Since there have been increasing requests for the continuation of the story recently, I am preparing several "chapters".
I put the word book chapter in quotation marks because they are not real chapters. But I have problems uploading long texts. When they are then online, passages of text are missing or sentences are repeated.
However, reader comments on the effect of some experiments that I am trying out here would be good, such as:
Since the tone is not available in written texts, I keep the British spelling (for example: 'favour' instead of 'favor') when it is direct speech from British people. The exception is Marcus Gallagher when he slips into a different role.
The other exception is Rachel Marron, who in this story is a US-born Briton, has dual citizenship, and lived longer in the US than in the UK
Also opinions on the development of the story, this helps me to determine what the readership wants.
In Lord Reginald Cumberbatch's home
Marcus Gallagher strides into the Waldorf Astoria.
His personality, a blend of precision and ease.
The noble vestibule hums slow-moving.
Muted conversations and the distant clink of glasses. A ballad of subtle luxury.
The hotel lobby thrums with hustle and bustle. A grand terminal of splendor, where guests and staff weave through the space in fluid chaos.
Luggage glides behind its owners, tethered to their steps as if they were satin mechanical hounds.
Their polished surfaces catch the shimmer of crystal chandeliers above.
He moves past the shiny marble columns. The English retrieves his room key from a smiling concierge. It ascends to his suite with the efficiency of a man accustomed to comfort and secrecy.
Once inside, the door shuts, sealing him in a cocoon of understated opulence. The plush carpet absorbs his footsteps as he crosses to the window. He glances at the city below before dropping his bag on a sleek leather armchair. His solitude doesn't last.
The phone's vibration breaks the stillness. The military tribune of London sighs without thinking, lifting his left hand.
With a vague hum, the Holographic Sphere flickers to life. It spins and reshapes until it stabilizes into a glowing screen.
The Marrons' bronzed visage materializes.
Their existence cuts across the distance, the intimacy alone technology and familiarity can achieve.
The British Special Forces officer pauses mid-scroll amid the deluge of messages. Credenhill's curt missives. London's encrypted files. The silent weight of obligation—to offer his attention.
"Ah, Missis M," he begins. His expression dips into a melody of warmth and reverence. "A delight blooms in this otherwise shadowed hour to hear your speech. Might I extend a greeting as vivid as the blush of a rose at dawn? For sure, no finer symbol of grace embodies your presence. As though lilies bow, violets turn their visages to the sun. Even the nightingale silences its song to honor a spirit kindred to its own. Tell me, dear noblewoman, what brings such light to my day?"
His words hang in the hush, rich and deliberate as if crafted with the care of a poet addressing his muse. A faint smile plays on his lips, waiting for her retort.
Shelley's expression softens.
Her pleasure became clear. Poor time to respond before the young lieutenant colonel shifts gears.
His tone pivots, trading elegance for a gritty, salt-weathered drawl.
His grin broadens as he addresses Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron.
Marcus' pale skin catches in the faint glow of the holographic screen floating above his palm. The light dances. Shine casts fragmented shadows across the sleek, minimalist surface of his desk. With a subtle flick of his fingers, a delicate hologram of Tinkerbell materializes. A figure that seems to twinkle into existence. Her blonde hair gleams, woven strands of sunlight. The green dress flutters as if kissed by a breeze. Silver hummingbird wings. Little visible. Glints with the radiance of a star at the edge of the cosmos, tiny sparks of glittering dust scatter into the breeze, and the elevator cabin itself becomes touched by magic.
Tinkerbell hovers near his shadowed countenance. The faintest scent of jasmine and a touch of ozone accompany her. She holds up a miniature bosun's pipe. Its polished wood contrasts against the cold, digital sheen of Marcus's palm.
Marcus leans forward with deliberate slowness. His breath, so steady as he puffs his cheeks. The sound of the whistle rings with crystalline clarity. An deliberate disruption of the calm silence that pervades the room.
As he blows, the stillness seems to thrum with energy. The fairy's wings stir the surrounding dust. It casts golden light in fleeting patterns that catch the edges of his glares.
The Vice Admiral's face flickers into view, framed by the soft, cool light of the holographic screen. His expression, though unreadable, holds an air of practiced composure. Gaderian's dark skin and sharp features cut through the light with the precision of a man accustomed to authority. But there starts a faint flicker in his stares, an imperceptible softness that betrays his amusement at Marcus' antics. Beside him, Shelley's laughter rings out, warm and musical. It's a sound, as rich and inviting as the dusk atmosphere on a summer evening. "Marcus, are you practicing for your role as Peter Pan?" she asks. Her expression is the embodiment of effortless charm. Indeed, an invitation to both tease and admire.
Marcus's smile stretches. His lips curving with a politeness that belies a flicker of genuine fondness. "How could I deny Missis M a wish?" he replies in a smooth manner. His tone carries the weight of years of familiarity. His attention twinkles with a subtle mischief that those closest to him would recognize. The holographic screen remains above his hand. It glows soft, casting a warm, golden hue that seems to ripple with the unspoken connection between them. As the last glitter of fairy dust fades, the room settles. The moment of suspense between them—a delicate balance of levity and affection.
