Two rusty fishing vessels cut through the icy water, their crew in thick jackets to ward off Antarctica's winds. Today was another routine run with the hope of enough money to feed each of their families. Save for the off chance of scientist ships, there should've been nobody else out here.
"We'll split off in the other direction; see if we can nab any seals on our regular hotspots. We'll meet back in the next few hours or so!" the captain of one boat shouted to the other.
"Sounds good! See you guys soon!"
The two veered away from each other, and Agent 47 leaned against the starboard railing.
"I'm sorry," Diana began. "If I had known what Myung and Clera were up to, then this wouldn't have happened... If I had dug a little deeper into your longer-than-usual downtime, I would've known. Stopped it..."
"Don't blame yourself," he said. "It's expected that your peers and higher-ups perform by the book. The rules exist for a reason." The crew started clamoring, and it was soon evident why as a fighter jet flew overhead. "Either way, you have a plan... I have to go."
Stuck in the designated apartment room, she sighed a good luck. It was then that the door unlocked, and a skinny, messy-haired young adult let himself in. He was scruffy-looking, with a simple sense of fashion. He had a glare the moment he stepped inside, one that Diana was not spared of.
She didn't recognize him, but the intensity was familiar. "Corvus?"
"Surtr thought the others would be too biased or weak against you. Said I was the best man for the job." He sat himself on the bed, preparing his own laptop and camera setup. A cheaper mimic of hers, lacking the ICA software yet still accomplishing the same. "But to be frank, I'd rather be continuing my mission than playing watchman."
"Brutally honest. I can work with that." For better or for worse, Lars was right on the money. Smarts does not gel well with brash tendencies, especially if they're already directed by another intelligence. Logically speaking, she wouldn't get along with him. "Still, don't let me stop you from doing what you want to do."
"I didn't say I don't understand why. You destroyed the Franchise from within, and all you had to do was get in Mr. Cayne's good graces. You're the reason the Agency is still kicking, and your agent is the reason why it's the best out there. You need a leash."
Pleasant. "So, how is this going to work?"
"Simply. I pass the orders and make sure you play ball. I bet you're quite unhappy now that you're no longer working for the paycheck, but for the world's sake."
"Money was never my motive."
"But that was the only way to get you to do anything, was it not?" Drystan sneered. "You're all the same. Let's just get started."
Admiral Trent Umphenour was reminiscing through letters from his beloved when an officer of the CDC (combat direction center) interrupted. They detected a blip on the radar 15 nautical miles away. Naturally, Trent had questions. Was the vessel a threat? Where did it come from? And, at the very forefront of his mind, was it a low or high-risk target?
He donned his dark blue uniform, the rank insignia sewed on both lapels. The four stars on his shoulder epaulets shined in gold embroidery, and the medals, ribbons, and badges clanged against each other on his breast. Putting a cap neatly over his bald spot, Trent left the privacy of his cabin.
"Lead the way, officer."
The CDC presented them with large maps and numerous computer, radar, and sonar repeater consoles. Those monitors shed the only light into the room, and Petty Officer Third Class Harriet Kidd was hoping for an easy day.
A hand rested on her shoulder, tightening as she winced. "What've you got, Harrie?"
"Sir." She swallowed and focused on her screen. "Bell called in. It's a poaching boat."
"Illegal. And off the books." Trent's bushy mustache curled up in a smile, and he patted her. "It'll make for great target practice. Order Bell to take it down."
"Yes, sir. Shall I have the cleanup crew on standby?"
"Of course."
She parroted the orders over the radio, and the 60-year-old man's hand brushed her nape, playing with a loose strand of her hair. He hovered over her in silence, emitting his slow breath. Harriet glued herself to the monitor; read and repeated every word in her mind to blot out his presence—even as both his hands gripped her shoulders, and his breath tickled her ear.
Her world spun as she remembered last night. Nausea came next. She cursed herself, questioned what stopped her from slapping his hand away, then countered her own argument with a glance at his rank insignia. He leaned in closer, and—
"Confirmed hit," Bell said. "It's going up like a bonfire."
"Copy that. Bridge, this is CDC," she said. "Bell has engaged the target. Target has suffered a direct hit. Stand by for further details."
"Nice work." Trent's voice wormed into her brain, and she flinched. Harriet cursed her slip-up.
"Cute," he whispered through dry laughter. Trent smiled warmly. "I'll hear the incident from Bell himself. You don't need to concern yourself with any more work today, Harrie. A lady needs her rest." He grabbed her radio. "Stewart to Valorant, you're up."
She clenched her fists, now focused on keeping herself in check. "Yes, sir." She swallowed a glob of saliva to ease her dry throat. "Thank you, sir."
"Oh, did you get my gift?" he whispered. "I had a feeling you'd like it."
Harriet paused. "I did receive it. To be frank... it's unprofessional. There's no need for you to keep sending more."
"'Unprofessional', huh?" Trent finally turned to leave. "Loosening up never hurt a soul. And, you know, my wife liked playing hard to get, too." His laughter faded as he left the center, leaving Harriet to bury her face in her hands.
A moment's reprieve, though. She glanced around—curious eyes turned back to their own work. People who, much like her, remembered Nicole Boyer.
Her senior officer came up to her. Though steel was in his gaze, she noticed the sunken edges in his eyelids. "We still could use some help around here," he said, a tone softer than usual. "Since the Admiral gave you free time..."
Harriet nodded without a second thought. "I'll do it."
Today was another long day.
And out on the Antarctic Ocean, the USS Valorant, an accompanying frigate, steered ahead of the carrier toward the thick pillar of smoke. The poaching vessel split down the middle, sinking slowly into the icy waters. The only thing preventing it from going down were two icebergs shifted from the missile explosions, cradling the ship.
"This isn't right," a sailor said. "It's bad enough we gotta work in subzero degrees. Now we're cleaning up the admiral's mess."
He nodded to his peer's remark as they, and two others hopped in a dinghy. "Think anyone survived?"
"Doesn't matter," another said. "They won't last long."
Bell's jet soared above, slicing through air and sound as it retreated to the safety of the carrier. The squad's dinghy and several others approached the boat, weapons drawn.
They found a strong patch of ice to dock, and the four approached. Even in the Arctic, the flames of the wreckage burned ferociously, taking shelter in the remains. The squad identified multiple bodies (or what was left of them) and kicked them into the ocean. Their radios called in now and then, reporting more dead and zero survivors.
"Split up," one sailor said, retrieving his block of C-4. "You all know the drill."
