A/N: I'm hoping to cash in on the Kingsman craze right now, that and Colin Firth as Galahad is absolutely scrumptious. I cannot promise to update all the time because I am in nursing school currently, but I do promise to update. Also, since they did not expand on Lancelot's character enough I shall interpret him the way I believe he would act. I feel like he and Galahad balance each other out, so he will be charming like Galahad, but more casual and playful. Every team needs that one sarcasticly, charming fellow. And, yes, I did get this idea from watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but I am not going to copy it. I'm not even sure they will even get married. Anywho - I hope you enjoy! Ha! I know I will.

Love,

S.C

I, Shorty C., do not own Kingsman: The Secret Service in any way, shape, or fashion. It belongs to the minds of Mark Millar and Matthew Vaughn.

Kingsman Meeting Room; 2001

"Glasses on, Gentlemen."

Following the command, of their resident technical officer, Merlin, the rest of the men within the room picked up their glasses and slid them on. The glasses, once on, gave way to a new sight; a new way of seeing in a new age. Created only a year ago, the virtual reality and interface glasses allow the Kingsman to do many a things that heighten their performance. Their use now is to sync up with Merlin's laptop that he had laid out upon the table.

Lancelot blinked a bit as data flash before his eyes, taking up a good portion of his sight. His nose crinkled up a tad in distaste.

"I'll never get use to this."

Merlin smiled over to his colleague, "A new age is dawning in the technological world, Lancelot. I intend to allow new discoveries to launch us into the future. I have a number of other projects I am working on currently."

"I'd rather just keep my gun, thank you."

Arthur glanced at Lancelot with a disapproving look, "Gentlemen, can we please get on with it? Precious time is being floundered by your squabbling. Merlin, continue.

"Right, Sir", Merlin coughed and adjusted his glasses. He then moved his mouse to bring up an ID picture of a man of his mid to late thirties with a mop of brown hair. Bright blues eyes were marred by a pair of thick glasses that were perched upon the bridge of his nose.

"Jerome Moran, age 38, a physicist from American, he was most notably known for his assistance in enhancing the efficiency of the particle accelerator. He was nabbed a day ago in Moscow as he was on his way to a lecture on the Quantum Theory at the Moscow State University."

Galahad took a good long look at the man in the picture. Moran was only four years older than himself. He soon spoke up, "Does he have any enemies?"

Merlin scrolled though the file, "No enemies per se."

Lancelot grinned and also added his two pennies worth, "What about a dodgy bint out for his head?"

The resident tech looked over his glasses at the man whom had tucked his hands behind his head in a passive way. The two were just hell bent on getting on each other's nerves today. Merlin ground his teeth silently and then reset his jaw. He just needed to keep his comments to himself. That's what a gentleman would do.

"Not likely, Lancelot. No sign or record of an ex, a mistress, or spouse. But there is something that could have lead to his kidnapping."

He brought up a partial picture of a blueprint, "This is a partial schematic to his rumored new invention, the Hydrogen Accelerator. We've been hearing about his plans for the past three years now. No one but Jerome knows the full plans. By hearsay he has not even let his team know every bit."

"Why not? Wouldn't a team of scientists and researchers need to know what exactly they are working on?"

"You would think, Galahad", Merlin held up a single finger, "but he was smart about it. He spliced up the plans and assigned a single piece to each person of his team. The only reason I have this picture is because one of the interns leaked it to the Popular Science magazine."

Lancelot, finally, a little interested leaned forward, "So, what does this accelerator do exactly?

"Good question, and my answer also leads up to a possible reason as to why our man was napped. Again, just by hearsay, the Hydrogen Accelerator is purposed to be more efficient in testing my delicate processes. According to the leaked resources, this accelerator is meant to be geared towards the medical field. More specifically x-ray beams. My assumption is that this machine can be used to produce more radiation free equipment."

Merlin took a moment to type a few phrases into his computer. He sifted through the files he'd acquired from his sources. His eyes widened a bit before he adjusted his glasses. "Never mind, his intentions are the exact opposite."

