Remy Smiley was led through the restaurant by the waiter, and took his seat opposite Control, at a secluded table near the back.

‘Ah Smiley, `excellent restaurant choice, the lamb’s divine. Waiter, another bottle of Burgundy please.’

They searched each other’s face for signs. Nothing. After a long pause, Smiley asked ‘Do you remember HTML4, sir?’

HTML4 was the most reliable agent the Service ever had. Smiley and he had worked together many times before, on the Safari, Firefox and IE affairs. He had the knack of rendering jobs cleanly, if a little imprecisely.

‘Yes’ replied Control, in a measured tone. ‘His mark up was always excellent.’

‘Indeed. He slipped up though recently, on assignment in California, so we’re replacing him with a new chap: HTML5. HTML5 has been pitching on the Open Web as a competitor to Flash and Silverlight for the last few years, and the Browsers are picking it up. He’s got new technology we can exploit – APIs, JavaScript, but particularly native video. If he’s as good as we’re led to believe, our Flash Developers will have to raise their game.‘

Control lowered his fork, and furrowed his brow. ‘Has the Foreign Office vetted this character, Smiley? We’re co-operating with Police and government officials, and our Flash boys have maintained an even keel for years now. I won’t rock the boat without some proper intelligence.’

‘Of course sir, that’s why I’ve arranged a meeting at central HQ, next Tuesday at seven, so you can see for yourself. Come along!’

Control sipped his wine and nodded thoughtfully back at Smiley.

Renowned digital swordsman Aral d’Artagnan strode into the foyer of the hôtel on the Rue du Vieux-Colombier in Paris, his blade flashing beneath his cloak. The hôtel was the court of  legendary Adobe Evangelists ‘The Musketeers’. Entering in a state of fierce excitement, he rushed headlong into a tall Musketeer who was on his way out.

‘Upon my honour’ exclaimed the Musketeer. ‘But what have we here? A doughty young blade, come to the court of Adobe. Pray, what does this impudent rascal want with us, I wonder?’ He smiled broadly. The candlelight of the hôtel’s foyer played devilishly off his golden baldric.

‘Whom do I address?’ enquired d’Artagnan boldly, drawing himself up to his full height.

Bowing theatrically low the Musketeer introduced himself. ‘Athos M. Doherty, Musketeer and Adobe Platform Evangelist. At. Your. Service.’

D”Artagnan had not travelled from distant lands to be lightly dismissed. ‘Noble Athos’ began Aral. ‘This is an exciting time for your Flash Platform. The land is alive with talk of mobile experiences and augmented reality. But I do not necessary share Adobe’s vision of the future and I have therefore come here to challenge you to a duel.’

A look of mock incredulity appeared on Doherty’s face, as he looked around at a sea of amused comrades. ‘A duel! The young imp requests a duel!’ Laughter rose up all around but stopped suddenly as he drew his sword with lightning speed, levelling it at d’Artagnan’s chest.

‘You shall have your wish, mon petit garçon‘ replied the Musketeer. ‘But not a sword fight for they are forbidden by royal decree. No, it shall be a battle of wits. 20 minutes each, to respectively present our, as you said, “vision” of the Flash Platform. And afterwards we shall put it to the assembled, to see which of us has won the argument.’

Athos sheathed his sword. Aral nodded. ‘Agreed!’ he replied. ‘When and where shall we meet?’

Athos sauntered out into the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. ‘The evening of Tuesday the 26th of January. Meet me at The Werks in Hove at 7pm sharp. Don’t be late, or we’ll have smoked all the French fags.’ Bowing with a preposterous flourish he added ‘By your leave, sir!’ and swept away into the Parisien night.

Owen Priestley turned away from his typography work and walked outside to lean on the balcony. He sniffed at the cold night air. A sky bright with fireworks had attracted him, heralding the new year with a riot of noise and colour, and turning the snow covered square he gazed out over into an animated Jackson Pollock. The snow continued to fall, shrouding the scene in virgin vagary, as the Noughties – the first decade of the new century – drifted softly out of sight, like the smoke from the explosions.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket; a txt.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

It came straight out of the past, from someone Owen had studied typography with decades before. He stared at the pixelated lettering of the terse message and mused upon the origins of its typeface. A century of modernist design had passed by, leaving this rough excuse for a sans serif at the end of it. Where had it come from, this typeface? The mobile provider? A swanky San Fran agency? The Bauhaus?

He stepped inside and pulled a heavy typographic volume from the shelf. Flicking through, the blizzard of glyphs and chars that swirled by brought back long-forgotten memories of art history lectures, late night research, technical drawing. He realised that typography itself was deeply embedded in his psyche, an essence of his very being. He must share this, he decided! He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began composing a reply.

Just decided to give a talk! On the history of typography, 20th century design & the emergence of Modernism, from a broad perspective. Tues 19th Jan at 7pm, at The Werks. Wanna come? Owen

He absent-mindedly strolled back onto the balcony as he hit ‘send’. Outside the fireworks were moving towards a crescendo, whilst an assault of Auld Lang Syne started up from the tone-deaf neighbours next door. Owen wasn’t about to have a row on New Year’s Eve, though. In the square outside a young couple left crisp footprints in the snow, as they embraced the beginning of a new decade.