lisbeth
𝑠𝘩𝑒'𝑠 ⠀ 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩...
LUCINE DENHOLM
7:15 am.
Lucine Denholm had received a call for Overseer Burgess’s office, on the fourth floor of the AIE HQ, in Belgravia. She was used to being abruptly summoned at undesired times, but it didn’t mean she always expected it. Denholm had surmised the reason behind the meeting, as usually Burgess's secretary, Daphne Tomas, notified her for lesser matters. If he called directly, it meant a matter of urgency, and Lucine understood to not keep a high-priority figure waiting - especially her superior. One could ill afford to reject a gentleman of his calibre; Burgess possessed the inexplicable ability to track anyone, anywhere, anytime, and how he retrieved people depended on his mood. One answered the Overseer of AIE—whether they liked it, or not.
Yesterday, the sun beamed across London. Now sombre clouds veiled it. They mocked London’s citizens, debating whether to harrow its inhabitants with a rainstorm. Typical English weather, Lucine thought as she exited the taxi. July had made its presence known with radiant boscages and suffocating heat. But overnight the air had cooled, to where Lucine had whipped out an overcoat. The weather was erratic in England – summer included. A trademark of England which she detested, even after living here for twenty-four years. However, she couldn’t complain considering she had spent the better part of her life outside the country. Having visited at least thirty-five foreign cities in the past decade, each followed by a memorable adventure.
Lucine left the car park, and merely shielded her head with her arm. Make sure you bring an umbrella, the weatherman said it’ll rain later! Her grandmother’s words scratched at her brain like spiked nails on a chalkboard.
Perhaps she should’ve listened. Lucine weaved past inattentive individuals as they threw their hoods over their heads or scrambled to retrieve an umbrella from their bag (a feeble attempt to escape Mother Nature's oncoming wrath) as they hurried to whoever or wherever.
The building came into view. Five stories high with white brick walls darkened from grime encompassed it. Tinted windows concealed the activity within. The doors permanently closed. A large, mundane, ordinary office building to most passers-by. Notwithstanding, they produced tales to satisfy curiosity’s hunger for secrecy when gossip ran scarce. From it being abandoned, to haunted, to something as extravagant as a site for Government experiments; rumours winded through the community.
Down the alleyway -invisible unless one actively looked for it- beside it, resided a single black door with a fire exit sign above. Lucine swerved into the alleyway, and to anyone who observed, it looked as if she disappeared on the spot. At the door, she checked her flanks, five seconds each, to ensure privacy before she inputted a code into the metallic keypad under the door handle. The door unveiled a miniscule eyehole that Lucine pressed up against. A barely audible click sounded from the door. Lucine opened it and darted through.
Founded in 1990, AIE (Agency of Infiltration and Espionage) was an undisclosed branch of the Secret Intelligence Service. MI6 Operational Officers retrieved information overseas from a recruited national – commonly seen as treacherous for their alliance with the United Kingdom – on potential criminal or terrorist activities. Situations deemed too dangerous, embarrassing, or sensitive for public knowledge, MI6 relayed them to the agency. AIE then aimed to infiltrate and terminate these illegal activities that posed a threat to the country. They handpicked agents from various UK intelligence agencies: for their accomplishments, patriotism, and valour. Field agents abided by the law as much as possible to avoid discovery of their agency. However, accomplished and seasoned agents had more liberty, as mandated by the Overseer.
Everything had a spurious look to it, as though it was a hologram to deceive people; the interior would dissolve to reveal an extra-terrestrial ship. A pristine stone lion fountain, modelled after the royal coat of arms, welcomed her. Two columns on each side of the room towered over Lucine. Every wall gleamed; Daphne Tomas had said the colour was ‘snow day’.
If anyone mindlessly wandered into here, they may think they entered an alternate universe, Denholm thought as her heels click-clacked on the grey porcelain tiles. The shoes were a present from her husband–oh, how it hurt to think about him- last year. He worked as a doctor at London's Royal Hospital, so the man didn’t rival Bill Gates or Jeff Bozo’s wealth but earned enough to spoil her; Lucine protested it, but still graciously accepted his gifts with pretend hesitance.
Inside his office, Sir Lyndon Burgess sat alone at the rectangular table, seated in front of the window, he observed the washed-out city landscape and greenery: legs crossed, and one hand clasped around a small glass of single malt scotch. There was a small cluster of files set in front of him. “Good morning Agent Denholm. I do apologise for the intrusion into your day off. Please, do have a seat," he said vacantly
“It’s a bit early for drinking sir?”
