Opus Veda

Assignment day. Kasia lay on her bed, faking normality by chatting to oblivious friends, nervously awaiting destiny.

Her alarm went. Time to do the unthinkable: she turned her phone off and hid it under her bed. Gathering what she did need, she made it to the door. A final moment of doubt held her back - fears of arrest, violence, humiliation - but the potential rewards were too seductive.

She carried on.

Sermon was already there. Kasia joined him in an uneven, boggy car park; their meeting spot behind a high street loud with the business of tacky shops. They acknowledged each other and waited silently, awkward and out of place, as misty sideways rain drifted their way.

The pickup arrived, crunching over the shingles to park. It was an old Royal Mail van, windowless and compact, familiar and inconspicuous. Conveniently red too, Kasia noted, though the driver's cabin had been tinted.

They waited for a cue, and found none. They shuffled forward. Sermon raised his fist to knock. Before it made contact, the side door slid open; a hand pulled him in. Luca sat them on folding seats and hammered the roof. Three other recruits were bunched around him.

"This is Sermon and Kasia," Luca motioned to the others, "Zenia, Daryl, Curtis. The guys up front you won't be dealing with."

Sermon checked behind him and found a partition blocking the drivers off. He tried to lighten the mood, saying how lovely the weather was for a day out. Luca flicked his head in agreement. Everyone else kept quiet, still figuring each other out.

Kasia, ever defensive, formed a cynical impression of her teammates. Zenia seemed most out of place; genderless and alt, with brown dreads and piercings. She at least looked able to fight. Daryl was wiry and unkempt, a man easily mistaken for a vagrant, poised to blow at the first challenge. Curtis had the opposite problem - still visibly poor, with a shaved head and etched frown, but with a lumpen dimness that made him unthreatening. Kasia doubted she'd get close to them, and didn't care to. Luca she did like; boyish but comfortable, and in charge.

He began his brief.

"A reminder that you are working for nobody; you are zero hour workers picking up the odd gig; a courier service for hire. We'll visit a few places tonight to exchange packages, and I will watch you handle yourself. And that's all you have to do! Stay composed, be reliable, better opportunities may come."

Sermon sniffed, and scratched his brow.

"What's in the packages?"

"Doesn't matter. Your job is to deliver and collect, not to open and ponder."

"Are they heavy? Explosive? Alive?"

"If there was anything you needed to be aware of I would have told you. You just have to pick them up…" Luca huffed, "but I will say if the police catch you they'll have a pretty good time of it."

Sermon swatted the air and snorted.

"Drug distribution!? Didn't you check my background? I could dead drop with a headset on -"

"I'll expect you not to lose your cool then," Luca addressed the others, "you all wanna do work like this forever? This is literally the easiest you're going to get it, you need be discreet and professional. I don't want cowards or glory hunters."

"No Man City supporters then?" Daryl chucked.

"Not unless you're from Manchester, and the correct part Manchester."

"Naturally..."

The men began arguing about the Super League. Kasia considered her destiny. It had arrived; she was a delivery girl. For all her training, her food shop would have been better practice. As they rocked and swayed to their destination she fell drowsy. She rested her head against the cabin's cold metal.

Someone banged on the other side.

A rattling garage door closed the van in. The room felt humid and reeked of chemicals. A faint radio chattered from the rear office, mingling with the clanking of tools and the whisper of hoses. Artificial light fought around gigantic side washers dripping with suds.

Swarthy workers emerged from these pillars and surrounded the recruits. Kasia found it unnerving and unnecessary - they were meant to be on the same side. The oldest and fattest of them barked in Arabic. His closest employee started brushing the recruits with a scanner. Zenia and Curtis passed quietly.

It was obvious from Daryl's moaning he was going to set it off. The scanner waved over his ribcage and rang with clicks and whistles. The manager stomped forward, rustled under Daryl's jacket, and pulled out a steel rectangle. With a trained swish he flicked it open to reveal a blade.

"What is this, my friend?"

"It's for me walk 'ome! I live in a rough area mate!" Daryl tried to sound matter of fact but came across whiny. Luca placed himself between the two men.

"And didn't I tell you, my friend, not to turn up armed?"

