MaeB

Smoke has Memory (NoticeMeAnon x themaybreeze)

Hera

It was a brisk, Spring morning. Hera’s alarm had erupted into its intentionally jarring trill at the ungodly hour of 5am. Her slender arm had snaked from beneath the duvet to click the alarm to silent after just 3 chimes. Her lashes fluttered open, body sleepily stretching under the covers. The sun was barely rising, warm orange light splaying through the clouds overhead. Hera had intentionally left the blinds to her bedroom window partially open, allowing an orange hue to seep through the slats. She swung her legs out of bed, placing her bare feet on the cool floorboards and padded across her bedroom to the armchair that had become a dumping ground for her laundry. The outfit graveyard was piled to waist height, comprising of various pieces she’d worn for between 15 minutes to 5 hours each. Rifling through, she found her favourite oversized T-Shirt, a hand-me-down from one of her sisters (she couldn’t remember which) and pulled it over her head.

The striped t-shirt was so large that it drowned her slight frame. The hem skimmed her thighs, cotton so worn that it had become incredibly soft. Hera crossed her arms and cradled her waist, squinting to peer out between the blinds. She smiled. It was a beautiful morning. Perfect for a morning run. But before she could begin her morning routine, Hera crossed the room to her bedside table and plucked her iPhone from its charger. She flicked her thumb across the screen and opened the camera app. Not even bothering to check her reflection, she positioned herself in front of the morning sunrise and clicked record.

”Good morning, world!” she said, her voice bright as song. ”It’s 5am and I’m about to head out for my morning run - I know, I’m an addict okay? Don’t @ me - And then I’ll be heading into my third week at The Telegraph!”

A genuine gleeful smile was spread across Hera’s face as she looked into her iPhone camera. As if she were talking to a room full of her best friends, Hera tucked her blonde hair still tousled from sleep behind her ears and flipped the camera to face the view from her bedroom window. Her phone screen perfectly captured the tranquility of her street, the trees that framed her road swaying hypnotically in the morning breeze.

“I’m going to do my favourite 30 minute sprint route today, guys! But not before I make my new obsession-“

Hera’s thumb brushed the record button and the camera stopped recording. She sighed and quickly made her way downstairs to the Kitchen. None of her housemates would be emerging from their bedrooms anytime soon, so Hera moved quietly through the house. She clicked the Kitchen door shut behind her and quickly arranged her coffee prep on the marbled kitchen sideboard. Positioning her phone with a view of her coffee station and from the waist up, Hera clicked record again.

“Alright Hera is here and caffeine deprived. You guys know I simply can’t breathe unless I’ve had my morning coffee so here it is-“ she expertly made herself an iced chai latte with manuka honey and cinnamon whip on top. Finishing the coffee with a dusting of cinnamon powder, Hera struck a pose with the iced latte in hand. “If you want to make yourself one of these bad boys, click the link in my bio. You can get hold of this Chai powder for half price with my discount code! Thank me later. Bye guys!”

Waving at her viewers on the other side of the camera, Hera locked her phone and enjoyed the rest of her iced chai whilst gazing out the kitchen window. She knew the influencer lifestyle wasn’t for everyone and she was very aware how cringe it could be sometimes. But she’d built such a community with Hera is Here that there’s no going back now. Some days she didn’t feel up to filming, wished for a sense of privacy and a quiet room with no cameras. But she’d committed to her platform and her followers expected a certain frequency of posting. Plus, she was proud of the authentic virtual self she’d built. “Hera is Here” is just a normal, 20 something woman living her dream. It really was both a gift and a burden.

The ice in her latte glass clattered as she drained the last of the chai, licking cinnamon powder from her lips. Hera washed up the glass and headed back upstairs to prepare for her morning run.

“All in a days work,” she sighed, to no one in particular.

________________________________

The Telegraph Head Office floor was ablaze with activity. Hera had only just gotten used to the constant buzz of journalists, editors and publishers. No one lowered their voice, there was no such thing as private conversations. Everyone talked over everyone. It was a room full of feisty extroverts, all sharing political opinions or critiquing copywriting or shouting coffee requests across the room. Hera loved the buzz of it all, found it electrifying. It reminded her of growing up at home with her sisters. She hadn’t expected this kind of Animal Kingdom at such a mainstream publication but it was a pleasant surprise when she was greeted on her first day by loud, cheery greetings and many confident introductions.

