Mormon Brothers

“The universe doesn’t deal in coincidences—it brews irony by the pot.” — Rhona Te Aika-Sutherland

"Why?" Douglas asked, his voice calm. He might as well have been asking about the weather, but his sharp gaze told a different story—focused entirely on extracting useful information from an unexpected source.

Kelly blinked.

That was the pressing concern here? Not the extraordinary coincidence itself but its specific parameters? The disconnect between what seemed most significant to her—the sheer improbability of recognising someone who clearly mattered deeply to Nathan's mission—and what Douglas prioritised created momentary confusion that manifested in her hesitation, her slight frown, her unconscious shifting of weight from one foot to the other.

She shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the chamber's tense atmosphere, with the focused attention still trained on her from all sides, like a spotlight suddenly illuminating an unwitting performer.

"He was meeting my brother."

The shift in the room was immediate, palpable, as if the air itself had been reprinted with new information, molecules rearranging around this fresh revelation. Dust motes seemed to freeze in their dance through lantern light, suspended in collective shock. The revelation created another ripple of recalibration, adding a fresh layer of connection to an already complex picture, introducing a new character to a narrative they were collectively struggling to understand. Eyes widened, postures shifted, breathing patterns altered as each person processed this additional information according to their individual framework of understanding—like different brewing methods applied to the same coffee beans, each extracting distinct elements while working with identical material.

"...Your brother?"

The question emerged almost in unison, though with different inflections—Douglas's controlled neutrality, Nathan's barely contained intensity, Daniel's growing confusion, the Campbell sisters' collective curiosity. The synchronicity created a brief moment of unintentional harmony, multiple voices asking the same question from different perspectives but with shared incredulity, creating an acoustic convergence that momentarily filled the ancient chamber with a perfect chord of collective astonishment.

Kelly frowned, looking around at their blank faces, genuine confusion creasing her brow as she registered their collective shock.

"Yes? Noah? I have a brother. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before?"

Her tone carried both genuine puzzlement and slight defensive edge—the particular note of someone discovering that what they believed common knowledge was actually completely unknown to their supposed intimates. Nine years of living in Edinburgh, of building a professional reputation and personal connections, hadn't included sharing what she'd considered basic biographical information—or perhaps she had shared it, but its significance hadn't registered until this moment of unexpected relevance.

Daniel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "bloody hell," rubbing a hand over his face with the particular weariness of someone confronting yet another layer of complication in already overwhelming circumstances. The gesture left temporary pressure marks on his cheeks. He prided himself on knowing his staff, on creating a family-like environment at the Leaf & Bean, yet now faced the reality that significant aspects of Kelly's life had remained completely unknown to him despite years of almost daily interaction.

"Nine years," he said softly, the words barely audible yet carrying unmistakable note of disbelief. "Nine years and I didn't realise you had a brother."

Nathan, still locked in his eerie, silent-rage mode, exhaled through his nose. The sound was sharp and measured, the kind of inhale-exhale that suggested he was actively preventing himself from launching something across the room—possibly himself, possibly the phone still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, possibly the entire concept of cosmic irony that seemed determined to mock him.

Douglas remained composed, his features betraying nothing beyond focused attention.

"And Luke was meeting him because...?"

Kelly waved a vague hand, the gesture dismissive despite the chamber's tense atmosphere, her natural directness asserting itself despite the focused attention still trained on her from all sides. "They knew each other from their Mormon mission. Guess they were catching up."

Silence.

Again.

This time deeper, more profound than before—not just absence of sound but presence of collective shock, atmospheric alteration so extreme it seemed to absorb even the faint dripping of distant water, the subtle crackling of lantern flames. The revelation created another layer of unexpected connection, another strand in an increasingly complex web linking seemingly disparate elements.

Nathan's left eye twitched, a minute tell that revealed profound disturbance beneath a controlled exterior. The small movement communicated volumes—not just frustration or anger but existential reconsideration.

Daniel let out an incredulous breath, shaking his head as if he simply could not comprehend the sheer stupidity of the universe right now. His fingers raked through his hair, leaving temporary furrows that mirrored the deepening creases in his brow.

"Mormon mission," he repeated, the words emerging with particular emphasis on their improbability, as if speaking them aloud might somehow transform their jarring incongruity into manageable sense. "Of course. Why not? Perfectly logical."

The wry observation carried a note of surrender—acceptance that normal rules of probability and connection had been suspended, that ordinary expectations of causality and coincidence no longer applied to their extraordinary circumstances.

