AnnouFor the uninitiated, this is a fanfic, teically, of Alyson Greaves' "Sisters of Dorley" series.
It is a sequel to my other fanfic, "D.B. Cooper - A Dorley Story," which may help with the text but is not strictly necessary; for those who haven't read it - the antagonist of that story is the protagonist of this one.
If you're looking for something *much* more lighthearted, may I suggest my inal fi works, "We Interrupt This Transition" (first draft plete, currently editing final draft) and "This Book Has A Shit-Ton Of Vampires In It" (in progress).
Move yourselfYou always live your lifehinking of the futureProve yourselfYou are the move you makeTake your ces, win or loserSee yourselfYou are the steps you takeYou and you, and that's the only wayShake, shake yourselfYou're every move you makeSo the stoesOwner of a lonely heartOwner of a lonely heart(Much better than a)Owner of a brokeOwner of a lonely heart – Yes, “Owner of a Lonely Heart”, 1983
Chapter 1 - Owner of a Lonely HeartYou ever have one of those moments where you know you’ve fucked up? Like, you’ve actively takehat have resulted in the ruination of your life?
Craig Bir knows.
Because five minutes ago, Pippa Green, who he deceived, used, mistreated, drugged, abandoned, whose trust in people he probably single handedly destroyed, and whose life he tried to ruin in an attempt to send all or most of her friends to prison – men’s prison – had hit him square across the nose.
It was likely broken. No - judging from the amount of pain and the shock, it was almost certainly broken.
And he had to admit, Pippa kinda had a point.
And he did holy care for her.
Really.
No. Really.
He o, you see.
If the feelings weren’t real it would have been so much harder to sell it.
Of course, it didn’t help that he was currently manacled hand and foot and being dragged roughly up two flights of emergency stairs to a waiting van, presumably to take him to whatever “somepce else” that Beatrice Quinn, administrator of Britain’s most altruistic torture and mutition dungeon, had promised he would be remao.
Somepce worse.
And the st pce he was in locked him in a basement for nine months, tried to brainwash and gaslight him, tried to recruit him into their cult, and, (cherries on top) castrated him.
He couldn’t help but ugh.
“Stop ughing,” said one of the guards. “It’s creepy.”
“Oh, e on,” Craig said. “It’s a little funny. You’re a grown adult actively manhandling a wounded prisoner, because, presumably, they’re paying you. Little pieces of paper turned you from a normal bloke to a sadistic kidnapper and torturer! And it’s all done by puters now! The little pieces of paper aren’t even real! If that’s not edy, I don’t know what is!”
The guard shoved the butt of his rifle int’s sor plexus, as he was dragged into the back of the van and literally ed to the wall of it. Two of the guards got in with him and closed the doors, the other two headed towards the front in the driver and passenger seats.
“This guy must have called shotgun,” said Craig, motioning to the soldier in the passenger seat with his head. “On at of that he has a shotgun.”
One of the soldiers in the back produced a ketamine syringe, and roughly jabbed it int’s nebsp;
“Oh good! Hello darkness my old–”
***
Craig woke up, naked except for a hospital robe, in a cot in a barred, windowless cell.
The first thing that hit him was a very strong sense of deja vu.
The sed thing that hit him was a horrific pain in his chest.
“Ow! Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he said.
“Ah, I see our arrival is awake,” he heard someone say. The voice was feminine. A slight Welsh at came through.
He was a little groggy and dizzy. The ketamine? No, this felt different. More like… when he was castrated.
Propofol.
They operated on him.
He looked down at his chest, under his robe. There were stitches and a bloody bandage, right below his colrbone.
“Don’t pick at it,” the voice said. “Though you probably already khat.”
A woman in a bck pantsuit and white blouse stepped into his view from behial bars.
“You call me Geia Luna. I’m your handler. While you’re here, you’ll be referred to as Craig Bishop.”
“I uand and agree,” said Craig.
“We don’t do that here,” said Luna.
“Oh?”
“We don’t need your uanding reement. Only your pliance. ply or die.”
“Oh.”
“Wele to the Lonely Hearts Club. Someone will e by with water and maybe some food, if you keep it dowually. You’ve just had surgery, Bishop. And due to a bination of shod the lingering effects of the ahetic, your pain is currently tolerable. Tell me, Bishop, I heard you think you’re pretty fsh when it es to medie. Immediately after invasive surgery, what medications are typically prescribed?”
Craig searched his hazy brain for the answer.
“Opioids, usually. Tramadol, morphine, or oxye, for a couple of days. Sometimes codeine.”
