by Tim Waggoner
“What do you think?” she asked. “Beautiful, right?”
Angel looked down at the golden tattoo on his chest, and he reached up to touch it. The metal was still warm. It had hurt like a motherfucker while Beautybot applied it, but he had to admit, it looked damn awesome.
“Not that,” Poppy said, irritated. “This.” She pointed to the burger and then smiled at Angel. “Bon appétit!”
His gaze darted to the giant mincer, then back to the burger, and his stomach cramped with sudden nausea.
Evidently, his disgust showed on his face, for Poppy frowned.
“Now, Angel… you’re not going to insult my cooking, are you?”
For a fraction of a second, Angel considered running, but he remembered the robot dogs. He didn’t see them, figured they had probably returned to their kennels, but he knew Poppy could summon them easily. All she had to do was whistle, after all.
He stepped forward, reached out to pick up the burger—the Charles Special, he thought—and brought it to his lips with trembling hands, Poppy’s gaze fastened on him the entire time. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and took a bite. He chewed slowly, trying not to taste the gummy mass, fighting to keep from throwing up.
“It’s… delicious,” he managed.
Poppy smiled in satisfaction. “Welcome to the Golden Circle.”
* * *
Eggsy emerged from a manhole near the lovely mews home formerly owned by his mentor Harry Hart, the best agent Kingsman ever had. But as he trudged toward the house, leaving a trail of dripping shit behind him and earning horrified stares from those pedestrians out for an evening stroll, he wondered what Harry would think if he could see him now. Harry had worked hard to teach Eggsy how to be a gentleman, and Eggsy was fairly certain that swimming through sewage wasn’t the sort of thing discussed in Etiquette for Gentleman Spies.
After Eggsy, Merlin, and Roxy had stopped V-Day, Kingsman had been in turmoil for a bit. Arthur—real name Chester King—had thrown in his lot with Valentine. He’d died when he’d attempted to poison Eggsy and Eggsy managed to switch their drinks without Arthur noticing. Several Kingsman agents had sided with Arthur, and they’d died when the chips implanted inside their necks exploded. The good thing was that all the traitors in the agency were dead. Unfortunately, Kingsman needed some rebuilding. It had taken several weeks, but a new Arthur was installed and new agents were recruited, and now the agency was humming along smoothly.
Eggsy had moved into Harry’s house during this transition period out of sheer practicality. Merlin and the other staff were too busy restoring the agency to full strength to worry about locating a different house for him just then. At first being in Harry’s house made Eggsy feel like he was trespassing in another man’s life. And all around him were reminders of Harry, which made him grieve his mentor’s loss all the more. But after a while, he began to grow used to being there. It helped that he was away on missions so often that he was hardly in London, let alone at home, for any length of time. Lately, though, he’d found himself looking forward to returning to the house after a mission. In a way, Harry was still very much alive in the house—or at least his memory was—and Eggsy found his mentor’s intangible presence comforting. So much so that he had changed very little since moving in. He was certain a psychologist would have a field day with his keeping the house as a shrine to Harry, but he didn’t give a damn. Eggsy knew that when he was ready, he would put most of Harry’s things in storage, keeping only a select few as reminders of the man who’d made such a huge difference in his life. He simply wasn’t ready yet.
Mum and Daisy had joined him when he’d first moved into the house, but they hadn’t stayed long. No matter how many times Eggsy tried to reassure his mum, she thought she was getting in his way. How’re you supposed to have any fun with your old mum hanging about? she would say. Truth was, he thought, she couldn’t take Eggsy not being able to tell her what he really did for a living. His dad never told her he was trying out for Kingsman, and she’d never learned the details of how he died. In the end, she couldn’t get used to her son keeping secrets from her too.
Eggsy jogged toward the house. Thank god Merlin had guided him through the sewers or else he never would’ve found his way home. When he reached the front door, he removed his filth-slicked shoes and sodden socks. He didn’t want to track shit all over the place. If he did, Harry’s ghost would likely return from the afterworld to have a few choice words with him about that. He considered taking off the rest of his clothes before entering the house, but decided he’d scandalized the neighbors enough for one evening with his manhole entrance, so he opened the door and stepped inside.
