Actions

Work Header

Kingsman: The Highlands Liaison

Summary:

Clansman, the Scottish secret organisation based between Glasgow and the Highlands, has been part of the Kingsman-Statesman axis for a number of years when, in February 2020, seemingly out of the blue, bodies start disappearing from morgues and gravesites in Northern Europe and Scotland, creating a pattern that Hume, the Clansman quartermaster, thinks deserving of deeper investigation.

The candidates for this perilous mission?

The Clansman Agent: one David Budd, codename Wallace, army veteran, master of undercover operations, showing signs of mild-to-moderate PTSD, and in desperate need of a babysitter.

His designated babysitter: one Gary “Eggsy” Unwin, codename Galahad, sexually frustrated recent divorcee with daddy issues and a massive kink for dangerous situations, temporarily on loan from Kingsman to Clansman (much to Harry Hart’s dismay).

So begins the heroic tale of a somewhat disastrous partnership, multiple avoidable misunderstandings, mind control, and genetically-modified bugs.

Notes:

Welcome, welcome, one and all, to another installment of "let's post something new and exciting on a Tuesday and let's drive ourselves insane trying to keep a tight schedule"!

Oh, I have missed this. And folks, this won't be happening were it not for the wonderful soul that is MissFreckles, who put the reason to my rhyme and found an actual plot for what would essentially otherwise just have been a Madderton AU set in the Kingsman world—give or take a few admittedly groovy details that were there, alright, but do trust me when I say this: everything really cool here is 100% coming from her. This story was but a teeny weeny prompt in my head that popped up the last time I watched Golden Circle and was titillated by Champagne mentioning a distillery in Scotland, then morphed into a discussion with my lovely friends supposeforthesakeof and Kuchra28 that got stashed away for a rainy day (i.e. I was having a major case of writer's block and my creativity was dead). Then, seemingly out of nowhere, M came along, and her priceless contribution turned it into what we both hope will become an incredible epic that we simply cannot wait to share with all youse, in full. But enough of my usual rambling, let me leave the stage to the woman, the angel, the genius herself.

I am so thrilled and terrified to be finally sharing this little passion project with you. It has been a labour of love over the past weeks, and I’m sure in the weeks to come. There has definitely been some blood, sweat and tears that has gone into this, and definitely more than a few sleepless nights, on my part at the very least.
This is only my second project on the archive and my contributions definitely would not exist (in any form, this project or otherwise) without C and her giant leap of faith. So, thank you so much. You are really the greatest person and such an amazing writer, I am blessed to be working with you.
C has been my ultimate cheerleader, holding my hand (virtually) through this entire process and has done her best to reassure me that my ideas and writing skills are not as crappy as I think they are. Most importantly, listened and took me seriously when I started babbling about this awful bug dream I had and how I thought it would make an interesting spy mission/plotline. It was ever so fortunate that my strange little frightening mission idea fit so well in her idea for this crossover story, because it is such a fabulous one, and definitely deserves to see the light of day. It has been such a pleasure playing with these boys and girls so far, and I hope you enjoy them too.

Now, lovely folks, without further ado: let's do this.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Preambulum

Summary:

A proposal.
A conundrum.
A loan.

Notes:

Some boring but very important admin for you lovely people: the Clansman folks are all named after prominent personalities from Scottish history.
The ones you are about to meet in this chapter are:

- Hume, "street" name Andrew Moore, Clansman quartermaster (played by Jamie Bell)
- Robert the Bruce, "street" name Douglas MacMillan, Chief of Clansman (played by Sir Sean Connery)
- Agent Wallace, "street" name David Budd, Clansman's best agent (obviously played by Richard Madden)

And some more casting decisions, if the moodboard wasn't explicit enough:
- Dr. Skye Taylor is played by Sophie Turner
- The Duchess of Somerset is played by Dame Emma Thompson

Also, here is the playlist for this chapter. (Yes, we're really doing it like this.)

