In a centre, windowless office two men sat drinking scotch in the low, smoky light. The office was furnished with trappings twenty years out of date. The walls were faux-wood panelled and stained with two decades of cigarette smoke. On their blemished surface hung pictures commemorating various handshakes, a shadow box with four rows of campaign ribbons, twin epaulets of the rank Rear Admiral and a Knighting Order, Star Edward of Roses. Next to the shadowbox was a painting of a Gibraltar Class Battleship; the HMS Starboard Home commissioned in 1947, the first of her class, flagship of the Atlantic Fleet and Freshman command of then Commodore Laurence Milford Addington.

Addington looked at the man seated across from him and smiled. "I want to know how things are progressing, no bullshit just tell me if the numbers are there." The younger man known by all as simply Mister Dawson nodded. "It's coming along, we have some problems with assembly but for the most part two are a lock." Dawson sipped his scotch and picked invisible lint from his tailored grey suit. Addington harrumphed, downed his glass and stood shakily to pour himself another. "The two doctors; Grant and the piss-head? I already know about. Is she a pain in the ass like her father was?" The man asked.

Dawson frowned. "I have only worked with Doctor Nagarajan during her time with ASPs, I never met her father. The cover is still intact I will be contacting her to usher the project along." Addington winced as he sat with a full glass of the twenty-five year old scotch. "Did von Sect give you a man to use to corral this bunch when it finally does bear fruit?" He asked taking a sip of his drink. "I don't want any fuck ups like when we tried this in '95." The other man smiled. "He has a good fit at his disposal, a 'lancer by all rights but a fine asset." The older man slammed his hand on the great wooden desk, making the various accoutrements upon it rattle. "I don't like mercenaries; they are in it for money and little else. They have no conviction. Use a uniform, Duke's Highguard maybe." Dawson shook his head. "A uniform can be traced back to us, Rooster fits the bill."

The older man relented. "I guess you know this business far better than I. After all, I'm just the bastard that writes the cheques." Dawson nodded and smiled taking a manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket and sliding it across to Addington. "These are my people involved in the ruse. The good madam doctor is being activated today and as soon as the email is read, I expect all hell to break free." The older man reached for the envelope, opened it and read the small list. The man furrowed his brow and looked at Dawson. "I admire you trying to contain 190 years of secrets into a 20-year lie, but I worry that this will get worse before it gets better." The two men smiled at each other knowingly.



Doctor Nagarajan yawned. Her morning had been uneventful; a cold, thick fog had ruined her morning jog and the invigorating boost that it afforded. She juggled with her briefcase, purse and aluminium coffee mug to retrieve her ID card to swipe entry into the hospital. Aiia was surprised by the front door whishing open and an unfamiliar security guard greeting her. She offered a casual 'good morning' to the dark featured man whose ID tag read Steve McGill yet the heavy accented reply from the officer betrayed an Arabic air. She smiled. "Are you new?" The man walked back to the entry processing security desk only offering one word 'Transfer'. The Doctor didn't push the issue and put the exchange out of her mind as she boarded the elevator and pushed the 7 button.

The seventh level was a working floor meaning that only laboratories and offices were housed there. Patents were on the first, third and fifth floors. The halls were still in their overnight lighting; an ambient floor-level glow bathed the area making the polished linoleum tile look radioactive. Aiia swiped her card at the key reader to her lab and the LED light remained red, a mechanical double beep noting the door was still locked. She swiped it again, the unblinking red dot endured. The woman frowned. Doctor Nagarajan walked four doors down and swiped her card at the office door. The red light switched to green and the robotic whir of the lock disengaged. She walked in and the glow of her computer tower lights shown through the darkness. Had she forgotten to turn it off? She couldn't remember.

The woman jostled the mouse and instead of the standard log-on screen her desktop greeted her. She frowned again. Sarah, her assistant had a disturbing habit of using her computer instead of the intern’s battered Helmand laptop she always carted around and Aiia assumed this was now the case. She tsk’ed under her breath and immediately checked her email. Several emails that were sent overnight were grey, noting they were read. The woman frowned yet again; confused she saw that in the 'Draft' heading there was a (1) where there was always nothing. Aiia clicked the space and saw an unfinished email open up on the screen, its subject was empty; the body had only a number: 4-4932-27-1.

The Doctor blinked. Such a display was always in the back of her mind, after all she was an asset – or so they had told her. She opened her white silk blouse to the third button and took a small silver key hanging on red string off her neck. Aiia opened her bottom desk drawer, took the file folders and a half drank bottle of water out and placed them on the floor. She took the key in her right hand, removed the false bottom of the drawer with her left and slid the key in the lock. In the space, a red notebook and her German Tac 9mm government issued pistol lay. The notebook was as unused as the pistol; she recalled only giving the items a cursory glance when she received them. Now she held the book, leafed to the forth section, surveyed the jumble of numbers, found 4932 and then turned to page 27, section 1.

