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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Line of Duty: the Best Crime Thrillers to Watch Next

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Line of Duty is over, perhaps for good. It’s time to dismantle that evidence wall, file the exhibits away, and close the door on AC-12. With H unmasked, we can all rest our adrenal glands and get back to a healthy, Jimmy Nesbitt-free sleep pattern.

Once that’s achieved, if you start to feel the itch for more seismic shocks and sleights-of-hand, here are a few suggestions of what to watch next – eight TV thrillers that provide similar doses of double-dealing, truth-concealing, witness-squealing, case-breaking shenanigans. Add your own recommendations below!

Bodyguard

Bodyguard proved that there was life after the Red Wedding for Richard Madden. His performance as David Budd, a former combat soldier living a new – and equally dangerous – life as a Principal Protection Officer (PPO) in the London Met deservedly netted him a Golden Globe and a Scottish Bafta award.

Budd’s job protecting the abrasive yet vulnerable British Home Secretary Julia Montague (Keeley Hawes) is complicated by their conflicting ideologies, Budd’s fractured home-life and PTSD, and a wide-ranging conspiracy that brings together Islamic terrorism, organised crime, intra-governmental malfeasance and dodgy cops. Be prepared to watch from behind half-closed eyes, wincing in anticipation of the oblivion that’s promised around almost every corner.

Bodyguard has the kinetic ferocity and explosive twists of 24; the grim and gritty characterisation of a Jimmy McGovern project; and the ‘Oh my God it was them along… or was it?’ twists of Line of Duty, which follows as it was also created by Jed Mercurio and World Productions.

Watch on: Netflix UK

The Americans

What if you were so deeply embedded with your enemies that you were indistinguishable from them, both inside and out, and even started to become increasingly disillusioned about what side you were supposed to be on? That’s the central conceit of FX’s slick and superlative spy drama The Americans, set in Washington DC during the height of the Cold War. Russian operatives Philip and Elizabeth Jennings have fake pasts and fake identities, but they also have very real American teenage children, who have been raised oblivious to the devastating secret thumping Poe-like in their parents’ hearts. Other shows trading in similar tropes may well deal in deception and corruption, but the cross that the Jennings have to bear in the name of ideology makes even the biggest conspiracies in Line of Duty and Bodyguard seem like a fib told by a child to avoid punishment for stealing freshly-baked muffins from their mother’s windowsill.

The heat on the Jennings is turned up even further when an FBI agent tasked with uncovering Russian agents moves next door with his family; further still when the two families become friends, further blurring the lines between truth, lies, identity and loyalty.

Whom do you trust when you can’t even trust yourself?

Watch it on: Amazon Prime Video UK (available to purchase)

Edge of Darkness (1985)

Edge of Darkness is steeped in the same Thatcher-tainted, Reagan-ruled, greed-is-good, hyper-capitalist era as The Americans, but is a contemporaneous piece rather than a period piece, having debuted in 1985.

The tragic tale follows tortured policeman Ronald Craven (Bob Peck) as he tries to unravel the truth behind his eco-activist daughter’s murder, while he himself starts to unravel in a sea of lies, half-truths, hard truths and shifting allegiances. Craven snakes his way through a colourful cast of misfits, agitators, loudmouths, snobs, yobs and psychopaths, as the battle for power – nuclear, economic, hegemonic – and perhaps the survival of the earth itself, swirls and dances and ricochets around him.

It’s a series that’s unafraid to immerse the viewer in complexity; leaving them to fathom the ever-morphing labyrinth of motivations and revelations on their own; leaning heavily into ambiguity whenever it serves the shape and tone of the story. Often, the viewer is left as bemused and perplexed as Craven himself in the face of this deadly puzzle, but they will still find themselves – also like Craven – unable and unwilling to rest until the pieces fit together.

The late Bob Peck – whom many will only know as the game keeper from Jurassic Park, who utters his memorable final line, ‘Clever girl…’, seconds before becoming a velociraptor hors d’oeuvre – puts in a mesmerising, career-defining performance as Craven, effortlessly embodying the full gamut of the man’s grief, guilt, obsession, melancholy and mania. Craven seems at once mythical and otherworldly, and yet solidly, painfully, exquisitely human.

Watch on: Amazon Prime Video UK (available to purchase)

The Shield

“Good cop and bad cop left for the day. I’m a different kind of cop.”

So says LA Detective Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) seconds before demonstrating his no-holds-barred interrogation technique to an obfuscating paedophile. It’s not that Vic considers himself above the law, more that everybody else is below his. He often does the right things for the wrong reasons, or in the wrong way, or the wrong things for the right reasons. Or at least for reasons that he thinks are right. And he’s got a justification for everything, from bribing fellow officers, to partnering with organised criminals, to even murdering suspects.

Impossibly corrupt, relentlessly self-righteous, fearless to the point of psychopathy, Vic is the badge-wearing heir apparent to Tony Soprano, but burdened with little of the gabagool-guzzler’s guilt. Viewers are left under no illusions about the lengths Vic will go to protect himself and his kingdom, nor about the sort of show they’re watching, when at the close of the first episode he executes an officer who has been placed in his Strike Team to investigate his corruption, framing a similarly deceased drug kingpin for the crime.

So begins the toxic, spreading rot of secrets, lies and double-dealings, each action an effort to cover over and stay a step ahead of the misdeed before. Vic’s three-man Strike Team would follow him into Hell, which is just as well, because that’s exactly where he leads them, along with his family, and anyone who ever associated with or went toe-to-toe against him. The Shield begins as a punchy, kinetic pop-corn spectacle of a series, but slowly evolves into an almost Shakespearian tragedy, rich in sadness, sacrifice and betrayal. The final act – hell, the final few seasons – will leave you in no doubt as to The Shield‘s place in the pantheon of small-screen greats.

Watch on: All4 (UK)

Celebrating Jimmy McGovern’s Cracker

By Jamie Andrew

Line of Duty Series 6 Episode 7 Review: H Unmasked At Last

By Louisa Mellor

Dexter

If Internal Affairs set up an office in the Miami Metro Police Department, the last person they’d suspect of foul play would be the handsome, unfailingly polite blood-spatter analyst Dexter Morgan, doyen of the Homicide bowling team and daily bringer of doughnuts. Whereas Vic Mackey flaunts his corruption in plain sight, Dexter has to stay in the shadows. Dexter’s corruption is a little more extreme than Vic’s: he’s a highly active serial killer. That he only kills according to a strict ethical code – only other murderers, and only those who’d escaped, or would escape, justice by more legitimate means – makes him a complex, compassionate and compelling figure, one with whom we sympathise easily: perhaps too easily. Dexter makes us complicit by proxy. We find ourselves rooting for a serial killer, hopelessly lost in the hedge-maze of his amorality.

Dexter’s relationships with his sister, Deborah (Jennifer Carter) – a detective at his precinct – and Rita (Julie Benz) – first his girlfriend, then his wife and eventually mother of his son – are his only toe-holds on humanity, which is why the show regularly has them dancing on the edge of his dark secret. No more so than when Dexter has to help the department investigate the crimes of a serial killer the media dubs The Bay Harbor Butcher, a serial killer who just happens to be… Dexter.

While it’s true that Dexter came to a perfect natural conclusion after four great seasons, it’s also true that it limped on for another four seasons after that, capped by a finale that is quite possibly one of the weakest and worst of any drama series ever made. Thankfully, it’s coming back for a ninth season later this year, hopefully to right past wrongs.

Watch on: NOW (UK)

Cracker

If you only know the larger-than-life Robbie Coltrane as the much-larger-than-life Hagrid in the Harry Potter series, you’d do well to check out the mid-90s UK crime-series Cracker, and see Coltrane at his most searing, endearing, dangerous and iconic. Here he plays Eddie ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald – quite simply the role he was born to play – a sharp-witted, full-blooded, foul-mouthed, fast-living psychologist who impresses (and largely imposes) his way into a consulting gig with the Manchester Police, helping them to solve their more grizzly and unusual crimes. The storyline that sees Fitz investigating one of ‘his’ own is perhaps its most harrowing and heart-breaking – a network of tragedies dovetailing into one other – with a denouement that casts a long, sad shadow over the rest of the series.

