Hullo there my friend, how are you?” Filch smiled.
“I’m fine thanks Filch. I’ve got what has been described as a very important mission, so I hope the equipment is up to scratch.”
“When isn’t it?” He turned and rolled a table on wheels towards them so it sat between them.
“I’ve got some interesting concoctions for you Scott. I’ve also been told the significance of the secret side of your mission. I have everything prepared and I hope you enjoy it. I hear you may be in for a medal if you do this well.”
“Seriously?” Filch smirked at Scott without replying.
“Ok, first things first. You’re going to a very strict and remote part of the world in part so everything will either have to be high-tech and not suspicious which would be hard, or you would have to be poor, and then things would have to be concealed in your clothes. I personally find that boring, which is why I advised the Big B to side with me on this one.”
Scott had known for a while now that, despite regulations, Filch still referred to Paul Johnson as the ’Big B’.
“So, this is going to take a while to explain, which means we’ll have to be fast and when you get on your plane this afternoon, you’ll have to practise assembling and disassembling the components in your private area. Here we go then...”
5 hours later, Scott sat in a leather seat on the pre-paid aeroplane, which he realised, must have been booked days ago. That also meant that the boss had known he would take the job. Everyone who knew him knew he would take the job, but it occurred to him that no question had been asked. Paul Johnson needed no confirmation that Scott Filbury was going to go on a field mission for his country.
He sat there, fiddling with the pieces of his gadgets. The classic Filch pen was there along with a radio built into the very fibres of his pants, which would ensure that if someone stole his jacket or he was tortured, MI6 would still have some way of contacting him. Scott had been given numerous documents on what had been going on and the predictions of MI6 on what the Chinese and Koreans in particular were up to. He’d been forced to read fashion magazines and articles to fully understand the concept of ‘throwaway culture’, as this was linked to the problem at hand, but more specifically, up cycling. This was where things that were considered scraps were used to generate a greater value, but only because they were scraps. This is something the Koreans had discovered with nuclear weapons. They had supposedly figured out how to use nuclear remains of bombs and ones that had lost any radiation power, to generate even more ‘waste energy’ meaning they could convert this power into guns and given time, modify them for their own armies. This could be a disaster for the people of Britain and the world. Scott had been ordered to find the factories where such transitions and modifications were taking place and stop them. There would be some amount of killing involved, but Scott didn’t let his conscience get in the way of protecting his people. He was a British citizen, a national and if there was one thing for sure, it was that Scott wasn’t going to let them gain power over his home.
He thought on this, his patriotism, as the seatbelt sign came on above him. As a child, Scott had been told that he’d always been fond of his country. He hadn’t ever consciously loved his country. But he paid attention in history to learn more about the Empire of Britain. They were by far one of the greatest powers to ever rule the Earth and he liked that about his heritage.
His ears popped as the plane lifted into the open skies, and he called for the air hostess to bring him a drink
He noticed a fly near the bright lamps that were imbedded in the ceiling. He knew that soon the fly would get too close and burn up in the heat, but this didn’t matter to Scott. He was more focused on why the Head of MI6, Paul Johnson, had asked him to come to his office in the middle of the day. Scott was a field agent, so he did not have much paperwork to do other than long mission briefs. He was not doing much in his office apart from finishing up on a report of a mission he recently took part in with the American’s own secret service, CIA. It had been the perfect mission to get him promoted to a well-paid desk job, but he would never take it and the people at MI6 knew that, so no job promotion was offered.
Scott did not enter the office without being told to. That was how things worked in this bare, forgotten building that housed the Secret Service’s operations. Scott was only worried because if he had a mission or some sort of praise, it was given to him by his direct superior, or the mission director. If he was asked to see Paul Johnson then it could mean one of two things. Either he was going on one of the famous missions like those in the World Wars or the recent conflict with Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, or he was going to be released for some reason. Scott could not see himself in the saving-the-world position, but neither could he think of a reason for them to let him go. He struggled with the idea in his mind and luckily, before he got too worked up, the door opened to reveal Mr. Johnson.
