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His footsteps sounded loud in the hallway, echoing from one wall to the other and suffusing the corridor with an interesting noise that was faintly reminiscent of the slight play on drums. Or of the jangling of chains. No wonder, since on his pointy shoes tiny chains were fixated, announcing his presence whenever he walked.
He could not help but maledict the interior architects who were responsible for this abomination of a hallway every time he had to walk through it. Had they been so tiny exemplars of the human species ,or what else could have prompted them to build such low a ceiling? Perhaps they had not considered that larger people may also wish to traverse this corridor, but would not wish to have several lumps on their head afterwards. You could debate all you want that people emanating from the House of Gallia were, according to one or two trivial studies, smaller on average than the usual Sirian. Even if these studies proved to be right, they sadly did not apply to the Arriviste.

People tended to call him that way. The Arriviste. Maybe just a name that stuck, but no matter – he liked being called that way. It got right to the heart of his own persona, in his own opinion. It seemed as though every culture had their own name for those sort of men. Even the ancient Romans of old would have had a name for him – they would have called him a homo novus. But Arriviste too had a very pleasant ring. Give or take, de facto it was all that he had always wished to achieve in his life. Of course it was not all flowery all the time. But Arnaud Dumas usually managed to get through them.

For now though, he had to get through this corridor, which left him with no other option but hump his back if he wanted to get to the end without any bruises. It made him wonder: maybe that whole nuisance was actually on purpose, and the architect had not so much of a miserable job. He could well imagine the person who was likely waiting for him to instruct the architects to do such on purpose. It somehow was always the same: demonstration of might, belittling of inferiors. Nobody would ever be able to step before him without a humped back beforehand. Thinking of it, a smile flashed over Arnaud’s face. A very tricky number that was indeed.

However, if he had known what this day had up its sleeves for him, he probably would not have smiled that toothy, almost self-aggrandizing smile. But even Arrivists like him were no clairvoyants. Hence he persisted in his opinion that this day would turn out to be a mediocre one – at best. At least, somebody had finally taken pity on him and had given him a call. Which, as a rule of thumb, meant that there was work to do. And guess what, he had rushed out of his abode without undue delay after he had received the call. Not that he was really hard-pressed for time, but let alone the eagerness he had felt rising inside him towards the new job was enough to fasten his steps considerably. Making his chains ring as though they too were in anticipation of what was to come. So fast that the coat he was wearing – people twittered that he was actually sleeping in it, a dark blue one, enriched with dozens of little, artisanal embroideries – blew furiously over the metal floor. It actually looked as if he was running for his life. Up until that damned corridor confronted him.

The ceiling lights above him flickered nervously and made a buzzing sound that well could have driven him into sheer madness.

As he approached the door which marked the end of the hallway, he quickly gave his hair a stroke. It more a gesture, though; he did not have to actually adjust it, for that he was used to put a ton of gel into it. In fact, Arnaud could have actually used his head of hair as a sledgehammer. That would have made for an interesting choice of weaponry. But no. He preferred cloak-and-sword. The cloak he already had. The sword he did not, yet it already was in makings for him, even though he did not know of it yet.

At the end of the corridor, a corpulent man already seemed to await him. Lucky for him: he certainly was small enough to not have to hump his back to fit underneath the ceiling. Different to Arnaud, he wore a uniform, a very splendid one. With chin up and chest out he stepped forward, effectively hindering Arnaud from opening the double door. Arnaud knew well enough what was behind the door. He also knew the man blocking his way, too – it was always the same one. But of course they had to play the same old game whenever they met. It really was not a necessity, but at least this officer seemed to be conscientious, he told himself. Even if he should have known by now that Arnaud was not an evil infiltrator and perpetrator. This guy would never open the door to anybody who was not authorized.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the man said in a very formal tone and craned his neck, as he would always do. Doing so had to be hurtful long-term, Arnaud thought silently. It certainly was not the most gratifying job, either. “If I may ask such inquisitive question, what is it that brings you here today of all days?” The words sounded perfectly rehearsed. He had likely said them a thousand times by now, always the same. There was not even a tittle of emotions clinging by. Nothing. Virtually as though it was a robot speaking to him, only with a pleasanter voice.