"Yes Luca..." Daryl backed down. Luca pushed him away and addressed the manager in broken Arabic.

"Please forgive me, friend. They have the first day today. Much nerves."

"Does this look like a crèche you fucking shoe? How difficult is it to check the new guys beforehand?"

"I promise to you! All of we work for same team. I teach them more; before you can say Allah Akbar I have five soldiers stand in front of you."

Luca opened his palm to Kasia and Sermon, the scanning continued. Kasia stared ahead, visibly nervous as foreign eyes seared into her. The worker stepped back, and moved on to Sermon.

The manager was already on him, sniffing the air around Sermon's jacket.

"You bring fags for us?"

Sermon's eyes darted about, computing the options.

"Are you buyin' boss?"

"Which you have?"

"Lesser Panda, bought from a reliable old soldier in an imperial barracks. Always sealed, always uncut."

The manager grunted in disagreement. Sermon produced two cigarettes and held them up.

"Try?"

Uncertain glances were exchanged. Luca grit his teeth as his recruit hijacked the assignment. The manager spent a few seconds rubbing his beard, and slapped Sermon's arm. The workers passed their free cigarettes around and eased off.

The recruits got to work. Dragging a heap of large sacks into the van. Three times Luca had to yank Kasia into place, as she kept getting in peoples way. She would have blamed herself, but no one said if she had to rush or treat the delivery carefully, so she blamed everyone else.

After heaving the final sack on board, she spotted Luca handing the manager a slim metallic case. It had to be cash. Given its size it could have even been Chinese sovereigns - gold coins more coveted than England's bricks of notes.

They drove away. Luca waited for distance to pass and started on the wrongdoer.

"Daryl what the fuck were you thinking? I told you not to bring anything! You put the lot of us at risk."

"7 grand that knife cost me!" Daryl flailed against the seatbelt, "when am I gonna get it back!?"

"You can buy another one when you earn 7 grand through us. You should have listened to me."

"I brought it 'cause we 'aven't been trained to defend ourselves!"

"You job isn't to defend yourself you are a delivery assistant. Your job is to shut your mouth and lift our sacks."

Daryl pointed at Sermon, "an' sellin' fags is alright is it!?"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Sermon tutted and turned away. Luca clicked at him.

"No it was not okay, and if he brings smokes again he's out. What's your excuse then Sermon, needed them for self-defence did you?"

"Brings the luck of the Panda, as you saw; and I gotta agree with this guy about trainin'," he nodded at Daryl, "what we gonna do if we're attacked?"

"You'll have to get stabbed and die, won't ya!" Luca folded his arms, "as if you're important enough for any more than what you've got… I think we found the egos in the group; you should be more like these ladies here. Nice and quiet…"

Zenia and Kasia smirked. Curtis gawped to himself. Daryl and Sermon muttered and went into sulking.

The other drops passed without trouble, each involving similar premises - garages, warehouses, depots. Kasia eased into her courier role; a destiny she could manage safely. Still, each recipient met them with tension, with no clear reason why.

As they departed from the last drop, the recipient told them with a grin to 'spend it wisely'.

And there, Kasia knew with a sinking heart, was the reason.

She had assumed the sacks contained drugs. That Luca had been exchanging coin for pills.

It was the other way around. The recruits were sat on fat rolls of sterling - enough to end their hardships a hundred times over.

Luca sat back and waited for someone to try. His recruits were deathly quiet. Plausible schemes darted around their heads. All they had to do was get past him. He expected Daryl to break first; the rest would seize the moment and follow.

He rested his hand inside his jacket.

"You know wha' I think little man..." Daryl slapped Luca's knee, "I think you should dip into one o' them sacks and fetch me 7k for me losses."

"And ah fink we'd be held captive till we gave it back. This isn't our money. When we deliver it you'll get paid."

Daryl turned to his teammates.

"Even one o' them sacks could fix us all up for years wha' you playin' at? Le'ss make off wiv a cut we deserve," he stared at Luca, rising with confidence, "an' you'll be grateful we left you wiv the rest, and your pretty li'l face intact."

Zenia fidgeted. Curtis kept still in way that felt forced. Kasia took the chance, for once, to outdo Sermon.

