2020: Chapter Seven

The tall cobblestone buildings, ornately designed with pillars, balconies, domed towers on the corners of streets stare blankly out over the busy London shopping district of Regent Street. The street is freshly paved; the asphalt is an inky black and the lines upon it contrast sharply in whites and yellows. Despite their impracticality in such narrow streets, double decker buses rumble slowly by as Shari moves up the street, passively moving around slow-moving groups of friends and families.

A car honks and she startles, looking up the sunlit street to see that the vehicle was trying to move around a bus that had not pulled in sufficiently to drop off passengers. The steady thrum of conversation fills her ears, but Shari can find no comfort in the presence of so many people. “They’re all just mindless slaves – destroying the world with their ignorance,” she thinks angrily to herself as she continues on her way.

The very buildings themselves that make up Regent Street, five storeys high and without a space between them, save where bisecting streets connected, seem to pen the shoppers in. “Forcing them into the stores to buy their garbage,” she looks around with vehement disgust of those around her. They’re all completely ignorant to the reality at hand, ignoring the fact that there are police officers on every corner, and many more walking the streets.

As she thinks this, she looks down at her purse, ever hanging over her shoulder. The small, leather sack, although relatively worthless, holds inside a terrible secret. One she finds she can take great comfort in. Just one bag can kill an entire store’s worth of people in minutes with the correct kind of ventilation system.

Today, she decides, is not the day for such things. As she moves up the street, she spots her destination. A clothing store with garments ranging from $50 and up, Anthropologie. Despite the name, the façade of the store is distinctly classical. Dark wood frames large, pane windows. Similar doors are shut, but inside she sees customers moving around. Overhead of the display windows, in classical font is the name of the company in black metal lettering over a strip of granite that stretches from to each store on either side.

As with all buildings on Regent Street, with no breaks in the buildings except for streets, the structure looms high. The third floor is recessed by about ten feet and from her angle Shari guesses there’s a balcony on part of the second floor’s roof. The same pattern is repeated again on the fourth floor’s balcony before the structure finally ends with dormer windows in the green shingled roof.

“Looks like it’s out of the eighteen century, eh?” A voice sounds from beside her. Shari looks left and finds a tall man clad in a London Police Officer’s uniform. Clad in black pants, a tactical vest with a white collared shirt underneath and an almost stereotypically British hat, he offers her a friendly nod.

She blinks, confused and cautious. “What the fuck does he want? Does he know I’m with GP?” Shari offers a fake smile and nods back, “Oh yes, I hear Regent Street was built in the early 1800s but then rebuilt back in the 1920s.” She sticks her hand in her purse abruptly, feigning surprise as she takes out her phone, “Oh, I’m sorry officer, I need to go help my sister. She wants an opinion on a dress.”

She hurries to the door and gives the confused man a wave. The officer smiles and waves back before moving on.

Shari enters the shop and breathes out a nervous breath she did not realise she had been holding. She replaces her phone in her purse, but her fingers brush against a cool, thin plastic. “The bag,” she realises and slowly removes her hand and moves further into the store.

The flagship Anthropologie store is a strange mix of modern and classical. Huge, ornate chandeliers hang from the ceiling, while clothing and house décor sit on rough wooden tables and boxes. Light streams in from what Shari now realises is not a balcony and instead a huge skylight above the second floor. In the centre of the store is a metal bespoke staircase with brass rails and a glass wall to stop any children from falling through.

The atmosphere, warm and welcoming, speaks to the various curios for sale. One wall is covered by thick grasses and upstairs she can see numerous colourful bedrolls, cushions, and much more. However she is here for a purpose and moves up the staircase, her shoes noisily clanking. Shari moves past the decorations and miscellaneous to a display of grey dress pants, much like the pair she currently wears.

Her pockets, torn and tattered from carrying keys and other items, have precipitated this trip, and already she knows it will be a frustrating endeavour. She takes a pair of pants from the wooden crate display and moves over to the changing rooms at the back of the store.

There she’s greeted by a sullen teenage girl, “Just one?” They ask. She nods and is led into a small, curtained-off closet of a room. Inside is only a mirror. In it, she sees that which she hates most: her own miserable person. Hips that are too wide, breasts that are too small, a protruding stomach, mousy brown hair that never looks right, and a face that lacks any definition.