Warning: If you are a Harry Potter fan, and you decide to watch Cracker, do take the time to psychologically prepare yourself for the sight of Hagrid in bed with Harry Potter’s mum.

Watch on: Britbox (UK)

Luther

Detective John Luther (Idris Elba) has the presence of a bear, the heart of a lion, and the mind of Columbo. With his razor-sharp stare, long, lived-in coat and propensity to stick his neck precisely where it’s needed but never wanted, Luther’s ‘Oh, one more thing’ is just as likely to be a fist as it is a verbal death-blow.

Over the course of five seasons Luther is betrayed by those closest to him, mangled by loss, framed for murder and even strikes up an unusual but oddly touching relationship with a serial killer. It’s electric, captivating TV, and Idris Elba wears and lives Luther’s rage, sadness, regret and fuck-you-ness so intensely that you won’t be able to draw your eyes away from him. A barnstormer all round.

Watch on: BBC iPlayer (UK)

State of Play

The cast-list alone is enough to commend this early 2000s conspiracy thriller: John Simm, Philip Glenister (prior to the duo teaming up in Life on Mars), David Morrissey, James McAvoy, Bill Nighy, Amelia Bullmore, and Line of Duty‘s own Kelly MacDonald. Thankfully, almost everything else about this mini-series also screams excellence, especially the crackling, incisive and deeply honest writing from Clocking Off, Cracker and Shameless-stalwart Paul Abbott.

State of Play follows a group of journalists as they stumble onto the greatest story of their lives – ministerial corruption, contract killings, corporate greed, industrial espionage, illicit affairs – that pits the police, the government, and even their own friends and loved ones against them. It’s a twisting, turning, shifting, shocker of a masterpiece: a true titan of the genre.

Watch on: Amazon Prime Video UK (available to purchase)

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Line of Duty series one to six are available to stream now on BBC iPlayer.

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pyschosuaveharv · 5 years

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John Wick 3 and the curse of the sequels

The first John Wick is a film I have a lot of respect for. It’s devotion to realism and attention to detail are honestly impressive. It felt like the kind of meticulously crafted film made by people with severe OCD. A love letter to action movies more passionate than my dogs attempt to mate with the furniture. The shots were beautiful, the fights were dynamic, the symbolism richer than the wet dreams of Mark Zuckerberg. Alas, this isn’t review for John Wick but a review for it’s sequels sequel. As such it’s bogged down by what I describe as the curse of the sequels.

Other than sounding like the name of the most ill fitting Harry Potter book, the curse of the sequels is a name for the slow deterioration of a once great idea stretched out for long enough to exhaust all creative ideas. For example, the first two Shrek movies are masterpieces and anybody that disputes that statement will be burned at the stake. However Shrek 3 and 4 feel like the retarded offspring that get bullied at school and rightly so. Whilst this process doesn’t effect all sequels it has certainly effected John Wick 3 to some degree.

John Wick 3 begins right as number 2 left off, John Wick running like an altar boy from a catholic priest, attempting to escape all the assassins that will shortly be attempting to murder him after he made a mess at a travel lodge for assassins.The first thing I picked up on is that the secret illuminati like organisation that runs all the assassin shit in these films seems a lot less secret now. In the first movie, there was a hotel, a doctor, a cleaner and an arms dealer that new about the secret society of murderous bastards. These services all seem like things it would be useful for an assassin to have for one reason or another. In the third movie, within the first few scenes we see that a taxi driver, a homeless guy and a librarian are also aware of the secret organisation. I’m sorry but what business does an assassin have in a library. “Excuse me miss do you have any books on how best to stab your foe?” “No? In that case I’ll take Pride and Prejudice.” Oh well I guess assassins do love a light bit of classical literature as the first fight scene occurs in said library after a dude built like a brick shit house quotes some Divine Comedy at John Wick. John then proceeds to have to a book involved in a very intimate relationship with the guys face and spinal column. Leaving me wondering how the spine of a book is sturdier than the spine of a tank in human form.

Later on, John fucks off to Morocco after meeting up with a person who is implied to be his mother figure and the one who trained him in the art of badassery. He then meets Halle Berry’s character whose name I can’t remember so I’ll refer to her as Jane Wick henceforth. So John, Jane and a couple of angry doggos go out in search of a guy who might be able to lead John to another guy who might be able to stop all the assassin guys from wanting John Wick murderised. The guy tells John where to find other guy but not before shooting Jane directly in the doggo. Battle scene ensues insert inevitable “I’ve been there” line from John.

Anyway John offscreens it all the way to a desert, says his fair wells to Jane and fucks off in search of the other guy who can make him a proper assassin again. Other guy gives John wick another chance in return for a finger. After the fingering John goes in search of his next target, the manager of the New York assassin travel lodge.

En route he’s attacked by a gang of stereotype-184 motorbike ninjas. After dispatching all the ninjas the big bad boss ninja is about to kill John but he touches the step of the travel lodge. The ninja let’s him go for fear of ruining the nice steps. They both check in to the hotel and John goes and meets with the manager. John decides to be a rebel and stop being a slave to the assassin guild meaning the symbolism of the finger lopping is now cast aside. John says a badass line and the movie ends, setting up a sequel where they fight the illuminati secret society head on. Wait no sorry, the movie decided it wanted to go on for another 20 minutes or so and we all have to begrudgingly accept it like the time a Spanish tribute band for take that did a half an hour encore at a hotel I was staying. Anyway a fight ensues (which would have served to be a much shorter plot summary for this whole trilogy of movies) between ninja guy and John. Ninja guy constantly gushes at Johns fighting abilities in the same way Keanu wished fans gushed about his acting and John inevitably wins. He then meets up with the Travel lodge manager who brokers a deal with the illuminati and forcibly checks John out of the hotel via the roof. John survives being thrown off the roof of the hotel because all sense of realism is dead in this film. I would have complained if John has survived confined to a wheel chair but as it stands, considering another movie is planned, John will probably walk it off like he stubbed his toe on the corner of a table. John says a badass line and the movie ends setting up a sequel where John fights the illuminati head on. If that line sounds familiar it’s because that exact thing happened twenty odd minutes ago but now the movie actually wants to end.

This review is already long enough so let’s wrap this all up. John wick one was an audiovisual adrenaline trip featuring amazing world building and a surprisingly heartfelt story. John wick three feels like a kid poorly copying John Wick one’s homework it’s not as original or as thrilling. The good scenes, shots and fights it does have feeling cheapened by proxy. I have been overly negative on this film, it’s much better than most of the tripe spewed out by Hollywood’s putrid anal cavity these days and I do think it’s a good movie. However when you’re sharing the John Wick name good just won’t cut it.

So that ends the review I just wanted to make a little note here that I haven’t actually seen the second John Wick as at the time of its release I could predict it would be much of what the third one inevitably was, John Wick one but less original. That being said I’ll watch it soon enough and I may in fact update this post if some of my issues are addressed by John Wick two, however I don’t think much will change as I tried to focus mainly on the third as a sequel to the first and as a movie in its own right.

Join me next time when I’ll be reviewing detective pikachu. Goodbye.

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zapiarty · 7 years

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Can you write the scene where Garashir get together for Milaverse?

Takes place just after Crossover in season 2.

As beginnings to a relationship went, theirs could, Julian thought, have gone better. It could, for example, have involved less shouting, no actual physical torture and…well, at least fewer lies. It would also, ideally, involve one participant not being a genetic augment whose very existence was a crime and the other not being a former operative of the Obsidian Order who probably hadn’t been lying about all the crimes he’d committed, but Julian probably wouldn’t have been interested if that weren’t the case. Still, that was no reason not to do things the right way now they’d started. Julian had dug out the one outfit he owned that didn’t make Garak wince at the sight of it, gone to some trouble to find a holoprogramme that might appeal to both their tastes and called in a favour from Dax to get her to babysit Mila for the evening. Still, he couldn’t help but feel oddly nervous when he knocked on the door of Garak’s quarters that evening, datarod in hand. Not of Garak himself, exactly, but…well, it had taken a full-blown argument to get Garak to believe Julian was interested at all, and it still wasn’t too late for him to decide to back out.

