callsign-genie

[callsign-genie]

Ode To My Family

A short story, written in first and third person

A few hours ago, my daughter would have been celebrating her seventh birthday. 

If life was as perfect as I once thought, I would still be in Virginia, preparing for another yearly party. Somewhere in the kitchen, Chloe would have been twirling in her new dress while Eddie helped with the cake. The three of us could have been another family in the suburbs, living a simple yet happy life.

Yet, here I was, a woman in her early thirties still reminiscing about a life I should have had but never did. In reality, Eddie and I have been divorced for five years and our daughter is still buried in a small lot in McLean. 

Every year, it becomes more difficult to imagine Chloe and how much she would have grown. What kind of child would she have been? Would she have been into sports or would she be more of a musician like her father?

Still, whenever I picture her, I see her as the little baby I had brought home. So small and delicate, barely weighing anything in my arms. If I think long enough, I could still feel her there—right where she belongs.

Ever since I moved to England, I only carried one photograph of Chloe. It was my favorite shot that Eddie took and if I were to mention it to him again, I’m sure he would know exactly what it was.

“She would want to see this when she grows up!”

Eddie would often say right before another photo, always grinning from ear to ear whenever he saw our daughter.

He would have been a great father.

…

2018, Virginia

It was still an early morning, barely even a noise to stir the quiet hour. Deeper into the woods, where the songbirds gathered, was an unusual stillness. To Jeanne, it was as if the world had slipped into a fathomless lull, far from the ordinary mornings she once knew.

Unsettled but not too perturbed, Jeanne pried her arm from her husband’s grasp, the tired man only grunting in meager protest. Soon, the woman ventured into the dim hallway, flicking a switch for the lights to come to life. Once she had opened the door to the nursery, Jeanne kept her footsteps measured. Floorboards never dared creak as she walked, eyes still admiring the lovingly decorated room.

Before the nursery became what it was, Jeanne and Eddie had spent countless hours debating on color swatches and furniture catalogs, only settling into an agreement once satisfied. What came from their work was a room tailored for their daughter, fashioned from thought and love.

Nearing the side of the crib, Jeanne watched as her daughter lay asleep. For a moment, as a streak of sunlight fell across her face, Chloe looked almost angelic—like a decadent little cherub from a classical painting. To witness such peace seemed so surreal, almost ethereal.

Yet, when Jeanne reached for her daughter, wanting to brush the hair off of her cheek, the skin beneath her fingertips felt cold. Reeling from surprise, the faint light revealed what horror would soon ripple through her mind,

Chloe was pale.

Then her nightmares settled into realization, her once steady breaths becoming a frantic rhythm. Before her panic swallowed her in full, Jeanne bellowed the only other word she knew,

“EDMUND!!!”

Was all that she could muster before her knees came crashing onto the floorboards. A painful yowl tore through the once quiet morning, a cacophony of heavy sobs following her screams.

From behind, heavy footfalls thundered through the hallway, a steady yet worried voice answering back,

“Jeannie! What—“

Eddie yelled, his gaze shifting from his grief-stricken wife to their still daughter. Without hesitation, he rushed towards her, his movements as quick as a flash of light. He hoisted his wife onto his shoulder, carrying her out of the nursery while Jeanne thrashed and wailed,

“CHLOE!!! CHLOE!!!”

Jeanne howled again and again, her voice crackling into a broken yet woeful shriek.

Her ceaseless cries knew no end, only growing into a deafening and gut-wrenching squall as it echoed through the empty house and the once pleasant suburbia. ———

[callsign-genie]

Even if he was a good head and a half taller than her, the difference in height barely registered. Without a sliver of hesitation, Jeanne took another step forward—nearly an inch of open air keeping them apart. Every time he opened his damn mouth, an acrid smell of smoke burned through her nostrils,

“Well all you do is fucking yap. Ain’t no damn bite.” Jeanne spat, words blunt and edged with hostility.

It took little for anyone to notice the animosity between them—like a pair of feral alley cats hissing over scraps. All attention was trained on them, the supposed head honchos of this whole operation. No one dared interrupt—lest they want to lose a head from either one.

