This chapter was written by SebJenkins

Sampson strutted down the street like a proud peacock patrolling its turf, feathers protruding loudly from behind framing his glorious talents. These streets were his after all, he'd claimed them ever since the release of FrindyPeeks.

Sharon Toller brushed his left arm as he rounded the corner towards the south side of town, Joan Murphy passed him on his right not long after. She was married, had been for seven years now, one child, and another on the way. The information rolled off his eyes like a rhyme off a rapper's tongue, as his HUD silently went about its business, revealing all.

Of course, the majority of people had their FrindyPeeks profiles set to private, their hordes of information, posts and photos viewable only to those they deemed 'friends'. However, every single person on the app shared one friend, 'The Creator', namely Sampson.

His HUD device showed him the latest information for any person that he happened upon in his day to day life. He told himself that it was to stay one step ahead of the curve. But there was a strong aspect of nosiness in there too.

Despite being labelled as 'friends' with everyone that he passed, he had coded FrindyPeeks to only reveal his first name in return.

It was all rather ironic really, as ever since he'd left Abby, Sampson didn't have anyone to call a friend, maybe an acquaintance, but not a friend.

But in all honesty, that didn't matter too much to Sampson, not in this stage of his life. For the first time in a long time, he had purpose, power, a reason for being. He had FrindyPeeks. And now he was on his way to meet the most influential man in the United Kingdom's resistance.

Tony Foster remained unknown to the majority of the great unwashed, merely a story or a legend. If you were to ask anyone on the street, Joseph Randall now passing Sampson on his right for instance, they would claim that the resistance died long ago, either that or it had never existed.

Sampson's brain let out an egotistical, internal grin. It was cute to him, the notion of secrets. Tony Foster, the most secretive man in the city, meeting Sampson, the king of the secrets. It was sure to be an interesting conversation.

He took a few more twists and turns through the busy cobbled streets, his HUD's pedestrian satnav taking him on the most scenic route possible. It was a habit that he had picked up over the past year, but not a bad one. You couldn't be too careful when you had something to hide after all.

After passing by a few more Pauls, Brendas, and Tims, Sampson finally arrived at a quaint but bustling coffee shop. It was an ideal location for a meeting of this nature, noisy and busy enough that the two men would go relatively un-noticed, but not so busy that the wrong person might wander in at an opportune moment. It had been Tony's idea, Sampson couldn't do it all himself.

He took a deep, calming breath, before pressing his hand on the door, and striding in with one assertive step. If Tony was already in place, he wanted to appear in control of the meeting from the get go, he was the one bringing information to the table after all.

And then it hit him, that deep breathe hissed out of his lungs like a deflated balloon, and every ounce of confidence once flowing through his veins escaped like an unforgiving transfusion. Standing in the queue for coffee, two or three people away, a certain name jumped out at him.

Abby Wilson. 29. In a relationship.

What was she doing here? The whole point of this location was to avoid chance meeting such as this. What was he supposed to do now? Leave? No, if he left it would be unlikely to ever get a meeting with Tony again. If you spook a man like that once, he'll sink into the shadows for a year. Should he confront her? Get the pleasantries out of the way, or the unpleasantries maybe. Sampson always forgot that although he often checked in on Abby to ensure her safety, the last time she saw his face was when he upped and left.

"Sampson!"

And the decision had been made for him.

After hearing her voice in the flesh for the first time in years, his eyes couldn't help but glue to the floor, as if his retinas were being sucked into quicksand.

His palms were sweating profusely, and after a few trembling wipes on his well-worn jeans, he eventually lifted his head, pretending to spot his ex-lover in the most nonchalant way possible.

"Abby? Abby is that you?" he beamed, purposely matching the look of sheer delight on her own face.

The two stepped around the scattered coffee shop customers until they were finally face to face. Any dregs of confidence Sampson thought he had left vanished as Abby's cute dimples came into view. He'd always loved her smile.

"It's been forever!" Abby exclaimed, pulling him into a warm embrace.

"I know! You look great!" Sampson replied, awkwardness oozing from his every pore.

"So, do you, so do you. How are you anyway?"

"Oh, you know, can't complain. Yourself?"

"Likewise, likewise."

"I'm glad. It's so nice to see you again," Sampson said, and he meant it, but it couldn't help but sound fake and forced. The whole interaction reeked of overly-polite British awkwardness.

"You too," Abby smiled. That smile again.

The true reason of his coffee shop visit, despite not even liking coffee, suddenly came crashing down on Sampson's head like a ten-tonne weight. The last thing he wanted was for Abby to see him and Tony together, and to start drawing unnecessary attention towards them. He prayed that her order was to go.

