Defenestrate The Masses
Begin The Revolution
Rich spices and colloquial herbs, strong odours, and smells that activated the saliva gland - there was every type of olfactory sense from fresh food to rotting vegetables and lights of many hue to stimulate the eye here. The murmur was different in this part of the City - there were calls of traders and costermongers selling their wares, the metallic clink of cutlery crossing with each other and the general chit chat of a hungry and sated crowd mingled with raucous laughter from the varied bars and clubs. The Food District was awash with colour and sound. It was also saturated with the criminal element, often referred to as the legitimate business of extorted money. Hiding amongst the punters in this area would be child’s play.
The riddle in Conrad Miller’s self explorative journals, along with the drawings, the scribbled text and assorted cuttings that encompassed the Volume, had led Edward River to the heart of the criminal fraternity.
Edward was ever mindful of the creature he had seen at the Hospital, the one who called himself Anathema. He didn’t remember the crux of the battle, having blacked out, but as he found himself back at the Wedge, he assumed he had either been rescued or something happened he was yet to become aware of, but was significantly scrubbed from his memory. He didn’t question it. There was no point. He didn’t yet know who he truly was. He had spend a large proportion of his time surviving, and the effort of examining himself for answers was a waste. He could help people and that was enough for him. Something had changed; something had shifted in his present to motivate his hunt for the Volumes, to reveal the truth, but principally to prevent Devereaux from obtaining the Great Item. He wasn’t sure why, it just rested heavily on his mind that this was important, more important than anything he had done so far, and he had been led by his instinct. He was alive now because of it, so alighted himself of the thought to contradict it.
The riddle had led him only this far, however. The rest would be the task. Where would one find a library here, in this District? The main street - the main thoroughfare - was crammed to breaking point with people, gaining access or exiting the numerous restaurants. Every culture and every dish was represented here in one form or another, from the Noodle Kiosk to the Barbecue Restaurant, the Grilled Bar to the Alfresco Dining. Edward pushed his way through, to varying forms of protest, until he reached the other end of the barrage of eateries. The people began to thin out here, leaving the Grocer, the Butcher, the Confectioner and on to the Baker. Restaurant and Kiosk gave in to the packing and processing sectors, rendered fat and discarded offal now the odour of the day. From eyes that watched for one to enter their establishment, accompanied by a suspicious glare, to the meandering figure of Edward River. He took a right, venturing further into the abyss of industry. Further into this section, offices were hugged by processing plants, snugly nestled from prying eyes. Amongst them was one building that looked marginally different to the others. The brass relief letters above the door indicated a library. Edward strode to the door and opened it.
The place was in darkness, save the strobes of light that illuminated cross sections of the one large room through the windows from the Plants on one side and offices on the other. It was enough to see where to go, and finding the Volume wasn’t difficult. It stood on a lectern unopened, coated in dust as was the rest of the room, a thin film indicating the library had been infrequently visited, the letters, “Mechanic Mouthpiece” were embossed on its surface. It felt too easy. The last time it was a fight. This time it was in and out. Something must be wrong.
The odours in the library changed from must and mould to the bitter smell of burned dust and paper. Edward turned to look at the fire that was now blocking his exit, rapidly running to him through the old paper kindling. It wasn’t coming so fast he couldn’t react, however. Edward jogged to the end of the room, helping himself up on the solid enough bookshelves and forcing a reluctant window open. Volume in hand, Edward jumped from the window to the ground below. He landed hard, knocking the wind out of him. Pulling himself to his feet he turned as to make off, when he cam face to face with the man he had expected to see much earlier.
Anathema stood with his hands in pockets, “I let you off easily last time. This time I have friends.” he said, as teams of men came out of the shadows, backdropped by the slowly burning building, cracking in the slow turning day.
Edward looked for an alternate exit, but Anathema had planned it well. There was only two ways Edward could leave - one by fight, one by death. He braced himself against the onslaught on the loose floor.
“You would be amazed what a little coin would do.” chuckled Anathema.
The ground rumbled and black smoke began to appear. To the casual observer the smoke could be as an aftermath of the fire. However, this one seemed sentient. It enveloped the Volume into its mass, binding it to the body, as more and more smoke spiralled around, engulfing the man underneath. Edward Hybrid seemed to grow in inches, eyes burning into his assailants. But they kept coming. So did the Rook. Then it was on.
It was a melee - a ruck. The black smoke flurried and tattered, a Gaussian blur indicating breathtaking speed of action, but as the Rook threw one man off, like a hydra another two took his place. They kept coming. One blow was exchanged with three more. The smoke tried to keep up, whipping opponents with a flick of the Rook’s wings. The Rook wasn’t a person, wasn’t a hybrid, wasn’t a phantom; the Rook was instinct, trying to survive. They were still coming, dancing on the bodies of their comrades to take out this scourge of criminality. Too many of their number had been taken down by the Rook, and this was the opportunity they had been waiting for, incentive coming from the voice and pocket of a respected criminal, Anathema. They were rabid dogs, bent on their prey, who was being bombarded, covered in blows. Anathema moved to the pile of action, his tranquilliser gun in hand looking for an opening to put it to the Rook. He could hear a low dark rumble, building in intensity. Like a volcanic eruption, the top most bodies were expelled from the core, thrown clear as the smoke danced and raged in the open space once occupied. Anathema jumped back more in shock than punishment. He dropped the tranquilliser gun as he was swept along in the melee. When sense returned to the scene, the Rook was gone.
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