Specters and Shadows: The Ghosts of Fifth Avenue
Marcus' phone vibrates—a brief, insistent pulse against his palm. The glow of the screen carves a harsh line through the twilight. A single message illuminates his sharp features.
Rachel Marron tries to contact you.
The diplomate exhales, slow and measured. Then he locks the screen and slides the device back into the inner pocket of his Italian suit. The fabric molds to him as a second skin, black silk absorbing the dim glow from the morning heaven. Draped over his head, an oriental scarf. That shields him from the crisp bite of the morning in New York. Its edges brush his cheek as a faint breeze curls through the park.
The Brit sits motionless, carved into the scenery as an afterthought of the landscape. The iron bench presses into his spine, his arms sprawled across its back in an unspoken claim. His left hand, though, betrays his detachment. The fingers curl around a crinkling bag of cookies, a mindless grip, neither relaxed nor tense.
His eyes, focused outward, seem to take in the expansive view of the river, but his mind is elsewhere.
Beyond him, New York hums with a restless life. A drone whirs overhead, scanning pedestrian IDs. Its red light a dull pulse against the skyline. Traffic thrums, voices weave together in a discordant melody, but Marcus hears none. He has mastered silence. He cultivates it. Even as the world shouts around him, his mind remains a steel trap.
At the edge of the park, a holographic billboard flickers. A vision of Rachel Marron, her golden silhouette projected into the morning in New York. The neon blues and pinks shimmer. It's an artificial aurora, advertising the impossible: the intimacy of a star. Her digital lips part in a song, but Marcus does not turn. The illusion of her presence does not pull him in. He remains facing the river. The moving surface ripples under the city's fractured lights. Somewhere beyond the water, beyond all of this, lies the answer he's hunting.
The bag of cookies shifts in his lap. He plucks one out, methodical, calculated. The bite is slow, almost absentminded, crumbs disintegrating between his fingers. A habit of anchoring himself, to remain in control.
Something moves. A flicker at the edge of his vision.
A squirrel emerges from the undergrowth. Its tiny paws scuttle over damp pavement, pausing with a sharp jerk of its head, nose twitching. Marcus remains still. The creature studies him, its glossy black eyes unreadable.
It moves closer, a cautious advance. The small pads of its feet whisper against the bench. A test. Its nose twitches as it assesses the strange human. A silent question.
Marcus does not answer.
Then, a leap—a soft thud as the squirrel lands beside him, its breath a rapid flutter. For a moment, they mirror each other. Two motionless figures, one flesh, one fur, bound by the quiet contract of the wild.
Marcus does not blink.
Neither does the squirrel.
Onlookers hesitate mid-stride. Their conversations cut short. Their eyes now drawn toward the surreal stillness between man and beast. A few chuckle in disbelief. A squirrel, bold as brass, perching beside a figure who looks as if he stepped out of a neo-noir dream. The moment feels unreal. Its a glitch in the city's rhythm. Something organic breaking through the digital hum of their near-future world.
A woman raises her wristband to capture it, her embedded lens grinding as it records. Others follow. Holographic interfaces flickering open like translucent butterfly wings, live-streaming become a spectacle.
The squirrel, emboldened by Marcus' lack of reaction, makes its move. A flick of its tiny body, it slams onto his lap.
A ripple of gasps spreads through the gathering crowd. The tension shifts. An almost electric pulse in the air. The city pauses to witness the crossing of some unspoken line between man and nature.
"Oh my God," someone murmurs.
"D'you see that?" another breathes.
The creature, unfazed by its sudden audience, stares up at Marcus with dark, glossy eyes. Its delicate paws tuck against its chest in a posture of reverence—or calculation. The little thing twitches its nose, sniffing the faint scent clinging to Marcus' scarf. Then, with an unnerving precision, it moves.
It doesn't skitter. It doesn't hesitate. It climbs.
Up his chest, nimble feet pressing against the fabric of his immaculate suit. Its movements are smooth, confident, as if it's studying him. A sharp intake of breath echoes from the crowd.
A murmur ripples through them.
"That's Jasper Rothko."
The words edge with excitement, but the squirrel isn't interested in fame. It focuses on one thing—the crinkled bag in Marcus' lap.
For a heartbeat, Marcus doesn't move.
Then, with the practiced ease of a pickpocket, the squirrel's tiny fingers grasp the bag's edge. A sharp tug. A rustle of foil.
The damn thing opened it.
A chorus of astonished laughter bubbles up. Marcus at end shifts, not to stop it—no, he watches. The squirrel, victorious, digs in with mechanical efficiency. It fishes out a cookie as if it had rehearsed the act a hundred times before.
It hesitates for the briefest moment. Then takes off, leaping from Marcus' lap, dashing across the park with its stolen prize.
The laughter builds, light and contagious. A crowd watches the audacious little thief disappear into the trees. More cameras flicker to life, broadcasting the absurdity across the city.
Marcus exhales, a ghost of amusement flickering at the edges of his expression. A single muscle in his jaw moves. The first real reaction he's given all day.