“Babe, I’m home!” he called out.
He made his way through the hall and into the kitchen, where he found Tilde waiting for him, wearing a dark blue sweater over a light blue blouse. His pug JB—named after the TV character Jack Bauer—sat on the floor nearby. Tilde took one look at him and her eyes widened with shock. Then she got a whiff of him, and her face wrinkled with disgust.
“For fuck’s sake,” she said. “What the hell happened?”
“It’s a long story that deserves a kiss,” Eggsy said. He leaned his face toward her.
She drew back.
“If you really love me,” he said, “you’ll give me just one little kiss.”
Looking more than a little reluctant, she stepped forward to kiss him. Eggsy pulled back before their lips touched.
“You were really gonna do it,” he said.
Tilde shrugged. “Yeah.”
He grinned. “Now that is true love right there. Amazing.”
Tilde was a beautiful blond woman, and she spoke with what Eggsy thought was the most adorable Swedish accent. Which was only proper, seeing as how she was Swedish. More than that, she was an honest-to-Christ princess. Her parents were the king and queen of Sweden, and Tilde had been abducted by Valentine when she’d refused to go along with his plan to “cull” the human race in order to save the planet. Valentine had imprisoned her in a cell within his stronghold in the Swiss Alps—along with all the others who refused to cooperate with him but whom he considered worth saving. Eggsy had met Tilde when he and Merlin made their assault on Valentine’s stronghold. After Eggsy had stopped Valentine—by stabbing him with one of his assistant’s deadly prostheses—he’d visited Tilde in her cell to collect on a reward she’d promised him if he saved the world. It was an impulsive act for both of them, brought on by the stress of their circumstances and the exhilaration of victory. But, surprisingly, it became the beginning of something much more, and they’d been together ever since. They made an odd couple, no doubt, but they were happy with each other, and that’s all that mattered to Eggsy.
“Give me five minutes to shower,” he said.
Tilde fanned her face in a vain attempt to keep Eggsy’s shit-stench at bay.
“Might need longer,” she said wryly. The pug whined then, and Tilde laughed. “I think JB agrees!”
* * *
“This Brutalist architecture is beautiful,” Tilde said, with no hint of sarcasm in her voice.
He grinned. “Brutal, more like.”
The council estate where Eggsy had grown up—and where his friends Brandon, Jamal, and Liam shared a flat—had been constructed in the 1970s, and its age showed. Its once white concrete was gray and weathered, and with five hundred and twenty interchangeable flats, it looked more like a prison than a place people lived. Once, he would’ve been ashamed to bring someone like Tilde here. She was royalty, used to the finest things life had to offer. But he’d done a lot of growing up since that day he’d called Kingsman from the police station—the day he’d first met Harry Hart. Eggsy’s father had been a Kingsman too, or near enough, and he’d died saving his fellow agents from an explosive device hidden on the body of a suspect they were interrogating. Harry had been one of those agents, but more than that, he’d sponsored Eggsy’s dad for membership in Kingsman. When Eggsy had contacted Kingsman
, hoping for nothing more than to escape going to jail, Harry had taken him under his wing, sponsored him for membership in the agency, and served as a mentor to him, in part to pay Eggsy’s father back for saving his life. Eggsy was a baby when his dad died, and he had no memories of the man. Harry had been a strong male presence in his life, something Eggsy hadn’t known he’d been missing, and although Harry had died only a short time after Eggsy had met him—shot in the head by Valentine after the billionaire’s test of his aggression-causing tech at the South Glade Mission Church—Harry’s impact on his life, on the man Eggsy had become, couldn’t be overstated.
He remembered something that Harry had told him once. There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.
Words to live by, Harry, he thought.