End of PSA, happy reading!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Kingsman THL mood board

 

Preambulum

i.

Somewhere in England, 2019

The large glass-walled conference hall is filled with tens of drably-dressed scholars mingling amid the various glittering patrons of academia, doing their best to snap up available funding for various research projects. The tasteful buzz of Prosecco and finger food accompanies the underlying murmur of general serious talk on the most recent breakthroughs in various branches of science and pseudo-science. Big words like revolutionary and unseen and ground-breaking are thrown around almost too deliberately by the professors, parading their doctorates like prized pedigreed pets, looking for the best bidder or, in some cases, any bidder. It’s quite the ostentatious display, really.

*

They all care so much, thinks the young woman stood at the back of the room on her own,  gaze fixed on the lights shimmering out the vast expanse of the window. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a simple low chignon and her beautiful, sharp features are entirely discernible, even in the dim light of the posh soirée. She’s wearing a pink silk dress—flowy, breezy and, some would say, inappropriately low-cut for the occasion. The eye-catching shade further distinguishes her from the other occupants in the room. She’s standing out, she thinks. Her divergence is abundantly clear to anyone looking, and they all are. Maybe she did it on purpose. Maybe she’s a hypocrite and, like the rest of them, she does care, after all.

*

A few yards away, a man in a dark tuxedo is talking quietly with a beautiful older lady in a sparkling blue evening gown. Waterfall of diamonds on her cleavage, small, perfunctory smile on her lips, a tastefully manicured hand delicately wrapped around a whisky tumbler, the Duchess politely scoffs at the latest bad pun, then nods over to the blonde standing by the window. 

“Would you mind, Tarquin?”

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

*

“Dr. Taylor?” a familiar male voice says, twenty seconds later, breaking the blonde from her introspection. Dr. Taylor turns on her heels and finds herself face to face with Tarquin Hamilton, major faculty patron who, for some reason unbeknownst to her, seems to have fixated on her. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” she replies, reeling slightly in distaste as she automatically holds out a hand for him to press a kiss onto. The fact that she knows this much about his greeting habits makes her skin crawl. Those kisses are never pleasant, always intrusive and unsettling, and this latest is no different.

“Pardon my interruption, I wanted to introduce you to my companion,” he says, turning towards the statuesque woman on his arm. 

“Your Grace? May I present Dr. Skye Taylor, the brilliant young scientist I was telling you about,” he announces, with a theatrical gesture in Skye’s direction. He then addresses her directly, “Dr. Taylor, Her Grace the Duchess of Somerset, one of our major financial backers. Her Grace is very interested in your research on human genetic modification.” He disentangles his arm gently, observes as the two women graciously shake hands. “I shall take my leave, my ladies,” he then declares, “and let you two get acquainted. I have the feeling that this will be the beginning of a wonderful partnership.” He then kisses both women’s hands showily and sashays away, back into the racket of the cocktail party.

The Duchess takes a step forward and assesses Skye from head to toe with a discerning eye. 

“You scholars keep getting younger and ‘more accomplished’ with every passing year, don’t you? I have a hard time believing that you are the one responsible for the amazing results I have been seeing over the past three years, my dear. It truly is quite remarkable.”

There is a defiant gleam in Dr. Taylor’s icy blue eyes as she sweeps her gaze up to meet the Duchess’s. 

“My work speaks for itself, as you well know, Your Grace. And if you wish to make ageist comments, I frankly have no want or need for your patronage.”

“Now, see here, girl.” The Duchess’ voice is like the crack of a whip and the haughty look on her face hardens for a split-second before visibly softening once again and smiling slightly. “I mean no disrespect, Doctor. I have the utmost admiration for your research, and of your person, too, of course. Your research in particular, however, is of very great interest to me.”

“Is it, now, ma’am?” Skye replies, boldly, as she takes a careful sip of warm and slightly flat champagne from the flute she’s been holding in her left hand for the past half an hour and hasn’t touched yet, doing her utmost to not show her distaste.

