Hugh Stirling, Divitaetion prodigy and soon-to-be student of living legend Tom Beckman, touched down at Los Angeles International Airport at around midday. Hugh Stirling was me.

“And what are you here for?” The man looking at my passport asked.

“Work.” I answered. “I’ve been transferred.”

“From Britain?” he asked. That much should have been obvious from the passport and the way that I pronounced words properly.

“Yes.” I confirmed. Then, “I’ve been promoted.”

“Oh? Congratulations.” The man made no effort to disguise the fact that he did not care. “Who do you work for?”

“The Church of Mammon.” That answer got a look of surprise, but no comment. I was slightly disappointed. If he’d asked me I could have shown him my ID card that identified me as a first level acolyte of the Church of Mammon, one of the youngest in history at only nineteen years old. It didn’t say that second part on the card.

Regardless, the man was satisfied with the form of identification I’d already shown him. He returned my passport and I was allowed through into the United States of America. The first thing I did was what most people did upon touching down in Los Angeles: collect my suitcase. In the arrivals lounge a short man in a cap stood holding a sign that read “Stirling”.

“Mr Stirling?” He asked as I approached. I nodded in response. “I’ve been sent to drive you to the Church of Mammon.” I nodded again. He took my bags and we walked out to his car. I must admit I pitied this, admittedly, helpful man. If he was driving around acolytes then he was directly employed by the Church of Mammon and might even know about the powers of Divitaetion we all possessed, but he would never be granted that power. He’d spend his life driving us around, all the while carrying the knowledge that he was not worthy to wield the divine powers we did.

We did not speak as we crawled through the LA traffic, and the driver didn’t put the radio on. Eventually we reached the headquarters of the Church of Mammon. I got out of the car and took my suitcase from the boot, then walked up the front steps into the glass-fronted lobby of the headquarters of the Church of Mammon. I did not thank the driver.

The lobby to the headquarters of the Church of Mammon was impressive. The front was almost entirely made of glass windows that extended far above the heads of the passing pedestrians. Immediately in front of anyone who entered, like I did, was another glass structure: a fountain in the centre of the lobby. To the side of it was a front desk with a woman in glasses sitting behind it. Beyond the desk and the fountain I could see several doors deeper into the building. All of them had panels beside them designed to read Acolyte Identification Cards. All of the doors from the lobby would likely let a first level acolyte like me through, but I was sure there were doors further into the building that would refuse to open for anyone but the most elite of members of the Church of Mammon.

I walked over to the desk, suitcase still in tow, and the woman sitting at it looked up.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

“Hello, I’ve just been transferred here from the British Headquarters in London.” I explained. The Church of Mammon had branches and meeting houses all over the world. I had previously trained in London, but my invite to the true birthplace and home of the Church of Mammon was a sign of my accomplishments.

“Ah yes. You must be Mr…” The woman glanced around, likely looking for a piece of paper or a note.

“Stirling. Hugh Stirling.” I said, saving her.

“Of course.” The woman inspected something on the computer screen in front of her and nodded. “Welcome to the Headquarters of the Church of Mammon Mr Stirling.” She went to say something else but a figure walked up to the desk. A tall man with a shrewd looking face.

“Julia,” He began, addressing the woman by name, “I’ve brought a new recruit, keep an eye on her while I find Tom.” Before the woman at the desk, Julia, could respond he was already striding past the desk, past the fountain and to one of the doors at the back of the lobby. Julia frowned.

“He must have something to talk to Mr Beckman about in secret…” She murmured.

“Mr Beckman? As in Tom Beckman?” I asked.

“Yes.” Julia sighed, “I was about to call his office anyway since you are going to be studying under him. You may as well wait here until Isambard brings him.”

Isambard? Oh right the tall man who’d just interrupted us. I gave a sigh of my own and turned to see another figure. Short and thin, with a shock of messy dark hair. Presumably she was the new recruit. She looked to be about my age, which was rather old for a new recruit. Usually new acolytes-in-training were the adolescent children of the Church of Mammon’s most deserving members, such as my own father. If she was starting out so late, she must be the daughter of a new member, and a highly important one at that.

And yet that didn’t quite add up. Her clothes were pale and faded, showing tears and frays at the edges, and not the sort purposely added for style. These ill-fitting clothes were not the clothes of a member of the Church of Mammon. She looked, for want of a better word, poor. What she also looked was very worried. She saw me staring and I looked away instinctively.

“Uh…” She spoke, “Hello. I’m Verity Pour. Nice to meet you.” That was a surprise. Not the fact that she had spoken, though she looked so worried and nervous that I was also surprised she’d tried to speak to me. No, the reason I was surprised was her accent. Generally, a new recruit would rarely be taken far for training. As such I’d expected her to be a local, and sound like it. Instead the voice that came out of her mouth was unmistakeably from Britain, and more specifically she was a Scouser! What on earth was this woman doing so far from Liverpool? I realised that I’d been so focused on her accent that I hadn’t actually responded to what she had said.

“Hugh Stirling.” I answered with my name. There was a pause.