"Aye, aye, Captain. A fine thing to pick up ye, whether across the seas or among the wires, as they may be. I trust the winds treat you sympathetic and the tides favor your course. If there's a storm brewing, I've no doubt you'll cut between it clean. No fear, no quarter. Express your thoughts, Admiral. What mischief or mission runs out you, ringing a landlocked soul like me?"
The intelligence representative tips an invisible hat, the motion as practiced as mischievous.
"Feeling jaunty, Brown Job?" Gaderian growls, his rough articulation failing to conceal its underlying humor. "It says 'Aye Captain' I am no pirate."
The SRR officer's laugh bubbles out, unguarded and boyish, catching even him off guard. It earns him a knowing glance from the Marrons.
Shelley interjects, her manner tinged with concern despite her smile. "You seem… brighter than usual. What's changed?"
The newcomer diplomat hesitates, the grin fading as a shadow crosses his sharp-edged profile. "I don't know," he says after a pause, his words falling quieter. His glint flickers toward the window lost for a moment in the glow of the city lights below.
The cadre commander shifts gears with practiced ease. "I'm on my way to a meeting with the Lord Reginald Cumberbatch. That's the British consul," he says. A hush of hesitation behind the facade. "But, about Rachel, I've received a communiqué from Credenhill. They want me to coordinate with the FBI and NYPD on protection measures for her and Ashley. It seems I'm the 'British representative,' for lack of a better term."
He watches for a reaction, expecting acknowledgment or approval. Instead, Gaderian and Shelley exchange a look—an unspoken conversation laden with worry.
"Are you going to meet the ray of my light?" Shelley asks, her speech edged with something he can't quite place.
The question catches him off guard. His brows lift more or less before he chuckles. "There's no reason for that. But, come to think of it…" His smile widens a spark of mischief in his vision. "It wouldn't be the worst thing. Imagine it: a film premiere here in New York, the lead actor's a dead ringer for me—might even sign a few autographs. Could be fun."
"Do that, Brown Job," Shelley cuts in, her sharp tone derailing his humor.
Marcus's smile falters. He studies the Marrons, reading the unease in their expressions.
"I got a call from Ray's manager, Bill Devaney," Gaderian explains. His utter lowers as he recounts the events at the penthouse. As a quiver of unease slips through the practiced ease of his speech, every word becomes chosen for impact.
The government agent on the mission listens. But, his features hardens as the report unfolds. By the time Gaderian finishes, the lighthearted air in the conversation has vanished.
"Have you seen the footage yet?" the vice admiral asks.
The undercover diplomat nods, slow and deliberate, his gaze distant.
"And?" Shelley presses, a shadow of concern lingering beneath the sunlight of her voice.
Gallagher takes a measured breath, his words cautious. "We've been through this before. My suggestion of a boot camp still feels the best option."
Shelley recoils, disbelief etched across her face. "You're serious?"
She turns to Gaderian, aghast.
"Aye, it's a sound idea," the vice admiral replies. He states, calm, as if they were discussing logistics instead of his offspring.
"Gad, that's your daughter," Shelley snaps, her frustration boiling over. "There has to be another way."
Marcus's expression remains impassive. "When Rachel comes to England, the situation will become more manageable," he says. His statement sounds, matter-of-fact. "I'd to see how she handles isolation in Dover. Away from her brothers, and away from her nigger …" His words hang for a moment before landing with weight. "I mean... MC Ghetto-Blaster."
Shelley flinches but doesn't at once object. "It makes me uncomfortable, that with Wesley either," she admits. "She wants to bring him along. Isn't there a way to prevent that?"
"Of course," the martial emissary replies, a tremor of concern curling at the edges of his voice. He unholsters his pistol. Marcus flips it open to check the magazine with a mechanical precision that fills the silence with quiet menace.
Shelley's sight widens. "Gad, do something," she hisses, turning to her husband.
"Could we manage this… in discreet?" Gaderian suggests. His tone becomes one of restrained irritation.
Gallagher's lips twitch into a foxy grin. "Aye, Aye, Captain. That's officer thinking." He twists a silencer onto the barrel with deliberate flair.
"Brown Job!" the admiral snaps.
The Special service operative's grin lingers for a beat before he sobers. "We'll take the right steps. Sometimes a push in the proper direction works out. Let's see how she fares."
Marcus glances at the grand lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. Here chandeliers cast shards of light that dance across polished marble floors. In good taste, dressed guests murmur in low cadences. Laughter stays a soft undercurrent. Yet none of this holds his attention for long. He has an appointment—a mission, in fact—and distractions, no matter how gilded, cannot deter him.
He steps in two shakes of a lamb's tail onto 5th Avenue, the air crisp with morning mist. The city hums, muffled by the pale veil, and each step echoes his resolve. The package tucked under his arm seems against all odds weightless, as if the importance it carries transcends its physical heft.
A short walk brings him to 795 5th Avenue. The façade, a magnificent blend of old-world luxury and an understated promise of discretion. The strategic officer pauses to adjust his scarf, letting it cascade over his tailored coat. He removes his sunglasses, revealing a face that exudes quiet confidence. The doorman recognizes him right away, offering a polite nod.
"Good morning, Mr. Gallagher," the doorman says. He scans the visitor list before gesturing to kind thoughts. "You're expected. Right this way."
