Light rain had spattered a sheer, hazed curtain over Erin’s bedroom window as she woke. The grey-blue sky had just began to stir with slashes of amber sunlight, barely cutting through the thick clouds that slowly traversed the skyline. Condensation trickled down the bedroom windowpane like teardrops and the single glazing did little to insulate from the harsh London winter waiting outside. Her morning alarm ripping through the still air of her bedroom, Erin stirred beneath the weighted duck-down duvet that cocooned her so comfortingly. Eyelids snapping open, the adrenaline spiked, heart kicking her into gear in an instant. Clicking the alarm off with a quick, purposeful tap, Erin let out a slow and steadied sigh. The calming air whistled from between her pursed lips and she steadied herself with grounding breaths. Focusing on the gentle rise and fall of her own chest, Erin took a moment to stretch out the sleep that still crippled her bones. Reaching her slender arms overhead, elongating her muscles as far as they’d go, then dropping at the waist to graze her fingertips across the herringbone floors, Erin stretched the sleep from her skin. Echoes of fear-fuelled dreams were dusted across her mind but she shoved them aside forcefully, adjusting her posture as she fully awoke.



Tugging the duvet into a neat fold, Erin reset her bed ready for her later return. Then, her bare feet padded across the worn floorboards as she slunk into her en-suite. The flickering red lights of her alarm clock glared at her warning from across the room as Erin softly clicked the bathroom door shut behind her.



The borderline scalding water soon filled the en-suite with thick steam, peppering her still sleep ridden skin as Erin immersed herself beneath the overhead shower. The water glided down her long, slender naked form, reddening her instantly. The scent of lavender-laced body wash filled her nostrils and she scrubbed away the dream residue that clogged her pores with quick circular motions.



The towel felt crisp between her fingertips, fresh from the washer dryer. Erin dried off, being sure to hook the soggy towel back over the heated rail before she tugged down on the door handle and crossed the room to her wardrobe. Goosebumps littering her body as the cool air kissed her still pinked flesh, Erin narrowed her eyes at the rails that stood before her. Decidedly, she pulled a pale blue Oxford shirt from its hanger. Stiff with starch and the absence of any creases, the shirt hugged her figure in an embrace laced with the smell of fabric softener. A thick pair of thermal tights, a pencil skirt and a pair of Prada court shoes later, Erin took a beat to assess her reflection. The woman that stared back at her, hair rollered and dried, make-up light but intentional, outfit immaculate, was a far cry from the woman she’d seen there just a few months ago. This person staring back at her, determination pricking at her bright blue irises and an angular face with the smoothened expression of neutrality, was an old friend she’d lost touch with. If it weren’t for this reflection mimicking her every blink and breath, Erin might’ve questioned the stranger in her bedroom.



Cradling the thermos filled with piping hot black coffee, Erin had kicked the front door of her Edwardian London home shut behind her. Balancing her phone, coffee, umbrella and pack of cigarettes in one hand, Erin spun the weighty keys in the lock and awaited that click of confirmation. Spinning on her heel, she skipped down the front steps with a practiced elegance and a bounce in her step. Erin’s Burberry trench coat was wrapped tightly around her body, belt cinching her waist, quickly absorbing the London bite of cold air. Eyes scanning her street, she carefully eyed the cars snail trailing past her.



Erin took a deep gulp from her thermos, licking away the droplets of coffee from her lips as her head whipped side to side, eyeballing both entrances to her street. She flicked open the pack of cigarettes she’d clutched in her fist and pulled out a smoke, daintily placing it between her lips. The click of a lighter, the deep inhale, a plume of smoke. Erin crossed her arms, propping her smoking elbow in the cradle of her left hand, raising the cigarette to her pursed lips once more. It crackled as she inhaled, whispers of light rain dotting her trench coat. Then, she saw it.

The blacked out Mercedes S Class silently crept around the corner, entering Primrose Road with looming imminence. Taking one last, long drag on her cigarette, Erin pinched the butt between her fingertips and flicked it across the road into a puddle at the roadside. Its cherry instantly extinguished with a satisfying fizz. She stood waiting, chin raised defiantly, as the Mercedes indicators flickered and the car pulled over in front of her house. Popping the back door, Erin slid into the backseat, folding her legs calmly and slipping the seatbelt across her chest.

“Good Morning, Ms Delaney-Rayner” the driver said coolly. He remained facing the road, eyes flicking briefly to the rear view.



Erin nodded politely, smoothing her pencil skirt beneath her palms.



She turned to the passenger window, glancing up at her house towering over them. They skipped the pleasantries, thankfully. The car hummed as it pulled away from the curb and drove her, wordlessly, to where she would be spending many long days and nights.

