Mason Beck Fiction

Since the transcription bot refused to cooperate, I had to rely on a quick voice recording from memory right after the session. That means some dialogue and narrative beats couldn’t be perfectly reconstructed, and a few smaller details may have slipped through.

I’ll be rebuilding this one in parts, blending what I remember with my session notes to recreate the story as closely as possible.
Part Two will be coming soon.

Hope you enjoy.

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It was the morning of Monday, November 17th, 2025.

London stirred beneath a chill curtain of fog so thick it seemed the city had dissolved into cloud.

The air hung heavy and wet, clinging to every strand of hair, every thread of cloth, every inch of bare skin.

Cars hissed through puddles. People moved like shadows through vapor.

The city was awake, yes… but only just. It breathed without enthusiasm, as though the act itself were a weary habit.

One by one, they made their way toward the Institute.
Eleanor McKenna was the first to arrive, turning the corner onto the narrow street where the building waited. The road was still blocked, police tape sagging in the damp, barricades beaded with condensation that ran in slow, uneven trails. A lone officer stood guard, his breath a pale cloud in the cold.

She approached and told him she needed to get through, that she worked inside. He eyed her, uncertain, and asked where exactly she worked.
“The Institute,” she said.

He radioed down the line. Static crackled, followed by a voice, his superior, relaying that Dr. Miriam Cadwell, newly appointed Director of the Magnus Institute, had made herself clear: their shift did not begin until nine.
The officer looked back at her and shook his head. She would have to wait.

Next came John Miller. He turned the corner and paused, his eyes catching on the small café across the street, its tables still slick with fog and empty of life. He shivered, tucking his hands into his coat as he stepped toward the barricades, the officer, and the young woman waiting beside them.

He gave her a brief nod before addressing the officer. “Can I go through?”

The officer glanced him over. “Institute?”

John nodded.

“Like I told the lady,” the man said, his voice flat with routine. “You’ll have to wait. Your shift starts at nine.”

John gave a quiet breath of acknowledgment and stepped back beside the woman, the mist curling around their feet as though reluctant to let them go.

Next came Olivia Schmidt. She wore a sharp pantsuit and walked with the kind of confidence that made space for her without asking. A burn scar, the shape of a hand, stretched across her mouth, angry and unmistakable.

The officer straightened as she approached, his professionalism faltering for a heartbeat when he saw the mark. The startle flickered across his face before he caught himself, clearing his throat and shifting his weight. Eleanor and John both noticed but said nothing.

Olivia introduced herself and tried to talk her way through, her tone clipped but controlled. When that failed, she leaned on connections, mentioning that she knew his captain. The officer’s reply came steadier now but no less firm. His captain had just told him what her boss had said. That was twice above his pay grade.

Eleanor spoke first, calm and even. “It’s all right. We’ll wait.”
John added, quieter, “Let’s keep our heads down. First day’s not the time to push it.”

Olivia exhaled through her nose, eyes flicking between them and the barricades. Then she turned on her heel and crossed the street toward the café, the fog closing around her as she went.

As Olivia reached the door of the café, Father Mateo Bellano nearly walked straight into her. He carried a paper cup of coffee, its lid trembling slightly as he stopped short.

“Pardon me, my child, I didn’t see you there,” he said, the words warm and instinctive. His eyes widened a little when he caught sight of the scar across her mouth, though he recovered quickly. In his years of ministry, he had seen worse.

Olivia gave a curt nod and a quiet huff, then disappeared inside.

Father Mateo adjusted his coat and crossed to the barricades, greeting the others with a genial nod. The officer didn’t bother asking this time. “Institute?” he said flatly. Mateo smiled and lifted his coffee in confirmation.

“You’ll be let through at nine,” the man added. “It’s nearly nine, but not yet.”

He sighed, rubbing a gloved hand over his face, the weariness plain. “All right,” he said finally, looking to Eleanor. “You’re in charge of this lot now. If anyone else shows up, you tell them the same. I’m done saying it.”

Eleanor gave a small nod. The officer turned and walked off, his boots splashing softly as the mist swallowed him down the street.

Next came Jean Dainko. He arrived without hurry, hands tucked into his jacket, and joined the small group waiting by the barricades. He greeted the others with a polite nod. Eleanor explained the situation, that they could not go in until nine.

The minutes stretched thin in the chill, and when the hour finally turned, the officer returned and waved them forward.

Across the street, Olivia caught sight of the movement through the café window. She left her place in line, coffee forgotten, and hurried back out to join the team.

A different officer met them at the barricades and led them down the street toward the Institute. Police cars and vans still lined the road, their lights dim and pulsing through the fog. Metal storage containers stood along the curb, their sides damp and rust streaked. On the opposite side, mobile office trailers sat in a tight row, their windows glowing faintly from within.

Right in front of the Institute doors rose two tents, one white and one blue and black. The blue and black bore the emblem of the Metropolitan Police. Several other vans were parked close beside them, including a pair of moving trucks, a crime scene cleanup van marked for hazardous materials, and a contractor’s van waiting for its call to repair what needed fixing.

The air smelled faintly of bleach, ash, and cold metal. The street was quiet but for the slow drip of water from the tents and the low hum of generator engines idling somewhere unseen.