“And a bit of advice, sergeant,” Jeanne added, jutting her finger into his chest, “If you’re going to bite me, best not miss.”

———

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

Jeanne bit into the meat of her cheek, doing her best to exercise restraint. Her body was stiff, feet firmly planted to the floor—knowing too well that if she started swinging, the bigger man would have the advantage of tackling her skinny ass down.

“You know what, the thought hadn’t occurred to me in the slightest.” She began, nails digging into the skin of her hip as she continued, “I just really don’t like listening to your criticism, sergeant. Ain’t really worthwhile.”

It was only when he made that particular comment with the lamp did Jeanne move—a half step threatening to inch closer into his personal space.

“I think it’s best you shut your pretty little mouth now, sergeant. Hate to see you blow a gasket before a mission and all.” For a moment, a lick of a southern accent seeped into her words,

“Besides, I’d really fancy the quiet as well. Nothing more annoying than hearing a mutt whine than getting drool all over.”

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

Her head snapped in his direction, eyes turning into slits as she grumbled.

“Tactical problems with terrain.”

Jeanne did her best to calm her nerves, knowing that the man was just looking to provoke a reaction from her. It took some restraint to keep herself from making any sort of witty remark, but seeing him nitpick her plan made her mouth move before thinking,

“Ain’t you eager, sergeant. Don’t want to see you dribbling your spit all over the floor like some damn mutt.”

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

While Jeanne convened with the rest of her division, her attention began to split between the mission and the sergeant. Of course, being a responsible agent meant doing some course correction on their current plan, but it couldn’t be helped that her eyes were being drawn away from the board.

It was that fucking accent. It’s always the fucking accent.

Shaking her head, Jeanne stepped away to rethink. There were still some kinks in the whole raid so before she could relay it to the assault team they had to iron it out. But the thought of taking another shot at the sergeant was growing tempting.

Nah—not a good idea to take potshots at the man who’s risking his life to help you—maybe later.

Returning to her team, Jeanne began outlining a better route to take into the village, pointing to all available egress and ingress points.

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

An annoyed huff dragged from her lips, neck slightly craned to meet his gaze. Too many times have she heard that specific quip, but only once did it push her into vexation.

“Shoved up your bloody arse.” Jeanne answered, mirroring his accent like a pissed off little parrot.

Before she could make any more witty remarks, one of the agents in her division called out,

“Genie, come over here!” Clarke yelped from the other side of the hanger. Meanwhile, Jeanne returned her attention to the taller man, lips quirking into a lopsided smirk.

“Looks like I have to grant a wish. Excuse me.”

Jeanne walked off, a hint of defiance marked in her stride.

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

Hearing his voice come from behind, Jeanne turned to face him. A pair of glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, strands of dark brown hair framing her freckled face. The rest was tied in a rather messy bun, giving the woman an air of both confidence and intellect.

Before she could answer, the same private returned with a mug of piping coffee, placing it on the table beside her. He greeted the staff sergeant and excused himself, leaving the two of them alone in the center of the hanger.

“You could say that.” Jeanne grabbed the mug, taking a tentative sip before deciding it needed a good helping of milk. “Agent Greyson, though some call me Genie.”

Glancing up from the rim of her mug, she arched a manicured brow,

“Mind my manners, but what the fuck kind of name is ‘Spit’?”

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

Leaning against the metal wall, Jeanne watched as the squadron entered the hanger. Each man was dressed in uniform, carrying their tactical gear in hand. Weapons were still being brought from the aircraft, bags later stacked neatly in the hanger.

Behind her was a topographical map of the area, points of interests that were deemed in danger of attack. There were papers strewn across a table, photos of possible terrorists hanging from a whiteboard.

Besides the seriousness of the operation, Jeanne was dying for a cup of decent coffee. With that thought, she pushed herself off of the wall and made her way across the room, looking for some kind of coffee machine that she was sure she had asked beforehand.

