Scum of the Press and the Shareholder's Betrayal

I fucking hate so-called journalists. Hell, "hate" is putting it mildly—it's more like I'm overflowing with loathing and disgust that even that couldn't contain. Why? Well, let's see. Shoving cameras and mics in the faces of a 13-year-old kid and his mom teetering on the edge of death after a bomb blast, blocking the ambulance just to get their shot. Or when the kid finally cracks his eyes open, hitting him with "How are you feeling?" Yeah, that's enough to spark some pretty universal revulsion, right? And lately, they even live-broadcasted my dad jumping from the company headquarters. Complete with real-time commentary and reactions like it was a goddamn sports match. They already had a ton of professional bias stacked against them, and this Sarah Allen bitch is driving the final nail in the coffin.

"A minor mishap. If the heir to Elson—who vanished after the defeat—turns up in a brothel before the bloodstains from his father's mess have even faded, it'd make for quite the juicy gossip, wouldn't it?"

Her voice dripped with undisguised disgust. I knew I had to keep a straight face like my life depended on it, but controlling my expression was a lost cause. Sarah Allen stared me down with her stone-cold eyes, unflinching, then gave that classic reporter head-tilt—self-centered, psychopathic, brimming with baseless superiority.

"The public might stay interested for about two weeks, tops. But Lord William, the story we're handling won't stop at that level of impact."

"Don't change the subject. What the hell were you thinking, pulling this stunt?"

"Can't ally with an idiot who lacks even basic meta-awareness of his own situation. Though if you'd messed up, I'd have just guided the errand boy back to his place."

'Hand to hold,' huh. Like it was a given I'd take the one she offered. Hilarious. Oh, right—let's test her meta-awareness.

Snap!

"?"

I flicked my fingers into the air. Allen tilted her head, puzzled, then furrowed her brow and started trembling. Next, she clutched her forehead and dropped her teacup on the floor. Probably felt like the worst motion sickness ever. I'd warped the signals to scramble all her sensory implants. Watching terror seep into that smug face? Sweet as candy.

"Weird how all you journalists never think you'll get payback for acting like shit. Occupational hazard?"

"L-Lord William, please calm down..."

"Huh? If you're planning to drain someone else's reputation, shouldn't you be ready to get drained yourself?"

"What do you... !!!!"

Her eyes bulged like an owl's, face screaming disbelief as she stared at me. Yeah, novel sensation—your lower half not feeling like yours anymore. She couldn't control it, but she could feel something leaking out. Still, this "little prank" without actual violence? I'm being generous.

"Lord William! I'll apologize for the rudeness, just please stop...!!"

Allen's face flushed beet red as she twisted her legs desperately, begging. Guess she had some shame under that thick skin. Her escorts were already pinned down effortlessly by Master and Bell. I reached toward the reporter and snapped my fingers again, like flicking her forehead.

Then...

Pssshhhh—

"Ah..."

Like a busted faucet, no resistance—just gushing liquid. It mixed with the spilled tea, forming a puddle. In the dead silence, faint steam rose with wet sloshing sounds echoing. Allen, soaked pants and all, couldn't even lift her head.

I'm merciful, so no video for posterity.

"I apologize for my rudeness, Lord William."

"Appreciated. Hey, accidents with tea happen."

About 20 minutes later, freshly changed, Allen bowed to me. Such a shame about the spill on her clothes—traumatic, really. No one would forget a hidden cam attempt or that kind of faux pas at her age.

Sitting across from me, Allen looked like she had a lot to say. She took a deep breath and spoke calmly.

"If you distrust the press, then as one noble to another, allow me to request an audience."

"Noble? You have a title?"

"[Baroness Ludgate]. Unlike you, it's a life peerage. Do you know what that means?"

Noble, huh. That earlier incident was a career-ender she'd take to the grave. Anyway, a life peerage is an honorary title limited to one's lifetime, unlike hereditary ones like mine. Usually given to retiring politicians or experts/celebs with achievements. She didn't scream "achievements," though—probably pulling strings in politics. Westminster's toilet paper. Proud moment.

"Means you have connections in politics. That's your background?"

She nodded. "Close enough. But not all of it."

"If that's your card, what do you want from me?"

"First... let's start with the briefing. Claire?"

"Ah! Y-Yes, ma'am!"

The orange-haired woman who'd tossed the letter before rummaged in her bag. Looked like a black binder. She approached to hand it over but hit the same wall as last time.

"Pardon the intrusion, young master."

Whoosh!

"Kyaa?!"

Bell lunged, snatching the binder. Claire, spooked from earlier, backed away trembling. Bell eyed it hungrily, scanning for devices or drugs.

"No anomalies. Here you are, young master."

She handed it over. Opening it revealed a stack of report forms—not plain paper, but smooth, sturdy, crinkly stuff coated in some optical film only visible up close.

I read the top title:

"...What's this?"

Claire flinched at my question, eyes darting as she stammered, "Uh, w-well... it's exactly what it says... th-the political and economic ripples from rising tensions between Anastasis and Transco, compiling rumors and intel into scenarios for—"

"What?"

"Enough, Claire. I'll explain. You withdraw."

"Ah, y-yes, ma'am!"

Claire brightened and scampered off. The blue-haired baroness steepled her fingers, pondering, then spoke.

"First, we've established we know the truth behind the department store terror."

"Yeah. That's why I'm here listening. How'd you find out?"

"We have our ways. Roters has ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been rooted in London for over 200 years since founding. But that's not the point."

She paused, then continued. "Lord William, what do you know about the man they call Shareholder?"

Shareholder out of nowhere. Not really—he'd already hinted in the letter I needed to break ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my shell, and Shareholder was that shell. But what was her angle?

Separate from my dislike, I needed her motive. I didn't know enough to worry about her probing anyway.

"Not much, honestly. Invested in Elson's war and took a huge loss. Now building an anti-Anastasis bloc by contacting corps for recovery. He's a Transco outside director, hires mercenaries too."

Basic stuff from his own PR. The info gap with my so-called ally felt hopelessly lopsided.

The baroness crossed her arms, nodding like she'd expected it. "As I thought—you don't know the depths."

"So you called me to fill me in?"

"Partly, yes. His real name is Stefan Eldonbridge. Joint CEO of Leonid Fund, an investment firm. He's positioning himself as the broker uniting London's anti-Anastasis factions."

"Factions means... not just corps?"

"Exactly. Commons and Cabinet look ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠away, but Treasury officials and House of Lords are pissed about this mess. Stefan tasked me as lobbyist to pull them in."

Treasury and Lords. Anastasis hitting the City wounded economy and tradition—prime rage bait. But wait, what was that last bit?

"You're Shareholder's lobbyist?"

"Yes. Technically, Roters dispatched me on anti-Anastasis orders."

"So you're on his side. Why tell me to break free?"

"Refer to the third page from the back of the report."

I flipped to it. Under "Recent Issues," patchwork quotes jumped out.

The contents were bombshell. Stefan Eldonbridge, the Shareholder, preaching anti-Anastasis while backstabbing with treason and sabotage. And the prisoner escaped...? Wasn't he in critical from poison...?

I looked up at Allen. Seeing I got it, a faint smile curved her lips. She extended her hand, voice soft.

"Shareholder is a traitor. We need to flip the board before he cuts his own deal. Will you help me, Lord William?"

I eyed her offered hand, then clasped it. Scammers and journalists were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠synonyms, but sometimes you needed one to spot another.