defc1

Defenestrate The Masses

Part One:


The Spirit And The Self 

He had a name.  It was Edward River.
His first thoughts were of abandonment and fright, along with the unerring demand on his instinct that he must wander through the wilderness searching for those who would understand and shelter him.  And the man he had sensed wasn't there any more, the one who called himself Conrad Miller.
He opened his eyes and took in his immediate environment.  It was all of a sudden bright.  Before him lay a candle, which grabbed with wax tendrils for the Workbench.   The Workbench, in turn, was covered, strewn almost, with a number of medical implements - most were clean, though some had become deeply etched with score from where they had been intensely sharpened, bowing in places from the whet stone used to garnish the razor sharp edge to a surgical cut.  There was blood; not on the instruments, but dried and caked in island-like patches upon the excessively varnished surface of the bench.  The candle spat as small gusts of air fell in through the gap in the gabled window.  The lead lines that held most of the small panes in place were now beginning to tarnish; to turn brown where some oxidisation from a mistake in manufacture had allowed foreign material to be added to those strips of lead.
One pane was irreversibly cracked.  It was here that the air was escaping.  It was also through this miniature aperture that the so called outside world could be seen and heard.  A worn brown leather chair collected dust in one of the damp stained corners of the room.  It sat upon a rugged mismatched carpet that in turn rested on the abundantly disinfectant soaked floors.  There was a cold steel feeling against slippery tiles and a faint sulphurous odour of burnt matches and burnt chemicals hanging in patches around the room.  Hessian holed hangings filled gaps on the walls, a corduroy patched jacket resting on a hastily inserted nail in a solid wall.  An over abundant hardy houseplant was just as at home as the monotonous water drip, rhythmically striking the aluminium basin.  On the Workbench, there was a burn etched flask, dried liquid patches along with dog eared, carelessly strewn paper and spider scratched, carelessly drawn notes, with old brown photographs and leather bound books.  The picture was completed by the crater-like careless burns around the available wooden surfaces, and the haphazardly discarded steel hooked blades, contributing to a less than sterile atmosphere and environment.
Voices, hurried and at unnecessary volumes for this environment could be heard either getting closer or getting louder.  A magnifier optic attached by Crocodile Clips to a tripod lost its delicate purchase on the corner of the bench and fell.  The resulting snap as the optic shattered brought Edward River to some version of attention, calling instinctively on his limbs and tendons to move.  Something was changing and Edward River couldn't be where he was.  The Laboratory reminded him of a Greenhouse.  He didn't know why; not that it didn't resemble a Greenhouse, just that Edward River had no idea how he knew what a Greenhouse was.  As far as he was concerned, up until two minutes ago he could only just recall his name.
An object, if Edward River was right, and he had no way of knowing for sure, that resembled a mechanical medusozoa complete with rotating gears that fluctuated at variant speeds, came into view of the leaded window Edward had previously observed as the window on the world.  It seemed sentient, because at random points it stopped, hovered, and thrust its metallic tendrils like dozens of olfactory apertures in Edward's direction.  A memory told him that the creature was the precursor to the Guardians With Wings.  Suddenly he was pulled forward, from an invisible tendril that demanded he move.  His over-riding feeling became fear.  This fear motivated him and pulled him forward, away from the potential danger.  It wasn't a case of listening to his instinct; it was a matter of obeying it.
Outside the Gasten were rising, ethereal and non corporeal.  Somehow Edward knew they were called the Dawn Light, or the Light of the Morning, their humanoid form floating up, serenity etched on the faces of those closest.  One could almost excuse that look for a smile.
But he had run out of time.  The Proctors had almost entered the Laboratory and would give chase.  One Pious, two Durable and three Spinners, as their ranks would dictate.  Prefects in the Sky kept watch, swimming through the clouds, breaking the surface with their directing tail.  Their song spreading out on the droplets of rain.  From here, there could be seen small habitable spaces in oversized faces, from when the ancient and confused builders had created the world.
It was difficult to ascertain from his position in retreat from the Laboratory but it was precarious.  And it was likely to be more excessively so the further he ventured away from the Laboratory.  But they had his scent now.
The Above, or Phantasma, was impressive even to those higher-ups who dwelled there.  It was a place of privilege, rarely earned in the same manner.  There were only three ways to leave; one by Airship, two by death and three by falling.  As the third usually precipitated the second, most opted for transport rather than physics.  Some had no choice.  One of those was Edward River, standing on the edge of a Skyport.  Even his demise wasn't his choice.  The commotion came closer behind him.   The same pull that dragged him from the Laboratory now dragged him again.  Edward assumed it was a rope that pulled him this time, though upon the briefest of inspections he was allowed in the time frame he had, he believed he saw a thick black cord yank him from the midriff towards the empty air, not the solidity of ground behind him, though truthfully speaking, solidity of ground was exactly what was awaiting him, that distance below so great and getting shorter with each passing moment.  It strangely felt like flying.

#

The air rushed past him, ruffling and deafening, taut across his back.  It fizzed and cracked with electrical charge, rushing over him, tingling the nerve endings enough to create a buzz all over his body, shivering sensations without the discomfort of coldness.  He had shifted to a position where he was able to see behind him.  In this position it didn't seem so fatal.  He could see two playful Prefects of the Sky dance in gravity defying beauty, dipping in and out of the thick, dark and dangerous clouds.
Then he turned once more, choosing to face forward and see his death coming.