The soldiers dispersed, some taking the dinghies to reach parts of the icebergs and the ship. They strapped the explosives at the designated weak points, mindful of the blaze.
The sailor returned to his squad's dinghy, and to his surprise, found his compatriot waiting on board. "Used all the C-4?"
"Yeah," he said flatly. "When are we returning to the Valorant?"
A question quickly answered as the other two made it back. They started the engine, heading back with the rest of the dinghies. Once they were far enough, the explosion rang out behind them. Ice cracked and crashed into the water, creating tremendous waves. The poaching vessel and everything with it sank to the bottom of the sea.
To everyone in the fleet, today's excitement was long gone. Back to the monotonous days at sea and their daily jobs. Such was the mentality when the dinghies made it to the USS Valorant, and the frigate itself returned to the fleet.
The first sailor from that dinghy watched as the USS Tom Stewart loomed into view, its size far outclassing all, even from their distance. He wandered the starboard side of the Valorant, swinging his arms and legs, loosening any stiffness in his limbs. Once the patrols had made their course and he was alone on the walkway, Agent 47 stripped himself of the sailor's attire to reveal a slick wetsuit.
He tossed himself overboard, disappearing underwater.
On the carrier, Wesley Campbell had landed his experimental XF-77 Skyward. He removed his flight helmet and met the welcoming crew with a loud "Oorah!" and a proud grin.
"I heard the boom all the way from here," Gregory O'Neill, a fellow aviator forcing his smile, remarked. "You made that soar real nice."
"Oh, it ran like a beaut. I could only go transonic, but this baby has potential, alright. One day it'll go faster than any jet we have—and you probably still won't have flown in it!" Wesley rubbing said with wry laughter. His friend added his own rigid chuckling too.
"Bell," the catapult officer said. "Trent needs the jets up here deiced. If you clear out, I can drive the Skyward to the—"
Wesley's smile dropped as he waved him off. "I'll drive it." He turned back to Gregory. "I'll see you in the mess deck?"
"Yeah. Sure."
He hit Gregory's shoulder, hopping back into the Skyward. The squad on the flight deck returned to their duties as Wesley drove to the massive elevator. There, it took it below deck to the hangar bay.
Agent 47 emerged from the water, and the glacial winds hit him like a truck. Salty air filled his mouth and nostrils, and his hands went numb as he grabbed the anchor chain. The cast steel was just as, if not colder, and he had to lock his legs in the link to clap his hands, bringing sensation back into his palms.
60 more feet of climbing to go.
The hitman could feel everything sway in the current, especially as he clung on. The constant hum of machinery pierced the exterior. Aircraft engines roared in the distance, and as 47 got closer, he could hear the mumblings of conversation between sailors.
"'Bell'. Wasn't that the name of Trent's old bulldog?" a sailor said to her friend, watching from afar.
"Mhm. And he's just as blindly obedient. At least the bulldog was cute."
"If it was meant to embarrass the guy, it looks like it did the exact opposite."
"Maybe it was meant for him. Maybe that's why Trent chose him to try out the new toy."
"Yeesh... Hard to think that he's Allen's son."
Agent 47 pulled himself onto the flight deck behind a line of parked F/A-18s and tow tractors. The crew didn't waste any time pulling a jet out to where two deicing trucks waited. Antifreeze fluid sprayed out from their nozzles, creating a cloud of white as everybody focused on their task. Away from the starboard edge, where Agent 47 ran in a crouch to the lift.
Wesley had just driven the Skyward inside, and the rest of the sailors cleared out for it to raise back up. The hitman hung himself off the ledge as the elevator stirred to life. As it reached halfway up, he dropped with a loud thud, just out of potential view.
47 hurried and slid, making the gap into the hangar bay just as the elevator finished its cycle. Instantly, he felt warmth now that the wind was gone, and the air insulated.
He heard faint voices bouncing around the bay, and there was no time to rest and warm up. Agent 47 dived into the forest of fighter jets and the few choppers in its midst.
"We still got work to do down here, but we'll get to the mess deck as soon as we finish up," a man said, setting his hands on a cart of crates wrapped in a cargo net.
"Better haul ass, then," Wesley said. "I ain't missing Saturday's fatty dinner and movie night waiting for you."
The greenshirt crew of cargo-handlers shared a moment's laughter. For them, it was only another day of monotonous chores. None of them ever thought that someone was not supposed to be here. Once Wesley had gone, the group mostly quieted down, save for a few pairs and unimportant musings.
Between a SH-60 Seahawk and the wall, Agent 47 scaled the helicopter to watch. He looked on as Wesley disappeared down a narrow passageway, then the clueless cargo-handlers; where each person fanned out to and in what direction; the areas ahead of those individuals; where 47 could go, and what provided the best cover.
As it was, one of them was on his way towards the Seahawk. 47 dropped from his perch, retrieving a plastic-wrapped earpiece from his mouth. Ripping the cover off, he fingered the device into his ear. "I'm in."
The device came to life, and the familiar voice of his handler came through. "Great work, 47. Welcome aboard the USS Tom Stewart, a Nimitz-class supercarrier in the United States Navy. Measuring at over 300 meters long, armed to the teeth, and with every modern system available, it seems they accounted for everything except you. But don't let your guard down yet. Security inside the carrier is just as rigorous, and getting to your targets—well, it's nothing you haven't faced before."
"Still, a modicum of caution would be wise." An unfamiliar voice entered the comms, low and paced—as though the slightest provocation would unleash his veiled anger. "This is Corvus. I will be assisting your handler from now on. Your main target is the brass-balled son of a bitch rapist, Trent Umphenour. That ill-bred rat only earned his four-star rank because of his affluent family. He hasn't seen a lick of field experience, too used to sucking off his superiors for faux medals and easy work."
"Right..." Diana cleared her throat. "You also have to eliminate the pilot who shot down your vessel, Wesley Campbell."
"The admiral's little pet," Drystan said. "Just because their families were close and his father a war hero, Wesley's ego became an unsurmountable tower. When Trent raped and murdered Nicole Boyer in his cabin, Wesley was the first person he called. He poured acid on her genitals—probably licked off his sperm and any other DNA evidence. He's a sycophantic weasel who thinks he's a hotshot now that he's big daddy's voluntary footrest."
"And you will find him around the upper decks with the rest of the aircrew. Trent chose him to pilot the latest experimental fighter jet, the XF-77 Skyward. Word is that he's rather obsessed with it. As for the admiral, he will be monitoring the various command centers, sticking primarily to the flag bridge, overseeing the carrier's day-to-day."
