Alan was bored. He understood on a base level that he could leave the apartment. There wasn’t any particularly pressing reason he couldn’t. But everytime he contemplated leaving - whether it be to get something from the corner store nearby, or simply to get a change of clothes from his home, his gaze would drift towards the wine rack. Or rather, the gun rack behind it. It was all he could do to stop himself from wandering over to it periodically, the knowledge that a small army of police officers was only a few floors away more than enough to instill a healthy fear of discovery in him.

Despite fervently telling himself he was going to flip off Dan the next time he saw him, Alan couldn’t stop himself from daydreaming about being a bad ass spy. Jet skis, hot girls, explosions. Alan was, despite his peculiar outlook on life, a perfectly normal red blooded man.

So he spent the vast majority of his day staring at a wine rack, dreaming up bond girls. After a while he noticed an uncomfortable tightness in his pants that he could only attribute to his imaginings and had to find something to distract himself.

Or… he tried to distract himself. Instead, he drew closer and closer to the wine rack as the day wore on. He could bring back the gun rack. There were only so many little alcoves for wine on the rack, and he had - much against his good sense - remembered quite clearly where to place the bottles in order to summon forth the secret compartment.

But fuck was it a bad idea.

He grabbed one bottle, then then another, holding each in a tightly clenched hand.

Suuuuuch a bad idea.

Slowly, he inserted each bottle into the position he remembered Dan putting them. First one, then the other slid into place, eliciting a soft click and the whir of machinery as the fine wood of the wine rack split and spun away once more.

Alan resisted the urge - just barely - to whip out his cellphone and record the spectacle. He did not notice the blinking red light hovering just outside the spectacular clear window that made up one wall of the living room, but if he had, he would have been secure in the knowledge that whoever was watching through the drones camera lense was probably exactly as surprised by the wall of gadgets and firearms as he was.

Under no circumstances was he going to touch one of the guns. He knew exactly enough about guns to know that he’d shoot his foot off well before he could bring it to bear on any enemy, fictional or otherwise. Instead, he took to pulling the bits of other equipment from the wall.

He was fairly certain he could guess what some of it did - he had watched enough Bond to recognize for instance, a pen that double as a grappling hook, or a bowtie with a microphone in it.

Other things were… less obvious. Lacking an instruction manual or any kind of explanation for the items before him, Alan simply pulled objects of interest that looked relatively harmless down. After some time he came away with a pocket book full of blank pages, a simple glass plate that for some reason produced a bluetooth signal, a pack of stride gum and the aforementioned grappling pen and microphone bowtie. When he was finished arranging these items on the table in front of him he caught something else out of the corner of his eye. A small black dot that had been hidden behind the other items he had removed.

He returned to the wall and bent over to peer at it, unsure if he should try to press on it or not. Knowing his luck it could be the self destruct button. For the whole building. He shuddered just thinking about it, then froze when a red light flashed at him from the glossy black spot on the wall.

“Welcome, Codename Understudy.” A synthesized voice said, before the lower section of the wall opened up, spitting out a square drawer with a pressed,navy blue, three piece suit in it.

Alan didn’t move for a moment, afraid of what would happen if he did. But as the seconds passed by, with nothing exploding, he relaxed slightly and stretched his hands out to gently lift the clothing out of the drawer.

It looked expensive as all hell, and a little devil sitting on his shoulder couldn’t help but point out, that it looked like it would fit him quite well.

“It can’t hurt right?” he said, somewhat more caught up in the strangeness of if all.

“I’ll just… take some pictures with it. For facebook.”

Quickly undressing, Alan flung the majority of his clothes onto the couch then proceeded to pull the pants on, followed by the vest and the suit. Then he snatched his cellphone and half ran to the large bathroom.

He was looking good. The suit felt like it was made just for him. He suspected it probably was. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, which he knew was foolish given the empty apartment, he carefully dragged his fingers through his short black hair, pulling it back into the well coiffed look every spy he’d ever seen had.

Then of course it fell back down into his face, obeying gravity like real hair does.

