The Street Provocateur
Judd had the rare luxury of an afternoon to himself. No tailing suspects, no covert meetings in dimly lit bars, no cryptic messages appearing on his phone. Just a crisp Prague afternoon, a leisurely lunch at Café Louvre—beef goulash, fresh bread, and a local Pilsner—and a chance to wander the labyrinth of the city’s historic streets.
As he strolled through the Old Town, past the ornate facades and cobbled alleyways, a familiar name on a small sign caught his eye: The Banksy Museum – Prague’s Tribute to the Elusive Artist. He stopped in his tracks. Banksy. A man—or a ghost—whose art had stirred up more controversy, conversation, and rebellion than most world leaders.
Judd stepped inside, welcomed by the dimly lit gallery, its walls covered in the rebellious strokes of the world’s most famous unknown artist. Girl with a Balloon greeted him first—one of Banksy’s most iconic pieces. The simple image of a child reaching for a heart-shaped balloon, drifting just out of reach, had been interpreted in a thousand ways. Hope. Loss. Revolution.
He moved through the exhibit, taking in the raw, unfiltered messages Banksy had scattered across the globe like visual grenades. The Flower Thrower—a masked protester hurling a bouquet instead of a Molotov cocktail. There Is Always Hope—a whisper of optimism in a world of disillusionment. The Kissing Coppers—an unflinching challenge to authority and societal norms.
Judd exhaled, hands in his coat pockets. The art resonated. Not just because of its defiant stance against authoritarianism, oppression, and corruption—but because it reminded him of Ava. She was the artist in the family, the one who saw the world not just as it was, but as it could be. She would have loved this. And Cindy’s humanitarian and fairness gene would have kicked into overdrive.
He stopped at Devolved Parliament—Banksy’s satirical take on British politics, where chimpanzees sat in place of lawmakers. He smirked. Some days, it felt more like a documentary than satire.
As he wandered deeper into the exhibit, a thought settled into his mind like wet cement. Banksy wasn’t just an artist; he was a strategist, a provocateur, a mirror to the world’s darkest realities. And in a way, he wasn’t so different from The Order.
Judd left the museum with a strange feeling pressing on his chest. The world needed fixing—Banksy knew it, The Order knew it. And tonight, when he sat down for dinner at Coda, he might just meet the one person who could help them take another step toward that goal.
