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Avalon lay in her bed as the alarm on her phone rang after three attempts at snoozing it. She mentally cursed the very passage of time as she sat up, the cascade of shadows showing in her room from the sun trying to breach her curtain defenses. She eyed the time and cursed again, knowing she needed to get up and dressed in some semblance of having her life put together despite feeling anything but.

She walked over to her dresser, picking out a change of undergarments as well as a light gray shirt. She grabbed a navy overshirt and matching slacks and got dressed. She nearly fell over putting one leg in and grabbed the bed frame for support as she plummeted on her arse on the mattress. It was as if the universe was telling her to stay in bed, forget the job, forget everything, commit arson (though she often thought of committing arson daily, usually when she was on the tram surrounded by people).

Dressed and in a sensible pair of heels, she checked herself in the mirror as she applied some make-up to hide the dark circles and the ever presence of age showcasing how she was not so young anymore and her body was betraying her every day on top of the constant reminders from advertisements and men (and some women) she came across who told her she "would be so pretty if she smiled" or some other such fucking nonsense. She brushed her hair and, once satisfied, she looked vaguely human, left her flat.

It was still early so not many people were around her neighborhood. As she strode toward the Underground, she passed by Mrs. Rigsby, who was watering her flowers. Typically, someone with as good a green thumb as Mrs. Rigsby would be joyous and pleasant, but she had such a snarky demeanour on her facial features that Avalon crossed the street rather than engage in any social contract with the woman who, at one point in time, screamed that their neighborhood was "being overrun" by people with certain color skins and complexdions. Avalon bit her tongue at the time, knowing full well the country was being invaded, just not by who Mrs. Rigsby thought. 

Once she got closer to the entrance, she noticed more people were out, and she groaned to no one in particular. She shuffled and elbowed her way through, finding a seat next to a woman with a snoring toddler on her lap and a man who checked out her chest but assumed he did so secretly. The man also conveniently had his hand close to her bum as she sat, and she fought off the urge to break his wrist as she apologized. She didn't hear what he said, but she thought she heard "tramp" from a few seats down, but they could be speaking to anyone, surely.

As she rode the, admittedly, short distance to her new job, she thought about how she got here. How someone of her intellect and background (it wasn't bragging if it was legitimately proven true) could have wound up in her position. She thought back to the arsehole who strode through her work, happy as you like, knowing he was pulling the proverbial wool over everyone's eyes. Rupert fucking Nathaniel fucking Jacoby fucking The Third. The "new darling" of MI5, whose background was so impressive that it essentially fast-tracked him into any role he wanted. He made friends easily, caught the eye of any man or woman close to his age due to his rugged good looks (even some geriatrics in admin who clucked together about how they'd like to 'file his paperwork any day'). 

But Avalon knew better. There was something in his expertly told stories, the body language, the eye contact, the use of certain words, and that disarming charm that she didn't trust. Everything too good to be true usually was, in her experience. And when she dug, she found inconsistencies. She did her job, what she was literally being fucking paid for to do, and no one believed her. She had never had a track record of going against MI5's interests. Never was found to have anything but the utmost respect for the job and her role in the agency, until she decided to go after Rupert Nathaniel Jacoby III. She chastised herself consistently for missing the mark. She knew his family, knew the power they held, knew how easily they could hide things. 

So, of course, no one believed her. "Avalon St. Sebastien is not a team player". God, it reminded her of school. Teachers constantly praised her to her parents about how smart she was, how clever she was, how much she had going for her, and how bright her future was sure to be, if only she knew how to play well with others. Avalon didn't hate other people. She rather liked people, more or less. She just refused to put up with their bullshit. And, as was so very often the case, other people had a LOT of bullshit they liked to push. So you would have to excuse her if she refused to play with little Tiffany Fairchild from her grade after Tiffany was overheard calling Avalon a colorful assortment of newly learned swear words, and Avalon, in response, broke little Tiffany's nose.

What could she say? She returned energy.

So MI5 sacked her. If she couldn't do her job, she had no place. Avalon suspected they were being strong-armed by the Jacoby family, but couldn't prove that either. So she left with grace. Oh, no, sorry, she left with Grace, one of the security officers who was assigned to follow her out, lest she take the firearm she had and pull a Columbine to the office. No, Avalon left in a litany of curses and 'you'll regret this'-es. 

And, sure enough, years later, Rupert was discovered sharing trade secrets overseas. Turns out the Jacoby family had been traitors of king and country for millennia. Anyone who so much as attempted to out them was either disappeared or found dead. Avalon was sure that if Rupert hadn't been discovered, her body would be floating in the Thames.

But did anyone thank her? Did anyone confirm she had been right all along? Of course not. Instead, the two agents who discovered this (and though she couldn't prove it then, she was sure they used her investigation notes to figure it out) received the commendations, the awards, the glory. Golly gee, these two agents saved MI5 from being a laughingstock!

And Avalon St. Sebastien was pushed back into the shadows. Because no one in MI5 could admit they made such a careless mistake.

When the opportunity presented itself, she grabbed it. She missed the work, missed the feeling of figuring things out, reading people, putting it all together. She needed it, like an addict.

But she didn't have to be fucking happy about it.

The Underground burped her out on the street of her new employer. She went through the busywork of getting in and getting settled. She hoped she would be working with competent co-workers, or at least ones who wouldn't bumble everything and make her work 10 times harder.

But she wouldn't hold her breath.