As soon as Eggsy had gotten out of the shower, he’d opened the medicine cabinet and removed a pill bottle with the Kingsman logo on it: a circle enclosing the letter K turned on its side to resemble a pair of eyeglasses. The bottle contained a powerful single-dose antibiotic especially created for agents. Eggsy took one, thought for a moment, and then took a second. Considering the legions of lethal bacteria he’d exposed himself to in the sewer, his system would need all the help it could get if he hoped to remain healthy. He’d gotten rid of his ruined suit—literally, he’d tossed it in the bin out back—and he now wore a black cap, blue jacket, white shirt, jeans, and sneakers. As much as he’d grown accustomed to wearing a Kingsman suit when he was working, it felt good to be back in civvies again. Especially when said civvies weren’t slathered in shit. Tilde wore a white hoodie and jeans, but even dressed down she looked like royalty to him. He supposed she always would.
As they walked up the steps toward his friends’ flat—Eggsy carrying a bottle of liquor, Tilde carrying a plastic container holding a cake—he thought they might stop by his mum’s for a bit after the party. Mum loved Tilde, although it had come as something of a shock to her to learn that Tilde was a literal princess, and Tilde loved her right back. The two of them got along so famously that when they got to talking, it was like he ceased to exist. He didn’t mind, though. He loved seeing the two most important women in his life—well, two of three, counting Daisy—enjoying each other’s company so much.
Soon, Eggsy and Tilde were sitting on the floor next to a cluttered coffee table, Brandon, Jamal, and Liam crowded together on a small, threadbare sofa. The cake Tilde had brought sat in the middle of the table, thin white candles burning. They sang “Happy Birthday” to Brandon, and when they finished, Brandon blew out the candles.
“Tilde made that cake for you herself, bruv,” Eggsy said.
Jamal grinned. “What happened? The royal baker not available?”
Everyone laughed, and Tilde gave Jamal a playful frown.
“Shut up, especially if you want some of this.”
She cut pieces of cake for all of them, and as she put the slices on paper plates, Jamal distributed it, along with plastic forks. Eggsy raised the bottle of liquor he’d brought, and Brandon eyed it suspiciously.
“Is that that Swedish stuff? Last time you brought it, I was wrecked.”
They laughed again. Eggsy opened the bottle and poured generous portions into plastic cups. He didn’t, however, pour a drink for himself.
“What’s wrong?” Liam asked. “Now that you work for a fancy tailor’s, you too good to drink with us?” He smiled to show he was joking.
“I’m gonna meet Tilde’s parents for the first time tomorrow night,” Eggsy said. “I want to make a good impression.”
“So no hangover!” Tilde said, and they laughed.
Liam pointed to a clear plastic bag filled with marijuana resting amid the junk on the coffee table.
“I guess that’s out then,” he said.
“’Fraid so, mate,” Eggsy said.
Jamal sipped his drink then shook his head. “Meetin’ a proper king and queen… I can’t imagine how nervous you must be, bruv.”
Eggsy was nervous, even more so than when he was risking his life on a mission. In fact, he’d rather be fighting a horde of enemy agents armed with energy blasters than meet Tilde’s parents—not to mention have dinner with them at the royal fucking palace. But Tilde had met his family and friends and had gotten along well with all of them. She might’ve been a princess, but she didn’t put on airs and she treated everyone the same, highborn or not. It was his turn to meet her people, and however nervous he might be, he was determined to go through with it. For her.
It hadn’t been easy explaining to his friends how he’d come to be dating an actual princess. He hated lying to them, but he couldn’t tell them how they’d really met. They knew nothing about his work with Kingsman, and it had to stay that way, not only as a security precaution but also for their own protection. Eventually, Eggsy had come up with a story about Tilde shopping at Kingsman Tailors during a visit to London. She’d been looking for a new tailor for her father, and Eggsy had been the lucky bastard who’d gotten to assist her. Sparks flew, one thing led to another, and soon afterward, they were a couple. A crap story maybe, but his friends bought it, and that was all that mattered.
The five of them talked and laughed for a time, enjoying one another’s company. After a while, Eggsy said, “Hey, can one of you dog-sit JB tomorrow night?”