Arnaud just put on another smile. It was not much of a surprise that he was larger than the guard. How he could look down on him, it was difficult to tell whether he meant his smile to be polite or sardonic. One who knew him could have answered that question in the blink of an eye. “My name is Arnaud Dumas,” he simply said, like there was not much to add to it. Of course the guard already knew that, but he liked to lay emphasis on his name. There was a certain pride attach to it for him, even though it was not even his true name. He had been born a different family name – only later had he changed it to Dumas, simply because he had a soft spot for the stories people had been telling down on the streets a full decade ago. He usually did not want to look back on those times, but those stories had stuck. Stories of true heroes rescuing beautiful maidens in distress from the clutches of evil culprits. Oh how he loved those. Sometimes he had wished he had been born another age, when there were still adventures like these for the taking of young men like him.

He could not help it, saying his name out loud always put him into a thinking mood. Only the long stare from the guard awoke him from his sudden daydreaming again. His eyes screamed a loud, audacious “Arnaud Dumas and what?” – loud enough that the guard did not have to voice it. The Arriviste understood anyway. Eyes were often enough to tell people a message.

“The Directeur gave me a personal call. I shall meet him in his bureau, he told me. He would not like to be kept waiting, he told me,” explained Arnaud with a slight twang. He put his hand into a trouser pocket and leaned with his shoulder against the wall and did a small, empty gesture. For a moment he examined the guard. He was heavily built: broad midriff, even broader shoulders, round face that looked like the surface of Planet Amilly to him, and a pair of fists that could have passed as demolition balls. This guy was the polar opposite to Arnaud, judging at least from their physique. The Arriviste was way more slender in his built – another fact he was (sometimes overly) proud of. As his eyes wandered up to meet the guard’s, he cleared his throat. The guard still sat tight and waited. “You see, I’m afraid if I told you the rest about it, both you and I would get into trouble. We would be captivated at once, interrogated, tortured and last but not least murdered in peace and quiet.” He shrugged his shoulders and overacted a grimace.

This list of gruesome events would not even have been needed to persuade the guard to let him pass. Usually a simple “Hey, my boss wants to talk to me” served the cause just as much. But Arnaud could not help tending towards a bit of extravagance. An undeniable part of his own persona, like a second coat wrapped over him, one that he would hardly ever shed.

While he was straightening both his coats, the guard finally stepped aside, as if Arnaud had flipped his switch. “The Directeur already eagerly awaits you, Monsieur. Perhaps you should indeed hurry.” Usually that phrase vexed him. Telling Arnaud to hurry was on the brink of hypocrisy. Was it not the guardsman himself who always impeded him, forcing him to halt and lose his excitement he had beforehand?

With a nod towards the man, one that signaled just as much deep gratitude as a raised middle finger would have, Arnaud watched as the double door before him slowly swung open, like some deep magic moved it. He knew it was supposed to have exactly that effect on him. In truth though, it were just standard, automatic doors you could find in virtually every maul. With the rich ornaments engraved on it, it was however sure to impress any arrival with a peculiar awe. The Directeur doubtlessly relied on flash heavily.

To step into the room that opened up itself before his eyes always felt akin to entering the Lion’s Den. Only that there was no Lion residing in it. At least no physical one. And even if the man whose bureau this happened to be were to metamorphose into one, he probably would never share a lion’s roar. Yet Arnaud knew a man could roar just as much. But he had never heard the Directeur roar before. And when he deliberated, he would not let it get to that point in the first place. A roaring man like this one would get your head cut off more quickly than you could say “Arrividerci”. He swiftly shook off the awe that had shortly seized hold of him, and dared entering with the most winning smile on his face. For him, showing a lack of confidence meant asking one’s enemy to make use of one’s weak spots.

The room itself was acclimatized, which was not much of a surprise when keeping in mind the echelon of its occupier. However, most of it was completely empty at first glance. This was simply due to the fact that it was way larger than necessary. There was not very much furniture to be found. Portraits of various kings, dukes and theirlike – Arnaud had never wasted enough time to learn their names by heart – hang at the walls side by side with panorama paintings that illustrated naturalistic landscapes. He never had enough time this office to have a glance at the signatures either, but he guessed they were showing some of the nicer spots of New Paris and Orleans. A miniature, yet gilded chandelier hang from the ceiling. The carpeted floor did not look cheap either – no matter where he looked could he see the Gallic flower sprouting from the ground. The splendor of this room surely could not compete with the grandeur of the King’s very own palace, but Arnaud imagined it to come quite close. Especially since this was only meant to be a simple bureau. Or was it? A simple bureau for a simple Directeur. Or was he?

