Defenestrate The Masses
What Price Freedom
The Pyramid. The last bastion of hope. The pinnacle of the Builder’s achievements. The seat of power. The beacon to the people: The centre of the world. It looked imposing now more than ever as Edward River stood at its base, looking all the way up to the dizzy heights, knowing the answer was within. Somewhere within. The hunt was begun and thick black smoke rippled over his body with each monumental step.
But something was different, something was wrong.
The streets were clear and the Proctors were hidden. The air was crisp with the threat of frost. The connection of each step evenly placed on the stone floor reverberated against the giant capacitors, fizzing with pent up energy, one in each corner and the centrepiece the large power distributor, its thin wire veins bleeding electricity throughout the building. The eeriness of the atmosphere sent a shiver up Edward’s spine.
The walls were plastered with relief, much like he had seen in the old Observatory, with stories told in the vast panels. Edward stared. What did they mean? And what was he hoping to find walking into the Pyramid blind? All he knew was destiny had called him to be here now. Not that he believed in destiny as such, but some invisible force had drawn him here, now. If only he could ascertain why? He turned back to the panels on the walls, hoping they would provide a clue, seeing as the Power Room was devoid of anything else useful to his pursuit of the truth.
One panel showed in allegorical detail the beginning of the Builder’s plans. How they set forth on their adventure, how they began the big job of growing the City to its natural conclusion. Another showed the building of the Power Room itself, how the giant capacitors were made, how the power was distributed. One panel showed a young man, perhaps a boy, seeing the Builders for the first time, watching them work, plan and rule. The boy sees the power distributed both physically and figuratively. There was something about this panel that stood out. Of all the pictures, carved in intricate detail, down to the eyelash on a Builder’s face, only that relief of the boy’s face was distorted, scratched, disfigured by physical hand. It was unmistakably a boy and a child, but the features were obscured. Edward climbed the stairs to the next floor.
The Viewing Room was as Edward had expected. It had been mostly left to fall into dusty ruin. It was dimmer here, the only illumination from the lights of the white sided boxes containing the three dimensional renderings of the artist. For many, the boxes had lost their support, falling into other boxes, displacing their contents and resting at an angle against the more stable ones. The soft focus that once magically showed the majesty of the City from the room-high windows now only showed caked on dust, and the occasional patch rubbed away to give a limited view of the City as it was now. It was less a glass house, as it was intended, more something discarded, depleted of the energy it once contained. The relief panes were displayed on the floor in this room, as the walls were made of glass. Edward followed the story further, of the making of the room, the commissioning of the artists to render their dreams into a model of what they would later be.
The broken faced boy was here also, a little older, beneath the feet of the Builders, watching, respecting the one he sat at the feet of. There was reverence, but there was also scheme. Edward assumed this must be the clue he was supposed to find, the broken faced boy’s story. He pushed on, eager to find the continuation of the story on the next floor.
Next was the Creation Room. In days past, it would once have been a hive of activity, not least from the Builders themselves, as they would stride amongst the creative, taking inspiration and giving it, furnishing those who desired it with tools to create those ideas. The walls would have had inspiring phrases and ornaments of different cultures. There would have been boards covered in sketches and notes. The floor space would have had places to lie and think, to sit and contemplate, arranged in such a way as to encompass all, from the lowly child to the Prince, so that no one was greater than the other. All that was left were dirty scraps of paper, half torn down ideas from walls and broken furniture. There was, however, more of the Relief around these walls. It showed stories of Builders and their smiles, people of all walks sharing ideas. It also showed the broken faced boy, now more the broken faced man, made up from the scraps of the people he once observed, a Politician in training, giving himself the ideals by which he would progress, stepping out from the shadows of the Builders, striving for himself in the world with the bright future he had in mind for himself. Perhaps not a fully filled out person yet, but on his way. There was nothing further for Edward to see. He moved on to the next floor.
The door led to a familiar sight; the Skyport. And yet there were no Proctors. Edward was suspicious, more so than normal. The fact that the Proctors were missing could mean this was ultimately a trap, but then again what choices was he left with? This was the place he was supposed to be, and he knew it. This was also the time. Whatever he would come across, however painful or destructive, he had to carry on. This was why he existed, for this moment. Nothing could stop him, not now.
