The Assassination War (3)

Superintendent Baldor, entrusted with the weighty responsibility of overseeing Londinium’s law enforcement, had begun sporting dark circles from his recent workload doubling.

Roused by an unfamiliar commotion outside, the superintendent approached the window.

A youth clad in a loose robe ranted raucously on the streets – an uncommon yet occasional sight during such periods.

“The apocalypse looms! Humanity’s judgment day draws nigh!”

“He’s at it again today, unrelenting. Who released him?”

“Apparently since he hasn’t directly harmed anyone, they had no choice but to let him go promptly.”

“Believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Then we shall escape this hellish mortal realm to a paradise where milk and beer flow freely in the afterlife!”

“Seems bent on becoming a cult leader, any way you look at it.”

“Strangely, that doesn’t constitute grounds for arrest…”

“Can’t someone just pick a fight so we can apprehend him? I’ll stake my wife on promptly releasing him afterwards, even buy him drinks that evening. I’ll put in a good word with the commissioner regarding your upcoming promotion too. What say you?”

Wartime inevitably bred all manner of rumors and lunatics exploiting the ensuing chaos.

A prophecy foretelling the Demons’ imminent flag over the capital after trampling Belfast had been circulating, and upon apprehending the distributor, he was revealed as a human bribed by Demons, snowballing the incident.

Having stayed up nights incarcerating the Demons trailing those earlier infiltrators certainly hadn’t helped matters. The superintendent rubbed his throbbing temples wearily.

Compounding matters, Freugne’s regularly dispatched newsletters had tapered off – she was already overburdened merely glimpsing potential futures.

Yet requesting additional manpower seemed futile when most had already crossed the borders to advance into Demonic territories.

Ultimately, Baldor had to make do with his current staffing for the metropolitan police while simultaneously tightening security around Edan’s residence per Freugne’s insistence.

“That ranter from earlier – did he leave the precinct vicinity?”

“Yes, people aren’t responding as enthusiastically as before. To be fair, doomsday rhetoric has rather lost its novelty.”

“It’s only been a few days since…oh, never mind. At least that’s a relief. I should finally be able to leave on time for once.”

The sole consolation was the recently arrived news of shifting battlefronts favoring the kingdom. With such encouraging reports dominating discussions, there would be scant opportunity for indulging doomsayers.

Yet just as the superintendent was about to successfully depart at the designated hour, a familiar face prompted him to halt mid-stride.

“Oh, it’s been a while.”

“So it seems. We’ve both endured considerable ordeals.”

“Yes, well…”

Exhibiting similar fatigue was the Earl of Norton.

“The city has become rather chaotic lately.”

“One could argue this very chaos represents a transient form, I suppose. But why such unease amidst this festive atmosphere?”

The superintendent shuddered reflexively, having witnessed the precipice of law and order’s collapse firsthand.

“That is precisely why.”

“Pardon?”

“People have glimpsed hope. And intoxicated by that hope, I’ve witnessed far too many lapse into complacency.”

Their chance encounter proved fleeting, the conversation curtailed.

Any unfinished matters could be addressed later during organizational meetings, unless urgent.

“I would exploit such openings. Please exercise due caution meanwhile.”

“Yes, I shall heed your counsel diligently.”

“I too have grown apprehensive lately, fortifying my security measures.”

Baldor surveyed the four burly figures encircling the earl with a cursory glance.

If he remained so uneasy, perhaps supplementing the police escort near his residence would be prudent later. With a small nod, they parted ways for now.

Yet those preoccupied with others’ welfare often neglected their own wellbeing.

---

It was a tumultuous era.

Sporadic Demonic sightings within the city persisted while the war’s trajectory remained uncertain.

Just as Baldor seriously contemplated conscripting the police if necessary, the Earl of Norton grappled with his own dilemmas.

“Panic! Mass panic! Everyone flee!!”

“This is outrageous, utterly unfair. The Demons instigated this war, yet my accounts are the casualties?!”

“Believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster. He shall restore stock prices to their former glory!”