#

The ascending ground blurred.  His eyeballs felt the force, manipulating his view to something fractal, mathematical; the ground was a grid of pinpricks, buildings sharpened to a point and protruding like a pin cushion.  As it grew in size the needles blunted, the gaps between the buildings widened and the ground became darker and deeper.  Specific areas could now be defined.  The City was crowded through industry; sloping from the Pyramid pointed centre, the Ridge where health and education lay, the Curved Bundle, where the hub of labour led industry grew.  Organic, faction-led growth with compact intersections of roads, pathways and alleyways and Drift drop-holes.  Open space was at a premium in this whitewashed City and power always emanated from the centre.  But the Wedge grew out of desperation, and it remained so, now in turn housing the desperate.  Edward allowed a look behind him.  The Proctors were following, though their course was more defined than Edward River’s.  The Guardians had their wings, after all.  Edward had gravity.  They had the medusozoa.  Edward had nothing but a short future.  The question was now which would kill him; the ground or the Proctors?  Either and both were imminently close.  The medusozoa would be upon him first.  It would wrap him up, hold him in its strong merciless tendrils, begin to crush the air from him, expediting the death from above or below.  Edward deceptively perceived a build up in speed as the City thundered closer, now he broached the highest of spiked buildings.  He felt the metallic scratch of the medusozoa as it reached him, beginning its twist and drill around Edward River’s left leg.  Unconsciousness would be a blessed relief, but it didn’t come.  Fully aware, the medusozoa grasping further even as the ground neared.  Edward's senses screamed, but with no effect.  The descent refused to stop, despite his internal protestations.  The blood in his ears roared, not from the punishable air velocity, but from the adrenaline pumping through his system, ready to accept the inevitable meeting of concrete and soft flesh.  But it never came.
Instead he descended further.  He had entered, at a low micromort score, a drift drop hole, Drift bound.  Darkness and odour now enveloped him.  Even the medusozoa sensed something wrong, releasing its dead man grasp on his body, one inch from his heart where the electrical charge hummed in the tendril tip.  He had been one step from it all ending, but instead Edward River and medusozoa ended up in the mountainous pile of detritus dropped from the City above.  Edward was bruised, battered and bleeding.  The medusozoa was dead, if mortality could be attached to such a mechanical object.  Edward pushed free of it, attempting to stand, unsure if he was glad he was alive, or disappointed he wasn’t dead.
Once his eyesight had adjusted to the darkness, he took in his environment.
There was a strong look of rust and an equally as strong smell of urea.  The areas he could see from on high were pockmarked with deep pools of green; a cesspool of the denied, haven of the discarded and hovel for the disavowed.  Decay filled the air.  Even the rot was rotting.  It was the lowest low, the deepest pit, the furthest any living creature could go.  The walls boiled and pussed with disease; unforgiving, bloated and friendless.  He tumbled down the mountainside, collecting smells and material with him best left alone.
The Drift.
He could see eyes of either a creature or man watching his every move.  Edward wasn’t prepared for this.  He had known nothing up to an hour ago.  Now he knew he had to go.  He had to leave.  This wasn’t safe.  The eyes were hungry, and he was fresh.  The denizens o the Drift were used to discarded rubbish.  What a feat he would be?  Edward reached a wall out of sheer luck where was placed a ladder with the last few rungs rotted away.  There was a shuffling, a murmuring, not as loud nor as definite as the Proctors, which sounded amongst the drips, slurps and popping gas bubbles.  Edward River jumped to grasp the next solid rung of the ladder now aided by that same desperation that took hold of him back up in the Above - that the awaiting hungry creatures below would spur his ascent.