Rogue Row HQ was cobbled together in an old school, basic office building. Funds were so strapped that minimal changes were made in order to accommodate a branch set-up. The decor was 50 Shades of Grey minus the sexiness and Erin had set up shop in the only private office within the building. It was a box room, rather bare and beige save for a large oak desk, 3 black leather office chairs and basic tech. Erin breezed through the empty office, flicking on the industrial-style lighting and squinting as it strobed in its efforts to illuminate. A row of pokey black plywood desks lined the left hand side of Rogue Row HQ, each as stark as the next, devoid of any signs of life. Desolate, the building had a permanent stale scent like a deserted loft space. Erin sighed as her eyes raked over the “Brief Room” - An area sectioned off in the main room with a couple of flip charts, a projector screen and a scattering of foldable chairs that would guarantee a numb ass in minutes.

She shrugged her Burberry trench from her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms before hooking it to the dusty coat stand by the entrance to her “office.” A wilting plant sat pathetically on her desk, withering at the pathetic excuse for a HQ. Erin clicked her tongue, irritation prickling beneath her skin.



Erin ripped the office chair back from her desk, the plastic wheels clattering in protest. She lowered herself into the worn leather, sneering at the fraying hems and cracked material stretched over the armrests. Sighing, she poked the “ON” button of the greying desktop computer. Surprised that it burst to life, Erin took another long gulp at her thermos and sighed. Soon enough, her new recruits would arrive. Their files sat expectantly on the desk beside her keyboard, filled with their MI5 histories and beyond. She tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind her ears, eyes sliding back to the computer screen in front of her.

Today, Erin would make introductions. She’d prepared thoroughly for an induction day, of sorts. The Rogue Row workload was light, for now. A singular assignment sat waiting for them in the wings, urgent enough to call for a prompt start but not before they made one another’s acquaintance.

* Dog: Industry term for MI5s “muscle”

---

---

Avalon lay in her bed as the alarm on her phone rang after three attempts at snoozing it. She mentally cursed the very passage of time as she sat up, the cascade of shadows showing in her room from the sun trying to breach her curtain defenses. She eyed the time and cursed again, knowing she needed to get up and dressed in some semblance of having her life put together despite feeling anything but.

She walked over to her dresser, picking out a change of undergarments as well as a light gray shirt. She grabbed a navy overshirt and matching slacks and got dressed. She nearly fell over putting one leg in and grabbed the bed frame for support as she plummeted on her arse on the mattress. It was as if the universe was telling her to stay in bed, forget the job, forget everything, commit arson (though she often thought of committing arson daily, usually when she was on the tram surrounded by people).

Dressed and in a sensible pair of heels, she checked herself in the mirror as she applied some make-up to hide the dark circles and the ever presence of age showcasing how she was not so young anymore and her body was betraying her every day on top of the constant reminders from advertisements and men (and some women) she came across who told her she "would be so pretty if she smiled" or some other such fucking nonsense. She brushed her hair and, once satisfied, she looked vaguely human, left her flat.

It was still early so not many people were around her neighborhood. As she strode toward the Underground, she passed by Mrs. Rigsby, who was watering her flowers. Typically, someone with as good a green thumb as Mrs. Rigsby would be joyous and pleasant, but she had such a snarky demeanour on her facial features that Avalon crossed the street rather than engage in any social contract with the woman who, at one point in time, screamed that their neighborhood was "being overrun" by people with certain color skins and complexdions. Avalon bit her tongue at the time, knowing full well the country was being invaded, just not by who Mrs. Rigsby thought.

Once she got closer to the entrance, she noticed more people were out, and she groaned to no one in particular. She shuffled and elbowed her way through, finding a seat next to a woman with a snoring toddler on her lap and a man who checked out her chest but assumed he did so secretly. The man also conveniently had his hand close to her bum as she sat, and she fought off the urge to break his wrist as she apologized. She didn't hear what he said, but she thought she heard "tramp" from a few seats down, but they could be speaking to anyone, surely.

As she rode the, admittedly, short distance to her new job, she thought about how she got here. How someone of her intellect and background (it wasn't bragging if it was legitimately proven true) could have wound up in her position. She thought back to the arsehole who strode through her work, happy as you like, knowing he was pulling the proverbial wool over everyone's eyes. Rupert fucking Nathaniel fucking Jacoby fucking The Third. The "new darling" of MI5, whose background was so impressive that it essentially fast-tracked him into any role he wanted. He made friends easily, caught the eye of any man or woman close to his age due to his rugged good looks (even some geriatrics in admin who clucked together about how they'd like to 'file his paperwork any day').