It's ridiculous.
It's absurd.
And for the first time in hours, Marcus doesn't feel like the most unpredictable thing in the park.
As the last chuckles fade, the crowd dissolves into the shifting currents of the city. The English remains still. The world recedes the laughter, the murmurs, the glint of amusement in passing glances. All swallow at this moment by the steady hum of civilization. The distant thrum of automated traffic, the occasional whir of a drone overhead, the rustling of synthetic leaves in the engineered trees—none of it reaches him.
The park, jolted by the disturbance, exhales back into its natural rhythm. A jogger's steady footfalls tap against the pavement. A child's laughter rises, then fades. The wind stirs the branches above, artificial sunlight glinting off bio-engineered bark. Marcus doesn't move. His gaze stays locked on the horizon, on nothing, on everything. A stolen moment of levity—absurd, fleeting. Everything already dissolves into the static of his thoughts.
Then, a voice cuts through.
"So alone?"
The words arrive with an easy, almost rehearsed familiarity. It seems, the speaker assumes camaraderie from shared amusement. Marcus registers the approach without turning. A man lingers within his periphery. He is clad in a weather-adaptive jacket, with an imposing half-smile on his face.
Marcus doesn't move. His fingers tighten and clench around the now-empty bag of cookies, the plastic crinkling under his grip. The interruption grates.
A long silence stretches between them.
Then, with the precision of a blade against silk, Marcus speaks.
"And I hope it stays that way."
His voice sounds honed steel, stripped of warmth, designed for dismissal. His posture remains statuesque. The British gaze unmoving. The presence of another person is a passing inconvenience an insect buzzing too close to his ear.
The man hesitates, his smile flickering at the edges, uncertain. He shifts his weight, caught off guard by the unexpected chill. For a second, he seems ready to offer another word, a joke, a harmless attempt at connection. Then he reads the silence—the complete and utter lack of invitation.
Something in his expression hardens.
The mood curdles, subtle but unmistakable.
Without another word, he turns, retreating into the park. His steps, now brisker than before, his shoulders a little stiffer.
Marcus watches his departure without interest. He doesn't care for the man's mood, his awkward shuffle, his bruised ego. The disturbance is nothing more than a ripple across an otherwise still pond, vanishing as it appeared.
The wind shifts. The city hums.
And Marcus, once again, is alone.
BREAKING NEWS: British Parliament in Uproar as Debate Over the Pale Shine Act Erupts Into Chaos
Back in the expansive lodge of Rachel Marron's opulent Manhattan domicile. The atmosphere is a mixture of sophistication and tranquility. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Sheer curtains become drawn back to reveal the glittering lights of New York sunrise.
A sleek console stood against one wall, its modern design blending with the elegant decor. As the console powers up, a low hum filled the room. A three-dimensional Illusion screen flickered into existence. The soft, blue luminescence of the photon display cast a magical glow over the room. All juxtaposing the serene surroundings with the dynamic news unfolding before them.
The laser render materializes into the form of a polished news studio. The anchor's face appears in sharp, vivid detail. His voice, though calm, carries an undertone of urgency that grips captured attention. "... Chad, where tensions are escalating. The North African nation took dramatic steps. They sever diplomatic relations with France and expel the French ambassador. The situation is tense. A military revolt intensifying against the new junta government."
The optic illusion shifts to a feed of the desert state. Soldiers move across the arid landscape. Their figures cast long shadows in the harsh sunlight. Rachel walks through them as she sits down with her drink on the lush sofa next to Ashley. She puts her arm around her daughter. The sand seems to stretch without end. A macabre idyll, disturbed by the movement of armored vehicles. The plume of dust trailing behind them. A roar of engines. The sight of military machinery across the barren terrain created a sense of unease.
"International reactions are heating up," the anchor continued. "Paris has condemned the actions, and Moscal's increasing its support for the junta. The situation is further complicated by Chad's proximity to mainland Taiwan. That adds a geopolitical layer to the crisis."
The quantum image transitions to a world map. An editorial team highlights Chad's location with dynamic graphics. Lines and markers connect various global hotspots. That illustrates the intricate web of political alliances and tensions. The map, illuminated in vivid colors.
As the focus shifts...
The spectral imprint begins to display footage of Parliamentary disputes in London. That source of light alone comes from the flickering etheric projection. It cast shadows on Rachel's face. She sips her drink, her attention fixed on the unfolding drama.
The parliamentary debate was intense. The screen shows General Ordlaf of Astgill, a weathered figure with a mechanical eye and arm. His face, marked by a deep scar and tangled hair. His presence is imposing. He clashed against the polished backdrop of the House of Commons.
"General Ordlaf," the anchor's voice droned over the broadcast, "is here to defend the Pale Shine Act. That's a controversial piece of legislation. Many believe it usher in a totalitarian regime. All under the guise of combating terror from the Scaters Men."