Burgess quaffed the caramel-hued drink, his face warped into a mixture of delight and repugnance. Lucine imagined it felt as if someone set off a blowtorch in his throat, but the mildly piquant taste was still rich enough to enjoy it. She seldom drank. It was dangerous stuff: only for special occasions such as weddings, family gatherings, reuniting friends. “Whiskey has a lot more health benefits than the average human is led to think. I’ve had a tot of it every day for the last ten years and I certainly have no intention of stopping soon.”
Slicked back, medium-length, black hair exposed a high v-shaped hairline albeit showed no signs of receding. Profound, green eyes and untamed, coarse eyebrows seemed in contemplation. There were a few wrinkles parallel along his forehead, and under his eyes - but they were inevitable. A pair of square spectacles perched on his nose. Underneath his linen navy suit, his physique wasn’t intimidating by any means. But the man swaggered with a heaviness that suggested he hit like a train. He was nearing fifty-seven yet looked no older than forty-five.
Crossing your legs will not do you any favours though, she thought as she took her seat. Her late father had solidified the importance of physical health since she had taken her first steps. Everyone’s always hunched over their bloody devices, we may as well remove our spines, he used to exclaim. And Lucine agreed. Weight training or cardiovascular activities were considered foremost but people neglected arguably the most crucial feature of physical health. Without correct posture, one couldn’t continue with intense exercises; it would degrade their body instead. Crossed legs caused the pelvis to tilt on one side; slouching forward caused a rounded spine, and muscle asymmetry in the back; sleeping on your stomach placed strain on the neck and back. Maybe when she retired, she would advocate for the reformation of physical education in school.
“Let’s hurry this up, shall we. I have a meeting with the Chief of Staff soon, over a much-anticipated breakfast at The Grind House.” He opened the thickest file and handed it to Lucine. “Over the past few years, we have linked most of France’s criminal and terrorist activity to a syndicate that oversee everything, known as The Steel Order. It seems everything needs clearance from them beforehand, to keep order – as the name somewhat implies. They’re the Puppet Master and everyone else is their marionette. It’s led by a man called Marius Armand, but we suspect it is no more than an alias as there are no records connected to it; so, it is essentially useless.”
“So, France has a secret society, why is that our concern?”
“A few months ago, MI6 managed to get in contact with a member who believes The Steel Order are getting too big for their boots – he’s who we retrieved the name off. Apparently, they’re branching out. Trading with powers beyond France. It’s suspected they have acquired a nuclear weapon or material of some kind and plan to sell it. This item is an unprecedented threat to everyone as we do not know who they intend to sell it to or for what means. Fortunately, in a couple of days, one of their higher-level members is holding a party in Bruges, Belgium. The mole has offered for us to gain entry.”
Burgess slid a second file across the table, his hand spread across the cover. “I have assigned Agent Genevieve Merlant to accompany you. Both of you will masquerade as associates of his. Miss Merlant worked as an Operational Officer at MI6 for a short period, such as yourself, and is auspicious as you were. Quite frankly, she’s very reminiscent of you a few years ago. However, she tends to tamper with our rules so please keep her in check.”
Lucine mulled it over before saying, “You expect me to operate with someone who doesn’t even hold the slightest respect of our procedures?” She realised she sounded like a petulant child. The name rang a hazy bell, maybe she overheard it in a passing conversation. Whether she knew of Genevieve Merlant prior to this meeting held no importance. Burgess’s last sentence would have reinforced a negative opinion or soured a positive one. Why have a meticulous selection process and established rules if a rash child could waltz in and act on their own accord? Rules are created for species to ensure survival, or societies would collapse into chaos and tumult. AIE’s rules ensured its secrecy and subsequent survival too and Lucine intended to uphold them.
For the first time, Burgess rose from his seat, and casted a faint shadow over her. “I don’t expect you to work with her Agent Denholm, I know you are going to lead her. You wouldn’t have the merit you do without past guidance.” He leaned forward and seized Genevieve’s file. He was in a more uncompromising mood today, and Lucine opted to not exaggerate it. “She’s one of our biggest assets alongside you. But make no mistake, this is no attempt to undermine you,” he asserted. “You’re both booked for a flight at 12 to Brussels in Belgium, and here is your new passport. You will receive the remainder of the details whilst on the flight.” The tone of voice sounded final.
“I understand sir.” Handholding wasn’t ideal, but she didn’t doubt his felicitous assignment of agents. Besides, she had resided to be a desk-jockey once again: ticking boxes and pushing paper. Within each tedious pause of cases, she realised how mundane life had become. Taking her coat, Lucine headed for the exit. She gave a longing glance at the room, as if saying goodbye to a familiar place she might not see again.
