Defenestrate The Masses
The Day Was Good…
The day was good; the Gasten were rising and the Prefects danced and sang amongst the fading stars in the Phantasma.
Edward River found himself on the outskirts of the City Hospital, surrounded by Proctors of all three caste and strings of medusozoa roaming alone on a designated and predetermined path. There was nothing out of the ordinary and he had wandered these paths many times before, ventured past the lines into the Hospital on his scavenging hunts. This time it felt different. He wasn’t quite sure why, but Edward could feel the hackles rise the longer he exposed himself to the Proctors. He wasn’t scared of them, per se. It was something else, much like he was being watched as he himself watched the soldiers of the City in their morale depleting lines, ready for something that never came. An army without an enemy. But surely there was an enemy these days. They called him the Rook. Edward didn’t need heroes. He needed opportunities. He certainly didn’t need a scratch on his confidence, coming from the distinct feeling of being observed. He had a well trod path he would take to gain entrance to the Hospital basement. From there it would be a combination of luck and bravado. And an abundance of confidence.
It was as it always was; the basement was empty. Bare walls, bare pipes and the odour of waste permeated the air. No one wanted to be where the bodies were. Especially not the dead who resided here. Edward carefully made his way to the stairs that led to the ground floor. Taking precautions, Edward opened one of the swing doors enough to ascertain the lay of the land. It was a busy day. Proctor mixed with Doctor, who mixed with Nurse. The walking wounded made up the predominant genus. There was no other option open to Edward. He judged his entrance into the corridor with as little fuss as he could muster. He had become astoundingly good at blending in; mimicking whatever cluster of people he tagged along with, able to swap to a more convenient group with barely a notice. As he slid and glided along with his cover, making for the next set of stairs leading to the floor above, he felt that stare penetrate the back of his head. He allowed himself a swift look backwards and locked eyes with his predator. It was difficult to make anything else out in the fraction of time Edward allowed himself the glance, but the figure in the shadows did a passable job of filling out the available space around him. Edward could give it no further mind. He had reached the stairs.
“Don’t I know you?” All other thoughts vanished. Edward turned slowly to face the deliverer of his fate. It was a Proctor, one Edward had noticed once in the prison, on a different section to his, but Edward had taken the time to register the faces of all his oppressors.
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure? I rarely forget a face.”
“I suppose I have one of those faces.” tried Edward.
“It’s difficult to forget a man with so many facial scars.” glared the Proctor, affronted at the suggestion he was incorrect.
“Perhaps you’ve seen me about the Hospital?”
“Right. And how?”
“I was brought in from the Ridge. Back when that building collapsed.” Edward remembered this vividly. He had been close as the decay had finally eaten into the building struts and the whole thing fell down. It was happening increasingly in the City, where the buildings were showing age and decay. Once built they were forgotten, like the people who inhabited them. Edward had led some willing recruits from the Wedge in the search operation. The devastation was horrific. The bodies were battered, bashed and broken, bloodied and in bits. They saved all they could, having to transport the wounded by different and ingenious methods to the gates of the Hospital, leaving them for the Proctors beyond. Eventually the wounded and dying were brought in, but not until a shift change of the Proctors. And a gear change for Edward. From that time on he resolved to make things better. Better for all. Even those in power.
The Proctor before Edward appeared glassy eyed for a second, obviously recalling some aspects of that day himself. He coughed throatily, clearing the water-eyed memory from his mind, “I see.”
“I’m back to see a friend and get a check up. Doctor Gunt. My friends name is Rob Vell.” Edward remembered the Doctor’s name from one of his hunts, a philanderer and corrupt lazy physician. Edward knew at some time the name would come in handy, as to check up on this Doctor was virtually impossible. The patient’s name came from one of the people he had tried to help. Rob Vell had fallen three floors and was pinned beneath one of his walls. His legs had been taken by the impact, one arm and most of his body trapped beneath the wall. Edward River had knelt beside the dying man, his comfort in his last moments and the recorder of the life and passing of him. Edward felt it was the least he could do, ever aware the rest of that floor could fall at any moment. But he had decided; no man should ever be forced to die alone. No life should go unrecorded - and now Rob had been a friend once again, giving him value. The Proctor waved him on.
The next floor was almost empty, but those who inhabited the corridor and the annexed rooms payed him only passing attention. The next floor would be his goal. On that floor was the Hospital’s Library. This was where Conrad Miller’s words and symbols had led him. In there would be the next volume, Edward was sure.
As Edward reached the door, he sensed he was being followed. It felt the same as i it had outside, where he was sure he was being observed, and how the figure with the eyes at the end of the corridor had filled his space. It now felt similar, if not the same. Edward deposited himself in a dark office, opposite the door to the Library. He kept the door open only enough to see a small area just outside in the corridor. He had to know who it was and if they meant him harm.
Them there he was, the dark man, the hooded man, the footsteps in the hall, the one who stalks, waiting for his moment. Edward watched as the man entered the Library, then followed as quietly as he was able.
Once inside, Edward could neither see nor hear the one who had entered. Shelves sank and bowed precariously from the many medical texts they begrudgingly held on their thin planked wood held by strained screws puckering the masonry around them, threatening to overturn their burden. Even so, nothing had been disturbed. Edward ventured further into the paper jungle.
An area only marginally different from the previous dozen showed signs of disturbance. Medical books were strewn carelessly, bending and cracking their spines, paper fanned out from folders that had been torn from their cardboard captors. Even through the destruction and detritus, Edward could tell something was missing from the shelf that usually housed it. He turned to investigate the immediate area, but was taken from his feet, knocked down to the floor by the man Edward had seen entering the Library before him. The man held in his large hand the oversized Volume of the hunt. He stared down at Edward and spat out his words, “Daedalus Devereaux reminds you, it is better to work with him than against him.”
Edward River pulled himself to his feet, where he felt a familiar rumble below him, rising, engulfing him in a dark viscous mist with searching tendrils of smoke. As he was being taken over, Edward Hybrid took a swing at the man before him, crashing him through several shelves, obliterating them in a flash shower of paper and wood. The man rose to a crouch, his haunches stretching the fabric of his skin. As he prepared himself to charge, he screamed a war cry, “I am your Anathema!”
The charge took Edward Hybrid off his feet once more, but the power of the thrust careered both him and Anathema out of the window. By the time they landed, the Rook was complete, however Anathema regained his mobility first. Mindful of his orders, he pulled from a hidden pocket a gas powered tranquilliser gun, no larger than a handgun. He fired at the prone and seemingly unconscious form of the Rook. As the trigger clicked, there was a flurry of black mist, dissipating to show no sign of the figure it had obscured. Anathema turned to see the majestic hovering figure of the frayed winged creature known as the Rook bearing down on him. He tried to fire off another pellet, but a flurry of smoke was all that greeted it. The Rook swooped down and took the Volume from Anathema’s lacklustre grip.
Proctors had rapidly become aware of the situation, their attention drawn from the bodies that had come crashing through the window above them, scattering its tiny needle sharp glass amongst the ranks, leaving much consternation and a little bleeding. They saw two figures - one they didn’t know. The other was the scourge of the City. So they made for the Rook, who was forced to leave its conquest and defend itself. Anathema slipped away, leaving the Rook with the Volume. It was too risky to stay. He would be ready for the Rook the next time. He would not be embarrassed like this again. He slunk off to lick his wounds. The Rook, on the other hand, was left with more Proctors than it could handle. Instinct was what drove the Rook, so instinct took it flying into the sky, lost quickly in the clouds above. The golden words upon the book glistened in the unpolluted light; ‘Begin the Revolution’.
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