The flapping wings of a crow echoed through Moore's office as she leaned back with her phone in her hand, with the crow landing on her desk. Another day, another bollocking from the second-highest authority in the realm. Normally, she wouldn't mind whenever the Prime Minister and her butted heads but, since the people voted for Labour in the last election and the current Prime Minister was more concerned about the alleged "human rights violations" over her long career instead of seeing her as a dinosaur or accusing her of undermining them, their verbal spars got annoying very quickly. If covert operatives like her weren't allowed to do the necessary dirty work to keep this country or even the whole damn world afloat, then what's the bloody point? Still, at least he was more competent than that prat, Johnson.
"I've reviewed the operational summary of Steel Toaster," the Prime Minister's measured voice carried over the telephone, "There are several concerning discrepancies that need addressing."
"And what discrepencies would those be?" Moore asked, casually twirling the phone cord.
"Your report specifically states England failed to confirm the termination of Averina's command," the Prime Minister replied, "That's not neutralization. That's an open-ended risk."
Moore pulled her pipe out of her pocket, "In any other case, I'd agree. But that's because the major was in no condition to confirm the kill. Besides, you've seen the images. If she isn't dead, she is as good as dead."
"Would you say the same of England?" the Prime Minister asked.
"About England," Moore replied as she put the pipe in her mouth, "I've checked the hospital with the general that was supposed to give him his DSO for a job well-done but-"
"He's gone, isn't he?" the Prime Minister interrupted.
Moore lit a match and carefully placed into her pipe before taking a long drag from it.
"Yes, Prime Minister," Moore replied as smoke hung onto her words, "I checked his flat and not even his dog was there."
The Prime Minister sighed before giving a measured response, "Listen, Director. You may have coasted under previous Prime Ministers sharing similar views to you but you will not get past me. And as soon as I find someone better, you're out."
Moore coughed out a chuckle, "With respect, Prime Minister, I'm not another civil servant that you can just sack. I founded this organisation with Queen Victoria herself and have been running it ever since its inception. And if I had a pound for every time a Prime Minister threatened to dismiss me, I'd have enough to buy a custom T-shirt saying 'I outlived all these gits and all I got is this lousy bloody T-shirt'."
Without hesitation, Moore hung up the phone and took an even deeper drag from her pipe. It was difficult to decide which one she wanted to strangle more. The bleeding heart that the people elected into office or Major England himself? And while he would have probably snapped her neck if she tried, Moore was leaning towards the latter.
"Still think this 'Britannia's Finest' initiative was a wise idea?" a familiar Celtic brogue asked.
Moore moved her head to face the buxom but pale-skinned she-devil that had once been the crow perched on her desk. This would usually be the moment where she handed The Morrigan the red dress that she keeps in one of her drawers but, since The Morrigan was sitting cross-legged and her raven-coloured hair covered her nipples, she saw no reason to put her pipe down and do just that.
"It will be if Russia or the entire Sinosphere decide to pick a fight with us," Moore replied, "Especially the latter and if Japan really does have mechs and 'magical girls'."
"They do," The Morrigan spoke candidly, "I checked. Some of them are even capable of launching a nuke."
Moore gave the phantom queen beside her an incredulous look, "The mechs or the magical girls?"
"The magical girls," The Morrigan sarcastically replied.
Moore smirked, "Well, you never know with Filly. She's like Elon Musk."
"If Elon Musk was a misotheistic communist alien that pretends to be a magic ghost and recruits child soldiers," The Morrigan dryly replied.
Moore chuckled, "You know what I meant."
After enough lounging around, Moore got up from her seat. As she walked towards the door, The Morrigan hopped off of the desk and walked over to one of the drawers before pulling out a red dress and putting it on. Moore didn't even bother waiting as she walked down a corridor towards the lift. The Morrigan caught up to Moore and stood beside her as Moore pressed the button to the bottom floor. Other than the faint whir of the lift going down, there was dead silence
"I'm not sure if I asked you this before but," Moore spoke to break the silence, "Do you ever feel like you might get attacked while riding these things?"
"I think you have been watching too many films," The Morrigan replied.
Moore scoffed, "Hardly. The last film I watched was Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy."
"In theatre or at home?" The Morrigan asked.
"Technically, both," Moore replied, "I waited for the DVD to come out then set up a projector to watch in the comfort of my ballroom. Much better than wasting money on a ticket then trying to find the perfect seat, I promise you that."
The Morrigan shrugged, "Fair enough. But there's nothing quite like the real thing."
"Speak for yourself," Moore retorted, "You can turn into a bird and perch yourself on top of a nice spot. And if you need to use the toilet, you can just shit on another moviegoer's head."
"First of all," The Morrigan responded, "That's avian profiling. Secondly, last time I tried sneaking into a theatre as my true self, it nearly turned into a recreation of our first meeting."
The lift ground to a halt. Moore was the first one to step out as she observed the vital signs of each pod in the cryonic facility. While she had many a monarch and Prime Minister question why she would spare traitors and war criminals instead of sending them to the gallows, there was no denying it paid to use their talents for her insurance policy. As long as they kept whatever nonsense they believed about a "master race" to themselves. And it wasn't just spare parts or even spare bodies in case her lungs or throat were beyond a surgeon's repair. She kept her favourite assets down here too. Or most of them.
"Speaking of which," The Morrigan continued as she gestured at the surrounding pods, "Would you have trapped me in one of these things if we had met during the Cold War?"
"Depends," Moore responded, "Who were you rooting for during the Cold War?"
"I didn't care who won but," The Morrigan replied, "If I had to pick, it would have been the USSR. Though their war with the Mudjahideen was an eye-opener. There were proper warriors on both sides. Not as clean as you Anglo-Saxons these days."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Moore retorted as she walked towards the dog of war she was about to unleash, "We still got a few hard bastards. Like this one."
Moore looked at the preserved soldier before her. Claymore. Named after the broadsword and cut just as efficiently. He was also cut in a perfect figure too, minus the stump near his shoulder where his prostethic should be and the rugged auburn hair he had while terminating the command of a jihadi with too much money and too little faith in Western imperialism. With Claymore's permission, she only saved him for special occasions as if he was a fine wine.
The Morrigan wolf-whistled, "Now that is a warrior right there. Was he the one that ki-"
"Yes," Moore interjected, "And he's the one that's going to bring Major England back to me whether he likes it or not."
The Morrigan tilted her head, "I wouldn't be so sure about that. I was there when England bested the Steel Lady. What does this man have England and Averina don't?"
"For one thing, mental stability," Moore dryly replied, "Besides..."
Moore's metal fangs glistened in her reflection within the glass of the pod.
"I don't think England would have it in him to fight an old friend."