Her name was to be "Louise Quinn" she was given a fraudulent email account at a fabricated website. Doctor Nagarajan was now a member of http://www.prettycatblankets.idi and wanted to change her password to Insert DRAW ID Here. That information was jotted down in the front cover of the notebook; she set up the email, sending it to admin@prettycatblankets.idi. Within a moment she had her response.

"ASP-110-328-44716," The email began, ASP being part of the government alphabet soup of acronyms they all seemed to be fond of; ASPs or Agency of Scientific Pacification was what Aiia was a part of during a very dark period of her life.

"Required Appearance Order 3: Doctor- Director Michael Sung, Liaison Japanese Shogunate, Leeds, BCE- 0113 3475473 ext. 41. RE: Nicaean Pox, complications." She smiled. An RA order 3 was a simple phone call; the subject however was a bit weightier. When she was enlisted in DRAW and the ASPs Doctor Nagarajan was involved with the completion of Virus 935-b with several other virologists and microbiologists, that very virus was utilized against several pockets of the Turkish population to great success. The current administration denied all aspects of biological warfare and when Aiia was released in the civilian world she was given a more "friendly" cover; her real field of study, now woefully taboo. She would put off as long as she could that awkward conversation to Doctor Sung and continued reading.

"There is a person of interest there, Doctor Marcus Grant. Keep him in the fold, his is a Black rating and what will be discussed with you, unless otherwise noted can be shared with him. Tell no one of this correspondence, we will be in touch."

After Grant called her out on some things that made her look foolish, she did some digging and true enough he was rated at a Black security clearance. In fact, if anyone did decide to poke they would find only three held that level of pull; her, Dr. Grant and the Administrator of the hospital. Aiia closed the email program, her minimalistic desktop appeared as her mobile rang. "Doctor Nagarajan." She said flatly. "You got my message then." An unfamiliar voice responded. The woman froze. "Who-" She began, only to be cut off. "It's Dawson." The name unfurled a sliver of recollection and she remembered a DRAW higher-up, overseeing her section and a pair of emerald eyes paired with a pompous demeanour. "You were in my office?" she asked incredulously. Aiia could feel the man smile on the other end of the phone. "Not me, but one of my men." He cleared his throat. "You have any questions?" She sighed. "Oh, about a million." After a lengthy pause he spoke. "Any I can actually answer?"

Was he being cute? She didn’t recall government shadow agency personnel being cute but then Aiia remembered Dawson flirting with her on occasion; they even shared some meals together and he asked her out. Out, like in an honest-to-god date. She declined, when prompted to a reason Aiia had said that to go out with someone she had to know their first name. Calling him 'Mister Dawson' when they were at dinner would make her feel like a prostitute. He distanced himself after her rejection. She was only a girl then and that must have stung to a man that was used to getting what he wanted.

"Hello?" He said tentatively. She inhaled. "How bad is this? What did we find? Why is Grant involved? Did you lock me out of my lab?" Aiia fired off questions with abandon. Dawson laughed. "Whoa. Access to data is restricted, I can tell you this or rather what we think this is, can have the potential to be bad. Grant was working on a similar span of research for us when you were working on the bug. Both of you were retained for a reason, you are being reactivated yet we still want him in the loop." Doctor Nagarajan didn't like the glib answers and certainly didn't like the familiar tone he took with her. "Who is this We, Mister Dawson; that proverbial mouse in your pocket?" She asked, a snarky retort that seemed to stir Dawson. "We Miss Nagarajan is the Crown and your government. We have, as of now - asked for your support but at any time Miss Nagarajan your government can demand your aid and if said aid is not served to us on bended knee We can and will make you disappear." He let this sink in for a moment. "Are we clear Miss Nagarajan?" Dawson barked.

She knew what he had intended in that display. Calling her "Miss" instead of Doctor to discredit her, threats, allusions of duty that delightful governmental chestnut - was to display plainly that she was weak and he was strong. The woman shook her head. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Dawson had made a little sound on the other end which to Aiia sounded like surprise and likely he was dejected just like so many years ago when she didn't go out with him. "You think you can strong arm me because you are some black-suited ghost? I just wanted answers and you instead verbally berate me? Fuck you." She immediately regretted that post script and wished she could take it back.

Dawson took a deep breath and calmly responded. "I can appreciate the unease in which you are called back to service to your King. I can also appreciate you have built a professional career in a field of study in which you have little knowledge, and which is totally fabricated. I can even appreciate that loathing you must feel knowing you personally had a hand in the deaths of almost fifty thousand civilians. I also understand the stress of being an at-large war criminal hunted by not only the Turkish government but several independent human rights agencies." He paused and she heard the click of a lighter. "Well, that is I could appreciate and even feel for you and your plight except things like that don't bother you because We, your government keep those dogs at bay. So you want to be an independent hard-ass, ok you got balls - but when those dogs come, and baby they will; your government will mourn your loss and wonder 'if only'..."

She was stunned and was silent for a good two minutes before responding in a small voice. "W-What does my government need of me?"

"Wait for further instructions, Doctor." Dawson said, disconnecting.