Mycroft hadn't been out of his office for more than an hour and already there were five missed calls, a dozen or so e-mails, and one Mr. Fergus Chapman waiting for him in his office. His assistant looked appropriately harried, her lipstick worn thin on all but the outer lines from fretting her lips between her teeth. The afternoon had not been a smooth one for either of them but far more stressing on even a normal day was a visit from the man who was formally in charge of the Ark-their proverbial Noah-who seemed to be as eager as everyone else to know what had happened, why it had happened, and what they were going to do about it.

"He asked for coffee, yes?" Mycroft said, stalling mildly if only to keep Mr. Chapman's ego well in check should he think to make such visits a habit. Far too often men of his position tended to make the mistake of thinking Mycroft worked for them, not quite understanding how puppet strings worked.

His secretary nodded, hands twitchy in their grasp against the lap of her skirt. "Yes, sir," she confirmed, chin tucked to the point of which her thin face took on a double chin. "I've asked that someone bring it up. Would you like-"

"Coffee for me as well, thank you. And if there's any to spare, I'll have a brandy once he leaves." Mycroft fixed his tie, making sure it fell evenly at the point of his vest.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

Mycroft looked at her, knowing quite well how bad this all must look though in its details, as far as it concerned the layman, it was nothing but a trifle. Simple people were easily frightened, though. He missed "Anthea" at times like these. A shame there was never any means to save those who had already died. "As far as it concerns the safety and welfare of the British public, all is very well indeed, Sarah. My brother is awake. It's no more and no less sensational than that." He offered a smile though even his own face could feel there was little there to convince anyone. "Make it two brandies, if you like. It will be a long day for both of us."

She nodded, her nervous hand movements stilling as the chipped paint of her lips split further with a smile. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He waved aside the platitudes and stepped forward to the closed doors of his office, opening the one and walking inside with a perfect mask of disinterest in place as he looked out at the back of Mr. Chapman's grey head.

The Prime Minister and most of Parliament had died in the early months of the disease. Of the few elected officials remaining, only Chapman had the seniority to lead and the relative youth to see the project through. It was all for show, anyway. Real governing forces were always behind the scenes, not motivated by public opinion and reelection but focused solely on the good of the country and, in this case, the world. Elected officials were more like polls to see in which direction the country was biased to keep their opinions in mind and stave off rebellion in appeasing those things which also rang true for the greater good. Mr. Chapman hadn't really come to recognize his position as largely that of a figurehead to make everyone feel happy about democracy still prevailing even in times of trials. Mr. Chapman instead seemed very eager to prove himself, to create a better Britain, and to do it for the glory of himself and the line of his decedents and in every way that best provided for the image he'd created for himself.

Plato had been right to criticize democracy and lucky for Britain, their leaders had long ago made an institution of one-way mirrors behind which to observe, influence and control. A man who really fights for justice must lead a private, not a public, life if he is to survive for even a short time. Plato would be proud to note his ideal Republic did indeed exist under the guise of the democracy he so despaired. Mycroft knew he would be just as disappointed as he himself was now to know that those mirrors were cracked and the illusion harder to maintain when the separation between puppet master and the stage were not but a few halls and heavy, ornate doors.

Mr. Chapman stood as Mycroft came closer to his desk, hands extended to shake without the pleasantries of smiles between them. "You were there?" he asked with little doubt indeed that he had been, or concern that his statement was too vague not to be understood. He was an ugly man without his beard and mustache, both having been outlawed as unhygienic. He looked very much like the weasel Mycroft believed him to be, which was in no part inspiring when such meetings transpired.

"Zero-five-seven's condition has been confirmed," Mycroft said, immediately formalizing the inquiry should Mr. Chapman feel inclined to make comment on his relation. "He is awake and in excellent health. The overseeing physicians believe he has adapted to the medications they've been administering to the Ark residents over the past few years. Considering what we know of his kind, it may take some time to find a viable means to maintain a comatose state in the future in a healthy manner. He is collared and being retained in the same block as the other test subjects in a rudimentary quarantine."

"Is it enough?"

"You can track him via the collar and oversee his every movement, there are cameras in every room if you need visual confirmation, and you have at your disposal the remote activator with which to kill him. I'm sure that is sufficient if not excessive," he explained, unbuttoning his jacket before taking a seat at his desk. He pressed the lid of his laptop closed, hiding his messages even while more than mildly certain his guest had already taken to snooping. It was for show, anyway. If one didn't try at least to keep secrets from close acquaintances there was really no point in having them.