#

Each rung brought fresh air one inch closer.  Edward River hadn’t had time to assess the survival rate of an action such as the one he participated in, falling from so high and landing, albeit diseased, on something soft enough to leave him with little more than minor abrasions.  Sometimes the act didn’t determine the cause in a way expected.  Sometimes things happened, things changed.  Fear, danger, these things played on his mind.  What if the Proctors were waiting for him when he reached City level?  What if those below followed him, his weakness their power, to spring on him and take him?  The last thing he expected was indifference.
When he broached the lip of the rubbish hole, all he was greeted by was a gust of air.  There were certainly citizens milling about, their own desire-line pathway determined, distractions a minimum inconvenience.  There were no Proctors.  There were no medusozoa.  There was only a hum - the hum of a working and living City.  Edward River pulled himself out of the hole and began walking, in any direction that was not here.
He looked different.  He couldn’t help that.  He was made up there in the Above, a patchwork of broken pieces, aware for no more than half a day.  He was dressed oddly, his clothes a patchwork also, but the odour permeated everything.  People chased him with their eyes; their perfect and perfectly ordinary demeanours highlighted the unusualness of Edward River.  He didn’t want attention drawn to him.  He wasn’t sure what he had done to draw the attention from the Proctors, or the glares of the citizens of this City, so he clung to the shadows.
Where he had come out, the buildings there were built on concrete stilts, access gained from the spiral staircase in the centre of the recreational, artificial grass carpeted surface.  These buildings were in perfect parallel to each other and the identical row of buildings on the other side. The deeper into the City he went, the further the buildings were placed from each other, yet the further out he went, the buildings became denser, more decrepit, showing signs of decay, like the City was rotting from the outside in.  But it was perfectly habitable.  Edward felt he was more accepted by these outer people, so looked for shelter there.
Here there were the remnants of the once great expansion of the City, when the architects had money, had talent and had freedom to create.  This was where the folly of money lay.  Strangely constructed art installations, like leaning buildings, deliberately half demolished, body parts of statues long done with, as were the subjects of the pieces.  The residents had personalised the hovels and holes, cracks and chips, with paint, graffiti, posters of old advertisements selling products only the rich could afford, as a kind of aspirational art gallery.  The people seemed perfectly happy.  They were content with their lot, whereas the citizens closer to the centre always aspired for more, and were never satisfied, which reflected on their dour faces and their unblemished skin, their attitude of bare tolerance to each other and their total indifference to anything that didn’t contribute to their furtherance in life.
Edward River found a place that would suit his immediate needs.  It was the top half of the head from an obviously grand statue, perhaps a symbol of the City at its birth, or in recognition of a creator of the original pure intentions of the growers, builders and rulers of this world, before the Utopic ideal was crushed underneath jack boots of corruption, greed and power mongering.  They should have realised that there could be no true Utopia - there would always be at least one person or group that would want what the other had got.  It had shifted from Utopic to Dystopic in less than thirty years.  They should applaud themselves for their lack of vision, if only they hadn’t been hammered out of power for the benefit of the rich.
The head was accompanied by the hand of the same statue, sat on its broken wrist, fingers grasping for the sky, whether this was in aspiration to belong amongst the Phantasma, or the hand of reckoning, pointing the finger of blame at the makers of the corruption, was mere speculation.  On the other side was a deliberately leaning statue of a book, very large and home to a number of families.  The words that had been etched in the stone as the edict for the nation would surely have been read and ruined, and was now lost to weather and the holes knocked through to make windows for the families.  Edward River entered the head, finding a large enough space behind the eyes.  This was the Wedge.  And now his home, until he could work out where he came from, why he was abandoned by his creator and what it meant to be alive in this City.
Edward quickly made acquaintances, joining a scavenging group who would venture out as far as they dared, toward the centre, toward the outer limits, touching the wasteland of sand and little else, for resources.  Food was at a premium, but as a community they would share.  Edward learned much about himself in those weeks and months.  He learned he was a giver, a friend, a useful tool for the survival of the many.  He had his faults also; sometimes he was clumsy, insensitive, young in thought, but ultimately he was accepted.  At least he thought he was.  But even in a place like this, jealousy, or something more insidious, crept like a mould over the damp and uneven walls of the Wedge.  Some people just didn’t know how to be kind and accepting.  Some would see opportunity where others could see a friend.  Edward River was about to find out which he was.

#

When the Proctors came, they came in force - unnecessarily so.  There was at least a squadron, a half dozen medusozoa flailing in the air, the tips of their tendrils sniffing out the area.  Residents were gathering.  Some pushed their luck and were clattered over the head or back by a Proctor to get back in line.  The last to know what was happening was Edward River.  But pretty soon he discovered the truth, as his shelter was torn apart at the same time as he was being hauled out of his bed by far more Proctors than were needed.  He was dragged out, half naked, into the growing crowd.  Where he was going next, he didn’t know, nor did it really matter?  Whatever it was, at least he had this part -  a moment, a glimpse at life.
“I know.” He said to the assembled residents, in acceptance of his fate, and perhaps a nod of forgiveness for the double agent who had obviously alerted the Proctors to Edward’s presence.  There was no blame.  There couldn’t be.  These people had showed him a kindness and courtesy no one else had, despite his lack of knowledge to who he was and where he came from, to the scars over his face and how he was pieced together.  It was happiness, and happiness couldn’t last forever.
So Edward finally saw the rest of the City from the back seat of the vehicle the Proctors transported him in.  It was easy to see what had been intended by the first builders.  Perfection in geometry.  Lines, angles, streets.  Even though the rot was evident through the delineation of most of those lines, the blueprint original was there, in spirit if nothing else.