As Arnaud lifted his gaze from the ground again – the emblems scattered all over the place managed to hook his attention each time he entered – he moved his attention towards the far end of the room. The desk much looked like a colossal throne to him. Golden engravings adorned it, like rosebushes winding themselves around the deep black wood. It had to cost far more than he would ever see in his lifetime, he thought. Before his eyes could even set focus on the person, a voice chimed. He would have made a good countertenor. Nonetheless sure enough there was gravity and rigour in it. And something that worried Arnaud: it always sounded as though behind each wording a hidden meaning lay, one he could not perceive for the life of him. He had come to know the voice well enough, but every time anew it took some getting used to. The man on the other hand he had never really come to know truly.

“Please, Arnaud, pray be seated.”

The Directeur had quite a knack at making Arnaud grow stiff, at least for a few seconds. Reluctantly he moved forward. Careful steps. In the meantime he eyed the person behind the chair. It was a slender man who was dressed in a black-white suit, one that perfectly fit him and that seemingly did not have a single dust grain on it. With both his hands rested on the edge of the table, the man gave the Arriviste a deadpan peer as he came closer. His face was full of folds and wrinkles, a testament of his formidable age. But for all the physical weakness he likely had by now, his strength obviously lay in different virtues. First and foremost intimidation, as Arnaud was once again witness of.

Once Arnaud had seated himself, the Directeur’s peer vanished and instead gave way for a friendlier smirk. Either he really had intended to make it a friendly one, or not. Fact was that a thousand little subtleties played into the smile. A bit of derision, a bit of trickery, guile another bit of.

“I hope you have slept well, Arriviste?” he inquired and leaned back in his chair. The way he worded his name sounded almost mocking. It was no news that he usually broke the spell with a few easy, simple questions. Or at least Arnaud thought those to be simple questions, meant for not much more than getting them into a talking mood.

“Well. It always feels like you could have slept one more hour, right?” he replied and tried himself at a casual smirk. He leaned onto his armrest and closely studied the Directeur’s mien. Which was, as always, in vain – it was absolutely unreadable, like a blank piece of paper on which nothing was inscribed. He did not even let show that he knew Arnaud attempted to study him. “But I can’t complain. Actually, I had plenty of sleep tonight.”

The Directeur gave him only the slightest hint of a nod, and instead began to stroke his smoothened chin. Despite his unreadable face, it was not as difficult for Arnaud to guess what his superior was thinking. After all, he had built up a certain reputation over the recent years. He was known to not always spend his nights with enjoying a peaceful sleep. Often he also enjoyed other things. Full breasts, for example, or a woman’s beautiful neck.

“It reliefs me to hear that you’ve slept well,” the Directeur meant, while his smile slowly, but surely vanished away. That was usually the point in time when Arnaud had to brace himself for incoming serious talk. For a second the man opposite the desk glared at him, virtually slicing right through Arnaud’s extravagant coat with his green eyes. The coldness in his eyes was in general difficult to bear – sometimes it was like looking right into Death’s eyes –, but today it was more extreme than ever. It was like looking something into something that was far worse than death. “Because as it is, I have got a call this morning from the highest echelons. They have sent me a very interesting mission. And they need somebody with a special … set of skills. Are you interested?”

A rhetorical question, Arnaud knew. It did not really matter to the Directeur if he was interested or not. He was obliged to be interested. There was not much of a choice for him. In this line of business, nay-sayers would not go very far.

The Directeur saw the sweet reluctance in his eyes. “It is sure to delight you, Arnaud.”

“Of course I am interested,” he shot back stiffly at an instance. There were times he had seriously despised being the one on this side of the desk. The one receiving orders. By now he had had enough time to get used to it, but still. How it must have been to not be the one the receiving end, he wondered. Surely a sweet sense of power would come along with it. “Give me the information you got on that mission.”

The Directeur feigned a satisfied chuckle. Even if he did not show it, it was blatantly obvious that he knew that Arnaud knew that declining was not an option. Yet in the end, even if he had had a choice, Arnaud would have probably not made use of it. He was here to work, here to make himself a name. Here to show what he was capable of. Nonetheless, the fact that he did not have alternatives left a nasty, almost sour taste in his mouth.