The debate becomes chaotic. A Labor MP, his face flush with indignation, accused the general of endorsing what he called a Tory coup. The camera pans to Ordlaf, who remains stoic, his eyes hidden behind his mechanical enhancements. His demeanor suggests a man accustomed to confrontation.
"Conspiracy theorists!" A Tory MP, rising above the din, shouted, "Section 13 was Labor's idea! How dare you accuse us of a coup!"
Zarah Zarenknecht, a politician known for her controversial stances, stood up with a scornful expression. "Isn't it true, Warmonger, that all the military tribunes are loyal to your so-called hawks?"
Ordlaf's face tightened, and he dismissed the accusation with a wave. "That's nonsense," he declared, his voice firm and unyielding.
A murmur of discontent rippled through the chamber. Someone from the Tory back rows yelled, "Germ spy!" The room fell silent, the accusation hanging as a heavy fog.
Ordlaf shook his head, his mechanical eye whirring slightly as he did so. "This is a baseless accusation," he said, his tone steady despite the chaos around him.
The room erupts into noise again, with interjections labeling Zarenknecht as a conspiracy theorist. She remains composed, her eyes flickering with a hint of triumph. With a dramatic flourish, she activates a hologram that projects the faces and data of thirteen commando men, each one identified as a tribunus militaris.
Gasps fill the chamber as the hologram displays what were classified documents. The revelation causes an immediate uproar, the chamber descending into chaos as MPs shout over each other, their calls blending into a cacophony of outrage and disbelief.
Rachel leans forward, her interest piqued. She watches intently, her mind racing with the implications of the information being revealed. The debate rages on, a turbulent mix of political maneuvering and public scandal, and Rachel couldn't tear her eyes away from the unfolding drama.
The unrest in the House of Commons intensified as General Ordlaf's complaint rang out. His speech is laden with frustration. "The identities of the militums are top secret!" he protests. His words seem to fuel the chaos rather than quell it.
Zarah Zarenknecht, unfazed by the commotion, leans into the spotlight with a smug expression. Her voice cut through the turmoil, clear and commanding. "Isn't it true, desk soldier, that you are an old friend of the head of military counterintelligence, Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron? And that the military tribune for London is practically part of his family? He's the godfather of Vice Admiral Marron's granddaughter."
The revelation struck like a thunderclap. The room fell silent for a heartbeat before another wave of agitation surged through the chamber. The connections Zarenknecht had exposed seemed to ignite fresh controversy, with MPs reacting to the implications of such entrenched favoritism.
Rachel eyes fix on the screen. She lean forward, her interest piqued by the explosive allegations. Her pulse quicken as she tried to absorb every detail. As the drama reach its peak, the television signal begins to falter. The hologram flickers and wavers, the image breaking up into distorted fragments. Static fills the void, the sound becoming a garbled mess of indecipherable noise.
With frustration Rachel stared at the sputtering screen. Her fingers drummed on the arm of her chair. Her attention caught in the tantalizing glimpse of political scandal. The transmission leaving her in silence. The implications of what she witnesses inclose her in a heavy mist.
The holographic news studio reappeared in Rachel Marron's Manhattan penthouse. The anchor's face illuminated in a stark, professional light. The room's opulence seemed almost at odds with the gravity of the news unfolding on the hologram.
"We're still in the UK," the anchor's voice was steady but tinged with urgency. "Hexham, Northumberland. The British Disease Control Authority declares a state of emergency. The town has quarantined after the detection of a new virus. Not outright fatal. It causes severe physical deformities and a disturbing condition known as brain rot. The resulting idiocy leads to dangerous behaviors that risk lives."
The scene jerks into motion. The hologram now displays grim, unsettling footage from Hexham. The once-quiet town, a stark tableau of chaos and confusion. People who contorts into disturbing figures. Their features warps in grotesque ways, stumbled through the streets. Their movements were erratic, their expressions vacant.
Ashley and Rachel watches in horrified silence as the images flickered before them. Of the distorted figures, some resembling rodent-like creatures. They blathers about a litany of bizarre topics. Their voices were high-pitched and nonsensical. Its creates a dissonant backdrop to the unsettling visual of their appearances. The hologram zoomes in on individuals who seems lost in a haze of delirium.
The camera pans over the town's deserted streets. A occasional figure lurch into view, creating a sense of eerie desolation. The background punctuates by the flickering lights of emergency vehicles. Their sirens mute in the holographic broadcast.
The anchor's voice returns, somber and measured. "Authorities are working to contain the outbreak and provide aid. Residents become advised to remain indoors and avoid contact with the infected. The situation accelerates, and more updates will follow."
The hologram dissolves. It leaves the cold hum of the high-tech systems embedded in the walls. The afterimage of Hexham's lingers in the glow of the penthouse. A city in flames reduced to a haunted flicker before vanishing obliterated. That's a stark contrast between the luxury of Rachel's penthouse and the harrowing scenes from Hexham. A scene that creates a chilling atmosphere. The unsettling news leaves a lingering sense of dread.