Rolling his eyes he rummaged around in Dan’s bathroom until he found some hair gel, and repeated the process, using a small amount of gel to get his hair to stay. Then he spent the next forty minutes posing in front of a mirror. He had so much fun with it he nearly missed it when his phone buzzed with the sound of an incoming text message.

Curiously he flicked away from his camera application to read the message.

Why? Did something happen?

It turned out to be a short message from Leah, asking why he wasn’t able to make the game that week. He considered his answer carefully. Leah was a nice girl, but she didn’t take kindly to being mocked or toyed with, so he opted for the most believable version of the truth he could muster.

Dan had an emergency. I’m watching his place.

He realized that didn’t explain why he could make it, but he hoped she would just accept that not enough people would show up to play that week and not hold a game at all - it would make things drastically easier when Dan returned.

Alan frowned. If Dan returned. When he told Dan he probably wasn’t going to get into the spy business he’d probably have to move or… change covers or whatever it is he was currently doing. Was Dan even his real name? Probably not now that he thought about it.

Ofcourse, he could always just… accept the offer…

Shaking his head, Alan put his phone away, then returned to the living room to fiddle with the other toys he’d picked up. The pen and pocket book fit snugly in the chest pocket of the jacket, and the bowtie pulled the entire ensemble together nicely. The gum went into his pants pocket and the plate… he didn’t really know what to do with the plate. It was a plate. WIth a bluetooth signal.

He was just about to try and connect to it with his phone when he heard a knocking at the door. A knocking, he realized, at Dan’s door. While the wall was still covered in guns. Cursing, he sprinted across the room, trying to remember how Dan had closed the thing. Terrified he was about to be arrested, Alan thumped the side of the cabinet with his heel, tapping out a quick series of knocks on its exterior until all at once the contraption that rotated the wall clicked and spun the wines back into place on their expensive, unassuming wooden cabinet.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he took a moment to straighten his jacket, and then swapped postures. He took on the facade of a wealthy young condo owner, someone with pride, and dignity, someone suave who would brush aside unwanted questions as easily as a prize fighter evades punches.

Then he flicked the lock open, and opened the door.

Outside were two police officers, who, quite counter to what he expected from an encounter with law enforcement spared no time shouldering past him and into the room. It struck him as odd, but he was so happy he’d had the forethought to hide the wall of guns that he hardly spent more than a moment thinking about it. Instead he chose to refocus himself on his performance, as it were.

“Can I help you gentleman?” he said dryly - even though his heart was racing a mile a minute. He had almost slipped on a british accent he’d acquired from entirely too much time watching Doctor Who, but decided it might be just a bit on the nose.

“There’s a bomb threat in the building sir. It’s probably a false alarm but were going door to door checking every apartment just in case.” Said the first officer, who was carefully picking his way across the living room, jabbing behind things with a pencil.

Alan noticed that the officers free hand was just a bit too close to his gun for his stated purpose, and all at once he remembered that he was house sitting for an international spy. Unsure of how to proceed he sauntered forward, relying on habit to keep him in character.

“And you expect your going to find a bomb behind my television?” He asked, injecting annoyance into his voice. He tried to keep an eye on both officers at once, but one of them had already left to examine the kitchen.

“Those aren’t police officers Understudy. You need to extricate yourself from the situation.” A voice crackled in his ear, causing him to jump sharply and drawing the nosy not-a-police-officer in front of him back to re-examine him. Alan quickly school his features, hoping the momentary slip hadn’t been too noticeable.

The man dressed as an officer stared at him, squinting slightly. His hand moved ever so slightly closer to his gun and his body tensed.

“Are you one Daniel Delray? The owner of this apartment?” he questioned, and Alan knew what happened next would hinge on what he said in response to the question.

“I think a better question is, who, are you?” he said, feigning indignity at the unwarranted question, hoping to buy himself a few more seconds to think. He was standing in a living room with no weapons, no shoes on, and no idea what the fuck was going on.

Yeah he was going to tell Dan to fuck himself when he got back.

“You can call me Playwright. Reach up like your readjusting your tie then press your thumbs down on the knot.” The voice said again, and Alan withheld a flinch when he realized that only he could hear it.

“Officer Gilbert. Sir I suggest you come quietly.” The officer said grimly, and Alan knew he was out of time. Desperate, he kept his posture casual and non threatening, reaching up carefully to readjust his bowtie, and pressing his thumbs down on it as instructed.

All hell broke loose.

Just as he pressed his thumbs together, the bowtie - which he had just taken as a novelty walkie talkie - fire a cacophonous wave of sound forward brought the offending officer to his knees in mere moments.

“Good job Understudy, now take his gun.”

Alan figured his only chance of getting out of this alive was to do what the voice said, so he lunged forward, bringing his knee up and into the officers face at the same time as his fists came down from above, hammering together on either side of the man’s head. There was a faint sensation as though the slacks he was wearing had hardened on impact, that was gone as soon has he thought he’d noticed it, and the officer crumpled to the ground.

He fell to his knees, hastily fumbling at the gun on the officers belt, drawing it free of its holster just as a blast of noise echoed behind him, and the glass table to his left exploded in a shower of glass.

He had forgotten, about the other officer.

‘Holy shit I’m going to fucking die.’ was the only thing he could think, that single thought running on repeat through his head as he desperately threw himself to the ground in front of the couch to block the other man’s line of sight.

‘Fuck you Dan. Fuck you so much you stupid bastard.’

“What are you doing? Return fire!” yelled Playwright in his ear. He had no idea how he was hearing the man, since he wasn’t wearing earphones of any kind, but it wasn’t exactly the top of his priority list right now to figure it out.

WIth a scream that probably sounded more pathetic than it did fearsome, he waited for a pause in enemy gunfire, then nosed the barrel of his gun over the back of the couch and began pulling the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“The safety you dolt!” hissed the voice in his ear.

Alan didn’t have time to figure out how Playwright could tell what was happening to him without being told. He just whipped the firearm back down to his side and found the safety, flicking it off with his thumb.

He marveled at the fact that he hadn’t been shot yet, but quickly realized that despite the plushness of the couches, each gunshot he heard was met not with the soft thud and explosion of fluff he would expect a couch to make when shot. Instead, each round the enemy gunmen fired made a high pitched clanking sound, as though he was firing at a sheer steel wall.

Because of course a super spy would have bullet proof couches.

Nearly hyperventilating now, Alan waited once more for another pause in the gunfire, the snaked his arm up over the couch and began firing.

“SUPPRESSING FIIIIIIRE!” he howled, desperately pulling the trigger over and over again until finally silence fell over the apartment.

“Did… did I get him?” he wheezed, out of breath though he hadn’t been doing anything particularly strenuous.

“Yes. Now, finish the man behind you before he wakes up and check the hallway for hostiles.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not!” Alan responded instantly. It was one thing shoot someone when you were desperate. It was another thing entirely to execute an unconscious man.

“He’ll only stay unconscious for another minute at most and then he’ll just be behind you while your trying to escape. He also knows your face now.” pointed out the voice.

“Look just… shut up for a second okay? How the hell am I even hearing you?” Alan said, changing the subject and standing up slip his feet into his old beat up running shoes. They didn’t match the suit at all - but he wasn’t going to go running down the hall in his socks.

“Subdermal vibrations in the suit that reach your ear and become sound.” Playwright said smugly.

“Now, check the hall for more of them but don’t leave the apartment.”

Alan did as he was told, ignoring the groaning from the man he’d laid out at the beginning of the fight. Counting down from three, he wrenched the door up and stuck his head out, glancing up and down the hall to confirm it was empty.

“Good, now, if you’ll start chewing on some of gum in your pocket.” Playwright commanded.

“How the hell do you even know I have gum?” Alan whined, but did as he was told once more.

“The suit tracks your movements and everything you put in it. Thespian called it his ‘inventory’ if you can believe it - ah, don’t chew that for too long, it explodes.” Playwright explained. Alan practically choked he spat the wad of gum out so fast.