But Avalon knew better. There was something in his expertly told stories, the body language, the eye contact, the use of certain words, and that disarming charm that she didn't trust. Everything too good to be true usually was, in her experience. And when she dug, she found inconsistencies. She did her job, what she was literally being fucking paid for to do, and no one believed her. She had never had a track record of going against MI5's interests. Never was found to have anything but the utmost respect for the job and her role in the agency, until she decided to go after Rupert Nathaniel Jacoby III. She chastised herself consistently for missing the mark. She knew his family, knew the power they held, knew how easily they could hide things.

So, of course, no one believed her. "Avalon St. Sebastien is not a team player". God, it reminded her of school. Teachers constantly praised her to her parents about how smart she was, how clever she was, how much she had going for her, and how bright her future was sure to be, if only she knew how to play well with others. Avalon didn't hate other people. She rather liked people, more or less. She just refused to put up with their bullshit. And, as was so very often the case, other people had a LOT of bullshit they liked to push. So you would have to excuse her if she refused to play with little Tiffany Fairchild from her grade after Tiffany was overheard calling Avalon a colorful assortment of newly learned swear words, and Avalon, in response, broke little Tiffany's nose.

What could she say? She returned energy.

So MI5 sacked her. If she couldn't do her job, she had no place. Avalon suspected they were being strong-armed by the Jacoby family, but couldn't prove that either. So she left with grace. Oh, no, sorry, she left with Grace, one of the security officers who was assigned to follow her out, lest she take the firearm she had and pull a Columbine to the office. No, Avalon left in a litany of curses and 'you'll regret this'-es.

And, sure enough, years later, Rupert was discovered sharing trade secrets overseas. Turns out the Jacoby family had been traitors of king and country for millennia. Anyone who so much as attempted to out them was either disappeared or found dead. Avalon was sure that if Rupert hadn't been discovered, her body would be floating in the Thames.

But did anyone thank her? Did anyone confirm she had been right all along? Of course not. Instead, the two agents who discovered this (and though she couldn't prove it then, she was sure they used her investigation notes to figure it out) received the commendations, the awards, the glory. Golly gee, these two agents saved MI5 from being a laughingstock!

And Avalon St. Sebastien was pushed back into the shadows. Because no one in MI5 could admit they made such a careless mistake.

When the opportunity presented itself, she grabbed it. She missed the work, missed the feeling of figuring things out, reading people, putting it all together. She needed it, like an addict.

But she didn't have to be fucking happy about it.

The Underground burped her out on the street of her new employer. She went through the busywork of getting in and getting settled. She hoped she would be working with competent co-workers, or at least ones who wouldn't bumble everything and make her work 10 times harder.

But she wouldn't hold her breath.

---

Ellie woke before the alarm.

Not abruptly, no jolt of adrenaline or sharp intake of breath. Just the slow awareness of the morning settling into her dingy apartment bedroom. Bluish hues casting gentle rays through the thin curtains. She lay there a moment longer than she strictly needed to, listening to the city sounds of a hushed hum; that narrow space between night and obligation. Rain traced faint lines down the glass, steady but unhurried. Much like Elinor herself.

“All right,” The woman murmured, gentle limbs prying herself from the warm comforts of the blankets as she settled into routine. Shower. Dress. Brown hair pulled in an efficient bun, no fuss. Makeup minimal, chosen less for appearances than habit. Glasses cleaned to a sheen before resting on her nose. Breakfast was similar. Kettle on, mug out, toast left untouched because she realised she wasn’t hungry yet. The mug had a small chip along the rim, old and familiar, its handle warm against her palms.

She checked the time. Early enough that she eased into her longcoat and knee-high boots, checking her appearance a second time in the hallway mirror she noticed was dusty, she’d need to rectify that later. Her smile was warm as she stepped out into the damp London morning streets.

---

The walk was short. Purposeful in the sense she didn’t rush and was oddly at ease for what was essentially her first day on the job.

Rogue Row HQ, a building that was repurposed. Not new, not chosen. Plain in ways Ellie adored for its simplicity, lack of decor and missing pretense. The entrance gave a little resistant squeak before yielding, as though testing whether she really meant to come in. Ellie slipped inside, folding her umbrella neatly and shaking off the last of the common England rain.

The space was quiet save for the shuffle of boots scraping along the old floors. Colleagues, Ellie presumed. She took it all in without judgement.

She selected a desk along the side. Close enough to listen, far enough not to impose. Her bag went beneath it, the coat draped carefully around the back of the chair. She placed her home-brought mug at the corner of the desk, a small marker of presence, and adjusted her glasses as her eyes continued to roam.

That’s when she noticed the plant sitting in the box room that clearly passed for a private office, leaves drooping, soil pale and dry. Forgotten rather than neglected. Ellie crossed to it without hesitation, fingers brushing one leaf lightly, testing.