“Very well then,” the Directeur intoned. There were still no emotions whatsoever in his voice. That was the show he liked to put on, and it did not sit well with Arnaud. He preferred to be able to get the measure of somebody. His former life had been a good teacher at that. Back then he had learnt to be ever vigilant of even the most minor details and oddities people had, for they could matter the most. He had praised himself to be exceptional at gauging men for what they were really worth, but when confronted with his superior, it seemed as though any skills he had made a boast of suddenly diminished into nought.

In the meantime, the Directeur spent his time silently typing on a keyboard, but he did not avert his piercing eyes from his guest. He had never done so. Arnaud kept a stiff upper lip, in an attempt to make the coolest and most calmed impression he could. As long as he would not make the lion roar and show his set of teeth and eat him, everything would turn out alright. Except it was not the lion he would have to fear today.

“Would you please be so kind as to turn around your chair?” His voice did not leave much room for doing anything else – an order worded as question. So Arnaud did as he had been told and looked behind himself.

Where there had formerly been not much than empty space filling up the rest of the room, a projector now filled up the latter with a humongous, three-dimensional projected model of a large space station. Of course it span around itself in a slow motion. Even though the projection seemed to be of very high standards – especially since even the smallest of details on the station’s hull were still discernible –, every now and then a flicker ran through the model. It looked peculiar – from what Arnaud could see, parts of the station were merely wreckages. Directly behind the station two equally large, luminously blue suns were lingering, as though they were trying to hide behind it.

Arnaud took his time to behold the object, just like a connoisseur would behold a piece of art in a gallery. There was a certain beauty to it, even though it was only a space station. Something flashy like this was usually already enough to hook his interest. He believed to know that station, but he was not entirely sure about it.

Behind him the Directeur feigned a chuckle. “Do you know that station?”

To be sure, he gave it a second thought. But this binary system – and the wreckage right beside the station – he could not think of many stations that would meet these criteria. His eyebrows rose.

“Isn’t that Perth Station in Edinburgh?”

“Yes, it is.”

Moments passed while Arnaud beheld the object blossomed before him, rotating, pirouetting languidly. His pedantic eyes darted over the hull of Perth Station, all battered, assessing any exquisite detail the projection had on offer for him. For this sake, it did not matter how important each of them would prove in the long run. An idiosyncrasy of his character, steadied and hardened in the alleys and slums of Orleans his mother had born him into. Otherwhiles he asked himself why it had to be him; him to suffer such a fate, the second he first laid eyes on the hideous world of penury and pestilences outside his mother’s womb. Why it had been this woman of all women who bore him – why not some aristocratic Ladyship – perhaps even one the King’s own daughters. Even so life forbade Arnaud more favourable circumstances, it did not forbade him richness of experiences. A posteriori, he had learned that details could matter. Of course not all would ascend to matter. But as long as nobody had yet decided upon the importance of a matter, Arnaud was bent on letting none slip his attention. On a wing and a prayer – he had not gotten where he was with that credo. He would not have it, simple as that.

The animation of Perth station however too languished him and made him less observant. The way it swirled and flickered time after time annoyed him, could have driven him mad even. Meanwhile the projector continuously uttered soft humming, first silently, but with passing time further flooded his ears. Arnaud felt the impulse to just stand up, walk around the animation and view it from up close, but he restrained himself, clutching against the armrests of his chair. Eyebrows furrowed like two thick lines guarding his eyes, he narrowly watched

The Directeur gave him his sweet time – a few minutes, Arnaud believed -, but ultimately butted in again, his voice drowning the hum of the projector. “I trust you are done with the diligent examinations of yours, by now.” He sounded dry as ever – Arnaud could only guess whether it was meant to be sarcasm or not.

Turning about, he glanced at the Directeur’s chin jutted forward, and thereafter into his blank eyes. “I could draw it on a piece of paper. From memory. Only for you,” said Arnaud in response and slouched on his chair, but still pushed his chest out. He had not been blessed with an eidetic memory, nonetheless he considered himself good at remembering things; especially when he had invested the time necessary. The Directeur however had hardly shown him the animation to test his mental abilities, he was aware of that. At least there was no intelligence test to be seen so far. He had done these already anyways. And what would have been so urgent about one?

He could still hear the humming of the projector back in his head, which meant the Directeur had not switched it off just yet. His opposite laid his hands on the table – as though to signalize he was about to play with open cards for now –, folded them. “The mission I will brief you on in the following is a highly delicate one, and of an importance you will probably not be able to grasp fully. Furthermore, it is highly classified, which should not come as a surprise to you. Since you are the only one to be briefed, I’d advise you against spreading any news. It wouldn’t be hard to track down the one they originated from, in case I heard people rumoring about it.”