“What the hell do I do with it then?!” he screeched.

“Put it on the window.”

“WHY!?”

“Well your not going to break it with your hands are you?”

Alan decided in that moment, that he hated Playwright. He hated him, and was going to do everything in his power to get Dan to help him get back at the man. Still, he didn’t want to die, and he definitely didn’t want his hands blown off by exploding gum, so he quickly jogged across the room and slapped the sticky goo on the huge window overlooking the city.

He just barely made it behind the couch when a crisp thud sounded out in the apartment, followed by the shattering of glass and the sudden influx of a howling wind.

“So why did I do that!?” Alan had to yell now to be heard by the gale caused by the air pressure in the room equalizing with that of the outside world. He missed what Playwright said in response to his question, instead distracted by yelling coming from the front door.

“Gilbert! Hues! Report!” a perfunctory voice yelled from the hallway. When noone answered immediately a loud thump resounded and the door jolted slightly in its frame.

“- I said you have to jump out you slow witted -” Playwright was bellowing into his ear.

“I am not jumping out of a window on the eleventh floor.” Alan said matter of factly.

“Well then your service will be remembered Understudy. You lasted a whole hour from activation to death.” replied Playwright grumpily.

Alan considered his options. If, or rather, when those men got into the apartment and saw their fallen allies, he was definitely going to die. If he jumped out the window he would only probably die.

“Fuuuuuck.” he groaned, pulling himself up and then taking a deep breath. Then he took another. And another. Dan’s apartment was weirdly sturdy. Maybe they wouldn't be able to get in. Hell, maybe the real police would get here before -

“Breaching charges armed!” came a call from the hallway.

Alan took one look at the door, then turned back to the open window. And then - he ran head first out of it.

Aaand then fell.

“Playwright?!” He screeched as the ground hurtled up towards him.

“Oh your still here? I had started to close your file. Fine. Tuck your arms and legs together then throw them out again. I’m going for lunch.”

The fear of death was so strong in Alan now that it was all he could to follow the instructions he had been given. Time slowed down, and he could almost swear he could see the people in the apartments he passed as he fell watching him hurtle towards his death.

Then he threw his arms and legs wide, and the most miraculous thing happened. The fabric of the suit he was wearing clung together, stretching out and tightening around his chest to become a wingsuit. Now, instead of hurtling towards the ground, he found himself gliding forward, watching traffic zip past beneath him.

It was the most exhilarating thing he had ever experienced in his life. He was flying! He felt more alive than he had ever before, and likely ever would after this. A seed of something was born in him then. A tiny, adventurous spark that craved danger like a moth craves light.

And then the moment passed, as he realized he was easily outpacing the cars beneath him, and he had no idea how to stop, or land in this situation. He found himself quickly approaching the roof of a two story building that he had to lift his legs not to be cleaved in half by, and desperately pumped his legs to keep his balance as his momentum dragged him inexorably forward.

Finally, he skid to a haggard halt, just at the edge of the building. He sat there dazed, and unable to comprehend his situation. He was alive. He had killed someone, but he was alive. A giggle bubbled up out of him. A childish, simple, pure bubble of laughter that escaped him before he could hold it back. And then another, and another, until he was cackling madly atop the roof of the building he had landed on. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but eventually his laughter died and he turned his mind towards the task of getting down from where he was currently situated.

He looked down across the edge of the roof, which overlooked an alley covered in spray painted images and colors, the product of generations of kids adding on top of the original painting. It didn’t look so far down in comparison to what he just experienced. He figured he could probably hang off the ledge of roof and simply drop down if broke his fall properly. Even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t kill him.

Gingerly, he climbed down, but just as he was preparing to release his hold on the roofs edge, a harsh buzzing drew his attention, and he turned his head only to find himself mere inches away from a shiny black drone.

The sudden shock was enough for him to accidentally release his hold, and go tumbling down into the ally below. The only thing running through his mind as he fell;

‘Crap.’