It changed direction- he hated when it did that. Anchor Ores grabbed his laptop and moved to the sit in the train car that would match its swerving direction. He hated when things moved behind his back, his military background rebelled when such thing happened. "Would you mind?" He asked a young professional who had been busy typing a six-page essay regarding Economic Decline (Anchor took a pleasurable look at his blue tab of his Microsoft Word). "No problem." Said the freckled man without giving him a glance; Anchor couldn't be bothered remaining on his laptop and switching through folders aimlessly, lack of Wi-Fi made his device counterproductive. He hid it in the notebook bag and rested his unshaven rectangular face on the arm which was perching on the support of aisle. Like he had expected, the atmosphere in the Nottingham-Hull track, (like possibly any other railway track) was tense, and everybody, even the work consumed intellectual, jerked cautiously to any suspicious sound or rumble. Ores couldn't hide, but a nervous tickle also spread across the skin when it was not required. When the cart entered dark tunnel pressure made his ears shrink and dark scenarios of machinery folding itself like harmonica were vivid in his mind. He tensed his hold on the bag. The time felt as if had elongated or it was just a long tunnel, because it seemed to be dark for longer it was expected. The cart shook and he exhaled with relaxation when train returned to its former glory in light. Even the employees on The East Coast seemed to be twitchy, the trolley woman that always managed to step on his foot when passing (for the sixth time), stopped even mumbling the flat sorry. He normally wouldn't mind, but her face played on his nerves more than her repetitive action. How long yet- three hours- damn. He tried to think about reunion with Matterfield, but that wasn't a strong motivator. He focused on fact that he'll be arriving at a port, place he would recognise with childish nostalgia mainly reconstructed by overseen photos, this made his destination seem more pleasurable. Ores stretched out his legs, and tried to close eyes, but sharp whistle made him jump upwards. It was just a sign that the train would be passing road. He laughed at himself, and looked around to cart to see more people recovering from equal shock. An elderly lady looked suspiciously over her John Grisham novel, and a mother clutched to her child. He didn't question why, everybody had seen news from yesterday, everybody has a reason to be scared. Only psychopath wouldn't threat over recordings of two collided trains, that have coiled around themselves like crossed arms, with sits swinging from their hinges and dark smoke sneaking in columns out of the ruins. The thing that shook casual audience so much was the news broadcast, which was recorded live and shown on air in any good news station. The camera moved quickly into action, the scene of destruction showing disembodied and limbless bodies scattered on the tracks and between chunks of metal like dolls of careless child. Sharp shot of young woman with tiger striped bruises and blank orbs became an instant sensation, as it was an image that crashed itself on the TV screen, when poor broadcasters tried to stop emission and put it into cosmetic censoring touches. The media called it a terrorist attack, of some made up organisation that was hinted by folks at mass press from Prism, more reliable sources said plainly "There has to be evidence to prove if it was an unfortunate accident, mans mistake or vicious ploy," The Times published the article under the headline 56 dead in dual train collision, while Sun Christianised it “Terrorist Claim 70 Lives. Now with exclusive pictures!” Guess which one rocketed in sales? Ores smiled to himself, feeling guilty afterwards. After all, he indirectly contributed to this misfortune, thanks to him that young blonde is now decorated with lethal bruises and her family stares at her blank eyes from every corner displaying The Sun. Ores started to wonder if a factual headline would bring a record breaking sales: Former MI6 Agent Tries to Define himself as not guilty after killing 70 innocents. No... That would have been too long for a headline.And another dark corridor, oh damn. Ores and significant number of others knew the truth behind the lens. Not many know that the tragedy was a precise, well calculated job of ex-agent and vengeful maniac Nathaniel White, who's out of asylum, spreading wave of terror and everything because of Anchor Ores, the man who now casually sits in a train, thinking of a ways to not take blame. White is clever, nobody will link the accident to him. As he's declared dead in the files, and free of any criminal record; the fact that he is perfect with covering his footprints even in the deepest snow is not helping. All the factors will indicate everything else but White. Maybe even Ores, but he knew that White was too smart to burn Ores down, he'll wait, and let the game play, until it will reach its climax. The trolley lady came back punching another hurtful step into Ores's foot. "Fu- do you do it on purpose woman!" He hissed while she just gave him an omniscient look from under the cape. Young professional was notably offended before returning to the typing. On his desk laid newspaper Ores knew by font and name, it was The Nightstand, the one that is talked about in large but specific audience. He never took interest in it until Clara had shown it to him months ago. It was not recognition that brought his interest but a small headline in the tight column, stating Truth behind the Collision is plainly White by Sagé Sorenso. "Can I?" He asked the man, who had the paper half covered by the keyboard. "Yeah." He muttered with a nod, raising his device for Ores to roll the paper out. He scanned the article, hoping to see gibberish, and discovering that the headline was just a bad pun.
