Direct sequel to "Acts of Truth" but otherwise unrelated to it and completely AU. A group of social agitators rise up, troublesome but harmless, at first. It's up to Section D to get on the case and stop them before things get seriously out of hand. Only the OCs belong to me, all else to BBC and Kudos.

Chapter One: Blackpool Rock (Introduction)

If Ruth closes her eyes she can imagine herself back in Cyprus. She can dream away the Thames and put the restless, endless ocean in its place; turn the skyscrapers into ancient monuments and conjure an arid heat from the insipid English sun. What she cannot imagine back in her life, are the people. Or rather, George. It's only been a month since her return, and already it's as though he never existed. This lack of feeling shamed her; she tried to impose it on herself like a surgeon grafting emotions from one person's brain to another. But no one can conjure a feeling out of thin air; love simply cannot be manufactured like that. It wasn't that she didn't miss him; it was just more akin to looking back at an old school friend: she wondered where he was, whether he was happy and then she got on with something else.

When she opened her eyes again, on that particular sunny, Sunday afternoon, she turned her back to the river barrier and faced Thames House. She'd only been back once, just to drop in and say hello to old friends and comrades. But she would starting back officially the next day, and she knew it would be as though the last two years hadn't happened. Already, a thrill of excitement gripped her by the stomach as she thought ahead to the next day. After four stagnant weeks of waiting for Harry to sort things out, she was chomping at the bit to get back in there. Four weeks, for Harry to convince the powers that be that her return to work did not herald the coming of the Acts of Truth apocalypse.

A soft breeze ruffled the hems of her skirts as her mobile phone trilled into life, somewhere in the bowels of her handbag. Rummaging amongst the loose tissues, mascaras and powder compacts, she pulled out the phone like a prize in a lucky dip. In-coming call: Lucile Adams. Ruth breathed a sigh of relief.

"Lucy," greeted Ruth by way of answer. To try and drown out the heavy traffic, Ruth jammed her free index finger in her ear. "Did you get my message?"

The line crackled, but through the static the younger woman's voice answered in the affirmative, before adding: "Lunch with the Defence Secretary – who can refuse?"

"Exactly," Ruth laughed back. "Careful you don't make the husband too jealous."

"What time will you be there at?" asked Lucile.

"Harry's just had to pop into Thames House; you know that business on the news today? That business with the confectioners? It's that. I'm waiting for him now and I'll text you when he's out again."

"Oh, god, that!" Lucile replied. "Is that something we need to worry about?"

Ruth considered the question, and mentally shrugged. "Who knows," she replied, not in a question. "It doesn't look good, though. If someone's deliberately poisoned their supplies, this could be huge."

"Urgh! I love their chocolate mousses too," replied the other woman. "Ah well, see you later Ruth. And welcome back! I never for one moment thought you'd done what they said. But you know what the service is like."

All too well, Ruth thought as the call ended. But Lucile, an old colleague from GCHQ, had been one of the first to get back in touch with her when she returned. A nice lady of about thirty-four, newly married and excited at the prospect of a quasi-field Op during secondment to MI5. They would discuss it during the dinner with the Defence Secretary, who had wanted Ruth to do the job but Harry was adamant: Ruth needed time to settle back in and find her feet. So Ruth broke the deadlock between the two men by suggesting Lucile. She spoke several languages and had proved a gifted cryptographer during the short time she and Ruth had worked together at GCHQ.

When Ruth returned her phone to the pits of her handbag, she turned back towards the river. Summer was coming, and the slowly increasing heat was lifting the stink of the river mists to ground level and she hoped Harry would hurry up. In the meantime, while she waited, Ruth let her thoughts drift back to Cyprus and a wry smile spread slowly across her face. How many times had she been in at home in Polis, whishing she was in London and missing Cyprus, rather than the other way round. Now, she was and she realised she was happy.

The sound of a footstep falling close by caught her attention; she turned to see Harry materialising at her side. Just as always, he popped up out of thin air even when she was expecting him. He was smiling, but looked careworn and he fussed over a set of cufflinks on his shirt. Seeing him again still felt surreal, like it was a dream she expected to wake up from at any moment, as she had so many times in the past two years. But this Harry was real, his flesh reassuringly solid as he circled an arm around her waist to steer towards their waiting car. Inwardly, she was impressed: Sir Harry Pearce clearly had someone else to do his driving, these days.