“Are you… Can you do that… Divitaetion thing?” She spoke hesitantly and sounded like she had only recently heard the word Divitaetion. I nodded. “So you’re… you’re an acolyte like Isambard?” I’d never met this man Isambard before now and had no idea if I was anything like him. I was, however, an acolyte. As such I nodded again. The woman, Verity, seemed to be considering asking another question. I decided to ask a question of my own, since this enigma had decided to get so chatty.

“Who are you?” I asked. Verity didn’t answer for a few moments.

“I’m Verity Pour.” she finally said.

Was she making fun of me? Before I could ask any further, or respond at all to this, Isambard and a shorter but far more famous man entered the lobby. Tom Beckman. Model, movie star and, most importantly, third level acolyte of the Church of Mammon and the man who I would be studying under.

He walked straight past me and up to Verity, who was even shorter than he was.

“Verity Pour?” He asked in a voice I’d heard in a thousand interviews. Verity Pour nodded, now looking even more worried than she had a few moments ago. She had to know who Tom Beckman was, even if she didn’t know of his accomplishments within the Church of Mammon. “Thank you, Isambard.” Tom Beckamn nodded to Isambard then turned back to face Verity. “Come with me Miss Pour.” He span round and began to walk away. After a few moments of hesitation Verity followed after him. My supposed teacher hadn’t even looked at me.

“Uh…” I began my voice cracking slightly. “Hello… Mr Beckman…” Dammit I sounded so pathetic. Mr Beckman stopped and turned slowly to face me.

“Yes?” He asked, either barely interested in me, or irritated that I was delaying him.

“I’m Hugh Stirling.” I managed to say, “I’ve been transferred here to study under you.”

“Oh. Mr Poster, show Mr Stirling to his dorm room.” Tom Beckman span round once more and walked off, Verity Pour following behind. She glanced back at me. I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt.

The two of them left the lobby, leaving Julia, Isambard, and me standing there.

“Follow me then.” Isambard gestured past the reception desk. With a nod of thanks to Julia, I followed Isambard, pulling my suitcase behind me. At the first door Isambard had me scan my card to ensure that the building’s security system had been updated and knew that I was allowed in.

It had, which saved me further embarrassment. Isambard led me through a few more doors and into a large courtyard. The headquarters of the Church of Mammon took up quite a footprint of central LA real estate. The buildings themselves were arranged as four, several storeys tall, blocks marking out the edges of the central courtyard. While the front of the building facing the street was almost completely made of glass, the rest of the buildings bore the unmistakeable aesthetics of a building of the Church of Mammon: square and painted pure white. The colour was all in accordance with the teachings of the founder of the Church of Mammon.

“It must all be white, both inside and out. Our people and our homes must inform every passing traveller that out intentions are pure, and unsullied by pretence. We do not deny ourselves and we do not worship that which requires we deny ourselves. We worship that which all humanity should worship. We worship that which truly gives man power.” he had written.

The words “That Which Truly Gives Man Power” were etched above the door of every one of the Church of Mammon’s meeting houses the world over.

A few people were milling around in the courtyard, perhaps on a late lunch break. Isambard took me right across the centre to the building at the very back.

“What room are you in?” Isambard asked.

“624.” I replied instantly. That information had been included when I was informed of my transfer and I had memorised all of it. Isambard nodded.

“The sixth floor then.” He said, confirming what I’d already assumed about the numbering scheme. “There isn’t an elevator though.” His eyes flicked to my suitcase.

“I can manage.” I said.

Pulling my suitcase up five flights of stairs proved tough, but I refused to let Isambard take over. It was at times like these that I wished there was some form of Divitaetion to increase physical strength. It was odd, considering how much of Divitaetion had some sort of utility in combat. I successfully reached the sixth floor and Isambard, now just working off the signs on the walls, found room 624. The panel on the wall lit up green and the door clicked open when I scanned my card, once again saving me from a trip back to the reception desk.

“The dining hall is on the first floor, we passed it when we came in.” Isambard explained.

I thanked him. There was a brief pause as neither Isambard nor I spoke, but Isambard also didn’t immediately leave.

“So you’re here to study under Tom Beckman?” Isambard finally asked.

“Yes.” The opportunity was a point of pride for me but there was a slightly mocking tone to Isambard’s voice. A tone that said he had just seen me be almost completely ignored by my new teacher in favour of some random woman who’d turned up out of nowhere.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t forgotten about you.” Isambard’s tone softened a little. “It’s just that Verity had to take priority.”

Really? Why? What was so important about her? What did she have that I didn’t? I could tell immediately that I was far better at Divitaetion than her. In fact I was certain she couldn’t perform Divitaetion at all! So why was Tom Beckman so interested in her? “I’m sure you’ll hear from Tom once he’s finished introducing Verity to Richard Guyard.” Isambard continued. He was now very evidently trying to make me feel better but it was a wasted effort. If he had really wanted to help he wouldn’t have told me that this hateful woman was meeting Richard Guyard. She had been here for only a few minutes and she was already meeting the head of the Church of Mammon and descendant of its founder.

I didn’t voice any of these thoughts. Instead I thanked Isambard again. Isambard, after a few moments, left me to get settled in my room. I didn’t begin unpacking immediately. Instead I sat, and then lay, on my new bed. My big first day at the headquarters of the Church of Mammon was not going quite as I’d liked.