“Clarke, if you didn’t bring that damn machine, so help me God.” Jeanne grumbled under her breath, fingers threading through her hair.

Her stride was swift, purposeful. Each footfall landed with a heavy thud, a slight echo across the hanger. It took her some time to rummage through the supplies, but she did find the machine. After ordering a rather terrified private to plug it in and brew a pot, Jeanne settled herself down in the middle of the room, pouring through some files to refresh her memory.

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

1 x 1 with @ask-declanwilsons

Somewhere above, Jeanne could hear a familiar sound—a distant rumble that only grew louder—as the aircraft neared the tarmac. It seemed as though the air around her stirred, trembling from such strength as it began its descent. The wind felt coarse against her skin, pellets of sand brushing and sticking to her face.

Time was 0700—just before sunrise. If it was any other day, Jeanne would have been in the basement parking lot of her office, making her way into the building. Yet, today was no ordinary day.

Somehow—or rather by some miracle—she received information about an imminent attack here in Kabul. After verifying her intel with several members of her division, the attack seemed credible.

Now, Jeanne was inside a military hanger, waiting as a SAS squadron began leaving their aircraft.

[callsign-genie]

If you’re still looking for a hobby, I’ve taken a few dancing classes. I could use a partner.

Hope you’re good on your feet.

aw mate, i could do with a new hobby... this place is doin' me head in, i tell ya.

[callsign-genie]

2025 PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION

THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION REMAINS CONFIDENTIAL UNDER DOCTOR-PATIENT PRIVILEGE. ONLY INDIVIDUALS WITH TOP SECRET CLEARANCE AND PERMISSION FROM CIA INSPECTOR GENERAL [REDACTED] ARE ALLOWED TO REQUEST FOR THIS FILE.

NOTES AND TRANSCRIPTS ARE RECORDED AND VERIFIED BY DR. CASSIA FAIRCHILD.

———

[BEGIN LOG]

GREYSON: (ENTERS ROOM) Do we really have to do this today, Doc? Can I reschedule this for next week or something?

DR. FAIRCHILD: Unfortunately not, Agent Greyson. You rescheduled this meeting twice before already and I need to submit my findings in two weeks.

GREYSON: (UNINTELLIGIBLE GRUMBLING) Fine. But, I’m not sure what you’re hoping to find.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (SMALL HUFF OF AMUSEMENT) It’s only a routine inquiry, Greyson. There is no need for alarm. (PAPER RUSTLING) I will make this quick and painless.

GREYSON: Good, let’s get this over with then. I have plans for this evening.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PEN CLICKS) Is that so? Anything special?

GREYSON: No, not really. Just some documents I need to review before an op.

DR. FAIRCHILD: Hm, and what other plans do you have for this weekend? Besides preparing for work?

GREYSON: (SCOFFS) C’mon, Doc. Stop angling and just ask.

DR. FAIRCHILD: And what questions do you think I have in mind, Greyson?

GREYSON: What kind of life I have outside of this building. Am I able to maintain healthy and stable relationships with people.

DR. FAIRCHILD: And do you?

GREYSON: (MOMENTARY SILENCE LATER FOLLOWED BY AN ANNOYED HUFF) Not exactly.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PEN SCRIBBLING ON PAPER) And how is your social life, Greyson?

GREYSON: I’m too busy.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PEN SCRIBBLING ON PAPER) And how would you describe your personal life?

GREYSON: (SILENCE)

DR. FAIRCHILD: Greyson, can you please answer the question?

GREYSON: With all due respect, Dr. Fairchild, but I don’t need a shrink to tell me how shitty my life is. I went through four years of college to know that.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PAGE TURNING) I must admit, you’re a very accomplished woman. You graduated Summa Cum Laude from Cornell University with a bachelor’s degree in psychology and international affairs.

GREYSON: (SILENCE)

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PAGE TURNS AGAIN) Yet, even with all that, you live your life in constant denial and isolation.

GREYSON: (SCOFFS) Excuse me?