“Disgusting,” she chides herself coldly. Shari removes her worn trousers, noting the frayed pockets inside. Taking the new pair, she slides them up, and feel the all too familiar feel of fabric straining against her proportions. “It’s all made for skinny women,” she reminds herself, though it is of little comfort.

Looking over herself, she sees the pants cling tightly to her thighs and hang too loosely around her shins and calves. Meanwhile, the waist is too wide and will need a belt. She sighs, a heavy sense of shame and failure rising in her chest as she removes the pants and replaces them with her old pair. Slinging the new pair over her arm, she pushes back the grey velvet curtain and steps into the dimly lit hallway that contains the changing rooms. However, where there had once been a sullen teenager, now stands a different individual.

His stocky form is garbed in a navy blue suit with a white shirt and green tie underneath the jacket. Greying brown hair is swept to the side in a wavy part. “Mr. Malkinson,” Shari says, surprised to see her boss and co-conspirator here. “Why are you here? What can I do for you?”

The man raises a finger to his lips, “It’s George for now, Shari,” he says after shushing her, “Now come with me.” She wordlessly moves to follow as he exits the narrow, dim hallway. The two of them move across the second floor toward the corner of the store where a plain white door is marked ‘Employees Only.’ George opens it and the two step into a small room no bigger than the average living room, crammed with boxes full of clothing and house decorations.

Three other figures are present in the room. Two of them wear UN Military uniforms of white and grey and have on their heads signature blue berets. They stand next to a stack of boxes, upon which sits a silver laptop. “UN?” She questions George, who simply nods.

George Malkinson moves to the laptop and opens a program which, after a moment, lights up with what appears to be a live video chat. The man gestures for Shari to move forward, which she does, and finds five open video chats. In the corner of each one is a name: Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Hera, and Demeter. Individuals of corresponding genders are seated, all of whom are wearing green armbands. All except Zeus, wherein the seat is empty.

Behind Shari, the scrape of a chair sounds, and she feels cool metal against her covered legs. Looking back, George has placed a chair behind her. She takes a seat. Realising that those gathered could hear her, she remains silent, unsure of what is to come.

The man noted as “Hades,” with bright red hair and a skinny build, shifts in his seat. “What the hell is the holdup? I have a company to run, you know!” His tones was sharp, but somehow his completely expressionless face did not change in the slightest. Given his Texan accent, Shari assumed him to be from the south of the United States.

The woman demarcated as “Hera” rolls her eyes, “Settle down, dear. You know how he is.” She has a distinctly matronly look, and looks strikingly familiar, Shari finds, and so she studies the woman closely. Straightened gray hair in a long bob, a pale, gaunt face, with a pair of dark brown eyes. “Francine Fournier…” Shari realises, doing her utmost to not show her shock on her face. “Lance Fournier’s mother is with Lacertus?”

“We may as well begin,” Hades responds. He procures a notebook from off screen and opens it to what seems like an arbitrary page. “The Beijing Cell has reported that over half of their members were captured by the World Confederation’s Office of Public Security, though they detonated what explosives they have and killed anyone who knew anything in the cell.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts, “I think it would be prudent if we –“

In the empty frame that is Zeus’s, a figure takes a seat. He is garbed in a black suit, grey dress shirt, a striking green tie, and a scratched grey mask that covers half their face from the top right corner of their forehead to just below the left corner of their mouth. “Lacertus,” Shari says quietly, her eyes widening in surprise and her heart racing.

“There he is,” the otherwise silent Demeter says peaceably. This woman, young and refined, has a distinctly regal look to her, with her hair brown tresses perfectly curled at the ends and a tasteful azure silk dress hugging tightly to her figure.

“I see we are all gathered!” Lacertus half-shouts, his leather-gloved hand slapping the armrest of his chair. “Excellent.” He pauses, and leans back in his seat, his elbow propped up against the arm of his office chair and his pointer, middle and index fingers all tented against the cold metal of his mask. “Hades, continue your report.”