“Good luck, Lucine.”
Lucine Denholm had received a call for Overseer Burgess’s office, on the fourth floor of the AIE HQ, in Belgravia. She was used to being abruptly summoned at undesired times, but it didn’t mean she always expected it. Denholm had surmised the reason behind the meeting, as usually Burgess's secretary, Daphne Tomas, notified her for lesser matters. If he called directly, it meant a matter of urgency, and Lucine understood to not keep a high-priority figure waiting - especially her superior. One could ill afford to reject a gentleman of his calibre; Burgess possessed the inexplicable ability to track anyone, anywhere, anytime, and how he retrieved people depended on his mood. One answered the Overseer of AIE—whether they liked it, or not.
Yesterday, the sun beamed across London. Now sombre clouds veiled it. They mocked London’s citizens, debating whether to harrow its inhabitants with a rainstorm. Typical English weather, Lucine thought as she exited the taxi. July had made its presence known with radiant boscages and suffocating heat. But overnight the air had cooled, to where Lucine had whipped out an overcoat. The weather was erratic in England – summer included. A trademark of England which she detested, even after living here for twenty-four years. However, she couldn’t complain considering she had spent the better part of her life outside the country. Having visited at least thirty-five foreign cities in the past decade, each followed by a memorable adventure.
Lucine left the car park, and merely shielded her head with her arm. Make sure you bring an umbrella, the weatherman said it’ll rain later! Her grandmother’s words scratched at her brain like spiked nails on a chalkboard.
Perhaps she should’ve listened. Lucine weaved past inattentive individuals as they threw their hoods over their heads or scrambled to retrieve an umbrella from their bag (a feeble attempt to escape Mother Nature's oncoming wrath) as they hurried to whoever or wherever.
The building came into view. Five stories high with white brick walls darkened from grime encompassed it. Tinted windows concealed the activity within. The doors permanently closed. A large, mundane, ordinary office building to most passers-by. Notwithstanding, they produced tales to satisfy curiosity’s hunger for secrecy when gossip ran scarce. From it being abandoned, to haunted, to something as extravagant as a site for Government experiments; rumours winded through the community.
Down the alleyway -invisible unless one actively looked for it- beside it, resided a single black door with a fire exit sign above. Lucine swerved into the alleyway, and to anyone who observed, it looked as if she disappeared on the spot. At the door, she checked her flanks, five seconds each, to ensure privacy before she inputted a code into the metallic keypad under the door handle. The door unveiled a miniscule eyehole that Lucine pressed up against. A barely audible click sounded from the door. Lucine opened it and darted through.
Founded in 1990, AIE (Agency of Infiltration and Espionage) was an undisclosed branch of the Secret Intelligence Service. MI6 Operational Officers retrieved information overseas from a recruited national – commonly seen as treacherous for their alliance with the United Kingdom – on potential criminal or terrorist activities. Situations deemed too dangerous, embarrassing, or sensitive for public knowledge, MI6 relayed them to the agency. AIE then aimed to infiltrate and terminate these illegal activities that posed a threat to the country. They handpicked agents from various UK intelligence agencies: for their accomplishments, patriotism, and valour. Field agents abided by the law as much as possible to avoid discovery of their agency. However, accomplished and seasoned agents had more liberty, as mandated by the Overseer.
Everything had a spurious look to it, as though it was a hologram to deceive people; the interior would dissolve to reveal an extra-terrestrial ship. A pristine stone lion fountain, modelled after the royal coat of arms, welcomed her. Two columns on each side of the room towered over Lucine. Every wall gleamed; Daphne Tomas had said the colour was ‘snow day’.
If anyone mindlessly wandered into here, they may think they entered an alternate universe, Denholm thought as her heels click-clacked on the grey porcelain tiles. The shoes were a present from her husband–oh, how it hurt to think about him- last year. He worked as a doctor at London's Royal Hospital, so the man didn’t rival Bill Gates or Jeff Bozo’s wealth but earned enough to spoil her; Lucine protested it, but still graciously accepted his gifts with pretend hesitance.
Inside his office, Sir Lyndon Burgess sat alone at the rectangular table, seated in front of the window, he observed the washed-out city landscape and greenery: legs crossed, and one hand clasped around a small glass of single malt scotch. There was a small cluster of files set in front of him. “Good morning Agent Denholm. I do apologise for the intrusion into your day off. Please, do have a seat," he said vacantly
“It’s a bit early for drinking sir?”
