String Theory

Chapter 2

>>> TS: How about you tell me who you are first _
>>> TS: ? _

The response comes immediately this time— Peter doesn't even lift his hands from the keyboard before a new message pings.

>> AG: I can't give you my name. _
>>> TS: Why not? _
>> AG: This line may not be secure. _
>>> TS: Right. Totally makes me want to trust you _

On the other side of the screen, Eggsy Unwin runs a hand through his hair. The gun beside him is a cold, black steel, with STARK INDUSTRIEScleanly etched on the hilt. This is their only lead, and he can't help but feel a little sick to his stomach. He knows he should remember who Stark is, or at least what they look like. Blind faith isn't his strong suit, especially not right now— not with Orthus watching everything that's happening. Ginger Ale had already found that out: Orthus is monitoring every single digital frequency in the world. So here he is, at this ancient desktop computer, writing an analog message to a person who might not even help him at all. Eggsy thoughtfully traces a thumb over the edge of the keyboard before lifting his hands to type again.

>> AG: You sell weaponry to my organization, Kingsman. We're an intelligence agency. Look, you don't need to trust ME. But please _
>> AG: Things are bad. There's something wrong here. Do the research yourself, if you have to. Orthus is lying to us. Have you seen the broadcast? _

Peter feels sick. After a moment, softly: "Karen, do I sell weapons?"

"You make them. I can't confirm whether or not you sell them. I don't have those records." A glance around the lab confirms Karen's answer; the suits aren't the only pieces of technology in the lab. Guns, blasters, gauntlets— all variations of high-tech weaponry are scattered on the various workbenches. Peter pinches the bridge of his nose as the notification sounds again.

>> AG: I don't even know your name, Stark. I just know you're the one who made my gun, and your technology is protecting half the satellites around the world. I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm not Orthus. I just need your help. _

Peter doesn't respond. There's a little delay, and then:

>> AG: I need you. _
>> AG: Please. _

Eggsy leans back in his chair, gives a rough sigh of impatience, and drums his fingers against his thigh in time with the ticking of the clock adjacent to him. If Stark doesn't help, then he's shit out of luck. There's just him and Ginger Ale. Two agents stand no chance at finding a mole a worldwide ghost organization, especially not when their Kingsman satellites are inoperative, and they have no way to repair them. The clock's ticking drags from seconds to minutes, and his screen's still empty.

"Fuck," Eggsy mutters. "Fuck it."

His patience has run out. He shoves out of his chair and paces a few times, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. Though he'd woken up in a suit, the street clothes he'd found in his bedside dresser were a much more comfortable. Now, though, the gray sweatshirt is biting into his neck, and he feels like he can't breathe because of it. He gives a gentle tug at the collar and takes a few deep breaths before going for the door.

"Ginger?" he calls. "Ginger, it was a bust. Stark's not biting; I think we're fucked."

>>> TS: I'll help you _

The sound of the notification stops him where he is, and Eggsy's breath catches in his throat as he turns to look at the computer screen. He backtracks, and sits heavily in the chair.

>> AG: Good. That's good _
>>> TS: Tony, by the way _
>> AG: What? _
>>> TS: My name is Tony. _
>> AG: Okay, Tony. You can call me Galahad for now. _