Sentinels of the Celestial Realm - Nothing in that world Part 1

by Corey Gould

Center of this intrigue is a highly trained officer from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, cadre commander with deep ties to military intelligence. Rachel Marron, the world-renowned black pop star fleeing social unrest in the US, she must navigate the turmoil of a global thriller while grappling with his own demons. Inspired by Whitney Houston's movie The Bodyguard and her life.

2. Phantoms in Orbit: The Countdown

Chapter 2: Phantoms in Orbit - The Countdown to Cataclys

In the north of The UK - Times Afterward

The place grows dim. Machinery hums louder. The septums themselves vibrate under the weight of the countdown. Eyes glued to flickering monitors. Sweat beads on a few foreheads, glistening under the arid glow of the displays. The breeze feels thick, bleak, indicted with anticipation, as if it might snap at any second.

"Adjust the trajectory!" The commander's speech slivers through the tense atmosphere, firm, clipped. No one dares look up. The pressure in the lobby rises. Every operator locked into their station. Fingers hovering over controls, waited for precision as if making a critical incision.

The hidden object materializes with the calculated stealth of a predator.

It's there, a vague, shimmering mold, a phantom taking shape in the void of orbit.

Lights in the auditorium weaken; the sheer presence of the thing demands all attention.

Its structure emerges, glowing against the deep black, expanding sinister and mechanical.

"Has air traffic control detected it?" The general's voice rumbles all over the hall, quieting the murmurs short.

"Yes, sir," an officer snaps. "They've picked up the sat."

A hush.

The crackling order slices through the static, charged with electricity: "Deactivate camouflage."

On the screens, the satellite at the end reveals itself, no longer cloaked—a hulking beast drifting in space. Its obscure form looms against the endless stars, a technological behemoth, its surface scarred with panels and antennae. It hovers, waiting, poised for destruction, cool and unfeeling. The supervisors stare, faces washed in the pale light, jaws tight. No doubt, pure intent.

Return to the Desert - Minutes Later

The wasteland stays silent at first. Then a piercing screech tears through the ether, a scream of metal splitting apart. The satellite's detached section, massive, five tons of cold, unforgiving iron, falls free. It tumbles, then catches the wind. Fires boom from its propulsion system, devouring the vault of heaven in smog and fire as it rockets toward the planet.

The fire-hammer blazes across the heavens, a furious inferno streaking against the expanse of sand. It flashes, an omen in the firmament. Heat pulses ahead of it, warping the sphere. Below it, the land trembles.

For a moment, there dominates silence again—a pregnant pause before the clash.

Then …

Cataclysmic impact.

The world erupts.

An explosion shatters the stillness, tearing asunder the landscape.

A shockwave punches through the abandon, rippling the soil with an invisible fist.

The fireball crashes into the simulated city, a storm of amethyst flames and flying debris swirling through the empty streets.

Steel crumples, buildings collapse, everything obliterated in an instant.

The roar deafens an unrelenting thunder that seems to roll on forever, shaking the very bones of the Earth.

Smoke billows into the sky, dark and choking. The ground beneath the wildfires cracks and groans. The leave-behind screams in agony.

Back to Scotland - Moments After

The supervision lounge explodes into chaos. Operators spring to their feet. All tension breaks into wild cheers and laughter. Hands clap backs, and fists pump the high. The sterile walls of the control room bounce with the echoes of triumph. With a wave of rhapsodies and relief, they let go of their breath. Shoulders drop as if a collective weight lifts.

"Bloody brilliant!" someone shouts, their voice rising above the din. That becomes a party, adrenaline still surging through their veins.

But then …

An air traffic control officer interrupts, his face bemused. "Sir, the US, China, France, and Russia redirect their surveillance satellites to Western Australia."

The room quietens. Astgill turns, brow furrowed in curiosity, the euphoria evaporating into a thin mist of focus. "And the Germs?" His voice calms, but the edge of suspicion cuts through.

"They're sending a space capsule to North America, sir. Targeting Area 51."

For a beat, the general stops still. Then, Ordlaf of Astgill's lips curl into a sardonic grin, slow, dangerous. His eyes flash with something between amusement and contempt.

"What idiots."

The room doesn't quite know how to react. A nervous chuckle from somewhere, but the tension remains. Because everybody knows, the actual game begins.

Recording studio, New York, next day

Her voice, rich and soulful, filled the studio with a sound that felt the same as velvet on the skin. Rachel stands in the dim glow of the studio, headphones resting soft over her dark curls, her voice flowing through the mic same as honeyed silk. The room pulses with a quiet energy, the kind that makes the air feel charged, alive. Wesley watches from the booth, his eyes locked on her, the beat in his veins matching the rhythm of her voice. He nods to the groove, a subtle, unspoken communication passing between them with every note.

Wesley sat just outside the booth, his eyes locked on her every move.

Her voice rises, powerful and pure, filling the space with a warmth that seems to wrap around him, drawing him closer even as glass separates them. Wesley's fingers tap out the beat on the soundboard, his lips curling into a smile, pride and admiration mingling in his gaze.

He bobbed his head to the rhythm, his fingers tapping the armrest of his chair, in sync with the beat. His presence was magnetic, a quiet force that seemed to pull the very air towards him.

The dim lights cast a golden glow over her, highlighting the sweat glistening on her brow from the intensity of her performance. Every note she sang seemed to pulse with life, echoing through the room with a heartbeat.

There was a fire in his gaze, admiration mixed with something deeper, something unspoken.

As Rachel sings, pouring her soul into the music, Wesley watches from the booth, but his mind seems elsewhere. His smile is proud, but his eyes are distant, almost distracted. The producer's compliment doesn't register with him, and when Rachel finishes the take and looks to Wesley for validation, his delayed response—just a fraction of a second too late—casts a shadow over her smile. The magic they created feels less as a shared triumph and more Rachel's solo victory, with Wesley struggling to stay present in the moment.

The producer leans back, eyes wide with awe. "This is fire," he murmurs, but Wesley hears him. Rachel, her passion, her presence, the way she transforms the air around her into something electric, something that crackles with life. Wesley's focus is elsewhere.

The room was thick with creativity, with passion, with the kind of magic. Rachel doesn't need to hear the producer, she knows that the recording is a success. Joy overwhelms her, she smiles moonwalk mannered, looks for Wesley and finds him paying no attention to her. Her smile dies and her eyes search for something to hold on to.

Rachel finishes the take, her eyes meeting Wesley's through the glass. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Wesley acts pleased and applauds. Rachel is sure he is just acting.

The door burst open.

Manager Bill Devaney and PR chief Sy Spector stormed in, their faces a mix of urgency and determination. Wesley Black and Ivy Reed followed, curiosity etched on their faces.

Bill glances at his superstar as he strides to the modest settee, tossing his expensive-tech cell onto the table before energy loaded tapping its screen. Sy Spector, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, flings a journal upon the countertop.

"You seen this?" the public relations man snaps.

A hologram springs from Bill's mobile, flickering light splashing across the room. The harsh chatter of media reports invades the space, quick and dissonant.

The magazine headline blares: DADDY OF 'THE VOICE' MURDERED IN LONDON TERROR!

Rach's eyes widen, her surface altering into shock, dread creeping into every area of her face.

Ashley clings to her, trembling, her slight frame rigid with dismay.

Wes moves in fast, his palm finding her shoulder, offering a wordless consolation.