The covert agent offers a polite smile and extends the package. "Would you mind delivering this to Miss Rachel Marron? A gift from her parents to the granddaughter." Formal his tone, yet there's an undercurrent of something deeper—an unspoken weight to the task.
As the elevator doors slide open it reveals an ornate brass interior. The espionage specialist freezes. A young girl stands inside, her presence a quiet storm against the gilded backdrop. Ashley's wide, solemn eyes meet his. Her dark curls tumble the same way of untamed waves, and her small frame seems burdened, as though the very air presses too hard upon her.
"Lady Ashley? Even the gentlest heart may find itself awash in sorrow, yet the tender light of morning shall always return to paint the skies in hues of hope." The undercover officer greets the girl.
Beside Ashley, Editha, Rach's assistant, tenses. Her sharp regard flicker over the militium. Her expression, a blend of recognition and uncertainty, as though sifting through a hazy memory.
The tribunus militaris steps forward, his movement deliberate and composed. The misty light filtering past the tall windows frames him, softening the edges of his presence. He kneels, enough to meet Ashley's gaze in broad daylight, his voice dropping to a tender murmur.
"Lady Ashley," he begins. His words, now deliberate. His inflection carries the gravity of a whispered promise. "Life, even at its cruelest, cannot extinguish the beauty of your light. The clouds may gather, but the dawn always returns, bold and unwavering."
Ashley blink, her small hand trembling as she places it in his. Marcus lift her small hand as if holding the fragile wing of a bird. His lips grazing it with the quiet reverence of a chevalier before a queen, as if the moment held the weight of centuries of honor.
Ashley's wide stares search his solemn mien, looking for the shadow of falsehood but finding none. A faint flicker of trust, tentative and fragile, blooms in her expression. Editha draws attention with a soft cough in a low whisper. She breaks the moment's spell, but she says nothing, her furrowed brow relaxing somewhat.
Ash's features brighten, her earlier sadness evaporating as joy takes its place. Her wide viewports sparkle with newfound excitement. "You know who I am? Often, people know not more than my mommy," she burst out, her enunciate rise with bubbling energy.
The British special force soldier hesitates, a flicker of something akin to amusement crossing his face. Then, with an elegant bow of his head, he speaks. "What a splendid honor to meet you, Lady Ashley. You hold the grace of a thousand blossoms unfurling in spring. You, a rare jewel, gleam brighter than the stars above."
He leans ever so petite toward her, his expression lowering to a solemn timbre. "I swear to you, fair maiden, while others may let the world's clamor dim your light, my heart would sooner shatter than bear such injustice. To me, you are no less than a fire. More a radiant beacon on this earth, deserving of every whisper of admiration."
Ashley blinks, her tear-rimmed oculi flickering with surprise, curiosity blooming in her expression. For a brief moment, the ache in her small frame seems to waver.
Seeing her lift her gaze, Marcus places a hand over his heart, his gloved fingers brushing his chest as a whispered promise. "If I may serve, Lady Ashley," he intones, "then I serve you first. Trust this humble knight, who, as the poet's steadfast raven, shall never leave you forgotten in the silence of night."
As Ashley glow with this new feeling. Editha break the silence with a brash laugh. She cross her arms and shakes her head with disbelief.
"Well, ain't this somethin'," she says, her expression vulgar, streetwise. She cocks her head as she sizes the unknown man up. "You sound same as one'a them fancy poems they got in the library. May, yo, Ashley—this dude for real?" She tilts her chin, her lips twitching in a mix of disbelief and amusement.
The lobby falls into a spellbound hush. Ashley's lip trembles, but not with sadness. A slow, dawning light seems to spread across her face, the first blush of sunrise over a slumbering city. Her peepers—now bright and dawning—lock onto well-dressed Brit with a wonder that washes away every trace of loneliness.
Editha, standing nearby, breaks the quiet with a low whistle, a note of astonishment. Her mouth curves into a wry grin, but her reflections betray her shock.
The enigmatic visitor straightens. He turns to Editha with an expression that's somehow both courteous and amused. "Miss Burruss," he greets, his words clipped but respectful.
Editha blinks. "Wait—how d'you know me?"
The intelligence officer dip his head in a subtle nod. But, the scarf obscur much of his unreadable mask. "I brought a gift from the grandparents for their granddaughter." His sharp shards make his recognition unmistakable. He gestures with an elegant sweep of his hand toward the doorman, who still holds the circumspect wrapped package. Turning back to Ashley, his smile softens.
Editha shakes her head with a knowing grin, arms crossing over her chest. "Well, ain't that her? Always got some kinda scheme, doesn't she?" Her accent teeters between a clipped Brit and the lazy drawl of a seasoned New Yorker. She tilts her head toward Ashley with a dramatic roll of her orbs. "Bet it's somethin' loud, too. Your gran's not straight away subtle, kid."
Ashley blinks up at her, wide-eyed. Editha's grin widens, her words a lull of concern beneath the brightness of her smile. "Oh, don't worry, love. You'll look smashing. She makes sure the cameras know you're the queen of the runway—and the skies."
The special service operative allows a faint smile. He tips his head ever so rather in acknowledgment. "Indeed, Miss Burruss. And in this case, a gift most fitting for a princess."