The man in question runs a hand over his wild red hair and continues, his Texan accent stronger than ever, “The Beijing Cell was mostly destroyed so we can’t expect much activity against Zheng himself… That being said, Poseidon’s intel tells me we can rely on the Shanghai Cell to pick up the slack and keep the WC government on its toes. As well, with the WC and UN having declared war…”

Lacertus nods, “Yes, I’m aware of this. Everyone, open the link I’m sending you…” He taps a few keys on an unseen keyboard and the laptop at which Shari sits makes a quiet ‘bing’ notification. She opens the source of it and finds a video.

The video begins in what she believes is a Chinese shopping mall. Huge scores of everyday people – much like the ones she had seen outside – are simply walking to and from various shops, while others sit and eat at a nearby food court. Overhead, an arched glass ceiling gives the impression that the structure continues a long way off frame.

After a moment of simply nothing, those on the far right of the screen begin moving backward, and those with children pull them close. After another moment, they begin hurrying away, and slowly, Shari watches panic set in. The crowds begin deserting tables and hurrying to the left of her screen. Finally, perfectly formed lines of a World Confederation regiment, donning the signature grey uniforms of the WC with large red stars on the sides of their shoulders, appear in sight. The front row hold semi-automatic rifles pointed at the crowd of civilians.

There’s no audio, but Shari can see demands are being made by the soldiers, and panicked shoppers don’t know what to make of it. One man steps forward and shouts at the soldiers, to which one of the many soldiers in line steps forward, gesturing with his weapon. The shouting match continues before the civilian collapses backward, shot in the head. The horrified crowd behind him begins fleeing, and that’s when it happens.

The entire screen is engulfed in blinding white light. It continues for a few seconds before it’s replaced by a shockwave that knocks the camera from which Shari watches it all play out. The video returns, but is now looking down at the ground. Flames lick upward from shattered shops, corpses lay strewn about, many of which are blown into pieces. Charred arms, intestines spilling out of ruined torsos, and other limbs splayed out.

Though it’s a sickening scene, Shari finds something about it exhilarating. This is their power. She is a part of this. She belongs to a group so powerful that, at any place across the world, they can remind the people what the reality of the world is: a cruel, evil place.

Finally, the video returns to that of Lacertus, hands folded before him. “Gentlemen, ladies, as you can see we are affecting change in the desired fashion of which we have agreed. We will destroy this sinful world and build upon its ashes a glorious new civilisation!” He pauses, and composes himself more. “Demeter, Hades, Poseidon, Hera, I must speak to our latest associate privately. We will discuss our movements in Russia later.”

Without a word, four of the five video streams cut out, and the one portraying Lacertus expands to fill her screen. “Shari Feldt,” he begins, his tone a serious one, “I understand you have passed all the tests that Hades put forward for you. With zeal, no less.” Once more, he paused, letting the drama of it all set in.

Shari’s heart beat furiously in her chest, shocked that Lacertus was taking the time to talk to her. “He wants me to help him!” She screams silently.

Lacertus straightens himself in his chair before leaning his head against his tented fingers once more. The other gloved hand drums slowly on the arm of his chair while his singular gaze stares piercingly through the screen and into Shari’s very soul. “What do you think our mission is, Ms. Feldt?”

The woman pauses, having never really considered such to be something he would ask. “To save the world, of course.” It seems so obvious, but she knows there’s more to what he’s saying, as there always is.

“Indeed, and we will do so by destroying this old world of factions, division and hatred. In its place we shall construct a world of one people, one nation, one ideology, one creed: human,” his explanation, similar to the one before, resonates with her deeply. A sense of belonging, a place where no one has to be left out again; these are things she wants dearly for herself, and for Lacertus to so tantalizingly dangle them before her is beyond enticing.

Lacertus continues his thought as she drinks it all in: “Our message has resonated with 200 million followers on Twitter, 70 million followers on Instagram, who knows how many Tumblr followers, millions of Vine followers, and our message has even permeated traditional media where our friends and even members are spreading the message.” His tone had risen through the entire tirade and leaves Shari even more excited. “I’m a part of this…” she thinks to herself, “I’m a part of this victory…”

“Ms. Feldt, I would have you help us inside Kingsley’s office. We have many friends there already, but few with your kind of dedication. You will be my personal aid in the Secretary General’s affairs: you will go with him wherever he goes and you will aid Greenpeace in its goals of ending this factionalised, divided world.” He clenches his free hand into a fist, “For this world of nations, of super blocs, of divided peoples, of differing religions, cultures, ideologies – it must all end! You, I, and our friends, Ms. Feldt, we will end it and bring forward a new world of unity!”