The lobby, Waldorf Astoria
Greg Portman leans back in his chair, close to the reception. He, casual, effortless. His practiced charm smoothed over the tension the same way a fine lacquer does. Across from him, the two women stay hooked on his every word. They were drawn in by his easy confidence and the crisp precision of his accent.
The Brit glances at his watch, silver and sleek against the cuff of his tailored jacket. A small smirk forms.
"My friend should be here any moment. He's more punctual as a drill sergeant."
The redhead, all sharp angles and piercing green eyes let out a knowing laugh. "Is he as charming as you, though?"
Her friend, dark-skinned, cheekbones carved to perfection, tilts her head. "'Cause you Brits? Y'all, a whole vibe. Ain't like what we get over here."
Greg chuckles, pleased. "You'll amazed. He looks like Jasper Rothko, but he's quite an important figure in the UK."
The receptionist, eavesdropping from behind the desk, allows himself a knowing smile. "That's true, sir! But unless this gentlewoman isn't a Marron, I wouldn't expect much attention from him."
Portsman's brow furrows. He turns to him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
The receptionist straightens, his composed demeanor slipping for the first time. "I'm afraid I've already said too much. Discretion commands value in this establishment."
Greg studies him for a moment, then exhales, a slow smirk forming. "I know my friend and Rachel Marron became involved."
The receptionist tilts his head. The lips press together in a polite but unreadable expression. "Interesting wording, sir. But good, then you're informed about them."
The words burst from his lips when the women jolt back with a synchronized shriek.
Chairs scrape. The Brit is on his feet in a second, scanning the room—
And then Marcus Gallagher is there.
No footsteps, no approach. An absence, then a presence. Like a trick of the light. The air around the table shifts, cooling under his scrutiny.
The Royal Marine Major expels a breath, running a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell." His voice wavers between irritation and admiration. "I know they call you SRR Ghosts, but do you have to be so literal about it?"
Marcus doesn't answer. He lets his gaze settle on booth women with a look that's neither curiosity nor contempt. It's an assessment, clinical, and cold. He peels back the scarf draped over his head, revealing his sharp features.
The redhead grips the edge of the table. "Holy shit, he straight-up looks like Jasper Rothko."
Greg, still trying to regain control of the situation, gestures between them. "I would to introduce you to two lovely ladies—"
Marcus dismisses them. "Yes, you could. However, I would prefer if you didn't."
The scaterman sighs, rolling his eyes. "Would it kill you to say good morning?"
Marcus flicks a glance at him. "What's good about it?"
The Royal Marine throws up his hands. "Mate, you're insufferable."
Marcus waves off the conversation. "Can we get on with it? I have somewhere to be—636 Fifth Avenue." His tone makes it clear the conversation is already a waste of time.
Greg shakes his head, feigning disappointment. "And here I was, hoping you'd be in good spirits. I thought we make a night of it. Good company, a bit of indulgence—"
Marcus's reply is effortless, detached. "I understand."
The dark-skinned woman leans toward Marcus, a flirtatious glint in her eye. "Your friend has already told us a lot about you."
Marcus doesn't blink. "Oh? And let me guess, the precariat is now thinking what? They assume a horizontal position, extend the flaps, and fuck their way up the social ladder?"
The table turns to stone.
The redhead recoils. "The fuck did you say?"
Greg's face drains of color. "Christ, Marcus—"
But Marcus is already turning to him. His voice devoid of anything but casual indifference. "May I ask who this Moor was meant for? And the Bogtrotter Barbie wouldn't even stand out on the streets of Dublin."
Silence.
Then—chairs scrape back with violent force. The women storm off. The heels click like gunfire, a string of expletives trailing in their wake.
Portman watches them go, then turns back, expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales, slow and measured.
"Bloody hell, Marcus, have you completely lost the plot?"
Greg still stares at Marcus like he witnessed a public execution. His mouth moves, but no words come out. The sheer audacity of it all. The callous precision. The Marcus-ness of the whole exchange—has wrenched him unmoored.
Before he can gather his thoughts—
The receptionist stands behind the desk with the calm satisfaction of a man who has seen this play out before. He leans in and addresses Marcus with quiet amusement.
"As I told you, sir. Don't pretend to be an American movie star. Be natural and yourself, and presto—no woman in New York will bother you."
Greg blinks. His head swivels toward the receptionist. Back to Marcus. Then to the now-empty space where the two women had been.
"Jesus Christ." He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "You didn't burn the bridge, mate—you napalmed the whole bloody city."
Greg is still staring at Marcus, he's trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. His fingers drum against the tabletop in a slow, agitated rhythm.
Marcus, unbothered, leans back in his chair. He stretches a man who cleared an inconvenience from his schedule. A smirk plays on his lips. "Well, that's them gone. Now, what's up?"
Portman expels a breath, still processing. "You know, if you live alone, you'll die alone."
Marcus raises a brow, then lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "God willing."
The Royal Marine's glare could burn through steel. "Damn it, did it have to happen like that?"