Editha Burruss, standing still as stone, wears a mask of panic, her breathing shallow.

Before the Queen of the Night processes the news, the holograph flickers, shifting to a new report.

The broadcast now speaks of high-ranking British military officials killed by separatists known as the Scaters Men.

The air stiffens with tension as the statement clarifies that Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron has survived.

UK intelligence operatives had rescued him.

Comfort washes over the pop star, her breath easing, but it's chased by fear and bewilderment. "Call Dover," she orders Eddi, her mood carrying the pointed edge of anxiety.

The personal assistant already has her phone out, fingers fumbling over the keys, hands shaking. Moments tick, each growing weightier until the line crackles to life.

The three-dimensional image refocuses, and sing-hero stares at her mother. Shelley, accommodated on a cozy sofa, exuding an unnatural calm as if naught had happened. She smiles with greetings at Rach and Ash, their faces pale with horror. "Are you excited for the trip to England, little one?" she asks, her sound unbothered.

Rache shoots her a sharp look, irritation spreading over her visage.

The brutal attack, the near loss of her father—and her mother's casualness deepen her trouble.

"Mom, what about Papa?" Rachel's speech tightens, lines of fright deepening across her features. She can feel Wesley's hand on her bladebone, but she pays hard attention to it. "Is he okay?"

Shelley's tone remains steady, unwavering as if discussing the weather.

"Gaderian's quite alright, Rach," she says.

"A bit shaken, scratches, nothing to worry about." She let out a small chuckle. "He's even got a sun erythema."

Rachel blinks, her confusion grows, "A sunburn?"

"Yes, darling. The plasma explosion," Misses M explains, as if it were a mild inconvenience. "Not more than that."

The comments sink in, and the husband appears next to his wife, seated with ease, his speech relaxed. His presence seems to pull the breeze back into Rachel's lungs, her exhale long and shaky. Her body softens, and Wesley loosens his hold, sensing her relief.

Shelley struggles to continue, her emotions rising as tears well up. Though she tries to maintain her composure, the words falter, and her appeal cracks under the weight of her feelings. Misses Marron's aspect brightens, an expression warm with anticipation. "Rachel, when you and my granddaughter come to Dover, I have a big surprise. You're going to love it!" Tears spill, the news almost too much to bear.

Rachel shifts in her seat, her nails digging into the armrest as the vice admiral cuts in, his voice slicing through the wind and resembling the crack of a whip.

"Shelley!" His tone is firm and biting.

The pop star's brow furrows, a flicker of irritation passing across her face. Her body tightens, and for a second, she goes through a surge of frustration that prickles at her skin like static. "What now? Another surprise?" She forces out a laugh, dry and fragile, her eyes narrowing. "Hearing that my father was murdered is enough."

The room falls into silence, Rachel's words hanging as smoke in the air. Even the subtle hum of city noise outside seems to pause, waiting for the next beat.

Gaderian, unfazed, leans back in his chair, a sly grin curling at the edges of his mouth. His eyeballs glint with dark wit, the variety that makes the celebrity want to chuckle and cry. "Ah, the media," he murmurs, his statement thick with amusement that feels out of place but fitting in the same gasp.

Despite her parent's efforts to lighten the mood, Rach's mind buzzes, and her heartbeat races. She watches him, a wry smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She knows what he's doing—he's always done it. Cutting the tension with his absurd short quips, treating the tragedy as some cosmic joke.

He chuckles with a sour twist, views glinting with black humor. "They love to write a man's obituary before he's left the hall. You'd think I had died with all the fanfare. Can't say I didn't enjoy a moment of fame—rare to get celebrated in such grand style with no need of a casket."

The sing-star widens her eyelids, but a warped simper plucks at her cheeks.

The absurdity reduces the pressure in a blink of an eyelash.

"Well," she mutters, shaking her head, "at least you're getting the recognition you've wanted, Papa."

Her articulation is soft and teasing, but the edge remains as a knife half-buried.

Gaderian's cackle, "There I was, hoping to emulate my two daughters and make headlines, and then as what?" Low and rumbling fills the space, "Rach's Dad!" He sounds disappointed and makes his daughter cheerful.

Easing the matter just a notch. "Oh, don't worry, my ray of light. I'm going to stick around for a long. It is quite good to take glee on it. Maybe I'll lead the headers one time more!" His hand gestures towards an imaginary frame, the motion so exaggerated it almost pushes the Queen of the Night to giggle.

Close by a laughter!

The super celeb's smiling wavers, a bang on her calm exterior as she glances toward her mother. The concern about her ancestor churns inside her, but she takes a deep breath and seeks to keep things easy. "Has Nicki asked yet?" she asks, her speech strained, the attempt at normalcy brittle.

Unprepared for the shift, Shelley forces a smile, trying to keep the mood upbeat. "Oh," she says with exaggerated cheer, "I think about half an hour later, though I didn't know myself back then." The words fall flat and Misses M realizes her mistake.

Mentioning Nicki, their family's precarious middle child, brings an old ache to the surface. For a moment, the humor dies, leaving behind the rawness of unresolved household issues. Rach leans rearward in her chair, no longer hiding her exhaustion. The beam she holds slips away. "Yes, of course," she mutters, bitterness threading through her speech.

Shelley, sensing the alteration, fumbles to recover. "Darling, Ray, we're aware of the time difference with you," she replies. "In Nice, it is the same minute as in London. It's not as we forgot."

Gaderian, muted until now, steps in.

His expression, often commanding, softens but still carries that British precision.

"And let's not forget," he adds and tries to reassure Rachel, "the Thévenets have channels of information that aren't available to you."

Nicki navigates her place with a mix of resentment and superiority. Married into a powerful clan of French industrialists, she basks in the privileges of wealth and influence. Yet, her connection with her parents stands in stark contrast to her strained relationship with her siblings. In Nicki's eyes, Rache epitomizes weakness. She loathes the way The Voice allows herself to be swayed by "poison in fancy suits," seeing her sister as a reflection of vulnerability.

Nick's disdain extends to her brother's too, for how her sibs dance with the shadows of the white necromancer, always chasing euphoric highs that leave them hollow.

While her marriage offers a façade of stability, Nicole's feelings toward her relatives unravel her emotional balance. She walks the line between familial loyalty and a sense of supremacy. But convinced that her position among the elite gives her the right to judge those who haven't risen to her standards.

Rachel glances from her mother to her father, grasping an unspoken tension coursing the air.

The vice admiral, ever the stoic figure, breaks the silence with a sharpness that cuts through the light-heartedness. "Chris and Michael?"

Rach wants to steer the conversation aside from her brothers, but she catches a flicker of unease in her father's view.

"They're not here." The flatness of her reaction underscores an uncomfortable truth. She senses the suspense thickening around them. "They have the same day variation as me."

"So are they busier than the world star 'Queen of the Night'?" Gaderian's dislike, small veiled. "It's your bro's responsibility to protect their little sister. They do that, I got the impression, but I'm not just talking about their interests in your bank accounts, but rather that their sister's life is going well."

Rachel receives the weight of her father's disappointment pressing down, heavy and unyielding. She thinks about defending her brothers, but the exhaustion settles in, familiar as an old scar. "I just—" she falters, trying to breathe past the tangled emotions. Covering her eyes, she hides the tears welling up. "But they're my bros."