Today was Assignment day. Senior Journalists and columnists would brief the Junior Journos with the weeks stories. Some were breaking news, sent to print with email subjects like:

”URGENT - Read now or get in the bin”

or

“I know I said the last story was an ASAP thing but this is actually ASAP okay thanks bye”

Hera lived for it. Assignment day was when The Telegraph floor was at its peak chaos and she revelled in it all. Grinning ear to ear, her bright blue eyes scanned the hub of activity before her. She couldn’t believe that this was where she actually worked? Albeit only part time. (And it was only her third week!) But honestly? The Telegraph? Hera had to check and double check the Job Offer to ensure she wasn’t tripping. She’d been accepted as a Junior Journo at The Telegraph when all her CV had shown was her social media platforms and some writing samples from her blog. In fact, she’d had a callback the same day she’d applied. Most of the Team had followed “Hera is Here” for years already and so when her CV came across their desks, they’d jumped at the chance to hire her.

A thick, dusty file thumped on Hera’s desk whilst her back was turned. She’d been joking with her desk neighbour when the Senior Journalist had approached her.

“Edgeworth Manor,” the senior journalist said, fingers lingering on the stack as if weighing its worth. “Burned down just shy of a century ago. Owner died inside. No surviving family. Case closed before anyone asked the right questions.”

Hera eyed the file warily, marvelling at its size. She listened intently to the brief, nodding in all the right places and cooing at the details. Plucking her miniature pad from her desk drawer, Hera jotted shorthand notes as her supervisor continued, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration.

“Anonymous sponsor. Only condition is that anything you find about Edgeworth’s work—anything at all—comes back to them.”

At this, Hera’s pen froze, hovering above the page. She arched a perfectly preened eyebrow, raising her gaze to the senior staff member. The intrigue of a good story pricked at Hera’s gut and her heart quickened slightly with excitement. A bright, white smile tugged at her lips and she cocked her head to one side.

“Oh, that’s juicy…” Hera purred, nodding with approval at the assignment. She nudged the senior journalist playfully. “Someone up top is blessing this newbie with a cracking story here and, frankly, I’m grateful”

Hera lowered her pad and pen, flicking open her Macbook. She shot her supervisor a final grin and thudded into her chair, excitedly flipping the case folder open with manicured fingertips. She intended to read the file thoroughly before she strategised her next steps but glanced up at the senior journalist with evident excitement.

“Where would you point me to first? Shall I get started reading this file then head on over to the scene of the crime?!”

• The Unruly • ( themaybreeze x badfool )

________________

The Unruly

________________

TheMayBreeze x Badfool

• Griffin •

__________________

The market streets were positively humming with activity. The thrum of overlapping voices, the trill of coin in drawstring bags, vendors wrapping their goods for eager patrons; This was the hub of Alaria. Colourful pennons and standards hung from overhead, proudly brandishing the royal crest. Midnight blues, royal purples and blood reds shimmied in the gentle breeze, swaying above the crowds that gathered below. The smell of freshly baked bread and stale ale filled the narrow, winding streets of the market sector. Crows cawed from their perches on windowsills and rooftops.

Dotted amongst the various robed inhabitants of Alaria as they spent their coin in the market, were the Royal Guards. Their armour garish against the colourful backdrop they observed, the Guards stood rigidly, brandishing their weapons ominously. Children’s laughter echoed through the streets that snaked through the centre of Alaria and Prince Griffin smiled peacefully as he tugged at the headscarf wrapped around his golden locks. To describe his attire as a disguise eluded more to its intention than its actuality. It would only take a lingering, analytical gaze to rumble the headscarf and plain robes. Griffin’s looks were far from discreet; Glossy blonde curls and piercing amber eyes. Standing taller than most of his subjects, the Prince ducked his head and rolled his shoulders. Cowering beneath the fine wool of his headscarf, Griffin took slow and deliberate steps through the market. This was his favourite part of Alaria, save for the meadows behind the castle. He loved the electricity that crackled through the air, the sound of the people’s laughter and the smell of freshly baked goods… It was paradise, to him. So contrasted to the quiet imposition of the castle, the market had been breathed full of life. Here, the Prince could blend into the commonality of normal Alarians. He could traverse the market, unbothered by inhabitants and guards alike, just to soak in the atmosphere of the city he so proudly reigned.