“Oh,” The doctor straightened as she spotted the woman behind the desk only seconds after the plant. Her expression was warm, posture open. “Good morning,” She said, voice carrying a gentle Welsh lilt. “I’m Ellie- Dr. Price. Sorry, I know I’m early.”

She gestured faintly to the plant, almost apologetic. “Just needs a bit of water. Might come back, given time.”

Ellie took a half-step back, lingering in the doorframe of the solo office. She waited, calm and unhurried, already settled into a place that didn’t yet know what to do with her.

Erin had begun riffling through the files in front of her. She’d already read them front to back multiple times, committing even the most seemingly insignificant details to memory. These files, packed full of progress reports, incident reports, assignment reports, they were the hardback book covers for actual people. And as her eyes scanned each page, her inner voice mumbling each sentence out loud, she reminded herself that these agents were more than just a sum of their parts. MI5 had cast them aside, ostracised them, black listed them, just as they had with Erin herself. Tutting at the exit reports, the Rogue Row Director lowered the file she had gripped in her hands, papers rustling in protest. The sound of London traffic rumbled outside the office walls and a train passing overhead rattled the office’s meager infrastructure. Erin watched the walls tremble, dust pluming from the brickwork. This place was a desolate contrast to her old office at MI5. She pictured the sleek black interiors, the matte finish on the walls, the monitors sparkling with efficient promise. Closing her eyes and leaning back in the creaky office chair, Erin’s nose stung with the stale air around her and she breathed a sigh that fluttered the paperwork strewed across her desk.

“Oh… Good morning,” came an unassuming voice from in front of her.

Erin, with one eye open, took in the woman who stood in front of her desk. She stood, slightly bent over the dying desk plant, fingers hovering above the dried leaves.

“I’m Ellie- Dr. Price. Sorry, I know I’m early.”

She gestured faintly to the plant, almost apologetic. “Just needs a bit of water. Might come back, given time.”

Erin let silence fill the box office, her eyes scanning Dr Ellie’s face quietly. She’d taken a slow step back, lingering in the door frame. Erin let out a slow exhale and gestured at the pair’s grim surroundings.

“This whole place ‘needs a bit of water’, Dr Price” she quipped.

Erin adjusted her posture so she filled the office chair. Her arms rested over each side, legs elegantly folded one over the other. Slowly, she swung her Prada-clad foot back and forth. Cocking her head to one side, she fixed the new arrival with a confident, unwavering gaze.

“The pathologist,” she stated, punctuating with a slight nod. “There wasn’t a major case in MI5 that didn’t have your eyes on it, few years back.”

The infamous, critical gaze slid from Ellie to the pile of paperwork fanned out in front of her. Scanning quickly, her fingers delicately removed one page in particular. Holding it low so she could keep Ellie in her sights, Erin read from the report between her fingertips. She read in a tone that lacked emotion. Factual. Unbiased.

“Dr Price, when challenged to review her Post-Mortem conclusion, was incapable of accepting supplementary evidence. She denied its relevance, stating her conclusion would remain unchanged despite the blatant evidenced contradiction. When warned that failure to acknowledge the need for a review would result in reasonable grounds for the termination of her contract, Dr Price vehemently refused, insistent that her findings were absolute-“ Erin faltered, arching a perfectly preened brow at the woman that stood before her. A bemused smile tugged at her lips as she awaited Ellie’s response.

It was hard to believe that this mild-mannered, softly spoken woman was the same impassioned agent outlined in the report. The following paragraphs depicted the details of heated conversations upon Ellie’s exit. Erin decidedly avoided reading those. Instead, she directed her gaze back to Dr Price and tossed the report to one side.

“You’re here because I don’t believe in the denial of absolutes,” Erin stated. Her tone was final. Stern. “I’m familiar with the case that’s referenced here-“ a lazy flick of Erin’s hand gestured at the discarded report. “And I happen to believe that MI5, once again, tried to bend the rules to absolve themselves of crimes. You didn’t sell out. You didn’t accept the bribes. You didn’t relent. That’s the kind of agent Rogue Row is in dire need of.”

Rising from her office chair, Director Rayner circled her desk, the heels of her Prada’s thudding against the worn carpet. She perched on the edge of the desk, wood creaking beneath her weight, and crossed her arms. Lifting a chin defiantly, she levelled Ellie with another watchful gaze.

“You’ve done your research, I’m sure. Like any good agent. You know who I am and how I operate. Rogue Row, though funded and fed by MI5, is under my watch. Mine. You won’t be put in that position again, Doctor Price-“ Erin pointed a finger emphatically first at Ellie, then at the report that lay rejected atop the desk. “I want that agent. The very one MI5 fired. I want her. Bigger and better than ever.”