Remembering her promise to Lucile, Ruth sent the promised text informing her to set off for the Defence Secretary's Chelsea home. All the while, she was aware of Harry watching her curiously, his green eyes fixing her, leaden with doubt. She knew what the question would be even before he had so much as twitched his lips to begin asking. She smiled in the face of the inevitable.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

When she glanced up from her phone, she saw him gnawing nervously at the knuckle of one black leather gloved hand. He usually only wore those gloves when he was off to dispose of someone. Surely, she thought to herself, he hadn't taken against the Defence Secretary that badly already? The man had only been in the job for a month or so, following a Cabinet reshuffle.

Ruth sighed heavily, nonetheless touched at his concern. "Harry, I can't wait-"

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes!" she laughed. "A hundred times, yes. Now stop faffing."

"Faffing?" he repeated, grimacing. "I've been accused of many things, Ruth, but faffing isn't among them."

"Not to your face," she retorted.

The driver pulled out into the London traffic, thankfully not so bad on a sunny afternoon. Everyone was out enjoying themselves, populating the parks or heading out of London: the opposite direction to which they were going. Heading for the nearest stretch of beach, or fleeing to the open countryside for picnics and sight-seeing before returning to the grim realities of the work-a-day grindstone. To Ruth's relief, Harry grinned knowingly and dropped his gaze. He even stopped troubling those nice leather murder gloves.

"So, what's going on at the chocolate factory?" she asked, changing the subject and curious about what probably be her first job, come the morning. It sounded sinister, from what she had heard on the news that morning, and Harry seemed worried.

"Willy Wonka accidentally left the cyanide taps on overnight, or something like that," he replied, waving a dismissive hand. "They actually don't have any proof, but they think it is sabotage." He paused there, before taking his own turn to change the subject. "Did Lucile Adams agree to meet us at the dinner?"

"She'll be there. She really wants to do this, actually. She's never been out in the field before and has always wanted to do it."

"She won't be out in the field, exactly. She'll be buried away in some bunker reading out coded messages over a radio signal," explained Harry. "By the way, you do know I didn't mean to imply that you're not fit for the job. You know, when I refused to let them send you. I really do think you should take your time and settle back in. I let Lucas jump back in and he ended up getting himself chased down and shot in Cyprus-"

"I know, Harry," she interjected. "But Lucas is different, and you weren't to know that Connie was a traitor of the highest order."

She had never met Connie James, but the mention of her name brought a brief flicker of pain to Harry's eyes. He looked away from her, at the streets whizzing past the car windows. Just for a second, before he turned back to look at her again. She thought he was about to say something else, or divulge more information about what Connie had done. But instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old photograph, handing it to her. It was a copy, black and white. A young man standing defiant before a line of policemen cowering behind Perspex shields, ominous truncheons at the ready as they closed in on protesters nearby. The young man was unarmed, but standing his ground. Behind him, others gathered in a defensive huddle as they braced themselves for the onslaught. They were in a field, but in the background was an old coking plant. The Miner's Strike, 1984-85. The face looked familiar, frozen in time as he shouted at the advancing policemen.

"Is that him?" she asked, looking back up at Harry. "Is that David Shelley?"

Harry's eyes glimmered, a knowing look setting in. "From rioting picket surfer to Secretary of State for Defence. We've got quite an interesting file on him, as it happens."

Now this dinner was looking even more interesting. Of course, New Labour sell-outs (as some would see them) populated the hallowed halls of Westminster, but still nothing quite on this level. Ruth handed the picture back, making a mental note to check David Shelley out properly, once she was back in work properly. For today, she was doing nothing more than accompanying Harry and lending emotional support to an old friend. "Is there anything else I need to know about Comrade Shelley?" she asked.

"He named his son after Leon Trotsky," replied Harry, and Ruth had to suppress a laugh.

"Poor kid!"

Harry grinned. "Don't feel too sorry for him, he's just been expelled from his boarding school apparently. Although his father is dressing it up as some kind of illness leave."

Ruth settled back down, watching from the car window as they put the river to the south of them as they headed towards Chelsea. She could just see the Chelsea Bridge, leading them into one of the most affluent areas of London – a fairly affluent city to begin with. The likes of her had rarely been allowed to darken its neat terraced doorways or besmirch its whitewashed walls. She was definitely looking forward to the dinner now.

Ros fixed the television set with a sharp, beady-eyed look as the newsreader concluded the broadcast. Next to her on the sofa of the small flat, Lucas was more interested in the contents of his tea cup, where a digestive biscuit had just slopped into the depths after being dunked a nanosecond too long. She ignored his muttered curse and kept her eye fixed on the screen for a second longer. She was on the edge of her seat, then slumped backwards so suddenly that Lucas almost dropped his cup.

"Years ago, there was this guy working for Blackpool Rock, making the actual rock," she began talking. "After fifty years of making rock, not missing a single day, he retired. He got a card signed by his colleagues, but other than that, nothing much – not even the mandatory crap clock. He'd never missed a single day at this factory. Day in, day out, making sticks of rock that no one ever actually eats. You know what he did?"

Listening with only half an ear, Lucas shrugged. "Enlighten me."

She turned in her seat to face him, eyes narrowed as she continued her story. "He came in on his last ever day and carried on making his Blackpool Rock. Only, instead of stamping the words 'Blackpool Rock' through the batches, he stamped the words: 'Fuck You.'"

Laughter erupted from Lucas, causing to actually spill his tea as he imagined the bright, sugar coated 'fuck you' Blackpool Rock. Ros smiled too, noticing the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

"True story," she cut in, while he was still composing himself. "That's probably what happened at this chocolatier's factory. An employee with a grudge has decided to get his revenge."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Probably someone like Malcolm; like the old Blackpool Rock guy. Someone who's been there forever. Someone who's part of the furniture; who forever goes unnoticed and unappreciated."

Ros shuddered as she wondered how Malcolm would exact his revenge. Would he come into work one day and take them all down in a blaze of gun fire? Maybe the CIA or the FSB? It's always the quiet ones; the ones you least suspected. Although never one to normally indulge in such idle speculation, she still made a mental note to say something to Malcolm that would make him feel valued. God knows how many lives she could be saving. In all seriousness, the thought of it made her smile. Still, Harry seemed worried about what was going on, if their phone call that morning was anything to go by.

However, she decided to say nothing to Lucas about that. He had been off work ever since they returned from Cyprus, where their mission to hunt down Oliver Mace had turned on a hair into a mission to extract Ruth. Now, Mace was dead and Lucas was still delicate after receiving a gunshot wound to the chest: the bullet having narrowly missed his heart. Ros watched Lucas as he dabbed the spilled tea off the coffee table. She was still unsure as to how she felt about him. They'd spent two weeks living in an underground bunker together, of course she had grown close to him. But the spectre of Adam Carter still hadn't been exorcised, he still came back to her in her nightmares. Too soon, she thought to herself, too soon.

"I want to come back," he said to her. "I'm coming in tomorrow and Harry can't send me home-"

"He can, and he will," Ros cut him off. "He's still unhappy about the debrief situation, you know."

Lucas sighed impatiently. "Why?" he asked, that pleading look back in his sapphire eyes. "Didn't I prove what I can do back in Cyprus?"

"That's not the point," she countered. "It's not about proving yourself. It's about easing yourself back in gradually so you don't go in to total meltdown later, down the line."

He fell silent, but held her gaze. He wasn't done yet, and Ros could tell he was itching to protest; he would, if he thought it would get him anywhere. But she kept silent, letting him have the floor.

"Ruth's starting back tomorrow," he pointed out, sounding slightly petulant. "Why can't I? I hate sitting round this flat feeling useless."

It had been a month. He was back on his feet, he was raring to go again. Slowly, Ros relented. She couldn't find it within her to keep on denying him. "Come in tomorrow," she instructed. "But if Harry wants you to rest longer, I'm not going to argue with him."

Lucas grinned, thanked her enthusiastically as he jumped to his feet. They were in his flat, about to head out into the warm afternoon to grab a pub lunch together. Ros, also, swept her light jacket from the back of a dining room chair, fumbling for her car keys in the pocket. Once Lucas had his front door key, they headed out of the door and into the open air. Outside, the sun shone down on empty residential streets. The sounds and smells of distant barbeques drifted over picket fences and privet hedges. Urban foxes would think all their Christmases had come at once, come the evening and the first signs of dusk.

Ros paused at the bottom of the garden path and turned to look back at Lucas as he locked the front door. The latest addition to her team: Jo Portman, Ben Kaplan, Lucas and, from tomorrow, Ruth Evershed. Yes, she thought to herself, she has her team now. Her team and no one else's.

