# Somewhere in Europe - Two Days Later
Greta Sienna's office had become a war room of frustration, disappointment, and growing concern. Papers were spread across her normally immaculate desk in organized chaos that spoke to intensive research yielding absolutely nothing useful. Her laptop displayed multiple encrypted chat windows, all of which had delivered variations of the same unhelpful message: "Never heard of them."
She leaned back in her chair with the kind of controlled patience that came from centuries of dealing with complications, but even her considerable experience was being tested by the complete absence of information about a family that should have left some kind of trace.
The Potter family didn't just have limited records.
They had *no* records.
None.
Nowhere.
Greta had contacts throughout the European supernatural community—vampires, werewolves, witches, even a few demons who owed her favors from various complicated situations spanning decades. She'd spent two days activating every single one of those connections, asking careful questions about British magical families named Potter.
The results had been uniformly baffling.
Her vampire contacts in London reported no knowledge of any Potter family in British supernatural circles. The werewolf packs had never heard the name. The witch covens—who usually maintained meticulous genealogical records because bloodline magic was important—had nothing. Even her contacts in the demon hierarchies, who typically knew everything about everyone because gathering information was basically their entire business model, came up empty.
It was as if the Potter family simply didn't exist.
Which was, Greta reflected with growing irritation, absolutely impossible.
People left traces. They lived in houses. They bought groceries. They had neighbors who complained about their hedges or their choice of window treatments. Even the most private supernatural families registered *somewhere*—birth records, property transactions, magical licensing, the occasional parking ticket that revealed far too much about someone's habits if you knew how to read between the lines.
But the Potters? Nothing.
Not even a parking ticket.
She picked up her phone and called one of her most reliable sources—a vampire named Marcus who'd been maintaining detailed records of British supernatural activity for approximately three centuries and had the kind of obsessive attention to detail that made him insufferable at dinner parties but extremely useful when you needed to know whether someone's great-great-grandfather had once borrowed a cup of sugar from a werewolf in 1743.
"Marcus," she said when he answered, "I need you to be absolutely certain about this. You're telling me there is no magical family named Potter in Britain? None whatsoever?"
"I'm telling you exactly that," Marcus replied with the patient tone of someone who'd already answered this question twice and was beginning to suspect that Greta was either suffering from short-term memory loss or testing whether repetition would somehow alter the fundamental nature of historical documentation. "I've checked my records going back to 1650. No Potter family. No magical lineage with that name. No property holdings, no magical licenses, no births or deaths registered with any supernatural community I track. No library fines. No complaints filed with the supernatural equivalent of homeowners' associations. Nothing."
"That's impossible," Greta said flatly.
"I agree that it's unlikely," Marcus said with the precision of someone who'd spent centuries learning not to use absolute terms because absolute terms had a way of coming back to bite you when you least expected it, usually at the exact moment you were trying to appear knowledgeable at important meetings. "But it's what my records show. Either this family doesn't exist, or they've been operating completely outside of traditional supernatural society in ways that leave no documentation whatsoever. Which would require either remarkable discipline or..." He paused, and Greta could practically hear him frowning through the phone. "Or intervention from something significantly more powerful than any family could manage on their own."
"Intervention," Greta repeated slowly. "You're suggesting external assistance in maintaining complete historical invisibility."
"I'm suggesting that the level of thoroughness required to leave absolutely no traces across three centuries of meticulous record-keeping would exceed the capabilities of any family operating independently," Marcus said, warming to his subject in the way that obsessive archivists did when discussing the theoretical implications of absent documentation. "Consider the scope of what would need to be accomplished. Not merely avoiding official records—that's relatively straightforward for anyone with moderate magical ability and a willingness to pay cash for everything. But avoiding *all* records? All mention in correspondence, all incidental references in other families' documentation, all traces in property surveys and census records and parish registries? That would require either a level of magical concealment that borders on reality alteration, or..."
"Or they're not from here," Greta finished.
"Precisely," Marcus said with the satisfaction of someone who'd arrived at a disturbing conclusion through impeccable logical reasoning. "If the Potter family doesn't appear in any records before their sudden manifestation in Los Angeles twelve years ago, the most parsimonious explanation is that they had no history to document because they literally weren't here to create one."
Greta thanked him and disconnected, then pulled up her notes on what Roman had reported about Harry Potter.
British accent. Mother active in Los Angeles magical communities. Father deceased in supernatural conflict when Harry was an infant. Raised privately away from broader supernatural society.
