"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."

George Orwell

Jacob Trials sat with his coffee at a table outside a cafe just off Covent Garden. It was one of those winter days where the sun shines so brightly that it warms your bones even as the chill air saps the heat back out. The usual crowds of tourists in the area had been joined by the first of the Christmas shoppers, and decorations dotted up and down the street welcomed them and their wallets with open cash registers.

Jake had wrapped himself in a scarf and jacket despite the lack of need for such things, firstly because it would help him to blend in and secondly because it helped conceal the gun he carried beneath. He had been glad that none of his friends had seen him embarrassedly turn around and re-enter the Ministry building just after he left, realising the rifle he had chosen was far too cumbersome and completely inappropriate for carrying around London. Now his right hand toyed with the trigger of the single pistol under his coat as his left brought the coffee to his lips.

Nothing to do but wait, he said to himself.

To the casual observer Jake would have been just another Londoner, sitting at his solitary table and staring at his phone. Jake sent message after message off to any contact he could think of a reason to, and emailed more. He was on his third coffee before his creativity ran dry and he could find no more reason to use his phone. If they were able to trace him somehow he must have given them plenty to use, he told himself.

He aimlessly stirred the remnants of his coffee and considered ordering another. Caffeine no longer had any effect on him, his adenosine receptors being fully controlled by the machines in his blood and drowsiness only setting in when he deliberately relaxed himself and induced sleep, but the waiting staff seemed eager to hurry him on to make room for other paying customers. However, the part of him inside that got mad when people tried to push him into any course of action won, and he sat there, radiating a cloud of hostility that dared anyone to ask him to move. No-one did.

Clicking aimlessly around the web on his phone, Jake seemed to be blissfully unaware of the two burly, shaven-headed men making their way towards him from across the street. They moved in a confident swagger that forced shorter people out of their way without them seeming to notice, talking to each other but eyes frequently swinging towards Jake. Jake's muscles tensed as he stared fixedly at his phone screen.

The two men were within just a few feet of his table when he sprung up, hands clutching the pistol under his jacket. Knocking his table forward with a metallic grinding, his weapon was only half drawn when he caught himself. The two men had stopped and turned to the nearest waitress, standing outside the wooden door to the cafe holding two menus.

"Wotcha love, how you doing today then?" said one, cheerily. "Someone's in our usual place. Guess we'll sit somewhere else."

His companion took one of the menus, thanked the waitress they both clearly knew well, and swung himself down onto a chair at the table next to Jake's. His mate was already ordering the full English brunch. Jake slowly released his held breath and made to sit back into his chair. Which was why the sudden poke of cold metal into his spine came as such a surprise.

"Sit down quietly and drink your coffee," came a woman's voice.

Jake looked down at his empty cup.

"Order one. I don't want anyone coming up to us while we talk."

Jake raised his hand and called over the waitress who had just been chatting with the two men. She took his order of coffee and went off to get it. Jake sat in silence, not looking around, the hard metal never leaving his spine.

The coffee came a minute or so later, and as the waitress departed another figure swung around and sat down in front of him, the glint of metal just visible beneath a red clutch bag held by a tall, brown-haired woman. She looked to be no more than her mid-thirties, though it was hard to tell due to the large-framed sunglasses that obscured much of her face.

"Jake, isn't it?" asked the woman, the smile on her face not warm at all. "We've got a few questions for you."

"We?" said Jake, returning the smile as he picked up his coffee and feigned relaxation. "And who exactly is this 'we?'"

"Just people. Concerned people. We don't like what you're doing, Jake. It's not right."

"What I'm doing? What do you even know about what I do?"

"You. The Ministry. All of it. And you're right..." She said, tilting her sunglasses down and revealing bright green eyes, "...we don't know enough. That's why I'm here. To try to get some answers."

"Well, I have an answer for you."

Jake slid one side of his jacket open just enough for the woman to see the pistol concealed within.

