Glasgow, Scotland, Abandoned Shipyard on the Clyde River

Rain beats against the rusty steel plates.

This dockyard, once the site where Empire warships were built, is now the secret training grounds for the "Scottish Self-Defense Army."

More than twenty former Highland Freedom Army members, former British Army Scottish soldiers, and three silent Mexican "advisors" are practicing in rain and mud on operating the "Javelin" man-portable air-defense missile—equipment provided at a "friendly price" by Mexico, claimed to be an improved version of the U.S.-made "Stinger."

Moira stands in an observation post, converted from a container, watching the clumsy figures below.

A young guy almost pointed the launch tube at his own people and was kicked into the mud by a Mexican advisor.

"It's still not working." She says into her headset, "Discipline is too loose. They're used to guerrilla warfare in the mountains and can't stand the regular army's way."

The distorted voice of McTavish comes through the headset: "There's no time. When London releases the 'White Paper,' the international observer group is coming next month. Our army can't look like bandits."

"Then let them be." Moira lights a cigarette, "Angus, we didn't rise by marching in uniform. It was hatred, bullets, knowing there's no retreat. Now you lock them in a barracks, give them uniforms, practice formations, and they can't fight."

Silence. Only the sound of rain and cursing from below.

"What do the Mexicans say?" McTavish asks.

"Advisors only teach technology, don't comment." Moira exhales a smoke ring, "But I can see they look down on us. Think we're a bunch of lucky bumpkins."

"Then show them." McTavish's voice turns cold, "Next weekend, live-fire exercise. Turn the target drone into a low-altitude penetration mode. If your people can't shoot it down, they can roll back into the mountains. I need an army, not souvenirs."

The call ends. Moira watches the rain-swept Glasgow skyline. In the distance, sensor towers of those "smart cities" aided by Mexico are being installed, like cold metal fingers stabbing the gloomy sky.

Same day, London, Whitehall, an unremarkable private club

Pipe smoke mixes with the smell of whiskey. Graham sits in the corner, opposite a well-dressed, but slightly frayed-cuffed middle-aged man—Richard Ellis, former MI6 Middle East station chief, retired early "for health reasons" three months ago.

"Richard, I need you to go back." Graham pushes a manila envelope over.

Ellis doesn't touch the envelope: "Go back? Where? Six? Or back to a country that's tearing itself apart piece by piece?"

"To Wales."

Graham lowers his voice, "There's a split within the National Party, moderates fear economic collapse after independence, radicals want an immediate referendum. London needs...to exert influence."

Ellis smiles, fatigue written in his smile: "The old way? Money, dirt, stirring up infighting? Graham, look at Scotland. Why did McTavish win? Not because we weren't cunning enough, but because the things we gave—better management, decent compromise—no one believes anymore. They now trust the missiles and docks given by Mexicans."

"That's why we have to change strategy." Graham leans forward, "Not to stop Welsh independence, but...to guide it. Make it independent as a weak, London-dependent, and a 'friendly neighbor' with territorial disputes with Scotland. This requires precise operation, Richard. You're best at this." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

Ellis stares at the envelope, seemingly able to see what's inside: a new identity, seed money, an encrypted chip with names of Welsh National Party personnel who can be bribed, and a payment slip for his daughter's tuition at a Swiss private school.

"One last time." He finally says, voice dry.

"Of course." Graham raises his glass, "For the Queen."

Ellis doesn't touch the glass, picks up the envelope, and stands to leave. At the door, he turns back: "Graham, how deep have we dug?"

Graham looks at the amber liquid in the glass: "Deep enough to bury the entire Empire, Richard. But at least we're still digging."

Mexico City, "Silicon Valley Mexico" campus

The cabinet of Quantum Computing Laboratory "Feathered Serpent God II" emits a low hum.

Bramo stares at the data stream on the screen, says to Victor beside him: "Test successful. 72-hour continuous operation, error rate within expectations. We've bypassed the bottleneck of von Neumann architecture."

Victor nods, but his eyes fall on another screen. It's the global news summary, a seemingly insignificant message highlighted: "Former British diplomat James Forsyth appointed as a special advisor to the 'England Transition Parliament Preparatory Committee.'"

"This person," Victor points, "Check. Frequent meetings over the past six months with German Foreign Ministry, French think tanks, and...the U.S. cultural attaché in Switzerland."

Bramo quickly pulls up the file: "Forsyth, Oxford pedigree, traditional pro-European faction, wife has German aristocratic blood. Public records show he advocates 'England should use deep integration with the European Union to offset the impact of disintegration.' Need in-depth monitoring?"

"No." Victor shakes his head, "Let him move. See what Europeans—especially Germans—want to plant on the ruins of England. Sometimes, letting your opponents till the land is easier than doing it yourself."

Casare strides in, holding a satellite photo: "Boss, North Sea. The Scots built a new radar station on the Shetland Islands, twenty kilometers further north than our suggestion, and reserved space for missile array expansion. McTavish didn't fully listen to us."