Arnaud, although he tried in vain, could not help but go deaf during this speech. He had heard these speeches often enough. Giving only the hint of a nod, it was enough to show that he understood everything, without necessarily having heard it.

“Very well,” intoned the Directeur and en passant typed on his keyboard, sounding like a fast-paced rhythm. Flickers of light ran over his face. “It’s an extraction mission, to be exact. It–“

Arnaud’s brows went even deeper, overshadowing his eye sockets. Before he realized, his mouth already was open. “–But Perth is one of our own stations,” he interjected, a skeptical mien painted all over his face. “What exactly is the difficulty in extracting something out of something that is already yours?”

The Directeur’s eyebeam he bestowed upon Arnaud spoke volumes – Hold your tongue, I was about to tell you, was inscribed in them with bold letters. It was one of the few times when the mask fell, if only for a few seconds. “That is where you come into play.” With a dapper wave of the hand he pointed behind Arnaud, brusquely. “Take another pleasant look.”

He was about to open his mouth again, saying something even less prudent than before – “But I’ve looked at the station already” –, but the glance he was given was enough to shut him up at once and instead wheel around on his chair. It took him a few seconds to realize what he saw. In some way, the Directeur had indeed spoken the truth: it did not disappoint him in the slightest, and hook his attention even more than Perth had done.

This time it was no rotating space station that unfolded before his eyes like a blossoming flower, but something different – a very pretty flower it was. His eyes immediately darted over the two-dimensional picture wafting in the center of the room like mist. He looked at the clear hairline at the top, then the little forehead. A sweet snub nose, a pair of chubby, rosy cheeks, flanked by dashing, auburn hair that fell down like a stormy waterfall. Down to the slightly receding chin and the delicate throat, one that almost asked for a choke. It sucked Arnaud in; he could have virtually lost himself in this portrait. It showed a young woman, and oh, what a petite one she was! It was only a small hint of a smile she wore on her lips like a second necklace, but he fell in love with it the moment he saw it. She looked good enough to eat, that was for sure, but sadly it was only a portrait. This way he just stared and allowed his imaginations to run wild and freely take ahold of him. Truth be told, she reminded him of a few women he had gotten to know over the years.

The Directeur’s voice brusquely, as though with sharpened steel, thrashed through the whirlwind romance he imagined, in his ever so dry tone. “I assume you have regarded the details of this picture with the same zeal as was the case with the first one.”

A joke Arnaud would not care to answer. The picture intrigued him, had him under her spell too much to retort on the Directeur’s comment. Akin to an animal unleashed, he could not stop his imaginations anymore. “Give me the specifics on this woman,” said he, mumbling, all at sea.

The Directeur cleared his throat. “Name is Camille Perrin, Service Number Zero Zero Slash Five Nine Zero Slash Six Two Six Two Slash Nine, Gallic Royal Intelligence Service. Born on New Paris, twenty-five years of age, one meter and fifty-nine of height, fifty-one kilograms of weight. Intelligence Asset, in service for around four years, deemed highly talented in the field of spec ops by the Directorate. Acquired the license to kill one year ago.”

Arnaud nodded in comprehension, but also in some sense of awe. If he was being honest, nothing of this sounded much different to his own career he had turned in in the Service, except for that he had never been deemed ‘highly’ talented by the Directorate. It took him some time, but it eventually dawned on him why he was vaguely familiar with this woman’s face. He could still remember the tests and courses required of him to acquire the killing license. It had been a year ago, which meant they had probably visited the same courses at the same time. What a pleasant coincidence, he thought to himself and smirked back toothily at the portrait. It was as though her eyes were watching and studying him, silently, yet with diligence. Not that this would have been bothersome to him.

“So … how is she involved in this mission?” asked Arnaud, crossing his arms as he lay back on his chair. He could have studied that face until doomsday. “Am I to work with her or something?” Suddenly he felt the Directeur’s penetrating eyes on his back, like a bodkin held onto his rear.

“To some extent. Agent Perrin is the one you are to extract.”

Arnaud could hear the thunder of fingers hitting the keyboard and sashaying on it. Now the projector showed both the portrait and the model of Perth Station, as though to put them into comparison. The Directeur went on. “Yesterday, in the late evening, we received a mission from GRI Headquarter. The station nowadays takes the role of a simple supply depot for our forces on the front line. While it doesn’t hold the same vital importance for our military than other depots in the vicinity, nonetheless Perth a role it must serve, and this role is supplies. Our path to victory is already bristled enough with difficulties and obstacles.”

