Du Puteron's head dropped, he was appalled with himself. Dank, dark stone made up the cells. Though connected to the outer walls, no light flew into them. He could not focus, everywhere he looked another feature made him turn away, from the decaying stench of long dead rats, to the flaking of rust on the iron gates, on to the trickles of water that slowly made their way down the walls.

Finally, he found the courage to speak, "I don't want to hold you in this place, it is thousands of years old and in need of some upkeep. But if I am to move you to more pleasing accommodation, I need to know I can trust you. To do that, I require you to answer a few questions."

Within the cell, the guards nodded their consent, yet grins on faces told of disapproval.

"Right," Du Puteron ordered his thoughts, "we will start with the big one, who sent you?" They stared back, faces giving away nothing. "Let's try again, who sent you?" Once more silence. "Right, last time," now frustration appeared in his voice, "who sent you?" Nothing. "If that is the way you want to play it, maybe we should try later." It took all his power to turn away, leaving them there was like treating them as bad dogs. More than that, being treated like dogs by a bad owner. Even the slums seemed like luxury compared to that cell.

Du Puteron barely made two steps before a call came, "it was Kendra." He turned to see a guard, helmet off, holding onto the bars of the cell door like a lost child. The man appeared as if he was pleading. A second later, however, he had been ripped from the door by two other guards.

"What do you think you're doing?" they shouted, laying punch after punch into his soft face, spraying blood across the walls and their uniforms. A third took the call to action and stood, kicking the deserter in the side.

Whilst Nigel looked on with glee, happy to let the enemy slug it out with each other, Du Puteron grabbed the Jersey leader's gun and let a flurry of shots fly into the air. The rattling sound was enough to stop the attack and gain the attacker's attention. "Bring the one on the floor," Du Puteron ordered Nigel's associates, "leave the others in there."

They unlocked the door, one standing by it with gun raised in case the guards should get bold, whilst the other entered and headed towards the prone body. Hands shot up, guards backed away, the traitor was a worthy sacrifice to keep their lives. As Nigel's aid bent down, doubt crossed one guard's mind, surely he should do everything in his power to protect Princips. He twitched, then went, darting forward as the aid roughly pulled the prone guard to his feed. Before the attacker touched his foe, a loud bang rang around the cell. A heavy impact into his bulletproof vest threw from his feet.

"The next shot will be to the head," stated the aid at the door. No other guards moved.

With a grunt of pain, the bloodied guard was shoved through the cell door; before the others could move, it was once more slammed shut and locked.

The aids pushed the guard again, making him stumbled forward. Du Puteron stepped in, "there is no need for that, he is coming of his own volition."

As they processed away, the remaining guards shouted obscenities. The last word heard was, "traitor."

~

This place felt different; it had the same liberties as the mega city he guarded, but somehow seemed freer. The buildings had a strange elegance, linking back to an era long gone. He knew this was one of the free states, but did not expect this. He thought they would be more impoverished, that without the support of Princips they would find it hard to flourish. Nothing could be further from the truth. He had not been told they would be poor, but the teachings he received at school implied it to be a lesser way of life. Behind the old facades, though, lay comfort, and not the comfort of conformity within the mega cities, a comfort of expression, that you were able to say and be whatever you wanted and no-one would judge. It amazed him that, when visiting somewhere new, your eyes opened, you started to question things you were told to believe in. For a little while, he wondered if he could live here, a quiet idyllic life away from the hubbub of the massively populated cities.

The group marched past a picturesque marina, one that used to be full of sailing boats, through the town's narrow streets and up a hill toward grand buildings that towered over the town, along with a sunken garden with benches, fountain and flowers of every colour imaginable. Du Puteron stopped before a small sets of stairs with a door set atop. The stairs were the width of the door at the top, but increased with each step down, like the building itself invited you in to see the decadence inside. A red carpet, draped down each step, added to the sense of grandeur. Glass panels let them see through the door to the beauty behind; a small welcoming area with polished marble floor and tiered glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Beyond this stood a strong wooden door, hiding the luxuries and secrets of the building. The guard, battered and bloodied, in no fit state to enter such a building, only hoped that this time he was allowed to stay and explore. Mega city buildings were clean with crisp lines and modern detailing, this building had a history, and he was not sure it was the history he had been told of. It was strange how a building could be ignored, all the fine detail and feel of the place pushed to one side when there was a job to do. Now he was here as a guest, of sorts, he appreciated the beauty in front of him.

"Welcome to my base of operations," Du Puteron said, "well, you have been here before, but this time I want to offer you my sincerest welcome. This used to be one of the best hotels on the island before Princips stopped tourism. The view of Herm is particularly magnificent. Anyway, I digress. Welcome to the Old Government House, us islanders call it the OGH, and I do think it will be to your liking."

Du Puteron led the way up the stairs; the others followed tentatively, worried they might dirty the red carpet. A maze of rooms sat behind the wooden door; if this used to be a hotel, Du Puteron had clearly made renovations, though it was hard to tell where, such was the workmanship that had been put in. Ceiling and wall designs had been painstakingly constructed to recreate those that already existed. Low marble tables stood at either side of the large corridor, ornaments and historical artefacts placed on them. This building was now a home to many, a base of operations and a museum of curios. Round a corner and heading to the part of the hotel that bordered the town, Du Puteron unveiled his pièce de résistance.

"Welcome to my office," he said, pushing the doors open.

The view was indeed as magical as he had stated earlier, a view the guard completely missed the last time he entered the room. Then his eyes were only for Du Puteron, now they marvelled at the garden, the buildings dropping down to the harbour, the stretch of deep blue water, and the number of small islands that protruded from the sea.