"Aye," the Vice Admiral cuts in, his voice sharp, clinical, with that military edge he never quite softens around the family. "They are your brothers. That's why this is serious." His cold delivery feels as a command rather than a statement of care.

Shelley shoots him a look, more bark than bite. "Oh, quit it with the soldier routine," she snaps. "She's our daughter, not one of your crows in boot camp."

Wesley, perched next to Rach, leans in closer. He isn't pretty sure how to fix this, but Wes's testing. He places his hand good-natured on her back, offering a sense of presence instead of a weak grin. "We're here for you, babe," he says, his speech low, but firm—solid, even if the tension leaves his shoulders tight.

Bill Devaney remains muted but stands a step at a time. He's not retreating, giving the clan space to wrestle with their sentiments. His movements are deliberate, respectful. He steps aside, his hands clasped in slipshod fashion behind, observing, no intruding.

Ashley, sensing the shift, climbs onto her mother's lap, wrapping her small arms round Rachel's neck and press a kiss to her cheek. Her nose wrinkles in discomfort, her face mirroring the unease swirling through the room.

Rache tries to push away the emotional fog and blurts out, "The attack. How did it happen?" Her tone shifts from thoughtful to teasing, clinging to break the anxiety.

Gaderian, in and out missing the deeper context, raises an eyebrow, unfazed by the topic. To him, the answer is obvious. "A bomb exploded," he states flat, as it is the simplest action in the world.

The Queen's laughter erupts, catching herself off guard. The absurdity of his blunt response lightens somewhat in her. Her palms flee to her lips, stifling the sound as she shakes her head. "No, Papa, I mean—how did it get to that point? How did they pull it off?"

Mister Marron, still processing her mirth, pauses, his expression unchanging. To him, she asked a ridiculous question, but the humor in her views? Undeniable!

Without meaning to, his no-nonsense logic has broken through the heaviness, making her smile.

Gaderian's gaze diminishes, his style goes on steady, unwavering. "I was lucky," he tells, matter-of-fact. "It near got me, too. Everything went to a ball of chalk, and my squad... well, they turned into Charlie Delta."

The change in their conversation is immediate—father and offspring sliding altogether into squaddie-speak, that clipped British armed forces shorthand. A slang that rolls off their tongues as a second nature. The hall, however, changes into confusion.

Sy, sitting a few chairs down, squints at them, his brow furrowed in anarchy. His mouth opens to say something but closes again, unsure how to breach the gap in understanding.

Wesley looks around, his hand resting on Rachel's shoulder, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Charlie... Delta?" he repeats, the words clumsy in his mouth, a foreign phrase he's trying to decode.

"I was supposed to meet the victims at the cafe, but I was running late. That's when I make my 5s and 20s and saw an AMM-117 running towards the place..." Gaderian reports to his daughter.

Her eyes gleaming, Rachel doesn't bother translating for the civilians. She's too caught up in the rush of relief. She tilts her head toward her father, her voice light with excitement.

"Wow, a Danger Mouse?" She asks, her earlier panic now replaced with the thrill of a journey back in time, years to Dover where the youngest child was Papas 'ray of light'. "Are they already in action?" The tension in her frame uncoils a little, the sharp edge of fear replaced by a familiar rush.

Wesley's face scrunches up, his fingers tapping Rachel's shoulder in that awkward, trying-not-to-feel-left-out kind of way. "Danger Mouse?" he repeats, the word stumbling out. He's grasping for some foothold in their conversation. "Is that, uh... some cartoon I missed?"

Everyone around her looks at Rachel by the sudden enthusiasm in her voice. The singer is the person present in the New York studio who understands that 'all went for a ball of chalk' means that the situation has deteriorated.

Irritated looks and furrowed brows turn to Rachel, asking for clarification, but Rachel does not deign to explain to the civilians that her father means that he reconnoitred his immediate surroundings at 5 and 20 meters.

Gaderian waves his hand and with that everything aside, as though this is all par for the course. "For quite some time now," he says, as if discussing the latest gadget, not a cutting-edge military drone.

Rachel catches her father's eye, the shared language between them, a secret door swing open. She grins despite herself, the soldier's slang sparking old memories of her childhood when she'd hang around her father's military friends, absorbing the codes as they were some cryptic puzzle she had to solve.

Wesley chuckles with difficulty, his fingers benevolent massaging Rachel's shoulder in an attempt to ground her. "Don't worry, Rachel," he says, his tone teasing, though the edge of confusion still lingers. "Don't let us interrupt your shop talk."

Sy shifts in his seat, with no doubt intrigued but also lost, his head tilted little as if trying to catch up. "Is this where we civilians just pretend to understand?" he jokes, though there's a glint of genuine curiosity in his eyes.

Rachel laugh again, her tension easing. "Yeah, something like that," she says, flashing Sy a quick grin. "Military slang—it's a secret language. Once you're in, you're in."

Her father leans back, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin. "Aye, it keeps the riff-raff out," he adds with a wink, his humor both sharp and comforting.

A comment that Wesley doesn't like at all.

Shelley rolls her eyes but smiles with compassion. "Oh, stop, Gaderian. You'll confuse them more than you already have," she says, her tone soft, playful.

Wesley raises an eyebrow, glancing around the room. "Well, I don't know about drones and Danger Mice," he says, leaning back with a grin of his own, "but I do know when it's time to lighten things up."

Rachel sighs, exasperated by the interruption, but presses, "An anti-material mine, Wes. It creates a plasma or electromagnetic blast, depending on the detonator. These things shred armored vehicles as if they're nothing."

Sy narrows his eyeballs. "And they move on their own?"

The pop star nods. "The explosive finds a target, then destroys it."

Caught in the seriousness of the debate, Mister Black laughs with difficulty. "That's... intense for a post-rehearsal hangout, don't you think?"

Rach doesn't break eye contact with her dad, her mind running through the events. The place feels off-kilter. Everybody else becomes left stranded outside of this extraordinary military world of threats, while Daddy and Daughter remain locked in it.

Shell barges into the conversation with forced nonchalance, trying to slice through the discomfort. "Fortunate, isn't he?" Her appeal hangs in the air as a punchline. "Your clever papa decided to chase the bomb."

"What?!" Rachel's speech cuts through like a whip, her whole body tensing. "Are you insane? What were you thinking? Throw yourself into the hot gas? You wouldn't have saved anyone!" Her fury crackles, laced with disbelief.

Gad winces but holds his ground, his statement low, almost apologetic. "I... wasn't assuming that far ahead," he admits. "I wanted to save them."

"Well, that is obvious," Shelley quips, her messages biting as she shoots him a look. "You're lucky—" But her sound falters. Her posture stiffens, and the smirk evaporates from her visage. The lodge shifts, the energy strange, and her gaze lock onto Gaderian's with an unspoken intensity that people sense but no one can name.

The Queen of the Night notices the sudden shift between her parents, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Wait, what? What happened? What's going on?"

Bill, Sy, Editha—all glance at each other, uncertainty rippling through the room. Annoyed by the lack of acknowledgement, Wesley stands taller but remains cautious.

Misses M hesitates and speaks with care, her manner guarded. "A commando ... "

The vice admiral places a palm over hers, silencing her.

"Better half," he says with a warning. "Not now."

She jerks her hand away, defiance flickering in her eyes. "Do not do that. Don't pull rank on me here."

"I am not pulling status," the Secret Service seaman mutters. "I am asking you to mull over."