The world came in through the open Skyport, wind howling in the corners, a stiff reminder of when he was brought in by the Proctors, of the confusion and incarceration he experienced. That world, though, was gone. Whatever happened, the world would change because of Edward’s return. The Skyport could once more free the ordinary people, the citizens of the world, not just the privileged and in command. It mattered not if the Proctors were present, for Edwards course was set.
The broken faced man was here too, amongst the stories of flight, of the adventurous and carefree, of the true joy it brought. The panel showed the broken faced man travelling the City, then the world, taking from some, sitting at the feet of others, standing on tables and spouting his ideals, his concepts for a better future. The broken faced man was bold, upright and confident. He knew what he wanted, by the observation of others, and was set to take it all. His ambition shone brightly, even without the distorted face. Edward would linger here, the outside, the view of the room he had been held in, but the patch of blood where once Axon Dendrite had been before his cruel death scratched at a painful itch in the back of Edward’s mind. It cut deeply and Edward needed to move on. The next floor was calling him on.
For a moment or two Edward was confused. The Library was virtually identical to the one where he was shown the Volume by Devereaux, but that one was far underground. The other imposing factor was this library was devoid of books, though the occasional pamphlet sat lacklustre on a shelf, a relief to the constant coating of dust. Devereaux must have had all the books moved. Presumably this was the original location of that Volume, before Devereaux took it, as bait. Edward realised he would never have found it if he had not acquiesced to Devereaux’s request. Edward could have guessed the story held in the Relief on this floor of the broken faced man, but he searched nonetheless to ascertain if he held the truth. And he did. The panel showed the broken faced man eagerly tearing through the books, studying, learning his craft. Knowledge something integral to his own journey, for without it he would have failed in his attempt, whatever that turned out to be. Edward wouldn’t know himself if he didn’t push on to the next floor. He was gaining in confidence, however. This was working, it was happening and it seemed too easy. Yet the clues were there, the story that led him on. And he was rising the stairs to the next level.
The first thing that struck Edward was the pungent smell of rotted flora and fauna. Some things lived still, despite the dull light and neglect. The roots of a tree greeted Edward, causing him to climb past them. The floors were filled with slushy and rotted leaves. Old vegetation had died and was replaced by weeds that thrived on those conditions, and it looked like a broken nightmare version of what it once was. Borders were marked and the placards still held the suggestion of what once would have stunned the eyes with the beauty of nature; the pinnate leaved plants of the Rosaceae, the Dianthus caryophyllus and the varied Paeonia amongst others. Edward trod carefully in places where the rotting vegetation was so intensely composted as to take the feet from under him. He searched carefully for the panel that contained the broken faced man. The stories that surrounded it were of the community spirit - the old, the weak, being brought in to the environment, to sit, relax and repair themselves from the ailments they suffered from. Many of the panels were obscured by tangled and climbing roots, reaching for what remained of the ultra violet lamps in the ceiling, over half no longer functioning. But life finds a way.
The panel of the broken faced man showed him in a less than flattering light. The stories were taking a difficult turn, making them stand out starkly amongst the more communal minded allegorical renderings. A morality tale, perhaps, shown to children to remind them of the goodness desired, but used and abused by the broken faced man. It showed him taking advantage, while putting on a façade of political perfection, but the unmistakable rendering of a secret detestation of those he proposed to represent was given prominence on the walls. The stench was driving Edward away. He moved to the stairs to ascend, but his way was blocked.
“I have been waiting for an age, to bring to you a little of the pain and agony you wrought upon me.”
“You don’t die so easily then.” said Edward in reply, a rhetorical statement of merit.
Anathema advanced, only a step or two, but enough to bring Edward to a rigid form, the smoke already forming around his clenched fists. Anathema was broken in places, patched awkwardly, exposing points of weakness. His scars began to mirror Edward’s own, criss crossing over the face and body, patches still bruised and probably would ever be, “I just want what I am owed. Your head on a spike.”
“We fought once. You lost. There seems nothing to be gained by fighting again.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I have waited for this day. Come. Let us embrace.”
Anathema’s thundering feet created a low rhythmic rumble in the floor. He advanced ever on. Edward stood his ground, the Rook waking and beginning its flow, a little tired and lacking in energy, but it rose nonetheless, engaging with Edward’s form, growing exponentially until it encompassed both him and a large space within the room. Anathema contacted with the Rook, drawing surprise that it was lifted from the ground and deposited some distance away.