The Nightstand stated:
[Going into details of this heavily advertised collision would be pointless, but I presume many of our dear readers haven't been infected by the popularised message of the media. The Dual Carriageway collision that occurred between The East Midlands and Trans Pennines Express was declared to be another terrorist attack. I am actually glad something like terrorists exist, there’s always someone to take the blame- not the government, not an individual- but a murky organisation everyone knows little about. That’s how fear and works and spreads. Why won’t we change terrorists into night- it would serve the same purpose, would it? I am not stating that the collision wasn’t the job of the said organisation, it as well might’ve been, but there also so many different factors to be considered. All sources suggest that the death of 56 (and lethal state of double as much) was a job of a one-off maniac that is currently fighting his domestic war. I know it sounds like coming of a lunatic (am I not one?), but it is as plausible as the terrorists. Suspected Nathaniel White is a one to take the blame, remember the riots and the death spray in the ’03? He disappeared without a word, and now it is his comeback- but he is not the one to take the blame. Stay tuned, we have our best team on the case. Reported by Sage Sorenso]
He could feel one of his nerves snapping, that was outrageous, and that couldn’t be true. He re-read the article from different angles, focused on Nathaniel White. This couldn’t be there, that information is classified, this information was forbidden to be seen by the mass audience- but it is there, in small column in the middle of quite prestigious broadsheet. How come MI6 missed that? Do they even know that their top-secret covets are released to public in such an outrageous manner? “Stay Tuned”, so that’s not all, they plan to publish more. He must have looked like an idiot with the scarlet blooming on his face and chest rising and falling as if he had ran a marathon- but his mind wasn’t on that now- he was thinking how to inform MI5 (or, as known by them- Prism), what to say, who to call. Should he just call Sidney and say, “Hi there bud, read the papers, it is about us!” About his covert mission that went into failure.
Nathaniel White is his problem, it is a problem he had set a flame to, and it had already risen in its body count. No, it is a scandal, but he cannot report it to the quarters, it would scar the scrap of his remaining reputation.
“Excuse me, can I have it back?” Said the man sitting next to him, he was already on his feet with closed laptop pinned to the side. Anchor had to blink few times to understand he meant the newspaper, the one he almost punctured with his rectangular fingers.
“Oh, yes, sorry.” He gasped and moved to the side letting the man pass. He followed the gentleman with sight, then returned to his sit mesmerised with new information. He glanced outside- Station Hull said the black on white- Hull, his station... Shit.
“Shit, shit, shit.” He cursed getting out of the sit and sprinting outside, just managing to whisk out of the closing doors. He was standing on sun scorched station, holding his chest and feeling his heart racing crazily. “My baggage!” He realised and started to sprint after the train which had already left the station. Pointless, pointless- ah, oh- terrible. His hand automatically shot into the side pocket, where he had luckily held his documents of importance. As a man that came out of military background, an unfortunate relationship and a rocky career as a Prism Field Agent: This day was looking forward being the worst ever.