Ashley giggles. Her earlier sadness? Now in and out forgotten. Editha can't hide her grin as the tension in the room dissolves into something lighter—something warmer.
"Do you know anything else about me?" Ashley ask, her vocalize a blend of hope and curiosity.
"You're an adventurer." His talk become a serenade that carries a warmth that almost feels a wink, even with his face obscured. "You love Dora the Explorer and can't wait to meet my wolves."
Ashley's glimmers widen, astonishment flickering the way sunlight on water does. "You know my grandparents, too?" She looks at him as if he's some all-knowing oracle. Editha begins piecing things together.
"You're the SRR officer who saved Vice Admiral Marron's life?" Editha interjects, a ripple of doubt breaking the surface of her revelation.
The covert agent shrugs, a hint of mischief curling his lips beneath the scarf. "The wolves did most of the heavy lifting." Then he chuckles, low and wicked. "What a bloody mess that was." His laughter fades as his tone shifts. "These days, I'm playing diplomat. But as of this morning…" He crouches kinda, placing his hands with due respect on Ashley's shoulders, his put-into-words soften. "I've been promoted. From now on, I'm Lady Ashley's big brother, and I'm here to watch you."
Editha arches a brow, her smirk cutting through the tension. "Big brother? I'd love to hear what her uncles have to say about that. Or wait…" Her gaze sharpens as she crosses her arms. "Or are you responsible for these two too?"
The security official straighten all business now. "My orders are clear. I'm assigned to Miss Marron and her daughter due to their high profile. Her brothers have simpler arrangements."
He turns back to Ashley with a teasing glint in his eye. "Your uncles, Kunta and Kinte, aren't keeping an eye on you?"
Ashley's frown deepens, and she shakes her head.
"And that MC Bimbo who's always hanging around your mommy?" he asks undercover, his slits narrowing in mock disapproval.
Editha lets out a snort that in no time turns into laughter as Ashley nods.
"Well, that's rude of OG Lord Rhymes-a-Fumble," the field operative quips.
Editha cackles, pulling out her phone and jabbing at the screen. "Hold up, hold up. I have to write that down. 'Original Gangster'? Perfect description for that leech. He's robbing Rachel blind."
The espionage specialist hums in thought, then adds, "BG Count Ego of Street must get his regular welfare checks."
Editha erupts with laughter, almost doubling over, hammering agile on her phone.
Ashley tugs on Marcus's sleeve, her view earnest. "Do you know my mommy?"
"Who doesn't?" the tribune replies in a low chime, but then his tone grows more solemn. "I've been close to your mommy many times."
Ashley blinks, startled, while Editha's laughter dies at that point. She fixes a sharp, suspicious gaze on Marcus's scarf.
"I've even touched her," he continues, his river of words thick with mystery, "and yet she'll never remember me."
"That's why they call the SRR the Ghosts," Editha mutters, trying to connect the dots.
The counterintelligence agent shifts on a sudden unease. "And now, I must see the consul." He stands, ruffling Ashley's hair before heading to the elevator.
Editha trails him with a sneaky smile. "So what's with the scarf, mystery man? What're you hiding?"
"I'm a secret agent," the militium replies over his shoulder, his tone deadpan. "Can't have the world knowing this face." He steps into the elevator, the doors closing on a glint of amusement in his spheres.
"You look familiar," Editha mutters, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studies him. But the Brit doesn't react, his focus fixed elsewhere, his stillness calculated.
"Who are you?" Ashley calls out, her cry teetering on the edge of a plea.
No answer. The elevator door begins to glide shut, and the Secret Service agent shifts, marginal—his leg bouncing with nervous energy.
"If you're my big brother," Ashley says, her heart's cadence rising with desperation, "... then I need to know who you are!"
As the door halfway close, the Tribunus militaris raise his left hand, palm up. In a blink, a tiny, glowing figure appear—a radiant, golden light with wings.
It's not light. It's a fairy.
The miniature being hovers above his palm. Her wings hum a little in the air and her tiny hands wave in greeting. The glow intensifies, casting a warm halo that flickers as if it were fireflies. She twirls once, a shimmer of stardust trailing behind before disappearing as fast as she came.
The elevator door seals with a soft hiss, leaving Ashley and Editha in stunned silence.
Ashley's lenses go wide, her face alight with juvenile wonder. "Gold star!" she shouts, her song of the soul ringing through the hallway as an echo in the wind. She leaps into the current, her fist punching upward as a jubilant superhero. Without missing a beat, she breaks into a giddy dance, spinning her way toward the exit and out onto the bustling street.
Editha doesn't move. Her lips twitch, caught between disbelief and laughter. "A bloody fairy? Did I witness Tinkerbell?" she mutters to herself, rubbing her temples.
But Ashley's already out of earshot, twirling within the crowd as if she's the star of her own fairy tale.
Three floors below Rachel Marron's penthouse. Marcus step into the consul's apartment. The building's decor whisper of old-world grandeur—marble floors, gilded mirrors. The soft scent of polished wood mingle with the faint tang of lemon polish. He unwind his scarf, the fabric fall away to reveal his features.