And—this was the part that made everything more complicated—capable of coordinating cosmic intervention that eliminated ancient entities.
She opened a new encrypted chat with one of her contacts in the United States, a witch named Helena who specialized in tracking magical families and their movements across continents and had the kind of comprehensive database that would have made privacy advocates develop stress-related rashes if they knew it existed.
*Query: Potter family, James and Lily, son Harry. Los Angeles area. British origin. Any records of magical immigration or relocation?*
The response came back within minutes: *Nothing. Checked immigration records, property transactions, magical community registrations, bank accounts, utility connections, subscription services, loyalty card programs. No Potter family matching that description. It's like they appeared in Los Angeles about twelve years ago without any prior history. I've got Lily Potter buying organic produce at farmers' markets and attending community meetings starting from a specific date, but nothing before that. No arrival, no setup period, no gradual integration. Just... suddenly existing as if she'd always been there.*
*Appeared twelve years ago,* Greta typed slowly. *Meaning what exactly?*
*Meaning I have records of Lily Potter being active in LA magical communities starting approximately 12 years ago,* Helena replied. *But nothing before that. No immigration paperwork, no previous addresses, no history of magical education or family connections. No childhood friends who remember her, no teachers who taught her, no awkward yearbook photos from her teenage years. She just... started existing in LA records about the time their son would have been born. Which is, you know, the kind of thing that usually indicates either witness protection—*
*Which would still leave traces,* Greta typed.
*Exactly. Or something significantly weirder. The kind of weird that makes witness protection look straightforward and comprehensible by comparison.*
Greta stared at her screen, processing this information with the methodical attention of someone who'd learned that impossible things usually had explanations even when those explanations were themselves impossible and occasionally involved entities that made you reconsider your life choices and career path.
A family with no prior history.
No records anywhere in European supernatural communities.
No magical lineage, no property holdings, no documentation of any kind before they suddenly appeared in Los Angeles twelve years ago as if delivered by cosmic postal service with particularly efficient overnight shipping.
And a son who could coordinate cosmic intervention.
There were very few explanations that fit these facts.
None of them were comforting.
Several of them involved the kind of beings who appeared in ancient texts with concerning frequency, usually in chapters titled things like "And Then Everything Got Significantly Worse" or "Why Antagonizing These Particular Entities Is Generally Considered Inadvisable."
She composed a new message to Roman, her fingers moving with deliberate precision across the keyboard while her mind ran through increasingly alarming scenarios involving dimensional displacement, cosmic witnesses, and the kind of protection that came from beings who could rearrange reality like furniture:
*CRITICAL UPDATE: Potter family has zero documentation in European supernatural records. No magical lineage, no prior history, nothing before appearing in Los Angeles approximately 14 years ago. This suggests either:*
*1) They have been operating under completely different identities (unlikely given active use of Potter name in LA)*
*2) They are using magical concealment sophisticated enough to erase all historical records (possible but would require cosmic-level magic)*
*3) They are not originally from this reality/timeline*
*Option 3 appears increasingly likely given "cosmic connections" mentioned in initial report. Recommend EXTREME CAUTION in any interactions with Harry Potter or Lily Potter. If they are dimensional refugees or reality-displaced persons, their capabilities and connections may be far beyond conventional supernatural assessment.*
*To be absolutely clear: If this family was relocated here by cosmic entities, those entities are probably still watching. The kind of beings capable of cross-dimensional relocation do not casually abandon their investments. They maintain interest. They notice when people start investigating their protected parties. And they tend to respond to such investigations in ways that make conventional violence seem quaint and almost nostalgic.*
*DO NOT approach Hope Mikaelson under any circumstances until we have better intelligence. Maintain cover as ordinary student. Gather information through passive observation only. And by "passive observation" I mean "try not to be in the same room if you can help it."*
*Further instructions pending additional investigation and possibly consultation with people who know things about cosmic hierarchies that I frankly don't want to know.*
She sent the message, then leaned back in her chair with the expression of someone who'd just realized their carefully planned operation had encountered complications of a magnitude that might require completely abandoning the original mission parameters and possibly taking up gardening as a safer alternative career path.
Because if the Potter family were dimensional refugees—if they'd somehow been brought to this reality from elsewhere by beings with the power to rearrange fundamental aspects of existence—then Harry Potter's "cosmic connections" weren't metaphorical or exaggerated or the kind of boasting that teenage boys engaged in to impress their girlfriends.
They were literal.
Which meant approaching his girlfriend with hostile intent wasn't just inadvisable.
