There was an unusual tension in the air as Anselme MacFhionnlaigh stepped off the lift and through the double doors to the Centurion Command Centre of the Counter-Espionage and Counter-Intelligence Century. Gloom and foreboding could be read on the faces of the two Signiferī whispering in between the entrances to the Mediterranean and Eastern European Cohort’s quadrants. At the sight of him, their faces took on an expression commingling sympathy, confusion, and concern. Maintaining his look of indifference, he strode through the central commons area toward his office at the far end of the Command Centre.

“What’d you do to piss off the Legate this time, Mac-fee-on-layg?” the way Ford pronounced every written letter of his name grated against Anselme’s ears, especially with his flat sounding Midwestern baritone. In the years they had worked together, Ford had pronounced his name almost a dozen different ways. The American stood up from the firm yet nondescript black sofa nearest the North American Cohort’s quadrant and fell in step alongside him almost immediately as they strode toward his office.

“Good morning to you too, Mr. Ford,” Anselme deadpanned. “I was not aware I had angered our illustrious leader. What would give you the…