Chapter Text
There are few social situations more perilous than a joint event hosted by the Met and the Imperial War Museum. Too serious for small talk, too public for proper swearing, and filled with exactly the sort of people who’ll correct your pronunciation of Bletchley mid-sentence.
It was being held across several interconnected galleries—some traditional, some fully immersive. The theme was wartime espionage and counterintelligence. WWI and WWII, the Cold War, and more recent conflicts dressed up as “strategic multinational interventions.”
“This is a bad idea,” I said, as we edged through security behind a knot of trustees in patriotic cufflinks. “Not because of the ghosts. Just, like—socially.”
Nightingale, in a midnight-blue suit and the expression of someone enduring a minor surgical procedure without anaesthetic, made a faint noise that might have been agreement. Or indigestion.
We were technically representing the Folly. Each Special Assessment Unit was meant to have at least three senior representatives in attendance, but since our SAU has a grand total of two officers, I was there as a lowly DS and feeling distinctly out of place. Everyone else there had more stars on their shoulders or more subordinates in their nick than I had clean pairs of socks.
Ahead of us, a few familiar faces milled about—Seawoll barking at a staffer about venue capacity, Stephanopoulos already halfway to the drinks table. We weren’t there to mingle, though. We were there to be seen. And then, as soon as Nightingale deemed we had fulfilled our diplomatic obligations, to leave.
The lighting was dim. The prosecco was warm. A jazz trio was playing something experimental near a decommissioned Enigma machine. I tried not to think too hard about the symbolism.
Before I could find an excuse to sneak off, we were intercepted. The Commissioner himself was in attendance, and it turned out some bright spark had decided we ought to be shepherded through the museum’s flagship immersive gallery in small groups by a cheerful PR liaison.
I hadn't been to the museum before, but it clearly prided itself on the cinematic quality of its exhibits—big set pieces, sensory immersion, sound and fury signifying a government grant.
By unspoken mutual agreement, the Folly contingent had been keeping well clear of anything labelled flash-bang. Nightingale had steered us hard left when we passed a side gallery titled 'The Blitz Experience,' where a recording of air raid sirens was already winding up and flickering orange lights spilled across the corridor floor.
I’d been hoping to check out the Enigma machine before looping back to the hors d'oeuvres area to see if I could find anyone slightly closer in rank to pal around with. But now we were getting strong-armed into being the first group through an immersive exhibit up the central gallery. No chance of escape—not when half the diplomatic Met circle was watching.
The central gallery comprised a series of narrow, dark, interconnected spaces. Low-level fog pooled near the floor—some kind of dry-ice diffuser effect. The walls were hung with blackout curtains and torn propaganda posters. A narrow path guided visitors past field telephones, gas masks, and the hushed murmur of a projected newsreel looping on canvas. Somewhere in the mist, a disembodied voice was giving rationing instructions. Someone else coughed. I felt my pulse start to pick up.
“Somebody had a design budget,” I said, trying to keep it light.
Beside me, Nightingale didn’t answer.
He moved with studied disinterest. To anyone else, he probably looked mildly bored. But if you knew him—really knew him—that air of polite detachment meant full alert.
“You alright?” I asked, quietly.
“I’m perfectly fine,” he said, in the tone of voice that meant don’t fuss.
The guide had just started a sentence—something about operational secrecy—when a sound like a mortar shell ripped through the room. A strobe light triggered overhead. The lights cut out and came back in staggered, irregular flashes—too fast, too bright. My vision blurred. The floor bucked underfoot. A burst of wind slammed against my back, followed by a fine mist of moisture—fake rain, I hoped, but it smelled like rust. Gunfire rattled overhead. I ducked before I could stop myself.
Beside us, one of the officers—ex-military, she’d said—ducked too. In one flash of light I saw her scanning the ceiling like she half-expected incoming fire.
On my other side I could feel Nightingale shifting too, reaching instinctively for his staff and rocking forward on the balls of his feet. When I turned and caught him in profile, for a second I could have sworn his jacket flickered from navy to brown—heavy wool, officer’s bars, Sam Browne belt. Blood at the collar. And behind him, in the mist—movement. Someone running. Someone falling.
I tried to say something, but the strobe caught the fog at just the wrong angle—lit it up like snow, like ash, like the air itself was on fire—and I staggered back, throwing up a hand to shield my eyes.
Then, just as suddenly, the lights steadied. The air thinned, smoke receding like someone had turned off a machine, the smell of oil and cordite dissipating as if they'd never been. Sound returned in small, cautious increments—someone breathing nearby, a heel scuffing against tile. Normal, again. More or less. Spots still danced in front of my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said the guide, frowning. “The lights shouldn’t have done that. We’d normally have an epilepsy warning posted if the design involved a strobe. And when we tested this setup last week, it didn’t have nearly this much… sensory detail.” She looked around, as if searching for a fan or rain diffuser that wasn’t there.
I turned to Nightingale, but he was already pivoting away.
“If you’ll excuse me," he said. Didn’t wait for a response. Just coughed politely, then took three long strides out of the gallery and was gone.
I stood there for a beat, unsure whether to follow. There were five other officers with us, two from SO15, three from the diplomatic group. One of them, I think, had been mid-sentence.
I didn’t say anything. Just nodded vaguely at the display, then turned and walked out after him.