The security guard at the desk, a mountain of a man with the smile of an old friend's handshake, straighten as if a spring inside him has been wound. "Ah, there he is! The Brit I was telling you about." He gestures toward a dreary bench sagging under the weight of time, where a tiny boy perches the same way a sparrow does, his legs tracing empty arcs in the air.
"My son, Timmy. Poor kid's bored stiff waiting here all day," the guard explains, his utterance a mix of apology and pride.
Timmy looks up at the suspected British diplomat, his beacons lighting up with wonder. He sits up straighter, hope flickering in his gaze as if a candle catching a breeze.
The Strategic officer crouches down, leveling his sharp eyes with the boy. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a crisp piece of paper, offering it with a flourish. "Here, Timmy. Think you can draw me a winged beauty?"
Timmy's face transforms, all hesitation melting into unrestrained glee. "A butterfly? I love butterflies!" He grabs the paper as though it's a secret mission entrusted to him.
As Timmy's pencil moves with childish fervor, the martial emissary watches with quiet satisfaction. The boy's enthusiasm stirs something warm in him.
The apartment door swings open, cutting through the moment. Lord Reginald Horatio Cumberbatch steps out. Dapper in his tailored suit, exuding an effortless charm that coming down the pike commands the room. "Military tribune!" he greets, his smile wide and his spirit's melody-rich with sincerity. "Good to see you. Come in."
"Wait a moment," London's chargé d'affaires says, giving Timmy a playful wink. He then takes the paper with due respect from the boy's hands and clenches it in his left fist. His Lordship watches, curiosity piqued.
Section 13's foreign liaison hesitates. His focus lingers on Timmy, now hunched over the paper, altogether absorbed in his drawing. The security guard notices the exchange. His chest swells with pride as he glances between the Brit and his son.
"You've got talent there, Timmy," the undercover statesman murmurs. His words drift as a quiet breeze.
The boy doesn't look up, but his smile says everything.
With a final glance at the boy, the British representative straightens, nods to the guard, and steps into Lord Cumberbatch's apartment, the door closing behind him.
With a deliberate flourish, the Briton opens his hand. Instead of the expected paper, a radiant airborne bloom unfurls from his palm. The wings shimmers with hues of molten gold, deep sapphire, and fiery violet. The creature seems to glow from within, casting an iridescent light across the dim entryway.
"Wow!" Timmy breathes, his gasp a hushed marvel. His wide eyes lock onto the winged jewel as it takes flight, its wings slicing across the air with an elegant rhythm.
Even the security man feels caught off guard, his mouth on the brink agape. "It's... magic," he murmured, his usual stoicism giving way to wonder.
The Petal on the wind dance through the room, looping and twirling as though performing for an enchant audience. It hover near Timmy, drawing him into its spell, then sweep upward in a dramatic arc. With one final, graceful swoop, it burst apart into a rain of tiny, glittering sparks, each one dissolving into the draft as the last notes of a beautiful melody.
Timmy jumps, clapping his hands in pure delight. "That was amazing!" he shouts. His earlier shyness evaporated in the face of such an extraordinary moment.
The undercover envoy chuckles a warm, deep sound that fills the room. "Magic lives in the hearts of those who believe in it," he says. He lowers his words to a secretive voicelessness as he winks at the boy.
The consul steps forward, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "Well, Mr. Gallagher, you've on the nose raised the bar for diplomatic arrivals." His wording carries a blend of humor and respect, though a shadow of unease flickers in his lights.
The militium inclines his head, his own smile faint but genuine. "A little wonder never hurts on the whole these days."
The Viscount of Widdershins gestures toward the open door. "Shall we?"
Timmy watches the embassy official as he steps inside, his small face still glowing with joy. The guard tousles his son's hair and mutters, "Told you he was something special."
Once the door closes behind them, the air shifts. The soft wonder of the moment outside gives way to something heavier. Inside push an atmosphere thick with unspoken truths. Reginald Cumberbatch crosses the plush carpet. His steps, muffled but purposeful, and motions toward a well-stocked sideboard.
"Drink?" he offers, lifting a crystal decanter with the ease of a man accustomed to fine things.
The British officer abroad glances at the clock on the far wall and raises an eyebrow. "It's not even eight a.m."
The Lord chuckles, setting the decanter down with a shrug. "Thank you, Big Ben." His attempt at humor feels thin, a brittle mask over something sharper. "Something else, then?"
The lieutenant colonel waves him off, his expression calm but watchful. "I'm good."
The viscount nods, a fleeting stiffness betraying his nerves. He drifts to the desk. His fingers graze the stack of papers, aligning them as if taming restless leaves in the breeze. "We're glad to have you on this."
The commando soldier steps further into the room. Both hands in his pockets. His presence, understated but commanding. "So I've heard," he replies. His tone becomes neutral. His eyes, sharp as they take in Cumberbatch's subtle tells—the tight line of his mouth, the faint twitch in his jaw.
The consul gives a quiet 'ahem' as if trying to push the weight of the room aside. "We're facing... complications. That's why London sent someone of your rank."
His counterpart doesn't respond soonest. The military man let the silence stretch. He knows his Lordship's discomfort will fill the space. At last, he dips his head, a faint bow of resolve, his turn of phrase rolling out as a river's quiet current. "Complications are what I'm here for. Let's get to it."