DR. FAIRCHILD: Do you need me to elaborate? I thought those four years in college helped you understand your predicament.

GREYSON: (CHAIR SLIDES AGAINST FLOOR ABRUPTLY) You listen here, Doc. I ain’t going to sit and listen to you degrade and demean me.

DR. FAIRCHILD: Sit down, Greyson. I don’t want to add this sudden outburst to your evaluation unless I have to.

GREYSON: (SCOFFS) Unbelievable.

DR. FAIRCHILD: Now then, let’s return to the question at hand: how would you describe your personal life?

GREYSON: (QUIETLY GROANS BEFORE RELUCTANTLY ANSWERING) Quiet.

DR. FAIRCHILD: Is that so? You aren’t seeing anyone?

GREYSON: Again, I’m too busy with work.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PEN SCRIBBLES ON PAPER) And how about your ex-husband—

GREYSON: (SUDDENLY INTERRUPTS) What does Eddie have to do with this?

DR. FAIRCHILD: (CLEARS THROAT) Have you spoken to Mr. Grant recently? I understand that he is also an agent.

GREYSON: (SIGHS HEAVILY) No, I have not spoken to Mr. Grant, nor would I ever.

DR. FAIRCHILD: (PEN SCRIBBLES ON PAPER) Very well. Moving on.

GREYSON: (FOOT TAPPING AGAINST FLOOR IMPATIENTLY)

DR. FAIRCHILD: How have you been dealing with the death of your daughter?

GREYSON: (TAPPING STOPS)

DR. FAIRCHILD: Greyson, are you alright?

GREYSON: I don’t mind answering your stupid fucking questions, Doc. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. But don’t you EVER bring up my daughter again, do you understand?

DR. FAIRCHILD: (MOMENTARY SILENCE) Understood. (PAPER RUSTLING) I believe that is all for now. Thank you for your time, Agent Greyson.

GREYSON: Yeah. Sure. (FOOTSTEPS RECEDING. DOOR SLAMS)

[END LOG]

———

THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION ARE DETAILED OBSERVATIONS FROM DR. CASSIA FAIRCHILD. THIS RELATES TO HER INTERVIEW WITH SPECIAL AGENT JEANNE GREYSON.

…

An hour has passed since my last session with Special Agent Jeanne Greyson. The total length of conversation was 15 minutes and 20 seconds—a rather short yet informative session.

Initially, my first impression of Greyson was what l expected. She was reserved, cautious and deliberate in her answers. Like most agents of her caliber, Greyson was trained to withhold information and act accordingly—making it difficult to ascertain a true evaluation.

For the most part of the interview, Greyson remained defensive. She anticipated the questions I will have, what answers I am looking for. Even in her attempt to dissuade me, I gathered something troubling about Greyson. From what I can reasonably assume, she has no personal life outside of The Company. She displays little to no interest in social interactions and keeps herself from developing personal attachments. Her whole existence revolves around her work, a dedication that nears sacrifice.

It is a common burden I see in agents who have suffered a great deal of loss. As if it is an atonement for their sins or a form of escapism.

When I mentioned Mr. Grant and their daughter, Greyson’s immediate response was aggression. Even if she hides it well, the pain continues to fester inside of her. Without a proper outlet, I fear that her agony will only grow until it consumes her.

My final assessment of Greyson is tentative. I do believe that she is an excellent and capable agent, as well as an indispensable resource. However, I cannot confidently say that she will always be able to separate her personal feelings from her profession.

…

DR. CASSIA FAIRCHILD

———

[callsign-genie]

I know a few soldiers back home who take pottery and cooking classes when they’re off duty. Learned to make a croissant and a mug within a week.

aw mate, i could do with a new hobby... this place is doin' me head in, i tell ya.

[callsign-genie]

An old friend of mine back in Washington just had a baby. Beautiful little girl, weighed in at exactly eight pounds. For whatever reason or compulsion, Lauren thought to name her daughter after me—Madeline.

Even sent me a picture of her.. but I didn’t open the file—well, I couldn’t bring myself to.

