Uncomfortable Bedfellows: "The Shareholder is a Traitor"
Sarah Allen, the editor-in-chief of the news agency Roters, declared it outright: "The Shareholder is a traitor." Of course, I couldn't just cheer "I knew that bastard would pull something like this!" without reservations—the speaker herself had more than a few suspicious traits, so blind trust was out of the question. Media outlets are packs of silver-tongued beasts skilled at slicing up the truth and scrambling facts into oblivion. Even if you shake hands today, you have to stay vigilant and guard your back every second. Which is why I couldn't drop my wary gaze from the orange-haired woman walking beside us.
Claire Blake. That's the name the contact provided by Baroness Allen had given. She seemed uncomfortable under our stares—mine and the other two—her voice trembling as if she were on the verge of shaking apart.
"Wh-why do you keep, st-staring at me like that? D-do you have something to s-say...?"
"...No, Miss Claire. Sorry if it's bothering you."
"Th-that, y-young guy calling me 'Miss' feels a bit... awkward..."
"..."
Come to think of it, I was legally younger, wasn't I? She was older and not some noble lady, so slapping "Miss" on it might come off as teasing. Still, for all my words, she didn't strike me as the "older" type at first glance.
"Ahem, then, Ms. Claire. You okay with potential combat alongside an escaped prisoner? You don't seem to have any visible implants related to that."
"B-but, y-you're supposed to pr-protect me, right...?"
"Of course we will, but sticking close means you might catch a stray bullet."
"Eek...!"
Claire's face drained to a sickly blue. Her eyes lost focus, spinning freely, and her already quivering body thrashed like I needed a Richter scale to measure it. I'd assumed a desk jockey like her, suddenly assigned, must be some battle-hardened war correspondent. But her reaction screamed a life far removed from blood and gunpowder.
And right now, the four of us—this timid reporter included—were heading, per Allen's request, to capture the perp behind the department store terror incident where prisoners escaped. According to the docs, it was none other than Prisoner D, real name Demir Karahan.
"St-still, since Your Lordship's c-captured him personally before, it sh-should be f-fine, right...?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"When I first heard, I th-thought maybe you j-just took credit while your g-guards did the work."
"Pardon? That's how it got reported?"
"I j-just compiled the info I g-got, so I f-figured it was standard to n-name the VIP..."
No wonder Allen had seemed more flustered than expected—there was the inside story. Anyway, our immediate task was to nab Prisoner D, gather proof that the Shareholder aided his escape, uncover why he'd done it, and ultimately drag the bastard from his seat. Whether Allen was gunning for that empty chair herself was another matter to probe later.
As I mulled that over while walking, my bodyguards up ahead were chatting among themselves. Bell stated flatly, her tone so impassive it bordered on curt:
"I'll be too busy guarding Young Master. Ms. Blake's protection is all yours, Ms. Kurayami Gawa."
"If that reporter pays my full fee, I wouldn't mind."
"Uh, um, j-just out of curiosity, how much do you ch-charge...?"
"Five hundred thousand Esperan-dollars a day. Excludes combat pay."
"Gah! Th-that's like my y-years of salary!"
"Tough luck then. Survive on your own. Good luck."
Claire's face crumpled again. I'd never seen a human expression ripple so dynamically. Teasing her was kinda fun. But she looked about to cry for real, so time to toss some bait.
"Ms. Claire, if safety's a real worry, why not hang back and join up after?."
She flinched at my question, forcing an awkward smile before replying:
"B-but I'm the liaison! Splitting up f-feels wrong..."
"We can communicate remotely. I'll report anything off right away."
"N-no, it's just... I n-need to see and confirm the target myself! I'll tr-try not to be in the w-way!"
"Ah, if that's the case... We'll prioritize your safety."
"Y-yes! Thank you—"
Hmm. Scared but insistent on tagging along. Got it. I'd half-planned to ditch her somewhere and interrogate the prisoner ourselves, but she was surprisingly stubborn. Fair enough—even if she seemed spineless now, journalists were the type to smile to your face then shove a mic and recorder in later. Better keep my guard up.
Thwack!
"Gahk!"
A man took a fist straight to the face and crumpled. The space was dark, spacious beyond cozy—more like wide-open. Inside what looked like some warehouse, the impact echoed like resonance.
The fallen guy was cyber-augmented, decked in body armor and packing heat, backed by about twenty shadowy figures similarly armed to their tastes. They encircled one lone man, fidgeting with sighs, irritation, and faint surprise.
Tired of the standoff, one finally spat curses and yelled:
"Haa, fuck my life. Listen, Mr. Karahan! We're the ones here to help you escape!"
The encircled figure was Demir Karahan. After losing to me, he'd been hauled as a prisoner—until drugs knocked him out mid-transport. He woke in this unknown spot, then these shady "helpers" approached.
But he'd laid out a few without warning. Now they glared, deadlock ongoing.
Far rougher than during the terror op, Demir growled back, eyes still fierce:
"Bullshit. Who the hell are you to 'help' me?"
"Does it matter? You got time to spare?!"
"Damn right it does. I die, fine—on my terms. Backstabbed? Hard pass."
"Hah, you're insane. We'd have killed you already if that was the plan! We're busting you out!"
Demir pondered. Saving him? Why? By whom? He wasn't worth the effort. Easier to silence him permanently. Transco could've gained from keeping him alive, but he'd been sprung from their custody. His info couldn't parse this; he couldn't grab the offered hand rashly.
As he mulled, the group's patience frayed; they muttered among themselves.
"Boss, just beat his ass and drag him out? Why play his game?"
"What'd you hear in briefing, dumbass? We can't show our faces. Just nudge him to walk out himself."
"I get that, but dragging this out's risky too..."
"Who doesn't know?! Shut up and wait!"
The team leader bellowed; a burly silhouette slumped dejectedly. Then, palms out to calm things, he approached Demir slowly. Dim light revealed a beanie, clean-cut face—but his forced grin felt off, repulsive.
"Haha... Look, Mr. Karahan, here's the deal. We'll blow a power pylon near the north checkpoint. In the chaos, you slip out of Slough."
"Gonna repeat myself? Who says—"
"Didn't wanna go personal, but for your family's sake, wouldn't you wanna bolt?"
"What?"
The leader nodded to his crew; one dashed up with a pad terminal. He swiped, flashing a more genuine—but chilling—smile as he showed the screen.
Video played: his family, out and about, filmed live—oblivious to the camera.
"How the hell...!"
Demir reeled. How'd these goons track his wife and kids in Anastasis territory? It screamed intel agency involvement. But why act separately? Who were they really? Questions swirled, but one truth stood: no choices again. Back to the chessboard.