Marcus shrugs, radiating indifference. "I'm not here to win hearts and minds. I'm here to make money. So, let's talk money."
Greg rubs his temple, trying to ground himself. "Ever heard of mixing business with pleasure?"
Marcus snorts. "You tested the Danger Mouse."
The scaterman freezes. His hand lowers. "What?"
Marcus's eyes narrow, his tone turning clinical, he's already ten steps ahead. "I know because the FBI briefs the military tribune."
Portman's frown deepens. Before he can demand clarification, Marcus changes gears, his mind shifting like clockwork. "Those two—did they approach you, or did you approach them?"
Greg blinks, caught off guard. "They approached me."
Marcus taps his fingers against the polished surface, his gaze sharpening. "And it didn't cross your mind that they might be FBI?"
A flicker of unease flashes in Greg's eyes. He sits up straighter.
Marcus watches him for a beat, then waves a dismissive hand. "No, if they were Bureau, they'd have played the long game. Maintained contact. Pushed for more." A slow smirk tugs at his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Good news is, now we know where we stand with them." He lets out a hollow chuckle. "Bad news is, they're not coming back. So don't get your hopes up."
Marron House, Dover
A low hum filled the smoldering study of the Marrons' Dover estate. Everything punctuat by the measured clicks of Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron. He scrolls through the psychological profile on his monitor. The golden glow of the desk lamp traced the contours of his face. These strong, broad cheekbones, the deep-set eyes that carried generations of unspoken history. His mouth, full and decisive, pressed into a line of quiet discontent.
Shelley stood beside him, arms folded, the silk of her robe whispering as she shifted her weight. The light caught the fine coils of hair at her temples, gleaming against the rich undertones of her skin. She pushes out a breath, watching the screen.
The Admiral spoke first, his voice measured. "This concerns me."
Misses M traced a thoughtful finger along the carved edge of the desk. Her nails lacquer in a deep, earthen red. "You don't say."
His mouth quirked, but the expression didn't last. "You've noticed it too, then? Brown Job's rather pointed disdain for Rachel's partner?"
A quiet breath of laughter escaped her, dark eyes flickering. "You mean the way he insists on calling him 'Rachel's nigger'? Yes, I had noticed."
A silence settled between them, thick with things understood but left unsaid. Gaderian let out a slow breath through his nose. "Subtle as ever."
Shelley jerked her head, the movement poised yet weighted. "He's worried."
Mister Marron's gaze returned to the screen, his jaw setting. "Aren't we all?"
The weight in the room deepened. Finally, Shell spoke again, her voice softer now, more certain. "He'll see to Rachel and the girl, won't he?"
Gad hesitated, the shadows under his eyes deepening in the lamplight. Then, with quiet finality: "He has other assignments. He's leaving New York soon. And there's been an incident at Rachel's London house."
Rach's mom went very still. The only sign of reaction, the slow, deliberate way she exhaled. Her lips twitch as if weighing a response that never came. "What sort of incident?"
Gaderian didn't answer at once. The glow of the screencast his profile in stark relief. His strong nose, the tension along his jaw, the unreadable flicker in his deep, brown eyes.
Rachel's Penthouse, Manhattan
Across the Atlantic, in the heart of Manhattan. Rachel's penthouse pulsed with quiet tension. Sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glow drenches the penthouse in a crisp, golden sheen. Below, the city hums. Yellow cabs slice through the avenues, pedestrians locked in their usual morning hustle. It's a New York morning, brisk and alive, but inside, the air feels off. Too still.
Chris and Michael stand near the lodge, taking in the polished, calculated luxury of the space. The fresh espresso scent should feel warm, familiar. It doesn't.
Rachel stands apart, arms crossed, one hip jutted cocked. Her brown eyes, usually so full of fire, are cool, detached. They flick between her brothers, measuring, waiting.
"Did you talk to Papa?"
Chris nods. Michael hesitates. "I did."
The singer's shoulders stiffen. A small shift, but it changes the air. "What do you mean, 'I did'?"
Chris exhales, irritation creeping in. "Come on, Rach. Michael made the call for both of us. That's enough."
She turns away, blinking too fast, shutting something down before it has the chance to cut deep.
Then—movement.
Bill Devaney strides in, his expression hard. Behind him, Sy Spector lingers near the espresso machine. He seems to be half-watching the siblings like a man bracing for a fight.
Rach's manager wastes no time. His voice comes low, firm. "Somebody broke into Rachel's house."
Sy stiffens. "When?"
"Last night."
Sy's face drains. His fingers curl around his coffee cup like it's the thing keeping him steady. "I thought the Secret Service was watching the place."
Bill squirms. "Not yet. She still hasn't signed off on it."
Both men glance at Rachel. She stood with her back to them, rigid, silent.
Across the room, Editha works the espresso machine. Her hands, careful, precise, but her gaze flickers to Rachel and her brothers. Her mouth presses into a thin line. She already knows this isn't another headline—it's a warning.