"These men are grown infants, living off a diet of cash and liquid gold. It is our responsibility as true heroes and intellectuals to rid the world of these parasites. If sniveling runts like Trent get to be born in positions of power and keep it, then it's our right to judge them as fit. And these two deserve nothing more than death. They have done nothing but show us why our society is so broken. And the fact that mass media is so quick to forgive and forget for the next headline or a million dollars of hush money is proof that—"
"If you would kindly keep this brief, Trent has been working closely with a government agent named Nolan Cassidy. They've been collecting every bit of information they can on Surtr's rebellion, and they believed the safest place to keep it is with the admiral. Surtr wants us to find that information and destroy it."
"I'm here to make sure neither of you gets any funny ideas."
"That he is. Good luck, 47."
Location: USS Tom Stewart, Antarctica
Targets: The Admiral, The Pilot
47 shut the chopper door, which hid the stripped marine inside. He fitted the green jersey and helmet, and according to the name tag, he was now Stevie K. Pollard. Stevie had had enough of cargo-handling, he decided, and used the cover of the vehicles to evade work.
Agent 47 stuck to the side of the hangar bay, not wanting unnecessary attention from his peers. He reached the door which Wesley went through, pulling the shaded goggles over his eyes as he spotted a pair of sailors in the distance. He knew what to expect with the destination, but the long, narrow passageways were more of a hindrance than any security defense. It was one big sightline. Repeating bulkhead doorways made traversing an annoyance, and there were few places to hide.
"You hear about the poaching boat we downed? Still think I'm crazy?" the woman's voice echoed down.
"Yeah, fine, whatever," her friend answered. "You were right."
"We could have gone anywhere else to test out Trent's new toy. But lone vessels don't just show up to designated military zones. The guy knows what he's doing."
"Isn't that always the case?" the man said. "Shady people know shady things best."
"And it happens to always be the higher-ups."
"Now you're talking like a TruthSpeaker. We're just as complicit. Especially Wesley."
"You know we didn't sign up for this. And I doubt Nicole signed up for that..."
The man noticed 'Stevie' approaching and backed against his side of the wall. 47 still had to sidle around him, his back pressing against the other side. He followed the signs to the cafeteria, the liveliness ramping up as he neared. He traversed a few turns, a staircase up, then a straight walk forward.
Greeting him were dozens upon dozens of sailors, jerseys of varying colors and position, metal tables making grids, and a mess of pipes only a foot above everyone's heads. By the smell of it, "fatterday's" menu featured wings, pasta, and pizza.
The outlier was a table of pilots, dressed in their camo green uniforms in contrast to the crew's jerseys. Sitting next to Gregory O'Neill, wolfing down a tray of fettucine alfredo, was his target.
"That is Wesley Campbell. The son of a respected Vietnam veteran, his father's renown has spoken more for him than his own person. He isn't shy about using it to his advantage."
"Meanwhile, I worked my ass off for a life I'd barely call living," Drystan began. "Why is it that men who are much more intelligent and mature are cast at the bottom of the capitalistic hierarchy? I could have done great things in his position..."
Agent 47 grabbed a tray and inserted himself at a table beside the pilots. The assorted ranks did not mind the extra guest, too caught up with each other chatting about menial things. What mattered more to the hitman was the happenings of the pilots.
"Why wouldn't I be curious about the Skyward?" Gregory asked. "You're the only guy who's ever gotten to fly it. All the systems are a direct upgrade. Minimized radar signature, integrated AI, tools for air and ground superiority and recon. The thing can exceed Mach 2.5 and still control like a beast. All I'm asking is that you tell Trent to give me a chance."
Wesley downed his soda with a smug grin. "I'd believe that if I haven't seen how pissed you were when Trent skipped over you. I know what's going on. You're a jealous little kid who's sad his brother got a lollipop, and you didn't." He wrapped an arm around Gregory, who distanced his gaze. "Suck it up. There's probably a reason he chose me over you. Hell, I can think of a few! Sometimes you can be sloppy, arrogant, whiny—"
"Alright, you can shut up now."
He laughed him off. Soon, their table lost themselves to the cafeteria's organized chaos, and 47 could not hear anything else. So, he moved onto the next best thing: the green catapult officer beside him. He bumped his shoulder, and Caleb turned around mid-swallow.
"The pilot on that table—Wesley—do you know him?" 47 asked.
Caleb eyed the table, glancing over at each of the pilots. "Who?"
"Wesley Campbell." Faint recognition shimmered in his eyes from the surname. "Son of Allen Campbell," he clarified.
"Oh, him?" Caleb chuckled. "Yeah, I know him. Why?"
That alone brought some answers. "I take it he's not popular."
"Not just that. An unpopular guy who acts like he should be popular!" a Petty Officer across from them, Shauna, chimed in. "Allen Campbell saw his entire squadron go down, took down the five attackers with only his damaged jet and an iron will, crashed into enemy territory and survived months of torture, just to father that twat. I'd sooner believe Allen got Jodied than Wesley being any related to him."
Caleb sputtered out, laughing. "Well, that's just rude!"
"Does everyone think that?" 47 asked.
"Probably," Shauna answered. "And I'm, like, 90 percent sure his 'friends' are just buttering him up to get in Trent's good graces."
"Interesting." Agent 47 put that to memory. "I should get going."
"Back to work?" Caleb assumed.
"It's been busy."
Shauna agreed with a nod. "True. I need to get back to the CDC soon, now that we're a man down."
"And why is that?"
She paused a moment, biting her lip to suppress disdain. "Ask our admiral."
Caleb cleared his throat, sensing her growing unease. "Well, it was nice to meet you..." he glanced at 47's name tag, "Stevie. See you later."
Even as 47 left the cafeteria, human activity never seemed to lessen. Mechanists squeezed past him in different directions. Colored jerseys followed their respective commutes automatically, disappearing around turns and staircases. Barked orders echoed into the passageways, and idle conversations bounced back.
He soon found his way onto the flight deck; back into the stinging cold.
The first thing he noticed was the Grumman C-2 Greyhound—a cargo aircraft. Handlers helped carry boxes upon boxes of deliveries out, leaving them on deck for later sorting. But of greater interest to the hitman was the person standing aside.
"That is Trent Umphenour, the four-star admiral in charge of the USS Tom Stewart and its fleet. Despite the media footprint he left thanks to the TruthSpeakers, his position remains unchanged, likely because of his prominence and lineage in the Navy. Strange to see him handling the mail in person..."