Anyway, I came home from the corner store and bought myself a gallon of triple chocolate brownie flavored ice cream. Planning to watch Bridget Jones’ Diary tonight until I pass out from the sugar.

[callsign-genie]

Jeanne laughed a little, though it sounded more somber than it should have.

“Transferring here was my choice. Besides helping Laswell, I took this post to get away from.. someone.”

For a moment, her gaze fell on the faint tan line along her ring finger. Then, she took a quick swig of her drink,

“Being in Islamabad is like being in the Wild West—Everything goes. But here, well there’s some certain expectations, especially for female agents.”

Jeanne slipped off her heels, the black and glossy material catching the dim light of the pub. Then, she tossed them aside from her chair, sighing in relief.

“If you don’t look the part, you don’t get shit done. Unfortunately for me, that look includes heels and pencil skirts.”

For nearly two days, Jeanne has been stuck in some lousy office building reading reports. Sure, being in intelligence meant playing the occasional cloak and dagger routine—but once a mission was finished—after action reports needed verification.

Grumbling to herself, Jeanne stood from her desk and headed for the door, a terrible migraine looming overhead. From the workload to the stress, there was no time for socializing. Yet, it seemed like one of those days where Jeanne needed someone to talk to. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she texted the only other woman she knew.

“Hey sergeant, fancy a drink?”

— @callsign-genie

Jeanz was doing her own paperwork after training recruits all day. She had gotten so stressed, she had taken her hair out of it's normal braid in order to run her hands through it. She took a break from writing, looking through the other papers to see which ones she could wait to do until morning. She felt like her vision was starting to blur with all the words staring up at her. Hearing her phone go off, she raised an eyebrow, picking it up from her desk, reading the message, a smile pulling at her scarred lips, quickly sending a reply back. "Aye, i'm down, Genie. Pub or rec room?"

[callsign-genie]

I could move across the entire fucking earth, change my number, my address, my entire identity—and yet, somehow my ex-fucking-husband still finds me.

Never marry a CIA agent—ever.

[callsign-genie]

Meeting went sideways. His cover was blown and an assault team was there to intercept.

I have the informant in the trunk of my car. Should I tell the captain?

An informant of mine finally made contact after four weeks. I’m not sure if I trust him but if anything goes sideways, you know where my will is.

I’ll let you know how the meet went.

— @callsign-genie

Alright. Tell the Cap you're going. When should you be back by?

[callsign-genie]

“It was fucking shit, man.”

Jeanne scoffed, looking away for a moment. It was difficult to open herself to others, knowing that not many people were privy to both her personal or professional life. She always kept a distance. Yet, the pressure from work was starting to get to her, especially her new post here in Europe.

“Days like this make me miss Islamabad.” Jeanne huffed, folding her arms against her chest as she leaned back into her chair, “Sure, there were terrorist cells everywhere and you could accidentally step on an IED. But it isn’t so uptight there unlike here.”

Then, she glanced over to Jeanz, grumbling her next words,

“And I certainly never wore heels.”

// admin: hopefully you slept well!

For nearly two days, Jeanne has been stuck in some lousy office building reading reports. Sure, being in intelligence meant playing the occasional cloak and dagger routine—but once a mission was finished—after action reports needed verification.

Grumbling to herself, Jeanne stood from her desk and headed for the door, a terrible migraine looming overhead. From the workload to the stress, there was no time for socializing. Yet, it seemed like one of those days where Jeanne needed someone to talk to. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she texted the only other woman she knew.

“Hey sergeant, fancy a drink?”

— @callsign-genie

Jeanz was doing her own paperwork after training recruits all day. She had gotten so stressed, she had taken her hair out of it's normal braid in order to run her hands through it. She took a break from writing, looking through the other papers to see which ones she could wait to do until morning. She felt like her vision was starting to blur with all the words staring up at her. Hearing her phone go off, she raised an eyebrow, picking it up from her desk, reading the message, a smile pulling at her scarred lips, quickly sending a reply back. "Aye, i'm down, Genie. Pub or rec room?"