"That's your answer?" asked the woman. Her voice contained no hint of fear, but certainly held contempt. "You think gunning down an unarmed woman in the street is some kind of resolution?"

She leaned forward, removing the shades completely to reveal a face of sharp features framing an aquiline nose. The whole mix made her look predatory, a hawk about to swoop down on its prey.

"You sure as hell didn't seem worried about collateral damage when you were shooting up my apartment. Or kicking in the doors at my old university," Jake replied, matching look for look.

"Ah, yes. Well..." her gaze abruptly faltered and fell to the ground. "That was a... miscommunication. Nobody was ever meant to get hurt."

She looked up into his eyes and her voice took on a much more urgent tone.

"And that's the point. Don't you see? Resistance to what you're doing is just going to grow and grow! You've made a lot of people very scared, and very angry, and scared and angry people make bad decisions."

"Well, it's definitely a bad decision to come after me," said Jake with a stony stare.

"For fuck's sake," swore the woman, almost slamming her fist on the table top. "This isn't a fucking action movie! Nobody speaks like that! And people don't flash guns around major cities without endangering everybody in the area. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Alright, alright," said Jake, taking his hands out of his jacket and realising he was going a little crimson.

It's the heat, he told himself. It certainly wasn't to do with feeling like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong. Bloody scarf...

"You can't possibly think I'd let people shooting at me pass as a simple 'miscommunication,' can you?" Jake tried to chuckle as he spoke.

“Fine. Not a miscommunication, then. There are groups within our organisation who want to take more… direct action against the Ministry. They’re fed up with watching and waiting.” The woman sounded weary.

“Watching? You’ve been watching me?”

“The Ministry, yes. For some time now. You couldn’t have possibly thought what you were doing would go unnoticed forever, could you?”

“Kind of. So who are you?”

“Really? You think I’d give you a list of names and addresses? Just think of us as concerned citizens. Which is what most of us are.”

The woman’s eyes flicked downwards as she spoke the last part.

“Most?” asked Jake, not missing the physical cue.

“We’re not really sure who all of us are. We’re amorphous, I guess you’d say. Anyone concerned about the way the world is heading can get involved.”

She looked up and her expression showed sincerity for the first time.

“Look, Trials, we don’t know why those men came at you like that. They were just meant to be following you, looking for an opportunity to catch you alone and talk to you. The reunion is pretty much the only time you haven’t been on the job in years.”

Jake blinked, nonplussed. He must have taken a break at some point recently, right? He thought hard, but nothing came to mind. He wasn’t even sure when the last time he took time for himself was.

The woman leaned in towards him, lowering her voice.

“Listen, I’m Anna, ok? This isn’t how it was supposed to go. There was never meant to be any violence. We still don’t know who those guys really were, nor why they were so dead-set on getting you. We just wanted to talk, to at least communicate with the Ministry. You do understand you work for a completely unaccountable organisation that routinely breaks domestic and international law? People have a right to be concerned.”

Jake snorted with amusement.

“International law? Thanks, I know enough to know that’s just a pipe dream.”

“Godsdammit Trials, why are you so condescending? Will you talk to us, or not..? What, what is it?”

Jake’s eyes barely flickered as they focused on something over Anna’s shoulder, but the sudden tension in his shoulders and jaw was enough to alert her that something was wrong.

“These people you have no idea about why they attacked me, could they have followed you?” Jake asked, shifting in his seat.

“I… no, of course not. I mean, I don’t think so. No-one’s ever followed me before…”

“Well, that changes today.”

Striding down the street at a rapid pace were three stern-faced men dressed almost entirely in black. It was easy for Jake to make out the form of the barrels under their jackets.

“Fucking trench coats? Are you kidding me? Get your gun ready, Anna.” Jake stood and threw down some cash.

“I don’t have a gun! Don’t be ridiculous!” she hissed.

Jake looked down at the very small, very blunt letter opener she dropped onto the table.

