The Shadow State *11 May - Ch5 added
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weemadando
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Re: The Shadow State *13 Apr - Ch4 added
Oh, I'll be getting to that. Can't forget that Russia has had a lot of experience in these matters what with Baba Yaga and Koschei The Deathless popping up from time to time and Rasputin still within living memory - to say nothing of the WW2 era experiences with Grindelwald.
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weemadando
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Re: The Shadow State *11 May - Ch5 added
This chapter is a bit messy, I've rewritten parts of it a few times, but it was just not coming together so I figured just post it and move on.
Chapter 5
18 January 1977 0900GMT
10 Downing St, London
Prime Minister Callaghan paces the circumference of his office as the Home Secretary tries to calm him "It's barely nine o'clock. They'll turn up Edward."
"I know, I know Merlyn. But this is such a gamble we're -"
The painted portrait shimmers and quivers for a moment as the three figures snap into reality in front of it. The three men seem ,to be dressed in a mish-mash of wizarding robes, academic gowns and Edwardian formal wear as if no one had decided that the three didn't quite work together. They look confused for a moment. "Minister," Prime Minster Callaghan begins, "You're no doubt now aware that this is not in fact my office."
"What kind of treachery is this?" Spits one of the men with the Minister of Magic as they look around them. The dimensions of the office are all wrong - a clever forced perspective view to make it look correct when viewed from the perspective of the painting. It's elongated shape looks immediately incorrect when viewed from even a step out of place. The false office seems to sitting in some cavernous, darkened space with blindingly bright lights glaring down from far overhead into the ceilingless facade.
"No treachery, just a precaution for all our sake's. I must also warn you that if at any time you make incantations, gestures or move to draw your wands, that there will be consequences. We do not understand the full scope of your abilities and thus, we are naturally fearful of them."
"We understand, but do not appreciate the threat." The Prime Minister ignores the comment and ushers them out of the false office through a space in the wall concealed from the painting's sight by an overlapping arrangement. A line of lights mark the way to a large wooden table surrounded by chairs, sitting in it's own island of flood lights in the inky void.
"Please gentlemen, take your seats. I suppose introductions are in order. I am Prime Minister James Callaghan, with me are my Home Secretary Merlyn Rees and Misters Thompson, Burchest and Clerk from the Home Secretary's office." Hands are raised or heads nodded as the names are spoken.
"Very well Prime Minister." Speaks the Minister in an Edinburgh accent, "I am Lorcan McLaird, current Minister for Magic, with me are the Head of Auror's Tolliver George and my adviser Cornelius Fudge."
"Thank you for the introductions Mr McLaird. Now," Callaghan opens a large, leatherbound binder placed befor him on the table, "The folder in front of you contains the basic agenda for this meeting along with a letter from Her Majesty detailing her support for the proposal which we will discuss."
---
18 January 1988 1002GMT
Somewhere in Western Scotland
"This fucking tree again!" The man throws his bergen to the ground and punches angrily at the air. "Both my compasses held true the whole time. What about yours?"
"Same thing. Not a jitter. But we're back here again. We're getting close now, surely?"
"Have to be. Have to be - it's the only thing that makes sense. We walked for two hours on the same bearing and ended up doubling back somehow." The two men hunker down as winds begin to rise. One brews tea while the other manages a small radio transceiver.
"Hello hello, this is Victor Oscar Two Two, we've just attempted grid nine again with same result. We'll move onto thirteen if that's still clear?" A moment, then the garbled reply.
"Confirmed Victor Oscar Two Two, continue to grid 13."
---
18 January 1977 1119GMT
"The meeting room", somewhere in the UK.
"Minister McLaird, it's quite simple, you cannot claim to be 'merely the duly appointed Minister of Magic' and then claim to be outside of the jurisdiction of the Crown."
"Payment of these duties and excises and income taxes were never part of the original treaty."
"Inland Revenue didn't exist at the time of that treaty's signing. And unless you wish to begin discussing whether or not you have been using magical duress to influence political decision making in this country for centuries, then I think that you should accept that we are now choosing to invoke clause XVI(c) of the original treaty and are renegotiating and not merely forgetting your existence the moment you complete your mandated contact with us." McLaird smoulders as Callaghan pushes on. "Of course, as we are part of the European Economic Community now, the Value Added Tax will also need to be applied."
"What will we see in return?"