It was potentially catastrophic in ways that might extend beyond mere physical consequences into the realm of having your entire existence restructured according to cosmic principles that would make conventional death seem like a pleasant vacation by comparison.
Greta had not survived for centuries by pursuing catastrophic strategies.
She had survived by being excellent at recognizing when situations were rapidly approaching "catastrophic" territory and extracting herself with maximum efficiency before consequences became irreversible.
She pulled up a secure line to her organization's leadership council, recognizing that this situation required consultation with people who had better information about cosmic-level supernatural phenomena and the entities capable of facilitating cross-dimensional relocation and who were paid significantly more than she was to make decisions about whether to abandon operations that had seemed perfectly reasonable forty-eight hours ago.
The call connected after three rings.
"This is Sienna," she said without preamble, because centuries of existence had taught her that bureaucratic pleasantries were what you engaged in when situations were *not* potentially catastrophic. "We have a problem. A significant problem that may require completely revising our approach to the Mikaelson situation. Possibly revising it to 'never mind, terrible idea, let's focus on literally anything else.'"
On the other end, her contact—a vampire named Viktor who'd been coordinating European supernatural intelligence operations since the Congress of Vienna and had the kind of steady temperament that came from centuries of dealing with supernatural politics—listened with the patient attention of someone who understood that new information sometimes required new strategies and occasionally required setting fire to old strategies and pretending they'd never existed.
When Greta finished explaining about the Potter family's complete absence from historical records and the implications of dimensional relocation requiring cosmic intervention and the various ways this could go catastrophically wrong for everyone involved, there was a long pause.
The kind of pause that suggested Viktor was mentally reviewing his own knowledge of cosmic hierarchies and finding nothing in that review that made him feel optimistic about the original mission parameters.
"You're suggesting," Viktor said slowly, each word carefully weighted with centuries of diplomatic experience, "that Hope Mikaelson's boyfriend is protected by beings capable of cross-dimensional relocation? The kind of beings that only exist at the highest levels of cosmic hierarchy? The kind we typically pretend don't exist because acknowledging their existence requires acknowledging how little actual power we have in the grand scheme of things?"
"I'm suggesting exactly that," Greta confirmed. "Which means that any action against Mikaelson risks drawing attention from entities we are not equipped to handle. Angels at minimum. Possibly archangels. Potentially beings even higher in the cosmic hierarchy if they've taken personal interest in protecting dimensional refugees. The kind of beings who appear in very old texts under headings like 'Do Not Disturb Under Any Circumstances' and 'Seriously, We Mean It, Don't Even Think About It.'"
Another pause, longer this time.
Greta could practically hear Viktor mentally calculating the various ways this could go wrong, comparing those scenarios against the potential intelligence value of information about Hope Mikaelson's vulnerabilities, and arriving at the conclusion that no amount of intelligence was worth angering beings who could restructure reality like rearranging deck chairs, except the deck chairs were fundamental aspects of existence and the rearranging might involve making you never have existed in the first place.
"Withdraw Roman," Viktor said finally, his tone carrying the weight of centuries of hard-won wisdom about knowing when to abandon operations. "Maintain his cover for the remainder of the semester so the withdrawal doesn't appear suspicious—we don't want anyone wondering why our operative suddenly developed an urgent need to be literally anywhere else. But cease all intelligence gathering operations related to Hope Mikaelson immediately. We are not in the business of antagonizing cosmic entities. We are in the business of survival and occasional intelligence gathering, in that order. And approaching a target who's protected at that level doesn't fall under either category—it falls under 'suicide with extra steps.'"
"Understood," Greta said with relief that the organizational leadership shared her assessment and wasn't going to insist on pursuing catastrophic strategies because someone at a higher pay grade had committed to the operation and didn't want to admit it was a terrible idea. "I'll send updated instructions immediately. Should I tell him why we're pulling back, or...?"
"Tell him enough to keep him cautious," Viktor said. "The last thing we need is Roman deciding to freelance because he thinks we're being overly cautious. Make sure he understands that this isn't bureaucratic cowardice—this is institutional survival instinct developed over centuries of learning which fights to avoid."
"Will do," Greta said, and disconnected.
She began composing new orders for Roman, this time emphasizing that his mission had shifted from intelligence gathering to maintaining cover while accomplishing absolutely nothing of operational value except demonstrating that vampires could, in fact, attend boarding school without causing cosmic incidents.
Better to waste a semester than to trigger cosmic intervention that would eliminate not just Roman but potentially their entire organization and possibly everyone who'd ever met anyone in their organization, with the kind of thoroughness that made conventional violence seem quaint.
