Opus Veda

They had arranged their flat just as Gemma liked, backed by the consultation of a feng shui influencer they could tag to their home like a brand label. The tall breakfast bar Gemma had added herself, allowing the gleaming kitchen to be its own space. In the lounge area, a corner sofa surrounded a coffee table of walnut - an excruciatingly rare material. Award-winning books were usually stacked neatly on it; today they'd been meddled with, spread about casually as if without effort.

Gemma emptied her pockets into a porcelain bowl. The TV hear the tinkle and turned on. Lights dimmed in response. She frowned at the book pile - ruined by her fiancé - and rearranged them in a square pile ordered by size. A bottle of white - a crisp and acidic Sancerre - caught her attention. She had been saving it for a special occasion. After admitting today wasn't special, she filled a glass up.

Warmth burned her throat. She exhaled with relief. The debrief could have gone better if Luis kept his temper in check. Now Morgan had sent them both to the naughty step. Gemma was thankful. She needed time for the Abbas case settle; for reason to calm impulsivity.

"Wine on a work night?" her fiancé's voice, floating from behind, "aren't you supposed to be at war or something?"

Gemma narrowed her eyes at the figure propped against the bedroom door - a woman still wearing the statement-covered getup students wore to be 'individuals'. Scarlett was on her PhD - as privileged as anything - but still found time for campaigns and protests, ever keen to feel angry on other people's behalf. Gemma insisted nobody listened. And where Gemma needed her cropped hair neat for work, Scarlett saturated hers with garish dye and messed it with wax, though always exposing the childish jade eyes that made her look more innocent than she was.

She went to kiss Gemma, denied her at the last moment, and snatched her wine.

"I had three homicides to deal with - well two and a half. Not sure it's online yet," Gemma poured a second glass, "Luis kicked off at the boss so we've been dismissed."

Scarlett fell on the sofa, downed the wine and messed up the books again. Gemma perched next to her and sniffed the air with suspicion. It smelt of red meat; a legal but frowned-upon luxury.

"All legit! Don't panic!" Scarlett smirked, "we had one of those Chinese court-men talk to us about 'forging a career in the empire'. It was reary boring. He did hand out some of that good Jinhua ham though. At least his concubine did, I assume that's what she was."

Gemma tutted and turned to the TV. Pundits fretted about General Bryon's declaration, reaching for every angle of fear they could stoke up for clicks. Panic buying was the current shit-stir.

Scarlett rolled her eyes.

"Must you have that on? I haven't seen you for days!"

"Ah come on… We'll be at war any minute and I'll be camera fodder. All you'll have to do is occupy a tent somewhere…" Gemma reclined over Scarlett's lap and frizzed her hair, "I'm not staying anyway. Once the boss leaves I'm heading back to the station."

Scarlett wriggled into an embrace, "Will you be safe?"

"I don't think our area is worth much to anyone but I've fought worse odds. So have you."

"True, but let's have an evening together for once. I'm worried one of these nights will be our last."

Gemma grinned and pushed her away with a finger.

"Get changed."

Scarlett rolled off with a groan. Gemma watched the TV streams from her peripheral vision and stared at the ceiling.

She loved Scarlett. Their shared history needed to be appreciated. It brought them affection and stability that a shrinking minority enjoyed. Despite the work a relationship took, it was an easy preference over the hookup clubs designed to supplant them.

On days like today though she did wish Scarlett could be serious, even if irreverence was how she normally coped. Luis meanwhile was as irate as ever. Such was the curse of expecting justice in a job like theirs. Gemma made demands of herself; Luis, beneath his jaded disguise, expected decency from others. He was a great partner but he needed to accept tragedies were coming. Sometimes the good guys lost.

She considered staying home. A rare night with her lover, who so expertly distracted her in hard times. Yet, so many arguments against: the republic on the brink, the call to arms at any moment, the opportunities for competent climbers. The likely place for her was Westminster, defending a parliament she didn't care for, effectively unarmed, as the Chinese embassy watched from Buckingham Palace with machine guns on their laps.

She found herself at a rare point where she didn't know what to do, and rubbed her eyes.

Scarlett called her to the bedroom.

"Oh! You saved some for me then..." Gemma stepped around the bed as if admiring an exhibit. The sight and smell of smoked meat lured her closer, "if work found out about this I'd suspended..."

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"Good," Scarlett turned the bedroom lights red, "keep worrying about that while you get down to it."

She wrapped her legs around Gemma's head to ensnare her, pulling her in.

"And I could leak it online; the pervert police detective with a meat fetish, and right after strawgate... But you'd let me off like always wouldn't you?"

Gemma thought about work. The nightmares she'd witnessed today; the approaching storm.

She decided to pretend she couldn't get away, and did what Scarlett wanted.

* * *

"...so she looks at the drugs, then at me, and goes 'tell me what I need to pay to get out of this'."

"Aw yea? How much did you charge her this time?"