The SRR officer slides a sleek cylindrical object into Cumberbatch's hand. The metal catches the dim light, giving off a cold, almost clinical gleam.
"The warhead?" the viscount inquires. His tone measured, almost as though raising it might disturb some lurking menace.
The man on a conspirative mission inclines his head, in a brief and deliberate motion. "Portman can employ it to evaluate the 'Danger Mouse' I provided on the previous occasion."
Reginald Cumberbatch cradles the bomb for a moment, his thumb tracing its ridged edge. His expression shifts—part apprehension, part calculation. Without a word, he rises and secures the device inside a hidden panel in the oak-paneled wall, the click of the mechanism almost inaudible against the oppressive quiet.
"I'll contact Major Portman," he says as he turns back, his language tighter now. "He'll get in touch with you then."
The statesman with hidden motives doesn't answer. He watches the aristocratic emissary with the stillness of a predator, deciding whether the prey bears the worth of a chase. The seasoned diplomat's fingers dance on the table's smooth expanse, a fleeting storm, before stilling as the militium tilts his head, shattering the calm.
"What was the assassination attempt on Vice Admiral Marron about?"
The consul freezes, his glass suspended mid-air as if time itself has paused. For a heartbeat, his mask of composure slips, revealing a flicker of something raw. He raises the glass to his lips, taking quick, shallow draughts, each sip a silent confession of his unease.
His Lordship's fingers tap a soft rhythm on the table's gleaming surface. Their beat fades a forgotten song before silence settles again, shattered by the military tribune, whose tilt of the head cuts through the stillness. "Were you the intelligence officer who intervened?"
Marcus nods, slight, almost dismissive. His face remains unreadable, a mask of calm that deepens the Viscount's unease.
"Why?" Reginald Cumberbatch asks. His lyric, a sudden ripple in calm waters, his bewilderment painting the air.
Gallagher's brow furrows and his stare sharpens as though the question itself sounds an insult. "Because a comrade was in danger."
The silver-haired diplomat exhales, his breath a slow sigh, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing against an unseen storm. "You work with the head of military counterintelligence?"
The SRR officer shrugs, reclining with effortless composure. "We don't share tea and biscuits." His words slip out of pure silk, but there's a razor hidden within. "We don't converse much beyond work."
"No?" The elder statesman's gaze sharpens, cutting amid the Brit agent as he searches for cracks in the polished façade. "I heard that the vice admiral said minutes before the attack that the military tribune accompanying him was the son he wanted."
The soldier remains unimpressed: "Nonsense, he said he would have enjoyed to have seen at least one of his sons follow in his footsteps."
Piecemeal, the aristocratic emissary's posture shifts, his defenses melting, but in the subtlest of ways. "Is that right?"
"Apart from Nicole, what can he expect from his other offspring?" the secret service asks, his tone a blade, sharp with disdain.
"Does that include Rachel Marron?" The consul's observation pierces the political envoy, sharp as a hawk's, searching for a crack in the armor.
The British agent remains silent. The specter of his sight, a locked door, unwavering, as if his previous answer becomes carved in stone.
"But you still want to sell us the AMM-117?" Reginald Cumberbatch asks, his words tentative, as though stepping onto fragile ice.
"I don't have it yet," the foreign service operative explains without emotion. "I'm not convinced it was your people. Supporting the assumption gives me more options to navigate around the system."
"Or to navigate us into a trap," the representative of the Crown inquires with extreme caution.
"Then why shouldn't I give up my gun?" the Special Force officer replies. "Oh, I forgot," he says with a grin sharp as a wolf's. "Here we are on British soil, under British law, I can execute you. You can't stop me from confronting you with a weapon in your home and castle. It's legal! That's the present, if the Pale Shine law passes it will be even better. For me! Not for you. The NYPD starts a local investigation. That will come to nothing. Why? The British authorities won't cooperate. The British will of course conduct their own investigation. In the case of Scattersmen, I'm in charge of the investigation."
Consul Cumberbatch draws a heavy breath. The weight of execution hangs over him the same way as the blade of a guillotine. "I heard MI5 and MI6 brought in the FBI to hunt down the landmines, sealing the Metropol, and a New York cage appears." He shifts, eyes flickering with calculation. "How do you plan to smuggle the landmines in? Declaring them as diplomatic baggage won't shield you."
"That shows one of your people whispers to the wrong ears," the lieutenant colonel replies. His run-in a steady river: "I told you and Greg Portman I was bringing the AMM-117 to New York. Somewhere, the Scatters have a crack in their armor. As for my promise, it still stands. The mines were already on American soil when we last spoke."
"The mines are already in place?" the Viscount muses, a pebble dropped into a still pond his words.
The special force officer nods, the veil of his vision steady as granite. "But not in New York. If it's not the Scatters, there are plenty of others eager to trade in shadows."
The King's consul leans forward, elbows on the table. His phrasing drops to something more deliberate. "Vice Admiral Marron? Interesting, yes. But dead? So he's of no use to us."
His fingers tap a restless rhythm, a jittery dance that halts as he adds, "The British ambassador plans to appoint the 'Queen of the Night' as cultural ambassador to the United States." Reginald's survey sharpens as he mentions Rachel Marron.