#

The pyramid dominated the skyline.  The sides sloped up with raw lines criss crossing over the mirrored windows, reflecting the City back on itself crooked and distorted.  The seat of power.  An almost invisible panel pulled open on the south wall of the pyramid, allowing the vehicle to enter, which hovered a while, jockeying for space and the command of the landing administrator, which came and the vehicle dropped to solid rough ground in the parking garage.  The Proctors alighted, leading Edward River by elevated forearms.  Edward’s hands were bound, as were his feet.  They took him at a thrifty pace through a seemingly endless series of double doors, each leading to an identical one, until they had reached their destination, where Edward River was virtually thrown through the door.  All that was here was a long metal table with one simple chair.
“Sit.” spoke the shadows.  Edward did as instructed.  He tried to angle his restraints in such a way as to prevent the chafing and the redness whelping on his wrists.  The voice, attached to a more formally dressed Proctor, slid out of the shadows, facing Edward from the other side of the table, fists now pressed and a slight bent posture showing he meant business.
“My name is Proctor Tennant.  And you are Edward River, the product of one Conrad Miller, erstwhile of the Phantasma.  Do you know why you are here?”
Edward coughed nervously, “No?”
“Really?  I mean you were in Conrad’s Laboratory, were you not?”  Proctor Tennant sifted through some papers in a file he had produced from the dark area behind him, evidently filled with information on Edward River.
“Sir, I haven’t any idea why I’m here.  Can I please go?”
“Go?  Of course not.  Now, what can you tell me about Conrad Miller’s whereabouts?”
“I don’t know anything.  I woke up.  I ran.  I fell.  I climbed out.  That’s all I know.”  Edward was getting increasingly anxious.
“What was he working on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What was he working on?  Come now, Edward.  Make it easier on yourself.”
“I don’t know.  I really don’t!”  Edward could feel a rattle under him, like an earthquake and he was wondering how Proctor Tennant hadn’t noticed or reacted to it yet.
“Very well.  I’ll give you a couple of hours to think about it.  Maybe something will jog your memory.”  Proctor Tennant walked to the door Edward had been thrust through, opened it, went through and closed it deliberately behind him.
Edward stared into the darkness.  His anxiety didn’t dissipate, but at least it didn’t escalate. Edward wished to pace up and down, if he could have, to release some of the built up adrenaline.  The bindings restricted all but basic movement and no one came to relieve his suffering.  No one came to feed him or give him a drink.  No sounds except the echoes of his breathing for company.  The minutes drifted into an hour, then two, then three.  It was broaching the fourth hour when Proctor Tennant re-entered the interrogation room.  He seemed refreshed, wiping imaginary crusts from his chest, masticating the last of his food, making exaggerated energy to swallow the food and beginning the action of cleaning his teeth with his tongue.  Edward didn’t look up or react.  He was demoralised to the point of immobility.
“So, had time to think, Edward?  Like to take another run at the question?”  Edward grunted an answer, neither positive nor negative, “I take that as a yes.  Now, think hard on this, don’t rush, make sure and then enunciate your answer.  Edward River, where is Conrad Miller?  Don’t rush the answer, remember.  Take a second or two to ruminate my words to formulate an answer we will both be happy with.”  Proctor Tennant moved uncomfortably close to Edward River, his eyes unblinking, a ring of menace in his stare at the virtually recumbent figure of Edward.
“Please – “
“Wrong answer, Edward!  Try harder!”  Proctor Tennant was almost spitting in Edward’s face.
“I don’t know the answer!  I don’t know!  I don’t know!” let out Edward River.  There was a sudden burst of energy from the base of his feet where the ground had begun to shake, all up his body in a rupture of power, the last piece of the exclamation taking Proctor Tennant’s feet from under him, thrusting his moderately muscular body across the room.  To the casual observer, the delicately thin black lines that came from within Edward River and contacted with Proctor Tennant, that were even now beginning to dissipate, would have passed unobserved.  Even to Edward in his weak state they came into being and passed away without a flicker of his eyelid marking their passage.  Proctor Tennant rose rapidly to his feet, angrily pulling his ego, pride and uniform straight, advancing on Edward River, throwing the metal table aside and pushing Edward and chair to a dangerous forty five degree angle, with spit framing his mouth and redness of face showing his temper.
“You degenerate piece of filth!  Do you know who I am?  Pulling your tricks on me?  How dare you!  Life!  That’s what you get!  Life in the Pit!  Take him out of here!” spat Proctor Tennant, letting Edward’s chair settle with a thud, screaming at the air.  Immediately two lesser dressed Proctors entered, pulling Edward to his feet and dragging him out of the room, back through the endless doors and identical corridors.  Proctor Tennant adjusted further, pulling himself back to some semblance of normality, like a small hurricane had come into the room, and the devastation was etched on his face with none of the spirit lost.

#

The Pit wasn’t as bad as it sounded.  There was a sense of community here as there had been on the surface, back in the Wedge where Edward River had felt at peace, at home.  Most other inmates were incarcerated for a similar crime as Edward’s; namely they questioned authority - men, women and children.  They were all here, and they looked after each other.  As like any place, the Pit had its bad elements, it being a Prison after all.  It had its share of actual criminals; rapists, pederasts, arsonists and murderers, but thankfully many of them kept to their own gangs, infighting amongst the rivals a common occurrence.  The only real difference between the Prison and the outside world was freedom, though some would argue there wasn’t even that in the outside world.  It was a microcosm of society as a whole - the powerful remained so, the poor and downtrodden similar.  But Edward gained something here he hadn’t in the wider world.  He gained an education, of both the history and the self, learning what he was capable of, how he could help and what he could do.  He was on one such unsanctioned trip when his world changed.

