Imposter Syndrome

Algarve

Greater Manchester Police Headquarters, Northampton Road, UK

With a shuffle of a manila folder, its contents fast-growing, Gregory thanked the powers that be tomorrow was Friday. A bank holiday weekend and he would be 'right as rain.' Air travel tended to wear on his psyche a bit, and he had a hankering for a fresh-cooked meal (instead of all those buttered scones).

"Anything of note?"

It was Detective Lazlo, his coat sweeping into the office space, vampire cape-style.

"We know the what—she used her...her psyche—revived her supervisor's siblings, who looked to be on a..."

"A...?"

"Subconscious subliminal acid trip of the...er...aqua pilled variety..." Even aloud it sounded ludicrous, but that was the nature of the beast, he supposed. "Judging on their names, the mercenary's boss's name likely starts with a 'V.' The young woman herself wanted to cure, not harm—"

Lazlo smiled. "Excellent progress!"

"Thanks, sir—"

"That said, we mustn't grow complacent." The detective appeared concerned the next moment, thumbing through Gregory's snapshots, noting the woman's fancy biohazard gloves. "I suspect she's in greater danger than she realizes..."

Hearing a muffled beep, Lazlo pulled out his phone. "If I work quickly, perhaps she and I can have a quick chat...in Algarve thereabouts..." And up and away we go...

Algarve, Portugal

A morning jog along the coast was precisely what she needed, as warm wind whipped about her raven hair. Panting slightly, she paused once she scaled the hillside cliff, filled with jade-hued fronds reminiscent of aloe vera, examining the expansive view below of foamed waves delineating shoreline from sapphire sea. Lilac sky deepened into rosy apricot further along the horizon, as she took a few minutes to absorb the beauty of her surroundings. The sheer permanence. The constancy.

An hour later, she found herself atop a pink-patterned sofa, surrounded by the glow of morning light, and the scent of indigo-streaked tulips. If and when she neared retirement (several decades hence), she imagined she would enjoy living in such a place as this—if she were rich enough, and smart enough with her finances. Taking a sip of piping hot tea, chasing it down with freshly cut laranja—oranges—she began researching her newest assignment, but a paraphrased Bond quote popped into her brain at that very moment.

Once is an accident, two, coincidence. Third time: enemy action...

She frowned, thinking back to Zach's high-profile demise. Clotilde's name, ruined. Cosima, murdered. Aqua, present in every single case, capsule or otherwise. Even if Veronica had somehow harmed all those people...there was no proof to show authorities. As far as she herself knew, it was impossible to glean fingerprints off liquid, and she herself had always worn gloves.

Besides—her fingers paused over the keypad—

Who would believe her? Especially over someone as rich and powerful as Veronica? Would she be labelled a madwoman with mind histrionics? Best case scenario, she would be discounted as having an overactive imagination. Worst case, locked away—forever.

Which, in turn, led her to do the one thing she told herself she would never, ever in a million years, do. Fingers trembling, she dialed Veronica. Boss. One ring, then:

"Well this is certainly a surprise. Who died?" a sardonic voice answered on the opposite line.

"Uh—" Cosima? Or was this Veronica's vague attempt at humor? It was impossible to tell.

"I kid, I kid! Do lighten up, dear. What can I do you for?"

"I'm worried my actions are harming others." Your actions. Your agency. And I, the reluctant arbiter—

"Work stress must be getting to you. If you don't think you can handle the job millions your age would kill for..."

"I-I—" but it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

"...and the perks...Air B&B, designer purses, those embossed notebooks. You know, not many ladies your age can say they've been to ten European countries in three months—" Veronica was on a roll.

"No, I'm sorry I bothered you Boss. I-it's nothing. I can handle this."

"You'd better."

The conversation having ended, she turned her attention to her screen. An airy, modern house, its honeyed, carved surface gracefully intersecting with alabaster-painted metal...a media legend, who spoke out of turn, one too many times...and the number twelve.

Twelve, a number symbolically associated with perfection, entirety, and the cosmic order.

No pressure.

No pressure at all.