“Very good. I see your medical knowledge is as good as romised. That will be useful,” said Luna. “At any rate, you’ll be getting none of that.”
“What?” said Craig. “You’re just going to have me deal with this on paracetamol?”
“Oh no,” said Luna. “Paracetamol is a privilege for the cooperative. We were instructed that you were not cooperative at your previous residenot even at the end.”
The implications of this started to hit Craig. No painkillers. After surgery. This was going to hurt.
“And since you’re dangerous, I’m afraid I ’t risk giving you even a stick to bite oragic. Well, I’ll see you again in about a week. Be seeing you.”
With that, Luna walked away.
Craig could feel the arigger in him. Feel the fear and paranoia and the impending doom of the few days where he would be in a physical hell. His head inning. He felt short of breath. He knew his adrenaline iking.
But what Craig couldn’t feel was aed heart rate. He checked his pulse just to be sure.
80 beats per minute.
ly 80 beats per minute.
The fuckers!
They installed a pacemaker.
***
The few days were agony. As promised. As desighe pain was unbearable. If he had a knife, he would have used it to slit his own throat and end it.
Which, e to think of it, might have been why Jim - the washout before him, the one he subtly maniputed into being a violent distra - killed himself. At least if Monica, his former sponsor, was to be believed, but who tell at this point what was truth and what was a lie?
But even the pain of invasive surgery fades, and when he could finally walk on his own, he was taken out of his cell, made to wash up - or more accurately, pced against a wall and painfully hosed down with cold water, and then given a new set of underwear and boilersuit, with “C. Bishop” as a bel on it.
As promised, Geia Luna, in the same pantsuit as before, paid him a visit.
“So, Bishop. Ho opinion so far. I don’t judge,” said Luna.
“Holy,” said Craig, “I kinda feel like I’ve heard this song before, and I didn’t like it the first time.”
“Don’t fuse Lonely Hearts with the Dorley programme. You’re not here to get better. You’re not here to be reformed. It wouldn’t work anyway. You’ve officially been judged to be ‘irredeemable,’ Bishop. You’re here to be made into something we use, and if need be, use up and throw away. Without guilt.”
“Like ‘La Femme Nikita?’”
“Oh good,” said Luna, “you’re familiar with the cept. Well then, we skip a good 90% of the onb process.”
“Always been a fast learner.”
“Right. So, as you are no doubt intuited by now, you’ve been fitted with a pacemaker.”
“Right. To keep me under trol, I try to run, ht, and my body colpses because my cells don’t get enough oxygen,” said Craig.
“No, but that’s a very nice side effect,” said Luna. “It’s so we do this.”
Luna took out her cellphone, and pressed a button.
And if he thought the pain after surgery was bad, this was ten times worse. His chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside, and the pain radiated to his arms, neck, jaw, and back. He had trouble breathing, and started sweating a cold, cmmy sweat. He was feeling dizzy, faint, even, a down o. Bess started ing into the sides of his vision and he felt as if he was going to pass out.
And then. Just like that, it was over. Oh, the pain took a while to dissipate, and his breathing took a while to get back to normal, but his heart resumed beating at a steady, predictable 80 beats per minute.
“You… you bitch,” he said. “You gave me a heart attack!”
“Would you like another one?” Luna asked, pyfully. “Because I’ve got aire afternoon free.”
Craig blinked. Looked around. Saw Luna’s finger over the button on her phone.
“No, thank you, ma’am. And I’m sorry for calling you the b-word before. It was just the shock of the moment, that’s all,” Craig fawned for survival.
“Ah,” said Luna. “You do learn very fast. Here’s something else you should keep in mind, so pay attention.”
Craig looked up.
“You have less thay four hours to live.”
Luna showed the s. It said: “Craig Bishop: 21:28:37… 36… 35…”
Craig raised his eyebrow.
“Of course, if yood today, we’ll add awenty four hours to the timer. And that will be sent to your pacemaker’s internals. Of course, if it doesn’t receive the clock reset signals in time, well…” Luna shrugged.
“So, if you had any thoughts an escape, to harm us, or anyone else without our express demand, it means that we don’t actually have to catch you to kill you. We just have to sit, drink tea, and watch the clock. Maybe we’ll get together and py Happy Families as the seds of your life tick away.”
She smiled.
“Maybe we’ll have snacks.”
“Okay,” said Craig. “Seems effective enough. Why, though?”