Mr. Chapman scowled, his lip twitching in a manner that no longer translated well without the mustache. "Never can tell with their kind."

"Their kind is a genetic distinction, not one of character. You have no more to fear from them than you do any other man or woman in the Ark."

The thought did not persuade him. Mycroft was used to it, especially from certain factions in his closed-door discussions. "Be that as it may, they're worried, Mycroft" the man said, continuing his his trend of being vague in a manner that was befitting nearly every politician in existence. He seemed tired and Mycroft had no doubt that he probably was, what with having been up all night discussing things on normal hours for GMT-5.

Sarah knocked at the door before entering, small tray holding two coffee mugs held aloft in one hand as she carried it evenly to the desk for their service, the moderate heels of her black, polished shoes click-clacking on the wood before going silent against the rug. She placed each mug down before its match: black for Mr. Chapman, cream and sugar for Mycroft. He thanked her with a smile and took a careful sip of the hot brew, his mind waiting patiently for a jump-start to make the rest of the day more tolerable. "The whole world is worried," he corrected, trying to add perspective to a topic that, even if he allowed to be dropped, would come back around almost instantly anyway. Better to stay on topic than search for an out; better to be seen as proactive than apply tactics of aversion.

Mr. Chapman's upper lip twitched again as he lowered his coffee mug, swishing non-existent drops of liquid from an equally absent patch of hair. "Exactly," he said, kind enough to keep mindful of the coasters as he placed his mug to the desk. "Which is why I fail to see why you are of such opposition to any concession which would make people happy. There is evil in this world. The good Lord sent the floods of old to rid us of it and here we are again, carried through to salvation over the waves of sickness no different from the ancient tides. You don't think it rather prophetic that we're sitting here in an underground facility built and named decades ago after a biblical vessel of salvation?"

"The Ark is nothing more than a war relic; a bomb shelter named at a time when most of the civilized world was trying to out-Christian the Nazis with their own religious propaganda," Mycroft reminded him, though the tale always seemed a moot point of fact to those that preferred to see signs. He wrapped his palms around the coffee mug, tapping his fingertips against the ceramic. "I wouldn't bother listening to the Americans in any great detail when it comes to their doomsday prophesies. They're little more than a theocracy now with nothing but a legacy of fear, intolerance, and warmongering to hold on to."

"They do have a point, though. Revelations has a lot relevance with our current predicament. The plague, possible rapture, the Antichrist-"

"Zero-five-seven is not the Antichrist," Mycroft reminded him, his tolerance levels drastically reduced at the umpteenth time he'd had to make the defense. "Many people have survived the disease and their condition is identical to his. It's not a matter of unexplainable, mystical forces that they're alive or that they're bodies are now changed the way they are. It's a matter of science."

"Sherlock Holmes was always known to have otherworldly powers. You can't deny that. And who's to say that these people didn't sell their souls to Satan to survive?"

It was like being in primary school all over again. All the poncy brats all standing in their uniforms, bolstered by a cry of complete uniformity to weed out the different and unique. Sherlock with skinned knees and red cheeks-he swore he wasn't crying-and his books covered in dirt and lying scattered on the ground. He wasn't a freak. He wasn't a demon. He wasn't the antichrist. He was a boy, now a man, with a love of appreciation and the skills to command it. Some things never changed and the world was chief among them, even now. "The only people who are saying so are scared and looking for answers anywhere they find comforting. It is easier to fight evil than it is to recognize the selfishness and envy inside us all. Sherlock Holmes is a gifted man, he was a sick man, and now he is changed man. But he was and always has been nothing more than a human being," he said, keeping his delivery emotionless as he battled with the syllables of his brother's given name where numbers customarily fell. "The Americans have made an art-form of pressing their own ideology as the deliverance of good and its absence as the cause of all ills. But if you insist in pursuing their religious dogma, may I remind you that even God had room on the Ark for the unclean. Or is that one of the many details that have slipped their remembering and not been seen as fit for retention?"

Mr. Chapman held his jaw tight, the clenching of his teeth making his cheeks stretch with the tendons at his temples. "I'm just saying it's worth considering."