The door to Garak’s quarters opened a moment after Julian requested entrance, to reveal Garak with a look of mild surprise on his face. “My dear doctor, you’re not only on time for once, you’re early!”

Julian grinned, “Mila pretty much rushed me out of the door the moment I got her to Dax’s,” he said, “I’m not sure what they were planning to do with the evening, but it’s probably going to leave me owing Dax another favour or two.”

“All this, just for a single evening?”

“I live to impress,” Julian said wryly. “Is it working?”

“You are remarkably unsubtle. You’re not supposed to ask…you observe to see it is or not. Asking just ends the game.” Garak teased with a smirk.

“Patience was never my strong suit,” Julian said agreeably. “I’ve booked us a holosuite - thought it might be a bit more private than dinner at Quark’s, and it’s a chance to introduce you to a genre of human literature I don’t think I’ve mentioned before.”

“Oh? Well, I thank you for opting for the more private option, though I think I’ll have a word with Quark before we start…”

Julian raised his eyebrows, “I hadn’t heard he recorded goings-on inside the holosuites.” At least, he hoped Quark didn’t - there were a few things Julian didn’t want anyone knowing, even - make that especially - Garak.

Garak offered a wide smile, “Surely not. But it’s best to err on the side of caution.”

“Great. Shall we go, then?” Julian gestured broadly down the corridor, trying to resist the urge to fidget.

As they walked the hallway towards Quark’s, Garak’s eyes never once left Julian. “Tell me, just what genre are we experiencing?”

Julian grinned. “Spy fiction,” he said, “Do you have that on Cardassia? Or - is it considered seditious?”

For once, Garak’s surprised expression seemed honest. “Spy fiction? You have…a genre of literature where you reveal the secrets of your intelligence agencies?”

“…not quite.” Julian paused, trying to consider how to explain it. “A lot of the first writers in the genre were involved with intelligence - Ian Fleming was, and John Le Carre - but the genre…evolved beyond strict realism quite quickly. Well, Fleming’s did. Le Carre is a bit more grounded - remind me to lend you The Spy Who Came in From the Cold at some point, I think you’d like it. It’s cynical enough to appeal to you.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, from past experiences of you lending me books you think I’d like…”

“You admitted to quite liking Pride and Prejudice,” Julian pointed out, stung.

“Compared to the others, yes, until the end. Really, that book is unfinished.” Garak sniffed, looking for all the world like it was a crime to leave Pride and Prejudice as it was.

Julian stared. “It’s considered to have one of the neatest endings in literature - everything’s tied up, everyone’s married off, we know what happens to everyone…It’s actually been criticised for being a bit too finished.”

“Too finished! We know nothing of what happens next, it really is very frustrating-” Garak stopped and smiled, “But I believe we’ve gotten distracted. Tell me more about this…spy genre?”

Julian nodded, and tried to marshal what he knew. “Well, the genre is divided into several…I tend to think of them as ‘flavours’? The Le Carre-style very gritty, low-key approach, which tends to focus on political double-dealing, grey morality and the awful things people have to do to serve their countries and their causes at the cost of their own morals is one…but it’s not the only one, or even the most popular.” He grinned. “Then, there’s the style I tend to think of as ‘martini-flavoured’. Wildly unrealistic, fraught with improbably over-the-top-danger…there’s usually a deathtrap or two involved…sort of the glamorised image of what spying involved, although there were one or two people out there who actually did live that way, if we’re to believe the historical record. Granted, they usually didn’t do it for very long, but-”

“Fascinating. And which…flavor…are we trying?”

Julian grinned, “That would be option number three. Affectionately referred to in fan circles as ‘dirty martini’. It’s…marrying the two, I suppose. A lot of the absurdity and glamour of martini-style, but with the heavier political themes, grey morality and a bit of the cynicism of the first kind. It seemed like a good compromise.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll withhold judgement until after the game. Though, I’ll tell you now, that I’ll likely not be interested in just the…martini-flavoured. As a tailor, I take these things very seriously.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “I am shocked,” he said teasingly, “Shocked that you mean to pass up such an opportunity to mock our absurd Federation romanticism.”

Garak slowly looked Julian up and down before give a half smile, “Well…when you put it like that…perhaps I will consider it.”

“Glad to hear it.” Julian coughed. “This particular story is actually a few centuries old, and it’s been retold so many times that no-one quite agrees on what the proper characterisation should be, so we’re more-or-less free to do as we like. The original was actually partly written by Fleming in the early 1960s, so…four hundred years ago, give or take. It’s set around then as well and, unlike Fleming’s other stories, hasn’t been updated with the times. The history is kind of vital to the plot, for this one.”

“Vital? In what way?” Garak asked curiously, looking at least partially interested in the game, even if the rest of his attention was more on what Julian was wearing. He’d apparently chosen well.

Julian took a breath. “For most of the second half of the twentieth century, Earth was engaged in a cold war between two powerful nation-states. The Soviet Union and the…well, mostly the United States, but most of Europe, a fair bit of Asia and South America got involved as well. On both sides. Both sides knew that an all-out war would mean the annihilation of pretty much everything on the planet, so they tended to work through proxies and spies for the most part. The early James Bond stories used this as a backdrop, mostly but for this story it’s actually integral to the plot, as the two lead characters are from different sides of the Cold War. Illya Kuryakin, a Soviet agent, and Napoleon Solo, an American.”

“And what exactly was this war about? The climate?”

Julian shrugged, “Officially, political ideology, unofficially…probably power, control of as much of the globe as possible. And a bit of ideology. America and much of western Europe operated under a capitalist system, whereas the Soviets…at least claimed to have something a bit more like the modern Federation. Except backed up with the threat of horrifying prison camps, mass executions and torture. Oh, and quite a lot of corruption because this was pre-replicator technology and so the ‘sharing out’ of scarce resources tended to favour the ruling elite. It’s actually what led to-” What led to the Eugenics Wars, which had put an end to the Cold War by bombing Washington and Moscow simultaneously, breaking their power and establishing a new player on the board.

Garak raised a brow-ridge at Julian’s half sentence, but appeared to decide not to press him to finish it, “So a Federation that admits to what it is. Admittedly, perhaps a bit harsher in its methods than what would be done nowadays, I’m sure.”

“I like to think we’ve moved beyond that,” Julian said stiffly, and moved on before he could dwell on it any longer. “Either way. The story we’re going to play through is set in 1963, when two agents, one from each side of the Cold War, are forced to work together to solve a problem that affects both their governments. They then get assigned together permanently in an international taskforce intended to help keep their governments from destroying each other and the whole world with them.”

Garak blinked, “Rather a lot to put onto the shoulders of two agents.”

Julian shrugged, “Most adaptations agree it was largely a political gesture. And a way of avoiding any appearance of partisanship on either side, as the two of them would both naturally look out for the interests of their own side and, hopefully, keep each other honest. If you had two agents from either side, they could be accused of advancing their own interests at the expense of the other side, which would lead to an increase in tensions and possibly eventual war. And that’s leaving aside how many maniacal private citizens with access to advanced technology and an insatiable desire to destroy the world for their own profit seem to crop up in these things.”

“And these agents did not kill each other? I hardly see how one master liar could keep another honest.”

Julian smiled, as wickedly as he could manage. “Neither of them wanted the world to be blown up?” he suggested idly. “Also, in every single adaptation there has ever been, they’re at least close friends, and sometimes more.”

Garak snorted, “And their agencies allowed this? Well, you did say this was fictional…”

“In most versions, they go to a great deal of trouble to make sure their agencies don’t know. Same-sex entanglements were illegal in both the Soviet Union and the West during this period, even if they weren’t enemy agents. There are a fair few versions of the story where it ends pretty tragically, even if they aren’t my favourite - the real world’s miserable enough without inevitable defeat in the holosuite as well.”

“I don’t quite understand humanity’s struggle in accepting same-sex liaisons. There’s not even a chance for bastards in that case, just who does it harm?”

Julian shrugged, “Not my area. I think it was mostly religious, but I’d have to look it up. So…” he grinned, “You’ve got a choice of two characters - which side of the Iron Curtain do you want?”