Spector leans toward Devaney, lowering his voice. "We can't tell her. Feel her out, see where she's at. She doesn't even know what the press is saying yet."
Bill rubs a hand down his face. "She's gonna find out, Sy. You think we can keep this from her?"
The air shifts.
Michael speaks, casual but deliberate. "Wesley's not here?"
Rachel flinches—jerks. But Michael catches it. So does Editha.
The pop star's nails press into her palm. She doesn't look at him. "You miss him?"
Michael shrugs. "I ask 'cause of what the media's saying."
The room stills.
Editha's fingers pause mid-motion. Her expression shifts as if she'd seen a shadow fall over Rachel.
The diva turns, slow and sharp. Her voice dips, steady but cutting.
"What are they saying?"
Central Park, Manhattan
Frozen still, as if the city itself is holding its breath. The air becomes thick with the lingering scent of damp earth and exhaust fumes. The glow of Manhattan flickers through skeletal tree branches.
The scent of damp earth and exhaust clings to the air, mingling with the faint sting of ozone from the skyline. A low hum of traffic pulses in the distance. Some muffled voices threaded through the winding paths.
Greg Portman strolls as if he owns the morning. His hands tucked in the pockets of his tailored coat, movements easy unbothered. But his eyes are sharp, scanning every shadow. Beside him, Marcus Gallagher moves with a measured precision, each step calculated, controlled. He is the kind of man who never lets his back face an open space.
The Royal Marine tilts his head, studying his companion. "Didn't sleep, then?"
Marcus struggles to turn. "I wasn't sleeping at all. Jet lag." His voice carried no weight, no weariness—it's a fact.
Portman smirks. "That explains the mess at the hotel." He chuckles a forced amusement that doesn't reach his eyes. Marcus remains as cold as the steel-grey sky stretched above them.
"You think I was joking?" Marcus asks, voice flat.
The Marine officer exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You don't think you're being a bit paranoid?"
Marcus stops. The movement is abrupt, surgical. In the early glow, the scarf draped over his head casts deep shadows, sharpening the lines of his face. His voice is quiet. There's something in the way he speaks that makes the words feel sharp-edged, predatory.
"And you're reckless."
The major feels the tension coil in his spine. He raises his hands, palms out. "Come on now. We're on the same side, aren't we?"
The British diplomate turns to face him. "No, we are not. I am on my side."
The city vibrates with a restless energy.
The two men cut contrasting figures. Marcus, all effortless arrogance, a smirk ever lurking at the corner of his mouth. Then, there is Greg, calculated restraint, the watchful predator beneath the polished exterior.
The Scaterman only pretends to change the subject. "What do you say about the riots and the police response?"
Marcus exhales, the ghost of a laugh escaping. "As I always say, all cops are bastards." He flashes a grin, sharp and knowing. "The colonialists love their police dramas. War veterans come home to serve society and join the police. That may even be true here in the small towns of the colonies, but let's be honest." His tone dips into something heavier, something undeniable. "The police and the military have two different security functions. The military protects the people from external enemies. The police guarantee the monopoly of violence. Seized in the hands of a government against the people."
A glimmer of interest flashes across Greg's face, a tell Marcus doesn't miss.
"That's pretty much what motivates the Scatersmen."
Marcus smiles, knowing where his dude is steering the conversation. "I wasn't talking about myself." He exhales, dragging his gaze away toward the shifting lights of the city. "My motivation for joining the military was to get away from home and see the world because I didn't have the money."
Greg's curiosity sharpens. "That changed now?"
Marcus navigates the moment, a knife gliding through silk. "Well, priorities shifted. I managed to form alliances that guaranteed me financial security. My interest now shifts from money to power."
The Royal Marine watches him with care. "A military tribune is very powerful."
Marcus grins, the kind of expression that promises unseen machinations already in motion. "And he'll become even more powerful when the Pale Shine Act goes into effect."
The Metropol hums around them, oblivious to the weight of what lingers between the two men.
The Scaterman addresses the topic that interests him. "You're also dissatisfied with the way things are going in Albion." He grins and bares his teeth. "You're already one of the Ny-Lons anyway, and we could use a military tribune."
Marcus pulls a face as if he needs a root canal. "And you think I like being here in this soulless Big Apple? I bought a house in Miami right now, but can I enjoy it? No, they're sending me to New York."
Marcus lets the silence hang before answering, voice cold. "You reckon the FBI are thick? The plasma explosion vaporised most of the bodies—no DNA, no physical evidence. But two you left shot. There are eyewitnesses. The Bureau doesn't have a name, but they know what happened."
Greg grins, a man enjoying a good joke. "Then they'll assume the AMM-117 is here, in New York. Which means they'll focus their search here. That's good—because it isn't here." He glances sideways, watching Marcus from the corner of his eye. "Right?"
Marcus studies him, unreadable. Then—a slow nod.
Marcus exhales, studying him. "That's right."
Portman's grin widens. "Yesterday's sample was impressive. We're in business. But I insist, I'll need to see the full shipment before we finalise."