Maeve, Rowan, and Isla were no longer even pretending not to be interested, the Campbell sisters' attention fully engaged by this unexpected turn in already bewildering circumstances.

"I didn't even know you were Mormon," Isla said, the observation carrying genuine surprise rather than judgment, realisation that workplace familiarity and daily interaction hadn't encompassed fundamental aspects of personal identity.

Rhona had officially given up. She pressed a hand against her mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Her eyes danced with mirth above her restraining fingers, finding perfect comedy in circumstances others experienced as crisis or confusion.

"This just keeps getting better," she whispered, the words barely audible yet carrying unmistakable delight in a narrative development worthy of academic study, in conjunction of elements too perfect for fiction yet manifesting in reality.

Kelly sighed, a sound containing resignation rather than impatience, recognition that her explanation had somehow complicated rather than clarified the situation. Her shoulders dropped slightly, tension releasing through controlled exhalation.

"I'm not. Noah is. Was. We both was… Ach, whatever." She shrugged, the gesture communicating both factual correction and personal detachment. "I didn't think much of it at the time."

The admission carried honesty rather than apology, pragmatism rather than defensiveness. Kelly had had no reason to consider Luke significant, no context for understanding his importance, no framework for connecting a casual café patron to whatever mysterious significance he now evidently held in their underground crisis.

Kelly could feel Nathan staring at her. The weight of it was unbearable, his focus carrying intensity beyond normal human interaction.

She shifted uncomfortably, rubbing her hands down the front of her jacket, the nervous gesture betraying growing awareness that her casual knowledge had somehow transformed into critical intelligence, that ordinary workplace interaction had unexpectedly connected to extraordinary circumstance. The fabric beneath her fingers provided tactile comfort, a physical anchor against psychological untethering as her understanding of circumstances continued to expand beyond comfortable parameters.

There was no real way to explain that Luke Smith—the man who had evaded Nathan, a seasoned Guardian, and God knows how many intelligence networks for years—had just been casually hanging out in her flat, drinking tea. The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on her, but its significance remained opaque, the connection between her ordinary life and this underground crisis still more confusing than clarifying.

But then, because her life apparently wasn't complicated enough, she added:

"...Though, I did think something more was going on between them."

Another beat of absolute silence.

This time, Nathan actually blinked, the involuntary reaction revealing genuine surprise breaking through professional control.

Rhona, now openly grinning, was the first to react. Her Kiwi directness cut through carefully maintained tension with characteristic bluntness, addressing subtext that others might have navigated more delicately.

"Wait." She turned fully to face Kelly, looking far too delighted for someone trapped in underground tunnels beneath a royal palace while pursued by a mysterious society. "Are you saying... you think they were shagging?"

The crude directness of the question broke whatever remaining tension had been sustaining the chamber's atmosphere, puncturing solemnity with unexpected vulgarity. The contrast between their dire circumstances and this sudden shift toward gossip created a cognitive whiplash that affected each person differently but collectively transformed the conversational dynamic, like perfect acidity balancing sweetness in properly extracted espresso.

Daniel groaned, the sound communicating volumes—not just exasperation but surrender, not just frustration but recognition of absurdity. His hands covered his face momentarily, fingers pressing against closed eyelids as if physically trying to reset his mental processing, to clear vision and understanding compromised by successive improbabilities.

"That's it," he muttered through his fingers, voice muffled but carrying clear note of surrender. "I'm officially done. The universe has lost all sense of proportion."

Maeve let out an audible gasp, her reaction reflecting both shock at Rhona's directness and the unexpected development. Rowan bit down on her knuckles to stop herself from laughing, her composure giving way to genuine adolescent amusement at adult discomfort. Isla raised both eyebrows, intrigued rather than shocked.

Kelly rolled her eyes, the gesture communicating familiar exasperation with Rhona's directness rather than embarrassment about the subject matter. Working alongside the Kiwi had accustomed her to unfiltered observations and blunt assessments, creating a relationship where such directness represented comfortable familiarity rather than social transgression.

"I mean, I don't know. It was just a feeling."

The qualification attempted to reframe speculation as observation, to redirect conversation from gossipy excitement to practical information sharing.

Regardless, the chamber descended into chaos.

Maeve and Rowan whispered something furiously to each other, eyes wide with the particular delight of teenagers encountering adult complications. Their unique perspectives temporarily aligned in appreciation for story elements—romantic possibility, a hidden relationship, unexpected revelation—that added a human dimension to an increasingly complex situation.

Isla—always the most reserved of the three—crossed her arms, observing Kelly with newfound interest. Her gaze held the particular attentiveness of someone cataloguing details for future reference, mentally filing this revelation alongside other observations that might eventually form a coherent pattern.