Sidestepping through the crowd, Griffin brushed shoulders with blissfully ignorant patrons, lowering his gaze so as to avoid exposure. He shuffled through the gaggle of people, revelling in the ease of moving through the city without a Guard for protection and the absence of commotion. For now, Prince Griffin was a simple Alarian amongst other simple Alarians.

As Griffin pushed his way through the crowd, he heard a voice that broke out from the chorus of market chatter. The voice was raised, a little shrill, and belonged almost certainly to a young child. The crowds were thinning out here, less market stalls framing the path. The Prince narrowed his eyes as he strained to make out what the voice was saying.

”…Will you spare a coin for me, sir? Our family’s hungry and sick!”

“Afternoon, Sir. Would you spare a coin or 2 for us?”

The pleas of the beggar had hints of desperation but remained unanswered. Shouts into the void, the people of Alaria passed by, eyes fixed ahead. Griffin had slowed to a stop, letting the bustle of market goers shoulder past him. The pleas came from a young boy, no more than 8 years old, dressed in a tattered, creased linen shirt that was dusted with dirt. Those worn clothes hung loosely on his slim frame, tiny wrists poking out from beneath the sullied sleeves. His eyes appeared a little sunken in his angular face and the boy held out a hat that harboured just 2 dull coins inside.

“Will you spare a coin for us, mister?”

The boy had noticed Griffin’s abrupt halt amongst the crowd. His eyes, hooded by the headscarf, softened further as the boy fixed him with laden eye contact. The Prince felt his heart wring with guilt. He knew this little boy was not the only Alarian pained with poverty. A few streets over is where the more impoverished inhabitants lived, he’d wager a bet that’s where the little boy lived. His tiny chapped lips, etched into the picture of innocence, remained parted as he readied for his next call. Griffin took a few slow steps towards the young beggar, a hand slowly slipping beneath his robes as he reached for his coin purse. The young boy’s eyes widened in surprise, realising someone had heard his cries and answered his prayers. The streets quietened as the Prince approached, the buzz of the market fading away as he focused on the boy in front of him.

“Indeed, I heard your cries, little one” Griffin crooned, his voice soft with sympathy. “And I’m sorry to hear of sickness in the family… Is your father working all hours to support you?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion knitting his brow together. Taken aback by the attention, a small silence fell between the two of them for a moment. Griffin’s fingers parted the drawstring of his coin purse that stayed tied to his belt. The sound of coins clattering beneath the Prince’s common cloak and robes made the little boy’s eyes shine with unbridled glee.

“It’s just my mother at home. With my brothers and sisters… Papa left for war before I was born. He never came home.” A teary, vacant gaze cast over his innocent face as the weight of struggle tugged at his heart.

“Your father made this continent very proud,” Prince Griffin soothed, his hand grabbing a small handful of coin. “It is a great honour to fight for Alaria, I’m sure he’s very proud of you trying to support his family in his absence.”

As the gold clinked in Griffin’s fist, the young boy just nodded wordlessly. Outstretching his clenched fist, the Prince motioned for the boy to open the hat a little more. As the coin tinkered into the fabric of the hat, the boy’s troubled eyes welled with tears of gratitude. Not wishing to linger, Griffin gently squeezed the young boy’s shoulder, feeling nothing but bone beneath linen. Then, the Prince turned on his heels and made his way by foot back to the castle.

As he walked, still anonymous amongst his subjects, his mind was plagued with the saddened eyes of the beggar boy. Heart heavy, he wondered how long that coin would last the family. He thought about young siblings, gathering around a freshly baked loaf of bread and the beginnings of a stew bubbling over the fire. That coin might last them a few weeks and it had taken him just seconds to drop it into the outstretched hat. How quickly coin could remove the strain and sadness of poverty in Alaria. How he wished he could give charity to all who needed it. Isn’t that what the Crown was for? To protect? To keep the people of Alaria safe from harm? When Griffin had raised his disgust with the poverty levels amongst the continent, the Council had scoffed. For one to have riches, others must have poverty. Like good and evil, the existence of one is dependent on the abundance of the other. Griffin approached the Royal Castle, his home, nestled on a hillside overlooking the city below. He thought of the angular, miniature shoulder bone beneath linen. The sunken eyes of a child plagued by a truth he should know nothing of. The blue skies overhead, illuminated by summer sun, looked down on Prince Griffin as he made the journey back to the castle walls. Discarding his disguise in a wooden barrel just outside the gates, the Prince struggled to shift the blanket of guilt that enveloped him.