Soon, Merlin brought up a more recent article; recent being this week. The title reading large across the, "ANTIMATTER BOMB COMES WITH PRODUCTION OF HYDROGEN ACCELERATOR".

Lancelot sighed heavily, "Bombs. It is always bombs. Can a scientist ever produce something actually helpful? Like cancer. Whatever happened to trying to discover a cure for cancer?"

"Enough, Lancelot", Arthur cut off his agent's rant with a gesture of his hand before turning his attention to Merlin. "What does this mean for Dr. Moran?"

"It means that we have a motive for kidnapping. For years the military has been trying to find a means for the seemingly fictitious antimatter bomb, but it always proves to be inaccessible. Particle accelerators are expensive and inefficient, but very useful. With the production of this new accelerator as a more efficient energy source comes more discoveries."

"Meaning more efficient weaponry", Galahad added. "What's next? Do we have a lead on his whereabouts?"

"Actually, that is the best part. His captors are not exactly discreet."

Merlin pulled up another picture, "This was taken from a traffic camera just outside the city of Moscow."

It showed a nondescript black vehicle speeding its way out of the city with no license plate and widows tinted so black it's a wonder they could even see. Next, Merlin gave another picture of the same vehicle with a different time stamp and obviously in a different place.

"This picture was taken in a city one hundred and one miles away from Moscow called Vladimir heading towards an even smaller town of Muromtzevo. Resources say they saw the same black car within the area. A lead even stated the driver asked where the Murmtzevo Castle was located."

Another picture popped up in their vision, one of an abandoned, collapsing castle-like mansion. It was not very large, three maybe four stories tall, but just big enough to hide a man and keep him hidden.

"Satellites have captured images in the past four hours of bodies on the grounds of the castle, while it is normally unoccupied. That is where our man is being kept."

"Why exactly do we want this man alive, exactly? If all he is doing is building another way of allowing us to kill ourselves then by all means, I say let him rot", Lancelot, much to nearly everyone's chagrin, opened his mouth once more.

Galahad broke the tension, "Because, Lancelot, if Moran dies, there is a chance that beforehand his captors would acquire the information they're after. Meaning-"

"Meaning, they could sell the schematics to anyone willing to pay a barmy amount of money", Lancelot finished, finally getting the gist.

"Precisely", Galahad merely nodded at the sudden epiphany of his friend. "What do we have to do?"

"Galahad, your job is to get Jerome Moran out alive. The schematics for his newest hydrogen accelerator cannot make it to the black market. Lancelot, you will merely accompany as support this time. You will be communicating with Galahad and the pilots of the K-Jet and the heli. But that will be explained more later."

Lancelot adjusted his jacket and finally took off the (distracting) glasses and put them in his pocket, "Ace. So when do we start?"

A light bulb swung lonely back and forth, back and forth in the damp cell; the light it threw gleaming on the wet, moss-covered walls. The light itself did not actually belong there. It was thrown over a hook attached to the low set ceiling, casting a dim yellow glow about the place. The room was built up by large, rectangular shaped blocks made of stone that did not fit together quite properly. Between the cracks anything could come through. Water, drafts, vines, bugs, snakes. Though the wildlife was not an issue at this point. It was the cool wind that proved to be the worst part. There appeared to be holes everywhere, which created, what seemed to be a constant wind within the room. It looked as if the place was falling apart. Stones crumbling, rafters falling, and piles of rubble laid about. The lone occupant could care less though; he couldn't see a thing.

Jerome Moran tried to not freak out. He was smart enough to not hyperventilate or jerk around too much. Whatever he did would prove to make matters worse; so, he just resorted to glancing around, trying to see past the loosely woven threads of the sack tied to his head. All that could be seen was the yellowish light that reflected back to him off the walls. It was very disconcerting. Truth be told, Jerome felt as if he would wet himself.

He had not known where he was at or how long it has been. But not long ago was he walking down the colorful streets of Moscow on his way to Moscow State University, and now he was tied (very tightly) to a chair, with a bag over his head and the edges taped to his shirt and neck. Not only could he feel the circulation in his hand and feet slowing but he could also feel a large bump on the back of his head where his captor(s) rendered him unconscious. Jerome was just all around uncomfortable. He had no intentions of coming to Russia and getting captured. Then again no one plans to be kidnapped.