Gallagher, a statue carved from ice, weighs the counterpart's words equal to precious metals. "And why," he asks, his wrangle a steady ripple, "are you telling me this?" His gaze doesn't waver, his face an unreadable mask, as if the words are but shadows passing through him.
"Not interested in the news?" The consul attempts a smile, but it falters, stifled by the chill in the soldiers' shadow of his stare.
"DJ Marron Blaze can tell her parents herself," the agent replies, his quarrel as sharp and unmoving as stone. He pauses, considering the moment, then adds, "At the moment, I'm interested in... What do people call it here? Bread."
The aristocrat lets the topic drop, unable to find a crack in the fortress before him. All his words, now lost in the silent barricade the tribunus militaris has built.
His Lordship utters a low, rasping hum, drawing closer as if his nearness could weigh the truth of his words. "Let me be explicit," he begins, his lilt deliberate, "... that despite the tales spun by the media, the Scattersmen had no hand in the London attack."
Aquamarine echoes in Marcus' eyes and turns cold and piercing. The room feels smaller. Walls draws closer as though the air itself can sense the weight of the words exchanged.
Reginald Cumberbatch shifts in his chair. The tremor in his fingers betrays him as they drum against the polished wood. His dustup cuts the air as if glass. "Why would we try to buy AMM-117 from you if we already had it?"
The militium responds in an instant, his tone taut as a bowstring drawn tight. "Perhaps you managed to steal one warhead. Or your supplier's gone dry." He leans forward, the weight of his regard locking the Viscount of Widdershins in place. "Or I'm offering you mine at a discount. Maybe I'm the one who can deliver them overseas. Unlike your regular supplier." His lips curl into a thin, humorless smile. "Want me to go on?"
The UK delegate swallows hard, blinking as if he's dislodging a speck of dust from his mind. "I assure you," he says, his words slow and deliberate, "the Scattersmen had nothing to do with the London attack. Or the attempt on Vice Admiral Marron's life. Killing him serves us no purpose—bad propaganda."
The intelligence officer tilts his head. A gaze like a scalpel inspects the British consul as though peeling back layers of a lifeless specimen. "I'll admit," he murmurs, "the situation doesn't add up."
Reginald Cumberbatch's fingers hover on his glass, the faint clink of nails against crystal slicing through the still air. "I assume the FBI, NYPD, MI6, and MI5 will be swarming here soon?" His conversation carries an uneven edge as if he's testing a brittle surface for cracks.
The field operative remains motionless, his storm-lit aspect a cipher.
The elder statesman's shroud of his sight flickers toward him, a gambler weighing the odds before laying a hand. "I imagine there's much the military tribune won't tell me."
Marcus's eyes narrow, the weight of his vision sharp enough to draw blood. "Death one gets free," he says, his lines as cold as steel, "and one pays for it with life."
The British representative lets out a brittle laugh, the sound thin and breakable. He raises his glass to his lips, buying time with a sip. "I see," he murmurs, his smile as thin as his nerves. "Information has its price, too."
His fingers trail over the condensation on the glass, drawing invisible patterns, restless. "Was the military tribune sent here to protect British interests at the consulate?"
The special service operative shakes his head. A slow motion, deliberate as a judge delivering a verdict. He raises a single finger and points upward.
The Viscount's brow knits, confusion clouding his face until understanding dawns, his eyes widening. "Rachel Marron?"
Gallagher offers a single, curt nod, his expression a wall of icy indifference.
"Incredible," the consul breathes, a nervous smile creeping across his lips. "General Astgill sends one of his falcons—his protégé—to babysit a singer." He leans back, his tone gaining confidence, even as his words remain edged with disbelief.
The agent doesn't respond, his silence colder and sharper than any reaction.
The chief diplomat chuckles again, though it sounds hollow. With a flick of his wrist, he gestures upward. "So, after this, will you be heading upstairs to greet the Queen of the Night herself?"
"You know very well the SRR doesn't work in that way." Marcus's dialogue slices through the room, sharp as a blade. "To be honest, I'm not into these bards, troubadours, and chansonnettes."
The aristocrat's smile flickers, uncertainty rippling among him, but he pushes on.
Reginald Horatio Cumberbatch opens his mouth to respond but falters. His irritation becomes drowned in the fog of Marcus's deliberate indifference.
Sensing his Lordship's disarray, the covert agent rises, his movements as fluid as silk slipping between fingers. "If we're done here," he discurs as the final note of a well-played symphony, leaving no room for doubt.
The espionage specialist inclines his head in polite farewell, the firm grip of his handshake final yet understated. He exchanges brief pleasantries, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. A swift nod and he's off, striding toward the door with his usual purpose.
As he passes the security guard, he notices the young boy—Timmy—standing a few feet away. The child's face lights up, lamps wide and bright, as he spots the suspected diplomat from London. Timmy bounces on his toes. His eyes, bright as twin stars, hold a quiet prayer in their shine, as though the world itself might tilt to grant him a moment of magic.
Marcus's pace never falters, but his gaze shifts enough to catch the boy's rapt attention. He lifts a hand, not to wave, but to gesture. A fluid motion of his fingers, tracing a shape in the breath with the precision of an artist.