Marcus expects nothing less. "All right."
He pulls out his phone, aims the camera at himself.
The Marine doesn't get the impression that Marcus is looking for a selfie. "What the bloody hell is that about?"
Marcus doesn't answer, tucking the phone away. Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, rounded device. The major peers closer as the screen flickers to life. It's a tiny digital creature that bounces across the pixelated display.
Greg scoffs. "An electronic pet? You having a laugh?"
Marcus nods toward an empty bench. "Sit."
The renegade hesitates, watching him. "You're serious."
Marcus doesn't respond. He navigates through the glowing menu of his Tamagotchi.
The air carries a metallic bite, a residue of rain, and something else. Something synthetic, clinging to burnt circuitry.
Greg Portman moves with the ease of a man who has never had to rush. His hands stay in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, but his eyes—his eyes dissect everything. "How quick do you reckon we could close the deal?"
Marcus Gallagher reacts little. A slow shrug, effortless, yet precise. The kind of movement that suggests he could explode into action without warning. "Depends where you want the stuff delivered."
The Marine officer watches him, sharp as ever. "No fuss. We'll pick it up."
A flicker of amusement ghosts across Marcus's lips. "That makes life simpler for me."
Portman narrows his eyes. "Not curious what we plan to do with it?"
Marcus tilts his head, and the streetlights catch in his gaze—sharp slivers of ice. "That'd only confirm what I already think—you're reckless." A pause. A breath. "I care about the money."
He doesn't give this dude time to push further. His fingers fidget at the screen of his Tamagotchi. The blue glow flickers across his knuckles.
Greg scoffs. "You considering that thing?"
Marcus nods, eyes still on the tiny digital creature. "You will soon."
Portman's phone vibrates—a call, cutting out before he can answer. Then another. A glitch. He pulls it out, frowning as the signal jerks. Texts flood the screen. Nonsense symbols, corrupted characters dissolve as fast as they appear.
Marcus mutters, slamming his fingers against the Tamagotchi. "Come on."
Then he moves—fast.
The terrorist glances before something drops from the sky. A shadow. Black and artificial. It spins, whirls in the air. Marcus snatches it mid-fall, fingers working over its surface with practiced ease. The thing is sleek, palm-sized, wings twitching in spasms before falling limp.
Greg's gut twists as he gets a proper look. The Royal Marine looks at it, "A surveillance drone?" He sounds frightened. "You havin' a laugh?" He steps back. "Was someone following us?"
Marcus grins, triumphant. "Paranoia doesn't make you wrong." He holds up the drone. "She's been on us since the Waldorf."
The Marine officer exhales. "And you knew?"
Marcus corrects him, dry as sandpaper. "Suspected."
The Scater eyes the Tamagotchi, now hidden in Marcus's pocket. "You crashed it. With a child's toy."
Marcus smirks, all biting. "You thought I was muckin' about? This," he taps his pocket, "lets me access anything with remote capability. Range limited, but it does the job."
Greg lets out a breath, shaking his head. "Bloody hell."
Marcus tosses him the drone. "Get your lot to look at it. Might learn something."
For a moment, neither speaks. The city fills the silence for them. Sirens wail, distant but creeping closer. Somewhere nearby, the scent of a sharp tang of damp metal and exhaust fumes.
The Marine rolls his shoulders, lets out a quiet chuckle. "You know, Marcus, I reckon we'll get on fine."
Marcus says nothing. He walks as if it's the most natural thing.
The crisp morning air of Central Park carried the scent of damp earth. The distant aroma of roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart lingers around.
The major falls into step beside him, Gotham lights glinting off his grin. "You know what don't add up? A bloke like you—so bloody money-hungry—floggin' AMM-117s on the cheap. You could be rakin' it in elsewhere."
Marcus doesn't break stride. But the look in his eyes—cold, cutting—says Greg is finally asking the right questions.
Marcus ignores his landsman. Instead, with brisk efficiency, he pulls out his phone and dials.
"Consul, morning… Yes, I'm with Portman now… Yes, it's... Portman seems to think I could get a better price for the Danger Mice elsewhere. My price is £95 million at the moment or $120 million."
Portman stops mid-step. The words land with weight. Marcus holds his gaze, silent, waiting. The air hums with the city's quiet menace. Distant sirens. A drone of electric taxis. As well as a faint glow of augmented billboards reflecting off wet pavements.
As if flicking away a spent cigarette, Marcus extends the phone toward him. "The Consul would like a word."
Greg hesitates. A slow twist of unease coils in his stomach. He takes the phone, already knowing what's coming.
The voice on the other end is precise, clipped. A man used to command.
"Yes, sir," The Scaterman mutters. "Understood, sir… No, sir… Of course."
A traffic light shifts to green. The crowd around them spills forward, moving as one. Marcus strides ahead, unconcerned. Greg lags behind, the weight of the call settling over him like damp wool.