A door slammed open only a ways behind him. The sound of wood colliding with stone made him jump, well, as much as he could with being tethered to a chair. He did not like the feeling of having someone behind him. He liked having everyone in front of him so he could see what they were doing. Too many times had people spoke about him behind his back. If they were going to say something, they needed to say it too his face. All he heard were footsteps, heavy ones, clunking and clacking against the floor. After a moment, everything went quiet. That's when he really began to get nervous.

"Forty klicks out, Sir. ETA: twenty minutes." The pilot called back over the headset.

"Right." Galahad spoke to the pilot as he prepared himself. Pulling on a parachute pack and tightening down the straps. He slipped his agency issued glasses into one of the many pockets of his stealth garb, and then he placed a pair of night vision goggles over his brown eyes before pulling the rest of the mask over his face.

"I will jump one klick from targeted position. No need in giving away our arrival", Galahad spoke to his pilot as he prepared himself to execute his upcoming mission.

"Are you quite sure you do not need my help?"

Galahad glanced up from his belt that he snapped closed to look at his partner and close friend, Lancelot. The man, as all Kingsman, was dressed smartly like always. Two button suit jacket of a Harris Tweed with a more casual look to his person with his hands in the pockets of his pants. He more often than not blurred the lines between the American and British styled suits, while Galahad stuck with his sharper British cut. They contrasted by means of not only style and aura but color too; while Lancelot preferred more earthy tones, Galahad kept his wardrobe to mostly clean grays and charcoals. However they both seemed to live by the three piece.

"When have I never needed your help?"

Lancelot cocked a cheeky eyebrow, "There was that one time Vienna with Baron Verchow's lovely Baroness. . . Remember the hot tub?"

Galahad cut his eyes to his friend as he loaded his gun with a click, not very amused by his joshing.

Lancelot continued, "And, what about when you were captured, starkers, and strung up in Bolivia." He leaned against the wall of the plane as Galahad continued to try to ignore him. "Had you strung up for the slaughter, and who came to your rescue?"

His partner merely added a few extra clips to his pockets, as he felt this would get messy very quickly.

"And, what about the time in Chile?"

Galahad's head snapped up to stare down his friend. "You promised we would never speak of that."

Loving that he struck a chord within the normally, level headed man, Lancelot grinned and continued on. "Remember the lovely Señorita at the bar that invited you back to her room for the night. The one with the nice legs and arse, but unusually flat baps?"

"Please, don't continue, and as I remember you not help one bit you barmy, Bastard. You laughed your arse off as I was accosted by a bloke in a blouse. You knew the whole time."

"Of course I did! It makes for a wonderful story to tell at Christmas."

Galahad stared at him blankly for a moment, "Don't make me shoot you."

Lancelot continued to smile and he raised his hands up in an, 'I surrender' position. "Sorry if I am a bit cheeky."

"A bit?"

"Galahad, Sir, five klicks from the revised position. Get ready to drop", the pilot called back to the duo.

"Heard", he confirmed over his small headset that was mounted onto his ear. "Lancelot, if you will, drop the door."

Galahad adjusted his parachute one more time, checking the straps and belts before approaching the opening drop door at the back of the plane. He pressed a button on the side of his goggles; the interface soon popped up revealing data of the environment in from of him and the time.

From behind his friend approached him and clasped a hand on his black clad shoulder. He had speak loudly over the sound of the roaring wind, "Galahad, we'll be patrolling the air space two klicks out from your position. Muromtzevo Castle is one klick due southeast from your estimated landing position. Merlin believes the target is being held in one of the old downstairs storage rooms."

"Do we know how many bodies are there?"

Lancelot shook his head, "We have no idea. Maybe three, maybe thirteen. As a rule of thumb I'd say the latter, always better to expect more. Now, once you have acquired the target a heli will pick you up right outside the castle. It is coming out of Moscow right now. It should be here by the time you finish. If you finish, which you should, before the heli arrives start walking northwest and it'll meet you. Understood?"