He sits up straight, motioning to his mask, “This is more than just a means to hide my disfiguration, Ms. Feldt, it is a symbol. A symbol of hope! A symbol of the future! A symbol of tomorrow.” He grins triumphantly, his voice lowering once more. “Will you do this, Ms. Feldt? Will you do whatever is needed for the greater good?”

Shari wastes no time in responding: “I will.”

~*~

“The bombing will begin a month, gentleman, a month!” The Minister of Defence, Chang Wanquan explains with fury. His grey military uniform – a more formal version of the ones his subordinates wear with a black tie and lighter grey shirt – is made heavy and awkward with the obscene amount of medals hanging off his chest. He moves his jet black hair into its neat part and fixes his glasses, but looks balefully at those gathered at the table. “I’ve readied all the Russian reserve forces and they’ll be sent to Japan, but where the hell is the go ahead for the real army?”

Jiao Fangzheng, Vice-President of the immensely powerful Sinopec company, scoffs indignantly. “Minister,” he begins, shifting his hefty weight in his seat, “Calm down. It would be bad for the economy if we were to engage in total war. Send the Russians out and let them deal with it.”

Fangzheng’s words hang ominously in the air. The Cabinet Room, an oblong room consisting of a few side tables and one grandly crafted oak table that currently seats twenty, is heavy with smoke and dim with daylight being obscured by both the particulate matter in the air and the translucent drapes over the far wall’s three large windows. At one end sits Chancellor Delun Zheng with Ishana Chaudhri, his secretary, a few feet behind him, at the other end sits Fu Chengyu, President of Sinopec, and in between them numerous ministers and captains of industry.

“We don’t know if the Russians are competent enough to dispatch the invading Westerners, Jiao,” a decidedly foreign voice sounds somewhere in the table. Ishana searches out the source of that voice and finds it to be none other than Mukesh Ambani, Chairman of the hugely powerful Reliance Industries Limited. His calm tones beguile his enormous influence, which is rivalled only by that of Fu Chengyu. “If they are not up to the job, then we will look like impotent fools,” he wags his finger back and forward, “And that would be bad for business. I’m afraid Reliance and our industrial partners in southeast Asia would be… uncomfortable with the WC in that position and would have to reconsider our financial arrangements with the transnational government.”

“Cut the shit, Ambani,” a new voice sounds, this time of the new Trade Minister, Gao Hucheng, “If you want to threaten us by saying you’ll cut your support, say it. Don’t dance around the topic.”

“You impudent little –“ Liu Zhenya, Chairman of the State Grid Corporation of the World Confederation, finds himself abruptly cut off.

“Enough!” The haggard, tired voice of Delun Zheng sounds irritably. “While we sit here and bicker like children, the UN is slowly gathering its strength to strike us down for crimes we did not commit!” Those on the government side of the table look on the Chancellor with approval, while those on the corporate side glower disapprovingly at his attempt to wrest control of the situation away from the chaotic banter.

Noticing their disapproval, Zheng visibly withdraws back into himself for a moment before speaking more calmly, “The longer we wait, the harder it will be to transform our economy into a wartime economy.” He looks to those gathered on his left – those captains of industries who hold the lives of over four and a half billion people in their hands. He looks back at Ishana for a moment, a thoughtful look passing over his weary, wan face. “Ishana, what would you say the World Confederation should do?”

Ishana feels a chill go up her spine. She clenches the cane under her left hand, suddenly aware of the dull throb coming from the bandaged wound that portends her possible death. “Well,” she begins, but pauses as Zheng ushers her next to him. She smooths down her uncomfortably expensive clothes – a perk of the job, according to Zheng. Form fitting black trousers which flare out at the shin, shining black heels, a violet blouse underneath a short black jacket with a small, folded down collar, revealing her sides and the wide cuffs of her shirt. Her black hair hangs evenly down her back and sways with her slow, methodical movements.