The admiral was speaking with the pilot of the plane. Though 47 was too far away to hear anything, he saw them shake hands and Trent utter a thanks. The pilot passed what looked to be a letter, and they parted ways.
As he left, a couple of officers hurried to his side, starting their own discussions. Trent presumably headed back to his cabin, which, considering the amount of people 47 passed by in the O3 deck, meant he was out of reach.
Toward the fore, several pilots scurried about, directed by yellowshirts. Agent 47 found the plane director on the sidelines. "What's going on?"
"Recon!" he answered. "Radar picked up another vessel further ahead, so Trent wants visual confirmation from our boys."
A pilot drove their jet to the runway over the start of a slot in the ground that ran to the bow. An officer attached the nose gear to a shuttle through the track.
Agent 47 recognized the contraption as a catapult, meant to give jets the needed speed to take flight with the use of high-pressure steam. And with the presence of a catapult, he looked for its control pod—an encased station built into the flight deck, only protruding above with a transparent dome.
The designated catapult officer, Caleb, coined as "the shooter", had just hopped inside the pod. It was up to him to manage the mounting pressure for each piston.
Once all checks were given, Caleb released the pistons, and the jet went from a full stop to flying past the crew. It left a trail of steam in its wake and engine roars for everyone's delight.
"Been stationed here for half a decade," the director said. "Never gets old! Hey, what's your... Huh?" By the time he turned around, 47 was long gone.
"Diana, keep me posted on the second vessel's position."
She promptly opened the satellite feed. "Of course." And with that brief exchange, their small apartment fell to silence.
Drystan, who had been wandering so much that he left a dark trail in the carpet floor, resisted the urge to sigh. "So what's the plan?"
"We'll see." Her response was curt and sarcastically endearing. But she was clearly anticipating something, if her lingering smile was anything to go off of.
It was unforced and steadfast, unlike the forced expressions she put up earlier. A face devoted only to her agent, despite 47 never seeing it. His brow twitched. "So our job is now to sit here and wait?"
Diana leaned back in her seat. "I assist 47 however I can. But what happens over there is entirely up to him."
"The way Surtr spoke of you, you sounded a lot more controlling—a lot more callous than this."
Her smile turned faux again. "Flattering."
"Oh, no, don't take it the wrong way. I can admire this perspective. An indomitable will, yet wise enough to know when to lay off."
"Is that what you see in Surtr?"
He scoffed as though asked something incredulous. "Must you even ask? He's a perfect example! If humanity were all like him, society would not face any of our current issues! It's embarrassing that it took ages to find a leader with the spine to say no, to turn against corruption. A leader who cares about the underdogs, giving us what we deserve!"
"And what exactly is it that we deserve?"
"Money. Better lives. A way to survive that would become possible if the one-percenters had spared one percent of their income. The things they won't dare to hand us over their dead bodies! And don't associate yourself with people like me. You had all the power in your hands, and what did you do? Nothing. Nothing until money came to feed your capitalist agenda of million-dollar-priced contracts. In the end, no matter what they spit, all people want is money."
Diana kept her head high, considering her words. An idealist willing to shape the world without knowing how the world works was never going to be a pleasant meeting. As seen by her use of "we", they blow up at any perceived slight. If she needed to stay in their graces, the best place to start was an apology. "You're right," she began, furrowing her brows with remorse. "I have no right to speak on the behalf of you. I was not aware of my position compared to others until Surtr pulled me into the loop. But I am willing to learn, and as long as you give me that chance, I will do anything in my power to help."
A second of silence passed. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Then Drystan laughed the loudest she'd ever heard him. "To think! At least one of you can show humility! I never thought it possible!"
A grating mockery, no doubt, but Diana saw otherwise. His shoulders relaxed, and he finally stopped pacing as he sat on the bed. One step closer.
Back in the aircraft carrier, Agent 47 pulled an unconscious Petty Officer to the back of a storage room, leaving him behind a crate of ammunition magazines. He swapped uniforms, finally releasing a breath now that he was in the clear.
He left the storage room and followed the signs into the combat direction center, which was by far the quietest station on the carrier. Officers seldom looked away from their stations, letting Agent 47 walk freely in. It was only a matter of time before the carrier got a lock on the second poaching ship, and he needed to act.
Shauna rose from her monitor, not just to stretch, but to approach her commanding officer. They both knew what she was about to ask: "How's Harrie doing?"
The CO, Preston, only shook his head. "Still keeping to her bunk. I've sent people up to check on her, but..."
47 took over Shauna's station.
Before the marines had arrived to the first wreckage, Agent 47 found a flat edge on a nearby iceberg to wait at. The natural formations walled off the approaching dinghies, and it was unlikely anyone would have traveled around it. And, recalling the direction of the recon jets, he sifted through their sent images.
The iceberg soon came up. That, and the unconscious soldier he first nabbed the identity of.
Shauna returned shortly after, frustrated but forcing her work mind to take over. Doing that was easier than she thought, though, as she pondered at the image on her monitor she could have sworn was not there before. Overriding that was the body.
"Sir?" She called Preston over. "There's something interesting I found."
He approached with a squint in his eye, the blurry pixels immediately recognizable to him: a body.
"It's the site of the first poaching vessel," Shauna said. "One of our recon jets passed over it, and for a few seconds, we can see somebody there."
"Was he blown over from the explosions?"
"Possibly. But if he's still there, don't we need to investigate?"
Preston sighed. "Trent would want us to be sure. And, you don't know this, but Valorant contacted not too long ago about an MIA. Suppose I need to talk to them..." The officer turned to leave, letting Shauna back to her work. He did not notice the Petty Officer trailing after him.
Preston traveled down a set of doors leading into his office, going straight for the radio. The faint classical music on loop further put him at ease as he relayed the information. And while he performed this task, it let him wonder about Harriet; if there was anything he could do, like he couldn't do with Nicole. But then the potential consequences arose, the punishment for going against a four-star admiral, and he shook his head at it.
Once Valorant confirmed they'd sent someone over, he put the radio back to its rightful place.
And Agent 47 grabbed him in a chokehold.
...
Gregory sat with a bunch of nameless others in front of a TV for some adult animated show. He intended on enjoying his free time, but it could not blot out the faint sounds of jets a deck above him. He imagined himself in the air, then pictured Wesley talking his ear off to crush his aspirations.
