Mason Beck Fiction

Continuing from Part One, the party is finally assembled and things are not as they were expected.

Stay tuned for Part Three!

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They were ushered into the white tent, the air thick with paper dust and the sour smell of damp ink and mold. Folding tables filled the space, cluttered with open boxes and stacks of folders in varying states of ruin. Some were waterlogged, others torn. A few were scorched along the edges. It was organized chaos, if it could be called organized at all.

People moved in every direction. Voices overlapped. Orders rose above the noise while quieter conversations hid in corners. A handful of workers stood motionless, staring at the wreckage as if waiting for someone to tell them what came next.

A nervous looking man approached, gripping a clipboard as though it were an anchor. “Oliver Dent,” he said, the name tumbling out in a single breath. He managed a thin, uneasy smile that disappeared the instant he saw Olivia.

“Jesus,” he yelped, hand flying to his mouth. Regret hit him immediately. “I am so sorry.” His gaze slid to Father Mateo. “Sorry. Father. I did not mean… I mean… sorry.” He winced and forced himself to breathe. “Everything has been overwhelming. Please wait right here. I will get Miss Cross. She will want to know you have arrived.”

Evelyn Cross was the head of administration, and one of the senior staff who had interviewed them.

Oliver turned and hurried off, weaving through the confusion and slipping between workers carrying boxes and armfuls of damaged documents. They moved in a steady, frantic current between the tents, the vans, and the broken building beyond.

Oliver vanished through the tent flap, dodging bodies as they moved to and fro. Workers streamed out of the building and toward the tents, the vans, and the temporary offices that had spread across the street. Some wore full protective gear, sealed from head to toe. Others trudged past in heavy overalls, carrying boxes, equipment, and pieces of broken furniture. It all blended into a steady churn of movement, a tide that never stopped.

Cass Sinclair burst into the tent a moment later. She was late, and frustration clung to her like the wet London air. The weather, the delay, the entire morning seemed to sit on her shoulders at once, and the irritation in her expression made no effort to hide itself.

She and Eleanor locked eyes. It lasted only a second, but it hit with unexpected force. Something in Cass’s expression felt sharp and directed, as if the frustration had a target and that target was her. Eleanor felt it land like a personal blow. She did not know why, but the look felt intentional, as though Cass already disliked her.

The moment passed, swallowed by the movement of people around them, yet it lingered in Eleanor’s chest all the same.

Allie Russo arrived next. She hurried into the tent breathless and flustered, a cardboard tray of steaming coffees balanced in her hands. Her entrance cut through the moment between Cass and Eleanor, snapping Eleanor out of the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest.

The coffee was a small mercy, and the team welcomed it without hesitation. Allie offered each cup with a quick, apologetic smile, still catching her breath.

Then she turned toward Olivia. The sight of the scar made her heart skip, not because she recognized the woman, but because she recognized the mark itself. It was something she never wanted to see again. She prayed that the flicker of panic had not crossed her face.

She gathered herself, forced her expression into something steady, and continued handing out the drinks as if nothing had happened.

The quiet hum of the tent swallowed the moment, but the memory of that scar stayed with her all the same.

As they waited, several of them began to look around, taking in the scene with a growing sense of unease. What they saw did not match the calm explanation they had been given during their interviews in the hotel conference room barely a week before. They had been told there had been a break in, some vandalism, a few staff members missing. The phrasing had sounded unfortunate, but manageable.

What surrounded them now felt anything but manageable. The level of damage, the frantic movement, the ruined documents, and the sheer number of personnel made the earlier description feel strangely incomplete.

Their eyes drifted toward the Institute itself. The front doors, the large double set that dominated the entry, had been rehung on a fresh frame. The wood looked new, the fixtures unweathered. It took effort to picture those doors torn from their hinges, yet the sight of the rebuilt frame made that violence all too real.

Burn marks stained some of the documents on the tables. Others were warped or torn in ways that suggested heat and force, not simple mishandling. The more they looked, the more each detail contradicted the mild, understated version of events they had been given.

The silence that settled over them in that moment was not from fear, but from recognition that something about the story did not add up.

Oliver Dent reappeared standing just outside the tent, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he stared toward the line of office trailers. His clipboard hung at his side, forgotten for the moment. Something had his full attention.

Olivia noticed first. She drifted closer to the edge of the tent, pretending to examine a nearby table while angling her head to listen. The others caught on, one by one, and joined her in that subtle movement, drawn by curiosity and the tension in Oliver’s posture.

Raised voices carried across the cold air. They belonged to Evelyn Cross, head of administration, and Captain Marcus Shaw, head of security.

Marcus sounded furious. “Why was I not told they were starting today?”

Evelyn’s tone was calm, clipped, and dismissive. “You have police crawling all over the property. There is nothing to worry about. Your job is to keep the Institute safe for when they are gone. The staffing is my responsibility, not yours.”

Marcus did not let it go. “I am already stretched thin. I have to guard the archives, the equipment, the offices, and everything else in this place, while people wander around touching whatever they want. And now you expect me to deal with new hires on top of it. They are not exactly the best and the brightest out of the applicants.” He paused just long enough for the bite in his words to settle. “They were the only applicants, Evelyn. That does not inspire confidence.”

Evelyn’s reply was too soft to make out, but Marcus answered with another sharp complaint. The argument carried on in terse bursts, the tone growing hotter even as the words became harder to distinguish.

At last, Marcus ended it with a sound that needed no translation. He turned and stormed off, boots striking hard against the pavement.

Evelyn watched him go for a moment. Then she straightened her blouse, adjusted her coat, and made her way toward the white tent, her expression composed and professional, as if nothing at all had happened.