#

Section Z was at the far end of the prison, designated the repository for those believed beyond saving; the sick, the diseased and the deformed.  This time Edward had chosen to go on his own, much to the chagrin of some of his compadres.  The Proctors were like lions, waiting in the high grass for the lone gazelle, separated from its group, ripe for taking down.  Thus three Proctors surrounded him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked the one in Edward’s face.
“Nowhere?” replied Edward, obvious in his illegality, but refusing to kowtow.
“This is off limits to you, Scum.  This is where the deleted of society go.  Are you of no more use, scum?  Are you destined for this, the Zed’s and the Dead's?  Should we end your suffering now?  Should we delete you, save us the cost of your stay?  How much are you worth, scum?  How much to pay the toll?”
“Maybe he should pay with his body, Trip?” giggled one of the others.  He had an impish look on his face, hunger for something beyond protein.
“Maybe he should, Sicko.  Maybe he should.  What do you say, scum?  You want to present for us?”  They all laughed.  Edward kept silent.  He was aware other Proctor eyes were on them now.  It seemed the bullying ones realised this also, making a show to release him, to let him on his way.  Sicko couldn’t resist a fondle of Edward as he slipped through and past them.
There was no lock on Section Z.  There were no barred doors.  Jointly, there was no sanitation or care.  These people had been forgotten.  Some had even resorted to inward or outward cannibalism, such as autosarcophagy or autophagocytosis, never quite enough to take the hunger.  Edward River was a salvation of sorts, but even then some resented people like him.  Some desired death, unable to carry out the process themselves.  Starvation was an option.  But this was beyond Edward River.  This kind of thinking was beyond his understanding, the altruistic muscle was stretched to excessiveness, always willing to stretch that little bit further to accommodate the needy and desperate.  He walked among the downtrodden, giving what he could of the food he had smuggled in.
“Well, aren’t we the Noble Pantaleon?  No, don’t let me stop you.  Tend to your flock.” called out Sicko, flanked by Trip and the previously un-named Hog.  Edward turned, eyes darting to the walls.  There were no more eyes save those of the inmates he was feeding.  As calmly as possible Edward finished his self-styled duty.
“Don’t look for the eyes, Scum.  The eyes are closed in this part of the world.  No one cares what happens here.”  As though to demonstrate his entitlement, Trip lifted a weak woman to her crippled feet and ran a knife from ear to ear, the blood whelping up and cascading over her chest, dripping into the heap she had occupied as a living thing.  Trip wiped the blood on his sleeve, already marked by dried dirt.  He laughed as he did so, allowing the humour to spread to both Hog and Sicko, “See?  Where’s your compassion now, Scum?”
The ground rumbled beneath Edward River.  Those who gasped at the murder now gasped at the man slowly being enveloped by impossibly viscous thick black smoke.  His eyes changed, to pinpricks of hatred, his lips glued together, his complexion reddening with rage, his fists locked tight in a rigid grip at thirty degrees from his trunk.  The smoke swirled, soundless and esoteric, in fealty to the body, encompassing Edward River, sucking to the skin like tanned leather engrossing a curve.  Still raging, Edward-Hybrid shortened the distance between himself and the three Proctors, the black smoke, now more silk like, wafted and waived behind him, ribbons in the wind, attempting to catch up with him.  His hands moved too quickly for even him to see, if he had consciousness enough to know what he was doing.  In a flurry of arms, shrouded in the darkness of the cloud, three forms lay in indistinguishable piles, in benevolence to the dead woman.  She was the one who had done nothing, and deserved no hardship - her only crime her life.  Just as the black cloud had arrived, it dissipated back to nothing, leaving a tableau of horror in its wake.  One of the younger inmates tugged at Edward’s leg, pulling his attention back to his surroundings.  He had only time enough for a double take at the scene.
“Run!” exclaimed the young one in a loud whisper, “Go!  We will make it right!  You must not be here!”  Edward followed the instructions, at a loss to formulate any direction of his own.  He slid back to his cell and lay on his bed, rough veiled images flashed in his mind as he tried to recall those missing seconds.  It was tough, and he drifted into sleep.
Edward River was awoken by the shouts and calls of those around him.  It took him a second to realise they were calling his name.  The voices were desperate and pleading, some to Edward himself, but mostly to the Proctors, dragging him into the open, exposing him to the surrounding cells.
One efficient looking Proctor stood out of the shadows, following him modus operandi.  It was Proctor Tennant.  Edward was held by his arms and legs by other Proctors, but Proctor Tennant lifted Edward’s head, looking him directly in the eye, “Edward River!  You’re quite the pain in the proverbial arse, aren’t you?  But look!  We arrived just in time to see your attempted escape!  And, what’s this?  You died in the attempt, brought down by fearless men and women of the Guardians With Wings!  What a shame!  But one less mouth to feed, I suppose!”  There was a rumbling earthquake below them and Edward’s pupils dimmed to pinpricks as the area surrounding him went dark.

