Hello all! Got back from France yesterday after doing a two week cycle ride for charity; tiring, to say the least. It was worth it though, because we're now just short of raising £2000 for Meningitis Research!

Anyway, thanks to the tireless efforts of my beta, Vivian Verbose, chapter 3 is now ready for consumption! Some new characters in this one; needless to say, they are fictional, and any resemblance to people (living or dead) is purely coincidental...

Chapter 3. – Sinner

Unknown Location
Ten minutes earlier

Foaly slowly regained consciousness, groaned and tried to rub his forehead. However, when he found that his hands were tied behind his back, the reality of his situation suddenly hit home.

I've been kidnapped! he screamed, or rather tried to; he was also gagged, so what came out was more of a strangled whinny. He quickly discovered that his legs were also bound, and that he was blindfolded. The centaur shook his head vigorously to try and clear his head; whatever drug he had been shot with, it obviously hadn't completely worn off.

D'Arvit! he swore to himself. How did this happen? Where am I?

With great effort, he thought back to what he had seen last: he had been about to launch another search probe for Opal from the Control Ops in Police Plaza, his finger hovering just above the 'enter' button, when everything went a brilliant white; then, in what seemed like an instant later, he had somehow appeared here, wherever 'here' actually was.

His train of thought was interrupted when he heard a door slide open. Foaly strained his ears to hear light footsteps pattering across the room, until they came to a stop near where he sat, bound and gagged. Then came a sound that he had been dreading to hear: a giggle.

Foaly couldn't quite place the voice as the blindfold also muffled everything within earshot, but he was fairly certain that whoever this was had a high-pitched, female voice. Oh no, not her, he thought to himself, subconsciously leaning away. Please Frond, not her…

His action earned him another giggle, as his unseen kidnapper walked away from him. Foaly sighed in relief, then began to actively struggle in his bonds. However, when he found that this was useless, he decided to save his energy for later, in case he needed it.

Foaly then realized that his captor was talking to someone else in very hushed tones. He couldn't hear the other occupant's replies, but there was definitely someone else; on the other hand, if the centaur's assumption was correct, perhaps it wasn't so strange that the female was talking to herself. He could only make out a few words from the conversation: "...to give me an I.V....doesn't suspect a thing...I'll do it now." Whatever they were talking about, it didn't sound good to the technical genius.

Unfortunately, before he could do anything else, his kidnapper was soon back at his side, and he felt a hand grab his hairy arm. This further confirmed his suspicions: it was a small, delicate hand, but with a surprisingly strong grip. But when he felt a wet cloth being rubbed on his arm, he began to struggle more vigorously in his bonds, trying to shake her off.

"Ow!" he mumbled through his gag, as he felt a sudden sharp pain in his limb. The needle entered a few inches into his arm, and a few seconds later, his urge to resist began to abruptly ebb away. Foaly instantly realized what he had just been injected with, and just as quickly realized that he could do nothing to fight it.

The drug was called Obsequium, which was Latin for 'submission', and it did exactly what its name suggested: it made the subject submit to the orders of anyone who cared to issue them. The drug attacked the dopamine-sensitive neurons of the frontal lobe in the brain, the function of which involves maintaining the drive to perform an action, recognizing the future consequences of those actions, and defining the actions that are good and acceptable as well as those that are not. This subsequently made the victim susceptible to following any instructions given, without any hesitation and without considering the consequences, making it an incredibly powerful and dangerous sedative. Unsurprisingly, the substance had been banned for several centuries under the Atlantis Convention (but not before being thoroughly misused by police officers and criminals alike), although Foaly knew that it was still available on the black market to the highest bidders.

As his body relaxed, slumping against the floor, his captor untied his bonds, then took off his gag. The centaur sighed happily in his drug-induced state (the drug also included a large dose of endorphins), relieved to be free again, and wondered what to do next.

Maybe she can tell me, he thought, as he felt the blindfold being lifted from his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear some irritating shouting, with ludicrous claims that she was dangerous, but he decided to fade that out; no need to get all paranoid.

He looked around, discovering that he was still in the room where he had been shot after being taken from Control Ops. While the room seemed totally unremarkable, upon closer inspection Foaly noticed that there was no natural light due to a lack of windows, and that some of the workstations seemed to be running programs in Gnommish. However, none of these observations bothered the centaur in the slightest, as he simply looked at the computers lined up against the wall and smiled; that was probably what he had been brought here for.

When Foaly finally turned to look upon the face of his kidnapper, in his tranquil state of mind, he couldn't help but burst out laughing.