"My good man, you are already seeing what you get in return. We all still speak English, not French, German or Russian because of our military. Diagon Alley hasn't been razed in another Great Fire because of our fire fighters and water mains. The children you take are born in our hospitals, take our trains and buses to our schools. Your quaint desire for isolationism is charming and we are willing to offer a great degree of autonomy, but you must accept that you cannot just shove your fingers in your ears, close your eyes and pretend we don't exist now."
---
18 January 1977 1332GMT
Barings Bank, London
Charles Poynton sat, comfortable in his expensive chair, sipping tea from an expensive cup while admiring the view from his window. The fourth floor office was his own domain - he'd earned it with his high volume of precious metals movement. And he'd never let anyone else know who his clients were, there was plenty of speculation though - Central African dictators, Oil Sheikhs and South American strongmen. None of those guesses were even close. He managed millions of pounds worth of movements a day across a variety of precious metals markets, not looking for margins to flip like many of his co-workers but actual exchange. His clients needed to convert money to metals and vice versa. He never asked why. The man he met in Whitehall never gave him those details, just folders of details on where stockpiles were being held and what needed trading and conversion and where to deposit the results. A knock on his office door is followed by his secretary entering. "Sorry Mr Poynton, but they've rescheduled the meeting for three thirty now." He smiles and dismisses her. Such a wonderful sight she was. Still fresh on the eyes - she'd come straight into the role with excellent recommendations just before Christmas. And had proven resistant to his advances so far. Still, if she kept that up she wouldn't be around for much longer.
"Miss Fisher?" He calls after her, "Would you please find me the Spanish and Portugese property holdings files and a copy of the latest market reports for Seville?" She smiles sweetly at him and nods. As she turns to leave again she stumbles and falls. He rushes to assist her, hesitating slightly as he sees that her skirt has fallen, far out of place, "Are you alright Miss Fisher?"
"Why yes," she pauses and fixes him with her most innocent, thankful look, as he helps her "I think I am. Such a gentleman rushing to my aid like that My Poynton. I don't know how to thank you."
---
18 January 1977 1458GMT
"The meeting room", somewhere in the UK.
"This is unacceptable!" Shouts Merlyn, "The threats of this Death Eater cult present an imminent and existential danger to the people of Great Britain, yet you tell us to mind our own business?"
"Involving muggles in this conflict would only endanger them, you have nothing to offer." retorts Fudge. "And it would only serve to create greater dissatisfaction and disillusionment within the wizarding world as to our handling of the matter."
"Did you ever consider Mr Fudge, that there is dissatisfaction and disillusionment because you are incompetent?" Gregory couldn't help himself anymore and had to fire back. The amount of intelligence he'd gathered from hours of just sitting back and letting these egotistical mandarins abuse them was phenomenal. Government and civilian power structures were emerging, details of clashes between noble houses and branches of the Ministry, personal details on a hundred figures who they'd never even known existed before. If these were three of the most powerful men in the Wizarding world - then God help them in their battles. Gregory glances at the Prime Minister and receives a brief nod in return. Time to really test their mettle.
"Incompenent?" TOlliver George bristles at the statement, "We've lived lives beyond your comprehension for centuries and now you think you can so wilfully criticise us?"
"Yes. I do." Replies Smythe. "You seem to think that the luck of being born magical somehow grants you dominion over us. It doesn't. Not anymore. Your pretense of the Ministry of Magic being subordinate while you ran your own fiefdom within our nation needs to end. Because you are dangerous. Not because you are magical, but because you are too stupid to realise how much has changed in four hundred years."
"We do not have to sit here and listen to this," Lorcan McLaird pushes his chair out and stands up, his voice seeming to grow stronger. "We have been cajoled, threatened, tricked and mocked by you Muggles now and we will not hear any more of it. Magic has given us - those born into it's mastery - dominion over the Earth and Muggles for centur-"
"Mr Minister," James Callaghan's voice is low and strong, with a quiet menace, "Not that long ago the people of the Earth heard all this talk of 'master races' and destiny from another man with delusions of importance. Seventy million people died, nations burned and cities were turned to dust to put an end to it. I strongly recommend that you reconsider your tone."
---
18 January 1977 1629GMT
"The meeting room", somewhere in the UK.
"That went better than expected." Callaghan looks down at his page of notes, "We didn't let anything slip did we Gregory?"
"Note that I noted. I doubt they would have picked up on it, Tolliver may have, but the other two seem like bureaucrats who got to the top off connections - Tolliver might have just been playing dumb and toeing the party line. I doubt someone with a lack of savvy survives long enough to advance to his level."
"What now then?"
