The World in Dissonance (Volume 2)

Chapter 2 - Part 3

Part 3

Leaving the theater behind, Dedicatus and Beatrice quietly merged into the flow of London's afternoon streets. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Their footsteps echoed across the damp cobblestones as the distant rumble of carriages gradually faded into the background.

It was Beatrice who eventually broke the silence.

"Your performance back there was quite convincing!”, remarked the aristocratic girl, offering what, coming from her, could only be interpreted as genuine praise. "Even so, I remain unconvinced that Inspector Blackwood truly fell for it. It would seem the rumors surrounding him were justified."

"Yeah, he may be a pain in the butt, but ‘dat ol' geezer's the real deal!!", replied Dedicatus with an amused grin. "Hard to manipulate, clever as hell, and so damn careful ‘dat he never leaves an openin'. ‘Dat guy's a beast."

Dedicatus was not the sort of person who handed out compliments lightly. In fact, she rarely praised anyone at all. Yet those who knew her well understood that whenever she described someone as a ‘beast’ or a ‘monster’, it was not meant as an insult, but as the highest form of recognition she could offer. To earn such a title was to possess ability so exceptional that even she had no choice but to acknowledge it.

"So...", followed Beatrice as she folded her arms while glancing sideways at her companion. "I suppose Option A officially failed."

"It did!!", answered Dedicatus without the slightest hint of disappointment.

"I imagine we’re moving on to Option B, then?"

A faint smile appeared upon Dedicatus’s lips.

"Exactly!! Well, honestly I kinda anticipated our main plan would be a failure.", developed the young maiden. “Ain’t no way ‘dat maggot of a director would have given the list to us anyway!! ‘Dat list has some valuable personal informations.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow.

"And are you finally going to tell me what this mysterious Option B is?"

"Nay!!", answered the girl so quickly that it almost sounded rehearsed. "Wasn’t ‘bout to discuss it inside nor even near the theater while ‘dat hound dog Blackwood is still nearby."

"You don't trust him?"

"I trust his abilities.", corrected Dedicatus with a calm smile. “Which is precisely why I won't let him hear thin’ he doesn't need to know."

She then looked ahead.

"Just keep followin’ me."

Beatrice sighed; she was aware of how cunning her companion was, and even a genius like her was probably not safe from the girl’s schemes. But it was exactly why she joined her. It took a monster to stand beside and walk down with another one.

"I figured you'd say that."

The two continued walking, gradually leaving behind the orderly avenues of central London. Elegant storefronts disappeared one after another, replaced by aging brick buildings whose windows had long since been boarded shut. The gas lamps became fewer and farther apart, allowing darkness to settle between the narrow streets.

Even the atmosphere changed. The lively chatter of pedestrians vanished. The rhythmic sound of carriage wheels became a distant memory.

Silence ruled these streets, not the peaceful silence of an empty road but the unnatural silence of a place where everyone was watching from behind closed curtains.

Beatrice slowly surveyed her surroundings. Dilapidated houses leaned precariously against one another. Makeshift shelters had been built from discarded timber, rusted sheets of metal, and whatever scraps their inhabitants could salvage. Children wandered barefoot through muddy alleys while exhausted laborers sat against cracked walls, their hollow eyes silently observing every stranger who entered.

"I see...", murmured Beatrice as her expression subtly changed. “So this is London's bidonville."

Dedicatus simply nodded.

"Such a sad view, right!?”, said the girl with medical eyepatch. The expression on her face barely changed. “The part of the city respectable gentlemen pretend not to exist..."

* THUD *

But before Beatrice could reply, a small figure suddenly crashed into her.

"H-Hey!", screamed the young boy as he stumbled backward before glaring at her with surprising hostility. "Watch where you're going, stupid girl!"

Without waiting for an answer, he hurried past her, only to collide with Dedicatus an instant later.

"Oh! Sorry, miss!", said the young boy as he offered a quick apology before darting away into the maze of alleyways.

Beatrice frowned.

"What a rude—"

"Ya've just been robbed."

"What?"

She instinctively reached toward her coat. Her hand froze.

"My purse..."

"No worries, it never actually left!!”

Dedicatus casually held up the familiar leather purse between two fingers. Beatrice blinked several times.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The lil’ boy took it."

Dedicatus twirled the purse once before tossing it back to its rightful owner.

"So..."

"I took it bacc’ from him.", confirmed the young maiden before Beatrice could say more words.

The aristocratic girl caught the purse almost mechanically.

"May I ask of you when it happened?"

"The exact moment he bumped into the great me.", replied Dedicatus.

The young maiden answered so matter-of-factly that it almost sounded obvious.

"The poor fella had excellent hands.", said Dedicatus as a mischievous smile slowly spread across her face. “But he made one fatal mistake."

She raised one finger.

"A pickpocket steals what you have."

Then raised a another one.

"A genius pickpocket steals it back before either the victim...", her smile widened ever so slightly. "Or the thief realizes it."

Beatrice stared at her in complete silence. Dedicatus chuckled softly.

“...”

"Imma give him credit. His timin’ was almost perfect."

She glanced toward the alley where the child had disappeared.

"Our score is even now... One point each!!”

Beatrice could only shake her head.

"I don't know whether I should be impressed... or concerned."

"Kukuku~ You can be both!!"

Dedicatus laughed before her expression gradually settled into something far more serious.

"From this point onward, stay alert.”, seriously asked the girl as her emerald eye swept across the darkened streets. "We're entering the territory of the British Firms."

Those words were enough. Beatrice immediately understood where they were headed.

.

..

...

The British Firms.

For most ordinary citizens, they were little more than rumors whispered behind closed doors or names mentioned in newspaper articles whenever a particularly violent incident occurred. Yet beneath London's respectable facade existed an entire world governed by these organizations, a parallel society that had developed its own rules, loyalties, and hierarchies beyond the reach of conventional authority.

Unlike the sprawling criminal syndicates that emerged elsewhere in the world, the British Firms were traditionally family-run organizations. Blood ties mattered almost as much as profit, and loyalty to one's own was often valued above all else. Their roots could be traced back to the impoverished working-class districts of Great Britain, where generations of laborers, dockworkers, and factory hands struggled to survive amidst poverty, overcrowding, and social neglect.

Most Firms originated from English and Scottish communities, though several influential groups emerged from Irish and Turkish Cypriot neighborhoods as waves of immigration gradually reshaped Britain's urban landscape. While each Firm possessed its own customs, leadership structure, and sphere of influence, they all shared a common characteristic: they were businesses as much as they were criminal enterprises. Smuggling, gambling, extortion, protection rackets, black-market trade, and countless other illicit activities were managed with a level of professionalism that often rivaled legitimate corporations.

Their origins stretched back to the 19th century, when small street gangs and neighborhood protection groups gradually evolved into more sophisticated organizations. Over the decades, rival factions merged, fractured, and competed for territory, eventually giving birth to the criminal networks that dominated Britain's underworld in the modern era.

To the public, they were criminals. To the authorities, they were a persistent plague.

But within the forgotten corners of London's poorer districts, many viewed them differently. Some saw them as predators. Others saw them as protectors. In places where the law was absent, the Firms often became the only authority people ever encountered.

And it was precisely into the heart of that world that Dedicatus and Beatrice had chosen to venture.

"The underground...", murmured the aristocratic girl as she let out a quiet breath. “So this is Option B!"

"This one needs information.", answered Dedicatus without hesitation. "N’ there are certain questions the law cannot answer."

Beatrice looked toward the maze of alleys stretching endlessly before them.

"I'll admit it... This is a rather excessive approach."

"Perhaps.", Dedicatus smiled. "But the fact ‘dat am willin’ to walk into London's criminal underworld should tell ya one thin’."

She adjusted her clothes as if to show she was getting serious.

"I already know how am goin’ to walk bacc’ out."

“I was never actually concerned about that!”

Without another word, the two ventured deeper into the lawless district.

The deeper they walked, the more invisible eyes seemed to follow them from windows, rooftops, and shadowed alleyways. Men stopped their conversations as the young maidens passed. Others quietly disappeared into the darkness, no doubt carrying word that strangers had entered the territory.

Several minutes later, they reached an aging warehouse standing at the end of a deserted street. It stood like a forgotten monument of a world that had long since abandoned the idea of law in this part of London. Its weathered bricks were stained by years of smoke and rain, its iron framework reinforced in places where ordinary buildings would have long collapsed under neglect. Yet despite its outward appearance of decay, there was nothing fragile about it. Every window, every entrance, every visible angle was watched with the disciplined patience of men who understood that survival in this world depended not on law, but on vigilance.

More than two dozen armed bodyguards stood around every entrance, their disciplined formation contrasting sharply with the poverty surrounding them. Some leaned against brick walls with folded arms, while others kept their hands resting near concealed weapons beneath their coats.

No one entered, no one left. The building did not merely appear protected. It appeared untouchable.

.

..

...

The British Firms did not rely on common thugs for such places. The men stationed outside were not street-level enforcers but trained bodyguards, individuals who had once been soldiers, dockyard fighters, or enforcers raised within the Firms themselves. It was said that some of them could stand against units of Great Britain’s lower military divisions and still hold their ground long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Guns were present, hidden beneath coats or stored within reach, but rarely drawn without necessity. Firearms were for war, not intimidation. For everything else, there were baseball bats wrapped in iron, crowbars thick enough to c***k bone, and knives sharpened not for spectacle but for efficiency.

As Dedicatus and Beatrice approached, the atmosphere shifted immediately. Conversations between the guards ceased, replaced by a slow, deliberate attention that followed the two young women from the edge of the street to the front of the warehouse entrance. One of the men stepped forward, his posture straight and controlled, his hand resting casually near a concealed weapon beneath his coat, though not yet drawn.

"This is not a place for wandering strangers!", the guard warned in a low voice that carried both authority and patience. "Turn around and leave while you still can."

Dedicatus did not slow her pace.

Instead, she stopped just close enough for her presence to be undeniable, tilting her head slightly as if she were assessing the situation rather than reacting to it.

"I have business with ye boss!!” replied the girl calmly, her tone carrying neither hostility nor hesitation. "If ya art unaware of who I am, then ya may simply be new here."

A faint silence followed those words, the kind that did not come from confusion but from recalculation. The guard narrowed his eyes, attempting to place her face within the countless names and warnings that circulated through the Firms, yet nothing immediately surfaced. To him, she appeared too young, too composed, too out of place to be anyone significant.

That hesitation was enough.

Dedicatus shifted her weight ever so slightly, allowing the moment to unfold exactly as she intended. The guard’s expression hardened, as if deciding that uncertainty was reason enough to assert control. In one sudden motion, he reached for the crowbar concealed at his side and swung it toward her with enough force to break ribs had it landed cleanly.

But the strike never found its target.

Dedicatus stepped inward rather than away, closing the distance at the precise angle that caused the weapon to pass harmlessly beside her instead of through her space. Her hand intercepted his wrist mid-motion, not by force but by timing, redirecting the momentum of his own attack until his balance betrayed him. The crowbar slipped from his grip before he even understood it had happened, and in the same fluid movement, she placed him in a position where resisting only worsened his resolve instability.

By the time he attempted to recover, his footing had already collapsed beneath him, and he was forced to stumble backward as if the ground itself had refused to support him.

The young girl straightened, glancing briefly at the weapon now resting in her possession before letting it fall loosely to her side. The look in her eyes were as cold as the winter of hell.

"What follows now...", said quietly the girl with medical eyepatch, her voice carrying across the silent street. “Falls under the rules of the strong within the Firms."

Beatrice then stepped forward at that moment, aligning herself beside her rival without a word of hesitation. Her posture changed subtly, shoulders settling, weight evenly distributed, eyes fixed on the surrounding guards with measured precision. There was no surprise in her expression, only confirmation, as though she had already calculated that this was the exact point where negotiation ceased to matter.

Before she could speak, however, Dedicatus glanced sideways at her.

“Oy Beato, tell me...”, asked the young maiden almost casually, as if discussing something trivial amidst a storm that had not yet fully broken, "Ya ever struck someone before!?"

Beatrice did not look away from the guards as she answered.

"If landing dozen of blows during suffrajitsu training and fencing practice with my masters counts, then yes!”, replied the aristocratic girl evenly.

Dedicatus let out a faint amused breath, as though the answer pleased her more than she intended to admit.

"Then I suppose this one ain’t alone!!”, she said, before adding with a light, almost teasing tone. “As a lady, I often found myself speakin’ with my fists durin’ certain moments of my childhood."

The guard who had first stepped forward finally exhaled sharply, realizing too late that the situation had already shifted beyond his control. He raised his voice toward the others without taking his eyes off the girls.

"End this quickly...”, ordered the Firm guard coldly. "And quietly! The boss is inside, handling businesses, and we don’t need disturbances reaching him."

At his command, the formation tightened.

The first two guards advanced together, testing distance rather than committing fully, their movements were coordinated and cautious. Dedicatus met them without retreat, slipping between their angles in a way that made their synchronized attack collapse into obstruction rather than pressure. One of them attempted to adjust, only to find his own ally blocking his path, a consequence of positioning that Dedicatus had subtly manipulated before either of them had realized it.

Beatrice moved at the same time, though in a very different manner. Where Dedicatus dissolved structure, Beatrice imposed it upon herself with disciplined precision. Her steps were controlled, almost elegant, as she redirected incoming strikes with the economy of suffrajitsu technique, using deflection rather than resistance, turning force away from herself and back into empty space. When one of the guards attempted to close in from her flank, she pivoted cleanly, her movements shaped by fencing discipline, creating just enough opening to unbalance him without overcommitting herself.

What had begun as an attempt at containment quickly became a disorganized struggle, as more guards were forced to join simply to prevent the situation from unraveling further. The street outside the warehouse, once quiet and controlled, was filled with the sound of movement, impact, and frustrated coordination breaking apart under pressure.

Dedicatus remained at the center of it all, not as someone overwhelmed by numbers, but as someone constantly rewriting how those numbers could interact with her. A guard’s swing would be redirected into another guard’s path, a charge would be interrupted by a sudden shift in positioning, and every attempt to overwhelm her only created more obstacles for those attempting to coordinate.

Beatrice, watching her closely, did not blink even once. It was not admiration that held her gaze, but calculation.

Eventually, the guard leader raised his voice again, frustration cutting through discipline as the situation deteriorated faster than expected.

"Enough!", ordered the man sharply, stepping forward as he drew a revolver from beneath his coat. The weapon clicked into place with deliberate certainty, the barrel pointing not at Dedicatus, but at Beatrice.

He didn’t misread the battlefield. Dedicatus made him thought so.

"Ya chose the wrong target!!”, said the girl quietly, almost conversationally, as though correcting a minor mistake rather than addressing a life-threatening one.

Those words were enough to make him dance in her palms. Thus, for a brief instant, the guard’s attention shifted, just enough to register the correction. It was enough for Beatrice to make her move.

In a single controlled motion, she redirected the angle of the weapon, breaking the guard’s aim before he could properly stabilize it, her suffrajitsu training merging seamlessly with fencing precision. The revolver was stripped from his grip before he could react, and in the same fluid continuation of movement, she stepped back and discharged a single shot upward into the sky.

The report of the gun echoed across the district, sharp and undeniable.

Silence followed immediately after, not of confusion, but of consequence. Within moments, the warehouse doors opened.

The sound of the warehouse doors opening was slow and deliberate, as though the structure itself was reluctant to reveal what lay within. The guards who had been overwhelmed moments earlier instinctively stepped back, not out of obedience but out of recognition that the situation had shifted beyond their authority. Whatever conflict had been unfolding in the street no longer belonged to them.

From the shadowed interior of the warehouse, two figures emerged. The true authorities of the British Firms finally stepped outside.

The first was a man in his mid-fifties, tall in posture despite the weight of age pressing subtly into his shoulders. His presence alone carried the kind of authority that did not require immediate violence to be acknowledged, though it was clear enough that he had used it often in his lifetime. His gaze swept across the scene once, taking in the scattered bodies, the damaged formation of his guards, and the two young women standing at the center of it all with unnerving composure.

Beside him walked a younger man, likely in his early thirties, sharper in expression but no less composed. His eyes moved with careful precision, assessing every detail without allowing emotion to interfere. There was a resemblance between them that suggested more than mere association, something closer to lineage than partnership.

This was Glenn, the head of the Firm’s local branch, and his son Vincent, who had long been prepared to inherit not only his father’s position, but also the weight of the world it commanded.

“What the hell is going on here?”, angrily asked the Firm Boss Glenn. “Didn’t I make it clear I didn’t want any disturbances when I discuss Business?”

For a brief moment, none of the guards dared to speak. Then Glenn’s eyes settled on Dedicatus.

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute, as though the entire street had been forced to hold its breath.

“Miss Dedicatus...”, said the head of the Firm, his tone shifting in a way that none of the guards had expected, the sharp authority in his voice collapsing into something closer to disbelief. “What, in God’s name, is happening here?”

The guards exchanged confused glances. The shift in atmosphere was too sudden, too absolute to process. The same girl who had been moments away from being subdued was now being addressed with recognition that sounded dangerously close to respect.

Vincent stepped forward slightly, his expression tightening as he studied her more closely. Unlike his father, his recognition was slower, as though memory itself was being carefully searched and then reluctantly confirmed.

“It’s her?”, said Vincent quietly. “Seven months ago...”

At those words, something in Glenn’s expression sharpened, the memory fully returning now that it had been named.

Seven months prior, a tragedy had nearly unfolded within the city involving what the Firm’s informants had described as an anomaly of spiritual origin. A situation that defied criminal classification, where ordinary violence had been rendered meaningless by the presence of something far more dangerous. It had been Rachel, Glenn’s daughter, who had been caught at the center of it.

She had not been alone during that time. There had been another girl with her, a classmate whose name had not survived in the Firm’s reports, only the fact that she had also been saved.

Rachel herself was not close to many people at school, and Laurencia had only ever known her in passing, the kind of distant familiarity that existed between students who shared classes, hallways but not lives. Yet when the incident occurred, distance had ceased to matter entirely.

Something had gone wrong that day, in a way no ordinary explanation could contain, an event that those involved would later struggle to describe without hesitation. A spiritual imbalance, an intrusion, something that had placed Rachel’s very soul at risk, leaving her suspended between life and something far less forgiving. It was Laurencia who had come to Dedicatus, frightened but determined, asking for help in a way that carried more urgency than explanation.

And it was Dedicatus who had acted. With Father John’s assistance, the situation had been contained not through force, but through catholic ritual, spiritual knowledge, and intervention that belonged to a realm far beyond the concerns of the Firms. Whatever had reached for Rachel had been driven back, and whatever had tried to claim her had failed.

Rachel had survived. That single fact had been enough to bind an unspoken debt between the Glenn family and the Liddel name.

Now, standing in front of his warehouse, Glenn understood exactly who had stepped into his territory.

“So it really is you...”, finally said the Firm Boss, his voice lower now, less threatening and more restrained, as though he were speaking not to an intruder, but to a consequence he had long expected to one day return. “The girl who dragged my daughter back from something that should not have had a way back.”

“My Salutation, Mr Glenn n’ Mr Vincent!!”

Vincent’s gaze lingered on Dedicatus for a moment longer, before shifting to the guards around them, who now looked far less certain of their earlier confidence.

Beatrice, observing everything in silence, slowly came to a conclusion she did not voice immediately.

(Dedicatus didn’t come here to force her way into the British Firms. She came because she never needed to force anything at all.)

Those thoughts quietly settled within Beatrice's mind as she glanced toward Dedicatus, who was already exchanging words with Glenn as though the brief skirmish that had just unfolded had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

A faint sigh escaped the young aristocrat's lips.

(So that had been her intention from the very beginning.)

Dedicatus had known fully well that the head of the British Firms was indebted to her and would never refuse to grant her an audience. Had she simply announced herself, Glenn would have undoubtedly welcomed her inside with the respect owed to his family's benefactor. Yet that would only have repaid an old debt, allowing both parties to consider themselves even.

Instead, she had deliberately provoked the guards into attacking first.

By doing so, she had forced the Firms into an impossible position. Their own men had assaulted the very person to whom Glenn owed the life of his daughter. Regardless of whether the guards had recognized her or not, the responsibility ultimately rested with the Firms itself. In a single calculated move, Dedicatus had transformed an old obligation into an even greater one, ensuring that Glenn would feel personally compelled to make amends.

It was manipulative, shameless and frighteningly effective.

Beatrice lowered her eyes for a brief moment before allowing another quiet sigh to escape.

“She truly is unbelievable..."

Most of the time, Dedicatus carried herself with the carefree demeanor of a young lady whose curiosity constantly wandered from one subject to another. One day she would immerse herself in philosophy, the next in chemistry, theology, literature, criminology, or even the peculiar habits of London's pickpockets. Her interests were so varied that even Beatrice occasionally wondered how to keep pace with them, earning her the fitting title of a true jack of all trades.

Yet that image only revealed half of who she truly was.

Whenever the safety of one of her sisters was at stake, that playful façade quietly disappeared, revealing something far older and infinitely more unsettling beneath it. Every conversation became a calculation. Every decision served a purpose. Every risk was measured long before anyone else realized a game had even begun.

She no longer behaved like an eccentric genius amusing herself with yet another puzzle. She became something else entirely, a Monster.

Beatrice's gaze lingered upon her rival for another moment before the corners of her lips rose into the faintest of smiles.

(No. That word has never suited Dedicatus as an insult. To her, it’s the highest acknowledgment one genius could offer another.)

And in moments such as these, there was simply no more fitting description.