How could he so nonchalantly return to his 25 bedroom, walled home with Royal Gardens, a fountain and a banquet table full of feast at every fourth hour when his people struggled so much in the city below him? It filled him with a rage reserved exclusively for the Council. A burning sense of injustice he could only direct at his father. The King. The merciless man that sat atop his throne, choosing ignorance to the struggles of his people. As the Prince slowly made his way toward the castle gates, the creak of aching wood as they swung open at his arrival, he fought the frown that pinched at his brow.

“Your Majesty, you’ve returned from your afternoon stroll,” a Royal Guard observed, inclining his head in a bow of acknowledgment.

Prince Griffin sighed, simply nodding once in reply. He passed through the gates into the castle grounds, his royal tunic so bold in comparison to the robes he’d adorned for Alaria. Picking up the pace, the Prince headed towards the castle entrance. Still the eyes of the poor boy haunted him, that feeling of skin and bone beneath his fingertips a ghostly, morbid reminder.

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

• C H A R A C T E R B I O •

BIO

Government Name: Erin Maeve Delaney-Rayner

Known As:

To most - Erin
To family - Maevey (in honour of her grandmother, her namesake)
To ex-colleagues - Rayner / Rayn

Age: 35

Height & Build: 5ft8 / Athletic Build

Credentials:

Cambridge University Graduate - BSc in Psychology followed by her Doctorate. It was upon applying to the Foreign Office post-grad that MI5 intercepted Erin’s application and encouraged her to defer her expertise to the Secret Service.

A colourful history in various Intelligence Agent roles @ MI5. Entered MI5 at Intelligence Agent level, quickly progressing to Senior Intelligence roles specialising in Threat Assessment and Risk Management, Strategic Communications and Influence, Interrogation and Interview Techniques & Behavioural Science and Profiling.

Erin quickly garnered quite the reputation in the office, her record studded with success. She was most celebrated for her infiltration and consequential stifle of many IRA operations, thanks to her Irish heritage.
It was just 3 years ago when Erin became associated with a group of MI5 whistleblowers. A preventable tragedy where the service allowed a junior agent to take the fall, covering up their clumsy involvement, left a handful of Senior Agents outraged. Erin included. That junior agent later died under suspicious circumstances, triggering the whistleblowers to jump into action. Despite not actioning this directly, Erin was bunched in with the agents determined to expose the service’s shortcomings and was consequentially pushed out. She did not go quietly, spearheading her own story of the infamous Agent Rayner’s catastrophic temper.

Employment History:

Aged 23: Headhunted by MI5 post-grad.
Aged 23 - 32: Various positions @ MI5
Aged 23 - 27: Behavioural Science & Profiling
Aged 27 - 29: Senior Interrogation Specialist
Aged 29 - 32: Senior Intelligence Officer
Job Title @ Rogue Row: Rogue Row Director

Desirable Traits:

Integrity - Proud, Unwavering, Moral, Honourable. Erin can only bend the rules so much. Her moral compass is strong and often leads her away from the covertly duplicitous nature of the job.

Perceptive - Observant, Empathetic, Calculating, Discerning and Astute. Erin’s dream of becoming a Therapist quickly dissolved post-grad. But her ability to read, diagnose and treat remains. She has a knack for sensing character, quickly ascertaining someone’s behavioural profile.

Indomitable - Not easily swayed, influenced or coerced. She’s the definition of a powerhouse. Was always destined for a Leadership role.

Undesirable Traits:

Obsessive - Relentless in her pursuit of the objective. Erin has lost many nights sleep, friends, family members and hours to her unwavering dedication. But it always dances the line of committed and obsessive. This makes her a challenging leader as she, unrealistically, expects the same dedication from her colleagues.

Stubborn - When certain, she can be dismissive of alternatives. Though mostly under control at this stage in her life, Erin will die on the hill if it comes to it.

Domineering - Has a history of becoming imposing when hyper-focused on objectives. Previous colleagues have struggled with the iron fist with which she leads. When the stakes are high, Erin’s grip of the reigns tightens and she likes to pull the strings.

_________________________________________

Faceclaim:

Faceclaim

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

@Dpmoc has sent me a fab CS, they just need to post here and they can jump right into the IC.