Another train thundered overhead and the officer walls trembled again. It broke the spell, diverting Erin’s attention as she glanced at the clouds of dust that plumed once more. She gestured to the door, signalling that this conversation was over.

“I need another coffee before I expire - Shall we?”

Erin breezed past Ellie, so close their shoulders brushed, and she strode across the deserted office floor towards the coffee machine. Opening an overhead cupboard whose hinges desperately needed oiling, she snatched a dusty mug from the shelf and inspected it with a sneer. Quickly rinsing it under a spluttering faucet, Erin slid the mug under the coffee machine, flicking the button impatiently. She’d followed Ellie’s advice from her interview. The descaler. Lo and behold the machine choked to life, leaking steaming black espresso into the damp cup beneath. She stole a glance at the watch on her right-hand wrist, smirking at the few minutes that remained for the next agent to arrive. She was cutting it fine. Not technically late, but not early either. Erin swirled the espresso in her mug, turning to face the desks that lined the office. So vacant, so empty. She hoped they’d soon be buzzing with activity, life breathed back into this haunted space. Rogue Row had a long way to go. But Erin was determined. Success was her only option.

---

Elinor didn’t rush to fill the silence.

She hovered just around the doorway, hands loosely folded, weight settled comfortably on one foot as Erin watched her; the assessment-type stare she’d learned to clock over years of working with bureaucratic stifflips. She didn’t bristle under it. If anything, she softened. Shoulders eased to signal the familiarity.

At the quip about water, Ellie let out a quiet breath of something like a laugh. Soft in that Welsh country girl way, worn smoother by years in gritty London society.

“Mm,” she agreed lightly. “Fair. We better start drinking water as a morning routine, then.”

She listened while the report was read aloud. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fidget. The words landed, like they always did, framed in a one-sided assessment that brokered no input from the good doctor herself. Mostly because she refused to. A pick your fight attitude.

At ‘incapable’ Ellie tilted her head, just slightly.

“I don’t think that was quite it,” She said, gently with an apologetic smile that was sweeter than it meant to be. “I just… didn’t agree.”

There was a pause, head searching for the correct phrasing. Quickly abandoned. Perfectionism a mild irritation she only ever dumped into her written word. “The additional material didn’t change what I saw,” She added. “And I didn’t feel comfortable pretending it did.” Her eyes met Erin’s, steady without challenge.

“I know that makes me difficult.”

When the report was set aside, Ellie’s attention followed it for only a second before returning to Erin. She listened as the director spoke of MI5, of bending rules, of Rogue Row. Of not selling out. Ellie didn’t smile at the praise. But something in her expression loosened — a quiet relief she didn’t quite let surface.

“I didn’t expect you to agree with me,” she said after a moment. “About the case, I mean. It’s… nice to be believed.”

As Erin rose and moved closer, Ellie shifted instinctively to give space, though she didn’t retreat. When the finger pointed at her, at the discarded report, she didn’t flinch. “I won’t change how I work. I can explain it. I can defend it. But I can’t make it say something else.” A small, wry huff escaped her at that, barely there.

“I’ve tried.”

The train thundered overhead, dust shaking loose. Ellie blinked, then smiled faintly at the interruption, glancing upward. “Dramatic timing,” she murmured.

At Erin’s gesture toward the door, Ellie nodded easily, stepping aside to let her pass. Their shoulders brushed, Ellie instinctively pausing, murmuring a quiet, “Sorry,” out of reflex rather than necessity, before following at an unhurried pace. She hovered near the coffee machine as it sputtered to life, hands loosely clasped again.

“You did use the descaler,” she noted, warmth threading her voice. “That’s a good sign.”

Her gaze drifted over the empty desks, thoughtful rather than wistful. “I don’t need much,” Ellie said, not looking directly at Erin. “Just room to be accurate. And not to be asked to smooth the edges off things that shouldn’t be smooth.”

“If that’s all right,” she added, quietly.

And she waited. Not stiffly, not expectantly. Simply present, as though she already knew she could stand here without being moved.

---

---

Avolon took a minute to take in her new prison. It looked lke your typical office to the untrained eye, but Avalon saw the cracks, the signs that pointed out they were the last reserves. The ones who were given assignments and busywork to keep them entertained and out of the upper level's hair.

She wanted to break something, but held herself back. It would not do her well to upset her new boss or co-workers by throwing a potted plant across the room.

Avalon, once her things were settled, made her way over to where she assumed the big brass of the tiny office was when she saw two women make their way over to the other side. She recognized Erin, but the other woman she didn't, which meant it was one of her new roommates in this flat from hell.

