Sky-High Rendezvous
We flew over to see her, grabbed lunch at a nearby Japanese restaurant, and headed to the outskirts of Slough. The reason was simple: the letter had mentioned a spot somewhere on the edge, saying they'd be waiting and we should come check it out.
"In this day and age, sending a handwritten letter like some romantic poet. You sure they won't propose when we get there?"
"If so, then I shall stand by your side and fire off fireworks. I'll preheat them for immediate launch at the target."
"Heh, your jokes are scary as hell. Even knowing it's a joke gives me chills."
"......."
"...It is a joke, right?"
Bell narrowed her eyes without answering, a smile creeping across her face. That shadowy expression had cold sweat beading on my forehead.
Meanwhile, my master shot Bell a weary glance from behind her sunglasses. She let out a small sigh, fiddling with the hilt of the sword at her waist as she spoke.
"Even without that incessant jealousy of yours, we must keep force of arms in mind. Frankly, the odds of a trap aren't low."
"Even if it's not a trap, I hope it's someone who at least listens to reason."
"Expecting that from Transco, demanding a sudden rendezvous in a sector where they've got eyes wide open, is already beyond common sense."
"Huh, yeah. Setting up a meet like this on the same day is pretty off to begin with."
We'd bitten on this shady, mannerless summons because the letter dangled something too tantalizing to ignore. First off, calling me the cringe-worthy "Thames & Bray's Savior"—outlining the department store incident and my involvement in it. That meant they knew about our unreported roles.
And at the letter's close, the mystery sender had dropped this blatant line:
"Little bird pecking at the eggshell, do you perhaps need some assistance?"
It carried the nuance of knowing I resented being beholden to the Shareholder. This anonymous romantic had flaunted their intel prowess, prodding my sore spots to hook my curiosity.
So, half-worried, half-skeptical, with a sliver of expectation filling the gaps, I'd shown up for this impromptu meet. I just hoped the outcome wouldn't end in a death that's bitter as hell.
"Ah, what bullshit."
The curse slipped out unbidden. My bodyguards crossed their arms or rubbed their faces with sighs of annoyance on either side.
Couldn't blame them. Following the address in the letter led to a building that was anything but inviting.
Gaudy neon lights in provocative hues snagging pedestrian stares. A hologram projector flickering with the sensual curves of a scantily clad woman dancing. Symbols and slogans dripping with obscenity to titillate the nerves. And a burly bald bouncer guarding the firmly shut entrance. This had to be—
"A brothel..."
I double- and triple-checked the letter just in case, but yeah, this was the spot. Even on the fringes where outskirts met Slough, it didn't scream red-light district, so I hadn't expected a straight-up sex joint plopped in the middle of the street like some convenience store.
Least of all as a rendezvous point. Was this era's "romanticist" actually just a sleazy pimp?
Anyway, we didn't approach the building. Instead, we vented from the opposite sidewalk.
"Utterly ridiculous. What do they take you for, young master, dragging you to a dump like this...!"
"Agreed. Did they pick it thinking it'd double as some kind of hospitality venue?"
"Whoa, that makes it even worse."
My mental and physical age might be adult, but legally I was still a minor. And even if age weren't an issue, setting foot in a place like that was suicidal in my position. A single photo at the entrance could be weaponized as blackmail on the spot—paint me as some Epstein-tainted duke from York.
Worse, in that dim, hazy, vulnerable haze, a spiked drink or acute lead poisoning would make for the most pathetic end imaginable.
"What now, young master? Head back to the safehouse immediately?"
"Nah, irritating as it is, I need to know why someone who nailed my situation so precisely would pull a stunt like this."
"Then I'll lay down suppressing fire until that lurker inside pokes their head out."
"Tempting offer, but let's not invite trouble. Hmm, hold on."
I closed my eyes and focused. Something had felt off since we arrived.
There was a doorman at the brothel's sealed door, but inside? No signals from cybernetic enhancements or implants—like it was empty. In this era, even baselines carried some gadget pinging the ether. Total radio silence was unnatural.
So, time to expand my scan across the neighborhood. If they were watching us, they wouldn't be far.
'First, narrow the suspects.'
I asked Bell and my master to spot buildings overlooking our position. Used to sniper watch, they quickly ID'd several vantage points. I probed those for observation-like signals and movement.
Nailed the prime suspect easily. One case in a deserted cafe terrace: seated, attended, constantly receiving feeds from circling drones.
Drones looping our area originated there too. Case closed.
"...Looks like we got the wrong spot in the invite. They're waiting—let's go."
"Already pinpointed them? Impressive as ever—that ability never ceases to amaze."
"Didn't expect to hear that from someone who bats laser beams with a sword. Top floor cafe, that building over there, sixth story."
If I'd known that was possible, I'd have gone full sword-saint route ages ago. Kinda regretting not studying seriously now.
Anyway, right after I pointed out the cafe hiding my rude host, we bolted for the building.
En route, I mulled a grand entrance to rattle the bastard who couldn't tell proper from improper. Hit on a solid one—okay, something I wanted to try—and commed Bell.
(Bell. We're skipping the entrance—straight to the terrace. Get it?)
(...!! If that's your will, young master, understood. Shall I sprout wings?)
(Spot on. Do it.)
Bell nodded, deeming it safe enough. By then, we'd nearly reached the building. I signaled my intent to my master with a chin flick. She nodded, and Bell snatched my legs, boosters igniting as she rocketed us skyward.
Shuuuuaaaaa—!
"Straight to the roof and land, young master?"
"Nah, I wanna stick the landing myself. Mind catching my soles on the way down?"
Bell slid her palms under my feet. I springboarded off, surging from third floor past sixth in one leap, somersaulting midair before slicing through air and gravity to touch down on the cafe terrace.
Thud—!!!
Feet planted, I swept my gaze around. Two suited attendants in stunned alert. An orange-haired woman in a beret with her mouth agape. And another blue-haired woman at a wooden table, eyeing me with intrigued curiosity.
Was she the one who'd summoned me?
Bell and my master landed behind me soon after. I couldn't see it, but their murderous intent rolled off them thick.
Our hosts seemed unfazed by the threat.
A brief standoff hung in the air before I broke it.
"Straford Earl, William Elliot Wentworth, arrived at your invitation. Too lofty an intro for a hyena scraping by on tawdry scandals?"
She chuckled softly at my jab, gesturing her attendants—hands twitching toward weapons—to stand down. Her tone held zero regret.
"My regrets for the unintended mix-up, Sir William. Sarah Allen, editor-in-chief at news agency Roters. Thought you'd slink in like a leak—didn't expect you to actually fly."