Burgess quaffed the caramel-hued drink, his face warped into a mixture of delight and repugnance. Lucine imagined it felt as if someone set off a blowtorch in his throat, but the mildly piquant taste was still rich enough to enjoy it. She seldom drank. It was dangerous stuff: only for special occasions such as weddings, family gatherings, reuniting friends. “Whiskey has a lot more health benefits than the average human is led to think. I’ve had a tot of it every day for the last ten years and I certainly have no intention of stopping soon.”
Slicked back, medium-length, black hair exposed a high v-shaped hairline albeit showed no signs of receding. Profound, green eyes and untamed, coarse eyebrows seemed in contemplation. There were a few wrinkles parallel along his forehead, and under his eyes - but they were inevitable. A pair of square spectacles perched on his nose. Underneath his linen navy suit, his physique wasn’t intimidating by any means. But the man swaggered with a heaviness that suggested he hit like a train. He was nearing fifty-seven yet looked no older than forty-five.
Crossing your legs will not do you any favours though, she thought as she took her seat. Her late father had solidified the importance of physical health since she had taken her first steps. Everyone’s always hunched over their bloody devices, we may as well remove our spines, he used to exclaim. And Lucine agreed. Weight training or cardiovascular activities were considered foremost but people neglected arguably the most crucial feature of physical health. Without correct posture, one couldn’t continue with intense exercises; it would degrade their body instead. Crossed legs caused the pelvis to tilt on one side; slouching forward caused a rounded spine, and muscle asymmetry in the back; sleeping on your stomach placed strain on the neck and back. Maybe when she retired, she would advocate for the reformation of physical education in school.
“Let’s hurry this up, shall we. I have a meeting with the Chief of Staff soon, over a much-anticipated breakfast at The Grind House.” He opened the thickest file and handed it to Lucine. “Over the past few years, we have linked most of France’s criminal and terrorist activity to a syndicate that oversee everything, known as The Steel Order. It seems everything needs clearance from them beforehand, to keep order – as the name somewhat implies. They’re the Puppet Master and everyone else is their marionette. It’s led by a man called Marius Armand, but we suspect it is no more than an alias as there are no records connected to it; so, it is essentially useless.”
“So, France has a secret society, why is that our concern?”
“A few months ago, MI6 managed to get in contact with a member who believes The Steel Order are getting too big for their boots – he’s who we retrieved the name off. Apparently, they’re branching out. Trading with powers beyond France. It’s suspected they have acquired a nuclear weapon or material of some kind and plan to sell it. This item is an unprecedented threat to everyone as we do not know who they intend to sell it to or for what means. Fortunately, in a couple of days, one of their higher-level members is holding a party in Bruges, Belgium. The mole has offered for us to gain entry.”
Burgess slid a second file across the table, his hand spread across the cover. “I have assigned Agent Genevieve Merlant to accompany you. Both of you will masquerade as associates of his. Miss Merlant worked as an Operational Officer at MI6 for a short period, such as yourself, and is auspicious as you were. Quite frankly, she’s very reminiscent of you a few years ago. However, she tends to tamper with our rules so please keep her in check.”
Lucine mulled it over before saying, “You expect me to operate with someone who doesn’t even hold the slightest respect of our procedures?” She realised she sounded like a petulant child. The name rang a hazy bell, maybe she overheard it in a passing conversation. Whether she knew of Genevieve Merlant prior to this meeting held no importance. Burgess’s last sentence would have reinforced a negative opinion or soured a positive one. Why have a meticulous selection process and established rules if a rash child could waltz in and act on their own accord? Rules are created for species to ensure survival, or societies would collapse into chaos and tumult. AIE’s rules ensured its secrecy and subsequent survival too and Lucine intended to uphold them.
For the first time, Burgess rose from his seat, and casted a faint shadow over her. “I don’t expect you to work with her Agent Denholm, I know you are going to lead her. You wouldn’t have the merit you do without past guidance.” He leaned forward and seized Genevieve’s file. He was in a more uncompromising mood today, and Lucine opted to not exaggerate it. “She’s one of our biggest assets alongside you. But make no mistake, this is no attempt to undermine you,” he asserted. “You’re both booked for a flight at 12 to Brussels in Belgium, and here is your new passport. You will receive the remainder of the details whilst on the flight.” The tone of voice sounded final.
“I understand sir.” Handholding wasn’t ideal, but she didn’t doubt his felicitous assignment of agents. Besides, she had resided to be a desk-jockey once again: ticking boxes and pushing paper. Within each tedious pause of cases, she realised how mundane life had become. Taking her coat, Lucine headed for the exit. She gave a longing glance at the room, as if saying goodbye to a familiar place she might not see again.
“Good luck, Lucine.”
coded by natasha.
Last edited:
