Rain came down in cold, merciless drops all across Edinburgh. Umbrellas bloomed and shuddered at corners; everyone else hugged doorways, bus shelters, and shop lintels—the city choosing to stay indoors whenever it could. Those less lucky hurried through the downpour, heads bowed, praying their errands would end before the weather reached their bones.
In the alley behind Braveheart, rain hissed and drummed against the armour and rifles of the Nine Crusaders, making an eerie metallic symphony as they waited for his command.
After checking both sides of the street for police or other trouble, Braveheart stepped out from Multrees Walk. He kept his hood low, his coat pulled tight, and scanned again—right first. The mouth of the bus station exhaled diesel and steam; two travellers darted inside for a morning coach, while farther down a driver smoked beneath the canopy. Still no police.
He looked left, up the short rise toward St Andrew Square. The black spear-tipped railings and iron gate of Dundas House glistened in the rain. Beyond them spread the small lawn and, above the steps, the tall wooden doors—dark as wet oak—leading into the bank. The pavement beyond was empty. Across the square, a single double-decker bus sighed through the drizzle, nearly empty; a black cab prowled for fares that didn't exist. The city was quiet. The rain ruled every sound.
Satisfied, Braveheart turned back to the shadows of the alley and gave a single nod.
The Nine moved out. They did not understand this world or the strange cold sky above it, but like obedient children they followed their chosen father. Boots thudded through puddles, sending up small silver splashes as they fell into step behind him.
Each stride carried both wonder and suspicion. Every building seemed impossibly large, every glass window a sorcerer's mirror. The ground beneath their boots was too perfect—no mud, no straw, no horse dung—only a smooth grey stone that felt more spell than craft. The wagons of metal and glass that growled past without horses defied every law they knew. Awe became fear, and fear became zeal; what they could not comprehend they judged to be sorcery.
Their white tabards, marked with crimson crosses, hung over armour of ceramic and polymer plate. Full-face crusader helms hid all trace of humanity; their vent-ports exhaled thin clouds of white breath. The three women in Light sets carried short carbines tight to their chests; the men of the Heavy sets bore full-length rifles with drum magazines and glass optics that glimmered dully in the rain.
To modern eyes they looked unreal—half riot squad, half saints in armour—like actors from a film who had lost their director.
People at the bus stop saw them first.
A man with a tartan umbrella pointed.
A woman in a fur hat gripped the pole and said nothing.
A boy whispered, "Knights," and his father, deciding not to understand, turned away.
Two soaked office workers lifted their collars and pretended the sight didn't exist.
No one called for help; no one even raised a voice. The scene was too strange to fit anywhere inside reason. An old woman muttered that it was "just young dafties in costumes—same as always—no respect these days."
The Nine advanced with the wary superstition of soldiers who had seen demons in every lonely wood. Every neon sign looked like a warding spell. A man raising a camcorder to record them seemed to wield some dangerous device. Yet they held formation because Braveheart never slowed, because his certainty was the bridge across their fear.
He crossed the pavement at a measured pace—neither skulking nor swaggering—simply a tall, hooded vagrant with purpose in his stride, leading nine armoured angels through a modern storm.
They passed the east-side bus stop and there, leaning under the canopy with his collar up, was one bloke pretending not to stare. Then the column closed the last few metres to the bank's railings.
The iron gate stood dead ahead, its lock an old bruise of metal. Under the shallow stone steps, as if cast from the same cold marble, one man held the threshold like a bored statue: Billy McNab — cap low, cigarette poised between two fingers, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. Rain made a halo of steam around his breath.
Braveheart wrapped fingers round the bars as though he were a prisoner testing wood for weakness, lifted his face, and stared straight at him. The hood hid most of his features; water ran in threads from the brim. Billy saw him, and the cigarette slipped from his fingers more from the shock of what followed than at seeing Douglas himself — the nine behind him, ridiculous and terrifying in their armour.
"Billy!" Braveheart bellowed. The name cracked across the square like a thrown stone. "Get over here—now!"
Billy's mouth opened and shut. For a heartbeat the old habit took him: "Douglas— is that you, you daft bastard?" Then something colder clicked in his brain. He swallowed and forced it right. "Or—ah—Braveheart? Braveheart, what the bloody hell are you doing here? Where've you been?"
Braveheart's fingers tightened on the iron. "Billy, shut the fuck up and get over here, now."
The voice was hoarse and familiar and utterly impossible. Billy's stomach did a slow, sick lurch. "What the… Douglas—no—Braveheart, yeah. Okay. Right."
He stepped off the shelter of the eaves and crossed the yard. Rain slapped his cap; the cold bit through his shirt. As he closed the distance he could see the face he'd known — the jaw, the mad grin of Douglas Alastair Horn — and beneath the hood something older and harder flickered in those eyes.
"What the fuck are you lot?" Billy blurted, breath coming quick. "Who are these—these modern crusader things? Are those real guns? How did you—"
"Open the gate, Billy." Braveheart's voice went flat and urgent. "Do it now. Nothing else. I'll give you your cut after. For the job."
Billy stared, mouth dry. "The job? You're doing it now? You didn't tell me you were—"
"That's the point." Braveheart smiled, and kindness clung to it like a swaggering sermon. "Now nobody can blame you for anything."
"Doug—" Billy began, then cut himself off. "I can't just—there's folk watching. Cameras. I—"
Braveheart turned his head, patient as a priest delivering absolution. "Point your weapons at him," he said.
They obeyed like a single living thing. Nine muzzles rose. Black mouths gaped through the iron like the throats of beasts.
Billy stumbled back, hands lifting on their own. "Whoa—whoa—Jesus Christ!"
"You either hand over those keys," Braveheart said, his voice level as scripture, "or they'll turn you into Swiss cheese and make you a headline."
Billy felt it then — that cold, animal recognition of the real thing in a metal barrel. He hadn't been in the army, but he knew the look of a rifle and the way a man's life sat inside its sight. The nine stood there, statues pretending not to be monsters; no faces showed, only armour and barrels and the soft, steady breathing of machinery in the rain.
This was not how Billy had imagined it. He hadn't planned for him, for this. He had planned for bluster, for a story. He had not planned for the steel in their hands, or the absolute calm in Braveheart's voice.
He froze. The clipboard slipped from under his arm and puddled at his feet. The cigarette died on the flagstones. The square held its breath.