His movements are deliberate, almost ceremonial. The air crackles with an electric hum as Marcus's fingers cut through it, the outline of a dragon taking shape in the invisible currents. At first, it's little more than a shimmer. The faintest glimmer of heat rises, and it solidifies—scales gleaming as if wet stone, wings unfurling with an audible whisper of hush, the dragon stretching to its full, formidable size.
It surges forward, its slits glowing a fiery red, and its jagged mouth opens in a soundless roar. The beast seems to swallow the hallway, a looming presence that makes the walls quiver. Timmy's mouth drops open in shock. His small body, frozen in place, clutching his father's hand with a grip that could've cracked bone. His breath catches in his throat, his chest trembling as he's caught in the grip of fear and fascination.
But then, something shifts. The dragon's snarl fades, its blood-red shards melting into a softer, more inviting orange. Its scales flicker with iridescent colors, an impossible spectrum that dances across its body as if the beast itself were alive with magic. The wings fold the tempest in its form ebbing as the creature coils in the atmosphere, sinking as a colossal, shimmering serpent.
With a flick of its tail, the dragon shrinks—its imposing edges softening, its sharp claws retracting. In a final, effortless twist, it bursts into a flurry of fireworks—brilliant, radiant streaks of light cascading down the corridor in a burst of color that ignites the air around them. Red, gold, blue, and purple twirl and spin in a dazzling display, their glittering remnants falling stars as they fade into nothing.
Timmy, wide-eyed with amazement, in that second no longer scared. A grin creeps across his face, widening as if the dusk swallows the last whispers of light. His fingers still hold tight to his father's hand, but the tremor goes now. The magic, whatever it was, had shifted something inside him. His father, shaken, glances toward the counterintelligence agent—but the man, already a shadow, retreats down the corridor, the faintest smirk lingering on his lips as a secret.
Reginald Cumberbatch locks the door with a soft click. The sound reverberates, a final note in a quiet room. He turns, his face a polished mask of composure. Across the room stands a man who seems carved from shadow and steel—tall, lean, exuding a presence that fills the space with unspoken menace. Greg Portman.
The silver-haired diplomat approaches, his shoes skimming the plush carpet, each step silent as a falling feather.
His gaze flicks over his shoulder, a habit of unease disguised as casual vigilance. A wry smile curves his lips. "Well then," the Viscount of Widdershins begins, his tone measured, "I take it you heard everything."
Portman inclines his head. His expression stays unreadable, though his eyes gleam with restrained amusement. "Every last syllable. I must say, it's not every day one overhears such ... stimulating discourse."
The King's emissary arches a brow, stepping closer. "Stimulating, the right word for it. Strange, another. Extraordinary reaction to the Marrons."
"He lies." Portman's comment carries a faint edge of amusement, his words clipped.
"A trap," the representative of the Crown concedes. "We call off the arms deal?" His gaze narrows.
"No, I mean about the singer." Portman lets out a low chuckle, a sound more sardonic than warm. "This total dismissal. He turns his back on her. Even if the SRR remains in the background, someone so bound to the singer's family can exchange a few words with her."
The consul's jaw tightens. "So you think what?"
"He threatened to execute you," Greg recalls. "Why go to all this trouble smuggling weapons unless it's for the money? That's what he's after."
"Trust?" the aristocrat suggests. "He wants to understand our structures."
Greg frowns, his doubt deepening. "No, someone within our company leaks information. But the US authorities remain in the dark—no one's privy to the transport route or storage location. The tribune kept all that under wraps. And as for our structures, he's shown no interest; it's always been about the money. He's here because of the Voice. Gaderian Marron and Ordlaf of Astgill are close; the general does the vice admiral a favour. Liaison for the FBI's personal security? You'd send a second lieutenant or a junior agent, not someone of his rank."
Greg flails his hands as if trying to grasp smoke, the drift of his focus darts, a man searches for an anchor. "Back then, with General Astgill's Falcons, he was chasing money, pure and simple. You couldn't imagine it. That's the same game the military tribune plays with our arms deal. Imagine the risk he's swallowing for 100 million dollars. Out of everyone here, he's the most qualified to stand before a two-time billionaire. I wouldn't mind meeting her myself."
"I will meet the Queen of the Night soon", his Lordship notes, his tone carrying the faintest hint of irritation.
Greg's depth of his watch flickers toward the diplomat, his expression sparking as if a match struck in the dark.
The UK envoy moves to the sideboard, peeling back the cloth the same way a magician unveils a forbidden relic. The compact AMM-117 warhead rests beneath, its shadowed surface catching the dim light, the gleam of a predator's eye. He lifts it with both hands, cradling it as though handling a sacred artifact, and extends it toward Portman in silent offering.
"As he promised," he murmurs.
Portman takes it, his movements slow and deliberate, turning the weapon over in his hands. He studies the sleek metal casing, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with the same unhurried air, he tucks it under his arm.
For a moment, silence stretches between them, thick as fog, each man navigating the unseen currents of the other's intent. At last, Portman inclines his head, a subtle verdict, and strides toward the door. He vanishes through it without a glance, the closing door murmuring a fading note.
The Viscount remains where he stands, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the door. For the first time that evening, the faintest trace of uncertainty shadows his face.