“Because ial nano-bombs are still sce fi,” said Luna. “And it’s the perfect cover story for if you should keel over in public. Why did this otherwise healthy young man die of a heart attack? Oh, the er saw he had a pacemaker - must have had a faulty heart to begin with.”
“No, I mean, why gh all this trouble? Why not just kill me?”
“Because killing you would be a waste of talent, knowledge, and skill. You are a resource. But make no mistake, Bishop. As much as you are a resource, you are also expendable. Now, let me take you to your room and attached office. Your training begins tomorrow.”
***
The assigned room, Craig found out, was much more fortable thaher his basement dorm at Dorley, or his sed-year aodations on the first floor. Though, naturally, it was far less girly, and far more spartan.
It was a bedroom and ensuite, with a simple twin-sized bed, and a wardrobe and dresser with ges of clothes - a few more boilersuits - short sleeved - with his assigned name of ‘C. Bishop’ as a ch. There were also four sets of identical khakis and white polo shirts in his size, several dress shirts, several sets of green scrubs, and two pairs of white, celess trainers with slip-resistant soles.
It had a small attached study plete with ptop puter on the desk, a small but prehensive medical library, and more than a few books on basic spy tradecraft. On the desk was a twenty pound note, an ID badge f Bishop on a clip, a mobile phone, and a tablet puter.
But the most surprising thing that Craig saw was that there were windows in both the bedroom and the office. Windows that were her barred or blocked. Nor were there locks on the door.
He looked out of the windows. He was on the first floor. He could easily shimmy out the windows and make it to the ground unharmed. He seemed to be in some sort of try home, but with some yle buildings attached to the main building. And there arking lot, and ambunces. A lot of them…
“Before you ask,” said Luna, “you’re located in Caer Idris House. It’s a small try house built ih tury. After World War II, it was verted to a District General Hospital, specifically, Idris General Hospital. We’re located iown of Penmorpha, Wales.”
“Assume that anyone you meet, save myself, is unaware of the Lonely Hearts Club. But don’t assume that no one you meet is unaware of the Lonely Hearts Club. We have eyes and ears everywhere here.”
Craig nodded.
“Panopti. Very effective.”
Luna nodded.
“To everyone here, your name is Dr. Craig Bishop. You are a retly graduated medical student from St. Almsworth Medical School who will be doing their foundation courses here as a junior doctor. And you will be pleting your medical training. Now let me think. What else do you o know?” Luna sidered this for a moment, then tinued. “Oh yes. You’re a survivor of testicur cer. You’ve already been supplied with three months of testosterone undeoate, and you will be getting all your medical care to manage your endoe system levels here.”
“The kit is unal, keep it ,” said Luna. “You have free run of the pce. First order of business: Go on the puter ahe orientation materials. Lights out at 2200. Your arm is automatically set for 0600, and we will meet in person at 0700 for first briefing and che. Wear the white polo shirt and khakis. Don’t miss it. In fact, don’t be te. Or you’ll be te, as in ‘the te Mr. Bishop.’”
Luna turo walk away.
“Ms. Luna, a quick question?” said Craig.
“Yes?”
“What’s the twenty pound note for?”
“Oh, that,” said Luna. “That’s for if you want to run to the issary a some food, or coffee, or even down to the er shop to get a etto or something if you he sugar. You will be provided with the funds you need - and only the funds you need - as you hem.”
“Wait, er shop? You trust me to go to the er shop?”
Luna smirked.
“Bishop, I don’t trust you. Not oa. But why would I care if you go to the er shop? This isn’t punishment or rehabilitation. We’re way beyond that now. Besides, what would you tell them? Would they believe you? What would happen to you, ily–” she looked at her phone, “–twenty hours and fifty four minutes, if they did? Go to the er shop. Go to the god damned London Zoo for all I care. So long as you don’t give me cause to take away your breathing privileges, and you’re back here by 2200, I don’t care what you do.”
“So I’m not a prisoner here?”
“Bishop. I don’t think yetting the message.”
Luna stepped forward and violently shoved Craig towards the wardrobe, causing him to crash into it. The healing wound on his chest and his sore back coursed with pain.
“You’re a prisoner everywhere.”
And then Luna turned her bad walked away, leaving Craig in his unlocked room.
***
Craig went through the set of mundane orientation materials for any new doctor, though there were some “quirks” relevant specifically to his situation.
Luckily, he didn’t have to do the sexual harassment training course yet. Perhaps they had figured that his time at Dorley gave him all the sexual harassment training he could ever need in his lifetime. Or, far more likely, they suspected that no amount of sexual harassment training would have any effe him at all.
