CHAPTER 140: Insurrection-9

CHAPTER 140: Insurrection-9

The café clock read 5:55 p.m. The dim twilight light filtered through the windows, tinting the wooden tables amber. Fénix and Marcus were at one of the back tables, away from the bustle, surrounded by folders and papers.

Marcus, with his almost manic precision, had arranged three thick folders perfectly aligned on the table, each labeled in capital letters: A–F, G–M, and N–Z. Inside, the documents were numbered, underlined, and had colored sticky notes. Even the staples were aligned.

"Four hours this took me," murmured Marcus, with a sigh somewhere between resignation and pride. "Everything we have is here. Dates, records, recordings, transactions… everything."
Fénix nodded while taking a sip of his coffee, looking at the files.
"And you think it's enough to sink a president?" he asked quietly.
"Not even close," Marcus replied seriously. "This is enough to get attention, but not to topple a government."

At that moment, the doorbell chimed. Agnes Templeton appeared in the doorway. She wore a white blouse and seemed caught between excitement and fear. Upon seeing Fénix, she almost tripped over a chair.

"M-Mr. Rogers!" she stammered with a nervous smile, approaching. "Sorry I'm late, the traffic was… well, the traffic."

Fénix watched her without saying anything, while Marcus slightly turned his head.
"You must be Agnes," said Marcus, offering his hand with a diplomatic smile.

"Yes! Agnes Templeton, secretary to Miss Drakewood. It's an honor, really. And you must be Marcus, the… the Adam's receptacle that Fénix later rescued in Washington D.C., right?"

Marcus looked at her, surprised.
"Excuse me?"

Agnes put her hands over her mouth, red as a tomato.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to sound stalker-ish! It's just I read the field reports, well, Fénix's old reports… and of course, your case was fascinating from a clinical and—"

"Breathe," said Marcus, holding back a laugh.
Agnes took a breath as if she had just surfaced from water.
"Sorry, I talk a lot when I'm nervous."

Fénix massaged the bridge of his nose and let out a tired exhale.
"I'd already noticed."

Marcus chuckled softly.
"Relax, Templeton, it's fine. If you'd worked in Washington D.C., I'd have talked too much too."

"Really?" asked Agnes with shining eyes.
"No," Marcus replied with an ironic smile.

Agnes lowered her head, embarrassed, and Fénix rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help a slight smile escaping.
The atmosphere relaxed a bit as Marcus slid one of the folders towards her.

"Alright, now that we're all here… let's begin," said Marcus, returning to his serious tone.
The clock struck six, and the café lights came on just as the rain began to fall outside.

Marcus let out a sigh and placed his palms on the folder, looking at the two like someone preparing a team before entering hostile territory.

"It's not going to be easy," he said solemnly. "She's the presidential candidate. Anything we do against her will be minimized or dismissed as 'conspiracy theory' if we don't come with ironclad proof and a strategy that leaves no loose ends."

Agnes, who had been easing the tension in her shoulders since the conversation started, spoke with more confidence than her voice showed.

"I got something else," she said quickly. "It's not accounting, but it's context. Elena wasn't born into politics. She became famous because she went to conventions… events for superstitious people, circles where people sought supernatural answers, comfort, or promises. She told them what they wanted to hear; she had charisma, sold herself as a revealer. She gained a community of loyal followers—they were called 'believers'—and from there, she made the leap to politics. Her rhetoric always had that tint: hope mixed with extreme certainty. She became a politician thanks to that network that voted for her and put her on the map."

Marcus tilted his head, interested.

"What's the event called?" he asked, looking for a concrete lead.

Agnes mumbled the name, as if reviewing it quietly.

"It happens every Thursday in several cities; the main one, the one she frequented, is in Munich," she said. "They call it the Days of the Believer. It's being held there today. It's a public event, a bit noisy, with stands, talks, and people looking for spectacle as much as answers."

Fénix clenched his jaw, processing.

"Then we have to go," he said finally. "If Strauss is still linked to that community, we might find people who admire her and leave clues. Or someone who talks too much."

Marcus fixed his gaze on him and explained the plan with the operational calm that defined him.

"Agnes and I will go to the Days of the Believer," he said. "We'll go unnoticed, look for allies, gather testimonies, watch who talks to whom. But you will have another task. To understand how politicians think and how they sell themselves to the public, there's nothing better than talking to someone who already was one—a washed-up, disgruntled politician with a loose tongue. You're going to visit the 'Jester.'"

Fénix frowned, curious and also annoyed.

"The Jester?" he repeated. "Seriously, that fucking psychopath?"

Marcus smiled with an enigmatic air, keeping the identity in shadow.

"Come on, it's just a visit," he replied. "Besides, it's just a visit…"

Fénix didn't seem very convinced; his mouth formed a hard line. But after a silence, he nodded firmly.

"Alright," he said curtly. "I'll go visit him. But I want to be kept in the loop."

Marcus gathered the three folders with a precise gesture; the sound of paper and covers closing was almost ceremonial. He had spent four hours organizing that: every document in its place, notes in the margin, cross-references in small letters. The obsession with order was his way of confronting chaos.