"Leon!"

The teenage boy rolled over in bed, throwing an arm lazily over a dozing woman and tried to ignore his father's voice. But it was still enough to wake the girl. She opened her cornflower blue eyes and groaned. Her sandy hair fanned out against the cream coloured pillow, she had to raise one elbow to nudge her sleepy lover. He moaned softly, his lips parting, raven dark curls falling into his still closed eyes. Closed, until his father's voice called out again, from the floor below.

"Shit, Emma, you have to go," he murmured, already staggering out of bed.

Emma snorted with laughter. "What will he do if he finds me here?" she asked, making it sound like a challenge. "Spank you?"

Leon paused, half bent and propped against the navy blue painted wall as he pulled on the first pair of clean, ironed trousers he could find. He was topless, flat stomached as someone who'd suffered a growth spurt, betraying his youth. His eyes were as dark as his hair, but he was tall, at least. At twenty-seven years old, Emma was nine years older than him. An older woman had been a good catch, according to his friends. But she was more than that: she was clever, dangerous, flirtatious and teasing. She thrilled him, she kept him neatly in the palm of her hand. She was teasing him now, and he had wised up enough to ignore it.

"Leon! The guests are arriving any minute!"

His father's voice shattered the companionable silence that had fallen between them. Emma's eyes darted towards the door.

"His Master's Voice," she whispered, looking back at him.

Irritated, Leon scowled across the room at Emma. She had propped herself up on her elbows, with a blanket wrapped round her, returning his look with a playful smile on her face. "He is not my…" but the protest froze on his lips at the look of incredulity on her face. "I can make my own decisions, you know?"

Emma nodded, a look of feigned sincerity on her face. "Oh, of course! But if it all gets too angsty for you, you can always write some bad sixth form poetry about it and set it to a Smiths tune. Oh no… wait, the Smiths are a bit before your time aren't they?"

He stopped, halfway between buttoning a clean shirt. "I'll have you know, that in every situation I find myself in, I ask first: what would Morrissey do?" He quietened as he tucked the shirt into his trousers. Once he was done, he looked back at her, where she was now getting dressed again. "But at least I'm not the one pulling school kid pranks on chocolate companies," he stated, pointedly.

Suddenly, Emma turned serious as she pulled her jeans back on. "You don't understand, Leon," she said. "This 'school kid's prank' as you call it will cost them millions. There is no poison. The only poisoned products are the ones we bought and laced ourselves for sending back with the note. But if they think we've poisoned the whole damn lot, they must withdraw it all. It's the perfect hit: no one gets hurt, except the company and they get hit where it hurts most: square in the profits."

Leon pulled a comb through his hair as he thought it over. He could see the sense in what she was doing, but it still seemed like an elaborate hoax. But the main thing, for him, was that no one got hurt. But they would need to up their game, if they wanted to be taken seriously. He pondered on that while he knotted his tie.

"These people my father has over," he said, quietly. "I think they're MI5; or GCHQ. I'm not sure."

Now she was interested. "Oh, yes?"

"I don't know for sure, and they won't discuss anything important in front of me," he explained. "I'm just being trotted out like a performing monkey. But I can find out what they're up to for you."

He turned to study his reflection in the mirror. Also reflected, was Emma, lacing up her Converse as she prepared to make her escape through the bedroom window before his father could find her there. Satisfied that he had her attention, he pressed on: "If I do this, I want in properly," he said. "Why would you distrust me if I do this for you?"

Emma stood up and closed the gap between them, wrapped her arms around his narrow waist. "It's not that we don't trust you," she said, low in his ear. "But … your father being who he is... You must know how it looks."

Sadly, he did. Leon resumed knotting his tie and thinking of the pinhole spy camera he had already fitted to the smoke detector in the dining room. He had put it there a week ago, in hope that it would come in useful. He wouldn't be there when the important business was discussed, but the camera would. If his father found it, he would think MI5 put it there.

"You can trust me," he said. "I promise. I'll prove it."

Emma smiled as she straightened his tie for him, but didn't say anything. They kissed one final time, ignoring his father's voice as he called up the stairs yet again. His tone was reaching fever pitch of panic and, any minute, he would come charging through the door. Neither of them could ignore it any longer. "See you around," she said, as he picked up his jacket and headed for the door.

Thanks again for reading and reviews would be welcome.