11/25/2012

Much time has passed since last we met, my treasured audience. Much has changed, yet much remains the same. The world, it seems, has moved on. Thus, I have moved on as well. That which once defined and shaped my world has been rent asunder. Those infallible social contracts have been defiled. This world is no longer as I once knew it. Perhaps it has always been this way, and I was merely too blinded and beguiled by fanciful tricks to realize it. Whatever the case, the curtain has been parted. On this stage, we set our scene.
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The world is no longer how I remember it in the days of my youth. Those quiet townships and villages have been replaced with sprawling cityscapes, towering into the heavens and spouting geysers of steam, smoke, and more disturbing things. How long this change took to occur I cannot say. My perception of time is skewed these days. In any regards, some significant span of time has passed, yet I seem none the worse for wear, physically that is.

None too surprisingly, as much as some things change, many stay the same. There are always people willing to flow along with the tide of society, and those that feel the urge to fight the current. Your humble narrator falls into that latter distinction. There is always that need to exist separate from society as a whole, to stand outside the fire, looking in.

This might explain the current scenario. I was riding the red eye express train out to Frontage Way. The rumbling, smoke belching behemoth was nearly empty at this wee hour, which was always good for me. The time was ripe to make a statement. Oh and what a statement it would be. I am unsure as to why I had waited so long to lash out. Perhaps I had been afraid? Hiding away in my gilded cage, licking my wounds. No matter, the time for action was upon us.

As the train slowed to a stop at the station with a great squealing of brakes and hissing of steam, the doors rolled open. I took a moment to savor the acrid wind that rolled in. It smelled heavily of smoke, sulfur, mildew, and other less savory aromas. Hefting my satchel, I exited, trying to muffle the clanking of my “equipment” within the leather bag. I then dutifully waited for the train to begin its long trek back before I exited the platform. While this section of town was near deserted at this time, discretion is always the better part of valor.

With the train shrinking into the distance, I began my trek. Quickly I donned my gloves, which had been coated with a flexible rubberizing agent. Stains are so difficult to get out of leather, that's a mistake not to be made again. Spying my target ahead, I quickened my pace and flipped up the high collar on my overcoat.

The wrought iron fence, once so majestic and strong, had certainly seen better days. Much like a certain protagonist. Many of the bars had been wrenched out of place, sticking out at all angles, leaving large ragged gaps. I have always wondered exactly how the damage was done, as surely no plain man would be able to deform the forged metal. Perhaps some manner of mechanization was used, but then who would really want to lug a hydraulic ram all the way out here? Ah well, one of those oddities of the city. One must expect all manner of things these days.

I stepped gingerly through one of those gaping maws, being careful to not get snagged on the rusted and pitted barbs jutting about. A quick check of the pocket watch showed that I was running slightly behind on my timetable. Scolding both myself and the ponderous public transport, I picked up the pace while keeping a keen ear out. On a clear night such as this, noise could carry for blocks. A hindrance and a blessing I feel. Nothing can be just one or the other. No black or white, all shades of gray dear reader, shades of gray indeed.

My destination reached, I prepared for the final assault. The satchel got rotated around to rest against my back, and the bottom few buttons of the coat got loosened. One must always have freedom of movement for episodes like this, even at the expense of thermal efficiency. Only at this point did I extract the mask from one of the outer pockets of my coat. Slipping the apparatus over my mouth and nose, I cinched the leather straps tight around my neck and head. The first few breaths taken through this necessary encumbrance always tasted slightly bitter, an unfortunate byproduct of the filtration. I then rolled my shoulders and stretched my fingers, and gripped the cool drain pipe that ran the height of this old tenement. Wrapping my fingers around the solid conduit, I planted my right boot against the rough-hewn brickwork. With a sharp exhale and a firm push from that leg I lifted off the ground and pressed my left foot on the opposing side of the pipe. After a short pause to let the old joints adjust to the weight, I began to scamper up the pipe, alternating hand over hand. My pace quickened the higher I scaled as I got lost in the rhythm of it.

The trick in these things was to not think about the altitude until you are past the limits of safety. The biggest concern, at least for myself, is being crippled or maimed. Once you reach far enough up, any fall is a guaranteed trip to the morgue. That's not so bad, death is...strangely liberating I feel. But again I ramble, and that is yet another tale, for yet another day.

Once the predetermined level was attained, I ceased my ascent. Slowly and carefully, I eased from the pipe to the decorative molding that circumscribed the structure. Testing the footing while still clinging firmly to my lifeline, I assured myself that it was more than sturdy enough for one of my build and stature. I strode confidently along its length to a spot that overlooked the thoroughfare. Now, time to work. Kneeling next to a darkened window, I unbuckled my haversack and began arraying my assorted implements on the stone blocks.