Because beings capable of cross-dimensional relocation didn't issue warnings or make threats.
They simply removed problems with the kind of efficiency that suggested they had much better things to do with their time than deal with minor annoyances like intelligence operatives who didn't know when to leave well enough alone.
Greta had not survived for centuries by underestimating the kind of beings who could relocate entire families across dimensional boundaries.
She'd survived by recognizing when situations were beyond her capability to manage and withdrawing before consequences became catastrophic.
This was one of those situations.
Hope Mikaelson would remain unmolested.
Harry Potter's family would remain uninvestigated.
And Greta's organization would find different targets for their attention—ones that didn't come with cosmic protection and reality-altering boyfriends and the kind of existential risk that made conventional supernatural politics seem straightforward and almost relaxing by comparison.
Some battles were worth fighting.
This battle was worth avoiding at all costs.
Possibly while taking up gardening as a hobby.
Flowers were nice. Flowers didn't have cosmic protection.
Greta made a mental note to look into horticulture programs.
---
## The Salvatore School - Roman's Room - That Evening
Roman read his mother's updated instructions with a mixture of relief and frustration that he suspected would characterize his entire semester at this increasingly bizarre boarding school.
Relief because he'd been genuinely concerned about how to approach someone who was apparently protected by cosmic entities without dying in interesting and potentially permanent ways.
Frustration because he'd just spent two days settling into a new school, establishing his cover identity, memorizing the layout of buildings that seemed to have been designed by someone who thought "architectural coherence" was for people without imagination, and beginning the careful social navigation required for intelligence gathering operations.
And now he was being told to accomplish absolutely nothing while maintaining that cover for an entire semester.
*Mission parameters revised,* his mother's message read in the kind of formal language that suggested this decision had come from higher up the organizational chain. *Primary objective: maintain cover identity as ordinary transfer student. Secondary objective: complete semester without drawing suspicion or cosmic intervention. All intelligence gathering operations regarding Hope Mikaelson suspended indefinitely due to complications involving cosmic-level protection and our institutional preference for continued existence.*
*DO NOT attempt any contact with Harry Potter or Lily Potter under any circumstances. If questioned about interest in other students, claim normal social curiosity. If invited to social events involving Mikaelson or Potter, attend only if refusal would appear suspicious, maintain maximum distance, gather no intelligence, try not to make eye contact, and for the love of everything unholy DO NOT attempt conversation.*
*Your semester is now officially academic education only. Attend classes, complete assignments, integrate into student community as genuinely as possible. This is no longer an operational deployment—this is extended cover maintenance until extraction at semester end.*
*To be absolutely clear: The Potter family appears to be protected by beings capable of cross-dimensional relocation. This means angels at minimum, possibly archangels, potentially things even higher up the cosmic food chain that we frankly don't want to think about. These are not entities that issue warnings. They simply remove problems. Permanently. With thoroughness that makes conventional death seem like a pleasant alternative.*
*So your new mission is simple: Be a normal student. Get decent grades. Don't die. Don't get eliminated from existence. Don't attract attention from cosmic entities who could rearrange reality in ways that make you wish they'd just killed you conventionally.*
*I realize this is not the exciting spy mission you were expecting. Consider it character building. And survival training. Mostly survival training.*
*Further instructions will be provided regarding withdrawal strategy that minimizes suspicion. For now, you are simply a transfer student receiving normal education at supernatural boarding school. Try to enjoy it. Learn something. Make friends who aren't protected by reality-altering entities.*
*Sorry about the wasted semester, but cosmic entities are not worth antagonizing over intelligence that we can obtain through other means. Or that we can just decide we don't actually need because survival is more important than complete information.*
*Stay safe. Maintain cover. Don't do anything interesting. We'll debrief fully when you're extracted.*
*And Roman? I mean this with all the maternal affection I can muster: Do. Not. Freelance. This is not the time for initiative or creative problem-solving. This is the time for being remarkably boring.*
*Love, Mom*
*P.S. - Yes, I signed with "Love, Mom" even though this is an official operational communication. Because I want to make sure you understand that I'm not just your handler telling you to abort the mission. I'm your mother telling you not to get yourself eliminated from existence by beings who can restructure reality. There's a difference.*
Roman set down his phone and stared at his ceiling with the expression of someone who'd just been told their exciting spy mission had been downgraded to "attend school and try not to get noticed by cosmic entities who could make you never have existed in the first place."