Arnaud licked his lips as he listened to the Directeur’s lamenting. “What’s the matter then? Perth is in our hands, and far from being reconquered by the Bretonians.” He paused for a second. “Right?”

The man behind him heaved a silent sigh, but it was still within Arnaud’s earshot. “That is certainly true. The problem is exactly that though. It is in our hands. And yet – even though the Gallic crown holds and controls it – something particularly odd is going on there.” He gave himself a brief pause to breath in and out before he continued. “One week ago, I myself assigned Agent Perrin to investigate a certain … leak in our supplies on Perth. It had attracted attention a while ago already, but only now the Directorate decided to act. Perrin was told to have a look at it – discretely. After all, birds like to chirp all sorts of things. Hints like the ones we had got could mean anything or nothing. Before we risked an internal faux pas by accusing local personnel to be responsible for this leak, it was wiser to investigate the possibility of a hoax first.

“That is why we wanted an undercover report before any premature act. Agent Perrin had shown exceptional infiltrating skills in the past – similar to your own, Arnaud. So we decided to grant her that mission. It was meant to be a standard assignment, especially since it was one of our very own stations she needed to infiltrate. Which shouldn’t be too difficult, you would say, yes? It still was. To be precise, we have lost full contact to her approximately three days ago. Any attempts to reestablish it since then have failed. No contact, no sitreps, no life signs. We assume her communication device got either destroyed or jammed.”

Arnaud kept staring at the portrait, jaw slightly dropped. He was growing silent the whole time, imbiving the information the Directeur was giving him and not daring to probe into anything. Now he did, though. “Are you really trying to tell me we’ve lost contact to one of our agents on one of our own bases, Directeur?”

Silence, save the projector’s humming.

“What kind of shenanigan is that supposed to be?” Another question. He could scarce believe any of this. He thought the service to be better at preserving their own agents, which he could tell from his own past experiences. So, what was the real hoax right now? Somebody’s cover being blown up during an infiltration ops on a hostile base – alright, he could have eaten that up from his superior. But since when has your own base become a hostile environment?

“I am in no need of your doubtful comments, Agent Dumas. You will spare yourself both your breath and some unpleasant experiences if you stop questioning my integrity.” It was the first time today the Directeur had such sharp a note on his tongue. “We have had our jests, but right now is not the time to lark around.

“Fact is what I’ve told you, we have lost contact to one of our agents on what is supposed to be a friendly base. We have to re-establish contact with her asap. Which will have to happen via you. Since the first mission was undercover and –– not necessarily with the GRN’s approval, we have to re-establish contact undercover as well, or we risk an éclat.”

The same moment Arnaud’s heart began to gently beat higher and higher, higher and higher, and he could not help but offer the portrait another wide smirk. So that was what it was all about, what they wanted, what they needed him for. They did not want any scandal or affair that could endanger the Service’s reputation, while still trying to mitigate the damage done without everyone and their mother knowing. He could not help himself – that urged him to think anew about the stories of old he had heard in the streets.

Stories of true heroes rescuing beautiful maidens in distress from the clutches of evil culprits. Oh yes.

“Are you telling me you are in need of a handsome guy rescuing the beautiful maiden in distress? Is that the name of the game?” asked Arnaud and swung around on his chair to look upon the Directeur. The glee that had suddenly been set ablaze and flaming shone in his eyes.

The Directeur could not restrain himself from grinning a sardonic grin – at least that was what it looked like. He knew he finally had his agent in the bag, and had enkindled his enthusiasm. “If you wish to refer to it this way, yes. We need somebody to rescue the maiden in distress.” He jutted his chin forward and gave Arnaud an appraising glance from the corner of his eyes. “As quickly as possible. The longer she remains wherever she remains right now, the higher the chance we are busted. Your mission is to investigate her vanishing, and find out what has happened to her. Ideally, you retrieve her and bring her back to HQ.” He paused and eyed Arnaud. “I think you fit perfectly for this scenario, Agent Dumas. The chances of finding a better agent for this one are low.”

Arnaud cracked his most winning smile. A fit of anticipation struck him like a fever. “What are the rules of the game?” asked he.