"We'll continue our work. I expect to be getting some very interesting intelligence over the coming days - see exactly what of this meeting becomes public knowledge and how fast it spreads."
"And any word on Mr Goyle?"
"He remains heavily sedated. We have multiple failsafes in place should he recover prior to us reviving him. Prime Minister I assure you that we will keep you informed." Gregory watches the Prime Minister and Home Secretary depart, escorted by a group of soldiers who appear out of the darkness. "Let's pack it up and relocate. I want to have that thing -" he points to the portrait, "safetied by five o'clock so we'd better start working." The sounds of movement come from all around as headlights start turning on, illuminating sandbag emplacements, armoured vehicles and soldiers surrounding the the fake office and meeting area.
---
19 January 1977 1400GMT
RRH Portreath
The Inquisitor disliked these surroundings, he'd heard the rumours of the room's history - a testing laboratory for the sarin they'd once manufactured here, but testing on what, or who? The whole place - buried far beneath the surface, hidden below the benign surface level buildings of the radar station. He watches his ward intently and notes an involuntary movements of a waking mind, followed by the careful, controlled stillness of someone pretending to be asleep.
"Good morning Mr Goyle, glad to see you are awake again." The dark, hateful eyes flutter and try to focus. The room is a disgusting, institutional white with tiles walls and floors and no windows to be seen. A variety of strange beeping and gurgling machines cluster around his bed, with tubes running into his arms and wires on his chest and head. He see's the man who has spoken - a small, feeble figure in a cheap suit, sitting in a chair by his bed.
"-" A dry, rasping noise.
"Sorry, we'll get you something to drink in a moment, but you have been out for a good hour. I didn't think that we hit you that hard." Goyle violently struggles against his restraints, grunting and moaning, but budging no more than a few millimetres. "It's pointless to struggle Mr Goyle, we just want to talk. Here, have a sip of water."
"Who?"
"Muggles, Mr Goyle. Not Aurors or Wizards or Witches or anything so fancy."
"Then speak and I will relay your grovelling to my master."
"Masterful display of bravado Mr Goyle. My goodness, I suppose I had better just let you go right this moment." Goyle stares with hatred. The muscles of his forearms twitching. After a few moments he stops.
"My hands?" Goyle strains to see his hands, "I cannot move them."
"Encased in several inches of epoxy. It seemed to be the safest option. While we are discussing the topic of magic - do not attempt to use any magic in this area. Any future attempts will result in immediate and crippling pain. If you answer our questions, we'll see about releasing your hands. If you continue to cooperate, we may even let you go free rather than turning you over to the Aurors."
"I will never answer your questions Muggle."
"Very well Mr Goyle. We'll be back tomorrow to ask again." The man exits the small room, leaving Mr Goyle in his confinement. As he leaves, Goyle can see nothing except a blank, concrete wall beyond the door. The man seals the door behind him and enters and combination to open a heavy, steel door. An airlock, and another vault door later, he emerges into a control room of sorts, filled with television monitors and control panels. "Put him back under gently. Then bring him back in 75 minutes and we'll start over. And stay vigilant - always at least 3 people watching and on the dead-mans switches.
---
20 January 1977 0253GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
The tiny figure appeared on the street for a fleeting moment - just long enough to drop a small satchel and pick up an identical one from the sheltered doorway. One of the Watchers moves in to collect it. In the main observation post a group of analysts sit around a cheap laminate table with electric radiators blasting heat from their orange bars all around them.
"What's in today's haul?" Asks a new arrival.
"Newspapers and magazines mostly along with the usual mix of empty chocolate wrappers and buttons. And these - if you can figure them out, you're doing better than us." The item is a small scrap of paper with a series of scrawlings on it in no particular order or sense.
"Bloody hell. This is English it's written in right?"
"Seems to be. There's not much we could get. One of them we think might say Park - something. The only thing we can agree on is at the bottom it seems to be a picture of three stickmen in a box on wheels."
"Park Road maybe?"
"Yeah, that's definitely road now that you say that."
"And so that looks like a ... something ... road too over here then."
"The little guy's drawn us a road map."
"No, the little guy has drawn the Three Bobs a road map."
"And what's that scribble there then? It's not a sign or anything else that would make sense."
"Maybe it's a mark that they'll leave there - indicate a dead drop or something?"
"Really? These guys? A dead drop?" A few dismissive snorts from the other Watchers and analysts end the line of questioning.