“Yes, it really is. I believe it ultimately could prove pivotal for the world at large, in fact. It is this, my dear, that I am so keen on investing in. I have a great deal of influence, you see, and I am determined to ensure that your work receives the funding and resources it deserves.”

Dr. Taylor turns a shrewd gaze on the Duchess. “I have received many offers for patronage, Your Grace. What makes yours different from any of them?” she says, gesturing discreetly  towards the rest of the people in the busy conference room.

The Duchess fixes Skye with a hard, calculating stare, holding her gaze without faltering.

“To put it simply, my dear: I believe we can change the course the world is on for the better. Your work in genetics is revolutionary, true. But I believe that it can be pushed even further. With your help, we will be able to help humanity solve the major hardships that our reckless modern lifestyles have wrought on the planet—without any of that crass vulgarity of mass culling promoted by the late Mr. Valentine.”

Skye’s eyes glimmer with curiosity, and she can’t help a small half smile from creeping up on the left corner of her mouth.

“I’m open to hearing your proposal, Your Grace. Perhaps we should retire to a more private location, so you can fill me in on your grand plan for healing the world?” 

The Duchess inclines her head in assent. The two make their way over to a small seating area tucked away at the side of the room, heads already bent close in conversation.

“You are the key to a better world, my dear,” the Duchess affirms, at the end of her little exposé, further stressing her point. “And I will do whatever it takes to make sure your vision is realised.”

Skye grins at the Duchess. They clink their cocktail glasses together.

“To a better world, Your Grace.”

 

ii.

An undisclosed location in the Scottish Lowlands, February 2020

“...from Stockholm today. Breaking news from Edinburgh: the sudden death of Rebecca Fields, Cabinet Secretary for the Environment, following complications from an insect bite causing neurological degeneration has rocked the Scottish Parliament and has caused mass hysteria regarding pest control…”

Andrew Moore listens with half an ear to the news report coming from the screen across from him as he flicks and scrolls through the day’s local newspaper on his tablet, taking in the various and sundry of local happenings in the community. While he reads, he absently toys with the remains of toast ends on his plate and nudges the empty mug of tea at his elbow, contemplating filling it up again. 

“...increasing reports of similar bites popping across Northern Europe…”

His eyes scan quickly across each page until he zeroes in on a news article buried on the fourth page. He furrows his brow, the action creating sharp lines on his handsome face, keen blue eyes concentrating on the sparse lines of text describing the mysterious disappearances of a number of corpses from various morgues and funeral homes in the council area. 

“...multiple deaths…”

Now, that is bizarre, he thinks to himself. Multiple bodies disappearing, with no apparent links? I wonder if this is an isolated event? Local joke, perhaps?

“...unknown cause…”

Unsure if he is hoping to prove or disprove his hypothesis, he casts his net slightly farther afield and searches for similar results relating to mysterious disappearances of deceased persons, turning up the same unexpected pattern. He makes notes and carefully cross-references to ensure that he isn’t getting duplicate results, before expanding his search to larger and international news outlets in various languages. 

What he does discover is slightly unexpected, while he notes that the larger news outlets still seem to be largely in the dark, or large cities appear seemingly unaffected (he assumes that they are equally so, just that fewer alarms have been raised), he sees the same story repeating itself over and over, sprouting like weeds from small communities throughout Northern Europe and creeping steadily across the Scottish Highlands. 

"What the actual fuck. How is it possible we haven't picked up on this one yet?" he asks, out loud, standing up abruptly from his chair to pace over to peer blankly at the kettle and the dirty pan soaking in the kitchen sink.

He runs a hand through his hair, pensive. He then closes his eyes and spins around on the spot a few times as he absorbs the new information, like he always does when he’s trying to make sense of something. He only stops when he feels a presence behind him.

He opens his eyes again to find his cat looking at him inquisitively and half-disapprovingly.

Fuck, now I’m even getting judged by my own damn cat. 