“We really aren’t that kind of organisation. This was just a… way to get your attention. Is there really someone coming?”

She looked around nervously, anger replaced by uncertainty. When she looked back, Jake was already gone. It took her a few seconds to find him again, jogging swiftly across the street between honking taxis. His head disappeared and reappeared between the crowds of people as he headed directly away from the direction he had been looking.

"So you're going to run away? Shit," she muttered under her breath. "Still, at least he paid the bill."

She glanced down at the cash scattered over the table, and turned to leave, which is why she was just in time to see the three men forcing their way through the crowd, knocking people left and right and to the ground in a shower of shopping bags and presents.

Jacob Trials moved as fast as he could through the crowds, dodging and weaving between people whilst being careful to reveal himself now and then. He didn't want to lose his pursuers, but he did want to make them think he did.

He made his way up to the Strand and sprinted across the road through moving traffic, causing a red double-decker to come to a brake-squealing stop with an irate blow of the horn.

He was looking for a way to buy time to set up his next move. At first, his speedy departure from the cafe had been simply to confirm if he was in fact being pursued, but now he was positive it was time to turn the tables. Ducking into a nearby bookstore, Jake attempted to blend in as one of the many customers perusing the now sadly outdated paper literary format. It was a ploy that may well have worked had one of the men now searching around frenetically for him not slammed heavily into a customer just leaving the store, sending a pile of books cascading over the pavement. The collision halted the pursuer in his dash, and gave him the time to look more clearly into the shelves, where Jake was failing to hide his face in a book due to the complaints of an outraged teenage shop attendant.

Throwing the book down with a curse and a shocked scream from the shop attendant, he barely managed to get his pistol up in time as the other man raised a bloody combat shotgun at fired. That was military-grade equipment and not something Jake had expected to be encountering on the streets of London.

Not wasting an instant to fire off a shot of his own, Jake dived behind a blessedly thick stack of books as buckshot flew through the store, scattering diced paper through the air and hitting an unfortunate bystander in the side. They collapsed with a scream and a crimson cloud of blood that sprayed across the bookshelves, red on white. Jake didn't think that looked like a survivable wound.

With no time to think, Jake leapt sideways, propelling himself from one pile of books to another as his pursuer strode after him, always no more than a few piles away, pumping blast after blast in his direction. Fragments of books were flung through the air, the boom of the gun punctuating the screams of the crowd, people pushing and fighting for the exit.

The attack was methodical, precise. Each blast seemed carefully timed, almost robotic, the gunman stepping patiently and ever closer to Jake. He could hear the carpet behind him being blasted up as he dodged and wove from place to place, barely a step ahead. He felt panic bubbling up in his chest - the man's friends must be coming this way.

It must have only been seconds but felt like years before he managed to get enough space between them to take stock of his situation. Leaning against a high bookshelf he recomposed himself, panting heavily and covered in sweat... No.

That always happened if he let panic get to him. He regressed. He was not panting, not even breathing heavily, and he was most certainly not sweating. Touching his right hand to his left wrist, he measured his pulse. 40 BPM, as usual.

Alright...

The next blast came from the other side of the very shelf he was standing in front of, the books this side jerking forward suddenly. Jake closed his eyes and listened.

The tell-tale click and cocking sound signalled the shotgun being reloaded. Fast, thought Jake. Definitely dealing with a professional.

His side was suddenly fire, his vision blurred as he fell hard to the floor. Of course. The rhythmical firing, the slow chase through the maze of shelves. A distraction whilst his friends closed in for the kill.

Shaking his head to clear it, he looked down at his left side. What he saw was so shocking he almost passed out there and then, nanites or no.

A gaping chunk of flesh from his hip up to his chest was missing, the bottom two ribs themselves visible through shredded skin. Blood was pouring out, unstoppable even for him.

With the sound of sirens growing as consciousness faded, a chill seeping into his bones, his last thought was to wonder what would happen to the microscopic machines now flowing out onto the floor.