He was about 60 years old, Scott guessed, with a neatly shaved beard for a man of his age. But it was the expression that caught Scott the most: it revealed nothing about the man behind it. It was so blank and without emotion that it made it impossible to read him. He motioned for Scott to sit down in the brown, leather chair behind the Head of Department’s desk. Scott did and looked at the man again. He realised the expressionless face was probably good for his business. Interrogators and torturers would have trouble getting information from his looks if any ever managed to catch him and no-one would ever be able to expect what he would do or say next.
“Good afternoon Scott.” His voice was as bare as his face.
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
“You have been summoned here because of your work. In only 3 years you have succeeded in securing major relations for Britain, accomplished astonishing accounts of espionage work in the field regarding certain dictators and even saved those at the various scenes as well. You are by far one of the most exceptional agents on record. But unfortunately for you, the record doesn’t count for anything until you retire. Now, you are being called upon to save your country once more. We are in dire need of your help in a recent matter that has been brought to our attention.”
“What matter would that be, Sir?” Scott asked.
“An agent died bringing us information on new weapons being assembled and slowly mass-produced in the Middle-East. We have always been on rocky ground with the countries of Asia and the like, but now their suspicious activity with nuclear power is beginning to grow a thorn in the department’s neck.”
The casual tone in which the man talked of the death of an agent was uncanny and Scott wondered whether Mr. Johnson had just gotten used to it. He noticed a rubbish bin in the corner of the room and pondered on the thought of if it had ever been used. It was strange, but when the idea came to Scott of how many times Mr. Johnson had sat here at his desk and written letters of apology to families because of dead agents and briefings on how they died. He knew that there must have been hundreds of times like this. Why then, was the bin empty? Were there no discarded lives or objects to throw away? Was there some sort of sentimental side to the man described as ruthless for the past twenty years?
Scott knew the man had had been talking and quickly turned his attention back to his boss.
“...So if we don’t ever find out what is happening to those nukes, we could be in serious trouble. The Koreans and the Chinese would have immense power over us. We would simply not have time to retaliate. You have to infiltrate the heart of such organisations in Asia and figure out what is going on. Mr. Filch will provide you with details and equipment you will need for this mission. It is for the well-being of this country and many others that I tell you this: you cannot fail.” He leaned back in his chair and as Scott opened the door to leave his boss said one more thing, “Good luck Scott.”
It was maybe the only time he would ever be heard using any remote emotion in his voice, and it was barely noticeable, but Scott had not been called exceptional for no reason. He noticed it and wasn’t sure whether he really meant him good luck, or he was just relieved that he wouldn’t have to write any form of apology to a family if this agent died.
As Scott walked quickly down the stairs near the office he imagined what creative gadgets Filch would have for him this time. On one occasion he had been given a pen that when the lid was turned anti-clockwise, fired a dart that rendered the target unconscious for 9-12 hours. Filch had quickly been given a raise for that particular piece of work. He had incorporated radios into the strangest materials (once a water bottle) and had always procured the odd ability to put a weapon into any shape or form. When he reached Filch’s office, Scott grinned to himself in anticipation of what awaited him. It was always fun with Filch.
“Great Scott! Hullo there my friend, how are you?” Filch smiled.
“I’m fine thanks Filch. I’ve got what has been described as a very important mission, so I hope the equipment is up to scratch.”
“When isn’t it?” He turned and rolled a table on wheels towards them so it sat between them.
“I’ve got some interesting concoctions for you Scott. I’ve also been told the significance of the secret side of your mission. I have everything prepared and I hope you enjoy it. I hear you may be in for a medal if you do this well.”
“Seriously?” Filch smirked at Scott without replying.
“Ok, first things first. You’re going to a very strict and remote part of the world in part so everything will either have to be high-tech and not suspicious which would be hard, or you would have to be poor, and then things would have to be concealed in your clothes. I personally find that boring, which is why I advised the Big B to side with me on this one.”
Scott had known for a while now that, despite regulations, Filch still referred to Paul Johnson as the ’Big B’.