“Yes, Martha. Yes, I know,” he says, exhaling loudly, as he bends over, reaching out a hand. The cat approaches and arches her back to lean into his touch and makes a soft, purring noise. “I’m slow, these days, eh? Suppose I'd better bring this up to Robert and see if he has heard anything, ‘aven’t I?” 

Martha meows approvingly. Andrew sighs.

*

Bath Street, Glasgow

It’s Glasgow, today, and not the godforsaken village of Portsoy where the Clansman distillery is. And thank God for that, Andrew thinks, because this means that, before stepping into MacGregor and MacDuff Kiltmakers for a full day of talking to his boss and putting the wheels in motion for a new, definitely dangerous and potentially fatal mission for himself and all his colleagues, he’s allowed to do the things that normal people do, for once. 

So, he drops by Costa for a mildly indulgent caramel cappuccino and a muffin—to go, please, if you wouldn’t mind—then steps into a newsagent’s and buys a magazine and a pack of smokes—definitely quitting after this one, swear to God—and puts on Marty Robbins as he strolls along Bath Street under the pouring rain. He loves a bit of old country and western. The weird feeling of missing a place and a time he’s never known.

When Andrew finally makes his way through the doors of MacGregor and MacDuff, it’s just gone 9AM and the shop is open. Still quiet, though, no customers crawling around and asking questions about this or that type of tartan, kilt pins or brogues. Just the calm dullness of a Tuesday morning and the benevolent smile on the face of the big, scruffy man behind the counter.

“Morning, Bothwell,” Andrew greets him.

“Awrite, chief?”

“Splendid. Lovely weather. Got you this, by the way,” Andrew says, nonchalantly, reaching into the internal pocket of his coat and getting out the slightly creased rolled-up magazine, that he rests on the polished cherry counter. The periodical has a blonde woman on the cover, holding a pair of needles in her left hand and a giant sky blue scarf in the other. Simply Knitting. Bothwell’s favourite.

“Aw, thank ye, chief. Ye really didnae have to,” Bothwell says, lighting up as he picks up the magazine and stares at it briefly before putting it in one of the top drawers of the tall wooden chest behind him.

“Nonsense, Bothwell. Course I did.”

Andrew winks at Bothwell, who beams back at him, and circles the counter, moving towards the stockroom. Stops at the base of the stairs and asks, without turning round, “Robert in yet?”

“Aye. He’s upstairs waiting for ye.”

“Ta. Good day to you, Bothwell.”

“And tae you too, chief.”

*

Twenty minutes later, Andrew’s done with his presentation, and Robert is looking at him in mild disbelief and genuine concern.

“And this has been going on how long, exactly?”

“Not sure,” Andrew replies. “Four, five weeks?”

“Hume, what the—”

“I know, Robert. Believe me, I don’t know what happened,” Andrew says, apologetic. He stops himself with a minute shake of the head and rectifies his statement. “Well, actually, I do. The raid on the Sagittarius gang put way too many of ours out of commission. We’re still operating at half capacity.”

Robert considers the matter for what feels like half a heartbeat, then raises an eyebrow.

“Get Statesman on the phone, Hume. Immediately.”

“Certainly, sir.”

*

“How is it possible you’ve got no agents in the UK? What with that fancy new distillery up here you lot’ve been banging on about morning and night,” Andrew exclaims, peering at the hologram of Statesman’s newest Ginger Ale, standing opposite him and Robert in the spacious stockroom, rolls of tartan peeking through her half-transparent body.

“Well,” she says, non-committal, “We do have one agent in London, currently. As you are perfectly aware, Hume, might I add.”

“Don’ be ridiculous, lassie,” Robert spats, harshly. “We’re not talking about infiltrating a boxing ring or manning the entrance to the shop—this is serious business.” He then turns to face Champagne, who’s standing on Ginger’s right, looking half-troubled by the news, half entertained at the not-so-subtle slander that his Scottish counterpart is throwing at Agent Tequila. “People—nae, bodies are disappearing, Champ. We need a competent hand. Someone less likely to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Really sorry, Robert,” Champagne replies. He shrugs, unapologetically. Sticks his Cuban cigar back between his lips. “Nothin’ we can do.”

