They’d all but kidnapped you from your agency—hogtied you up in rope (which has since become a dinner table teasing point, for you, because how old-school was that?), bundled you up in the boot and quote-unquote; “adopted” you.

The moment you’d come to (buckled to a chair at the dining table), there’d been a contract in front of you; and John and Jane Smith behind that. Hired, might be a more accurate description—to play their child in their picture-perfect cover-slash-reality of the nuclear family.

You could’ve not signed it. You could’ve called for back-up and given them the slip—but you were young. One of the best, though; fucking notorious. You’d been raised in the business. Rather than your thumb, self-soothing would come in the form of unloading clips into your teddy bear.

Which is of course, why they had to have you. (An infant to train themselves was out of question. Jane didn’t do babies.) They were some of the best-of-the-best; and prodigy undercover superspy that you were—you were still a teenager. The possibility of sneaking by one of them if you got a hold of your agency? Doable. Two? You might as well play Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun.

It’s not all bad, really. You’ve basically just transferred companies; no biggie.

“Oh, finally.” Jane nods to you as you come in through the window, lips curling upwards as you bounce your head on the lamp with a plaintive Ow, though the gleam in her eyes tells you she’s genuinely glad to see you alive, at least.

“What? You not gonna give your mommy a hug?” Your ‘mommy’ sits back at the head of the dining table. She’s being cheeky, considering red is soaking her torso to the bone, and it’s not from the wine in her glass.

“You’re late, Missy.” John drawls from over the stove, like one would their teenage daughter stumbling in past curfew from some rendezvous with her boyfriend. Except, instead, you’re their teenage daughter staggering in with a flesh wound after a rendezvous with a floor of government agents.