"I guess someone should really go wake the Bobs up. They'll probably understand this better than any of us - and we better get them going, if that's a clock," another crudely etched pictograph is pointed out, "Then we've got less than an hour to get them to this meeting."
Chapter 5
18 January 1977 0900GMT
10 Downing St, London
Prime Minister Callaghan paces the circumference of his office as the Home Secretary tries to calm him "It's barely nine o'clock. They'll turn up Edward."
"I know, I know Merlyn. But this is such a gamble we're -"
The painted portrait shimmers and quivers for a moment as the three figures snap into reality in front of it. The three men seem ,to be dressed in a mish-mash of wizarding robes, academic gowns and Edwardian formal wear as if no one had decided that the three didn't quite work together. They look confused for a moment. "Minister," Prime Minster Callaghan begins, "You're no doubt now aware that this is not in fact my office."
"What kind of treachery is this?" Spits one of the men with the Minister of Magic as they look around them. The dimensions of the office are all wrong - a clever forced perspective view to make it look correct when viewed from the perspective of the painting. It's elongated shape looks immediately incorrect when viewed from even a step out of place. The false office seems to sitting in some cavernous, darkened space with blindingly bright lights glaring down from far overhead into the ceilingless facade.
"No treachery, just a precaution for all our sake's. I must also warn you that if at any time you make incantations, gestures or move to draw your wands, that there will be consequences. We do not understand the full scope of your abilities and thus, we are naturally fearful of them."
"We understand, but do not appreciate the threat." The Prime Minister ignores the comment and ushers them out of the false office through a space in the wall concealed from the painting's sight by an overlapping arrangement. A line of lights mark the way to a large wooden table surrounded by chairs, sitting in it's own island of flood lights in the inky void.
"Please gentlemen, take your seats. I suppose introductions are in order. I am Prime Minister James Callaghan, with me are my Home Secretary Merlyn Rees and Misters Thompson, Burchest and Clerk from the Home Secretary's office." Hands are raised or heads nodded as the names are spoken.
"Very well Prime Minister." Speaks the Minister in an Edinburgh accent, "I am Lorcan McLaird, current Minister for Magic, with me are the Head of Auror's Tolliver George and my adviser Cornelius Fudge."
"Thank you for the introductions Mr McLaird. Now," Callaghan opens a large, leatherbound binder placed befor him on the table, "The folder in front of you contains the basic agenda for this meeting along with a letter from Her Majesty detailing her support for the proposal which we will discuss."
---
18 January 1988 1002GMT
Somewhere in Western Scotland
"This fucking tree again!" The man throws his bergen to the ground and punches angrily at the air. "Both my compasses held true the whole time. What about yours?"
"Same thing. Not a jitter. But we're back here again. We're getting close now, surely?"
"Have to be. Have to be - it's the only thing that makes sense. We walked for two hours on the same bearing and ended up doubling back somehow." The two men hunker down as winds begin to rise. One brews tea while the other manages a small radio transceiver.
"Hello hello, this is Victor Oscar Two Two, we've just attempted grid nine again with same result. We'll move onto thirteen if that's still clear?" A moment, then the garbled reply.
"Confirmed Victor Oscar Two Two, continue to grid 13."
---
18 January 1977 1119GMT
"The meeting room", somewhere in the UK.
"Minister McLaird, it's quite simple, you cannot claim to be 'merely the duly appointed Minister of Magic' and then claim to be outside of the jurisdiction of the Crown."
"Payment of these duties and excises and income taxes were never part of the original treaty."
"Inland Revenue didn't exist at the time of that treaty's signing. And unless you wish to begin discussing whether or not you have been using magical duress to influence political decision making in this country for centuries, then I think that you should accept that we are now choosing to invoke clause XVI(c) of the original treaty and are renegotiating and not merely forgetting your existence the moment you complete your mandated contact with us." McLaird smoulders as Callaghan pushes on. "Of course, as we are part of the European Economic Community now, the Value Added Tax will also need to be applied."
"What will we see in return?"
"My good man, you are already seeing what you get in return. We all still speak English, not French, German or Russian because of our military. Diagon Alley hasn't been razed in another Great Fire because of our fire fighters and water mains. The children you take are born in our hospitals, take our trains and buses to our schools. Your quaint desire for isolationism is charming and we are willing to offer a great degree of autonomy, but you must accept that you cannot just shove your fingers in your ears, close your eyes and pretend we don't exist now."