"I came here to get somewhere higher; you won't get nothing with that money if the country's still broken."

"Then you don't fuckin' know what it's like out there, do ya!?"

Daryl spat at her. She pushed back against the cabin in fright. Sermon yelled and clutched his jacket's panther badge as if it were a weapon to defuse tension. Daryl laughed and pulled himself up.

Something shrill whistled through the van. A bolt of crackling energy pounded Daryl's chest. He dropped to the floor and spasmed violently. The other recruits froze as the bloodied bolt snaked back to the taser in Luca's hand. Luca reclined casually, with cold calm on his face, and reloaded.

He called for the drivers to pull over. Daryl writhed, gasping for air and swearing. Luca looked down on him with disappointment.

"Congratulations Daryl. Unemployed again... I won't have you causing a scene though. Kasia?"

"Yes!?"

"You wanted to get somewhere higher?" he flicked his hand between her and Daryl, "choke him out."

Kasia stumbled. The heap laying at her feet spluttered miserably. It felt cruel to make him suffer more.

Luca refused to let her hesitate.

"What's wrong? You ran into a vagrant den and risked your life now you can't manage this? Is this guy any better than any of those you saw killed?"

A hand pushed her gently from behind. Sermon's. He knelt and pinned Daryl's arms back to give Kasia an easier time. She lowered down and gripped her forearm around Daryl's neck. After a quick, violent scuffle, he flopped.

They found an abandoned bustop covered in sagging tape and broken glass, and left Daryl blacked out under it. Luca spent the rest of the journey toying with his sidearm. Kasia clutched her euphoric heart. The recruits behaved.

They made it to the end. Luca led them into the biggest depot yet. Security patrolled from catwalks above. A hundred workers busied themselves below, handling supplies for what Kasia could only assume was to be a siege of London.

Now she realised how five recruits could be tested with the money they had. To Revolution Britannia, it was pocket change.

Once the recruits emptied their cargo Luca thanked them, and handed each a thick envelope of money. He shut them into the van to be taken home. Left to themselves the surviving recruits talked more freely. Zenia admitted with self-aware embarrassment she had been non-binary long after the trend had died out, but in starting this role she was unsure again. Curtis waited for a chance to ask Sermon about cigarettes and Sermon blagged a new customer. Everyone congratulated Kasia on her actions, making her beam with pride.

They promised to add each other as friends and separated.

It was 5am when Kasia got home but she was beyond tired; wired from her scrap with Daryl. She had fought vagrants already but this felt more official, like an execution, and she had been picked over anyone else.

She scrabbled for her phone and caught up on her feed, glowing when she found Zenia and Curtis's friend requests. Then she decided to wake her daughter up.

"Cześć moja córko," Kasia tiptoed to rest her head on the Eva's mattress. Eva rubbed her eyes and yawned.

"Were you out last night?"

"Yea, and look what I got for you," she waved a £500 note in Eva's face. Eva jolted awake.

"Kurwa macz… dziękuję bardzo! Where did you get this!?"

"I won it at work! We had a kind of... trial game…"

"You what? You never win anythin' you're crap at gamin'."

Kasia shrugged and handed the note over, "well, what you gonna spend it on?"

Eva studied the note, and rolled it into a tube, "I might keep it like this and do gear with it."

"Will you now!?" Kasia leant forwards with praying hands, "can I 'ave some?"

"I'll have a word with my dealer," Eva jumped from the bunk and shut herself in the wash corner, "you just keep winnin' them games."

Kasia held the packet of money against her nose and breathed. All the things she could buy.... she wanted more work, and she wanted to train more and earn it too. Everything so far had been the perfect balance of easy and challenging; rewards drip fed to her at just the right pace - quick, gradual, and small.

If she kept it up, the greatest reward lay ahead, in the shape of a uniformed man.

She waited for Eva to leave for school, locked herself indoors, and let her desires decide the rest of her day.

* * *

O-V were not used to being traced. The unlucky constables chosen to attack them expected harsh response, and so after filling the house with tear gas, they stormed in and to their relief found it empty.