Daniel, rubbing his temples like a man who deeply regretted every decision that had led him here, muttered something that might have been "for fuck's sake."

His primary concern remained his daughters' safety, yet now he confronted the particular absurdity of workplace gossip intruding into a life-threatening crisis. His fingers pressed against his skull with increasing pressure, as if physically trying to contain the expanding absurdity of their situation, to keep his thoughts from spilling beyond his capacity to process them.

"Perfect," he muttered, the single word laden with layers of irony. "We're hiding in tunnels beneath a royal palace, fleeing from secret societies, discovering otherworldly connections, and now discussing my staff's relatives' love lives. Absolutely bloody perfect."

Douglas, to his credit, remained impassive—but Kelly didn't miss the slight upward twitch of his mouth, the faintest trace of amusement breaking through restrained composure.

"Interesting intelligence," he observed, the professional assessment deliberately neutral despite the social context that would normally render such information purely gossip. His eyes flicked toward Nathan, assessing his psychological state with particular attention.

Nathan, meanwhile, was unravelling.

Not in a visible, dramatic way. That would have been easier, more cathartic, a volcano releasing pressure through an explosive eruption. A shout, a curse, a thrown object—these would have provided a clear emotional trajectory, an obvious release valve for accumulated frustration, like pressure escaping through espresso machine valves during extraction.

No.

Nathan was imploding in real time. The process was internal, contained, all the more devastating for its careful control. Like a star collapsing into itself, energy turning inward rather than exploding outward, creating something denser, more dangerous through compression rather than release. His face remained carefully neutral despite the storm raging behind his eyes. Only the slightest muscle movement along his jawline betrayed the tension of someone literally grinding their teeth to prevent a verbal outburst.

He inhaled deeply, through his nose, then let it out—a controlled exhale, sharp and deliberate, like a man desperately trying to rearrange the logic of the universe to make this all make sense. His pupils had contracted to pinpoints despite the chamber's dim lighting, adrenaline response overriding natural physiology, the paradoxical stillness of his body betraying extreme internal turbulence rather than calm.

Because Luke Smith—the man Nathan had been tracking for years—hadn't been hiding in some Guardian stronghold, or an off-the-grid settlement, or deep within some encrypted digital dead zone. He hadn't been employing counter-surveillance techniques or living under elaborate cover identities or communicating through encrypted channels that required supercomputers to decode.

The elaborate technological defences and security protocols Nathan had been navigating, the digital fortresses he'd been attempting to breach, the information networks he'd been infiltrating—all had been irrelevant, useless, misdirection against a subject employing the simplest counter-intelligence technique of all: normality.

He had been hanging out in Edinburgh. Not skulking in shadows or hiding in safe houses, but walking openly on cobbled streets, breathing the same misty air, perhaps even passing Nathan on the pavement without recognition. The city's ancient architecture and winding alleys, which Nathan had viewed as potential challenges, had simply been the scenic backdrop to Luke's everyday movements. The volcanic ridge upon which Edinburgh was built, with its distinctive castle and palace, its centuries of royal history, had been mere stage setting for a man living ordinary life in plain sight while Nathan searched for shadows.

He had been meeting up with a journalist in a café where Nathan had been working, sitting at a table just a few metres away. Not communicating through dead drops or encrypted messages but having actual conversations over actual coffee. The irony was almost too perfect, too cruelly symmetrical—the target had been within literal arm's reach while Nathan maintained cover identity that had ultimately obscured his quarry rather than facilitating detection. The very foam designs he had practised to enhance his barista credibility might have decorated Luke's flat white, careful surveillance disguise inadvertently providing perfect service to surveillance target.

And somehow—somehow—Nathan had completely missed it. Not because Luke employed sophisticated counter-measures or because intelligence was faulty, but because the simplest hiding place is often in plain sight, because normality itself can be the perfect disguise, because sometimes the most effective security is not looking like you need security at all. The perfect beans might be overlooked when attention focuses on exotic varieties, ordinary coffee dismissed while searching for rare cultivation.

Kelly could almost see the moment his soul left his body. It was subtle but unmistakable—a brief dissociative flash, the thousand-yard stare of someone whose brain has temporarily ceased processing external stimuli in order to manage internal recalibration.

For just a heartbeat, his eyes unfocused, pupils dilating slightly as his consciousness retreated inward to process this fundamental challenge to reality. It lasted barely a second before discipline reasserted control, but in that brief moment, she glimpsed something rarely visible in Nathan—genuine vulnerability beneath careful composition, human uncertainty beneath usual confidence. The momentary crack in professional façade revealed a psychological earthquake beneath a perfectly maintained surface, a tectonic shift in understanding that threatened foundational stability.