"Yes. Anything else?"

Lancelot smiled and patted him on the shoulder, "Yes, don't get shot. Now, jump!"

Still, no one had spoken. The silence, he knew, was another added scare tactic, but he could not help but fall for it. Against his better judgment Jerome opened his mouth to speak.

"What do you wan-"

Crack!

A heavy, blunt object connected with his jaw, knocking an incisor loose and successfully bloodying his mouth and the inside of his sack. Jerome grunted and groaned. He was never exposed to such violence before and never truly had a fight. He busted his lip and skinned his knees as a child, but that was it. This was a whole new breed of cat for him, and he didn't like it.

"You no ask questions. I ask questions." The man did not yell, he did not raise his voice; rather, he stayed calm and quiet in his choppy English. This was more discomforting than anything.

"P-please, j-just tell me-"

Crack!

"No speaking. I tell you when to speak."

This time he heard his glasses crack. Jerome opened his mouth again, but the taste of blood on his tongue told him better. He let his head fall forward, a sign of submission. It would be better to give them whatever they wanted.

"Now. Where is plans for the hydrogen accelerator?"

Except for that.

"N-no. I can't give you those."

The man grunted and leaned forward. A second later the tape holding the sack to his neck was ripped off, then came the bag. Jerome shook his head and squinted into the dim light which looked as bright as fluorescence at the moment. The man grabbed his chin and jerked upward, not caring if Jerome's blood dirtied his hands.

Finally, Jerome got a look at the man, albeit through cracked lenses. He suddenly wanted the sack back. . . The tall man looked as if his face took a few whack from an ugly stick. Everything about him was large. His nose, square jaw, and big, wide forehead. On top of that, various scars which looked to be burn marred his left eye and cheek, creating a pink-peach color of mottled flesh. The bag looked much better in his opinion.

"Tell me."

"I destroyed them", he lied.

The man dug his sausage finger deeply into Jerome's jaw, squeezing with a pressure that he did not know a man could possess. A groan left the smaller man's throat as he felt something crack.

"I will not ask again, Moran. Where is schematics for accelerator?" Another sickening crack resonated within the dimly lit area. Jerome felt his torturer close in around his face, creating an uncomfortable aura about them both.

"I would break if I were you, Moran. What I have planned next is not nice."

With that, the man took hold of something in his pocket. Immediately, Jerome thought the man was going to pull out a gun. Oh, if only he were so lucky. He soon wished it were a gun once his eyes took sight of a large pair of pliers. Jerome's eyes widened and he began to shake and pull at his chair. The wooden legs lifted from the ground as he tried to move away, but the man merely smiled and took hold of the back of the chair. After steadying the semi-flailing man he brought his other hand up to hook the pliers over Jerome's middle finger. It took less than a second for Jerome to scream as the tool squished tightly around his smaller appendage. Over the sound of his own screams he could barely make out a voice saying, "Now, imagine this around balls."

He squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter, and then yanked up.

"Aghg! Nghh. Fuck! You crazy, Bastard! You broke my finger! Ah, fuck!"

Quicker than the last, his torturer took hold of another appendage and twisted harshly, almost taking the whole finger with him.

A scream tore from Jerome's throat as his own blood poured from the deep tears on his broken fingers.

"I can't give you the plans! I should have never created the blasted thing!"

The man frowned deeper, if that was even possible.

"Принесите дрель."

"What?" Jerome did not understand what he said, but whatever his last word was it sounded like "drill".

"Drill? What drill? Why do you need a drill?"

Another man, shorter than his torturer walked in and pass Jerome. The newcomer tossed him a dirty, yellowing smirk as he handed a rather large, cordless drill to the other.

His torturer revved up the power tool, watching as the sharp, long drill bit spun ferociously. Jerome couldn't speak. Instead, he was hypnotized by the metallic spear, that he was sure would soon be somewhere within him. What could he do but prepare to scream?

"Принесите дрель." - Bring the drill.