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🚨 NEW FIC LAUNCH ALERT!!! 🚨
So… how's everyone doing? Fine? Very fine? Hmm? 😏Well, I hope you're all doing amazing, because guess what — I just dropped ANOTHER ONE for you legends!
📢 "1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI" is officially LIVE! 🎯A gritty, thrilling journey through time, crime, and secrets...
GO CHECK IT OUT!!!GOGOGOGOGOGOGOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! 🏃💨📚🕵️♂️🧠🕰️
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Let's make this fic a BANGER together! 💪💥Much love,– Your Best Freind✍️🖤
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Chapter 69: Conferment
The weather in Britain in May was unusually pleasant. The air stayed mild, but each afternoon the sun broke through, casting long, golden rays under skies streaked with white clouds. It wasn't hot, but the light gave everything—from buildings to people-a fresh, warm clarity.
May 18th arrived quietly.
Early that morning, George stood in front of the Civil Affairs Department, flanked by British officials. He raised his right hand and, with calm composure, swore allegiance to the British flag. Much of the paperwork had already been completed—fast-tracked through Parliament. Officially, the name entered into the national archives was George Orwell Swinton.
"I, George Orwell Swinton, do solemnly swear in the name of God: upon becoming a British citizen…"
Only one step remained—the formal conferment ceremony, scheduled for the next day. There, the Royal Family would officially bestow his peerage and fiefdom.
Traditionally, Britain held two conferment ceremonies each year. While the Prime Minister, Lord Chancellor, and other senior figures were often among the honorees, the ceremonies also recognized businessmen, actors, military officers—anyone who had contributed significantly to the country.
George's arrival in Europe had been perfectly timed. Both sides had gotten what they wanted, and everything moved ahead without resistance. The knighthood ceremony had been aligned with the National Day festivities for maximum visibility.
For the aristocracy, still clawing for relevance after its decline following World War I, the addition of a wealthy, charismatic scientist like George was ideal. He checked every box—intelligent, independent, modern, and with real financial weight. His presence helped prop up the image that the nobility could still attract exceptional individuals.
Weeks of positive media coverage had made George a known figure across Britain. So when news broke that he'd adopted British citizenship and would receive a title, it was seen as a PR windfall—not just by the government and nobility, but by the Royal Family itself.
The ceremony was held at Buckingham Palace. With the National Day festivities drawing a larger crowd, the palace was packed. Dozens of nobles were in attendance, as well as high-ranking cabinet officials—including the Prime Minister—and ambassadors from across the world. Among them was the U.S. Ambassador to Britain.
It was a public event, and the press had shown up in force. Reporters from across Britain, Europe, and the United States were packed behind the velvet ropes, cameras flashing and notebooks ready.
Under the eye of the crowd, George knelt on one knee atop a velvet ceremonial cushion. King George V, dressed in full regalia, stepped forward. With practiced grace, he tapped George lightly on the shoulder with a sword, then handed it off to his right-hand attendant. From the attendant on his left, the King accepted a polished box containing the Swinton family's emblem and medal, and presented it to George.
It was official: George now held the title of Earl Swinton.
Then came the announcement that sent a wave of murmurs through the audience.
King George V declared that the Arabian Peninsula—an expansive stretch of territory—would be granted to George as a hereditary fiefdom.
The room shifted. Whispers spread.
It was a massive piece of land, spanning several nations. On the surface, the move was shocking.
But those who understood the arrangement weren't surprised. George had traded the Swinton family's domestic fief for this overseas holding—territory that, in the eyes of many nobles, was remote, dry, and economically barren.
Once the formalities concluded, dignitaries and officials came forward to offer congratulations. George spotted Professor Osborn among the special guests invited to witness the occasion.
The Prime Minister, Enril, approached with a warm expression. "Mr. Swinton, the government will soon issue your official governor documentation. Congratulations."
George offered a polite smile. "All for Britain. From now on, I'm under your jurisdiction."
Of course, that was just polite protocol. In reality, George's fief was an autonomous territory. Aside from foreign policy, the British government would have almost no say in how it was run.
The U.S. Ambassador stepped forward next, hand extended.
"Mr. Orwell. I have to admit—I didn't expect you to become a hereditary Earl, let alone take on a region the size of a continent. Have you thought about how you'll develop it?"
