Defenestrate The Masses
Growing With Apathy
What came before would ever be repeated - until he found the Great Item, that was. They would keep coming, in ever greater forces, making passage impossible for Edward or the Rook. Proctors scuttled out of cracks everywhere in the City, exponentially growing from the Queen source of the Ruler’s iniquity and avarice. There was a cure, but it could only be sourced from the simple actions of one man, host to one concept. Conrad believed in it, enough to create Edward River and his constant avian partner. Who was he to question the mind and motives of a thought process beyond his conceiving? The nemesis was gone, Anathema, but the threat remained. Too many Proctors led to a particular idea.
Edward River walked the streets that surrounded the industry of the Engineering Works in the garb of a worker. The further he delved into the heart of the matter, the more he honed his attitude to one as he followed, falling into step to draw as little attention to himself as possible. This would of course mean that he would be forced to take a circuitous route to his destination, but he must fit in with his surroundings or he would get no further than the front lines of Proctors. Here and there, pockets of overly efficient Proctors would stop workers and examine their identities, but Edward had so far managed to elude them. This was put to the test not a tap away from the door to the Factory.
“Halt! Show your identity!” Edward lifted his head a little, to observe the Proctor who called out. It was a face Edward never expected to see again. The voice cut him like a knife. It was Proctor Tennant, aloof as ever, but seemingly oblivious to Edward’s identity.
Edward continued as before, making no sign he had heard the instruction, “You! I said halt! Don’t I know you?” All Edward could think in this moment was how much a surprise visit from Helena Romaine would smooth the process, but creating a fuss would help nothing. Besides, being on the inside, even if under arrest, would potentially bring Edward and the Volume closer together. He relented. Two Proctors held his arms. Edward could feel the coming of the Rook, but begged for it to retire. It was not time now for a certain death charge.
#
Edward was in familiar surroundings in that he sat opposite Proctor Tennant, across a metal table in a room covered in shadow. But this time two things differed. The first was that the room was inside the factory, utilising an emptied store room, relaxed of auditory and spectator attention. The second was that this was a very different Edward River to the one Proctor Tennant had before him, prior to Edward’s imprisonment.
“So, Edward River. You return to us once more. You are quite the bad penny, aren’t you?”
“Get to the point.” said Edward.
“I will, as you say, get to the point. You are a menace. You are a blight. You are destruction in a funny costume. You know what you need? A dose of reality. Trice?” The door to the mocked up interrogation suite opened swiftly, part of an elaborate dance played out dozens of times. A stocky, tall and balding man entered. He had the clothes of a Proctor, but the front of his uniform had been adorned with a leather apron. He wore a mask to obscure his face, the whole outfit a fixture set to feed fear into the subject. He walked up to the table and dropped a cylindrical roll of rippled leather, which he unfurled, showing implements of torture, “Trice. Introduce our friend to pain, if you will?”
Edward chuckled and spits of smoke jumped from his fingertips, instantly subsiding, “Really? What are you expecting to get from me? A confession?”
“Oh no, Mr River. I want you to die, but slowly. I want you to feel every inch of it, then maybe, just maybe, I will finish it by cutting your throat. I want you to suffer, Mr River, for every moment you made me feel small. Trice, begin.” Proctor Tennant rose from his seat and strolled into the shadows where only his bottom half was visible. He didn’t want Edward to see his face.
Trice took out a scalpel. He tested its edge against his thumb, moving the surgical steel to Edward’s scarred face, “What do you think you can do that hasn’t been done?” Edward said to Trice, “Cut me and you will regret it. I don’t say this as a threat. I warn you that following the mind of a man with a bruised ego does nothing but put you into my focus.”
Trice snorted. Words like these had passed through him for decades and they meant no more than the breath that expelled them. But this time it was different. Trice put the blade to Edward’s face, pushing deeply to bring about maximum pain from such a small cut. What felt odd was not the scream of pain, for which he was well attuned, but the rumble, the jitter that spread down the scalpel, into Trice’s hand, which spread down his arm, into his shoulder. Trice looked astonished at his own involuntary shake, and attention quickly returned back to Edward’s face. A dramatic shadow fell over Edward’s features, his eyes narrowed and his lips spread into a grin. The shadow rose, turning into a cloud of dark smoke, encapsulating both Edward and Trice, closing up like a vice around them. The smoke spat and spurted like dark flame on a cold log. The smoke spread out to encapsulate half the room. Proctor Tennant was so shocked at the sight he became frozen to the spot, hoping that inactivity saved him from being attacked. The vast cloud imploded slowly, returning to source, finally releasing the punctured corpse of Trice. He had been cut in every part of his body, and his clothes were saturated in blood. Every implement of torture was embedded beyond its natural function into the torso. The one play of decency was that the mask was untouched. Even the secretive deserved a respectful death. The smoke sucked in until it surrounded Edward’s form, like running crude oil, rippling and popping until it settled into the definite form of the Rook.
Proctor Tennant could only manage two words before he collapsed to the ground, rocking like a child, wide eyed and primal fear his visage. They were, “My God.” As Tennant dropped, the Rook snapped a look at him, but even the Rook could not destroy such a pathetic creature. It returned its attention to the door. With a flourish it opened the door and the two Proctors on guard outside rushed in, only to be lifted by the neck and plunged into the ground. They shook a little from the impact, but thereafter moved no more. Outside the door, in the corridor that led to the factory floor, the Rook took down a further two Proctors, one crashing through the corrugated wall, the other overhead. The commotion caused much noise, but the repeated attention outside in the Industrial and Engineering District muffled any low level decibels from drawing further attention. The Rook dropped into the Factory, bereft of a soul. It relinquished control back to Edward. The Rook had many purposes, but none of them were hunting down the Volume. Unimpeded, Edward made short work of finding the book. It had been locked in a cupboard, discarded beneath operating manuals and spreadsheets of geometric colours. “Misery Loves Company” was its title. How apt that was for this point in Edward’s life? He had allowed himself think on the complexity of life without the Rook, whether it would be simpler, or better without it. There had been much melee because of it, but Edward considered that without it, he would have still been in the same situation, but without the undoubted protection of the Rook. Not only that, they were coming to a perfect compromise of late - one reacting to the need of the other, like a true symbiotic relationship. And like a true symbiotic relationship, one would surely not survive without the other. Granted, function was one thing, but friendship would be advantageous. They were two parts of a whole, and there was no singular reason why they should not live in perfect harmony.
As he was growing within himself, Edward was also realising he desired love. Love, companionship and loyalty - or trust. He wasn’t sure he could gain those attributes from Helena Romaine, but she would be a reasonable beginning. Emotionally Edward was of a young man, having only come into being a short time ago. He had learned quickly, however, yet there were still things missing. And that’s what it was, a need. A need for love, for companionship, but also a need for answers - for the truth, for his true potential to be revealed. He and the Rook took off, Volume in hand, to further philosophise about their condition. Pretty soon it would be over, and all answers would be revealed. Soon. That word - it seemed as though it contained a great age. About the length of a piece of string.
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