Oh, they're not going to be happy with this, though Foaly to himself, grinning. Not one bit!

His captor, as if reading his mind, only smiled and led him over to the workstations. She was also pushing along an I.V. drip along on a stand, the needle of which was still in Foaly's arm.

"This is where we will be working," she said. "I will write the programs, and you will execute them where and when I tell you to. Understand?" Foaly nodded, his eyes scrolling through the Gnommish displayed on the screen. He then glanced over to another computer to his right, which was showing a live video feed of what seemed to be a holding cell. The centaur's eyes widened as he saw the sole occupant, then after a brief pause, laughed again. This situation was becoming more absurd by the second.

* * * * *

The Blades Club
Central London, England
Several days earlier

The Blades Club, located in Park Street, Mayfair, was where some of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Britain went to lunch, dine, and play card games; high stakes, of course. However, on this particular afternoon, the group of men gathered in the 18th century town house had not come together for a game of poker, but to discuss the future of the nation. Unfortunately for the people of Britain, the loyalties of these men did not lie with Queen and Country but with the accumulation of wealth and power, and with the disposal of those who got in their way.

Collectively, they formed the Round Table Club, a group of knighted men (and no women; sexism was still alive and well in the Club) whose sole interest was in themselves. But even in their quest for selfish gain, they knew they occasionally needed help from other powerful men, and so under the guidance of none other than the Director-General of the Security Service, known more commonly as MI5, this Club was formed at the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. Thanks to its influential members (which included high-level politicians, media moguls, CEOs, high-ranking staff from all areas of the military, and, of course, the chief of MI5), the Club had been meeting at Blades without incident for twenty years, using its guiding hand in innumerable areas of public consciousness, while nonchalantly enjoying the celebrated gourmet catering Lord Basildon (the Chairman of Blades, who received his title relatively soon after allowing the Round Table to meet privately at his Club) had to offer.

Two men in their late fifties sat back and watched as their colleagues discussed personal matters around the circular mahogany table, negotiating favours and fees on a scale usually unthinkable during such troubled economic times; on the other hand, prior knowledge does tend to help avoid the worst of catastrophes such as these, with the prospect of watching rival businesses being swept away an additional bonus.

"Twenty years, Robert," muttered Harry Evans, a stockily built man with thinning hair, as he sipped his whiskey. "Twenty long years of manipulation and monetary gain, and we're still going strong. Unbelievable. I suppose we have you to thank for that."

"Perhaps, my friend, but I'm sure I am not the only one who deserves credit," answered Robert Sind, a man much taller and more gaunt-looking than his friend. He smiled easily as he adjusted his cuff links. "After all, the Club will keep going long after both of us have left. That's how it works, just like your predecessor set it up to be."

The man settled back in his leather armchair, and glanced towards his somber-looking friend. "I hope you're not getting sentimental on us, Harry," he commented, as he turned and noticed the Club's newest members, a trio of high-profile politicians who were currently discussing their financial futures with one of the Club's bankers. "We know better than anyone that one's time to retire will come; we just have the luxury of choosing our moment, when it suits us." Harry grinned, then, having raised his glass towards his friend, downed the rest of its contents in a single gulp.

These two men were no ordinary members of society; after all, being part of the Round Table Club singled you out as a man of exceptional wealth and greed. However, not only were they members of the Club, but were also considered to be two of the most powerful and influential men within its ranks. One of the men, Sir Harry Evans, was the current Director General of MI5, and had taken over duties as Chairman of the Club after his predecessor gracefully retired to a life of luxury abroad.

The other was Sir Robert Sind, owner and Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Telegraph, and now the longest-serving member of the Club. Initially joining the club as the owner of several tabloid newspapers, he had then decided to increase his respectability and influence by selling his interest in the tabloid papers and procuring the highest selling broadsheet newspaper in Britain. A decade or so on, Sind now controlled the content of the Telegraph with an iron fist, taking care to alter or even filter out any stories that were harmful to the reputations of his fellow Club members. Of course, there were other notable newspapers that were read across the country, but Sind kept tabs on most of them, either bribing or blackmailing them into complying with his demands. Even the majority of his own journalists harboured doubts about the extent of their employer's control over the paper, but decided to keep their doubts to themselves and just get on with their lives; it just wasn't worth the risk, and there were plenty of rumours around that seemed to confirm their judgments.