There was a time when he was the only person Wes could truly call a friend. Always being compared to his father must have felt isolating. But things changed after Nicole's sketchy suicide, and he could never help but wonder what Wesley got involved with...
"Gregory?" someone called. He sat up to see one of the COs, Preston. "We've detected another poaching vessel, and Admiral Umphenour wants to give the Skyward another run."
The pilot looked at him strangely, wondering why he was telling him this. But a second later, his demeanor shifted—he leaned back with a deep inhale. A thought had crossed his mind, but was just as quickly snuffed by pragmatic expectations.
"He wants you to fly it."
Pragmatic expectations be damned, he thought with a growing grin. "Understood, sir. Thank you, sir."
...
Trent Umphenour tore the envelope away to capture its contents. A simple letter filled from top to bottom with words; an unchanging routine ever since Trent found his new love. But this letter did not come from his beloved, and as he read through its contents, he could not help but sneer and crumple it.
"What's with this angry language? All because you're not getting her letters, your insecure ass is stressing out! And what's with this? 'Please. I miss you. Write back soon.' Dot, dot, dot. 'Love, Dylan.' Bah! Harrie deserves a much better husband..." The admiral lit the ball aflame his lighter like he's done so many times before, tossing it into the metal waste bin.
Clearly, he thought, Harrie felt the same. Trent rummaged through his pockets, finding Harriet's letter from months prior. One that, like the past few ones, never left the ship. It was signed to Dylan and addressed how much she missed him; a simple message between husband and wife. But the letter she responded to was not her husband's.
Trent knew she was writing in code! That her sweet words and warmth could only have been directed to him. This was their secret, and he gushed over it like a lovestruck kid.
So, he began drafting his own response. His own honeyed words and wishes. Making sure to adjust his handwriting to match Dylan's, and signing it under Dylan's name. That way, their love could remain a forbidden secret.
He was halfway done when a frantic knocking rattled his cabin door, and Trent wanted to snap the pencil in half.
"Sir!" The unmistakable, whiny voice of Wesley came through. "The recon returned with positive ID. Shouldn't I be out there leading the charge right about now?"
"I know. I told them to stand by until further notice." Until I'm done writing. Regardless, Trent opened the door. "But I digress. I know I'm not getting anything done with camping at my cabin. Let's get to the flight deck, then I'll make the announcement."
But before their trip began, a commanding officer rounded the corner to Trent's cabin. Preston, he recognized by the uniform, delivered the news at the worst time. "Sir, I'm afraid there's been a miscommunication. The pilots have begun taking off, including the Skyward."
The contrast between Trent's minor irritation and Wesley's horror made for an amusing sight. "Who the hell's flying it?" the admiral asked.
"Gregory is, sir."
Wesley shook his head. "That can't be. I'm the only one who knows how to fly that thing!"
Trent chuckled, much to his dismay. "You exaggerate, son! It's mostly like the old F/A-18s. And, well, it's fine, isn't it?"
The pilot froze, opening his mouth yet unable to speak against his superior.
"Don't look so glum! You've had your turn plenty of times!" Trent patted his shoulder, then continued to the flight deck. "We'll sort things out once he lands, okay?" With that, he left the two to themselves.
Agent 47 glanced around, noticing the passing crewmen. The flight deck was his only option. "Only Wesley Campbell can fly that jet."
Wesley looked up at him, eyes wide, as if he'd heard something unbelievable.
"In my opinion, you've been a better pilot than all of your peers—even your father. You should be the one in that cockpit."
The corners of his mouth twitched up. "Gregory doesn't know what he's doing. He can't even take off. He's gonna crash without me behind the wheel."
"I agree. And if you hurry, you can stop this."
"Yeah..." He nodded harder. "Yeah! I'll show everyone what it means to be a real pilot!"
"Do what you have to. I'll let everyone know to stop the takeoff."
Wesley ran off without another word. It was Agent 47's time to change again.
Gregory drove the Skyward onto the runway, giving and hearing all clears from the radio. Though he was excited minutes ago, he had to suppress himself to focus clearly on the mission. He earned this, and there was no way he'd screw it up by letting his award get the better of him.
But outside the jet, the plane director accounted for everything except one. "Where the hell's Caleb?"
"Here, sir. Sorry, sir." He turned to see the catapult officer, goggles and hood securing his face. The director thought he sounded a bit under the weather.
"And where were you?"
"I had to deal with some unexpected head pain."
He waved him off. As long as they could keep to the schedule. "Whatever. You're healthy now, by the look of it. I want my boys in the air, stat!"
"Yes, sir." 'Caleb' hopped inside the catapult control pod, sealing himself under the glass dome.
Someone attached the nose gear to a shuttle, and Gregory heard the steam build up. The bridge checked with everything and heard nothing but "All clear". Gregory started the engine...
"What the hell...?" To his shock, some idiot ran onto the runway, waving his arms like a madman! The surprise wore off the moment he realized who it was. Of fucking course, he thought, taking his hands off the wheel.
"Negative. We are not clear for takeoff," the radio said.
"Stop everything. The runway is not clear. I repeat, the runway is not clear."
"Kill the engine."
"Clear the steam."
As all activity came to an abrupt end, Agent 47 only had to flick a few switches.
The holdbacks released, and steam pressure slammed the shuttle and plane forward. The tremendous force instead ripped the nose clean off and sent the Skyward careening across the runway.
The 45,000-pound plane hurled up to 165 miles per hour within two seconds. Wesley couldn't even blink as he vanished on the spot.
Jet fuel leaked behind, mixing with red smearings. The plane director jumped as Wesley's wrist bounced in front of him. Gregory screamed—though nobody could hear it over the Skyward falling to pieces—as Wesley's upper half plunged partly into his cockpit, lifeless eyes shaking with the momentum.
Gregory hit the ejection, sending him into the sky just as the wreckage slid overboard. In a matter of seconds, the 100 billion dollars of development and production plummeted into the Antarctic Ocean as little more than a pile of scrap. It and Wesley sank into the depths.
"Fucking... idiot!" Caleb ran to the control pod, ready to wring the shooter dry (the only person he could reprimand). He threw the dome up, but to his dismay, it was empty. The crash crew and redshirts fanned out, further crowding the flight deck. But there was no sign of the guy.
And with the small fry on the run, there was only one person to blame. A reality made clear to the plane director as Trent approached him with vitriol that made him colder than the Arctic breeze.
...
"Confirmed kill on Wesley Campbell." Diana looked at her partner, none too surprised by the giddy grin on his face. "I must admit... I fail to see how he was connected to our main objective. He doesn't seem capable of involving himself in this sort of conspiracy."