#

It smelled not as much fresh, but rather aerated.  A slow gust ran over Edward River’s face, tweaking his nose, making him frown in recognition of a taste he thought he would never sense again.  He slowly opened his eyes, moaning in the effort, pushing himself first to all fours, then carefully to a full stand.  It took a second or two for his brain to focus on his surroundings and ascertain his environment.  It was the Wedge.  In front of him was the Founder’s head, his once home.
He crept cautiously to the entrance, pulling the board back that marked the porchway.  He slid inside, stepping on tip toes, moving further in, up the stairs, to his old room.  Remarkably it was the same.  Not an object out of place, the corner bookcase still bestowed with the finds Edward had collected in his scavenging trips he had performed before his arrest and imprisonment.  Two objects, both mechanical ravens, were not only there, but reassembled.
“I did what I could.  Found some missing pieces and bought the rest.”  The voice came from a chair near the door, occupied by a man Edward instantly recognised.  Jude Ennis.  Edward had either not heard him come in or hadn’t noticed his presence when he entered, “I can never give you back what I stole from you, Edward.  I am more sorry than I can describe.”
“I forgave you on the day I left.” explained Edward River, taking a near chair and moving it towards Jude’s.
“But you could have turned me in?  You could have said it was me who gave the Proctors your name?”
“Why would I do that?  What would I have gained?”
“At least accept Huginn and Muninn as a gift?”
“Gracefully.”
Jude Ennis alighted the chair and moved over to the two mechanical birds.  Huginn barked away.  Muninn moved, but made no sound, its movement clunky, “I couldn’t find all the parts for this one.  He’s a little broken, I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jude.  It’s fine.  They’re perfect as they are because they come from a place of love and honour.”  Edward River rose from his chair, walked over to Jude Ennis and embraced him as a friend.  Jude mirrored Edward, a lump in his throat.
“You know, we all felt bad about it.  The old crew would be grateful to have you back.  We looked after your things, hoping you would return.  We will continue to look after you as long as you want us.  Come, tell me how you came to return?” pleaded Jude, leading Edward back to the chairs, hand in the small of the back.  Edward began to recount his time incarcerated, from the time of arrest to the moment he awoke outside.  By this time other residents had heard of his return and were gathering excitedly inside and out of Edward’s place.  He ended up recounting it several times, more and more exaggerated and light hearted when telling the children, adding arm movements, voices and new characters.
It was the residents of the Wedge’s honour to hide him from the authorities, no one making the slip in judgement that had temporarily overtaken Jude Ennis.  They had been less for his loss, and they were now complete again.  Eventually and inevitably, an old acquaintance of Edward’s came calling.
Proctor Tennant, disappointed with the progress so far in catching this simple criminal, took a squad of heavily armed Proctors and a handful of medusozoa to the heart of the Wedge.  There had been word that Edward River had returned to his old home and Proctor Tennant wanted to deal with it personally.  Edward had ripped much pride from the man, and never before had some lowly scum prisoner gotten the better of him.  He needed to rectify this oversight and quickly, but he was to be disappointed yet again.  The children would run around the Proctor’s feet, making faces and playing games.  The women would make busy in conversation and occupied the spaces making it harder to search - just as always when the Proctors came to call.  The men would fight or argue amongst themselves, to distract the thought of the searching Proctor, and when it came to Edward’s hiding spot, they affected a pitch battle of raised voices to each other, so the Proctors were forced to jump in and keep the piece.  It never failed - except the time Proctor Tennant came to call.
He could care less if the residents were killing each other.  He had his prey and nothing would take him from his hunt - not the annoying children, the forceful women or the arguing and fighting men.  He knew they knew and he wanted them to know that.  He began ripping the place apart, turning tables, looking for trap doors or false walls, smashing in cabinets and upending tables.  He finally arrived at the Head.  He broke down the board blocking the entrance, pushed in and continued taking the residence to pieces.  He was within inches at one point of tripping the switch that would have revealed Edward River’s hiding spot, but luckily Jude Ennis arrived in time to distract Proctor Tennant.
“Excuse me?  What are you doing?  Why are you tearing my home apart?”
“I was informed this was the home once of Edward River?” replied Proctor Tennant, efficiently.
“It was once.  Then the good Proctors came and took him away.  Last I heard that scum was in prison, where he belongs.”
Proctor Tennant stared for a second at Jude Ennis, looking as though to accept this version of affairs, when he grasped Jude by the collar, lifting him up and scowling angrily and frustratedly in his face, “Don’t think me stupid, citizen.  Don’t think I have not heard every voice that cries innocence when guilt is written in every pock marked, dirty, disgusting line in their face.  He is here somewhere.  I intend to find him, and make an example of him.  And if I don’t find him, then I will make an example of you, by hanging you from that post out there, watching happily as the last breath escapes your body and the life drains from you, simply for trying to smart talk me and hiding Inmate River from me when we both know he is worth nothing, not even your worthless life – “  Proctor Tennant was briefly distracted by one of the mechanical birds.  Instead of its constant crowing, this time it spoke.
“Nut case!” it squawked.  Three times it chimed.  Proctor Tennant was further distracted by one of the lower Proctors who came to the top of the stairs breathless.  He saluted.
“Proctor Tennant.  Headquarters requires your immediate return.”  This Proctor stood patiently for Proctor Tennant to reply, who reluctantly released Jude and followed the other Proctor down the stairs, out into the yard and led a retreat out of the Wedge.  There was a collective sigh of relief as the residents returned to normal.  Edward River came from his hiding place.
“You shouldn’t have done that Jude.  He is an extremely dangerous man.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Edward shook his head in mild despair and patted Jude Ennis in friendship upon his shoulder.
During Edward River’s time of contemplation, rumours were abound of a figure coming and going to and from the Wedge; some large man-like thing, black, dynamic, made of the dark mist, that would fly in and out.  Also around the City were tales of a similar man, taking on the badness in the City, fighting for justice, a target for the Proctors and criminal element alike.  They had taken to describing this figure as the Rook, because of its striking resemblance to the bird of the same name, with a kind of short beak, sleek body and swooping flight, with its large insubstantial wings that thrust it from one side of the City to the other in wide stroke.  Jude Ennis would relay these stories to Edward River as the two kept each other company during Edward’s fallow times.  Edward was sure Jude exaggerated a lot of the tales, but enjoyed them purely for their entertaining concepts of this new folk hero invented by the disparate.

