24991116 | 0305

  EVECorp Tower | EuroCorp CBD | City 03

  48° 51' 52.9776'' N

  2° 20' 56.4504'' E

  Shirley exited the turbolift to find Kurt waiting for her.

  “Huntress,” Kurt said in greeting.

  “Commander,” she returned as he fell into steps next to her.

  “How are you?” he asked, despite their earlier exchange; he projected an air of casualness about him.

  “The work at the Chateau is on schedule,” she deflected the question as they walked down the lobby, the floor was still abuzz with EVECorp business delegates, contractors or personnel in suits milling about their tasks. She eyed the file in his hand, “You have something for me?”

  “You are always too emotional,” Kurt remarked, handing over the file without missing a beat, “mission directives.”

  “How old-fashioned,” Saying so, Shirley undid the folder with a slight curl upon her lips.

  “Turns out, old-fashioned is probably the safest,” Kurt said, “no way this intel would find itself on the InterEx or that old Web-thing that somehow survived the Fall.”

  The Fall.

  Memories.

  Shirley shook her head to clear her thoughts.

  An old human gesture.

  The two trenchcoated figures, terrifying spectres impressed upon the human psyche, walked unchallenged through the lobby. Everyone gave them a wide berth. Everyone knows of the reputation of the Enforcers, and their exploits.

  Shirley turned the folder in her hand; it was devoid of feature except a neat little embossment on top-right corner designated ‘for eyes only’

  But she was inclined to agree with him. In this time and age, papers are expensive. While EVECorp certainly could afford the printing, she abhors the unnecessary waste. The information was written on transparent, see-through plastic, printed with digitalised ink attuned to her DNA signature.

  Invisible, to all but her. Shirley scanned through the content on each page.

  “So, why she wants to see you for?” Kurt enquired inquisitively.

  “Oh, girl-time, nothing important.” Shirley replied nonchalantly, flipping through the file where she stopped short, “this is verified intel?” she asked softly.

  “Our usual source,” Kurt replied, the twin lobby door slid opened soundlessly upon their rails. A blast of old winter air rushed into the lobby.

  “You never told me about her,” Shirley said lightly, as she digested all the information.

  Kurt did not reply, Shirley smiled, she was accustomed to how her commander handle jests.

  At 6 foot 2, Commander Kurt Blade cut an imposing figure with his combat fatigues: black trench-coat over EVE-tech combat armor. His hair was cropped short, military-style, he always don leather gloves, with steel-plated combat boots and black sunglasses.

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  Shirley do not care much for his fashion sense; Kurt tends to prioritize functionality over aesthetics. Standing next to her, Kurt looked as out of place as a bull in a China shop.

  While both of them are attired in the trenchcoats, hers was civilian, his was military.

  The woman smiled cryptically, her fashionable attire suited her as well as his attire suited him.

  As the Commander of the Enforcers, he was authoritative and intimidating.

  She? Well, she blends in.

  “Jeez, take off that sunglasses, it’s the middle of the night,” Shirley spoke up, as they both walked up to the railing encircling an artificial lake, overlooking the black steel and glass structure EVECorp.

  “I can see perfectly well,” Kurt replied, deliberately infuriating.

  “You ain’t going to be featured as Chloe’s Next Most Eligible Bachelor,” Shirley retorted, “le Fay’s policy says blend in.”

  “Point taken,” Kurt said, “in my defence, I came straight off my flight.”

  Shirley snickered, “I can tell, you reek of jet fuel and desert sand, Military?”

  “Beats commercial.” Kurt said evenly, raising one of his eyebrows.

  Shirley sighed, on that they can agree.

  They walked towards small man-made lake in front EVECorp office, paved and tiled in natural masonry amidst a well-tended lawn. Save a couple of equally tasteless, asymmetrical stonework that serve as makeshift benches and décor, it remains devoid of any trees or flowers.

  But nonetheless, she likes it here, a small spot of nature amidst a sea of skyscrapers.

  Real estate in the city is expensive, even amongst the ruling elite only the truly powerful and rich can afford such opulence as a garden or a lake.

  “This source, you ever met her?” Shirley asked after a moment.

  “No,” Kurt replied, taking off his sunglasses to reveal his striking green eyes, “but she checks out, so far.”

  Shirley shook her head, “I don’t like this.”

  “Eight calls, eight verified,” the commander countered, “this is the ninth.”

  “We don’t even know her agenda.” She said.

  “We do not,” Kurt agreed, “but whatever her agenda, our goals aligned.”

  “I don’t trust this woman,” Shirley remarked teasingly.

  “How so?” Kurt asked.

  “Call it a feeling.” Shirley continued, leading, “women intuition.”

  “Irrelevant,” her commander said, “we don’t work on hunches.”

  Inwardly Shirley sighed, as usual, her commander missed the point completely, deciding not to pursue it, she chose to say nothing, instead engrossing herself in the content of the file.

  She let out a soft whistle.

  “I see you are catching on,” Kurt said, “If this checks out, it would be our biggest tip-off ever.”

  “Codename Prophet?” Shirley asked incredulously, each page there were more and more details.

  “The Church’s rumoured Doomsdays weapon; designation Moses. An advanced, self-replicating, multi-tiered release, escalation protocol,” Kurt replied, “its potential for destruction unparalleled, the Church is committing all to this.”

  “Threat-level and specifics?” Shirley asked.

  “Threat-level 12, as for specifics… well, you know better than to ask that, this is not how she works,” Kurt replied, “We have identified a couple of possible entries the Harbingers can use to deliver the payload. Myself, Agent 2 and 3 will handle those zealots.”

  Threat-level 12.

  “And what would I be doing?” Shirley asked incredulously.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Kurt said, “le Fay briefed me on your assignment.”

  Shirley raised her eyebrow questioningly.

  “I recommended you to le Fay for this job,” The commander replied, “this is sanctioned operation.”

  “I thought all Rogues are marked Disavowed.” Shirley teased.

  “Not this one,” Kurt replied, his voice visibly softer, “not this one.”

  He reached into his trenchcoat, and produced what looked like a hi-tech scanner, “special-issue Disruptor, the Persuader,” Kurt said as he hands it to her, “it will, hopefully, give you a one-up.”

  “Hopefully?” Shirley said with disbelief, “you’re serious right now?”

  “Hey, you wanted to get him back,” Kurt replied, an edge of coyness slipping in, “I got le Fay to give you the nod. So go. Mission’s sanctioned.”

  “Where?” she asked. .

  “City 15,” Kurt said as he turned to depart, “your Whisper is waiting. Tarmac 5.”

  “Thanks.” She called after him.

  A stray gust of wind hit them.

  “Burn after read.” He replied, “go get him, Huntress.”

  Shirley reached for the single match tucked in the corner of the folder, the humble matchstick has changed little since the 15th century. She lit it with practiced ease and held it to the edge of the folder.

  The papers and the accompanying folder, chemically treated to burn, ignited with a flash.

  She held the papers over the pond, and watched the hungry flames consumed the sensitive information and their source who gave it to them.

  Shirley held the folder until the last possible moment; as the flames consumed the folder hungrily, the paper curled up, erasing the name of their source.

  No one have ever seen her, nor has she ever been ID-ed or caught on cams.

  Hydra.