Two figures paced through the settling gas to confirm their first suspicion: the enemy had known they were coming and fled. The second suspicion - that a trap waited instead - was yet to be proven.

Gemma swept the house with relish. Too much of her job had been reduced to data collection. Here was real detective work, and if she was lucky, a chance to put her martial skills to use.

The house's interior was as decrepit as its outside; carpets stripped away, battered wooden planks and loose strips of tack remaining. From every corner of every room branched the speckled veins of black mould. The only furniture was a folding bed in the lounge. Luis lifted the mattress up with his polished Chelsea boot.

"No vigilantes lurking under here."

"Yes, but get a proper smell of it, and look at the ceiling," Gemma pointed at the circles of nicotine stains above.

"Oh a drug addict for sure," Luis puffed on his vape, "this Kristoff of ours could be a vagrant informant, if not a fully fledged terrorist."

"I'm not sure about that. The way he smiled as they lit up… he was far from coerced."

Sergeant Webb called the detectives from the kitchen. The room was gutted. Gemma guessed the appliances were sold to feed the addiction.

A pile of printed photos rested on the counter.

"There's our Kristoff," she raised the top photo, "with his sister no? See if she comes up."

Luis tapped his aviators online and scanned the girl. Gemma flicked through the images. Each showed the siblings, lean and poor. There was weight under their eyes - youth having to grow up too fast. Kristoff looked in his mid 20's, though with a bald head and slim frame. His sister, no more than 12, looked hapless and vulnerable.

They clearly had a close relationship. Gemma deduced they lived here; absence of parents told her Kristoff was her carer. For the girl's sake, Gemma hoped this wasn't a serious drug den.

"No she's not coming up at all," Luis took another photo off Gemma, "do the Blacks expunge relatives? Or could the girl also be involved somehow?"

Gemma stopped. She whipped her glasses off and clicked her fingers for the photo in Luis's hand. Placing them back in order she restarted. Both detectives caught the sequence - a chronological narrative of the siblings life.

Something about the girl turned. Scans of paperwork followed - medical insurance claims rejected, loan applications denied, charity appeals with queues into the years. So many flavours of corporate excuses. The girl turned pallid grey. Her eyes hollowed into her skull. Kristoff appeared earnest, then desperate, then resigned.

In the final photo he stood alone, holding a cheap urn. The mural behind it was not a holiday destination - some dreamland never reached - but a hospital. A funeral used as a political statement. In this photo, his resignation had surrendered to contempt.

Luis exhaled through his fingers, pushing sadness back. Gemma sealed the photos in an evidence bag and handed them over.

"Still think our man's a vagrant?"

"Not at all. You have the textbook case right here," Luis flapped the bag, "the birth of a terrorist."

"He sold his possessions to pay for her healthcare then."

"Yes. And when his sister died, drugs filled the void, until someone in a mask offered him a darker vice. We should -"

An earsplitting siren. The room shook. Constables pointed their weapons in all directions and yelled. Webb shouted at the detectives to leave but above the screech nothing could be heard. He held his phone up and pointed at it frantically. They were receiving phone calls, their ringtones changed to the Veda's cry, the caller profile a dead girl's decaying face.

The girl from the photos. Her eyes rolled forward and fixed on Gemma's. The bruise on her left eye grew. Her mouth stretched into a smile. Opus Veda's wail crescendoed high.

Gemma went white.

"Everyone get out! Now!"

It was too late. The house roared with stress. The floors churned and blinding debris flew upwards. Half the officers were cramming through the door when the blast tore through them. Luis crawled choking across the splintered floor to his partner. She was slumped and motionless. He pulled her over his shoulder and limped outside, moaning with pain.

Outside was worse. Several officers were quartered along the road in smoking chunks. Webb tried to secure a getaway vehicle but all were obliterated. In the centre of the police column he found the source of the blast: the blackened skeleton of the detective's car. More unsettling still, the usual crowds filming such a scene were nowhere.

The entire area was deserted.

The internet shorted nationwide, only for a second, too quickly for anyone to question it.

But Kristoff's face, glimpsed in the video of the vagrant massacre, had changed into infinite alternatives, and nobody knew which was the truth.

Nor did they notice the original image, the man's true face, had been taken offline forever.