#

“I tell you, he’s slowly becoming the bane of the Proctors, this Rook figure.  I mean, he takes them on and he takes them out.  Nothing scares him, no amount of firepower stops him.  He is impenetrable.  His fists move in a blur, swirling amongst the darkness he exudes.  He swoops in, sorts it out and swoops out again, leaving dead Proctors, dead criminals, but live victims.  There’s this one story I heard, where this group of Proctors had tracked this one man down to the waterside, that diseased river that flows through the City, filled with the outpourings from the industrial places.  Deadly, I tell you.  They were nearly out of sight near a bridge, allowing themselves some fun on this poor man whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  You know how it is, this policy of thinning the numbers the Proctors do?  Well, they had him, torturing him, kicking him, thrusting the shock stick at him.  Breaking bones, you know?  Then they take him to the water, thrust his head under.  Not too long, not too short.  Long enough to get the point.  Then they lift him up and he struggles.  Well, this just antagonises the Proctors.  They throw him in.  Thing is the man can’t swim.  Never had a need to.  The Proctors, they watch from the shore as the man struggles, once, twice submerging, each time coming up for air and using most of that for screaming.  He was going down for the third, when the sky darkened.  It was drastic enough for the Proctors to stop their revelry and look up.  There he came, at them, taking the first from his feet and swooping into the air.  A flurry of limbs, so it’s told, produced a confetti of body parts, the man torn to pieces and raining out over the shore side.  Well, obviously the other Proctors see this, they run, in all directions.  Each in turn is taken, lifted and ripped apart, and strewn over the area - save one.  He makes for under the bridge, trying to hide in the shadows.  But the Rook, he swoops down, lands on his feet and walks toward the Proctor, his wings dissipating into the very mist he’s made of.  He now looks like a man, encased in a hard shell with a face that looks like goggles over a respirator.  Intimidating.  He reaches the Proctor, fighting desperation and voiding his bowels.  Then he looks at him, whispers something only the Proctor can hear, then he leaves him alive - to tell of his tale and his encounter with the Rook, to never grace the streets again or risk death.  Then the Rook swoops into the air again, those wings just appearing out of thin air, and he climbs higher, then turns, diving fast towards the water, where he breaks the surface, submerges, comes back up with the drowning man in his arms.  Did he save him?  You bet he did!  I can see you’re enjoying this.
“Now there was this other incident, over by the Power Plant.  There were Proctors here, playing with this one woman, trying to get her to you know what.  Well, she would have none of it.  She ran, she was caught, they teased her, prodding her with their shock sticks.  Her body wracked with electriCity - jolted she was - from pillar to post she was chased.  She slipped into the Power Plant, too frightened to call out, she hid behind those giant coils, crackling away, powering the City and its lights.  In fact I remember that night quite clearly, as the lights dimmed for a few seconds.  Just like that.  Anyway, this woman, scared as she was, kept quiet.  The Proctors searched and searched but they didn’t find her.  End of the story, you would think?  Well, not quite.  She thought she was safe now and made her way out of the Power Plant, making for home, back through them streets she walked.  Who should she encounter?  The same group of Proctors coming in the opposite direction.  Well, they only gave chase again, didn’t they?  She ran again, of course she did, but she made the mistake of running not to her home but rather towards the grasslands.  You know them, the long grasses, the dips and ditches, places for people to fall and never be seen again?  There she was, getting deeper.  There they were, the Proctors chasing her.  She ran and ran until she came to the edge of a deep pit.  Now, she would have had to retrace her steps to take another route, but the Proctors were closing in.  She had no option.  She jumped.  She never reached the bottom of course.  A black mist whooshed out the hole, carrying the woman in its barely distinguishable arms.  She was dropped gently on the outskirts, unharmed but unconscious.  There was a blur and the Rook was gone.  At least that’s what the Proctors thought.  They searched the skies, they searched the ground.  There was no sign.  Then a flurry of activity, and one Proctor was lifted.  The others looked, watched as their friend was taken higher and higher, up amongst the Prefects, into the clouds where the moisture ridden cumulus crackled with electriCity, lightning pranging in the sky.  Then just the Proctor, burning from the inside, tumbled down, roaring.  He splatted, probably the best word for it, splatted hard into the ground, making instantly his own grave in the tender mud.  The others ran, feeling hunted themselves, but he didn’t return, the Rook.  People think he wanted to keep them alive, as a warning, but also because for the rest of their lives those Proctors would look over their shoulders, or listen for the whoosh of the winged man.  They would always do good, or the beast in black would return and exact his revenge.
“Ah, but you would think its all Proctors, wouldn’t you?  Not always.  Sometimes he would just appear, arriving in the nick, time enough to save the innocent.  Like the man who had been hung out to dry, by people he owed money to.  See, here there are those who need and there are those who extort.  Just a fact of life, I suppose?  Well, this man owed more than he could afford, and the lenders wanted it back.  He couldn’t pay.  He could barely feed his family as it was.  Well, they took him up to the highest highrise, putting a rope around his neck and moving him to the edge of the building.  They gave him a chance, but it was a chance he couldn’t take.  He had nothing to give.  So they decided to take the only thing he could give - his life.  He teetered there on the lip of the building.  The one man leaned his arm out to push the other off the roof.  That’s not what ultimately happened though.  What did happen was the pushing man lost his arm, at the elbow.  See, this black cloud rushed in, filled the air between the man on the edge and the man pushing him.  The henchmen of the one-armed criminal hightailed it out of there.  They got about ten steps when they were pulled up by the feet, tied together with the rope that once adorned the lendee.  There they dangled, by their feet, from the height reserved for the innocent man.  The one-armed guy just stared where his wrist once was.  That’s the power of the Rook.  He puts the fear into the wrongdoers, gives the innocent hope.  Trust me, no one will know.”
And that’s where he left it.  Not a complete list of the rumour mill, by any means.  But it only takes one outcry to affect the masses.