Rachel, lost in the crossfire of cryptic remarks, grows more impatient. "Will someone explain what's happening? What are you hiding?"

Her mom's mind flicks back to her husband before she answers, tension in her voice. "A commando pulled your ancestor out of the danger zone."

"Shelley, that is enough." Gaderian's tone sharpens, his patience thinning.

But his companion pushes on, determined to lay it bare. "I'm saying what the others saw. There were plenty of witnesses."

Rachel stares at them both, the knot in her chest tightening. "Why are you both acting? This is some mystery? What aren't you telling me?"

Her mother's face tightens. "An assassin targeted your father. If it weren't for …"

"Shelley!" Gaderian interrupts with sharpness, startling everyone.

His wife continues in small doses as if she checks the words before giving them a voice. "Without the Commando from the SRR and his two wolves, your father wouldn't be here."

On cue, performers awaiting the perfect moment, one of the wolves slinks onto the floor between Gaderian and Shelley. The other rises behind them, its muscled form shifting, and leans over the chair's backrest, warm breath brushing Gaderian's neck. The room shrinks with their presence. The air conditioner struggles to cut through the thick, heated silence.

A murmur ripples through the room, awe and unease ripple through the room as everyone registers the size of the wolves. Bill Devaney steps back in, curiosity pulling him to the strange tableau. He halts mid-step, his calm face betraying a flicker of surprise. The wolves are massive, sleek, radiating raw, dangerous energy.

Shelley's fingers sink into Geri's dense fur, her lips curving into a proud smile. "That is Geri." The wolf squints under her touch, his dark eyes narrowing, an expression as a squinting cat. Shelley's hand is tiny against the wolf's broad skull, her nails grazing the rough fur.

She leans back, running her hand over the silken cheek of The second wolf hovers above her, a looming shadow. "And that is Freki."

Freki's presence feels different—predatory, eyes locked on Rachel, unsettling. The hairs on Rachel's arms rising under his gaze. She shifts, the wolf's eyes tracking her every move, unblinking.

Shelley lets out a soft laugh. "Geri tore the assassin apart and turned it into minced meat when he came after your father," she says with a smirk. "But Freki..." Her fingers brush over his jawline. "And Freki is the more dangerous one." Her words are playful, but Freki's eyes stay on Rachel, and the tension tightens around her chest, it's a vice.

Rachel isn't alone in her discomfort. Ashley, wide-eyed on her lap, glances from wolf to wolf.

"Wolves? Really?" Ashley's voice cuts through the moment, high and curious, a pin bursting a balloon.

"Yes, little one." Shelley's eyes soften as she turns to Ashley, her smile widening, fingers trailing along Geri's neck. "You enjoy Dora the Explorer?"

Ashley nods eager. "Yeah, I still love Dora!"

"Well then," Shelley says with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth, though her eyes flicker with something darker. "Maybe these wolves will be your next grand adventure. When you and your mother. visit us in Dover, there's plenty of room for you to run wild."

Rachel's jaw tightens. "Ashley, me and Wesley, Mom," she snaps, her voice slicing through the air sharper than she intended. Her hand moves with instinct to Wesley's, a familiar gesture that on a sudden feels more as a performance than affection.

Wesley flashes his signature grin—the one he's perfected for the paparazzi, the one that says, I belong here. "Can't wait to meet Missis Marron and Mr. Marron," he chimes in, his voice smooth as velvet but with no real warmth behind it.

But in Dover, the charm doesn't stick. Between him and Shelley, something cracks, almost audible.

Shelley's smile doesn't falter, but her eyes land on Wesley for a beat too long—cool, assessing, she's trying to figure out why this piece of art isn't quite museum-worthy. She gives a polite nod, in fact unimpressed.

Silence hangs thick in the air, a loaded pause that hints at an approaching storm.

Rachel catches it. She feels it too, the walls of the room are inching closer, squeezing out the oxygen.

Gaderian breaks the quiet, his voice carrying a note of irritation. "I need a drink," he grumbles, vanishing off-screen. Shelley continues chatting as if nothing's amiss, but her smile is stretched so tight it could snap.

The silence that follows is deafening. Then, with a casual tone, Shelley says, "We were hoping to see you two alone. You know, to catch up with Rachel, before…"

Rachel's eyes narrow, sensing the trap. "Before what?"

"Before you…" Shelley flails her hands. She's struggling to juggle invisible words. "...make a regrettable decision."

The remark lands in New York with a thud, leaving the people in the room exchanging glances, wondering if they're reading too much into it. But judging by the way Gaderian slaps the side of his neck, it seems they're not.

Rachel feels Wesley's grip tighten around her hand, his jaw ticking. From beside her, a low snort escapes him—thunder rumbling in the distance before a storm. "Why, Mom?"

Gaderian reappears, now sipping from a glass that looks as it's meant to erase all memories of this conversation. He sets it down with a loud clink, his eyes drifting between his wife and daughter. "Aye, Shelley," he drawls, mockery oozing from his words. "Tell your daughter why." He arches a brow, enjoying the tension, a man watching a bad play.

Shelley's lips press into a tight line as if she's tasting something bitter. She shoots a brief glance at her husband, but Gaderian's face offers no rescue—amusement as he swirls his drink. "Well, your Wesley doesn't have permanent residency here, does he?" she says, her tone syrupy but biting.

Gaderian groans, massaging his temples as if this conversation is giving him a headache he can't drink away. He looks at Wesley, a smile playing on his lips. "Don't trouble yourself with her." he says with a dismissive wave. "She tends to overlook the… practical details."

Editha, Sy, and Ivy break into laughter—loud, sudden, shattering the uncomfortable silence. It feels like a slap. Wesley's smile falters, just for a heartbeat, but Rachel catches it. The shift in his energy is unmistakable. He's seething under the surface.

Wesley's grip tightens on Rachel's shoulder, the pressure digging in, he's staking his claim. His smile stays fixed, but the tension in his jaw betrays him—a muscle twitching, a silent pulse of anger. His eyes narrow when they meet Shelley's, daring her to push further. He doesn't say a word, but Rachel can feel it—the heat rising off him, the resentment curling at the edges of his self-control. It's the same old dance, one Wesley knows well. Being sidelined, cut out, by people who think he's beneath them. But here, in front of Rachel's family? It stings harder. Editha's and Ivy's disdain is something he's grown used to, but now, her mother?

"What's this about?" Rachel's voice slices through the room, sharp as a knife. She's not in the mood for games.

Shelley looks cornered, darting her eyes to Gaderian, hoping for a lifeline, but Gaderian? He's sipping his drink, swirling the ice in his glass as if he's watching a slow-motion car crash. "Shelley, go on," he says, voice casual, but there's a hint of amusement. "Explain it to Ray."

Rachel's heartbeat quickens. Something isn't right. "Is there something I should be worried about?"

The air in the room feels thick and suffocating. Rachel's stomach turns, the acrid scent of wet fur and musk mixing with the bitter taste of Gaderian's scotch still lingering in the air. Her pulse quickens, her breath tight.

"We don't have much time," Gaderian says, his tone shifting. "The data exchange with GCHQ is about to start. Then they turn on the jammer."

Rachel blinks, confusion settling in. What the hell is going on?

Shelley's voice lowers, eyes darting to Gaderian, she spills something forbidden. "We thought maybe… there's someone else you should meet. Before anything else."