Garak gave him a wry smile, “Which side do you think, my dear doctor? Though, tell me more about the agents themselves, what are their…basic personality traits?”

“…that is the most complicated question in the whole game,” Julian admitted. “They’ve been changed so often over the centuries it’s pretty much a free-for-all. Some bits of backstory have stuck around, though. Um…Solo, the American agent, is a former art thief on a very, very short leash. Got captured by the CIA and decided working for them was a step up from a decade in prison. His actual personality changes a lot between adaptations, though, as do his skills. And since the holosuite version lets you choose between quite a few different options there, it’s not really relevant. The other, one, Kuryakin…” he paused, trying to remember. “Born to a high-ranking member of the Soviet government who got convicted of treason and sent to the gulags - prison camps - after which his mother turned to prostitution to survive. He…varies even more than Solo, honestly. Sometimes to the point of being barely recognisable as the same character.”

“Why keep the names if you’re just going to change the core of the characters…” Garak sighed and shook his head, “I’ll pick Kuryakin. I have a feeling you like Solo more, being from the insufferably idealist State?”

“…what part of ‘capitalist’ says ‘idealistic’? Ideologically, I probably have more in common with the other side.” Julian sighed. “But, yes, I like him.”

“Perhaps not the correct word, agreed. Though I didn’t think you’d ever want to be part of a State that had prison camps, no matter how illusory the setting may be.”

Julian nodded. They were coming up to Quark’s now, the promenade still quietly busy with evening traffic. Quark himself was at the bar when they entered, and Garak smiled, wide and slightly predatory. He turned to Julian and wordlessly asked for his hand, which Julian gave with some bemusement. Garak brought it to his throat, or rather, just below it and held Julian’s hand there for a moment before saying, “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”

Garak disappeared off towards the bar, and Julian watched him go, feeling for a moment oddly giddy. Get a grip, he reminded himself. You’re an adult, act like one. But he was almost bubbling over with excitement now, even as he watched Quark’s expression freeze at the sight of Garak. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but he got the impression that the conversation was going all Garak’s way.

He craned his neck to try and get a better look, but before he did, Garak smiled, wide and apparently friendly, and stepped away, turning back towards Julian and snaking through the crowds to take his arm.

“Well?” he said. “Shall we, doctor?” and nodded towards the door through to the holosuites.

After choosing their characters on the panel before entering, Julian and he went different directions, to receive their briefings from their superiors. The entire situation was…remarkably close to reality, though he wouldn’t ever admit as much to Julian. Certainly not so soon after his recent visit to the infirmary. The moment his superior started speaking, his back straightened and he had his full attention on the slides as the information and his mission parameters were given.

“-the woman is, in and of herself, unimportant, but the information she holds cannot be allowed to fall into American hands,” his superior was saying. “Bring her back. Alive, if possible, but if not…we will understand. As for your opposite number-”

The slides clicked on. Julian’s face filled the screen. It was, Regnar had to admit, a clever bit of programming - Julian in some sort of military uniform of this century, smiling the familiar sweet foolish smile Regnar had got to know over so many lunches.

“-not typical of American spies,” his superior went on. “Indeed, he barely deserves the title. Less an agent than a useful tool. He joined the army at eighteen and was posted to Europe. When the war ended, he stayed on as part of the occupying forces, and soon discovered that there were vast profits to be made on the post-war black market. He seems to have dealt primarily in art and antiquities, stolen by Nazi forces and then by the Allied occupiers. He seems entirely self-taught, but do not underestimate him. His criminal ingenuity made headlines all over Europe. The police of four countries created a special task force for the sole purpose of bringing him to justice. And even then, it seems to have been pure luck that they caught him. His talents came to the attention of the CIA, who recognised that-” the next slide was put in upside-down, making his superior glare at the unfortunate projectionist, who apologised in a shaking voice. That one would be bound for the labour camps before long, Regnar thought.

“-who recognised,” his superior went on, “That this man’s extraordinary talents would be wasted behind bars. A deal was struck. Since then, Bashir has been their most successful and prolific agent. Kill him if necessary. But he must not leave Berlin with the woman.”

“Yes, sir.” Regnar replied promptly.

His superior nodded. “And, Agent Garak-”

He paused. His mind reeled and he barely resisted the urge to shake his head. Had he just- yes, yes he had, and he hadn’t even meant to… Garak’s posture changed just a bit and he turned his head to hear what the holo-superior was saying.

“-you know the consequences of failure.”

Oh, he most certainly did. “Yes, sir.”

Garak was escorted to retrieve the weapons available to him for the mission. They were all rather primitive, projectile weapons were practically primeval. They also gave him information on where he was going, which Garak was sure wouldn’t have occurred if he were really of this time period, as he’d have been expected to keep up on the state of affairs on his own. He was rather grateful for this further proof of fallacy. The city was cut in half, not for geographical reasons but political. How this was sustainable, Garak didn’t know. The basics of his mission were preventing one person from going from one half of the city to the other. Easy enough, especially with a wall as an obvious indicator of where that line was. Yes, Garak believed this could be a fun game, so long as he remembered it was a game.

Scene-transitions, in the holosuite, were always a bit unrealistic. In this case, Garak stepped out of a building in what he had been assured was Moscow, and into-

The city was grey. As grey as Romulus, almost, and Garak did not say that lightly. Grey and brown and brick and concrete and looked as if it had been levelled and rebuilt from the ground up at some point in the recent past. It was, put simply, the single least glamorous location Garak could imagine. Apparently Julian’s description of the subtypes of the spy genre had been rather more broad-strokes than he had made it sound.

There was a car waiting, and Garak knew this was the least glorious part of spy-craft, the waiting. Garak was exceedingly patient, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Thankfully, he had to have his whole attention on the people passing from one side of the checkpoint to the other, looking for Julian. When he finally spotted him, Garak had to suppress a smile, he looked even more naive and ripe for the picking than when Garak first laid eyes on him. It was surprisingly difficult to resist the urge to recreate that first meeting, the game’s plotline be damned.

Following Julian from a safe distance was simple, though the man was doing actually quite well in covering his tracks. Not enough to throw Garak off his trail, even if Garak hadn’t already been intimately familiar with his appearance, but enough to give him the impression that Julian had some real potential. Potential that only needed a bit of guidance…. Guidance Garak was only too happy to provide, and which seemed to have been paying off, since Julian managed to actually lose him. For a brief moment. The pride that caused him was a bit staggering and he pushed it down and away for the time being.

Julian’s final destination, it turned out, was a shabby little garage in what seemed to be an even-poorer-than-the-rest-of-it area of the city. He disappeared inside, and Garak hung back, and flicked on the rather neat little bug that he’d been informed that border control would endeavour to secret in Julian’s luggage. It buzzed into life without so much as a flicker, and Garak smirked. Julian had potential, yes…but only potential.

“-and a fat little dog named Schnitzel,” Julian’s voice said, coming out sharp and crackly. Garak stared, and wondered for one mad moment if Julian had actually worked out a code so completely bizarre Garak couldn’t work out what was a euphemism. The accent didn’t help - whoever had told Julian he could imitate accents ought to be shot. “All you need to do is sit down for fifteen minutes with my employers and answer a few questions as fully and as factually as you can. I think we both know it’s a step up from spending the evening with the Russians, hanging from a pipe having your toenails removed.”

Garak couldn’t resist the affronted look he gave the receiver at that, he’d be having a few words with Julian over that once this was all over. The day he needed to resort to such methods as ripping out toenails was the day he retired.

There was the start of another sentence, a woman’s voice. “And your superiors? How will they-” And then the reception cut off with a wet sort of noise, and Garak scowled. Had no-one in this insufferably backwards city thought to invent waterproof bugs yet? With a huff, he lightly tossed the now useless receiver onto the passenger seat and returned his attention to the garage. Not long after, a car left it with only the driver in view. Garak was not to be deterred, and started following them in his own. Twentieth-century automobiles were not, he decided, his favourite means of pursuit. Julian and his contact’s car, though, was going at what seemed to be an ordinary, civilised pace - trying to bluff him into thinking this was just an ordinary night driver? - and it should not take him long to draw level, except that every time he got close, they put on another little kick of speed. Nothing excessive, just enough to stay just out of his range. He considered for a moment, stopped, opened the window, leant out, and took aim at the car’s back tyre. The car skidded, half-spinning, and then-

Put on another, absurd, kick of speed. Limping, yes, half-dragging…but slowed. Slowed and obvious. Hmm. There was a small booth across the street, with an old-fashioned telephone inside it. He stepped inside, and called the police.