“Although,” Ginger says, a flicker of something that might be mischief in her eyes. “Who’d you say you wanted to assign this to, Hume?”

“I didn’t,” Andrew replies. He looks to Robert, who nods in his direction, go ahead. “I believe we wanted to put Wallace on the case. He’s been home a reasonably long spell, and he’s buzzing to get back in the field.”

Ginger gives him a sly smile. “In that case, honey, you better give Merlin a ring. He’s got just the man for you.”

*

“Yes, Merlin,” Andrew says, for what feels like the tenth time, “yes, I’m sure. All over Northern Europe, and it’s here, now, too.”

Bodies disappearing?” interjects the man on Merlin’s left. 

“Aye, Harry,” replies Robert, gravely.

“Empty graves, Arthur. Signs of visible forced entry in the morgues with coolers left wide open. A few dead coroners, too,” Andrew asserts, adding brushstrokes to the very ugly picture he and Robert have been painting for the two Kingsman executives on the end of the line, bluish holograms pacing up and down between the miles of fabric around them.

“For goodness's sake, some criminals these days. Won’t even let the dead rest in peace. What are they planning—unleash an army of zombies?”

“Can’t be sure yet, Arthur,” Andrew replies. “We desperately need backup, though. We’ve got three agents in the field and four off the roster, who won’t be operational for at least another two months.”

Arthur smirks. “Never could do anything yourself, could you, Douglas, old chum?”

“Ye owe me one, Harry and ye know it. It’s time to pay up, you posh fucker,” Robert replies, contemptuous, fists clenched on both sides of his body.

Arthur nods courteously back. Touché. “Very well. Merlin, please make the necessary arrangements for one of our agents to go up to Scotland to assist. They will be at Clansman’s disposal for the duration of the mission. Not a second more.”

Andrew sags slightly in relief, tension bleeding from his shoulders. Merlin raises his eyes from the clipboard he’s been scribbling on, and quirks an eyebrow at him.

“What is it, then, Merlin?” Andrew asks, suddenly suspicious.

“You’re in luck, Hume. It just so happens that the one man we can spare is our very best agent.”

Andrew’s gaze flits to Arthur’s blue-ish image for a brief moment: the immediate flicker of concern in the man’s dark eyes is almost too obvious.

Merlin touches the side of his glasses and the picture of a young man, no older than thirty, sporting a sharp suit and an even sharper jawline, appears in the space between them.

“Agent Galahad. He helped take down Richmond Valentine six years ago, then Poppy Adams’s Golden Circle the year after...”

“Didn’t he also marry a royal?” Robert interrupts, scoffing. “Not exactly what ye’d call low profile, now, is he?”

“Let me reassure you, Robert. That small blip has been taken care of. Back in the shadows, and entirely at your service,” Merlin reassures him, visibly ignoring Arthur’s insistent worried look.

Robert’s face softens. “Well, in that case—looks like ye’ve got yerself a deal, old chum,” he says to Arthur, mockingly. “He better be all you say he is.”

“Oh, believe me, Robert. He is. All that, and much more,” Arthur replies, business-like but oh so unmistakeably fond. “I can certainly vouch for that.”

Andrew nods at Merlin in assent, pleasure doing business with you, then resumes looking at Galahad’s picture, floating in mid-air between them. A persistent feeling nagging at the back of his mind.

Fuck. Wallace is going to have a field day with this one.

Notes:

Welcome to the end notes! We hope you enjoyed this first taste of a very long and winding tale, and we hope we didn't confuse you *too* much with all the new characters.

Feel free to drop us some comments/kudos if you had a good time, and we'll see you very soon.

Love,

M and C xx