"Damnit to hell," blasted Damien, jarring his fists against the table between he and Gerard. "This attack was not personal. It was not a country declaring war against another. Look, here. No casualties besides those that occurred with the riots, yet a bloody museum implodes on itself."

"No doubt, Damien," assured Gerard. "The problem with that is this: who else has the funds, the workforce available, to create something as sophisticated as a device that implodes rather than explodes?"

"Would it be so crazy to suggest that there are powerful people trying to influence the state of Britain?" asked Damien. "Powers that are outside of governments or even the Ministry?"

"Have you considered such people are already implanted in those institutions?" inquired Gerard.

"We don't have time for all this back and forth, question after question," shouted Damien. His face flushed a shade of red as he turned to face the shallow window stained a picturesque with a wash of colours.

"But it's important, Damien," urged Gerard. "You act as if these events just happened, now, by a lunatic in the sewers and it's easy to accept that. What you fail to understand is that you happened to see one root of an even larger tree that spans all the way to when our first kings roamed this land."

"So you're saying it was planned?" mused Damien dryly.

"Damien, I'm saying it was orchestrated over the course of centuries," darkened Gerard.

"Centuries?" Damien said aghast. "You're can't tell me you are convinced of fate. Destiny everlasting."

"It's hard to explain," sighed Gerard.

"We have time," snarked Damien.

Gerard pushed his glasses back onto his eyes, resting them neatly to frame his aged, but regal face. He had an effortless style as if his clothes always tried to mould to him. Damien shook his head, a smirk creeping across his lips.

"You can't honestly tell me that a person such as yourself believes that there are invisible strands tugging on every action ever taken," laughed Damien.

"Funny that you choose to remain closed to such an idea given what you can do with just your arm," retorted Gerard.

"This was an accident," he said. Damien's fingers waved a hello in a pattern like a piano player moving up scales. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as a strand was caught on one of the protruding pieces of metal.

"So to can fate be, Damien," sighed Gerard. "You best get yourself to London unseen and unheard. A museum is too easy a target given the unrest going on."

"No such thing as an easy target in London," mused Damien. "Perhaps a first move on a board."

"It very well could be," stated Gerard. "Yet, what is the end goal of all this?"

"You're asking the wrong question," smirked Damien. "Who would profit the most from a war, a global war?"

"Someone who could fund it," stated Gerard.

"I'll find what I can," said Damien leaving his perch upon the desk. "I'll be on the first train I can find to head North."

Gerard eyed Damien's arm which the younger man covered by unrolling his coat sleeve. His steps were sure as he left the old man again as mad candle lights buzzed like fireflies. Incoming light from the window hazed, taken away in accordance with the younger man's leave. Gerard fussed in his chair with his eyes on the door that snapped shut. He sat there for a moment rummaging through papers and book pages until finally he stood, marching for the door.

"Damien, wait," he offered, yet he was gone. Only the wind howled his name along with the uneasy clanking and whine of a steam engine passing by in the distance. The old allies paved in cobblestone echoed it's remorseful call and Gerard went back to the confines of his desk.