SPECTRE's Shadow
High above the clouds, a sleek Britannian executive jet carved through the azure sky with predatory grace. Inside its luxuriously appointed cabin, nobleman Bartley Asprius dabbed at his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, the tremor in his manicured fingers betraying nerves his tailored Savile Row suit could not conceal. He was en route to meet a royal—one whose name was whispered in the darkest corridors of Whitehall and the Kremlin alike.
The assassination of Prince Clovis by the masked insurgent known only as Zero had sent shockwaves through the global intelligence community. And now, Asprius feared he might be next in this deadly game of shadows.
He downed a measure of twenty-year-old Macallan to steady himself just as the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom with BBC crispness:
"Approaching the Australian facility. Touchdown in five minutes, sir."
Asprius leaned toward the reinforced porthole. Below sprawled a marvel of clandestine architecture—a shimmering complex of steel and glass carved into the unforgiving Outback, glittering like a jewel upon ancient red earth. This was no ordinary military installation. It was a fortress of secrets.
It was SPECTRE.
The jet touched down with surgical precision. As the cabin door hissed open, Asprius descended into the sun's merciless glare, greeted by a cadre of operatives whose suits failed to obscure the coiled menace in their movements. At their head was a platinum-haired woman with eyes like arctic ice and the grace of a panther.
"Mr. Asprius," she said in a clipped Eastern European accent. "Number One is expecting you."
The octopus insignia on her lapel—a globe ensnared by eight curling tentacles—glinted like a warning in the harsh light.
Asprius followed her through corridors of brushed steel and armored glass. Anxiety coiled tighter with every step. The prince's legend was mythic among spymasters: a genius intellect, zero empathy, and the rumored execution of an entire board of directors who once dared challenge him—bodies found from Monte Carlo to Macau, each demise a symphony of orchestrated precision.
They passed labs filled with white-coated scientists and weaponized brilliance. Through thick observation glass, Asprius glimpsed laser systems slicing mannequins in half, poisons so rare they left no trace, and explosives the size of cufflinks.
Finally, the executive boardroom loomed. The massive steel doors parted with a whisper, revealing Prince Maximus vi Britannia seated at the head of an obsidian table. He was immaculate in a charcoal suit tailored so finely it whispered of old money and brutal efficiency. Silver hair, ice-pale eyes, and a presence that chilled the marrow.
But here, in the heart of SPECTRE, he bore no royal title.
Here, he was Number One.
"Ah, Bartley Asprius," the prince intoned, voice as refined as a Stradivarius and twice as sharp. "You must be exhausted. Dom Pérignon '96? Or something... stronger?" He gestured to a mahogany bar stocked with liquors from every corner of the globe. "Do sit."
A hidden panel slid open, revealing a black leather chair that rose from the floor with mechanized precision.
"Most gracious, Your Highness," Asprius murmured, settling into a seat that felt more like a trap than comfort.
Number One rose, circling the room with the precision of a chess grandmaster. "Tell me, Mr. Asprius. What did you think of my father's little eulogy?" He tapped his Omega watch, summoning a massive screen that displayed the funeral in ultra-high resolution. "Touching, wasn't it? I had it preserved in 8K—posterity and all that."
The warmth in his voice faded, replaced by frost.
"Strange, though—he failed to mention how you abandoned my brother to die."
Before Asprius could respond, the chair's base gave way. He dropped like a stone into a pit lined with razor-sharp spikes, gasping as the metal pressed against his silk suit—near-lethal, but not quite fatal.
"The Emperor sits in his ivory tower playing diplomat, while our enemies sharpen their knives!" Number One's voice boomed from above, transformed from aristocratic calm to calculated fury. "He speaks of order, yet fails to comprehend power. Zero plays with strategy; we should be dissecting him."
He leaned over the edge, voice lowering to a hiss.
"Like you—and my late brother—the Empire assumes superiority is a birthright. Now Clovis has a 7.65mm Walther round in his cerebellum, and Zero grows bolder with every passing day."
The floor whirred, lifting Asprius back to table level. The spikes remained—close enough to discourage dishonesty.
Number One adjusted his platinum cufflinks with surgical care. "Now then. I trust I have your undivided attention. Tell me: what exactly was my brother doing in the Shinjuku Ghetto? Choose your words with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. SPECTRE is nothing if not... inventive with inaccuracy."
"Y-yes, Your Highness," Asprius stammered, his Oxbridge accent cracking. "Prince Clovis was conducting classified experiments on a... special asset. She escaped. To maintain security, we staged a chemical weapons leak—"
"He claimed a gas leak," Number One cut in, smiling faintly. "How imaginative."
Asprius reached into his jacket and withdrew a leather portfolio. Number One examined its contents with clinical detachment, flipping through photographs like a collector appraising rare insects.
"And where," he asked, with venomous calm, "is our escaped nightingale now?"
"I'm afraid we lost her trail in the ghetto. But with sufficient resources—"
A near-invisible dart struck his neck. His pupils dilated. Within seconds, an exotic neurotoxin—SPECTRE's own creation, derived from the blue-ringed octopus—shut down his central nervous system with quiet finality.
Number One retracted the golden octopus-shaped cufflink.
"A pity," he said, already turning away. "But one cannot tolerate incompetence in this business."
Later: SPECTRE Operations Center
The command center buzzed with quiet, terrifying efficiency. As Number One entered, operatives snapped to attention.
"Hail SPECTRE," they intoned.
He nodded curtly and approached the central holographic display. The satellite feed from Shinjuku flickered before him—an ugly montage of tactical failures.
"Who's been assigned to govern Japan?" he asked the intelligence chief, a woman whose past included KGB, Mossad, and MI6.
"Princess Euphemia, sir. Military control falls to Princess Cornelia."
His jaw tightened—barely. "Establish a quantum-encrypted link. Now."
Moments later, the screen shimmered to life. Euphemia's face appeared, radiant with relief.
"Maximus! I've missed you. I hope you're—"
Cornelia interrupted, cool and wary. "Get to the point."
"Let's dispense with family pleasantries," Number One said, his charm laced with arsenic. "I intend to assume joint operational command of the Japanese theater. My experience far exceeds that of our more... conventional relatives."
Cornelia's eyes narrowed. "Mind your tone. You're still a prince of Britannia. And the proper term is Area 11."
"How quaint," he murmured. "I'll call it whatever I please."
Tension crackled like static. Euphemia, ever the peacemaker, stepped in.
"Maximus, please. I want to work with you. Perhaps we could establish a collaborative framework—one that benefits us both?"
He regarded her with the measured calm of a predator assessing prey.
"How... practical. Very well. But make no mistake—this will be a SPECTRE operation. Should either of you interfere..."
His voice dropped to a whisper laced with poison.
"I will ensure you both become intimately acquainted with our methodology."
Cornelia's fists clenched. Euphemia flinched, grief and fear warring in her eyes.
"Number One, out," he said, severing the connection with cold finality.
Later still: Princess Euphemia's chambers
Alone, she stared at a silver-framed photograph on her desk. It showed all the royal siblings, years ago at a sun-drenched garden party. Maximus stood among them, younger then—smiling, warm, human.
A single tear slipped down her cheek as she touched the glass.
"Why, brother? Why did you let the light in you die?"