Opus Veda

Police idled onscreen in a grid of webcams, sharing the sense that doing the job would beat discussing it. The meetings host, Superintendent Morgan, was of many who had been parachuted in from the corporate world. Old policing was spreadsheeted to death, replaced with slideshows, charts, and managerialism.

Thus, despite calling an emergency briefing, Morgan made everyone wait for his arrival.

Luis sat in his office, fuming over the terrorists who took his kill. Then he saw Gemma log in. Late. Most out of character. She appeared panicked and dishevelled, and it gave her away. Floozy Scarlett - with her unholy union of good looks and personality disorder - must have been tribbing her senseless when Morgan called. The thought of Gemma fumbling to log in made Luis smirk behind his hand. Her face was mortified. She knew he knew. He spluttered a laugh through his breath and checked he was on mute.

Morgan logged in, wasted a minute fighting his microphone, and began.

"Thank you for being here on short notice. I just got back from a COBRA about the recent hostility. Whilst the President hasn't declared a state of emergency, we'll be acting behind the media's back as if he did. The Met have been approved some state funding while shareholders remain jittery. And the Home Secretary will petition Buckingham to relax the arms prohibition, as minimal support."

The attendees eased. If the revolution marched on Westminster, a blind eye from China could put enough firepower in republican hands to scare them off.

"However, she also wants us applying more pressure on O-V," Morgan paused, apparently bracing, "…given their recent activity in our jurisdiction, I nominated our station to lead."

O-V. The Blacks. The cases that got police officers beheaded and skinned. The attendees froze. Morgan had to check his internet hadn't cut him off. He pushed on.

"These terrorists have been given free reign long enough. We're fighting on too many fronts and a rattled public swings to those projecting more power. We need a victory in the headlines fast. I want detectives on counter-terrorism starting now, and I want to see tangible steps taken by tomorrow. Questions-"

"Schulz here," Luis spoke up before anyone else could.

"Assistant Detective Schulz did I not send you home earlier?"

"I'm requesting ownership of the vagrant execution. They were my call and if we'd dealt with it properly this could have been avoided. Let me be the one to close it off."

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"Alright. Put something together and we'll take a look tomorrow. But be aware the identified individual is to be left alone until MoI are done with him."

"The identified individual?"

Gemma's eyes narrowed at her partner's flub. Attendees laughed along with Morgan.

"Schulz!? You're supposed to have the sharpest eye in the station. Watch the video again; you'll find our first lead."

The meeting ended. The grid of colleagues fragmented away. Luis swiped his screen clear and reloaded the execution video.

Sure enough there he was; a brief second in the camera's frame; a sick smile as a line of squirming victims belched flames. The Vedic spy in the vagrants midst.

And now the police had his profile. And his profile led to his name.

Kristoff Van Orden.

Luis pushed away from his desk and sprawled backwards, blowing through his mouth.

"Fucking serves you right..."

The video spread globally. Opus Veda, with their potent symbols and the arrogant way they sauntered through chaos, were easily romanticised in developed nations, safely far away.

Their newest lesson - entitled simply 'don't traffic children' - scaled the trending list and took everything else out piecemeal - the swimmer devoured by sharks; the teenager maimed by the Caliphate for masturbating. General Byron fell too, his triumphant speech snuffed out as the public hid indoors. The terrorist's human face scared them even more than the masks. It made Opus Veda real, harder to deny. And if Opus Veda had spies amongst the scum of society, where else were they lurking?

Revolution Britannia avoided responding. They and the Republic dodged each other as both watched over their shoulder. At Kensington Palace their forward captain paced around with nothing to do. The image of his predecessor Taylor, quartered over a club turntable with London's mayor, haunted him.

Varma stood aimless in a cupola room encrusted with monitors and server racks, searching camera feeds for reassurance. His company barely filled the hundreds of rooms they had to defend, and most of the palace remained powerless and decrepit, overrun with mould and pests. Their focus was the palace exterior, where sappers continued to brave the dark, barricading all entrances from attack.

Or escape. He cursed himself for thinking it and returned to the royal apartment. Hyde Park stretched out from the window, vast and black, full of hiding places. A horde of terrorists could be standing in it, waving at him from open fields, and still be invisible.

He shut the curtains.

Kasia ran to Imany's, sensing Black revenge closing in - on she who meddled with vagrants but not well enough. Would they let her off for trying, or kill her for failing? And now Sermon had confirmed their meeting with the Revolution. It was too late to back out. She made it indoors gasping for breath. Imany watched her with a cautionary glare.

She lay on the ground beside Eva and tried to join her in sleep, telling herself she was insignificant. She had to be safe.