“Sorry, bruv,” Jamal said. “I got to look after my gran tomorrow.”
“Not me,” Liam said. “I’m allergic.” He paused, then added with a laugh, “To dog shit, actually.”
Everyone looked at Brandon. He sighed, then smiled. “Okay, on one condition. Have a drink with us, Eggsy.”
Eggsy grinned. “I think I can manage one.”
* * *
Poppy’s compound was large—huge, even—but she spent the majority of her working hours in the diner. She liked its ambiance, sure, but the truth was that she found the rest of Poppyland more than a little depressing. As hard as she’d worked to recreate the outside world here in her private jungle kingdom, she knew none of it was real, and every time she walked through Poppyland, its faux buildings and cheesy attractions mocked her. So she mostly stayed in the diner. It was the least fake of all the fake stuff she’d created. She’d installed a small office area on one side of the diner, and she sat at a desk, wearing a pair of VR glasses and looking at a holographic projection of Charlie, who appeared to be seated across from her. He wore a similar pair of glasses, and she thought they made him look kind of nerdy. She hoped they didn’t look as bad on her.
“Charlie, congratulations on a successful mission.”
Beads of sweat dotted his brow, and he spoke quickly, as if he were nervous. No, she realized. He’s scared.
“I’m so sorry. I tried, I swear. I—”
“Relax, Charlie. Come on. Where does Napoleon keep his armies? Up his sleevies!” She waited for him to laugh, and when he didn’t, she frowned and went on. “And what are you keeping up your sleevie? Or should I say, not keeping there right now.”
He paled. “You… know that I lost my arm?”
She was beginning to find his fear tiresome. Yes, it was useful when your underlings were afraid of you. But it became a drag when you had to constantly reassure them that you weren’t going to execute them for every little thing that didn’t go exactly according to plan.
“Charlie, I gave you that arm when I employed you. Not only do I know that you lost it, but I can also remotely control it. Your mission is complete.” She decided not to tell him that it hadn’t mattered to her whether or not he survived his encounter with his former rival. All she’d cared about was getting the arm where she’d needed it to go.
Some of the color returned to Charlie’s face, but he still looked doubtful. “You got what we needed?”
She’d received the data transmission from the arm a while ago, and she was already making preparations to use the knowledge she’d acquired.
“Uh-huh. You can come back to HQ now. Eve
rything’s in place.”
* * *
There was a bounce in Eggsy’s step the next morning as he descended the stairs, dressed in a fresh Kingsman suit and ready for another day of protecting the world. But when he entered the dining room, he saw Tilde had made a full English breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, fried bread, black pudding, beans, and tea. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d set the table formally, using Harry’s best china and silverware. She was dressed in a dark blue sweater and white blouse—and looked quite fetching in them—and she rose from the table as he approached to give him a kiss. JB danced around their feet, barking to get Eggsy’s attention, so Eggsy knelt and gave the little beast a quick scratch behind the ears. The smell of all that food was probably driving JB mad, Eggsy thought.
“Oh. Shit,” he said. “I was gonna grab breakfast at work, babe.”
She’d been smiling, obviously in a good mood, but now her smile faded. “I just thought maybe we could… practice? For tonight?”
Eggsy frowned. Something was going on here, but he wasn’t sure what. “Practice… eating?”
She gave him an impatient look. “You said you’d never eaten at a palace before. And… Pappa is sort of picky about table manners.”
Tonight, it would be Tilde’s turn to introduce him to her parents: the king and queen of bloody Sweden. Admittedly, he was nervous. Until recently, he’d barely known which end of a fork was which. But he didn’t want to seem nervous, because if Tilde started worrying about him, then she’d get nervous, and he didn’t want that to happen.
So he gave her what he hoped looked like a confident grin and said, “As it happens, darling, I got this shit on lock.”
* * *
Harry gestured for Eggsy to take a seat at the dining table. He’d done the whole bit: laid out china, silverware, and a napkin, just like Eggsy had seen serving staff do in the movies. There was only one place set, and Eggsy took it.
