Ritual

The ornate porcelain teapot was out of place on the scratched metallic countertop. Strong, scarred hands the color of worn khaki filled the center strainer of the pot with leaves from an airtight metal canister. Those same hands lifted the electric kettle and poured the boiling water over the strainer in the teapot before putting the lid on and setting it on the cheap, plastic table. “There’s something calming in the ritual of it, I find.”

“Which ritual? The hunt, the capture or…the kill?” The woman that sat at the table was slight of build, with charcoal-black skin including her lips and tongue, striking violet eyes that angled up at the outsides, and ears topped by long points that stuck out of her shock-white hair.

The owner of the teapot, kettle, table, and scarred hands sat across from the dark elf. His height and build would best be described as average. Medium brown hair nearly matched his medium brown eyes. He was of indeterminate age, possibly as young as twenty or as old as fifty. His clean-shaven face was marred by only one scar that began just below the right side of his nose and ran down his lips to his chin. If he chose to grow a beard and mustache, he would have no visible defining features.

“I was speaking of the ritual of making tea,” he said. “Are you that eager to get to business?”

The elf shook her head. “No, I—sorry. This is a strange situation for me.”

“Strange how?” He checked the clock over the door and folded his hands on the table to wait out the last minute of the tea steeping.

“I don’t even know what to call you or what you are. Bounty hunter? Assassin? Spy?” She sighed. “All I know is that you are protected by the Crown even when you do some things that are…distasteful.”

“My name is Senior Agent John McCall, and yours is Detective Brianna Havelock. Why not start there?” He poured the tea into the matching cups. “I’d offer you milk, but since I don’t use it, I don’t keep it on hand.”

“Do you have any honey?” she asked.

He turned to the cabinets behind him and opened one of the metal doors with a squeak. He set a bear-shaped plastic squeeze bottle of honey on the table and sat back down. “Tell me, detective, what do find distasteful about my job performance?”

She stirred her tea, watching the honey dissolve before speaking. “You act as judge, jury, and executioner,” she said, “with no repercussions.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Fallon Straz. I get that your work is meant to be secret, but even when it became public, the official word from the Crown was that quote, ‘These things happen, but the world is safer for it.’ If the police did something like that….”

“Detective Havelock, you’re here because the Crown Secret Service wants you on board. I assure you that I can explain Straz and other cases to your satisfaction, but not without reading you in.” He opened the satchel that sat beside the table and placed a small pile of stapled pages in front of her.

“Read this thoroughly,” he said, “and understand that everything in it is literal, before you make your decision. I’d recommend focusing solely on absorbing all of it before you make up your mind.”

“Literal, huh?” She scanned through the pages and stopped. “Even this? ‘…executed and soul trapped until such time as all known operations are no longer classified.’”

“Especially that. I suggest you take the time to read it all properly.”

Brianna sipped at her tea as she read through the sheaf of papers twice. “Why me?”

“You’ve proven yourself as a natural in undercover work, and The Service can teach you everything you need to be a top-notch agent.” John cleared up the table and cleaned out the teapot. “Besides that, you have no attachments outside work.”

“I would’ve thought that my involvement in the Release the Innocent Project would turn you sour on me as a candidate.”

John smiled. “That was the deciding factor for me. You care more about real justice than your departmental stats.”

“What about Straz? Was it justice when you shot him at point blank range?” she asked.

The smile never wavered. “I can’t talk about it, until and unless you sign that document.”

The elf closed her eyes and massaged the pointed tip of her right ear. She let out a low growl, then said, “Okay. I’m in.”

John watched her sign the documents, then whisked them away into his satchel. “Welcome to the Crown Secret Service, Trainee Agent Havelock,” he said.

“Now you can tell me about Straz, right?”

“I could, but I think I’ll let him tell you the story when we visit his cell tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s alive?” she asked.

“He is. And he’ll no doubt live to a ripe old age without ever leaving the confines of SuperMax.” John rose and started the kettle again.

“But all the reports, the news, the Crown spokesperson—”

“Told exactly the story we needed them to tell.” He measured out the tea for the strainer and refilled it. “You know what The Service’s main mission is, Trainee?”

“Protect the Crown, Parliament, judges, and so on,” she said.

“That’s our secondary mission. Our primary mission is to protect and preserve the nation.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

“And do you know what the best tool we have to do that is?” he asked.

“Intelligence?” she answered in a questioning tone.

“Image.” John paused as he poured the water over the strainer and checked the clock above the door. “The CSS creates an image, a look. You, and everyone else in the world, has an image of John ‘The Rogue’ McCall as a shoot first, ask questions later, torture-as-a-hobby strong-arm who will do anything in pursuit of a goal.”

Brianna looked down at the table. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“It’s because that image opens more doors and closes more cases than standard fieldwork alone.” John set the teapot on the table and sat down with a smile. “If I was just another agent, the people I have in my custody would be more likely to stonewall me or try to bullshit their way out. When they realize that The Rogue is their captor, though, they’re much more likely to be as helpful as possible in order to save their own skin.”

“Unless they have their own image to maintain,” she said.

“True. But if they’re at that level, they understand the difference between rumor and reality.” John poured out a second round of tea in fresh cups. “In those cases, there are specially trained agents that handle the interrogations. Before you ask about torture, no, the Service doesn’t do that…at least not physical torture. Considering the number of psychiatrists the Service hires for that role, though, just being in a room with one of them might be considered torture.”

“Since everything I know about you is rumor, how about telling me something real. Have you ever shot anyone?” Brianna sipped her tea, her demeanor much more relaxed than it had been.

“A few times.” John chuckled and said, “I even shot Straz. In the calf, from twenty meters or so, not point-blank in the head. I’d just broken my ankle jumping over a wall and landing on a bottle, and he was getting away. Thought I’d even up the odds.”

Brianna took on a questioning look. “So, the tea,” she asked, “is this just image as well?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I noticed you barely drank any of your first cup, but you’ve gone and made a second pot for us.” She waved a hand. “Not that I’m complaining, it’s very good tea — Assam black if I were to guess.”

“Good guess, and no, it’s not about image. I meant what I said about the whole ritual of it being calming.” He smiled at the elf again. “Not as Senior Agent to Trainee, but person to person, I recommend you find something that does the same for you. Something simple that calms, centers, and grounds Brianna the person so Brianna the agent can be focused and alert.”