Gaderian groans as if an old injury flared up, rolling his eyes.

That's it. Editha, Ivy, and Sy are tantamount rolling on the floor now, Ivy even stomping her feet as if she's seen the funniest stand-up routine of her life. Wesley shifts, from moment to moment more irritated, his grip, a vice.

Rachel's chest tightens. "Someone else?" Her voice trembles a little, but she steels it. "Who?"

Gaderian steps in, his voice sharp, and authoritative. "A lieutenant colonel, someone with information that might interest you. But this is for your ears only." His words hang in the air, loaded with something Rachel can't quite decipher. His gaze locks on hers, heavy, intent.

Shelley jumps in, her words spilling out too quickly, "Ashley could stay with her grandparents while you meet with him. Maybe have dinner, one of those nice places on the beach…"

Gaderian sighs dramatically, his eyes rolling in exaggerated exhaustion, but the trio—Editha, Ivy, Sy now beyond control. Ivy even stomps her foot as laughter overtakes her.

"By the way, Ray," Shelley says, trying again. "He's British."

For a moment, silence. In New York, everyone is stunned by the comment. Then, Rachel's brow furrows in wide-spread sarcasm. "Wait... the officer from the British military… is British?" Her words come slow, she tries to untangle the absurdity.

Shelley's face falls, realizing how ridiculous it sounds. "I mean," she stammers, "he doesn't need a visa."

And with that, the room erupts again. Editha cries with laughter, Ivy's stomping picks up pace, and Sy shakes his head in disbelief.

Shell jumps in, her messages spilling out too fast. "Ashley could stay with her grandparents while you meet with him. Maybe have dinner, one of those nice places on the beach … "

Then Shelley pauses as if she thought of something of successful importance.

Her daughter's heart leaps, not out of joy but out of concern that in a class by itself her mother's horrible comments show up.

The triumvirate of humorous people feels the same process. They lean forward with wide eyes. Their gazes are glued to her holographic lips.

The granny turns to her granddaughter, "Darling, unfortunately, you weren't lucky with your papa."

Ashley nods in a gloomy manner, although she has no memory of it, let alone a photo.

"But if you had to choose a father figure, what would it be?" Shelley leaves no doubt that this question is important to her.

Ash doesn't have to figure out about it and her surface beams. "Peter Pan!"

Rachel puts her hand to her forehead, knowing full well how impossible it is to meet the high standards.

It remains a mystery to the audience what provoked the seven-year-old's innocent remark, but her grandmother studies hard.

Editha, Ivy, and Sy follow a climax in a thriller. You can hear a pin drop. And after a blink of an eye that seems an eternity ...

Shelley refers to Rachel. "Ray, take Ash to dinner with Brown Job. The little lad will definitely like it."

The fun threesome screams with delight. Ivy and Editha fall into each other's arms and the New York singer lets tears flow. Sy doubles over with a roar and slaps his thighs.

Gaderian sighs as if he is the diva here. His eyeballs roll in exaggerated exhaustion, but the trio—Editha, Ivy, Sy— is beyond control now. Ivy even stomps her foot as laughter overtakes her.

"By the way, Ray," Shelley says, trying anew. "He's British."

For a moment, silence. In the Big Apple, everyone becomes stunned by the comment.

Then, Rachel's brow furrows in widespread sarcasm. "Wait ... the officer from the British military … is British?" Her words come slow down. She tries to untangle the absurdity.

Shelley's face falls, realizing how ridiculous it sounds. "I mean," she stammers, "he doesn't need a visa."

And with that, the room erupts again. Editha cries with mirth, Ivy's toiling picks up pace, and Sy just shakes his head in disbelief.

Wesley moves off from the singer rushed by fame, tension stiffening his back as he clenches his fist. It's obvious how fragile his position is. Spare the Voice, he's another fading name in a world of power and privilege. A no-sing miracle, with the music knowledge of a bonobo and the lyrical talent of a pint-sized criminal. In total, it is a non-entity. His gaze darts to the minor. An impotent, desperate smile cracks across his face as he, with difficulty, stretches out to pat her head. She recoils, stepping aside, her picaninny shoulders tensing. The moment lingers in restlessness. Shelley doesn't miss the awkward exchange—her views narrow, a silent judgment forming. A guy at ease with his girlfriend's child does not look so. Rach, too, registers the gesture for what it seems: a hollow attempt of a sociopath at playing family man.

Shelley's eyes remain on the kid, her brow furrowing. Her speaking dropping low, coaxing out a secret. "Ash, honey … why do you want a Peter Pan?"

There's an edge to her words, masked under a soft curiosity, but Rachel doesn't notice it.

Shelley expects a playful answer, something whimsical and childlike.

The girl blinks up at her grandmother, her expression serious. "Because the boy who never grew up cares for the lost children …"

Those phrases make the room shrink. Shell' goes through a sudden tightness in her chest. "Helpless, darling? What do you mean alone?" She presses, her sound cracking at the edges, trying to mask the distress building inside her. The Queen of the Night frowns her focus now on the conversation.

Rache shifts in discomfort but doesn't seem to catch the weight of her daughter's remarks as Shelley does. She glares, her tone gentle. "Sweetheart, you do not aspire to be home? You always have crowds around you. Why do you feel unaccompanied?"

Ashley's beam hovers in a solemn manner. "There are too many people. I don't choose it that they're here … but the boy who can fly … he could take us away. So we'd be happy." She pauses and then adds, almost an afterthought, "I'd ask him to pick up you too, Mommy."

Weak, Rachel smiles, touched by her infant's sweetness, even if it stings a little. "That's kind of you, baby," she murmurs. Nevertheless, her sadness seeps through her messages. She pulls Ashley close, pressing a kiss to her forehead, but her look is distant, troubled.

The mother, however, stays muted, her mind racing. Her mind flicks toward her ray of life. But she doesn't speak. Not here. Not in that very minute. The comments trap in her throat. She'll talk to Gaderian later—when they are without public. The growing soreness in her heart tells her that somewhat much deeper lurks beneath the child's simple wish for escape.

The room's crowd, anticipating the shift in mood, gawked at one another, a flock of birds startled by a sudden gust of wind. All lightheartedness vanished, leaving behind an odd stillness. The Hip-Hop singer stands by with effort, unsure what to do with his hands, and Bill Devaney raises an eyebrow in silent doubt. No appeal leaves his mouth. Even the casual conversation falters under the heavy air.

Shelley forces a thin twinkle, masking the tension swirling inside her.

"Well, Ashley, Peter Pan's a pleasant story," she states, her tone dancing like sunlight on water.

The Grandma attempts to steer the communication back to safer ground, but the tightness in her articulation betrays her.
Ray gives her mother a strange stare, sensing something's off, but doesn't press it. Shelley's mind is already elsewhere, planning the words she'll share with Gad' later. She ignores the power of her suspicions no longer.

The seriousness in the child's tone sends a chill down her spine, but she says nothing. She's careful not to let the others see the depth of her concern. This becomes an exchange she needs to have with her husband, not her daughter.

Rachel's ogle wanders to Freki, who continues to peer at her.

The sing-wonder feels death approaching.

The Royal Navy man rubs his temples with an exaggerated sigh, tired of the escalating circus.

"For God's sake, enough." His gaze flicks over Wes, the look devoid of warmth or interest.

To Gaderian, Wesley is some civilian—a poor choice in Rache's string of poor relationships.