Avalon made her way over to them as they worked the coffee machine. She watchem them work it, speak about a conversation she was not privvy to, before she spoke up. "Is working the espresso machine part of the daily work tasks? I'd sooner go over to the nearest Starbucks and pluck up a blue-haired barista to do the job, but beggars must I suppose." Her words were tinted with disdain, not so much against the two women in front of her, but rather for the situation as a whole.

"So, I am here. Ready to get to work provided there is work to be given."

The coffee was bitter. Tannic. Erin sipped from the cup disdainfully, one hand braced on the worktop as she begrudgingly swallowed it down. The whirs and hums of the scarce office space were all that could be heard for a moment and Erin embraced the silence. As did Dr Price, which she noted and appreciated.

“You did use the descaler,” Ellie observed, warmth threading her voice. “That’s a good sign.””

Erin shot the Doctor a brief smile, acknowledging Dr Price’s request with a knowing look.

“Now we just need to figure out how we can make this black sludge taste like actual coffee…” she mused, taking another sip at the cup. “Though we’ll soon be busy with other mysteries to solve. Deemed more important than the office coffee machine, sadly.”

Then, entered Avalon. The force to be reckoned with. The Agent whose reputation preceded her. That infamous smart mouth already dismissing the descaled yet doomed espresso machine, Erin permitted another smile to pass her lips. She sighed.

“Ava, I can think of a better use of your valuable time than a Starbucks trip…” the Rogue Row director made her way to the “Briefing Room” - The half-arsed attempt at one, anyway.

Stood over the desk, she clicked in her login details and watched the desktop computer blink to life. It was the only machine wired up to the projector screen mounted on a rickety stand before a small circle of chairs. The Briefing Room was exactly that. A projector, a computer and a handful of foldable chairs. Erin looked up from the screen at the two agents stood before her.

”Dr Price, Avalon. Avalon, Dr Price-“ Erin’s introduction was curt and somewhat dismissive. She nodded at them both, signalling that this team building exercise was drawing to a quick close. No ice breakers. No warm-up “Get to Know the Secret Agent” games.

Gesturing to the chairs staged before the projector, Erin motioned for the Agents to take a seat.

“You’ll have to excuse the arse-numbing chairs provided,” Erin said faintly, her fingernails clacking against the keyboard as she typed. Then, she added with a roll of her eyes, “Perhaps the threat of piles is designed to force us to solve matters quicker.”

The projector obediently whirred to life, flooding the blank screen a couple metres away with their first assignment summary. Right-wing extremists kidnapping the children of migrants. MI5 really did want Rogue Row to clean up the mess of the MET. Erin eyed the projector screen carefully, scanning the text that was displayed.

“Welcome, both of you, to Rogue Row,” Erin began, her spine straightening and chin raising as she addressed the two agents before her. “I’ll save us the illusion of this resembling anything like what you experienced at HQ during your tenures. Rogue Row is a covert, off-site branch. There’ll be no red carpet rolled out for us when we complete this assignment. Nor will MI5 give us pats on the back. Rogue Row assignments will be carried out, and completed, in total secret. This is a department whose existence is unknown to even the more senior MI5 agents. We’re going Rogue. On MI5s payroll.”

The projector clicked. The target’s images flashed on the screen. Their pixelated eyes stared out at them all, haunting and ominous. The Homeland Brother’s summary and the headlines of the recent kidnaps were detailed, Erin scrolling with the handheld remote as she spoke. Her voice carried through the Briefing Room, a commanding and informative tone. She moved from behind the desk, still gripping the remote in her hand, giving the Agents time to absorb the information on-screen. Her Prada heels crunched into the worn carpet beneath her as Erin paced in front of the projector screen. The lights illuminated her face, washing her in the warped projections of the Homeland Brother main subjects.

“This is our first official assignment… The Homeland Party - What can you both tell me about them?”

---

“Ellie is fine.” Her chin dipped subtly, smile faint with warmth as she corrected her name. Prefixes were formal and better done without, though not for lack of professionalism. “Nice to meet you, Avalon.” Ellie’s eyes crinkled, Erin’s voice curt as the director seemed adamant to cut the pleasantries short.

… Perhaps shorter than intended?

Ellie could only guess vaguely at that with several pulled straws. She complied regardless, the cheap chair sat in with perfect posture. Back straight, chin held high, legs folded over one another and her hands rested on a knee that twitched with anxiety at the expectations.

She held no illusions to the fact that this was wholly lacking professional decor, with the exception that Erin was determined to fake it anyway. And surprisingly good at it. Ellie smiled at that, at least.

No red carpet, no applause, no dancing to the whims of a gold star and a pat on the back like a puppy chasing affection and recognition. Good, that meant the work was getting the attention it deserved from people who weren’t just fishing promotions.