“So, this is going to take a while to explain, which means we’ll have to be fast and when you get on your plane this afternoon, you’ll have to practise assembling and disassembling the components in your private area. Here we go then...”
5 hours later, Scott sat in a leather seat on the pre-paid aeroplane, which he realised, must have been booked days ago. That also meant that the boss had known he would take the job. Everyone who knew him knew he would take the job, but it occurred to him that no question had been asked. Paul Johnson needed no confirmation that Scott Filbury was going to go on a field mission for his country.
He sat there, fiddling with the pieces of his gadgets. The classic Filch pen was there along with a radio built into the very fibres of his pants, which would ensure that if someone stole his jacket or he was tortured, MI6 would still have some way of contacting him. Scott had been given numerous documents on what had been going on and the predictions of MI6 on what the Chinese and Koreans in particular were up to. He’d been forced to read fashion magazines and articles to fully understand the concept of ‘throwaway culture’, as this was linked to the problem at hand, but more specifically, up cycling. This was where things that were considered scraps were used to generate a greater value, but only because they were scraps. This is something the Koreans had discovered with nuclear weapons. They had supposedly figured out how to use nuclear remains of bombs and ones that had lost any radiation power, to generate even more ‘waste energy’ meaning they could convert this power into guns and given time, modify them for their own armies. This could be a disaster for the people of Britain and the world. Scott had been ordered to find the factories where such transitions and modifications were taking place and stop them. There would be some amount of killing involved, but Scott didn’t let his conscience get in the way of protecting his people. He was a British citizen, a national and if there was one thing for sure, it was that Scott wasn’t going to let them gain power over his home.
He thought on this, his patriotism, as the seatbelt sign came on above him. As a child, Scott had been told that he’d always been fond of his country. He hadn’t ever consciously loved his country. But he paid attention in history to learn more about the Empire of Britain. They were by far one of the greatest powers to ever rule the Earth and he liked that about his heritage.
His ears popped as the plane lifted into the open skies, and he called for the air hostess to bring him a drink
“You can’t!” I screeched, griping the thick grass beneath my paws.
“The whole forest will belong to the Pack of Shadows!” the dark wolf exclaimed enthusiastically, his fur flickering like shadows, “No wolf will stop us!”
I have to do something! I couldn’t let it end like this! Not with the alpha in this state! Not with the pack split in four!
“Out of my way pup!” he tossed me aside like a tiny mouse.
“No!” I leaped at him, biting and clawing with all my strength.
“This is pointless! You cannot defeat me she-wolf!” I felt him bite me and fling me away again. I was too tired to move now, after traveling this far without resting, I can no longer breathe enough to live.
I’m over; this is the end of the Pack of Ice! I lay winded and defeated, awaiting death’s arrival patiently.
~Let You Go~
1: On and on ~ the days go by
Without a sight of you or my sanity
I'm lost not found ~ I wanted to show you , I wanted to tell you...
Chorus: If I say I'm sorry will you believe me?
If I love you again will you never leave me?
I made a mistake when I said no
I never should have let you go...
2: I ring your phone but no one answers, I'm alone
Days are spent reading your old letters, but with a groan,
I'd put them away, In the draw they'd lay until tomorrow...
Tomorrow...
Chorus-
3: This moping, not coping is killing me
My soul is not at rest when I long for it to be
I wish you'd come back or my fears may come true
When I left you, I still loved you and I think you knew
Chorus-
Darlin' don't forget me
I'm locked and you're the only key...
1: On and on ~ the days go by
Without a sight of you or my sanity
I'm lost not found ~ I wanted to show you , I wanted to tell you...
Chorus: If I say I'm sorry will you believe me?
If I love you again will you never leave me?
I made a mistake when I said no
I never should have let you go...
2: I ring your phone but no one answers, I'm alone
Days are spent reading your old letters, but with a groan,
I'd put them away, In the draw they'd lay until tomorrow...
Tomorrow...