---
18 January 1977 1332GMT
Barings Bank, London
Charles Poynton sat, comfortable in his expensive chair, sipping tea from an expensive cup while admiring the view from his window. The fourth floor office was his own domain - he'd earned it with his high volume of precious metals movement. And he'd never let anyone else know who his clients were, there was plenty of speculation though - Central African dictators, Oil Sheikhs and South American strongmen. None of those guesses were even close. He managed millions of pounds worth of movements a day across a variety of precious metals markets, not looking for margins to flip like many of his co-workers but actual exchange. His clients needed to convert money to metals and vice versa. He never asked why. The man he met in Whitehall never gave him those details, just folders of details on where stockpiles were being held and what needed trading and conversion and where to deposit the results. A knock on his office door is followed by his secretary entering. "Sorry Mr Poynton, but they've rescheduled the meeting for three thirty now." He smiles and dismisses her. Such a wonderful sight she was. Still fresh on the eyes - she'd come straight into the role with excellent recommendations just before Christmas. And had proven resistant to his advances so far. Still, if she kept that up she wouldn't be around for much longer.
"Miss Fisher?" He calls after her, "Would you please find me the Spanish and Portugese property holdings files and a copy of the latest market reports for Seville?" She smiles sweetly at him and nods. As she turns to leave again she stumbles and falls. He rushes to assist her, hesitating slightly as he sees that her skirt has fallen, far out of place, "Are you alright Miss Fisher?"
"Why yes," she pauses and fixes him with her most innocent, thankful look, as he helps her "I think I am. Such a gentleman rushing to my aid like that My Poynton. I don't know how to thank you."
---
18 January 1977 1458GMT
"The meeting room", somewhere in the UK.
"This is unacceptable!" Shouts Merlyn, "The threats of this Death Eater cult present an imminent and existential danger to the people of Great Britain, yet you tell us to mind our own business?"
"Involving muggles in this conflict would only endanger them, you have nothing to offer." retorts Fudge. "And it would only serve to create greater dissatisfaction and disillusionment within the wizarding world as to our handling of the matter."
"Did you ever consider Mr Fudge, that there is dissatisfaction and disillusionment because you are incompetent?" Gregory couldn't help himself anymore and had to fire back. The amount of intelligence he'd gathered from hours of just sitting back and letting these egotistical mandarins abuse them was phenomenal. Government and civilian power structures were emerging, details of clashes between noble houses and branches of the Ministry, personal details on a hundred figures who they'd never even known existed before. If these were three of the most powerful men in the Wizarding world - then God help them in their battles. Gregory glances at the Prime Minister and receives a brief nod in return. Time to really test their mettle.
"Incompenent?" TOlliver George bristles at the statement, "We've lived lives beyond your comprehension for centuries and now you think you can so wilfully criticise us?"
"Yes. I do." Replies Smythe. "You seem to think that the luck of being born magical somehow grants you dominion over us. It doesn't. Not anymore. Your pretense of the Ministry of Magic being subordinate while you ran your own fiefdom within our nation needs to end. Because you are dangerous. Not because you are magical, but because you are too stupid to realise how much has changed in four hundred years."
"We do not have to sit here and listen to this," Lorcan McLaird pushes his chair out and stands up, his voice seeming to grow stronger. "We have been cajoled, threatened, tricked and mocked by you Muggles now and we will not hear any more of it. Magic has given us - those born into it's mastery - dominion over the Earth and Muggles for centur-"
"Mr Minister," James Callaghan's voice is low and strong, with a quiet menace, "Not that long ago the people of the Earth heard all this talk of 'master races' and destiny from another man with delusions of importance. Seventy million people died, nations burned and cities were turned to dust to put an end to it. I strongly recommend that you reconsider your tone."
---
18 January 1977 1629GMT
"The meeting room", somewhere in the UK.
"That went better than expected." Callaghan looks down at his page of notes, "We didn't let anything slip did we Gregory?"
"Note that I noted. I doubt they would have picked up on it, Tolliver may have, but the other two seem like bureaucrats who got to the top off connections - Tolliver might have just been playing dumb and toeing the party line. I doubt someone with a lack of savvy survives long enough to advance to his level."
"What now then?"
"We'll continue our work. I expect to be getting some very interesting intelligence over the coming days - see exactly what of this meeting becomes public knowledge and how fast it spreads."
"And any word on Mr Goyle?"