When he finally pockets the phone, he spots Marcus standing in front of a Lego display. The military tribune's expression alight with genuine curiosity.
The Major frowns. The display is elaborate. Miniature replicas of the Shard and St. Paul's Cathedral. Even a bright Caribbean blue Aston Martin. Rows of bricks pile into towering replicas of the Empire State Building. There is the Statue of Liberty too and even a gleaming red Ferrari. Designed to lure in tourists, no doubt. But now? Contrasted with the conversation they had moments ago, the sight feels ridiculous. Arms deals and plastic bricks. A madman's contrast.
A buzz breaks through his thoughts. A notification flashes on Marcus's screen. Eight unread messages. Greg is astonished when he reads: 'Rachel Marron wants to contact you.'
The Scater catches a glimpse before Marcus shoves the phone into his pocket.
"You've got a message," Greg says, offering the device back. "Important?"
Marcus glances at it. "Advertising."
Portman exhales, irritated. How does he do this? The man seems unbothered. As if the conversation about weapons trafficking had never happened.
"Have a look at this," Marcus says, pointing to the sleek, brick-built Aston Martin. His tone carries something almost boyish. "A working replica."
The Royal Marine studies him, suspicion simmering beneath his ribs.
Somewhere in all this, he misses a piece of the puzzle.
And Marcus knows it.
He moves through the city like a ghost with a pulse. The British diplomat, detached, deliberate, yet fascinated by the trivial. A man who sells death but stops to admire toy cars. The contradiction gnaws at Greg's nerves.
He watches Marcus with growing unease, a mix of irritation and disbelief.
Because the man isn't ruthless. He's enjoying himself. The man had orchestrated a power move over the phone seconds ago. He set the price of deadly weapons with the ease of haggling for a cab fare, and now? Now he admires Lego exhibits, an overgrown child.
Marcus leans in close to the Ferrari model, tapping the hood with a knuckle. The Lego bricks snap under his touch. "Functioning—can you believe that? Electric motor inside. The detail work's absurd." His voice carries genuine admiration. The towering Empire State replica and the sleek red sports car? All that holds more significance to him than the high-stakes deal they discussed.
The murmur of the crowd, a constant undercurrent. Then, a tide pulling back before a wave, the pedestrians part.
A petite African American woman with blond hair strides through the space. She becomes flanked by two towering bodyguards in tailored black suits. The atmosphere changes in no time. Phones lift. Voices sharpen. The press surges forward, drawn to her as if wolves scenting blood. The Lego store manager follows. His expression stretched between terror and a businessman's wildest dream.
Ivy Reed.
Marcus stills. She is inches away.
For a fraction of a second, Ivy's keen eyes flick under the cloth draped over his head. She catches something. A spark of recognition flashes across her face, followed by whatever, sharper.
"That's unbelievable!"
Marcus finds no time to react. Ivy grabs the cloth and whips it away, a magician revealing the climax of an illusion. The crowd gasps.
"Jasper Rothko!"
The name detonates through the square. A cheer erupts. Reporters surge forward, cameras firing as if rapid gunfire, microphones jabbing the air.
Marcus doesn't flinch. In the span of a breath, he becomes someone else. His posture shifts, his mouth curves into an easy, dazzling grin. Gone is Marcus Gallagher, the calculating specter who sells death in the shadows. In his place stands Jasper Rothko, an American movie star, bathing in the adoration of his fans.
A cheer erupts. The media, vultures scenting fresh meat, descend. Cameras flash, microphones extend, voices clamor for soundbites.
"Well, look at you!" Marcus—no, Jasper—laughs, pulling Ivy into a warm, effortless hug. The flashbulbs explode. The Lego store manager looks as if he might faint from sheer joy.
Ivy lingers a moment before pulling back, her gaze slipping past Marcus to land on Greg. Something sharp flickers behind her polished smile—curiosity.
Is he with Jasper Rothko?
Marcus reads her thoughts before she speaks. With a dismissive flick of the hand, he waves his dude off.
"My bodyguard. You can call him a lackey or pretend he isn't here. He's used to it. Comes with being part of the proles, he's used to it."
Greg's jaw tightens a muscle twitching. He exhales through his nose, forcing a tight smile.
"Honored to get noticed, Jasper."
The cameras catch everything. The easy Hollywood banter. The dynamic of the adored star and his overlooked shadow. The illusion builds itself, moment by moment, feeding on the chaos.
Ivy, flashing a dazzling grin, twists to the side, giving the cameras her best angle. "Funny, I was watching your film last night."
Marcus tilts his head, seizing the role. "You enjoy it?"
"Oh, it was great." Ivy's eyes gleam. "Didn't see the ending, though."
Marcus stays unbothered. He turns his attention back to Ivy, glowing in the artificial spotlight.
Ivy leans in, lowering her voice enough for the microphones to struggle to catch it. "There's a three-meter Death Star inside. You've got to see it."
Marcus grins wider. Slides into his Jasper Rothko persona and gasps with exaggerated disbelief. "It's not true!"