I think if we each post in the IC, they can be looped in when they next check in ^^

I also left the applications open for 1 or 2 more submissions, depending on whether Dpmoc is still interested or not…

I’m eager to get started and tee things up so please feel free to post away, PatientBean. I’m the ImPatientBean in this equation.

Recruiting Again! • Rogue Row: The Fall from Disgrace • (Group Espionage RP) •

Bumpity bump bump…

1/2 more vacancies for this one! Looking to get started asap so just drop me a simple CS and let’s loop you in ^^

On Writing & Consequence

<Snipped quote by themaybreeze>

Thanks for the welcome — I appreciate it.

British espionage and character-driven intrigue is very much in my wheelhouse. I’m taking a bit of time to get a feel here before committing to anything, but Rogue Row sounds genuinely interesting.

I expect to dive into some RPs soon enough, so I’ll keep an eye out as things develop.

@Raskolnikov

Of course!

Definitely feel this place out and have a snoop around, there’s some majorly talented writers lurking on here and some great RPs you could sink your teeth into ^^

You’re always welcome at Rogue Row, we’ve only just started checking off the roster and the first IC post is up, super early days. So you wouldn’t have much catching up to do…

Have the best time here, Raskolnikov :)

Salutations!

A warm welcome to The Guild! ^^

Hope you manage to salvage your RPs from alternate forums here!

• The Unruly • ( themaybreeze x badfool )

________________

The Unruly

________________

TheMayBreeze x Badfool

__________________

Name: Griffin Lukas Thorne

Royal Title: His Majesty Prince Griffin the Third

Age: 24

Height: 6ft3

Build: Toned / muscular / athletic

Desirable Traits: Empathetic / Warm / Kindhearted / Generous / Fair

Undesirable Traits: Naive / Flighty / Blindly Courageous / Short-Tempered / Impassioned

Faceclaim:

Bio: Griffin, King Thorne’s only son, is his father’s exact opposite. Since he was a very young child, Griffin was clearly cut from a different cloth than his ruthless, reputable father. A soul that radiates kindness, the Prince is known for his gentle spirit and moral compass. Right and wrong proves extremely important to Griff; He will lose himself in the morality of a dilemma, overthinking to establish the fairest solution. This applies to any situation, royal duties or otherwise.

As soon as he was old enough, Griffin began challenging the Crown on their decisions, their preconceptions and their neglect of the Kingdom’s people. The first ever royal subject to really care for those “below” them, Griffin’s kindness is absolutely taken for weakness at Council. His solutions often earn eye rolls from his Father’s advisors and most meetings end with the Prince making a dramatic exit. He is unable to remain muted, refuses to let his Father take away his freedom of speech. Though Griffin knows, deep down, that his efforts are more often futile, he always tries regardless.

Coveted by many female royal subjects, it is controversial that Griffin has not yet married. An object of desire by many, the Prince is idolised not just for his good looks but for his stature and wealth. Some of his admirers also crave his golden heart. Someday, Prince Griffin will be King and that is a desirable commodity. Little does anyone know that the King would actually prefer to leave his throne to the Head Guard. Griff can’t help but feel envious of their relationship, despite it being forged on, in his humble opinion, greed and corruption. At his core, at his heart, Griffin just wants to love his mother and father and be loved in return. But love is a currency his father doesn’t deal in, so there are other places Griffin must go for compassion and gentleness.

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

Very excited for this!

Is it okay if I use the color code for my CS in my post? I think it's easier to delineate who's speaking that way, but it's your RP

@PatientBean

Yes, absolutely! Please feel free ^^

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

Erin

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.

‘Shower. Get dressed. Coffee. Eat. Leave at 7:30.’

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.

‘69 minutes. Out the door.’

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.

‘8 minutes and I’m drying off. Getting dressed. Hair. Makeup. Coffee.’

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.

‘29 minutes. Leave the house. Coffee. ’

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.

‘7:29. They’re practically late.’

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.

‘Darkened under eyes. 5 o’clock shadow. Short back and sides. Weathered skin. Stiff posture. Muscular body straining at the seams of that brand-new suit. Smug energy but too well-trained to be disrespectful-‘

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

‘Ex-dog* if I ever saw one. Probably chauffeuring me as punishment. Ironic.’

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.

“Fuckers couldn’t even afford a plant that’s not dead,” she tutted to herself. “If that ain’t a metaphor for this joke of a department I don’t know what is.”

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”