On one hand, this was significantly less dangerous than his original assignment.
On the other hand, he was now committed to spending an entire semester at a supernatural boarding school accomplishing absolutely nothing of operational value except demonstrating that yes, vampires could sit through biology classes and pretend to care about mitochondria.
He pulled up his class schedule for tomorrow and stared at it with the kind of resignation that came from accepting that his semester was now going to be defined by homework instead of espionage.
Biology. History. English Literature. Supernatural Theory. Practical Magic.
Actual classes. With actual academic content. That he was now supposed to actually learn instead of using as cover for intelligence gathering.
There was a knock on his door.
Roman looked up with the immediate suspicion of someone who'd just been told to be remarkably boring and was worried that the universe was about to make that impossible.
"Yeah?" he called out.
The door opened to reveal Jed, one of his roommates—a werewolf with the kind of aggressively friendly personality that suggested he'd never met a social situation he couldn't make more complicated through sheer enthusiasm.
"Yo, Roman," Jed said, leaning against the doorframe with the casual confidence of someone who'd decided they were going to be friends whether Roman wanted to be or not. "Some of us are heading to the common room to watch a movie. You want in? We're thinking either horror—because why not watch fictional monsters when we literally are monsters—or that new superhero thing that just came out on streaming."
Roman considered this invitation through the lens of his new mission parameters.
Maintain cover as normal student: Check.
Integrate into student community: Check.
Don't do anything that would make people suspicious about why he was suddenly antisocial: Also check.
"Sure," he said, setting aside his phone and standing up. "What time?"
"Like, now-ish," Jed said. "We're still arguing about the movie. Kaleb wants horror because he thinks it's hilarious when the victims make terrible decisions. MG wants the superhero thing because he's got opinions about whether the fight choreography is realistic. And Hope said she doesn't care as long as we don't pick anything that's going to make Landon start analyzing symbolism for three hours afterward."
Roman froze slightly at the mention of Hope but managed to keep his expression neutral.
Hope Mikaelson. Protected by cosmic entities through proxy of reality-altering boyfriend. Currently the person he was supposed to maintain maximum distance from while not being obvious about maintaining maximum distance from her.
"Hope's going to be there?" he asked, trying to make it sound like casual curiosity rather than operational concern.
"Yeah, probably," Jed said, completely oblivious to Roman's internal calculations about cosmic intervention and survival strategies. "Her and Landon usually show up for movie nights. Why, you got a thing for her? Because fair warning, dude—she's got a boyfriend, and he's apparently got 'cosmic connections' according to Lizzie Saltzman, who heard it from someone who heard it from someone else. So, you know, probably don't try anything unless you want to get smited. Or is it smitten? What's the past participle of smite?"
"Smitten is actually the past participle," Roman said automatically, his brain momentarily distracted by grammar while the rest of his mind screamed that Lizzie Saltzman apparently knew about Harry Potter's cosmic connections and was casually discussing them at a school where information traveled faster than responsible decision-making.
"Huh," Jed said. "Good to know. So you coming or not?"
Roman made a split-second decision based on his mother's instructions about maintaining cover and attending social events when refusal would appear suspicious.
Not attending a casual movie night with his roommates when he'd just been invited would appear suspicious.
Attending a casual movie night with his roommates while maintaining maximum distance from Hope Mikaelson while not being obvious about maintaining maximum distance from Hope Mikaelson would be... challenging.
But probably less challenging than explaining why he was suddenly antisocial.
"Yeah, I'll come," he said, grabbing his jacket. "But I vote for the superhero thing. I've seen enough horror movies to know that nothing good comes from watching fictional monsters make terrible decisions when you're surrounded by actual monsters."
"That's what makes it funny though," Jed said, leading the way down the hallway. "Like, last week we watched this vampire movie and Kaleb kept yelling at the screen about how that's not how blood consumption works and nobody would actually be that dramatic about feeding. It was hilarious."
They arrived at the common room to find it already occupied by approximately a dozen students in various states of casual arrangement across couches, chairs, and floor space. Roman recognized some of them from classes—MG, Kaleb, Landon, Josie, Lizzie.
And Hope, sitting on one of the couches next to Landon, looking remarkably normal for someone who was apparently protected by cosmic entities capable of cross-dimensional relocation.
Roman carefully selected a seat on the opposite side of the room that provided maximum distance while not being obvious about it, settling into an armchair that had the tactical advantage of facing mostly toward the TV rather than toward Hope.