Yet, even with all the finery she feels on her person, she still feels small and insignificant in front of so many important people. “Well,” she begins once again, “Isn’t the World Confederation only held together by the assurance everyone inside is free from Western influence? And that we can trade without being attacked by big government?”

Her questions receive a few enthusiastic nods from both sides, but others simply stare coldly at her. “War will only hurt us – thousands, maybe millions, could die because the UN won’t see the reality in front of them that we didn’t kill their people.”

“Yes, and because they won’t see reason, what are we supposed to do? Let them, what, take over?!” Deadpans the Minister for Education, Shu Qi. The middle-aged woman stares daggers at Zheng’s secretary, daring her to keep speaking.

“I think war is inevitable, Your Excellency,” Ishana continues, ignoring Qi’s challenge to rise to her anger and instead addresses the Chancellor, “But that doesn’t mean we have to just throw bodies at the problem like it’s World War One. We’re not the Europeans.” She exhales as she sees the cold expressions on those incredibly senior officials around her begin to relax, “Why not, instead, still send in the Russians, but also a contingent from somewhere in Asia – trained people who can make sure Japan doesn’t fall after a day?”

Zheng seems pleased and nods at her to step back to where she had been, leaving her with sweaty palms and a palpating heart.  “You see, ladies and gentlemen? The logic the average person is undeniable. There’s a compromise to be had.”

“Good enough,” declares a stern Minister Wanquan before abruptly standing and exiting the room. A few others also get up to leave, exiting swiftly, clearly frustrated with Zheng’s lack of strong leadership on picking a side.

“This cabinet meeting is adjourned, then,” Zheng declares somewhat meekly. The remaining ministers and corporate leaders tsking or shaking their heads disapprovingly at not having his position be respected.

As the room empties, Zheng remains, while Ishana simply watches him from behind. Once the room is finally empty, save the two of them, the Chancellor slumps forward, resting his head on his forearms. “God damn those bastards,” Zheng mutters into his arms. For her part, Ishana pities the beleaguered man and slowly moves over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You got them to agree, that’s not something to take for granted,” she assures him.

He leans back in his chair abruptly, and she moves out of the way as he does. He stares up at her hopelessly, “I’m the worst person to be Chancellor in a time of war. That warmongering shit Wanquan is going to drive millions into the UN shredder because he won’t face the truth that, even though we’re twice as big as the UN, we have a much worse military. Our forces use equipment from the 1970s, for god’s sake!”

He sighs, and pushes back his chair, standing up. “Come, let’s go. Japan never recovered from the Americans’ mass invasion back in 1944, they’ll be easy pickings if we don’t do something to protect them.” He looks back for a moment and smirks wearily, “Oh, and call your family, Ishana. You don’t want to end up getting divorced because you let your job get in the way of your family.”

She can only chuckle as she procures her phone from her pocket, “Of course, Your Excellency.”

He looks forward once more and, before they exit the cabinet room, says quietly “Call me Delun.”

~*~

What Elizabeth is beginning to learn about Vancouver is that, during the winter, it is always raining. Today, the rain is especially heavy, but this hasn’t stopped students from going to and from class on the UBC campus, even at 7:00pm. As she walks up West Mall Road, she absently observes the dorms across the street on her left. Window after window she sees student studying, sleeping, playing games, or other less appropriate activities in what she knows to be the Qelexen House, one of the newer dormitory buildings.

The dark gray skies overhead continue to pour steadily down on her umbrella, creating a rhythmic padding sound against the nylon canopy she carries. Her hands are inside the pockets of her double breasted wool coat. Six silver metal buttons shine dully off her coat, and she absently tugs at the bottom two as she pulls her hands closer together and farther apart in her pockets.

Her shoes slap noisily against the thin layer of rain on the sidewalk before encountering a deeper puddle as she crosses Agronomy Road, though she pays it little heed and continues on the shoulder of the road. Elizabeth’s watching, baleful gaze forcing passersby to avert their gaze. “Fucking plebeians,” she thinks bitterly to herself, “All completely ignorant of the fact that your precious Greenpeace is just a front…”

Knowing that any she told this would instinctively not believe her, she will keep this to herself. It seems likely that Dirk, too, knows this, but for some reason has yet to report it in to Sir Gabriel, or L. as members of their organisation call him.