"He wasn't," Drystan admitted without a moment's hesitation, "but scum like him deserve it. Nobody else is heroic enough to clean up this world other than us."
Diana only nodded. She understood the feeling all too well, selecting her contracts with a similar philosophy. Many times, she pondered if she had tipped over the fine line she imposed on herself. If, at any point, she stopped being the handler to Agent 47, and played god with these people. Accepting the power, but rejecting the responsibility.
Seeing how Drystan composed himself, she was never more sure of herself.
Now that Trent wasn't returning anytime soon, Agent 47 invited himself into the admiral's cabin.
It was a lot roomier than the berthing areas meant to house five at a time. Portraits of presidents and American history and flags made up the walls. Light shined in from occasional portholes, running over trails of sun-bleach on the navy blue carpet. Leather couches remained centered, and Trent's wooden desk sat at the back.
The desk was Agent 47's first place to look. He grabbed a picture frame of Trent and what looked to be his wife.
"That is Ruth Umphenour," Diana confirmed. "She passed away five years ago. This picture looks to be taken decades ago."
"And, looking at it, Nicole Boyer appears awfully familiar..." Drystan added.
"So he has a type," Diana said. "Men like Trent don't just leave it at one. Since Nicole is dead, I wouldn't be surprised if there's another victim currently."
Drystan nodded slowly. "Good call... If one exists, we can use that to our advantage. But, a marine with similar characteristics to Nicole and inadvertently Ruth... It'll take me a while to find the full roster of the USS Tom Stewart, more or less someone who matches the profile."
"Not unless you know where to look." Diana dug through official channels and ICA resources. Drystan watched in silence as she pulled window out of the window, then a grid of names and photos. "There's your roster. Now we narrow our search using Nicole and Ruth. Short-haired brunettes, 20-30 years old, and several more minute details, and... we are left with a much more manageable amount. Shall we get searching?"
The boy blinked. He copied the window over to his laptop, quietly uttering, "You're good."
"It's my duty to be."
...
Trent had some time to himself inside the flag bridge, observing the investigation from above. It was here that his satellite phone rang. Only one person would call from that, so when he picked up, he greeted, "Edwards."
"Admiral. Allow me to get to the point: There are concerns about your presence in the news."
He scoffed in his head. "To be fair, that thing was well buried up until the TruthSpeakers dug it out."
"Then it wasn't buried deep enough. And to be frank, taking advantage of women is not worth Providence resources. You are a Herald for a reason. If you can't exert enough caution to keep your name out of the papers, something is going to be done."
Trent huffed. "With all due respect, she came up to me and threatened my position, instead staying quiet like a good girl. I had no choice! When China and Russia try taking us on, I'm the one who will keep them at bay, and if I'm forced to step down because of something that minor, America will fall. Nicole is a small price to pay to preserve our nation. That's why I'm still here."
"What you think and what people say is entirely different."
"People will always say things, but they will always forget and move on. From what I hear, all the rage nowadays is about that Davis fellow."
"True as that may or may not be, I want you to have a tight grip on these things. We didn't get to where we are by fueling the flames."
"Fueling the fla—I have only done things in the name of my country!"
"Since you do not understand, I am asking for you to have some self-awareness."
"Don't talk down to me like that..."
"I feel the need to remind you: you aren't as important as you think."
"I—"
The beep signaled the end of the call.
Trent threw the phone to the ground, panting. "Middle-class prick..." God, it felt so lonely. He needed his beloved Harrie more than ever...
...
"Hold on. I've got something." Drystan expanded someone's profile onto this screen. "Harriet Kidd. Save for a hairstyle, she shares plenty of physical traits with Ruth and Nicole."
Diana put her on her screen. It was a fine lead, but she needed to make sure. The husband, Dylan, has an online presence. They could see if anything correlated on his end, and if not, then... Bingo. "And her husband, under an anonymous profile, has been complaining to online forums that his overseas wife never writes back. A sudden change from their loving relationship. She doesn't seem like the type to ghost her lover."
"So Trent is intercepting the messages. For a man as delusional as him, perhaps we can use this to our advantage."
Diana tapped into the comms. "47, we have a match. Harriet Kidd, a Petty Officer Third Class. We believe he's intercepting letters between her and her husband, as the latter has not received any as of late. I've sent the location of her bunk."
Good, because nothing else turned up in his cabin. Trent was prudent enough in that regard. 47 remembered hearing her name earlier. She was likely still in her quarters, and since the mail plane arrived not too long ago, there was a high chance the letter exchange hadn't occurred yet.
With the mail crew grounded until the investigation finished, they couldn't do anything but their jobs. The hitman needed to find one of them soon.
Shauna's newest task was to show the crew around the upper decks. It was unclear how long they'd have to stay, and it was best if they knew the facilities around. While many of them were helping sort the mail (now that they were stuck here), the four she led could inform their peers just as well.
And in the middle of her tour, she saw him. From the distance and angle she was at, she couldn't quite make out the name tag. But she remembered their meeting at the cafeteria. "Stevie?" she called across the passageway.
He turned to her.
"Did you hear about Wesley?"
47 nodded. "I saw it happen."
"Then did you see Caleb?"
"Not at the incident, no."
She shook her head. "This is crazy... They're saying that he killed Wes! There's no way he could've done it, not even by accident! I've known him long enough to know he doesn't make mistakes out there! Now there's an APB out for Caleb—it's all such a mess..."
"I agree. He hardly seems the type to pull this off."
Shauna returned her attention to the mail crew, exchanging some words with them. Glancing back at 'Stevie', she said, "I'm busy right now, but I'll talk to you later. Okay?" She led them away, unknowingly garnering an extra follower.
The tour went on for a few minutes. It was a matter of time before one of them voiced their bathroom needs, and Shauna pointed him away with directions.
They wouldn't see him again for a while.
The new 'mail carrier' wandered near the main staircase. He heard Trent was still above deck, overseeing the investigation. But if the timeline of events matched up, the admiral must have had something important in mind. Something important enough to shirk a few seconds of responsibility...
"Ah, just my luck!" Trent's mustache furrowed up as he spotted 47 not two steps down the stairs. He rummaged through his front pocket, retrieving a letter. "One of your guys dropped this while transporting the crates. Make sure it gets back to her, okay?"
He hurriedly passed it over, practically tossing it into 47's hands, then scrambling back up the flight of steps.