“Hello?” he said, using his very best ‘mild and harmless tailor’ voice. “Yes. I’d like to report a kidnapping.” He went on to report, sounding as worried as he could, the terrified, screaming child he’d seen bundled into the back of a black-and-white Trabant car with the right back tyre flat, and hung up feeling quite satisfied with himself. Julian would probably not be best-pleased by the nature of the accusations, but he was the one who brought a genuine Obsidian Order agent into a spy game. Really, it was all his own fault.

It wasn’t difficult, either, to hastily rejigger the receiver to pick up on the local police radio, as reports came in of the black-and-white Trabant being spotted, and soon enough, Garak had a location. He called up the map in his head once again - where could they be going, if their route had taken them there? And then, all at once, he had them.

Figuring that in this case the advantage really did lie with the higher ground, Garak infiltrated a building near the Wall, and made his way up to the roof. He allowed himself a sigh, yet more waiting. It took a few minutes - how long was this part of the programme meant to be? But then, on the next roof over, he saw movement. Julian, and a young woman in khaki-coloured coveralls that did absolutely nothing for her. His quarry. He took aim, but Julian’s body was between him and the woman, and he couldn’t get a clear shot at her. Julian was fidgeting with- No. Flashing a light across the wall. A signal. Garak peered through the scope of the rifle, trying to work out what the plan was. And then- something shot across, from the far side of the wall. A cable, or…yes, a cable. Garak grinned to himself. Oh, surely not. Far, far too simple. Julian offered his hand to the woman, grasped something attached to the cable, and jumped.

He was perhaps halfway across when Garak fired, and the woman in Julian’s arms slumped against him, her head lolling, her grip on him going slack. She fell.

Garak drew back, a faint, satisfied smile on his face, and began matter-of-factly taking the rifle apart. Well. That was the end of that. Julian would probably sulk at being beaten, but Garak was quite sure he could find something to cheer him up. Although, he was rather at a loss to see how this could possibly have ended with their characters becoming friends. He could hear Julian’s shocked shout as he left the roof to begin making his way back to his car, but as he opened the door leading to the street, he found himself back in the KGB base. He sighed, he hated holo-scene transitions.

“Agent Garak.” It was his superior again, the same one as before. His handler. “Report.”

“There was no avoiding the target getting across the wall, so I shot them. The American, however, got away.”

His superior nodded. “I heard. His superiors approached us recently.” He smiled tightly, and it did not reach his eyes. “However, this does complicate the situation somewhat. I thought I said alive, if possible.”

“You did. It wasn’t possible.”

His superior glared. It was rather a pathetic glare, as glares went. The memory of Tain’s smile frightened Garak more than this illusion would in a fury. “The most dangerous secret is already out,” he said. “She might be dead, but she didn’t die before telling Bashir the thing we least wanted the Americans to know. The theft of the prototype plans for the next generation of weaponry, the thing which might shift the balance of power decisively in our favour.”

“Next generation of weaponry…sir?” Garak forced himself to add the ‘sir’, wouldn’t do to be perceived as disrespectful or unable to follow orders.

“You don’t need to know what it is, Garak,” his superior said shortly. “But we need to recover those plans, and the Americans are the only ones who know who she sold them to.”

“Does this mean we’re going to have to cooperate with them? It’s very unlikely that is going to work out well.”

“It will work out as we intend it. They’ve put forward a single agent, who will bear witness to the tragic destruction of the plans before either of you can get your hands on them.You will recover those plans, while making it seem to the Americans that they are lost. If they even begin to suspect what those plans are for…” his superior stopped himself. Even that was sloppy - no-one in the Order would even begin to reveal something unless they intended the person they were speaking to to know it. “Well. What happens next will no longer be your concern. They receive very little news in the gulags, I am told.”

“Of course, sir.” Garak almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. “And should the American learn things he shouldn’t?”

“You will have received no formal orders to kill him. His tragic accidental death would be…regrettable…but these things happen.”

“I see. Anything else, sir?”

“Walk with me. A meeting has been set up. Best to give the Americans no reason to doubt our good intentions.”

They walked through a doorway, and suddenly he could smell the waterside. Yet another horrible transition. There were tables all along the deck, overlooking the river. Julian was sitting at one, with what Garak assumed was the man’s own handler. Neither of them looked especially pleased to be there.

“Saunders,” his own superior said curtly.

Garak took a seat directly across from Julian, who was glaring at him with a rather adorable pout. Garak let some of his amusement slip through for a moment before schooling his features.

“Vassilyovich. God, your name is a mouthful. Can’t say that curtly at all. How do you take it?”

Garak’s superior smiled, mirthlessly. “It’s my cross to bear. You’ve briefed your…agent…I take it.” He drew out the word ‘agent’, so that Garak could hear the suggestion of something else underneath it, and though he too had been thinking that Julian would never last long in intelligence, he wanted to bristle regardless.

“Oh, he knows what he needs to.” Saunders waved a hand, and Julian looked as if he bit back a sigh. “Just point him in the right direction.”

“We intend to. Now. Your half of the bargain.”

“You’re impatient. I was enjoying a nice drink, I thought we could take in the scenery. Alright, have it your way. Target’s a former member of the British Union of Fascists, arms magnate, noted collector of antiquities. Name of Sir Arthur Galt. Now, your turn?”

Vassilyovich shifted. “What you’re looking for is a disc. Blue plastic, small enough to hold in your hand. Destroy it if you have to, but it cannot be allowed to remain in Galt’s hands.”

Garak nodded and the handlers exchanged a look before standing. Julian was still glaring at him. “We’ll leave you to get acquainted.” Saunders said with a smug smile, “Play nice.” Saunders clapped Julian on his shoulder as he passed him, causing Julian to flinch slightly. Garak’s eyes followed the handler with cold fury, then widened a little as every other group of diners in the cafe stood and walked out.

“Well,” Garak said brightly, as the last of them left. “This isn’t conspicuous in the least.”

Julian glared at him. “I can’t believe you killed her!”

Garak raised his hands up in defence, “I was ordered to! What was I supposed to do, let you take her across the wall and disobey orders? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t carrying out a mission the point of this game?”

“You could have,” Julian pointed out stubbornly, “It’s a holosuite, they can’t do anything to you if you don’t obey orders. Besides, that wasn’t the mission. That was…a trial run. To get us used to the setting and how the game works before the main plot gets started. I mean, if all we’re going to do is follow orders, we might as well ‘kill’ each other here and now. I know my superiors want me to kill you, and I can guess yours want you to kill me. Does that mean you’re going to?”

“You got orders to kill me? Well that’s unfair, I wasn’t given permission to. Now if you have an accident that’s another story.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I obviously wasn’t going to!”

“Why not? I killed your informant.” Garak looked around them and waved with an arm, “This is, after all, a holosuite. It won’t actually do anything. At least, it won’t so long as the safeties are on.”

“Yes, but…well.” Julian smiled, wide and bright and startling, “I am trying to get you to agree to another date at the end of the evening. Killing you probably wouldn’t do much for my chances.”

Garak fought the smile that wanted to break through, and instead changed the subject, “My dear- could you please stop talking in that accent. I just, cannot take anything you say seriously.”

Julian actually looked slightly disappointed at that. “If you’re sure,” he said, thankfully without the accent. “I thought I carried it off rather well.”

“I’m not sure who told you that, but they were lying to make you feel better, it is awful.” Garak sniffed and offered a small smile to take some of the sting of his words out.

“We’re supposed to be going to Venice, next,” Julian offered, and smiled again, brighter still, “It’s half of why I suggested this game - Venice is supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. I thought you’d like to see it.”

“And then probably destroy half of it in our attempts to save the world - you have a curious notion of how to appreciate a place.”