"He remains heavily sedated. We have multiple failsafes in place should he recover prior to us reviving him. Prime Minister I assure you that we will keep you informed." Gregory watches the Prime Minister and Home Secretary depart, escorted by a group of soldiers who appear out of the darkness. "Let's pack it up and relocate. I want to have that thing -" he points to the portrait, "safetied by five o'clock so we'd better start working." The sounds of movement come from all around as headlights start turning on, illuminating sandbag emplacements, armoured vehicles and soldiers surrounding the the fake office and meeting area.
---
19 January 1977 1400GMT
RRH Portreath
The Inquisitor disliked these surroundings, he'd heard the rumours of the room's history - a testing laboratory for the sarin they'd once manufactured here, but testing on what, or who? The whole place - buried far beneath the surface, hidden below the benign surface level buildings of the radar station. He watches his ward intently and notes an involuntary movements of a waking mind, followed by the careful, controlled stillness of someone pretending to be asleep.
"Good morning Mr Goyle, glad to see you are awake again." The dark, hateful eyes flutter and try to focus. The room is a disgusting, institutional white with tiles walls and floors and no windows to be seen. A variety of strange beeping and gurgling machines cluster around his bed, with tubes running into his arms and wires on his chest and head. He see's the man who has spoken - a small, feeble figure in a cheap suit, sitting in a chair by his bed.
"-" A dry, rasping noise.
"Sorry, we'll get you something to drink in a moment, but you have been out for a good hour. I didn't think that we hit you that hard." Goyle violently struggles against his restraints, grunting and moaning, but budging no more than a few millimetres. "It's pointless to struggle Mr Goyle, we just want to talk. Here, have a sip of water."
"Who?"
"Muggles, Mr Goyle. Not Aurors or Wizards or Witches or anything so fancy."
"Then speak and I will relay your grovelling to my master."
"Masterful display of bravado Mr Goyle. My goodness, I suppose I had better just let you go right this moment." Goyle stares with hatred. The muscles of his forearms twitching. After a few moments he stops.
"My hands?" Goyle strains to see his hands, "I cannot move them."
"Encased in several inches of epoxy. It seemed to be the safest option. While we are discussing the topic of magic - do not attempt to use any magic in this area. Any future attempts will result in immediate and crippling pain. If you answer our questions, we'll see about releasing your hands. If you continue to cooperate, we may even let you go free rather than turning you over to the Aurors."
"I will never answer your questions Muggle."
"Very well Mr Goyle. We'll be back tomorrow to ask again." The man exits the small room, leaving Mr Goyle in his confinement. As he leaves, Goyle can see nothing except a blank, concrete wall beyond the door. The man seals the door behind him and enters and combination to open a heavy, steel door. An airlock, and another vault door later, he emerges into a control room of sorts, filled with television monitors and control panels. "Put him back under gently. Then bring him back in 75 minutes and we'll start over. And stay vigilant - always at least 3 people watching and on the dead-mans switches.
---
20 January 1977 0253GMT
Charing Cross Rd, London
The tiny figure appeared on the street for a fleeting moment - just long enough to drop a small satchel and pick up an identical one from the sheltered doorway. One of the Watchers moves in to collect it. In the main observation post a group of analysts sit around a cheap laminate table with electric radiators blasting heat from their orange bars all around them.
"What's in today's haul?" Asks a new arrival.
"Newspapers and magazines mostly along with the usual mix of empty chocolate wrappers and buttons. And these - if you can figure them out, you're doing better than us." The item is a small scrap of paper with a series of scrawlings on it in no particular order or sense.
"Bloody hell. This is English it's written in right?"
"Seems to be. There's not much we could get. One of them we think might say Park - something. The only thing we can agree on is at the bottom it seems to be a picture of three stickmen in a box on wheels."
"Park Road maybe?"
"Yeah, that's definitely road now that you say that."
"And so that looks like a ... something ... road too over here then."
"The little guy's drawn us a road map."
"No, the little guy has drawn the Three Bobs a road map."
"And what's that scribble there then? It's not a sign or anything else that would make sense."
"Maybe it's a mark that they'll leave there - indicate a dead drop or something?"
"Really? These guys? A dead drop?" A few dismissive snorts from the other Watchers and analysts end the line of questioning.
"I guess someone should really go wake the Bobs up. They'll probably understand this better than any of us - and we better get them going, if that's a clock," another crudely etched pictograph is pointed out, "Then we've got less than an hour to get them to this meeting."
Re: The Shadow State *11 May - Ch5 added
Will this be contuined?
Colt won the West
Webley won the Rest
Webley won the Rest
Re: The Shadow State *11 May - Ch5 added
*screams in anger*
Why is it a necro!
Why is it a necro!