Folding his hands on the desk, the Directeur leaned closer towards him. “Basic spec ops 101. Stay under anybody’s radar at all cost. You will assume the identity of a generic worker on Perth. Plain and simple. Until the end of your mission, everybody will know you as Robert Mathis, born on New Paris.” Another pause. “That’s it. Stick by these rules, and give HQ constant sitreps, and try to find Perrin or at least make out her footprints. If the needs be, your license to kill is in effect for this one.”

As if he suddenly had lost control over his body, this last comment made him smirk even more.

The Directeur saw it and immediately added: “But, for the love of God, keep the amount of corpses at the barest minimum. This mission is damage control, we don’t need more damage done. Understood?”

Arnaud nodded. Of course he understood, but nonetheless it was good news that he would be allowed to carry a gun with him – and use her. Even though he disliked guns in general. He was wise enough to acknowledge they were both a good health and life insurance in the business of secret agents, hot pursuits and rescue missions. Especially since nobody seemed to really know the circumstances of Perrin’s disappearing. That was the only thing that bothered him about it. That way, he couldn’t say for sure whether he would find himself in a situation sooner than expected. One that would rather drastic measures. Who could tell him right now? “When do you want me to depart?” he asked.

“You can set forth to Edinburgh today already, Agent Dumas.” The Directeur turned his attention back to the screen of his computer, apparently reading through something. Shortly after he continued, “I would suggest you take the route through Languedoc and Orkney. It’s safe enough.” A smile flickered over the Directeur’s face. “We would not want you to bite the dust before your assignment has even begun, naturally.”

Arnaud gave him a smile in return, though only a weak one. In fact, any mere thought of death always brought him a sick, queasy feeling in his stomach, like his organs were turned upside down and whipped up. The Directeur’s remark about him ‘biting the dust,’ as he had called it, curtailed Arnaud’s fit of thrilling anticipation, if only a bit. Suddenly the possible consequences began to flash through his mind. He couldn’t say anymore if the mission would be awesome or just downright foolish. If already one highly-trained agent had gone missing under most suspicious circumstances … what would set him apart from Camille Perrin? The answer to this question he realized in the very moment: different to Perrin, he knew what he would embark on. She had had not, apparently. But Arnaud would not underestimate this. Underestimating a danger was one of many first steps that could lead into grave. He looked down at his decorative shoes. That reminded him: he was the Arriviste. Anybody who would get in his way of reaching his goals would bitterly regret ever having done so.

With a swift motion of the hand he smoothed down his rucked up coat and meanwhile ascended from his chair, feeling like king. Behind him he heard a silent crack, and as he turned his head around to look what it was, he saw the projections were no more.

“Any questions, Agent?” asked the still seated Directeur, who suddenly had to look up. “Better now than when you are in trouble.”

Arnaud nodded. No matter how much he had looked at the portrait and feasted on it, he would be in need of something. “Yes. I could use a picture of Agent Perrin. Preferably one that doesn’t show her as a four-year-old, or with a shorter haircut.”

His superior once tapped on the keyboard. “There will be one loaded onto your PDA.” He looked at him, thoroughly. “Is there anything else?”

“Do I have a ship for this assignment?”

“You will find something suitable in hangar bay four.” That was all, it seemed. The look the Directeur gave him seemed somewhat dismissive.

Perfect, Arnaud thought. He congeed, though a bit stiffly “I won’t betray your confidence in me, Directeur,” he said with all the courtesy on his lips that the Intelligence Service had told him over the years, and turned his back on his superior, and treaded to the exit. Truth be told, the term gladness came not even near to the relief he felt, now that he could finally tackle things. The little chains on his shoes jingled in typical fashion, like the bells of court jesters actually, but that had not come to Arnaud’s mind yet.

The moment he touched the handle of the double door that would spit him out into the hallway again, his ears pricked up as he perceived the Directeur’s voice coming from the far end of the room. “One last thing, Arnaud.”

He wheeled around, coat whirling, and blinked. “Yes?”

“I’m supposed to tell you from our technician team that they want you to bring the ship back in one piece. At least this one time.”

Arnaud nodded, not biting back the content smile that was forming on his lips, and pushed the door open and went through. Out into the world. Oh, what a day this would be, he opined, saying it again and again in his mind – maybe it was about to be the best day of his life, even. As he strode through the corridors, spraying sparks of vivacity all around him, he actually thought himself close to the heroic he adored. Maybe such stories he had listened to as a child were still reality today. He was about to find out.

To find out the myriad ways of heroic stories perverted into nefarious.