Or compliments.

The poor excuse for a briefing room dimmed, then lit up with the projector light casting the space in something intense and focused. It made Ellie straighten just a hair tighter, her brown bun shifting as she fumbled with the edges of her glasses.

The Homeland Party, she confessed to hating politics in all forms. Apolitically-minded, probably.

But these folks? Just the mere glimpse of thoae faces made Ellie’s skin crawl, the smile from Erin’s earlier play at professionalism faltered to a sad frown.

“Extremists, I believe.” The doctor piped up, her attention flicked to Avalon; gauging her colleagues reaction, perhaps. “PA party offshoot. Must’ve read it in the papers once.” Ellie nodded, unsure what else to divulge. “Heard they have a cult following calling themselves the Homeland Brothers.” She sighed, her fingers flexed to splay on her knee.

“I remember a particular case crossing my hands involving their name,” Her voice steadied, the Welsh lilt tightening. “Officer wanted my input on particular bruise patterns.” One of the rare times she was asked to consult a non-murder case. “Violent beating, though not rage induced. Almost like calculated punishment.”

Ellie paused, lips thinning.

“I’m afraid that’s all I know.” She dipped her chin again, shoulders sagged. Her piece was spoken.

London commuters are divided into 2 clear breeds: Those that meander and those that march. Marion fell into the latter category, her heeled boots clicking against the dirty train station tiling as she strutted through a very busy London Bridge train station. She glanced at her watch, overly aware of the minutes trickling by. Lateness was her pet peeve… And yet, here she was, running behind schedule on her first day. This new appointment had come as a complete surprise, the ominous email appearing in her inbox some days ago now. It had been staring back at her from the screen, strange and out of place amongst the spam that flooded her inbox. Marion had responded with an inspired flourish of fingers rapping on the keyboard. The interview had gone ahead. She’d been invited back today.

Tapping her Oyster card on the reader, the folding doors granted Marion access to the Underground. The flurry of commuters bottlenecked at this access point, a strangers breath kissing the back of her neck as the escalator crawled beneath her feet. Marion shuddered. She hated the proximity of it all; Sandwiched in to the station platform like sardines. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her antibacterial gel. Squeezing a pea sized amount in her palms, the ex-MI5 agent vivaciously rubbed the solution across her hands. Returning the gel to her bag with a satisfied sigh, Marion turned her attention to the fast approaching escalator exit. She hopped on and off the tube, gazelle-like with her nimble steps. Ducking and weaving between bumbling bodies, Marion focused her laser-sharp gaze ahead of her, beelining for the Tube station exit. Instead of waiting patiently on the escalator, she shouldered her way into the fast lane.

Gusts of fresh air vacuumed into the station’s exit stairwell and tousled Marion’s dark hair that hung loosely around her shoulders. The smell of sweating bodies and dust made her nose crinkle in disdain. She clicked her tongue at the commuters treading aimlessly ahead of her, obscuring her path. They didn’t have somewhere to be, clearly. She sidestepped them, heels clicking against the steps in quick succession. Her urgency fuelled the boot-clad steps that took her to the address marked on her maps app with a glowing blue dot. Her dark, thickly lashed eyes scanned the exterior. It was a non-descript office building that had an off-white wash weathered by London air. Marion moved with a hurried elegance as she mounted the entrance steps, adjusting the straps of the handbag on her shoulder.

Entering the Rogue Row office felt like taking a large jolt back in time. The decor was dated, lacking any thought and personality. The whir of an air conditioning unit and a distant hum of voices ahead lead her onward. She saw the small group of women who occupied what looked like an attempt at a Briefing Room. Two of them had taken a seat, the backs of their heads reinforcing Marion’s lateness. Erin Delaney, the infamous ex-agent herself, stood at the projector screen. Her critical gaze tore away from her audience to greet her.

“Sorry I’m late, Director” Marion said, her French accent subtle but turning her speech to cursive. She huffed an exhale, the only sign of her diminished composure.

The late arrival was met with an arched brow from Erin whose reputation of running a tight ship preceded her. Marion inwardly winced, wishing she’d barged every commuter walking at a leisurely pace out of her way. Displayed on the prehistoric projector screen was Rogue Row’s first brief. Marion squinted to see the small print, skim reading the assignment.

“Marion Martin,” Erin said flatly by way of greeting. “Your decidedly more punctual neighbours are Dr Price aka Ellie and Avalon.”

Erin’s tone was bored, disguising her irritation with indifference but tapping her index finger like a metronome on the desk she stood behind. Marion nodded, taking the slight from her Director on the chin. She knew better than to offer excuses. In Erin Delaney’s eyes, no protest was adequate and Marion knew it. She turned to her new colleagues and offered a wry smile.