He avoids direct confrontation with Shell, focusing instead on his offspring. "You're a grown woman. Your decisions are your own."

There's a nervous edge, silver-tongued as if he's aware of a deeper game dancing out.

"Brown job can't stand celebrities. Talking to them is a dialog with cavemen—he hears 'barbarian, barbarian.'"

Ivy lifts a brow, puzzled by the bizarre comparison.

She glances at the holograms before her, wondering if she'd misheard. But the apprehension in the hall grows.

But the Queen of the Night notices her father's restlessness, who bridges the time of cheerfulness by playing with his drink.

The strain in the place, thick with unspoken messages, when Rach speaks. Her speech wavers, trying to cut through the heaviness, but she trembles. The attempt to sound nonchalant makes her seem tiny. "This commando … what important information does he have for me?" Her clang color is strained, as if forcing the question out will lessen its weight. "You must be able to hint at it." She offers a half-spirited smile that falls flat.

The Vice Admiral leans back, observing her with care. "Finnian Devon," he says, letting the name drop as a bomb.

The room falls silent. Everyone holds their breath, waiting for the explanation to unfold as if the identification alone isn't enough to stir things up. For most, it's the first time they've picked up it.

But not for Rachel.

Her gaze shifts to Editha in an eyelash, and her visage pales. Editha's alarmed eyes betray her own knowledge—she knows who the navy man is talking about.
A flood of memories crashes through Rachel's mind, dragging her to a point she has long since buried. The neighbor's son. The one whose absence still echoes in her heart. Finnian Devon. The epithet that opens an old wound she had tried so hard to forget. Her chest tightens. Out of nowhere, the air becomes thin, the lodge feels cramped.

For a heartbeat, she is that teenage maid again, paying attention to him retiring, walking away into a world she couldn't reach. But she blinks, and the girl is gone. Her jaw clenches, her nails digging into her palms. She is a lioness now, wounded but motionless standing, anger stirring beneath the surface.

Absent-minded, Rachel's fingers brush her lower lip, a self-soothing gesture she doesn't realize she's doing. She keeps her voice flat, devoid of the storm raging inside. "He's dead," she states, views distant. "Let's leave it at that. He is dead-"

The silence that follows isn't sticking around for a definition. Tis the collective awareness that something deep stirred in Rachel. All and sundry can sense it, though none of them disposed to tell it's rage or grief.

Wesley's brow furrows, his peepers darting between Rach and the seaman.

Finnian Devon?

He's never heard the label.

But Rachel's reaction—a rare, vulnerable crack in her, as most of the times composed exterior—sends alarm bells ringing in his head.

This is more than some forgotten figure. He feels the shift in the area, the weight of unspoken history pressing down on anybody.

Beside him, Ivy inclines toward Editha.

Her vocalization, a low whisper as she presses for answers.

"Who is Finnian Devon?"

Eddi glances with uneasy at Wesley, who's watching them from the corner of his eye, his posture stiffening as he picks up on the private exchange. Quick, the personal assistant whispers, her words rushed, "The boy next door." But there's more to her tone than the comment suggests. It's not casual; that's weighted. Somewhat she's not saying.

Meanwhile, Ashley tugs good-natured on her mother's sleeve, her childish face filled with concern. Even the child senses the transformation in her mom's mood. "Mommy, are you okay?" she asks in a brief murmur, her palm resting on Ray's arm in a signal of comfort. The innocence of the token twists in the pop star's core, but she forces a smile, brushing Ashley's hair with a trembling hand.

"I'm fine, baby," the mother murmurs. Nevertheless, her sound lacks conviction.

The Voice recalls, far from the hall, nowhere near this conversation.

She's trapped in a whirlwind of forgotten emotions, her heart caught in the remnants of Finnian's shadow.

The Hip-Hop musician, still unsettled, watches the minor change with a furrowed brow. Then he moves toward the pop star's longtime friend, unable to ignore the muted whispers. "Eddi," his uttered groove through the music workshop, is measured, masking the simmering frustration. "Who is this Finnian Devon? What's his connection to her?"

Uneasy, Eddi's views dart. The woman can sense Wes's suspicion circling her as a predator. She avoids revealing too much in front of him. The personal assistant straightens up, her expression as blank as a closed book, every thought tucked away, a secret locked in a vault. "I don't know what they're talking about, Wesley," she replies, the lie coming out smooth but not convincing. "I've never heard that name."

Wes does not trust her for a second. His sight narrows as he scrutinizes her, but Editha holds his gaze, refusing to let him look at the truth beyond her calm facade.
On Editha's side Ivy. Glimmers between them, picking up on the subtle worry, but no shutouts. The silence stretches, so thick and uncomfortable. Wesley's jaw clenches, but he does not push it. Not here, not now.

Ashley rests her head on Rach's arm, trying to provide comfort in the way she knows how. But the child's touch can't soothe the rainstorm rag beneath her mother's surface.

Ray's parents, face creased with concern, watch their daughter through the glow of a video call. The wolves remain silent witnesses, their presence … Shadows drifting through a fog on the holo-display. Gaderian's pitch cuts through the tension, his tone unreadable. "As you wish," he says, nodding to her request to leave Devon behind. But Rachel sees the doubt lurking in his peepers. He doesn't believe her—not that she was serious, anyway.

Rachel's eyelids flutter shut, curtains drawn against a sudden gust as if bracing for a storm she predicts. Limited room. Her past's weight claws at her mind's corners. She breathes out and opens her eyes to face the screen. "I had a nightmare. A strange one. Appeared more real than anything else."

Her relatives exchange glances but say nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"I was wandering through our house," Ray begins, her sound distant as though she pulls the memory from deep within, "but it wasn't our home anymore. It was... destroyed. Broken pieces of everything scattered around. Weird fair set up among the ruins—clowns, jugglers, trapeze artists. All of it looked ... wrong."

She takes a break, sight flickering with the memory. "These clowns were grotesque, not the kind that makes you laugh. They were... twisted. The grimaces weren't moving bug-free, but they were still laughing; someone had stapled their smiles. The audience cheered them on. Applauding."

Her mom inclines forward as if the weight of her worry pulls her nearer, concern carving lines into her face. "Were you accompanied?"

Rache shakes her head, rubbing her palms as if cold. "No. At first, I thought I was. But when I saw down, I realized that the showmen—the ones performing—were folk I knew. People from my life. All of them. They sell me, trying to make money off me... as if I were a piece of merchandise."

Her dad, silent as before, narrows his sightedness, but the sing star goes on before anyone can interrupt.

"Amidst the chaos, a ... table," she says, as if each phrase becomes a burden. "A fancy desk, laid out in perfection. Except a fortune teller was sitting there. She stared, all cliched clairvoyant you've ever seen in the movies—scarves, gaudy jewelry—but she ... decaying. Rotting right there into my presence. Her skin falls off, and her mind... they all hollow. I did not say words. I wandered up to her."

"And?" her mommy asks, tone tight.

"She set up laying out tarot cards in front of me," the singer continues. "But all the augury deck were blank. So... empty. No future for me. No fate. Nothing. Out of nowhere, a hole opens up in her forehead. And... this worm crawls out of it."

Rachel's speech trembles as she remembers. "Behind her, these ... things. Creatures. They looked almost human, but... wrong. They walked on all fours but their knees backward. Their arms didn't end in hands but in long, sharp blades. Their faces had no hair, alone smooth cutis. But they had no mouths ... Eyeballs covered in peel and stitched up lips."