"See, I told you it was beautiful," Du Puteron uttered, breaking the guard's trance.

The guard tried to say something, but only mouthed a few words before breaking into tears. Deep at the back of his mind he knew what he did was wrong, knew there was a better life out there; was this it? His life had been one of segregation, the mega cities seen as better than the slums, guards better than civilians, the Princips board better than everyone else. That did not take into account independent states, they were the real heathens, it was best to just ignore them. The propaganda machine had done its work on this guard, and the realisation of that became too much.

Whilst the others wanted to force this guard down for crying, Du Puteron understood exactly what to do. He wandered across and placed a hand on the guard's arm, "it's OK, just sit down, we'll take our time." He led the guard to a free seat, a leather-bound armchair, frayed where the rivets held it together. Du Puteron seated him and asked, "would you like a drink?" A weak nod the response. Rather than allowing him to select a drink, Du Puteron went off to make one himself. He may have been the leader of the rebellion, but refused to order a lackey to do basic work for him.

Any positive atmosphere left the room with Du Puteron. Nigel avoided eye contact with the guard, whilst his aids' stares bore into the Princips' employees face as scowls played across their lips. 

The male aide could take it no more, striding toward his enemy. Before he completed the journey, he felt a tug on the back of his shirt, the collar pulling taut against his neck. "Leave it," came Nigel's voice.

Next Du Puteron asked, "what is happening here?"

"Nothing, friend," Nigel replied, "just someone not realising how they should respect the rules in another's house."

Du Puteron took the view that, if Nigel's aides stepped out of line, the leader of Jersey would sort them out, deciding instead to take the drink to the Princips guard. Du Puteron walked slowly as steam rose from a fine china cup decorated in blue and yellow flowers and trimmed in gold. At each step the warm liquid threatened to spill over the side and pool in the saucer below. Du Puteron presented the drink, it was taken in shaking hands. The guard noted the dark brown colour and warmth on his face. He took a tentative sip. The drink was too sweet for his liking, laced with sugar, and milk would have made the aftertaste less bitter, but at least he knew what the liquid was. "Tea?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes," came Du Puteron's reply.

"Where do you get tea from?"

"The same place as everyone else, the tea plantations in Asia."

"Asia?"

"Oh, yes, no knowledge of real geography. Around sector 27 and 28."

"But how do you get it here? You can't take tea from within Princips' territory."

"I am allowed to leave the island. I'm not a prisoner, I'm just watched like a hawk when I step off independent soil, and luckily drinking tea is not a crime."

"You sure you didn't steal it?" the guard accused.

Du Puteron gave his trademark chuckle, "that's Princips talking. No, I didn't steal it."

"It's good stuff."

"Well, it cost a pretty penny."

"A what?"

"Just a saying."

"Right," Nigel interrupted, "are you two going to waffle on all day, or is there any point in this conversation, like maybe getting some intel?"

"Sorry about him," Du Puteron said with a smirk, "he doesn't understand the fine art of conversation."

"Sorry about him," Nigel retorted, "he doesn't understand that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"Well, I suppose we better get started then. Let's start with the most important question, what is your name?"

The Princips guard replied tentatively, as if revealing his name would mean betraying his friends, "erm...it's Eric."

"Interesting," unsure how to respond, Du Puteron moved on. "So, how did you arrive here so quickly after our Airbirds were launched?"

"Airbirds?"

"You know...the plane type things, they are not really planes but not airships so we call them Airbirds."

"Oh, OK." Eric paused, deciding whether to reveal his secrets. One glance outside enough to tell him he could make a life here, "I suppose there is no point lying, and I guess you know the answer already. The satellite images cover your islands, I know they are supposed to be blank spots, but they are only blanked out for civilians. Those in power see everything."

"The thing is, even if you had seen them launched on satellite imagery, you still would not be here so quickly."

"I was told the mission and when to leave, nothing else."

"Lier!" came a scream from the back of the room. The male aide charged forward, in his anger deciding to use his gun as a club. He raised it, ready to strike before grunting in pain and doubling over.

"I said leave it," Nigel uttered through gritted teeth, rubbing his clenched first. He turned to the other aide, "take him somewhere to calm down." She obliged, helping her colleague to his feet and supporting him out of the room whilst he whimpered in a combination of pain, anger and shame. "Sorry about him," his tone not the most sincere.

"I understand," Eric's was sincere, "I am still the enemy, I can't say I wouldn't react the same way in his position."

"Quite deep thoughts for a lowly guard," Du Puteron said, "maybe Princips do teach you something of compassion."

"I wouldn't go that far," Eric quipped.

"So, back to the question, how did you get here so quickly?"

"I wish I could help more, but like I said, I was only told what to do and when to leave."

"Stands to reason, on a need to know basis eh?! Who gave the order? Was it Kendra?"

"Not personally, it came from her though, probably the last order she gave."

"The last order?"

"Do you not know? Kendra's dead."

In shock Du Puteron blurted out, "what? How?" The question did not matter, it held no relevance to the rebellion, but it is human nature to try to understand the full picture.

"She was pushed out of a window by Ukrit."

"By Ukrit? Maybe that is why he has stopped contacting me."

"I don't think you understand, he went through the window with her."

"But...but..." tears welled up in Du Puteron's eyes, "why?"

"I don't know, all I was told is that they think it was an accident, well Ukrit's death was an accident, we think he was plotting to overthrow Kendra and was found out. I am guessing he tried to kill her and accidentally killed himself in the process."

"Ukrit? Trying to overthrow Kendra? That makes no sense."

Nigel interjected, "sometimes we don't really know a person until it's too late."