George gave a relaxed shrug. "It's just a title," he said. "The land? I'm thinking tourism. Sure, there's a lot of desert, but there are beaches too. Maybe a gambling hub. Another place for Americans to unwind abroad." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Not something I'll be saying to the press."
The ambassador chuckled and nodded. "Then congratulations, Mr. Earl."
News of George's peerage had already reached major circles in the U.S. Within days, families like the Rockefellers and Henry Morgan had called to confirm whether it was true. His name was now front-page material.
George had no intention of surrendering his ties to the U.S. market. He explained that the title was an inherited formality—nothing more than a deal. He assured them he wasn't abandoning his American roots. He hinted at turning the territory into a tax haven that would benefit American investors.
That was enough to calm any fears.
After the ceremony, a group photo was taken. King George V, Prince Albert, and several noble families stood beside George on the palace steps. The camera flashed—click—immortalizing the moment.
And so, the first Governor of the Arabian Peninsula was officially born. A man who would soon rewrite the rules of empire.
The next day, The Times ran a front-page article covering the ceremony and George's new title. The feature highlighted his work in economics, his discovery of Penicillin, and the plans for his fief. A large photo showed him wearing the Earl's medal, standing among the Royal Family and British aristocracy.
Over the following days, newspapers across Europe and the U.S. followed suit. The coverage was everywhere.
For Britain, it was a massive PR win.
But across the Atlantic, the backlash had already begun. Some media outlets in the U.S. started circulating rumors that George had renounced his American citizenship and that Penicillin would now be reserved for British interests.
George didn't wait.
He responded swiftly through his own newspaper's entertainment section. Satirical columns mocked the hysteria, turning the controversy into a joke. At the same time, he gave instructions to Vito to have the High Table Council quietly put pressure on the outlets spreading misinformation. No overt threats—just a few subtle accidents here and there. Enough to shift the tone.
As for who had started the smear campaign, George didn't care. Chasing ghosts was a waste of time.
That evening, Buckingham Palace hosted a formal reception. George mingled, exchanged pleasantries, and did what was expected.
The following day, despite his distaste for socializing, he hosted a private reception at his estate—thirty Dukes, several cabinet officials, a handful of ambassadors. All according to protocol.
Afterward, Professor Osborn and the others returned to their academic exchange tour across Europe. George declined, citing personal obligations, but promised to attend the upcoming Scientists' Summit in Switzerland.
Two days later, George quietly left Britain—or so the public believed.
In truth, he hadn't gone far. With a small alteration to his appearance, he began inspecting investment opportunities across the country alongside his American associates.
Now that he was a hereditary Earl, keeping all his assets in the U.S. and none in Britain would seem disrespectful. Worse, it might invite scrutiny. George preferred to stay ahead of that.
He ordered his team to establish a British cultural company—its focus: acquiring antiques. After World War I, many noble families across Europe were cash-strapped. He knew exactly what kind of heirlooms they'd be willing to part with.
He also started seeking partnerships with promising British ventures. Unlike in America, where he preferred to control the companies he funded, here he was content to hold smaller shares. In Britain, it was more about presence than power.
He didn't believe in keeping all his eggs in one basket. And now, he didn't have to.
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The Ink That Bled
London, 1920
(Spin-off: Jonas Jameson – Grandfather of J. Jonah Jameson)
Jonas Jameson wasn't much of a journalist, and he'd never pretended to be one.
He didn't read the papers growing up in Brooklyn, didn't have a favorite columnist, and never once dreamed of chasing stories through war zones or city alleys.
He took the job with The New York Herald's London bureau for the same reason most young men in his neighborhood took any job: it paid, it sounded respectable, and it got him the hell away from his uncle's tailor shop.
That was it.
No ideals. No crusade.
He was 24, underpaid, and living in a roach-patrolled boarding house near Paddington. He filed fluff stories about local cricket matches he didn't understand and rewrote editorials from American wire services to suit British sensibilities.
And lately, his editor had assigned him to dig up dirt on some rising hotshot industrialist named George Swinton—an American, now British Earl, supposedly buying up land in the Arabian Peninsula.
Jonas didn't care. The guy cured diseases or whatever. What mattered was that the name "Swinton" drew readers—and readers meant job security.
So he poked around. Sent a few too-bold telegrams. Filed an article or two heavy on speculation, light on substance. The last one ran with the headline:
AMERICAN SCIENTIST OR BRITISH SPY? THE CURIOUS CASE OF GEORGE SWINTON
It didn't even crack the front page.