Her father leans back, his expression unreadable, while her mother covers her mouth with a hand, eyes wide.

Rach presses on, her voice lower now. "They made these horrible sounds ... the trumpets of Jericho. These loud blaring noises hurt my ears. The demons seemed to... sniff me. They couldn't see, but they could smell me. They started sniffing around, getting closer."

Rachel pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. "I ran until I found this room, out of place of the destruction. Picture a spa-like bathroom, beautiful. Perfect, clean, luxurious. Candles everywhere, and in the middle of the chamber, this enormous bathtub, sunk into the floor."

Her parents remain quiet, hanging on her every word.

The Queen of the Night rests, frail, a disoriented child in a crowd, her tastes wide with the mute question of where safety is. Though she does not know where to look. Her strength, once towering, a mountain, yet crumbling, a leaf drifting in a storm, reaching out for a grip she's unsure exists.

"I—" Rachel hesitates, blinking. "There were these... white necromancers. They were offered to me ... to help me rest. I... I took them. And I got into the bath. The water was warm, almost too hot, but it was comforting. It appeared safe. I closed my eyes... and then Ash was there."

Her mother's breath catches, but Rache doesn't end. "She stands there, by the rim of the tub, looking at me. She looked so small, so fragile. I reached for her and pulled her into the pool, holding her close. I was weeping and couldn't stop crying."

Rachel's voice falters, eyesight glassy. "But then... the creatures came in. They stood at the edge of the inundation, making those awful sounds. The trumpets. They stayed there, observing. I—I tried to pull Ashley closer, but we were sinking. We were drowning in the flood. Going down."
The secretiveness in the room feels suffocating.

"The last thing I saw," Rach whispers, "was the fairground around us. The audience was back. They were watching... waiting. And then they started selling tickets. To see my family die."

The call goes silent. Her parents, frozen, have no words. The nightmare hangs heavy in the air, its dark, twisted tendrils weaving through their minds, leaving them shaken.

Rache's fingers tremble, leaves caught in a faint breeze as she pulls her hand away from her lips, her perception still haunted by the shadows of the agony.
Her father is the first to break the silence. "Ray ..."

But the pop star shakes her head, her tone a thread of sound, delicate as if it might snap at any moment. "It was an illusion. Nothing else than a dream."
The signals appear hollow, equal to her.

The connection cuts out. A door to the outside world slammed shut when the army activated the jammer in Dover.

'Signal Lost' flashes across the shimmering blue holo-displays.

Shelley turns to her husband, her sight clouded with concern. "What do we do now?"

He takes a deep breath, "Ask for professional advice. Come on, we can talk on the phone from my office, despite the obstructor."

And they set off a few minutes later …

The Lieutenant Colonel stands in his luxurious suite, an area that reeks of unattainable wealth for most officers.
The ceilings soar above him, their height forming the lodge …

A cathedral of modernism.

Glass walls surround him, offering an unobstructed view of the sprawling city below—a jungle of glowing towers and sleek skyrails.

Distant blending with the soft whoosh of climate recyclers, a monotone melody that underscores the hyper-modern environment.

On an ornate table, his travel suitcase sits, packed with military precision. Not a single item is out of place, and even the shiny leather bag exudes affluence. The atmosphere in the suite is cool, crisp, and sterile—a showroom untouched by human breath, every detail too flawless to feel real.

Instead of a phone, his left-hand hovers open in front of him, fingers spread as if waiting for a breeze to pass. A gentle Bengal fire ripples in the ambiance above his palm as the holo-display flickers to life. Shelley's face materializes in the projection, her picture sharp, as though she's standing before him.

The Lieutenant Colonel's character changes at once. His posture eases, and a noble smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Shell," his sound is laced with love. Your spirit outshines this skyline." The shape of the city of London refers to the pulse behind him, a spectacle of glittering lights, too bright, too clean—almost dreamlike.

There's a softness in his gaze, a moment where his views lock on hers, and the tension in the hall eases alone for a heartbeat. He lets his attention linger on her longer than any protocol would allow. His holographic image captures all the minor details of his admiration before he turns to the naval chief.

The shift is instant. Sympathy drains from Gaderian's expression, replaced by a crisp ritual. "Admiral, always an honour," he greets, his manner clipped and precise. The blue glow from the hologram catches the pointed lines of his jaw as his back stiffens. The apartment's luxury feels even more out of place as his army persona takes over.

"Brown job," Gaderian acknowledges the formality with a nod.

Misses M., unphased by his gallant greeting, replies in her usual abrupt but familiar tone. "We need your help with Ray." Her words are direct and laser-focused. The soft hum of electric drones outside amplifies the urgency in the room.

Gad stands beside her, composed but concentrated. He's long since accepted the warmth between Shelley and the military tribune. It doesn't bother him anymore—the officer is next of kin. The weight of conversation oppresses him in the sterile suite. His daughter's future hangs in the balance.

The Tribunus militaris sighs, his shoulders tense. His eyes flick upward for an instantaneous. He searches for something in the high-tech, spotless ceiling. "You know, I'm off to New York for work. I can't drop everything."

"You'll be there," Shell's firm voice cuts through again, leaning forward through the digital portrait.

"Official business." His response is quick and controlled, with a finality that echoes in the cold wind. "I am on a mission"

"We told her about Finnian Devon," the second-in-command of the fleet steps in, breaking the back-and-forth.

He sounds consistent but quieter as if he delivers an order.

The remarks crash as boulders, the infertile thrum of the lodge swelling, as if the walls themselves were drawing in, suffocating the breath. The militium freezes, his gape hardening. His emphasis shifts. Careful at that point and measured, not hiding the discomfort. "I thought we agreed to deal with that when Rachel's back in England."

"Let's explain," the admiral's wife says, bordering on pleading. There is a softness there that she uses with him.

"There was an impromptu development."

The hologram of her flickers for a split second, making her reports feel even more urgent.

The soldier tribune turns his gaze to Shelley Marron as a spotlight. "What did she suggest?" His speech, mild and expectant, cuts through the contrary relaxed mood. The room's ambient lighting shifts. A gentle tide, cast frosty blue hues over his appearance, amplifying the intensity of his language.

"That she doesn't want to know anything about it," Shell replies, not hiding her dissatisfaction. The SRR Officer sees that in the flicker of her holo-image. Rach's ma does not enjoy being left in the twilight, not when it concerns her daughter.

The militium raises his hands in an apologetic gesture, though there's an informal indifference in his observation.

"Then the matter's redundant, and we can move on with our business." He sounds matter-of-fact, as he locks.

His ultimate piece of baggage, the click of the latch punctuating the end of the discussion.

The suitcase seals itself and a warning note "diplomatic luggage" appears.

"But I'm troubled about my granddaughter," the grandma states, a mother's involvement edging into her explanation. "The little one wishes Peter Pan for father."

A short, amused smirk escapes the officer. He grabs his paraphernalia from the bed and sets it down by his feet. "Children that age don't look for rules." His accent, reassuring yet dismissive, fills the otherwise subdued room. "Misses M., every seven-year-old with a single mum wants a dad who never grows up. Perfectly normal."

He pauses and looks worried enough at the consideration of his two counterparts. "It's fatal for the singer. It would be as if she had another child at home." But he is going about his travel problem again.

