With a tight firm expression concealing his mournful emotions, the man clad in bespoke bid the young Eggsy farewell, a curt nod to his mother in like manner, as he rose to standing and stepped around. Approaching the door and gripping the handle firmly, he exhaled once, his features obscured by his back. Harry Hart's regret would not be exposed, his features betraying the stalwart, stony exterior he'd exuded for the briefest moment. A shame; the lad's father was promising and now... Well... The family was without one. He'd lost a friend.
But their loss was greater, and he was too well mannered, too proper. Hart'd expressed his condolences well enough and granted the family a favor to be fulfilled at a later date.
Little did he know how their lives would change from here on out. The apartment was nice and homely, well kept by Egg's mother. Comfy and cozy. In the grim future, their living conditions would degrade into unfavorable conditions. Rife with hostility in way of an abusive step-father and shoddy, somewhat dilapidated housing. Nonetheless, Eggsy would be, in time, what one could call a diamond in the rough, especially in the eyes of Harry Hart.
But that wasn't then or now. Now...
"To the shop, please." Harry uttered softly to his chauffeur, as he settled into the supple leather seat within the posh car's rear seating. He glanced out the window briefly, brows drooping and accentuating a downcast expression. The atmosphere was gloomy, typical of the weather here. Naturally when he'd said the shop, Harry Hart meant the Kingsman outfitters' establishment, known for clothing the most powerful men in the world since the early 1800s.
Hart stepped into the establishment, walking past sparse rows overlaid with fine wear and fabric, bearing right... And halting somewhat abruptly. His eyes swiveled to the left, followed by the slight turning of the head as he regarded another. A wizened outfitter, of middle age, standing behind an equally wizened davenport. "Arthur is in the dining room sir." Promptly, Harry replied with a gentle nod, of thanks, before continuing on forward, by, and up the stairs to the second floor.
The double doors to the dining room on the right of the hallway opened and--
"Ah, Galahad." Chester King aka Arthur uttered, peering upward and across the long dining table to Hart. "I had thought for a moment something'd happened; perhaps an unfortunate affair had arisen and barred your way he--"
"Of course not, Arthur. I was paying my respect and condolences to Unwin's family, as gentleman with class and upbringing are wont to do."
"So you dillydallied essentially."
Hart's fingers were still somewhat entwined within the handles of the double doors, standing there somewhat awkwardly. He sighed, brows beveling inward with the volution of sardonic eyes.
"Essentially, for good reason above all."
He replied as he closed shut the doors behind and approached to Arthur's right, a dozen footsteps or less. Soft scratching of the floor signaled the retrieval of a chair and here now, Harry sat to the right of Arthur adjacent. Arthur had affixed eyes of scrutiny... And respect upon Galahad as he made himself comfortable.
"So why was I called, Arthur?"
"I do hope you've realized the nature of the silly notion you'd gotten when you selected Unwin to be... A folly."
A remark, somewhat off topic, as he inclined his head to Harry, with somewhat a snide expression. As if he'd a grander understanding of how things in the world worked. His reply in return was an inconsolable sigh.
"We've discussed this time and time, Arthur. Somehow, I've got the feeling this won't be the last. For some reason or another, it appears that it evades you the simple notion that the world is changing. And we must change with it. Otherwise... We won't survive. What good will we be if this transpires?"
Accentuating his diatribe was the tilting of his own head in equal measure, with somewhat an inviting smirk. A shit-eating grin, to be frank.
"In the end, your experiment failed. Merlin's candidate will be the new Lancelot, as you know well. And he will do us proud, better than yours I'd think anyway."
Hart'd merely kept his mouth shut in regard to this, stifling the urge to reply in a fashion equivocal as Arthur's. He'd already said enough, and in due time, perhaps, he would be invited another opportunity.
"Why was I called, Arthur?"
He reiterated, swerving the flow of conversation back onto topic.
"I've something for you."
Immediately following this, he retrieved a bundled folder, noticeably and bizarrely thin in its nature, and slid it over to Harry for his perusal.
"It's a mission but its nature is, how should I say... intriguing. I thought you were best fit for the job, actually."
Arthur stated, no underlying tone of sly attitude or malice. He steepled his fingers, tucking his hands in close to his chest as he observed Galahad closely, curious as to his response.
A brow rose, with the other funneling inward with features accentuating the image of brief uncertainty and curiosity. He retrieved the file in question, pulling it in close and opened it, laying it flat against the table's smooth surface.
The very first words Hart read was situated at the very top, font larger than the rest that proceeded after, and emblazoned in bold black.
[FONT SIZE 5 | BOLDED]"Murder Game"[/]
Hart's reply came swiftly upon reading the first few words, succinct and sarcastic in his words.
"How... Erudite."
Arthur chuckled softly, and moved swiftly.
"What do you know of The Coalition?"
Claire looked back up at the sound of someone's voice. She didn't recognise them, but made her feel a bit better that someone had heeded her call. 
Find something to hold on to didn't really fill Claire with confidence. Was the girl going to blast away the rubble, or something? Dear god, please let her savior be smarter than that. 