“You are done! I have been a chain, linked to your destiny since I first came here! Now I break that chain, permanently!” Anathema advanced, the Rook still reeling from the first attack. Anathema thundered blows on the torso of the Rook, fast and furious, enough to occasionally break through the mist to the man below. The Rook engulfed Anathema in its billowing smoke, but Anathema brushed it away. He rained fists into the face of the Rook, occasionally drawing blood from Edward beneath. Anathema lifted the Rook, charging it hard into a wall, cracking the panels, exposing the constructed membrane beneath that held the structure together, like a compound fracture. Two more times this happened and the Rook was weak. Then Edward realised why. When the Rook returned him to the Wedge, it spread out its influence to the City, to inspire the citizens to fight for themselves. It was spread thin, perhaps too thin. It would mean the two would have to work together. So the Rook became Edward Hybrid.
“It matters not. Even if you kill me, even if you are triumphant, there are hundreds of tiny Rooks out there in the world. You can’t stop them all.” said Edward Hybrid.
“I don’t want to kill them. I want to kill you. I am the horror that you face.”
“Don’t make me kill you, I beg of you.”
Anathema snorted. Edward Hybrid brought himself unsteadily to his feet. He staggered a little, but remained upright. Anathema just stared into the bloodied and hurt eyes of Edward Hybrid, “For you, I will make it slow.”
Anathema built up speed and caught Edward Hybrid under the ribcage, lifting him from his feet, smashing him through first one tree, then another, right through a rotten flower bed, straight toward the wall - the one with the exposed construction of metal spikes now dropped down and exposed. Onward he rode, Anathema, blind to all but the pursuit of Edward’s demise. But the floor was patchy, it was slippy, and Anathema caught one such patch, allowing for Edward Hybrid to shift position. He hit the wall, as was dictated by momentum, but it was Anathema that hit the spikes, embedded straight through him, in a blood dripping pattern. His face was incredulous, right up to the final blood gurgled breath, his eyes were wide in shock, his face red with effort. He was gone. For sure this time.
“And for you, I will make it quick.” explained Edward Hybrid, broken and battered on the floor. He crawled to the stairs, knowing that the next floor contained the Think Tanks, one of which he crawled inside and closed the sliding lid, drifting into unconsciousness.
A short time passed.
#
With the memory of the fight fresh in his mind, Edward, now returned from the Hybrid state, he proposed that moving on would be the only reasonable option. Even if he was weakened by the battle, bloodied and cracked bones sapping his energy, the end was in sight. The next floor would be the Pinnacle, and other than the outside of the Pyramid, there was nowhere else to go. He knew his time was nearly up. One could not survive a battering such as that, no matter how super powered they thought they were. And he wasn’t supposed to leave, not after this. He would find the Great Item, and within find his truth, the universal truth, and begin to heal the City. Hopefully. It occurred to him now that he wasn’t quite sure what would happen when he found the Great Item. He had assumed it would in some way repair the City, but it could just as likely eradicate it. Time was running out. A decision would be made when he possessed the Great Item itself.
As he dragged himself from the Think Tank he had recuperated in, the panel with the broken faced man presented itself. It showed him surrounded by thinkers, by Yes Men, by power brokers and propagandists, one inch from the greatest power itself; that of the ruling of the City and its environs. It was Ultimate Power, now the Builders had left a vacant seat. So what would the last panel reveal? There was only one way to find out. Edward lifted and propped himself against the wall, finding his way painfully to the stairs, the spiral staircase that led to the last room in the Pyramid.
It was as the plans had shown it - a platform, devoid of anything notable, in a small room with windows instead of walls. It showed the floor covered in stories, making the floor uneven in places, Edward's movement becoming difficult. But the room contained one more thing, unlikely as it seemed. It contained Daedalus Devereaux, the tenebrous Black Dog, who was stood surveying the decay he had caused in his pursuit of power, with his back to Edward.
“It could have been so much more, don’t you think, Edward? It could have been great,” he turned to face Edward, “And it could be again. Reveal the Great Item, Edward, and I will dispatch you quickly.” Edward laughed, “We both know I’ve won. Reveal the place and it will be over.”
Edward lifted himself to a sitting position, with back against the glass, cradling his right arm on his lap and his broken and bloodied face turned to Devereaux, “Why? Why should I, eh? What if you use the Great Item and make things worse? What would have been the point of me?”