Carefully sorting through the required effects, I made sure everything was ready and intact. There were the blown glass bulbs with threaded tips, full of various pigments, the threaded cylinders of compressed gas (hydrogen was the current favorite, even though it was a bit…touchy), and last, but oh so surely not least, the gun itself. This, like the rest of my paraphernalia, was entirely handmade by yours truly. Such a wondrous piece of kit if I may be braggadocios for a moment. Which I may. As I spun the hydrogen cylinder into the receptacle on the base of the gun, I heard a faint noise. The escaping gas seemed to be much more high pitched than usual. Disconcerting.

Pausing to listen again, it was blatantly apparent that the noise came not from the seal, but from much farther off. An odd whirring, whining, crackling noise was growing louder, yet more discordant. Gripping the cold lip of my station, I craned outward, searching for the point of origin. At that point I noticed an odd flickering glow emanating from one of the large storm drain outfalls. At that instant a ball seeming to consist entirely of crackling lightning burst from the pipe and skipped across the pavement, blasting sparks high into the air.

Following it out of the drain, albeit at a more modest speed, were a pair of gyrocars with flashing lights. Bollocks, the rozzers. I glanced back to the ball lighting, and saw it crumple against the base of my perch. At that point I could see that it was not lightning, but was in fact some manner of spherical cage. Begrudgingly, I began filing my kit back away. While I was confident I had not been noticed, it was plain to see that my moment to strike had been spoiled. Bollocks indeed.

Peering over the lip, I saw the pursuers form up around the wreckage. As they disembarked their vehicles, I saw some manner of portal begin to open on the sphere. Amidst an overabundance of shouting and general ruckus, the constabulary drew all manner of firearm and honed in on the emerging figure. The pilot was definitely not what I expected. He appeared to be a rather slight man, dressed very somberly, even for this city.

He stumbled to the ground, quite literally shaking, which drew no shortage of jeers from his opponents. As he backed towards the wall the police holstered their pistols and drew truncheons, closing in around him. At this point a quite precarious vantage point was required to observe the unfolding scenario far below me. I lay flat on the frigid stonework, craning my head over the precipice. Discretion was hardly needed at this point, as I was but a humble audience to this play. If one focused hard enough, one would almost imagine you could smell the bitter stink of the sweat on the prey. I half feared he might soil himself as the swarm pressed in nearer.

I watched the poor man seemingly appear to try to hide within his heavy greatcoat, burying his hands in the pockets. At that point something happened. I fear I cannot be more specific at this point in time. A nigh-imperceptible change came over our dear star. He seemed to freeze mid step, like when one of those new film projectors stuttered, leaving one frame on screen for just a fraction of a second too long. He then began breathing again and continued his step backwards. The quivering stopped, although the hunched, cowering posture remained. He rolled his shoulders ever so slightly and edged his worn shoes a touch farther apart. This was quite the unique one.

As the lead lawman reached towards him, the frail man lashed out violently, driving the toe of one foot deep into the uniformed man's midriff. As the man began to buckle, our mystery man snatched his foe's neck, yanking downwards, snapping his knee against the bridge of the other man's nose. This all happened as one explosion of energy. For once in my life I sided with the establishment, all of us flabbergasted. Flummoxed even.

Dropping the limp form, the shrouded man lifted the abandoned nightstick and squared up again, brushing some dust off of his trousers. I propped my chin on my knuckles, simply enamored by this remarkable young man. Seeing his opponents were still dumbstruck, he exploited the situation. He launched his new found weapon in a wide arc, sending it sailing into the throat of a man off to his far right. Rushing towards the figure hot on the tail of his missile, he crashed into the gasping man, sending both tumbling to the ground in a heap. There was a sound reminiscent of my old hunting rifle, and suddenly he stood, back to the wall again, holding two mildly soiled clubs and sidestepping the growing pool on the uneven ground.

At this point his assailants rushed forward as a panicked mob. The small man became a blur, a whirling dervish, notable for his utter silence still. Amidst the cries and shouts of battle, one could hear a continuous stream of harsh impacts. It seemed to me, one no stranger to violence, that our star was not relishing the combat, as did poor, simple, terrifying Lucias. Neither was he fearful in any physically discernible sense. Each move seemed as precise and calculated as clockwork, no wasted energy or motion. Action, then reaction. How riveting.

In the briefest of moments, he stood alone amidst the destruction he had wrought. I watched him carefully as he slowly rotated his head, examining his downed foes. Very delicately he laid down his pilfered weapons and began carefully cleaning his hands, using the garment of a fallen man. Sufficiently immaculate, he rose again and began to stroll away from the scene. I do believe at this point there was another of those curious stuttering pauses of his, and then he continued on his trek. What a queer fellow. One with his abilities might serve some small use to me. He was not the strongest, but he certainly seemed driven, which can sometimes substitute for sheer brawn.