“Project L.,” she thinks to herself, “UN sanctioned back in the ‘50s, but such a deep black project that I doubt even Kingsley knows we exist…” She smirks at the thought, pleased that the people pleasing, selfie taking, sunny ways Secretary General is wholly ignorant to their comings and goings. Elizabeth still recalls when Gabriel took her in.

The elderly man, looking to be in his seventies, stares down at her. She’s sick, weak, and injured. A dirty t-shirt she found in a ditch is wrapped around her leg in an effort to stop the bleeding a rabid dog bite had begun. The man is dressed in a crisp pinstriped cobalt suit with a frilly orange pocket square in the breast pocket. Under his right hand is what is clearly an ornamental cane, topped with a triumphant phoenix, cast in gold.

Behind him is a young woman in her twenties wearing a knee length black coat holding an umbrella over him and a small boy standing next to him. The boy is much like her: dirty, scared and scrawny. His blond hair is matted down and his clothes are far too big for him. He’s holding tightly to the elderly man’s free hand, and stares blankly at the six year old Elizabeth.

“Do you want to die, girl?” The elderly man asks.

She looks up at him, her leg throbbing in agony, “No…” She says earnestly.

“Do you hate that the world has left you like this?”

She nods wordlessly.

“Do you want a home?”

She nods again.

“Then come with me.”

The well-dressed man turns around and begins to walk away, his female companion keeping the umbrella over him, leaving the dirty boy standing in the rain with her. He looks down at her leg and then back to her face, before extending his small hand to her. “I’m Dirk,” he says after a moment. “Mister… Sir Gabriel says we’ll be family, if you want…”

She can only stare, so lost and so small, yet a feeling of hope slowly bubbling upward. “I’m Elizabeth…” She begins and takes his hand, slowly standing. Her small hand is held in his, and the two move to catch up to Sir Gabriel, Elizabeth hobbling. She looks over at the boy and smiles weakly, “Thank you.”

“How dare he betray me…” Elizabeth hisses hatefully as she moves across the street and down a narrow alley between two dorms, “How dare he!” She feels a hot hatred rise in her chest and into her throat. Dirk had looked down on her when they met and had always pitied her, even when she surpassed him. “The bastard,” she seethes furiously, her stoic composure failing her as she secludes herself in the dirty alley.

Elizabeth leans up against a cold, wet brick wall and sighs, reminding herself her job is to find Dirk and affirm his loyalties. “Our job is to find out who’s behind the assassinations and stop them, Dirk,” she mentally chastises him, “Not to make friends and fuck around!” She lets out a breath she did not realise she had been holding and relaxes.

Her hands, still stuffed into her pockets, clench and unclench, the right one absently brushing against a cold metal oblong object. “Hey, what are you doing back here?” A man calls out. Elizabeth looks down to the far end of the alley where a burly male garbed in a UBC Campus Police uniform stands. The alley, although open to a deserted side street on one side, joins an alley perpendicular, and it is in this intersection that the officer stands.

She remains silent and pretends to not have heard him. He moves into the alley, “I said, what are you doing here?” His hand slowly moves back to the pistol clasped to his belt. The officer continues to advance slowly, and unclasps the snap holding back his weapon, “Alright, hands up. Where’s your Student I.D.? I’ll take it out myself.” He’s now only ten feet away.

“Closer,” she silently urges him, “Closer…” The man unwittingly obliges. Elizabeth sizes him up: mid-thirties, 6’2 tall, probably around 200 pounds. A big man. She notes the dumpster sitting across from her and a few feet down. Obliging his demands, she puts up her hands at elbow height. “Oh I’m sorry, I was just getting away from some creepy guys that were following me,” she says, putting on a hopeless air of desperation, “I just really don’t want to get caught by them again.”

He nods, relaxing his hand from his gun, “I see. Where did they go?” She points behind him, “Just back to the left, I don’t know past there.”