As if uninterrupted, Erin took a stack of case files from beside the desktop and crossed the small distance to where the chairs sat in audience of her. She handed out the miniature case files, printed and enveloped in a beige paper folder. Written across the front in black permanent marker was “Rogue Row Case 001.” Marion chewed back a bewildered smile. The budget for this branch must be nonexistent. This was not the glamorous, slick delivery of a brief she’d grown accustomed to during her stint at MI5.

“That’s a good start, Ellie-“ Director Delaney nodded, picking back up from the conversation they’d been having before Marion barrelled in. “Indeed it’s unsurprising that a case like that crossed your desk back then. The Homeland Party have been on MI5s radar for a while. I guess they hoped the extremists would get bored and crawl back to the holes from whence they came… An assumption that hasn’t aged well, as you’ll see from the files in front of you.”

Marion fingered the pages within the folder in her lap. Her big, dark eyes eyes landed on some photos of the recent Homeland Brother victims. She bit down on her bottom lip, one victim in particular staring back at her from the page. She couldn’t be any older than 17, at a glance. Marion lifted the file closer, analysing the description beneath the forensic mid-range shot. The girl had been badly beaten. Her eyes bloodied and swollen shut, a sickening watercolour of blues and purples. The poor girl’s cheekbone was almost certainly broken, her original facial structure barely decipherable. Marion felt the usual fire of injustice light within her as she continued to comb through the file, Erin’s voice fading to background noise.

“Marion?” Erin was curt. She was staring at her expectantly, arms folded across her chest. “What’s your first thought on how best to proceed here?”

Marion cleared her throat. She couldn’t erase the image of that poor young victim staring back at her. Repressing the feelings of defensive rage, the young Intelligence Officer rose her eyes to lock with Erin’s. She pressed her lipglossed lips into a thin line as she constructed her answer. The Homeland Brothers background check flashed through her mind, along with their most recent threats to roll out their “Remigration” plans. There’d been some article printed on some large-scale terrorist act entitled “A Call to Leave.” Something of a gut feeling told Marion to start there.

“One thing about right wing extremists is they love an audience,” Marion said, focusing on keeping her voice composed. “They’ve already been using Mike Turner as their publicist with that “Call to Leave” article… Any decent journalist won’t expose their sources but… It’s likely he’ll be in their circle. I’d stick an SOI on him, put him under covert surveillance.”

Marion nodded to signify the end of her answer, satisfied with her contribution. She didn’t look to Erin for approval. Instead, her eyes dropped back to the file in her lap and the young girls bloodied eyes that singed a hole through her chest.

Director Delaney quickly turned her attention to Agent Ava and Dr Ellie Price.

“Same question to you two,” Erin said, brandishing the file gripped in her hand. “If the decision were yours, where would you start?”

---

Ellie assessed the poor paper quality with a bemused smile, the prints ruffling as she scanned through the case like a librarian flitting through a returned book. Nothing she hadn’t seen before where clinical descriptions and shocking photos were concerned. Her lips twitched in what might have been a snarl as child-like eyes stared back in fear and horror. That, at least, still affected her enough to know she hadn’t become desensitised just yet.

… Good.

The doctor straightened, alert, when Erin addressed her and Avalon with the same question she’d posed Marion, the late arrival. She’d clocked the subtle hint of a French lilt, curious if it was native or learned. A mental note was made to ask about it at a more appropriate time.

“I’d start with the bodies.” The doctor replied, predictably. She’d taken notice of the similar wounds. Cuts, bruises, torn lips… “Every assault leaves a pattern. Restraint marks, strike angles, sequencing. If these crimes are organised, the violence will repeat.” Bodies told their own detailed story if you knew how and where to look. Not just plain things like the instrument used or how old a mark was, but it told about intent and so much more.

“If we can show the same method across multiple victims, we can argue a coordinated group rather than isolated crimes. That might give us something the courts recognise as conspiracy.” Maybe even a profile of the perp. Or perps. The papers ruffled again, Ellie’s eyes stopped at the arrest MET made several years before. Dick. A fitting nickname, she thought, glancing at his mugshot. “I’d also double check that one’s case. Arson, was it?” A slim finger prodded harshly at that frowning mug, disdain dripped from her Welsh accent. “Check if there is overlap with the beatings. Locations, contacts.” A long shot, perhaps, but Ellie didn’t mind those if all they had was a handful of papers and some maybes.

“If I could see the victim’s records, perhaps we could correlate data there? Find out why these exact people have been targeted.” Her brow knitted as she read more thoroughly. “And how our group chooses them.”