Chorus-
3: This moping, not coping is killing me
My soul is not at rest when I long for it to be
I wish you'd come back or my fears may come true
When I left you, I still loved you and I think you knew
Chorus-
Darlin' don't forget me
I'm locked and you're the only key...
Another poem by me. This one came out kinda lame,but I'll let the rating be the judge (assuming there will be any).
That Girl
Have you seen that girl,
That goes around here and there?
Nobody knows where she’s going,
Is she even going somewhere?
Pretty face, pretty hair,
Nobody knows her name,
She seems sad, what a coincidence,
I’ve been feeling the same.
She seems lost,
Doesn’t even know where she’s from,
I’m a nice guy so I invite her,
To stay in my home.
She seats in the couch,
My, is she pretty?
I wonder what I can say,
To comfort that girl , so dreamy.
Sarah,
She tells me it’s her name,
She feels sad,
Funny,
Because I’ve been feeling the same
That Girl
Have you seen that girl,
That goes around here and there?
Nobody knows where she’s going,
Is she even going somewhere?
Pretty face, pretty hair,
Nobody knows her name,
She seems sad, what a coincidence,
I’ve been feeling the same.
She seems lost,
Doesn’t even know where she’s from,
I’m a nice guy so I invite her,
To stay in my home.
She seats in the couch,
My, is she pretty?
I wonder what I can say,
To comfort that girl , so dreamy.
Sarah,
She tells me it’s her name,
She feels sad,
Funny,
Because I’ve been feeling the same
Only in my dreams
You're missing, but you're always
a heartbeat from me
I'm lost now without you
I don't know where you are
I keep watching
I keep hoping
but time keeps us apart
Is there a way I can find you?
Is there a sign I should know?
Is there a road I could follow
to bring you back home?
Winter lies before me
Now you're so far away
In the darkness of my dreaming
The light of you will stay
If I could be close beside you
If I could be where you are
If I could reach out and touch you
And bring you back home
Is there a way I can find you?
Is there a sign I should know?
Is there a road I could follow
to bring you back home?
To me...
* * * * * * * * * *
LivHILuvAlwaiz♥jj9
this is an English sonnet I had to write for my English class and I need to know if it is good or not before I submit it, thank you. also the rhyme scheme is ababcdcdefefgg
---------------------------------------------------------------
My dear love you once were a shining ray.
In my eyes you meant the whole world to me.
Now everything about you is a shade of gray.
Like your beauty, your emotions, and your love is what I see.
However we must part onto our new paths.
Because our love is coming to its new close.
Colors were a beauty but now gray spreads its wrath.
I would love to feel again but now it’s a ghost.
Our love has left this earth for old times’ sake.
But when our love left it took you along too.
Sadly it left me with all this heartache.
Dying love was something I wish I had clues to
If someone told me love would never be easy
I would have chosen another path that’s breezy
---------------------------------------------------------------
My dear love you once were a shining ray.
In my eyes you meant the whole world to me.
Now everything about you is a shade of gray.
Like your beauty, your emotions, and your love is what I see.
However we must part onto our new paths.
Because our love is coming to its new close.
Colors were a beauty but now gray spreads its wrath.
I would love to feel again but now it’s a ghost.
Our love has left this earth for old times’ sake.
But when our love left it took you along too.
Sadly it left me with all this heartache.
Dying love was something I wish I had clues to
If someone told me love would never be easy
I would have chosen another path that’s breezy
He didn’t want money or fancy cars; all he wanted was to be loved by someone, any one at all. He needed someone to care about him, not his wealth, not his ties to the rich and famous, someone that actually cared about him, the boy with bright blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight, curly raven black hair and a boyish grin permanently plastered on his face hiding the pain of being alone. Yet no one did, all they saw was the heir to the Jeffrey Empire, the boy that was going to inherited it all. The boy, who was the prefect son living up to the Jeffrey name. They never saw the boy’s who’s arms were covered in cuts, the knife against his skin, the blood dripping down staining the carpet, his eyes closing never to open again. No one read the note tucked into his pocket cause no one cared.