But it was enough.
The brakes failed just after nightfall.
He'd borrowed the car from his editor, a cranky bastard named Hodge who kept it as a status symbol more than for utility. Jonas had used it to follow up on a rumor about Swinton's "cultural company" buying up antiques from cash-strapped aristocrats. Nothing had come of it. Just a cracked vase and a chatty old widow.
Now, half a mile outside of Surrey, in light rain and on a dim road, the car's pedal went soft under his foot.
Jonas pumped it twice, three times—nothing.
The wheels skidded as he swerved to avoid a sheep that had wandered too close to the ditch. He spun once, clipped a wooden post, and crashed rear-first into a shallow embankment.
The passenger-side mirror popped off. The front bumper twisted inward like it had been punched. Steam hissed from the engine block.
Jonas's shoulder slammed against the door. He bit his tongue, tasted blood, and blinked through the blur.
Alive.
He sat there for a long minute, fingers trembling on the wheel, before he realized what was happening.
Or thought he did.
They had tried to kill him.
That was the first and only conclusion his brain offered.
It wasn't just the brakes. It was the sheep. The timing. The rain. The fact that he'd told no one where he was going, except for Hodge, and Hodge didn't even know the widow's name. The whole thing smelled like a setup. Worse, it smelled like a message.
He kicked the door open and stumbled into the grass. His knee throbbed, and there was a warm wetness down his side that wasn't rain.
Then he saw it. Lying neatly on the front seat, like it had been left there after the crash.
A manila envelope.
He hadn't brought it.
He opened it slowly, his fingers shaking. Inside: a clipping of his own article. Red ink circled the words "Swinton's loyalties are unclear."
And scribbled beneath, in precise handwriting:
"Wrong headlines get you the wrong kind of audience."
Jonas stared at it.
Then he laughed—short, bitter, like the bark of someone who'd just realized he'd been a pawn in a game he didn't understand.
The police arrived an hour later. A passing motorist had seen the smoke and phoned it in.
Jonas didn't mention the envelope.
They asked if he'd been drinking. He said no. They asked if he'd lost control. He said the brakes failed. They said they'd check it out and send him a report. They didn't look like they believed him.
Back in London, Hodge was furious about the car but weirdly quiet when Jonas told him the brakes had been tampered with.
"You got insurance?" Hodge asked.
"Yeah."
"Then it's a good story. Write it up for the Sunday edition. Give it drama."
Jonas stared at him. "You don't want to ask who did it?"
"I don't want to be next," Hodge said.
The next few days passed like a fever dream. Jonas went through the motions, typing half-hearted notes into his Remington, rereading the envelope's message a dozen times a day. He didn't write the crash story.
He didn't sleep much either.
Every time he walked home from the bureau, he looked over his shoulder. At the corner by the chemist, he swore he saw the same man two nights in a row—tall, clean-shaven, wearing a black coat, always standing just outside the light.
He stopped filing stories.
He stopped speaking to his editor.
Then he resigned.
Packed up the little he owned and booked the first steamship ticket back to New York.
His father asked why he was home early. Jonas didn't give an answer. Just said the job "wasn't for him." His mother was glad he was back. Said London had sounded like a place people went to get killed. She wasn't wrong.
He found freelance work at a struggling local paper in Brooklyn—The Borough Times. The editor there didn't care about international politics. He liked fire codes and dockworker stories and crooked policemen.
And Jonas liked him for that.
Because for the first time, when Jonas typed something—something real, something local, he felt like it mattered.
Not for money. Not for headlines.
But because someone might be reading it. Someone dangerous.
And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
Years passed.
Jonas never spoke about the crash to anyone, except one time—late at night, whiskey in hand, when his son was twelve and asking why Jonas didn't write for the big papers anymore.
Jonas didn't give him names. Just said he wrote the wrong thing once, and the wrong people didn't like it.
"They tried to scare me," he said. "And it worked. But sometimes... sometimes being scared makes you pay attention to what's important."
His son—quiet, sharp-eyed—nodded.
He didn't ask for more.
That boy would grow up to be a reporter, too.
And he'd have a son of his own—another Jameson. One with a bigger voice, a louder pen, and no patience for secrets.
But that would come later.
For now, Jonas Jameson kept a single envelope in the bottom drawer of his desk, beneath old editorials and tax receipts.
He never reread the note.
He didn't have to.
[ END ]