Hospital policies and procedures, mostly emergency codes, procedures, and iion trol made up the bulk of it.
There was also an chart for the hospital upon which he appeared. He was surprised to find Luna’s name listed as “Deputy Directeia Luna listed there, and in his of reports. More directly, he would be rep to Dr. Stanis?aw Kosior, sultant, who reported to Luna. Dr. Kosior, it seemed, would be supervising the pletion of his medical training.
He would be expected to do the general medie rotation at first, and an on-call schedule provided. And of course, the quick-reference guides for sepsis, chest pain assessment. Nothing he wasn’t familiar with.
Of course, the login instrus for the eleic health records system threw him. They trusted him with access to fidential patient data?
And then he remembered, no, they didn’t. They probably monitored the shit out of that, with some buard h with his finger over the “delete Craig” buttoime he logged in. Maybe not eveime. The threat was enough.
Panopti strategy. Very effit.
‘Jeremy Bentham,’ thought Craig, ‘what a brilliant bastard you are.’
The other orientation materials, oher hand… unication protocols. dead drops. Very basic spy tradecraft 101. (The locations of safe houses were not provided, but the dotation assured that they would be there if needed.) There were also tips on avoiding surveilnce from enemy actors – which, of course, would probably be of no help avoiding surveilnce from the enemy actors who currently had him.
As for his cover, there was aire NPH - new personal history - which detailed his cover story as a testicur cer survivor as an adolest. It expihat these issues stunted his natural male puberty (good cover for why Craig had some ‘gyneastia’) and the wonderful care he got from his doctors prompted him to study medie.
There was also a guideline for bang medical duties with operational tasks - Luna would provide cover for if Craig had to miss a shift - or more than one - if he had to go “in the field.”
Oh good. He did love to travel.
He was informed that his tablet could be used as a legitimate hospital orientation app, but in time, would be used to access a secret interface via a passcode.
The code of duct sheet sisted of three words.
“ply, or die.”
Finally, he rovided a sign and tersign for him to use to identify fellow agents in the field.
The sign: “It’s gettier all the time.”
The tersign: “With a little help from my friends.”
Craig had to chuckle.
Song lyrics. From the Beatles Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. They really knew how to stick to the theme. Who was the spymaster? “Sgt. Pepper?” “Mr. Kite?” Was their er “Maxwell” and his silver hammer?
Craig let out a low whistle and assessed his situation.
He risoner with a loaded gun poi his heart twenty-four seven. He arently going to be some sort of spy ent or operative or something. At any rate, a sve to the whims of Luna and whoever else the . Isoted. No friends. No tacts of any kind.
And all he had to work with, really, was a twenty pound note.
Worst of all… he was in Wales.
But at least whoever was running this whole thing had a sense of humour.
***
Around mid-evening, Craig ged into the polo shirt and khakis, took his fake ID, and headed out into the hallway, following signs direg him to the hospital proper. It was a standard NHS building, a typical district general hospital, and the signs to find the issary were well beled.
It was hard to avoid looking a little suspicious, since he was naturally circumspect. Was that g him? Was the old man in a wheelchair? He passed the maternity ward, and wondered whie of the little bundles of joy was secretly loaded to the brim with rec devices.
Eventually, he mao reach the issary, picked up some bangers and mash, some tea, and a small sad on his tray, and brought it up to the ter. At least it was a hot meal he didn’t have to cook himself. He swore he’d never eat angie burger od forbid, weetabix, in his life, if he could help it.
He hahe 20 pound o the cashier.
“Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Bishop,” said the cashier, whose name badge read: ‘Mary Devon.’ “Always o meet the new doctors. It seems that it’s gettier all the time.”
Craig’s eyes shot wide open.
“Er… yes. With a little help from my friends.”
Mary nodded and smiled.
“Si’s your first day, this one’s on me,” said Mary, who gave him a wink, and handed him back his twenty pound note. “Be seeing you.”
“Isn’t that a little on the nose?” Craig finally asked.
Mary just smiled coyly, and ignored him, turning to help the er.
Craig decided to just sit down a. The implication was clear. He risoner. Luna was the new wo. He was number six. Anyone could be keeping eyes on him. And the time bomb tig away in his chest was the Rover, which prevented anyone from leaving the vilge.
“Fuck me with a penny farthing,” he said under his breath.
Well, there was only ohing to do. Py along, for now.
But always remember that he was not a number.
He was Craig Bir. And he was a free man.
…or would be, eventually.
He did it once before, after all.
***