"Anyway, I'm actually meeting someone here any minute now," Sampson sighed, chancing a staged look down at his watch. "Don't want to keep them waiting."

"Abby Wilson!" a barista called out from behind the counter, holding not a cardboard cup, but a ceramic mug with accompanying saucer.

Abby shrugged and chuckled, "Me too."

"We'll have to get one of those together some time soon," Sampson joked, edging away from the conversation.

Abby delicately picked up her coffee, before turning back, "Yes, definitely, very soon indeed."

"Well, it was lovely seeing you again," Sampson waved, walking away towards the back of the shop.

Tony had been clear in his instructions, table seven, at the back right of the store. 'It will be clear' he'd assured, although Sampson had no idea how. Unsurprisingly, the table was indeed empty, and Sampson sank down into the far seat, facing the door. He wanted to know as soon as the infamous Tony Foster entered the room.

Sampson swore under his breath. Foster hadn't arrived yet, but someone else was striding purposefully towards table number seven. Abby kept glaring eye contact with him during the entirety of her approach to the spare seat, before confidently pulling it out and planting herself onto the cool metal.

"Abby, it's lovely to see you, it really is, but I have an important meeting-" Sampson began to argue before Abby cut him off immediately.

"So do I," she interrupted. "Table seven, ay. Lovely spot. I must send my regards to Tony on that one."

"Tony? What? What do you mea-"

Then the penny dropped. Mugs and glasses clinked. Muted chatter rumbled in the background. A flush could be heard from the not-so-distant bathroom. Sampson's world turned upside down.

"You're with the resistance?" he gasped, his open palms planted firmly against the wooden table top.

Abby frowned, "Keep your voice down," she snapped.

"You're with the pissing resistance?" he repeated in an urgent whisper.

"Don't act so surprised," Abby grinned. "A lot has changed since we last saw each other. Or since you left, shall I say?"

Sampson didn't know whether to ask a question or grovel an apology, in the end he managed neither.

"What?!"

How was this possible? He had been keeping tabs on Abby for years. Admittedly, his checks hadn't been as thorough as those he used against the subjects of clientele, the line would turn a little fuzzy if that were so. He had wanted to keep a delicate balance of being protective without being intrusive, or a pervert. But something this big should never have slipped through the gaps.

Sampson had done an extensive background check on her new boyfriend. Surely he had to be involved too, but how had they kept it so hidden? Sampson cursed himself, he'd known that the new squeeze looked too squeaky clean to be true.

Abby yawned, "If I could interrupt your stuttered state of shock for one moment or two, I think it's about time we got down to business, because let's make things clear, Sampson, that's why I'm here. For business."

"But, up by the counter, you were... friendly," Sampson stammered.

"Lying to your face? I guess I learned that little trick off you."

Her animosity was cutting Sampson deep. He'd always known that he had hurt Abby in a bad way, but through all the scenarios that he'd dreamt up in his overactive imagination through the years, this wasn't how he pictured their reunion.

"I'm sorry," were the only words that he could muster. They were sincere, but they would never be enough.

Regardless to the relatively small apologetic gesture, Abby did look genuinely appreciative for a second, before her steely exterior glazed back over. "Our history is neither here nor there, we both know that we're here to talk information. What do you have for us?"

If Abby was going to push their past to the back of her mind, then Sampson was going to do the exact same. After a few seconds to compose himself, he switched back to the secret egocentric entrepreneur at the push of a button.

"As I said in the email to Tony, who I thought I would be meeting today, my information could be detrimental to the Addington family."

"Could be?"

"That depends on what you do with it," Sampson smirked.

"This is the part where you give me the lowdown, Ford," Abby urged impatiently. The use of his surname stung Sampson more than it should have, but he proceeded with his information.

He explained the damning link between contestant sixty-four and Mary Addington. He told her about young Marcus Addington and his rebellion. He even forwarded on a rumour from a little birdie that Mary had in fact killed the patriarch figure Henry Addington, rather than the fleeing contestant.

Of course, Sampson put his own spin on the tale, after all, this intel was supposedly coming from a police analyst, not the man at the centre of the largest surveillance ring in recent history.

Abby's bottom lip dropped further and further down with every revelation, and by the end of Sampson's story, she could barely speak.

"How trustworthy is your intel?" she eventually croaked.

"99.9%."

"Can you give us proof?" Abby asked.

Sampson nodded, "To Tony, and Tony alone. Yes."

Abby rose sharply and instantly from her chair, the metal legs squeaking ever so slightly against the floor tiles. Sampson jolted at the sudden movement.

"We'll be in touch," she promised, and with that she turned and swiftly exited the shop, her coffee barely touched, and her ex-boyfriend bewildered.

This time Sampson had to watch her leave, and that had always been by Abby's design.