The constable spread their fingers in a 'v' and stuck their tongue through it. The officers roared with laughter and applause. They were in the control room, lost without orders and loitering between terminal rows. Sprawling wall monitors fed them views of the city.

"Poor girl! If it was your minge on offer I'd have taken prison," Sergeant Webb shook his head and sighed, "bet it smelt like low tide…"

The constable sniffed deeply, "Laak Grimsbeh Docks Sergeant."

More bellicose laughter. Beer bottles chinked. All too loud for them to hear the detective opening his door.

"Officers."

That icy rasp. It needled their spirits in an heartbeat. Luis stood over them, arms crossed.

"We've had tough times lately, and we each handle it our own way but I swear: if I find evidence you've sexually assaulted someone I'm sticking you in a violation club, and you're not coming out till your hips are broken. Do you disapprove?"

The constable looked to their sergeant for the rescue. Webb looked away. Luis pulled himself forward and paced around them; a shark circling a wounded straggler.

"Poor little policemen. Stuck with the one detective who just can't stop putting principles first. I'm not having you hiding in here when R-B attacks. You'd look more dignified dying outside. So put the fucking alcohol down and watch the perimeter!"

The officers jumped from their chairs and scattered. Luis raised his coffee cup to them as they wrestled through the exit.

Alone at last. He spun around on a chair and glanced over the wall monitors. Most of their forces were on deployment, loafing near potential revolution buildings. Southwark itself apparently merited no attention. He could only agree.

He swigged his foul coffee, forcing it down to stay awake. Kendi Estate refused to leave him be. He was supposed to be able to cut corners in this job, but not all corners it seemed. Another lie of privatisation. Another thing he couldn't fight. Two-tier policing, rich and poor, had claimed two more.

War would be called soon. He thought about Gemma. He trusted her to put duty first, if only for her own reasons, but nobody read people like he could. The ones who kept cool for too long didn't just break, they detonated. What would set her off? Scarlett?

He scoffed and returned to the office, a room arranged to Gemma's constipated middle-class tastes. He let it slide most days. She had however returned her obnoxious plant to the shelf over his chair, where it could brush against him whenever he moved. He shut it in the filing cabinet and wished for it to finally die.

News bulletins ticked along the desk. He rested his effects on it - trilby, phone, aviators; the pretentious platinum taser, etched with English lion and Welsh dragon. Since no one was around he lay his vape out too. White noise washed through his phone in an attempt to calm him.

His chest ached. Two innocents had died and he should have saved them. Instead he was here, trapped in this worthless system.

The control room suddenly went berserk. The alarm. Not the brazen R-B warning, but one rapid and strained. Luis's heart leapt up and carried him with it.

Opus Veda were out. Nearby.

And yet no siren? He radioed the officers outside, smugly informing them terrorists were prowling close.

The alarm cut out, mid-flow as if forced. A message pinged on every terminal. A video. He tapped it open and saw the beaked mask leering at him. Across two black eyes, burning bodies flapped like tattered flags.

Luis swiped his effects off the table and hammered his fists down.

"You thieving cunt!".

* * *

Above ground few heard the siren. It echoed through London's tube lines as far as they reached. For the Goldsmiths, squatting the abandoned Jubilee Line, it deafened. They scraped at walls for hiding places as Opus Veda made their home an underworld. Terrorists emerged, glaring with misshapen eyes and baying with splitting shrieks.

The vagrants were overrun. With nowhere to hide they bunched together. Blades hacked at the crowd's edge. Electric barbs tore pieces of them away. The pack shrunk one mortal life at a time.

Jets of gas knocked the last of them out. Once they recovered they found themselves tied up in a line, arranged like dominoes with their leader Goldie at the end.

Spotlights illuminated the night's lesson. Goldie squinted through his jewelled balaclava; saw Rajesh Tomar's executioner pacing before him. He had cheered Opus Veda on back then. Like all those before him, he never imagined he would be next.

He became aware of the potent smell of petrol.

Goldie replayed his life. A boy with big dreams, living for the stage and chancing a career he was too lowbrow for. He had worn masks for audiences as Opus Veda did today, until he was undone by desire. He had followed his Muse's every online move, late into each night, igniting as their conversations turned intimate. Intimacy rewarded him with jealousy, and he pushed too hard. The lover's messages went cold as lover's messages did. All that remained of those hours glued to his phone were screenshots, as theatre became poverty, poverty became substances, and substances became the streets.

The camera rolled. Fire took the first vagrant. The second scrabbled to break free. Terrorists slashed at the ankles before they could. Goldie remembered the day desperation took him over another line he promised never to cross.

He had taken three children, tagged by the secretive accomplices of a powerful buyer. Goldie had convinced himself the youths would be better off for it. All it took was the chance of another hit for the lie to hold.

Then the revolution had stuck their noses in, and when his followers demanded revenge, the danger of losing their support led him across another line. The girls were too unreachable. The boy, too close.

The last of his followers lit up with screams, writhing in the reflection of the Veda's bruised eyes. Knowing it was deserved, peace came over him. The fire turned on him last, and he accepted it.