S.O.S

[Morven]

A cluster of bystanders hovered uncertainly by the man on the ground, until someone finally bent to offer him a hand to his feet. A few cast uneasy glances in Morven's direction, seeing, she supposed, a young woman in a flimsy summer dress who'd had the balls to step into the middle of a fight. What gives you the confidence? those stares wondered, suspicious. Irritation bristled her spine at the suggested aspersion; she seriously considered telling them to fuck off and mind their own business, but dampened the urge. It was the godling who'd stoked her temper, for the sheer stupidity of chucking gasoline on an open flame. She didn't care what these people thought.

In fact she almost gave them something to stare at. Almost.

Instead she dumped her empty coffee cup in the nearest bin, and meandered her way through a curtain of tourists.

***
In the coming days the curt tones of Edward Northbrook dominated the airwaves, urging affected citizens to register themselves promptly. He spoke of calm and order and patience; and for some, the assurance was enough. But crowds still gathered daily in Parilament Square, questioning the safety of the general populace. It seemed clear the Ascendancy had not seen fit to prepare his Patrons; there were no answers. How did one know if another was one of them? How did the government even ascertain that registrations were genuine? There had been a number of supposed hoaxes already. Not to mention, of course, those like Morven who chose not to register at all. At least until she could observe the repurcussions.

The temperature had cooled, and a cluster of swollen clouds hovered above Westminster, casting a grey haze over the petitioners gathered on the green. It was still early, and only those tenacious enough to set up camp dotted the grass with their placards. Curiosity had urged Morven to follow her friends despite the threat of a downpour.

"It changes everything."
Faye bent over in the grass over her sign, marker-pen in hand. Her hair fluttered a golden river in the faint breeze. Brows pinched with concentration. "Take the Tower Bridge Terrorist. How do you punish someone like that? No prison would hold them, not if they can all do even a fraction of what the Ascendancy can."


"Maybe that cult already put a bullet between his eyes. Or her. They're still men and women."


Faye sat back on her heels. "Murder isn't the answer either."


Morven shrugged, gesturing a hand at the imposing government building. "Nae answers that I can see. You think they're listening?"


Faye frowned, and bent back to her task.

Her wallet vibrated in her pocket; Morven fished it out distractedly, glanced at the ID, and paused at the flash of Unknown. The emotion slipped from her face, replaced with irritation. She stood and threaded her way through the crowd, pressing the wallet to her ear.

"It's not convenient, Sören."
She couldn't help the barbs she curled into his name. The name he had hidden from her for years.

"Where are you?"


"London. Enjoying the remainder of my summer."
A few spots of rain shivered on her outstretched palm.

Silence crackled on the line. "I need you in Moscow."


"Aye, and I just told you where I am. I don't leave for another few weeks. If you want me, Sören, you find me here."


Another pause.

"I am injured."
His voice cracked with static. The plaintive tone of his reply irritated her. She rolled her eyes. Keep the heid. "And?"


"The tickets will be arranged. Accommodation if you need it. You will meet me there."


Click.