“Alright, I’ll go take a look,” he begins, turning around, “You stay he –“ the man lets out a choked cry as Elizabeth leaps forward, legs wrapped around his broad chest and hand over his mouth. He staggers backward, but before he can fall, she takes from her pocket the oblong metal object she felt before. She snaps it open with a flick of her wrist – a switchblade – and slices his throat with the razor sharp edge.

The man crumples forward and cries out in pain as blood oozes from his neck and down his uniform. Elizabeth keeps her hand on his mouth, muffling any screams or groans as he quickly dies. The man collapses forward and as he does, Elizabeth removes her hand and wipes it on hr coat. Blood pools around his corpse as she shakes her head, observing the grizzly scene, “Idiot… had you not noticed me, you’d still be alive.”

The man collapses forward and as he does, Elizabeth removes her hand and wipes it on hr coat. Blood pools around his corpse as she shakes her head, observing the grizzly scene, “Idiot… had you not noticed me, you’d still be alive.”

Hurried steps sound down the wet alley, and Elizabeth looks up to see a slender young man looking to be no more than 25 years old. Wet blond hair is stuck to the side of his face and his hands are clenched in fists. His entire person, clad in a black nylon peacoat, black slacks and dress shoes, moves swiftly toward her. “Ah, there you are,” Elizabeth says calmly, “About time you showed up Dirk.”

His cool azure gaze never wavers from her, “And just what the hell do you think you’re doing here? And why did you kill a cop!?” His voice is steely and angered, though she can only smirk. “Tell me, you vicious bastard! Why did you do this?”

“Always so soft. Project L.’s mandate means we cannot be discovered by anyone,” she gestures to the facedown corpse, “And he discovered me. So he had to die.”

He places a hand over his face, exasperated, “Damn it…” Looking over at the dumpster nearby, he grabs the dead man by the shoulders, “Grab his feet.” She complies wordlessly and the two heave the body into the large bin.

“Now,” she begins before procuring the same blade, still wet with the dead officer’s blood, and pressing the tip against Dirk’s throat, “We have business to attend to.” He glowers at her, though his face becomes a mask of disinterest, while she does the same.

“Ask your questions,” he says flatly.

She keeps the small, narrow blade pressed against his skin, her eyes ever watchful over his person. “You deliberately saved people at the Chan Centre following Secretary General Fournier’s assassination. You knew there were security cameras and a chance someone would see you – you could have exposed everyone a part of Project L.” She pushes the blade in a little further, a droplet of blood trickling down Dirk’s pale neck. “Why?”

The young man hesitates, contemplating. “I did it because those survivors could have seen who detonated the explosives.”

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth retorts, “There was no guarantee the terrorist was in the building. They could have just set it off remotely.” She slowly paces to the side, “Now. Why did you not report in about Greenpeace being their cover organisation?”

“I wasn’t certain that they were really the cover. It could have been a deflection,” Dirk responds, though it’s clear to Elizabeth something isn’t quite right with all he is saying.

“Why this Logan Greer boy? What do you want with him?” Elizabeth questions him coolly.

Dirk moves swiftly, his fingers bracing the sides of the knife while his other hand clutches Elizabeth’s wrist in such a deliberate move that her fingers open. He takes the opportunity to flip the knife into the air and catches it by the handle and spins her against the wall. Her hands grasp at his bicep and his collar, “Always so fit, but you never use your skills…” She questions, “But you do now. You must really like this boy.”

Her hands ghost over the taught muscle concealed by his jacket, and he pulls his arm away. “He’s a good cover. Nothing else. He’s going to war and I will be going as well. I will destroy the Greenpeace Cell before they can kill more people and use the war as a shield.”

“Are you sure you haven’t grown fond of him?” She hisses, the cold steel now wet with both an innocent man’s blood and Dirk’s.

“He’s just a tool,” he assures her flatly, “I don’t even remotely care –“ He pauses as they both see a figure at the other end of the alley. “Nathan…” Dirk whispers to her. Seeing him holding a knife to a stranger’s throat, the newcomer quickly hurries off. “Shit,” Dirk exclaims.

Elizabeth smirks sadistically, “See what your mercy gets you?”