When the door opens for Steph this time she is framed against the background of a busy street in Nairobi, instead of the quiet villages she's been in. She looks frazzled and tired and sore. And when she looks up and it's the bar, not the hotel lobby she expected, she looks very pleased.
"Finally. I missed you," she informs the gleaming countertop
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He is holding a carton of milk with a drawing on it. Also, his name. "I think someone noticed I left."
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"It's possible."
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Beat.
"I think."
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He got hustled away from Wimbledon about as fast as MI6 could take him. Heroes get no respect anymore.
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"What kind of 'fine' are we talking, here? You don't have to actually give details, I know you're into the secrets thing, but as long as you're not telling me 'fine' and actually, like, bleeding from the kidneys or something."
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Sometimes it's easiest to lie with the truth. Or something pointing to the truth, anyway.
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"You could try."
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"... if only because you'd probably succeed. I can't really use my right arm yet, it's a bit of a handicap. But I'd just like to point out that if I was at my best? You'd be toast."
Trufax.
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