Agent 47 opened it as he treaded the passageway. The letter unfolded to reveal an overwhelmingly lustful message, marked with flirty and explicit wishes upon her body. The husband's signature confirmed a suspicion of his, too.
Having learned everything, he resealed the envelope and headed toward Harriet's bunk.
The door was closed, leading him to knock once. Twice. Thrice.
No answer.
"Harriet Kidd? There's a letter for you."
Someone shuffled up from inside, stumbling over to the door. Bags under her eyes and wrinkles at the edges of her forced smile, she greeted 47 with a hand for the letter.
"She's seen better days..." Drystan remarked, looking between her and her portfolio.
47 handed it over, and she opened it on the spot. Only Dylan's words could make her smile and laugh. Bring light to one of the worst eras of her life. As long as she was connected to her husband... Harriet hugged the letter to her. The next step would be getting rid of Trent, but no one would fault her for dreaming. "Would you mind waiting out here? I'm going to write back."
"Fine by me."
So he waited. It took 15 minutes for her to finish and hand her response over. A quick "Thank you" later, and she closed the door on him.
Agent 47 opened her letter, too, entering an empty bunk nearby. He sat at the desk, and, producing a blank paper, he used Harriet's writing as a reference for his response to Trent.
"What is he doing?" Drystan asked.
"Trent's a narcissist," Diana answered. "He wouldn't keep hiding behind someone's identity unless he's under a delusion that she knows it's him. Add that to the stress today is surely producing, and you have someone desperate for things to go his way..."
I think it's time we cut the act. No more sneaking around. You want me, and I want you. I have never stopped thinking about you since I got here. I want you alone in a place where nobody will find us. If our moments here are fleeting, I want you to spend yours with me. I will be your last memory.
Meet me in the unused berthing area to the far portside of the O3 deck. I will be there. Lock the door behind you and leave your clothes on the bed.
Love, Harrie.
Agent 47 found him on the flight deck, pinching the bridge of his nose as the Skyward's wreckage was finally pulled out of the water. Trent looked at the 'mail carrier' with a hint of confusion.
"Harriet told me to give this to you specifically." 47 passed the envelope, and the admiral's expression did a 180. Time couldn't pass any quicker.
...
It took the better half of an hour to finish things off with the crash crew, and his imagination of Harriet's nude body never left his mind. He was essentially drooling by the time he reached the bunk, devoid of light and life. Even more enticing was how rippled this unused bunk was. To him, this meant Harriet was steaming to go. And somewhere in here, she was waiting to spring at him.
He locked the door behind him, then unbuttoned his uniform. Trent threw them sloppily into a bed etched into the side, now down to his undergarments.
As he did so, a silhouette finally emerged from the back, just barely illuminated by the dim light above the door.
Trent grinned with crooked teeth. "Thank god you're here, Harrie. Today's been a godawful day, and the only thing I can think of is you."
She did not move.
The admiral looked around fondly. "Funny you chose this place... this is where Nicole and I used to meet. She played it nice and slow like you did, playing tough to get before giving in to her urges." His smile dipped as the memories ventured into more recent events. "Then something snapped in her. Got so... angry with me. Accused me of rape before she took her own life. If only I took better care of her..."
The silhouette rose with only a bald head reflecting, and Trent finally felt something was amiss. "Harrie? Is that you?"
"Fortunately not." The barrel of a silenced pistol came into the light.
Trent's hands went up in a second, and he lost his wood. "Wait, wait, wait... You don't need to do this. We can talk things out—like gentlemen. What's your name, son?"
"Names are for friends."
He rolled his eyes. "Why are you doing this? Don't you realize who I am? What you're even trying? You kill me, what happens when China and Russia converge on our country? Who will defend against the Communists?! My connections will hunt you like a dog, and everyone is going to pay because of your actions!"
"You give yourself too much credit."
"Listen, I know I've done some bad things, but nobody is perfect! Should I be punished for having basic needs? I... I don't want to die..." Just like that, the 'seasoned' four-star admiral of the USS Tom Stewart broke into tears.
Agent 47 pulled the trigger. It fell silent.
"America's biggest waste of life has finally come to an end!" Drystan announced. 47 could hear his applause through the earpiece. "Let this be a lesson for every government shill, capitalist, and malefactor! None of them are safe from justice! Not while the TruthSpeakers are fighting for the people!"
Diana shifted herself and her mic away from his celebration. "Good work, 47. All that's left is to retrieve Cassidy's investigation information. After that, it's time to go."
The hitman already nabbed Trent's uniform, taking it up the flight deck and towards the bridge. Night had fallen, and illuminating the flight deck were lights of green, red, and white. The Skyward's wreckage had been brought inside the hangar bay for anything to be salvaged, and nobody batted an eye to 'mail carrier'.
Upon nearing the bridge entrance, 47 took the cover of darkness and hide around the corner to change into the admiral's outfit. This let him inside without a fuss, and all the few people within needed to see was the rank insignia, too tired to bother examining the face.
He ascended to the flag bridge, where Diana's briefing mentioned the information. It wasn't hard to find, either; a briefcase opening up as a laptop. It was password-locked, but according to Drystan, this was it. And once it was in his hands, whatever investigating group this was would lose everything.
Agent 47 left the bridge to change back into the mail carrier outfit. He had initially planned to return to the poaching vessel, but an announcement that the cargo plane was free to take off provided much more convenience. He boarded without issue, nobody the wiser to think someone took the place of one of their own.
It would take an hour for Caleb to be found, head aching, and stripped to his underwear. Another 30 minutes for people to realize Admiral Umphenour was gone. And another 30 to find him, dead of a gunshot wound in Nicole's old bunk.
ADMIRAL TRENT UMPHENOUR DEAD; TRUTHSPEAKERS CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY
A controversial figure in the death of Nicole Boyer, Trent was overseas at the time of his death.
Four years ago, Nicole Boyer was found dead from a gunshot wound. Her genitalia suffered burn damage from acid, bruises spotted her body, and her gloves had been glued on. Despite this, an internal investigation declared that Nicole committed suicide. Few news outlets picked up on the story until the TruthSpeakers hack that brought it to light.
Trent Umphenour has been found dead of similar causes. Notably, few details have been released to the public, however, with no government channels reporting it. The only reason we know this is from the latest TruthSpeaker hack, which Surtr claimed responsibility.
"There is no haven for the immoral beyond our reach," he said. No height of authority tall enough to stop justice. "Trent thought himself a God—untouchable. May he rot in the hell he dug. May we slay the Gods, and our flames engulf the Earth."