“We don’t have to destroy it,” Julian said, shaking his head, “It just…tends to happen, in these sorts of stories.”

“Of course. By the way…what in the world were you talking about earlier, with the dog?”

Julian groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You heard that?”

“My dear, of course I heard it. You were bugged, I was supposed to be hearing you. Until you shorted it, which, no water-proof bugs? Really? How low tech is this?”

“Fairly - electricity has been used for…maybe a century, at the outside? The technology’s all still fairly basic.”

Garak put his hands on the table and leaned a bit closer, “So, since you were so upset I shot my target, how was it supposed to play out, in a general run-through?”

Julian shrugged, and Garak felt…was that a foot? Yes, he thought it was…hook itself around his ankle, under his trousers and just above the top of his shoe, warm toes digging into his calf. “I was expecting a much more direct pursuit,” he admitted, “I wasn’t reckoning on you somehow working out where we were going ahead of time, which - actually, how did you work that out?”

That foot was going to be distracting, but Garak would not let Julian cause him to trip over his own tongue. “I memorized the city layout, and there were only so many places where the wall was weak, after following you and gauging your general direction, I picked the most probable that you’d take. Then it was just a matter of slowing you down so I could get there first.”

“…that does explain the police cars,” Julian said, sounding slightly dazed. Those toes flexed against Garak’s leg, and then the foot slid down, pushing at the back of Garak’s shoe as if trying to coax it off his foot. “I never had a chance, did I?”

“Not remotely.” Garak replied, his eyes staring intently at Julian. “You ought to know better than to underestimate me, my dear Julian.” Without changing his expression, Garak slipped the foot Julian had been trying to get at out of his shoe and snagged Julian’s foot with his toe-claws.

Julian made quite an appealing soft sound in his throat at that, and Garak suppressed a grin.

“I suppose I should,” Julian agreed, “Though it’ll be interesting to see how this re-shapes the plot. Traditionally, one of us used her to get at the villain of the piece - Sir Arthur Galt, I suppose. This time we’re going to have to work out another way.” He twisted his foot in Garak’s grip, brushing his toes against the underside of Garak’s foot.

Garak’s hands clawed lightly at the table, though he didn’t take his eyes off Julian’s. “Playing this by ear, are we? Be the invisible man, beneath the notice of the target to get right where you need to be to hear everything?”

Julian tapped a finger against his mouth, considering - or pretending to consider. “Well. We could do that. But this is a holosuite. And a game. And there’s at least a bit of martini in this story…we might as well enjoy it.”

“I have yet to see a martini. In fact, I’m getting rather parched.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “Well, we can’t have that. Computer? Two martinis, please.”

Two long-stemmed, triangular glasses garnished with strange round greenish fruit shimmered into view.

Julian gave an apologetic smile, “Not quite the same as the real thing, but it should stave it off a little longer. Anyway, like I was saying…this is a game. We don’t have to do what would be the sane or the sensible or the realistic thing. That’s the point of the holosuites - to do things you’ve never tried before, or would never dare in real life, like-”

“Like ziplining over an active minefield with someone shooting at you?” Garak suggested dryly.

Julian smiled, small and slightly sly. “Exactly like that.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t want to hit you.” Garak said as he grabbed one of the glasses, giving it a sniff before trying a sip. It wasn’t as good as kanar, but it wasn’t as bad as what Quark had on stock. The flavour was still lacking, as all holofoods were.

“The safeties are on,” Julian reminded him, “The bullet brushed right past me. But the point is- is that we could do this the sneaky, sensible way, or we could do it ostentatiously, ridiculously and with absolutely no self-restraint without any risk to ourselves. Besides.” His smile widened, became faintly predatory, and he wriggled his toes again against Garak’s foot. “I rather want to know what you make of the death-trap.”

Garak kept eye contact as he drained his martini glass and licked his lips to get the last of the drops of alcohol. If they were going to continue playing this game, then he needed to stop playing the other one…so he let go of Julian’s foot after he gave it a final squeeze. “Alright, I’m curious…what death-trap?”

“There’s always a death-trap,” Julian said, with the certainty of a man declaring the sky was blue. “The hero - well, one of them - always ends up getting put in it, the villain always leaves before they’re actually dead, and they are always so over complicated and take so long that the hero inevitably escapes anyway. It’s the single stupidest literary convention ever invented by humankind.” For someone talking about their world’s stupidest literary convention, Garak thought, Julian sounded surprisingly gleeful.

“I’m glad you realize just how ridiculous that sounded, and accept it.” Garak said wryly, tilting his head to look at Julian from under his ridges.

“Of course it’s ridiculous,” Julian said, “That’s half the fun.”

“Mm, debatable. But, we’ll see.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so you have absolutely no interest in seeing me tied up and dangling over a tank of crocodiles?” he said in a low, purring voice that was as put-on as the accent from before had been, but rather less objectionable. “Completely helpless, bound, entirely at your mercy…”

“Not if I’m not the one who put you there.” Garak replied, “Though you paint a very…tempting…picture.”

Julian grinned. “I’ll add that to the list of future date suggestions,” he said blithely, “We could make it an actual competition - you play the villain and I play the hero and see who comes out on top?”

Garak’s smile was slow and positively devilish, “Enchanting idea, though I think it’ll always end the same… And I’m not one to beg for mercy.”

“Is this entire city floating on the water?” Garak asked, sounding almost breathless as he leaned out of the boat to watch the Grand Canal going by.

Julian laughed, and lent against the bow beside him. “It’s built on a chain of islands,” he said, “It’s mostly held up by anti-gravity, these days - it was sinking for centuries before that.” He didn’t need to ask ‘what do you think’. For once, Garak’s face was entirely readable, and alight with something like bliss.

“I would love to see it now, if this is it sinking.”

Julian swallowed a ‘maybe you will’. It was a very long way from a certainty that Garak would ever be able to, with the way things were tending on Earth right now. “Most of the city’s remained about the same for centuries,” he said instead, “The historic centre has, anyway. I’ve never actually been to the real place, but I’ve heard about it.”

Garak looked back at him for only a moment, but that moment conveyed without words his severe disappointment, “That is a crime. You were on the same planet as this place for how many years, and you never went?”

“I went to other places!” Julian said defensively. “Some of them…about as beautiful. I nearly lived in Paris, and it’s about as famous for beauty as Venice is. Just…not quite the same way.”

“Until I see this Paris, I shall continue to judge you.”

“Next time,” Julian promised, recklessly. “Or- There’s Spain. The Alhambra. I saw that on a school trip once. Or…or Cairo.”

“Cairo?” Garak asked curiously, eyes not on Julian as he was still taking in everything around them.

“I was born there,” Julian said simply. “My parents moved away when I was…pretty young…but I still remember parts of it.” He forced a smile, and added, “And it might be a more accommodating climate for you than Paris or London.”

Garak’s attention had flicked back to him and stayed there, and the Cardassian was quiet a moment. “If this temperature is accurate, then Venice is very similar to Cardassia’s winter.” Garak smiled, “Winter is the best time of year, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Julian looked around, “We’re nearly there,” he added, “St Mark’s Square - come on.”

True to his word, the boat - an old-fashioned speedboat, not one of the glossy black gondolas drifting serenely down the canal - drew to a stop just minutes later, and Julian clambered out, doing his best not to slip and slide and horribly aware that he wasn’t succeeding.

Garak had an insufferable smile as he watched Julian flounder, but thankfully said nothing. “Where to next, Agent Bashir?”

“The hotel first - then, there’s this.” He produced something from out of his jacket with a flourish that he would never admit to having practiced. “My superiors have a contact who managed to wrangle an invitation for one…Julius Eaton, plus guest. Apparently Mr Eaton is a dealer in antiquities, and Galt has a passion for those.” The alias wasn’t what he’d have gone for - Julius was just a hair too close to ‘Jules’ - but objecting now would draw attention to it, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Do you have my alias as well, or shall I be creative?”

“Nothing hard-and-fast,” Julian admitted, “If your superiors didn’t provide you with one, I’d say you have the choice.”

“Hmm. What is my character’s name supposed to be, again?”

“Illya Kuryakin,” Julian replied, slightly taken aback. “Though, this is the middle of the Cold War, a Russian name might just cause more trouble.”