#

Over time, the Proctor searches became infrequent, until they stopped completely.  It was assumed that if Edward River was out there, he was more than likely dead.  The weather was changing.  As the heat dissipated from Edward River, so did the temperature of the City.  Edward, assured by Jude Ennis and others that it would be safe, resumed the role he had participated in prior to his arrest and imprisonment - that of scavenger.  It was an occupation that reminded him of his debt to the residents of the Wedge, how much he owed them for their protection and reward was within his grasp by searching for the scraps others left behind.
He would start in closer sections, eventually drifting further afield as his bravado increased.  He still heard the odd tale from Jude Ennis of the exploits of this Rook, but never actually saw evidence of this mythical hero himself.  It was surprising to Edward as he frequented many of the places these tales seemed to originate from.  But then it didn’t really matter.  Maybe it was more than one person, perhaps people had exaggerated, possibly even it existed only in the mind of some dreamer or storyteller?  It didn’t matter.  It gave the people hope, and that was enough to inspire.
Edward River was returning from one of these scavenging trips when he was surprised by a well dressed woman, slinking from the shadows.  Her dress suggested she was far from her usual haunt.  Whatever she was here for, it was important.  Edward gave it no further mind until the woman stepped in front of him, blocking his entry into the passageway.
“Edward River, I take it?  No, listen to what I have to say first.  My name is Helena Romaine.  I represent a company that may be beneficial to you and your cause.”  She presented a business card, black with white and red writing upon it, ‘Black Dog Collectors’.
“What could I possibly need a Collection Agency for?  Besides, I don’t know what you mean by ‘cause’?  I have no cause, except to feed and reward those I owe a great debt to.”
“You misunderstand.  We collect many things.  Information, books, ephemera?  And I must reiterate - this cause.  You may not know it yet, but you search for something.”
“What is it you presume I search for?”
“The truth?  Who you are, where you came from, why you ended up here.  Cardinal and universal truths.  But yours has a name.  That name is Conrad Miller.”  Edward River suddenly felt sick, a mass of bile in his stomach - a longing.  It was true that this had played on the outskirts of his mind, but recent activities had pushed its importance to a darker recess.  The mention of his creator’s name flooded him with shaking energy, longing and clawing at his soul - if he had one.  Whatever it was that made him was motivating him.  Yes.  He needed to know the truth.  Who was he?  Or at least who had he been prior to his re-awakening?  Why had he fallen only to climb up, be the man he had become since his descent and consequent ascent?  Many had remarked there was something special about him.  Was this speciality nurtured, or was it given to him?  Helena Romaine yanked him from his thoughts.
“Look at them.  You can’t help but look at them and feel small, feel less than they are.  And why do they come?  Why do they rise, these Gasten; the Dawn Light, the Light of the Morning, the glowing angels?”
Edward River followed Helena’s gaze.  He too saw the glowing figures drift up, take flight into the Above, send calmness to those who witnessed their rise, “You know, sometimes I come down here just to watch them rise?  It near takes my breath away!”
There was truth in her words.  It was a sight to see.  Many had grown used to their passage, such a regular occurrence that the eyes grew tired of it and no longer saw the beauty of it.  Edward River felt the genuine sensitivity emanating from Helena. - the pure joy she took from the simple things.
They were standing in the area of the City known as the Crossing, as it intersected the four directions while delineating the inner City from the outer City.  Helena returned her attention back to Edward River, who was staring uncomfortably long at her.  She smiled, “Give it some thought.  If you decide it’s to your benefit, you know where we are.  The address is on the reverse of the card.  I hope to see you soon, Mr River.”  She continued her smile as she disappeared back into the shadows whence she came.

#

“You must go!  It’s everyone’s wish to find out where they came from, to learn the truth?  Trust me, there are truths even now that follow you.” said Jude Ennis.  He sat in his regular seat at Edward’s home, Edward himself pacing and looking at his bookcase of objects.
“Why must I go?  I don’t see anything that gains the poor people of this City by the furtherance of my knowledge?  And what do you mean, I have truths following me?”
Jude fidgeted out of Edward’s eyeline, “All I’m saying is you may find out things that benefit you and us as a whole.  How will you know if you don’t at least go and see them?  What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
“The furry one speaks the truth, Master.”  These words came from the mechanical beak of the ornamental raven, called Huginn.
“Who you calling furry, you mechanical beast!”
“If you refuse you may never know.  Speculating on the possibilities is futile.  You lose nothing by meeting them.  You may gain knowledge beneficial to all.”
“What do you say, Muninn?” said Edward addressing the other mechanical bird.
“Do it!  Do it!” it squawked.
“I’ll sleep on it.” he mused.
The next day Edward River found himself a stone’s throw from the Pyramid, the address on the card close.  There was something daring about the proximity to so many of those who once searched for him, that spurred him on, blindly into the maws of the beast.

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