The Londinium stock exchange plummeted en masse like any other market, seemingly bottomless as if another subterranean level awaited beneath the basement floor.

“Chairman, what shall we do now?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Investors have been inundating us daily with letters expressing concerns over recent market volatility. How shall we respond?”

“Why fret? I’ve already taken appropriate measures.”

Of course, the earl had shorted the market before the crash.

He was no mere oblivious rodent scurrying into an oncoming vehicle’s path.

Yet all matters must eventually conclude.

The human world fundamentally operated on credit. And he possessed a potent means of restoring credibility.

Where did the trucks and armaments strewn across battlefields originate, if not from the very Ceres Martop he had avidly acquired?

The newly constructed Antrim factories churned out a steady stream of weapons from their freshly painted, gleaming machinery.

Nor were munitions their sole offerings. Originally focused on consumer electronics, they now supplied myriad provisions ensuring soldiers remained well-nourished and lucid amidst the trenches.

And once the war concluded, reconstructing the devastation would become imperative – a role undoubtedly falling to them based on current trajectories unless utter incompetence prevailed.

Having preemptively reflected humanity’s potential extinction, Ceres Martop resuscitated the flagging Londinium markets from hell’s precipice, soaring majestically once more.

The previously vociferous parliament baying for economic triage fell silent.

And the Earl of Norton, having succeeded in a once-in-a-lifetime gambit – or more accurately, merely following an answer key – should have rejoiced.

Wealth he had never dared imagine now lay within grasp.

Excessive arrogance inviting purges remained unwise, but maintaining decorum afforded ample indulgences henceforth.

‘Yet this disquiet persists…’

Everything had unfolded too smoothly. The very ease prompting the earl’s unease.

While unfamiliar with warfare, he remained exceptionally well-versed in investment maxims.

Just as rebounds emerged from pessimism, crashes materialized amidst optimism.

When least expected, at the final pessimist’s departure during the most dramatic euphoric moment – that was when markets crashed.

The lingering sensation of watchful eyes could not be merely baseless either.

Hence supplementing his security detail and obliquely requesting the superintendent increase patrols near his residence.

And:

‘I should inquire about this again soon.’

An organizational meeting loomed.

Was it not customary for students to consult knowledgeable mentors when lacking comprehension? For the earl, that mentor was Edan (or rather, Freugne).

Understandably so, having relied considerably on Freugne’s foresight, the earl could not help feeling uneasy over her increasingly sporadic future revelations.

His unassuming nature devoid of ambitions to proactively shape the future had enabled his ascent, yet now proved a liability.

Of course, Freugne was not entirely blameless either.

The futures she had glimpsed lately, barring the imminent day or two, held scant substantive value.

Certainly, broader strokes like weather forecasts and the war’s overarching trajectory still aligned reasonably well.

After all, an individual could only exert so much influence over such macro-level phenomena – the enemies would still react regardless of how she maneuvered the generals.

However, the immediate futures directly impacted by her minor actions diverged significantly.

Freugne constantly intervened, repainting the original futures into more auspicious outcomes, evidenced by her increasing visions of ultimate victory.

Yet as is the way of all things, one cannot possess everything.

After scrutinizing the war’s outcome, the battlefield’s grand narrative, and the wellbeing of her closest associates, Freugne lacked sufficient occasions to peer into the future.

In essence:

“You there, hold for a moment.”

“…An unfamiliar face. Who might you be?”

A single opportunity would suffice.

To topple the empire she had painstakingly constructed stone by monumental stone, that sole, minuscule opening was enough.

“Are you perchance from Norton Investments… In any case, the individual overseeing that major corporation?”

“Indeed, but have we met before?”

“Ah yes, I’m well acquainted with you.”

“If so, might I inquire when we…?”

By infiltrating even unqualified Demons into Londinium solely to sow confusion against her, then forcibly deploying them within Freugne’s vicinity despite their inevitable apprehension, this had been the outcome achieved.

Turning away, the earl trailed off.

One of his bodyguards crumpled soundlessly to the ground, the sole figure remaining upright.