Garak gave him a wide-eyed look. “I thought you wanted me to take risks, Mr Eaton?”

“I do. All right, then, Mr Kuryakin, shall we go? It’s all on foot from here, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

Waving one arm, Garak motioned for him to lead the way, “After you.”

Their hotel was, according to the travel documents that had manifested themselves during the scene change, on the Grand Canal itself, an old red building that had probably been a palazzo at some point. It was also almost offensively beautiful, with a view that even made Garak stop bitching under his breath about the utter tastelessness of mid-twentieth-century human decor.

“Should I just pause the game and let you stare for the rest of the programme?” he teased, coming up behind Garak.

“No…” Garak turned to face him with a wicked smile and looked Julian up and down, “There are other beautiful things to look at.”

Julian snorted, “And you have the nerve to criticise my lines?”

Garak’s expression turned innocent, “We’ve only seen part of the city, surely there’s more to it?”

“Definitely, I just don’t know how much the makers of the programme thought players would want to explore.” Julian leant a little against the window-frame, watching Garak as much as the canal outside. “If you like we could go and-” Find out, he had meant to say, but he wasn’t given the chance. Garak’s mouth was on his, Garak pressing him up against the window-frame and making it very difficult to concentrate on suspected Soviet weapons or the end of this whole little holographic world.

Hands snaked their way up his sides and behind his back, pressing him even further into the Cardassian’s chest. Garak’s mouth was cool, and tasted not quite like a human’s, no trace of the holographic martini he’d had earlier lingering on his lips or his tongue. His hands were cool too, even through Julian’s shirt, and when they finally broke apart, Garak’s forehead, bumps and ridges and spoon and all, fell against Julian’s and stayed there.

“I knew you’d be warm, my dear, but I didn’t think you’d run this hot.” Garak murmured, his breath ghosting over Julian’s face, “I dare say it’s going to be…very difficult to let go of you.”

Julian kissed him again, to avoid having to reply, and clung on, pulling Garak closer against him. The fork of Garak’s tongue felt strange against his own, and he could feel rough scaling as he slid a hand up and under Garak’s tunic. Just as Julian was losing himself in Garak, there was a chirp from the computer, and that was all the warning either of them got before the holosuite turned off, and suddenly there was nothing at his back.

With the wall no longer supporting their weight, Julian fell back, Garak right on top of him. Julian let out a grunt as he hit the deck’s floor, and the wind was knocked out of him as Garak’s weight crushed into his chest. This was not how he had been expecting to become breathless.

“Time’s up!” the call came from outside, “I’ve got other customers waiting, y’know!”

Garak shifted on top of him, just enough to look over his shoulder and glare at the Ferengi. Julian couldn’t see Garak’s face, but he did see half of Quark’s as the man nearly yelped and scurried off.

“Garak?” he managed to gasp out, “-can’t breathe-”

Garak’s head snapped back to him, surprised concern written all over his face, “My apologies, my dear!” He put his hands to either side of Julian’s shoulders and lifted himself up, so all his weight was now on his knees and hands and thankfully off of Julian.

“…thanks,” Julian managed, and dragged himself to his feet, tugging Garak up after him with maybe a little more strength than a baseline human should be able to muster. “I suppose we should go,” he added, “Er…” He didn’t especially want the evening to be over yet. “Would you like a drink? A real one? Holograms don’t really help, even if it feels like it. And I’d be interested to hear what you thought of the game.”

The smile Garak gave him would have been answer enough, but Julian was still glad when Garak leaned closer until their noses almost touched and said, “That sounds delightful…”

And then, of course, Julian had to kiss him again, and they were quite happily occupied right up until the sound of something metallic hitting the ground jolted them back to reality. Julian looked around.

“…oh,” he said, in a strangled voice. “Um. Hello, Chief. We were just…uh…”

“On our way out.” Garak finished for him, giving his usual respectful bow to the chief. “Pardon us.”

Miles looked so disturbed it was almost comical, but nodded gruffly and moved aside to let them through, carefully avoiding Julian’s eyes. Julian smiled and sort of shrugged as he followed Garak out, the door of the holosuite sliding shut behind him as he heard the opening chords of the Flying Aces World War Two holoprogramme filtering out into the corridor.

“Drinks?” Garak asked and Julian snapped back to where he was, with Garak’s expectant gaze boring into him.

He paused, for a moment, and then caught Garak’s hand. “I’m starving,” he said, “Do you mind if we get dinner as well? I’ve heard good things about that Klingon place at the other end of the Promenade?”

“Loud, crowded, and boisterous? Are you sure that’s how you wish to spend your evening?”

“The Vulcan place at this end of the Promenade?” Julian suggested.

Garak gave him a look as if that were no better, “And be judged for our open emotionalism?” Garak’s gaze flicked down to where Julian still held his hand.

“The Celestial Cafe?” Julian tried.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Garak looked like he was questioning Julian’s sanity. “My dear, you recall I am Cardassian? I don’t think they’ll take kindly to my being there.” Just as Julian was beginning to think Garak was just making excuses not to have dinner with him, Garak pulled Julian’s hand back up to the same place he’d put it before. “How about…my quarters? Guaranteed privacy, quiet, and minimal judgement.”

Julian smiled. “I’d like that.” One last remnant of his common sense flared up for a moment. “I have to pick Mila up from Jadzia’s quarters in an hour.”

Garak feigned a put upon look, “Oh, very well. We shall just have to rush through dinner then. One of these days, my dear doctor, you’re going to sit down for a full Cardassian meal.”

“And just what would that involve?” Julian asked.

“You’ll find out, though perhaps we’ll have to work on your table manners first.” Garak smirked widely at that.

Julian huffed. “There is nothing wrong with my table manners!”

“My dear, I have seen people flee from danger slower than you eat. You practically inhale food.”

“So?”

“So? It is terribly rude.”

Julian stared at him. “…you aren’t just saying that because you happen to dislike it, are you?”

“I’ll have you know, that on Cardassia to eat so quickly is extremely rude, as it is either a sign of starvation or disrespect to one’s host.”

Julian blinked. “Really? Where exactly did that idea come from? Mightn’t a person simply be busy? Or in a hurry for some other reason?”

“Would you like me to lecture on how exactly proper table manners are done, or shall we head to my quarters?”

“…your quarters, please,” Julian said, because contrary to popular belief he did have some idea of when to stop. “You can fill me in on the finer points once I’m there.”

Garak chuckled, “Of course, my dear, I did not assume otherwise.” He took Julian’s arm, in public, without any apparent thought for the damage to Julian’s reputation he’d claimed to be so concerned about during that desperate argument after Julian returned from the other universe, and the two of them set off back towards the habitat ring.

#mila verse #garashir #ds9 #star trek #my writing #thanks to the wonderful #thornfield13713 #for the help in writing this one #Trekkie in Training #Anonymous

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lantia · 7 years

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Why did Moriarty ignore Mycroft?

So while season four theories are flying sky high all around, I wanted to get back to something that keeps bothering me since The Reichenbach Fall/The Empty Hearse and that won’t go away until explained. Prepare for the Great Wall of Text that is as much of a serious theory/essay as Mrs. Hudson is just an old, boring housekeeper. It’s just my struggling brain throwing these letters out there in hope y’all join me in some equally serious discussion.

Why DID Moriarty completely ignore Mycroft in his final game with Sherlock?

According to Sherlock’s explanation of things - which I know many fans are suspicious about anyway - it would seem to me that Mycroft was the proverbial actual Queen on the chess-board, devising steps and steps worth of ahead strategies and pawn movements with the King *cough*Sherlock*cough* in order to protect said King from the enemy while aiming to defeat the evil King...you know, the one that you should really want to see in a crown because it’s the new sexy.

It tells us one thing - that Sherlock wasn’t confident enough to go against Moriarty alone. Some time ago he probably would have been - reckless, not confident - but realizing the stakes currently, he opted to seek help from the one person nobody would really expect - his dear brother.

Seriously though. No matter how well-known the Holmes’ brothers dynamics is, would Moriarty be really so sure that Sherlock would never consult Mycroft in order to defeat him? So damn sure that he omitted Mycroft from the game entirely?