Nathan ran a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his temples, as if he could physically force the situation into making sense through applied pressure. His breathing was slow, measured—the kind of forced composure that suggested he was moments away from either screaming or collapsing into existential despair.

"Is he still in on Thursdays?" he asked, voice unnaturally neutral despite the evident storm behind his eyes.

Kelly blinked, momentarily confused by this practical pivot when she had expected emotional outburst. "What?"

"The flat white. Thursdays. Does he still come in?" Each word emerged with precise enunciation, the question broken into telegraphic components as if Nathan's usual linguistic fluency had temporarily malfunctioned.

"Oh." She shook her head, momentary confusion giving way to understanding. "No. Not since February."

Nathan absorbed this with visible effort, jaw tightening slightly before he spoke again. "Let me get this straight." His voice was flat, expression unreadable, but there was an underlying sharpness to it, like the edge of a blade.

Nathan's eyes locked onto Kelly, dark and unblinking.

"The man I've spent years tracking—the man we must find—has been having coffee with your brother, in the café where I've been working, for months?"

Kelly blinked, still not fully comprehending the significance her casual recognition clearly carried. The disconnect between her ordinary observation and his extraordinary reaction created confusion that manifested physically—the slight tilt of her head, the unconscious step backward, the momentary parting of her lips before responding.

"…Yeah?"

The single syllable hung in the chamber's damp air, its questioning inflection reflecting genuine bewilderment rather than confirmation uncertainty.

Silence.

A heavy, oppressive silence, as if reality itself was taking a moment to process what had just been said.

Nathan stood there, utterly motionless, the stillness almost unnatural.

Then, very slowly, he turned to face Douglas. The movement was deliberate, controlled, revealing nothing of the psychological storm still raging beneath. Each degree of rotation seemed mechanical rather than organic, like the measured extraction of espresso rather than the natural flow of water. His expression remained neutral, but his eyes carried a question that transcended verbal formulation, seeking confirmation or context from the only other person present who might understand the full implications of this revelation.

Douglas, to his eternal credit, met Nathan's gaze, considered for a brief moment, and then—without even a hint of sympathy—shrugged. The gesture was eloquent in its simplicity, communicating volumes without a single word: Yes, this is happening. Yes, it's absurd. And no, there's nothing to do but adapt and continue. The slight lift of his eyebrows added a silent addendum: Welcome to fieldwork, son.

Kelly caught the barest flicker of amusement in Douglas's eyes before he masked it behind his usual unreadable expression.

Rhona, on the other hand, made no effort whatsoever to conceal her delight. She let out a low whistle, crossing her arms as she rocked back on her heels, her body language radiating pure enjoyment of perfect comedic moment delivered by the universe with impeccable timing.

"This is, hands down, the best thing I've ever seen," she declared, the New Zealand accent thickening with pleasure, vowels elongating with particular emphasis that highlighted her genuine delight. "If I wrote this in my thesis, my supervisor would tell me it's too contrived to be believable."

Maeve stifled a laugh behind her hand. Her eyes crinkled above her restraining fingers, finding human comedy in circumstances that had seemed only threatening moments before.

Isla, who had thus far maintained an air of detached amusement, finally let out a soft snort. "Certainly streamlines the search process," she observed dryly, pragmatism asserting itself through careful understatement. "Might have started with staff Christmas cards rather than global surveillance."

Nathan visibly ignored all of them. His body language shifted subtly, energy redirecting from shock absorption to practical trajectory, from processing revelation to establishing an action plan based on new intelligence. His attention snapped back to Kelly, like a predator locking onto prey, focus narrowing to exclude peripheral input or distraction.

"How do you even know it's the same Luke Smith?" Daniel asked, his voice edged with scepticism, with the particular wariness of someone who has already absorbed too many revelations in too short timeframe.

There was a note of desperate hope in his tone, as if he still believed, against all odds, that maybe—just maybe—this was all some massive misunderstanding. Perhaps there were two Luke Smiths, perhaps Kelly's recognition was mistaken, perhaps the universe wasn't quite as cruelly ironic as it currently appeared. The particular quality of his voice suggested a man seeking an escape hatch from accumulating absurdity, like a master roaster rejecting evidence that proved cherished techniques fundamentally flawed.

Kelly let out a long, tired sigh, the sound containing resignation rather than frustration, acceptance rather than resistance.

"Because I've had him in my flat."