“Does it matter? You have no more future, Edward. You are lost. You became lost long before you were made.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t want to remember, that time before your creation. Remembering is painful. Not remembering is why you were created.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Oh, it does, Edward, my boy. I didn’t just keep Conrad Miller prisoner, you know. I quizzed him, I got from him some truths you would rather not know. You might have fought to this end, but it is the end you can’t face. That’s where the truth lies; in remembering.”
“This is nonsense.”
“And yet it is the truth. If you give the Great Item to me, you don’t have to remember. I will take that burden from you. After all, I am the one with the right, the right to obtain it. I was his first. Conrad made me first. Surprised? You did follow the story on the panels inside the Pyramid? Ah, but there’s one missing. I took it, as a keepsake, I suppose. It shows my creation by Conrad Miller. How he made me, with ambition and drive, to be the perfect successor to the Builders. He knew they were going, leaving their creation behind. And Conrad wanted to make sure it continued to grow in a similar fashion to their ideals. Trouble is, he made me too ambitious. That’s why he hid the Great Item, because he didn’t trust me anymore. So he made you. He made you as an antithesis to me. But I was the first, therefore the power goes to me.”
“This can’t be – “
“And yet it is. Intriguing, isn’t it?”
Edward couldn’t believe it. This was the truth. He was created to combat a mistake made previously by Conrad Miller. What could he do? He couldn’t simply destroy Daedalus? And what would the outcome of that be? Was Daedalus right, that he was the rightful heir to power? There was little left to Edward. It was like how Daedalus Devereaux said - he had to remember, no matter how painful it was.
Edward saw a light, fuzzy and bright. Muffled sounds rushed about him, none discernible by position or sound. It truly was painful, filling his head with intensity beyond reason. There was a loneliness, a sense of loss, a distracted mind to a time of no joy, no willpower, no strength. It burned hard in his mind, the attempt to reach back. He was running from something. There seemed no point, on this other side. He was drained, a lesser force. This was too much. He wanted to run from it, hide from it until it went away. But it wasn’t going away. It just got worse, until something cracked and a decision was reached. The decision seemed absolute. Then he felt himself slowly being put together - a little from hate, a little from disappointment, each stitch screaming in his veins, his nerves firing at once with intense white hot pain. Each cut and slice was felt, each surge of poison a call to arms. The pain seemed to last an eon. Then the voices started. They were annoying at first, then accusative, then humoured, ending in tear wrenching desperation. Edward opened his eyes. Tears mingled with blood and dripped to the floor, filling the gaps made by the carvings with this emotive fluid. And Edward saw it. The final piece of the story.
It showed the man, no longer broken faced, but the perfect visage of Daedalus Devereaux. It was a body with two heads. One head pointed to an office, resplendent and full of opulence from the thick rug before the fire, to the soft furnishings and soft light, the large old wood desk, stacked with wealth from one side to the other. The other head pointed to a faithfully carved representation of the City, birds flying above, people below, some hugging, some holding hands, some kissing. Edward touched the carving reverently. With an other worldly sound of stone against stone, a recess was revealed. Inside was a switch. It was set to a neutral position. To one side it said Life, to the other it said Death. And there it was. The Great Item. It was a decision. The Great Item was a decision.
“You must give it to me!” screamed Daedalus desperately, “It’s mine! I want it! I need it!” He scrambled on the floor like a spoiled child, grasping for the switch.
“I’m sorry, Daedalus,” said Edward River, carefully and with consistency, “But it’s not your decision to make.”
The choice was to serve himself, being Death, or serving the people, being Life. it was such a heavy burden. On one hand, who could say what his eradication would mean? Perhaps the world would renew, glow once again with the beliefs of the Builders, relief to those burdened or suffering. If he lived, would it be any better? Would it just mean the status quo - change never coming from a lack of ambition? But Edward had no ambition, other than to reach this point. At least Daedalus had an ambition, even if at variance with the Builder’s ideals, but what if he himself could change, see the error of his ways and help rebuild the world as it should be? It was not all cut and dried, black and white. There were consequences to every action and the outcome he chose could potentially have diabolical results for the people he professed to love as family.
Certainly, and in the end, remembering was painful, but he knew he had to remember or he would ever be beholden to this world.
All he was left with now was the option to flip the switch. Life - Death.
His decision, he concluded, would come from instinct built from experience, knowledge and commitment, of universal truths and faith that had been given to him by the City itself. They were his family, the family he thought he would never have. With intent, Edward flipped the switch, holding on to that universal truth by which he atoned himself - a little knowledge was a dangerous thing.
And so it was, that the Gasten ascended no more.
END
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