While Evans was not a particularly nasty individual (he was in charge of British national security, after all), Sind's ruthlessness and deceptiveness was unparalleled in his line of work. Or in any line of work, for that matter. To keep ahead of his competitors, as well as to use sources from within the Round Table Club, he was on a first-name basis with contacts from all over the world, ranging in credibility from security services such as the CIA and the FSB down to mob bosses from organisations such as the Mafia and 14K. He was also not above using morally questionable methods in acquiring stories, forcing confessions and statements from hapless sources, and even making particularly irksome individuals that threatened to jeopardise Sind's interests "disappear" off the face of the Earth.

Of course, no one in the general public knew of this; Sind had always been careful in keeping his less commendable exploits hidden under a reputation of respectability and humanitarianism, using all the methods at his disposal to further reinforce the façade, including pouring millions of pounds into several charities. This deception had worked so well that not even his wife or children suspected him of nearly three decades of wrongdoings.

Having ensured that Harry's drink had been refilled, Sind decided to get down to business.

"Now Harry, I have a favour to ask of you," said the mogul, as he drew a notebook from his jacket pocket.

"Of course," replied Evans. "Lord knows I'm already indebted to you several times over." Sind smiled and continued.

"I need you to make a call to your people and also your counter-part in Six (1), to allow this man free entry into the United Kingdom." Having found the relevant page, Sind tore it out of his notebook and handed it to his friend. Harry took out a pair of reading glasses and carefully read the name.

"Who is he?" he asked, glancing towards Sind. "And what will he be doing here?"

"Oh, he's just a low-level criminal. Or terrorist, in the eyes of some," replied Sind, chuckling. "Nothing to worry about, especially since he's only coming into England to get supplies. His actual work will take place in Dublin." The Director-General frowned.

"I can't guarantee his safety in Ireland, although I presume you already knew that," commented Harry, taking out his phone. He quickly sent off several messages. "Will he be doing anything particularly…flamboyant?"

Sind laughed; it was a very ordinary laugh and seemed out of place coming from the mogul's unusually thin lips.

"Oh yes," answered Sind, taking out his own mobile phone and dialing in a number. "I certainly hope so."

Sind motioned to his friend to keep drinking, while his phone continued to ring. Finally, someone on the other end picked up.

"Anthony. Yes, it's me," muttered Sind, a look of distaste on his face, but hiding it from his voice. "Yes, your man now has free entry. I trust you have relayed my instructions to him? …Good, good. I look forward to hearing the good news soon. Goodbye." He sighed, pocketing his phone.

"Trouble at the office?" asked Evans light-heartedly. Sind smiled back, although it was slightly forced.

"Just an unpleasant associate," replied the Sind, picking up his drink. "Now, let us forget about business for a while, eh? To the Club." Evans echoed his friend's toast, and they clinked glasses.

* * * * *

Unknown Location
Present Time

Foaly had just sent a bug into the Haven system, designed to trip the Emergency Systems. For him, this was ridiculously easy, as he was the one who had designed the system in the first place. He was only mildly surprised that his captor and now co-hacker had asked him to launch the bug; after all, if she had such an extensive knowledge of the system, why not send the bug herself?

They both watched camera feeds across the city as the lockdown was initiated: the emergency gates shut the city off from the rest of the world, and normal lighting was replaced by the orange emergency variety. All around the city, fairies were abandoning their now useless vehicles, and some were already crowding around Police Plaza, demanding an explanation.

"That's it, little fairies, panic," Foaly heard his kidnapper mutter. "Panic, because soon your world will no longer be safe from the humans." She then turned to the technical genius.

"Foaly," she said, acquiring his full attention. "How are the LEP doing? Are they as efficient as they claim to be?"

"It would seem so," replied Foaly, checking the video feed from Police Plaza. Commander Trouble Kelp seemed to be handling the situation with an impressive calm, coordinating efforts to keep order in the city while implementing the standard procedure during a confirmed attack on Haven: a large-scale evacuation of civilians out of the city and to other underground cities such as Atlantis. Along with the bug, Foaly had also sent an incredibly realistic simulation of an assault by humans on the underground city, which latched onto all surveillance equipment in LEP HQ, effectively confirming the lockdown for anyone who looked at their screens.

"The shuttles are being loaded," commented the centaur, much to his captor's delight. "What do you want me to do?"

"We bring them up," she replied, sneering. "Right after we send them a little message…"

(1): The Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6.

OK, I think we all agree that it's time to stop with these cliffhangers and make stuff happen. Funnily enough, that's exactly what happens in the next chapter! Unfortunately for the People, however, none of it is good...

School in about a week... I need some cheering up, so please leave a review!
It seems I've been falling behind on the replying front, which I promise to remedy soon...