“Three bullets, three gunmen, there’s no stopping them now...”

John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The Knight, the Rook and the Bishop that Moriarty targetted on the enemy board because he considered them sort of Sherlock’s pressure points, if we’re talking in Magnussen terms here. The three people Sherlock would jsut as well do anything to protect - die, if need be. So where is Mycroft in all this? What was Moriarty’s thought process while deciding that he is not worth the trouble?

Even if Moriarty would discard Mycroft as someone Sherlock would do anything to protect (my secret canon of course is that this is simply not true, but anyway), it would be an insult to Moriarty’s intellect to consider that enough of a reason.

Mycroft is smarter than Sherlock - something even Sherlock at times admits. He might not be a better detective, he’s too lazy for that, but generally speaking, he is the smarter one. He is also the Government, when he’s not too busy being the secret service and the CIA on freelance basis. And finally, the fact he cares a great deal about Sherlock and is going to great lenghts to keep him safe from any harm should be an easy find/deduction to make for Moriarty, considering Mycroft casually kidnapps people close to Sherlock off the street and brings them to abandoned warehouses to bribe/threaten them (it only happened with John on screen, but we all know that’s what he did with everyone).

“I worry about him...constantly...”

And since Moriarty wants the end game to not be just surrender, but a true and final defeat - a sacrifice, really - the first thing I would have expected him to do was to get Mycroft out of the way. I actually spent the entire TRF episode waiting for the penny to drop and see Mycroft going down first before Sherlock ever falls, because it didn’t compute in my head in any way that Mycroft would let a known threat such as Moriarty freely playing some weird game that could ultimately cost Sherlock his life and just sit in his dungeon office, sipping tea, eating cake and doing nothing.

This is where Sherlock’s explanation made sense to me. The two of them taking on Moriarty together was the smart move. I never bought a second of the whole “Mycroft didn’t know and he actually helped Moriarty get to Sherlock” thing, not a second. On the other hand, Moriarty leaving Mycroft out of the picture was the wrong move to make, obviously, and to me also a bit - okay a WAY - out of character for a villain that is supposed to be Sherlock’s equal. I just don’t get it. Someone explain it to me like I’m five. Why didn’t he get rid of Mycroft?!

It would be difficult, no questions about it. Mycroft does give the impression that he is a tricky man to get close to, let alone kill/kidnapp/bribe/threaten. Magnussen sort of confirmed that theory for us. After all, he had to go all the way through Mary -> John -> and Sherlock to get a chance of ever destroying Mycroft - or trying, anyway. (also love how everybody seems to ignore the fact that Mary and by proxy John were not the only ones Sherlock “saved“ by killing Magnussen) Still, not even trying to get rid of Mycroft speak of unaccaptable ignorance on Moriarty’s part. So either there is more to this, or there is a gaping plot hole along with the actual hole in Moriarty’s head that I cannot unsee anymore.

Mycroft and Moriarty are in cahoots OR Mycroft is/created Moriarty...? Or is the East wind blowing...

Mofftiss throw so many red herrings at us with every second of the show that they had made us perfectly unsure of what we can or cannot trust. Take the very first episode for the best example ever, The Study in Pink. When we first encountered Mycroft - back when we didn’t know it was Mycroft - we thought it was somebody else, didn’t we? After all, he introduced himself in quite the fashion. The whole little powerplay he had with Watson, playing with the cameras, establishing his superiority, deducing facts off of him in the same mysteriously clever way that Sherlock did just hours ago, his apparant interest in Sherlock...it all pointed to one man. Moriarty. Sherlock’s arch enemy. Hell, Mycroft even described himself as such. And Sherlock didn’t help moment later when John told him about the meeting.

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met.”

Mofftiss derailed us into thinking Mycroft was Moriarty and only brough us back on the right path by the end of the episode. I am slowly beginning to question if we really ever got on the right path at all. God damn red herrings and the paranoia that comes with them :D But...it would somewhat explain why Moriarty didn’t target Mycroft.

Because he knew he didn’t have to.

Because he might as well have been Mycroft himself, so why target yourself. Poor Richard Brook a mere pawn - a brilliant pawn - but exactly what he said he was - an actor.

“That’s what you do, when you’ve said a big lie. You wrap it up in a truth to make it more palletable.”

A little less wild of a theory, but less rational, would be that Moriarty was indeed Andrew Scott’s awesomeness, but was in fact working with Mycroft. And what would ever lead Mycroft to collaborate with a criminal mastermind other than ensuring his little brother’s safety? After all, the East wind is coming to get him...and knowing what that means now is all the more sinister. Obviously Mycroft knew or suspected Eurus would make a reappearance at one point and if she is who she says she is and there is some dark past that binds them that Mycroft is trying to avoid unburying, I imagine he would go to even greater lenghts to protect Sherlock from that - keep him away from her.

Then again, what was Moriarty’s part in all this other than some clever plot to protect Sherlock. In the end, he dies and I wonder why would a criminal mastermind agree to such a thing.

“Sherlock, your big brother and all the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.”

The more sense one thing makes, the less sense other one makes. Unless “Richard Brook“ is in fact alive and everything was just a game set by Mycroft for Sherlock to play. Just an illusion, cruel, but necessary. If Sherlock’s death could have been faked, then...anyway who else other than real Moriarty or Mycroft could ever compete with Sherlock’s brilliance. Maybe it wasn’t Sherlock who created Moriarty (which was Richard Brook’s little ploy for the papers, wasn’t it?), but Mycroft.

Even wilder theory, that I do believe had been out there for a while, is that Moriarty (Andy) is Sherrinford. Everybody stops at three, well, I say Sherrinford is still the third brother, out of four siblings. And in some way, Mycroft’s insinuation at the end of HLV and during TLD tells us that he couldn’t have saved “the other one“, no matter his position of power, it made no difference to the fate he or she met. According to Mycroft, Sherrinford is secure and being regulary checked on. If Eurus was for some reason Sherrinford, then Mycroft needs to fire whoever is keeping that b**** sacured, ‘cause she’s out there, alright? :D Moriarty on the other hand, a criminal mastermind with a pretty huge list of all the people he killed/help kill and what not, that fits the bill of someone beyond Mycroft’s ability to save even if he wanted to, so really, keeping him secured somewhere would be the only option other than...permanently getting rid of him.

On a slightly different note, how poetic would that be, if the Great game was all about protecting Sherlock and instead of dragging Sherriarty (haha, not the pairing...hmmm) to some abandoned house to execute him MI5 style, Mycroft had him meet his inevitable end for a good cause that even the criminal mastermind wouldn’t be against - protecting their brother from their psychopatic sister - still not quite sure how - but anyway, it would be the only scenario making some sense in which Moriarty dies on purpose, for Sherlock. I’m just spinning ludicrous tales now, aren’t I? :D

Sherriarty or not, it would somewhat describe Sherrinford’s situation, whoever he is/had done. Aaaaand anyone could be Moriarty after all this was said, right? Eurus could be Moriarty. Mary could be Moriarty. Mrs. Hudson could be Moriarty, Rosemond could be Mori...okay, enough of this :D *rebooting brain*

I’m so done, Mofftiss, I’m so done with you, you clever little shits :D I don’t know anymore. But the original question just bothers me to no end. I hold both Moriarty’s and Mycroft’s intelligence in high regards and no matter what, TRF is an insult to both of them unless there’s more to it. Universe is rarely so lazy to give us so many coincidences. The entire show is based on a the biggest of coincidences after all! (anyone still remembers that faithful meeting in the park with an old colleague who just happens to be Sherlock’s associate who just happens to be on a look out for a flat mate and...oh GAWD! Unvierse pls...)

THERE’S ALWAYS MORE TO EVERYTHING IN THIS GOD DAMN SHOW! I DON’T TRUST ANYTHING!

Someone help :D

#sherlock #mycroft #moriarty #the lying detective #the reichenbach fall #theory #mindblown to bits #sherrinford #eurus #east wind is coming #winter is coming #wait what?#MOFFTISS ENJOY THE SWEET TASTE OF FANDOM TEARS AND WATCH THE WORLD BURN FOR FUN #spoilers season 4

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