"Okay," Kaleb announced from his position near the TV, "we're voting. Horror or superhero thing?"
"Superhero," MG said immediately.
"Horror," Lizzie countered. "Specifically, something with terrible decisions and dramatic irony. I need to watch people make choices that are worse than mine."
"That's weirdly specific," Josie observed from her seat on the floor.
"I'm a weirdly specific person," Lizzie said. "It's part of my charm."
"We could watch both," Landon suggested. "If we start now, we could probably get through both movies before curfew if we skip the credits."
"Who skips credits?" MG protested. "The credits have important information. Like who did the stunts. And whether there's a post-credits scene."
"There's always a post-credits scene," Kaleb said. "That's like the one reliable thing about superhero movies. They always have a post-credits scene that sets up the next movie that we're all going to watch even though we know we're being manipulated by corporate franchises."
Roman settled deeper into his armchair and tried to project an aura of "normal transfer student interested in movie selection" rather than "intelligence operative trying not to attract attention from cosmic entities."
Hope glanced around the room during the debate about movie selection, and her gaze briefly landed on Roman.
He gave her a polite nod—the kind of acknowledgment that any normal student would give another student they vaguely recognized from classes.
She nodded back with a smile that suggested she had no idea he'd been sent to gather intelligence about her vulnerabilities and had recently been ordered to abort that mission due to complications involving her boyfriend's cosmic protection.
Good.
That was exactly how this should work.
Normal students being normally normal about normal things like movie selection.
"Fine," Lizzie announced, apparently reaching an executive decision about the evening's entertainment. "We're watching the superhero thing first because MG will actually shut up during it, and then if people want to stay for horror afterward, we can watch horror. Democracy in action."
"That's not democracy," Josie pointed out. "That's you making a decision and calling it democracy."
"Democracy is when I make decisions that benefit the majority," Lizzie said with the kind of confidence that suggested she'd never actually studied political theory. "And the majority will benefit from MG shutting up about fight choreography for two hours."
"I don't talk during movies," MG protested.
"You absolutely talk during movies," Kaleb said. "You did an entire running commentary last week about realistic vampire behavior."
"That was different," MG said. "That was educational commentary."
"It was annoying commentary," Kaleb countered, but he was smiling when he said it.
Someone dimmed the lights. The movie started. Roman settled into his armchair and prepared to spend the next two hours being remarkably boring while maintaining maximum distance from Hope Mikaelson without being obvious about it.
This, he reflected, was going to be his entire semester.
Carefully calculated normalcy.
Strategic boredom.
Tactical movie-watching.
At least, he thought as the opening credits rolled, the blood supply was temperature controlled.
And nobody was currently trying to eliminate him from existence.
Those were both significant improvements over how the mission could have gone.
He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to his mother: *At movie night with roommates. Maintaining cover. Being remarkably boring. Hope Mikaelson is present. Maintaining maximum distance without being obvious about it. So far, no cosmic intervention.*
The response came back almost immediately: *Good. Keep being boring. Boring is good. Boring keeps you alive. Love you. Don't do anything interesting.*
Roman tucked his phone away and focused on the movie, which was apparently about superheroes with complicated backstories and fight choreography that MG was definitely going to have opinions about the moment the credits started rolling.
Normal student things.
Boring student things.
Survival-oriented student things.
Welcome to the Salvatore School, where even the spies sometimes had to admit that some targets were too well-protected to approach safely, so you might as well watch superhero movies and pretend to care about whether the fight choreography was realistic.
Also, the blood supply came in containers that looked like juice boxes with temperature control.
Roman was starting to appreciate that more with each passing day.
It was the little things that made extended cover operations bearable.
That, and the growing certainty that he'd just avoided something that would have been significantly worse than spending a semester pretending to care about homework and superhero movie fight choreography.
Cosmic entities.
Reality-altering boyfriends.
Families with no historical records who'd appeared in Los Angeles twelve years ago as if deposited there by beings who could rearrange fundamental aspects of existence like furniture.
Roman decided he was actually quite happy to be accomplishing nothing of operational value.
Some missions were better left unaccomplished.
This was definitely one of them.
On screen, the superheroes were making dramatic entrances while MG whispered something to Kaleb about tactical approach angles.
Roman smiled slightly and settled deeper into his armchair.
Boring was good.
Boring meant survival.
And survival meant he'd live to complain about homework like a normal student instead of being eliminated from existence by cosmic entities who had better things to do than tolerate intelligence operatives with inadequate survival instincts.
All things considered, he'd take it.
---
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