No, it wasn't. And Mycroft had had just about as much for one day as he cared to entertain. "Shall we consider the idea this is all due to aliens as well? A cunning Dalek attack, perhaps?" he asked, voice cold though the bite of his derision was far from understated.

"You're out of line," the politician stammered, heavy brows even heavier in their decent upon his dark brown eyes.

"If we're going to entertain one impossibility, why not all of them? You have the best scientific minds in the country at your disposal and they have answers, hard proof, and evidence. If you would rather look to the supernatural for an explanation than make use of the resources we have taken great pains to procure, then what hope does a rational society have of emerging with the tools of survival when all is said and done?"

"Our rational society was all but wiped out," Mr. Chapman advised, his fist pounding emphatically against the hard wood of the desk. "Maybe it's time for a pious one."

Mycroft shook his head, still finding it hard to believe some days that this was the battleground left for them-something ancient and proven false for nearly every civilization under the sun. "Yes, because historically that has brought our nation unity and prosperity."

"I'm just saying. It's worth considering."

"Then consider me having given it thought and, having done as such, came away with the exact same conclusions as I held to before."

"You don't want the Americans as your enemies, Mycroft," he warned, mistaking anger for ignorance where in Mycroft there was neither.

"And they won't be. I hold a minor position in the British government. However, I would invite you to consider just how much you really need them to be your allies. The biggest guns rarely are held by those with the greatest intentions. A coward draws his weapon when he has no skill to think of an alternative. To the wise, there is always an alternative."

Mr. Chapman leaned forward with a grim scowl. "You know what happens? Wise men get shot."

"Then by all means, let this be a world of homicidal idiots." Mycroft sat back in his seat, fingers tented at his chin. Coffee had little to do with the rush through his veins at battling a moron in a game of whits. His puppets considered themselves automatons and with such limited resources, it was far too often a battle to maintain order in the midst of small bouts of rebellion. He could not and would note lose. "You can either hand the Americans the power they already believe they are entitled to, or you can stand up for Britain. You cannot do both. There is no happy middle ground between disease and mutation or the devil's handiwork. Will Britain stand for reason and work on the real issues at hand, or will it fall to fear and adopt the ways of self-vindicating prejudice?"

The puppet shook its head, twisting up its strings. "You're just worried about your brother," it said, moving its lips to someone else's voice.

"Not once did I say that reason and rational thought meant that the formally diseased should become the ideal. Since you presume, however, permit me to set the record straight." Mycroft placed his elbows on the table, eyes like chiseled ice, frozen and deceptively transparent. "I do not believe we can afford the risk of allowing mankind to adapt as they have. I do think there are better ways to handle the situation than genocide, though. We need more time spent investigating treatments and less time arguing over the definition of humanity. And while you are free to presume that I speak from my own self interest, I would remind you that there are hundreds of people like my brother in camps outside the military instillation in Sandhurst who would like to live just as much as he would."

"With as limited of resources as we have, you think we can afford to keep them alive?"

Mycroft closed his fingers into a joint fist to rest his chin across. "I would rather send them to their deaths knowing it was for reasons of sustainability than in the name of fear. That is something I would not hang my head in shame for, though I would bow it in respect of their sacrifice. But before you start worrying about having allies across the ocean, Mr. Chapman, I'd consider having a little more concern for having allies right here at home."

The little man with big aspirations stood up from his chair. "Is that a threat?"

"I wouldn't presume to threaten you. Though perhaps you should consider why it is you should find such a statement threatening in the first place. You may find your concerns are much closer to home than you realize," Mycroft explained, not so much as batting a single lash as he maintained a chilly gaze that did not stray nor falter. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a council to inform of zero-five-seven's updated status. I'm sure you can imagine their interest in the subject."

Mr. Chapman bristled, lips pulled back in a sneer as he leaned in against the desk with one hand. "Don't forget, Mycroft. I'm the one with the kill-switch."

"That would only matter if I wore a collar." He smiled thinly, hands still poised under his chin in comfortable resistance as he failed to take the bait.

The puppet marched out on thin strings, trailing a few broken ones behind him that still failed to reattach and fell too easily into other's hands. It was hard to tell if this was a battle or just another step towards war. All that was certain was that the veil was thin indeed. When puppet's marched, it was at the behest of other forces at play. Mycroft was wary indeed as to what power was slipping in to snip his lines of power away.