Gaderian steps in, his navy formality showing in the serious tone. "It's not that simple," he declaims, meeting the tribune's views. "Ash didn't say it with joy. There was something ... unsettling about it."

The officer's expression falters.

His lips pressed together as a lock sealing away a secret, eyeballs narrowing, a blade poised to cut through uncertainty.

"Hm," he grunts, a thoughtful sound as he mulls over Gaderian's words.

The soft glow of the holographic display reflects off his face, highlighting the subtle strain beneath his cool exterior.

"Is she all right with the mass-ass-hole?" the military tribune asks, his statement casual. "He's a Bostonian, isn't he?"

The Marrons grasp his meaning with the swiftness of a hawk diving for its prey—he's talking about Wes. His eyes glint, a slight challenge, as if testing Shelley's reaction.

Shelley shakes her head, her brow furrowed with concern. "She won't let him touch her."

A malicious grin spreads across the lieutenant colonel's face. The cold amusement of a man who's seen too much to be shocked by dysfunction. "Well, I already sympathize with Ashley," he says with a dark chuckle, his humor almost jarring against the suite's sterile calm.

"I am sure you two will get along," Shell mentioned with an encouraging smile as if trying to smooth over the tension, even though the holographic distance. "I discovered an interpretation of Peter Pan as the Archangel Raphael, who guides children to paradise—babies who've passed away due to neglect."

The officer's brow furrows. His skepticism is immediate as if the sterile logic of the hall fights against the idea. "A rather loose analysis, Misses M.," he acknowledges, dry, tasting the absurdity. "Peter Pan's never struck me as a guide to heaven."

The officer turns his gaze to the seaman, the weight of the minute, a heavy cloak around his shoulders, as he takes the assessment with greater gravity. Gaderian's emphasis carries pressure, "It unsettled me too. Ash's words didn't feel right." He stands a little straighter, the old admiral in him never quite fading.

"How long's your granddaughter known this MC Scabies?" the militum sneers, his statement laced with irony.

"Nine months," Gad sighs, a deep weariness in his speeches. "Minus the one he spent behind bars for drunk driving."

The militium throws his head, laughter bursting from him as fireworks in the night clouds, slapping his thighs as if he picked up the year's punchline. The sound is rich and loud, bouncing off the walls of the sleek, futuristic saloon. "That wasn't me this time," he quips, a glint of mischief in his view. "Did DJ Washed-Up meet Ashley's father in prison?" He laughs again, but the mood shifts as he adds, his tone deepening as if a shadow has crossed the sun. "Your daughter's a real character."

Shelley's face tightens the warmth of her maternal embrace chill as the gentle ebb of a receding tide. "Please don't talk about 'ray of my life' in that way," a trace of disappointment in her testimony. "Nicki's harsh on her sister, but you needn't believe everything."

"Misses M.," the military tribune replies, a bit more sympathetic now, but still with directness. "I'm in the Secret Service. I do not accept what I hear—I verify it. But Lady Shelley, if you will allow me to make this objection, what is more important to me at the moment is why the Scaters are trying to murder your husband."

The Lieutenant Colonel is standing near the window. The skyline of the City of London stretched, an unbroken ribbon below, bathed in the glow of lights that seemed to glitter as a heartbeat. A pulse of living. Thin wisps of cloud hover in the sky, illuminated by the soft hum of air traffic, while the soundproofed glass gives the room an eerie silence.

"Best to stay on terms with Ray, Brown Job," Gaderian says, a playful edge in his voice. His eyeballs flicker to Shelley like a darting glowworm before settling back on the military. "Shell's already made it crystal clear to this Wesley Black—she's got other plans for her daughter."

The lieutenant colonel raises an eyebrow. His holo presence flashed for a moment. The tribun's full attention is on Gad. There's a sharp, knowing look in his eyes.

Gad's face turns more cautious. "There's another tale," he breaks the brief silence that's filled by the distant hum of the outside. "My daughter claims she doesn't want to learn anything about Finnian Devon, but... she is repressing it. The way she reacted—it was strange."

Shelley chimes in, with a softer tongue, more thoughtful. "She had a dream," she adds, leaning forward as if to pull the Tribunus militaris deeper into the story. "She gave us all the vivid details. Seemed unsettled."

The lieutenant colonel's demeanor shifts as Missis M explains the nightmare.

His eyes narrow, focused. His fingers curl, his brain working. "And she told everybody about this?"

Both parents confirm with a solemn nod.

Shell runs a hand through her styled hair, a gentle illumination from the bioluminescent plants lining the walls dropping a faint glitter on her appearance.

"On her last visit, she was still mourning that opal ring Trevor took," Shelley's accent tinged with bitterness. "He pawned it for cash, the bastard. I recognize how much that piece of jewelry meant to her. It's not the material value, she's buying diamonds now." The Marine's spouse manages to conjure a hint of seriousness about the matter on the Special Forces officer's front.

At the mention of Trevor, Brown Job straightens, the name itself has pricked some long-buried memory. "Dover... that brings back memories?"

"Of course it does," Shelley responds, her view searching his, as though wondering why he even needs to ask.

The tribune checks his watch, the sleek holo-display casting a soft, ethereal glow on his wrist. "This terror vision of hers—it's troubling, but I can't make any sense of it without seeing her myself," he admits, his sound shifting to something more diagnostic. "Remote diagnosis won't do."

"You shouldn't," Missis Marron says with a conspiratorial grin.

Her presence gleams under the artificial lighting. "You should contact Ray."

Brown Job looks tender as he pleads, "Misses M., you understand why I'm heading to the States? How am I supposed to 'meet' Rache?"

"I realize that," Shelley replies, mothering him, grounding him. "You look after her and Ash?"

The vice admiral, standing off to the side, furrows his brow, his mind catching on Shelley's words. His voice is incredulous, almost outraged. "Wait—how do you know that?"

"He told me," Shell answers, her tone as steady as a ship in calm waters, this kind of secrecy isn't new.

Gaderian's expression rolls to one of horror as he glares at the militium. "You're on a bloody secret service mission, and you told my wife about your assignment?"

The military tribune shrugs with an air of nonchalance, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lips, no more than a playful breeze teasing a curtain. "I always tell Misses M. all."

Gaderian, exasperated, slaps his forehead with his palm.

"Freki recorded everything?", the lieutenant colonel becomes serious again.

Shell bows. "Yes, he didn't let Rachel out of sight."

A glimmer of thoughtfulness passes crosswise Brown Job's expression.

"So I will have her entire body language on record," he muses.

The analytical tone returns as his eyesight dart across the holographic interface now flickering in front of him.

"And Ashley's too," Gaderian adds as if reminding him.

"She was sitting on her mother's lap the whole time," Shelley explains, her view unfocused for a second, remembering the scene.

The officer's visage darkens a touch. "What about Rachel's... nigger?" he asks, his voice blunt and unsparing, the word cutting through the room.

Rach's mom doesn't flinch. "He stuck close to her," she answers. He never left her side, except for one time when he left the picture.

The tribune nods, his mind already ticking away at the information. "First thing I'll do in New York is look through Freki's recordings," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I will be jet-lagged anyhow. We'll see what those show."

The soft hiss of the automated door signals his departure as they bid him farewell.

Outside, the electric hum of the busy Night-London, their lights painting streaks of color against the deepening dusk as the Lieutenant Colonel heads for the airport.