Only after a tremendous public outcry did the U.S. Navy declare Trent's death with a scripted eulogy, listing his cause of death as murder. A move that many criticized in light of Nicole.
No shortage of people are celebrating Trent's death, with many supporters of the TruthSpeakers using Nicole's face as a symbol for their ideals.
Her family, however, recently expressed their distaste for her being turned into a martyr...
BUD DAVIS' KILLER OFFICIALLY NAMED
Authorities have ID'd the dead body in the research center as Temple Proctor of Boston, Massachusetts. A crook with a history of crime dating back to his youth. Phone records show constant contact with unknown numbers leading up to the attack, and that he flew to Tennessee in just the week prior. Investigators are confident that Temple played a major role, but still are unsure about the team of attackers.
Thanks to the released details, conspiracy theories have flourished in light of the attack. President Rogers and his security detail were confirmed to have been attacked, with the Secret Service all perishing. However, the president escaped with only a head wound and his clothes stripped away. If Garton Rogers was the target, why let him live? Why poison Bud Davis, but launch a frontal assault on the president?
Some claim Rogers was in on it and played along to shift the blame away from him. It would explain why he was quick to abdicate his position. But there is no physical proof of this.
Others point to a viral photograph taken outside the conference hall, in which a pixelated figure can be seen over a wall in the backdrop. The shape resembles that of a hidden shooter, speculated to be reinforcements in case Senator Davis was not eliminated. But authorities have stated that it is simply a tree resembling the shape.
Whatever the case, I personally believe this will remain shrouded in mystery as long as the JFK assassination is...
RELEASE THE IDENTITIES OF YUKO HIMURA'S TORTURERS!
It has been 35 years since 17-year-old Yuko Himura was found stuffed in a metal drum, unceremoniously dumped near a construction site, and buried under concrete. 35 years since the three monsters who kidnapped and tortured her for 44 days got away with a slap on the wrist.
Under Chapter VII of Japan's Penal Code, Article 41 declares, "An act of a person less than 14 years of age is not punishable." As such, the identities of Yuko's killers were sealed, their crimes buried with money, and the horror of her last days alive forever unresolved.
I do not need to explain how unjust this is. Monsters do not deserve anonymity. What sane person can hear about an underage girl having metal rods and lit matches shoved into her vagina and anus; that she was tied and left alone, without access to basic amenities, wallowing in burn wounds and infections for over a month; that her physical appearance was so heavily disfigured by the torture that her own parents could not recognize her; and provide leniency to the perpetrators?
I am not alone when I demand this: release the names of Yuko Himura's killers. Give justice to a girl whose life was snuffed short, not protection to the ones who took her future...
The Black Pyramid
A grave silence filled the virtual space. One seat remained empty, though it was more apparent than it ever was. Don Yates wandered impatiently for Nolan to return with news, huffing a cigar of which its smoke did not show in this realm. He had suspected the worse; that way, he wouldn't be overly disappointed.
The former Secret Service agent then digitalized, and all heads turned to him. "It's all gone," he confirmed, and Yates let out a small huff. "Whoever's behind the TruthSpeakers even got to every copy it was linked to."
"Lovely," Yates said. "So, no pressure, but how much do you remember from your findings?"
"Plenty. But the devil's in the details. I'm not confident I can dig up the TruthSpeakers if the answer was hidden in the details."
Yates' mustache twitched. "Then that leaves us with our most recent lead?"
Nolan nodded. "A man named Sigmund Briar. He's high in the food chain of DLR, Germany's space agency. Sent to the U.S. to help Cross Holdings work on their space station."
The mention of Cross Holdings drew the Heralds in. A multi-media conglomerate with ties across all walks of life in America was the best place to land a mole in.
"What's his deal? Is this Germany starting something against the U.S.?" Nozomi asked.
"I believe he's the man who helped the TruthSpeakers spread nationwide," Nolan said. "As for his allegiances? That's what we need to find out. I've contacted Thomas Cross, so hopefully we can kick things back up."
"A sound plan," Yates commented. Then he turned to Tamara. "Now, I'm sure you also have a lead?"
With her cue to speak, she rose. "Trent's death proves my theory. Only we knew he was harboring our investigation progress. One of us has differing loyalties."
"Smart, telling us the plan before you announced that!" Eugene Cobb piped up in disbelief.
"On the contrary, Mr. Cobb," Nolan began. "Thomas Cross already has Sigmund in custody. If the TruthSpeakers want him to stay quiet, they'll need to throw everything they have at him. And if he turns out to be entirely innocent, then we're back to square one."
"Not only that, but I'm making progress with my investigation." Tamara walked around the table, presenting windows of satellite imagery depicting Nuuk, Greenland. "Bronson has an idea as to who our mole could be. I'm set to meet him there soon." She made eye contact with Myung, exchanging a look of trust. "Next time we meet, I will have answers."
After some further discussion leading nowhere and finishing pleasantries, the meeting was adjourned. For all except Myung, who received a call request from Nozomi. The former held a sense of unease. If everything went accordingly, she should be in the clear...
The two reappeared in the Black Pyramid, sitting across from each other. "Hello, Nozomi," she began. "I hope this is brief. We both have work to get back to."
She offered a polite bow. "I'm afraid that will not be the case." Both of their smiles faded. "We've known each other practically our whole lives, and I consider you a dear friend."
Myung nodded, the old days coming back in flashes. "Funny how we both vowed to protect the world we knew. I doubt either of us thought we'd do so in this manner."
"We were young. Naïve. I still remember how head over heels you were over that detective. The nights you told me everything about the man you thought you'd marry."
Myung clenched her hands on her lap.
"I once thought of you as akin to Princess Kaguya. A beauty sought by many, but whose origins trumped her chance at love, returning to the unreachable moon. For who else could grasp such a place... other than the devout Emperor who would dare to live without seeing her?" Nozomi leaned in. "I'm not stupid, Soo-min."
Myung released a slow breath. "If you are accusing me of what I think you are—"
"It's no accusation, and I don't want to hear your excuses. You swore everything off after you joined Providence, same as me. You have to uphold that oath for your own good."
"As a friend, Nozomi, I request that you stop right there."
"I don't want to take this further than it has to, as you still have a chance to fix things. Tell Providence about everything. Tell Edwards if you can't bear the Heralds' judgment. Don't make a big stink out of this." She leaned back. "Goodbye, Soo-min. Hopefully, next time we meet will be under better circumstances."
A second later, Myung was alone in the room. The plan would have to change.