With the intention of shadowing this man, I made a final check to ensure that my possessions were secure, and slipped my satchel back over my shoulder. Laying on the cold stonework for that extended period of time had left a quite distasteful crick in my neck and shoulder. I was no longer the young man I once was. A respite in the bath was definitely on the schedule then. A small consolation for failing in my objective this evening.

Removing and storing away my respirator, I quickly made my way back along the ledge. It was highly imperative that I kept on my quarry's trail. These old streets were quite the labyrinth, and it was far too easy to vanish in an instance. Normally this was advantageous, as I was the pursued, but I found it quite vexing now that I was the pursuer.

I then gripped the pipe again, and stepped off of my perch and plummeted to the Earth below. Well, “plummeted” might have been a slightly melodramatic choice of words. My humblest and sincerest apologies, dear audience. It was more of a…moderately controlled sliding. The key was to grip tight enough to slow yourself, but not tight enough to stop. A few meters above the pavement I tightened my grip, slowing myself even further, and then dropped the rest of the way to the tainted ground. My poor gloves would never be the same after this. Apparently a trip uptown to Horatio's would be required for a replacement pair.

Thus began the curious trek through the twisted warrens. I could not fathom where our dear boy was leading me. He seemed to be making his way away from the railways. Curiouser and curiouser. The pace was increasing as well, not a jog yet, but definitely brisk. I did not worry too much about being noticed, he seemed rather single-minded in his task. Plus, I have always had a knack for not being noticed. It's not a talent for blatant sneakery, although that exists too, more it's just sort of blending in.

As we trudged on, a most curious thing began to occur. There seemed to be a steady sound just vaguely out of perception, more of a feeling than any audible noise. It was as if the air we were breathing was trembling ever so slightly. This was most definitely an unprecedented event. How glorious. Unique events were so few and far between these days.

That singularly pungent aroma of mildew and decomposition let me know that in some fashion we had moved closer to the river than originally thought. There was nothing of note within this region, that I felt well assured of, yet still my guide strode on. With each block and twist and turn, the queer trembling increased, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. Most intriguing. As I rounded the next bend, I froze in shock. My prey had evaporated. The street was far too long for him to have reached another intersection before I appeared, and the cobblestone road and high stone walls would have easily echoed any running footsteps. No, a much less obvious route must have been taken.

I began to quickly assess and dismiss the options. Had he entered the old brick factory to the right? No, the door was heavily barricaded. To the left was an unbroken retaining wall too smooth to climb without gear, that was out as well. Had he taken the route more akin to my aptitudes, and climbed one of the gutters? No, that would have left him still in my sight. So if he had not gone straight, left, right, or up, deduction left only one ringing possibility. But where was the route?

The faint sound of falling water clued me to the general direction. A small sinkhole had opened up at the mouth of one of the storm drains along the East curb, and beckoned menacingly. The prospect of plunging into an unknown tunnel system populated by an unknown number of adversaries was less than endearing. Best get on with it then. “Fortune favors the bold”, as they say. Hopefully I would not be favored with a round to the base of the skull.

As I approached the depression and knelt down the peculiar vibration that I had been noticing took on an audible quality. A rumbling, thrumming cacophony could be heard echoing up through the tunnels and pipes. Might this be the focus of our young man's perseverance? Peering downward, it appeared to be a drop not much over the height of an average sized man to the path beneath the street. My hand strayed beneath my overcoat, resting against the pommel of my weapon, and then withdrew just as slowly. Best to have both hands free in case any sort of scampering was required.

The time for hesitation had passed. I tucked my shoulders in, and stepped out over the hole. I plunged down the tight gap, landing in a crouch on the damp floor, one hand pressed into the silt to stabilize my landing. My poor gloves...this night was truly taking a wicked toll on them. Quickly I surveyed my new surroundings, dearly hoping no one had gotten the drop on me during my drop. Apologies for the pun dear readers. It shall not happen again. Unless it is a thoroughly witty one.

Up above I could hear the heavens part, and the downpour begin. The small waterfall down the sinkhole began to slowly intensify. The thought of being trapped underground with rising water was less than comforting. I reassured myself by thinking that my prey must surely have an escape route planned. If it could accommodate him, it could surely work for me. Down here below, the clamor was even more intensified. The origin was still indiscernible, due to the myriad of echoes and reverberations due to these narrow confines. Thus, I trudged on.

It became clear at this point that our young hero was not alone, not alone at all. His footsteps in the muck and mire overlaid a multitude of others, still fairly fresh, visible even with the flowing water. This could be quite an event. Best to be cautious. The trail led downward still, crossing passage after passage, each one larger than the prior. It took no great jump of logic to deduce that we were converging on some manner of central line. A grand channel of some nature flowing to the river no doubt.

I stopped in mid-step with a sudden realization. I was grossly ashamed of myself for not noticing it sooner. How dense of me. By all logic, I should be as blind as the proverbial bat down here. There were no overhead drains in this passageway, yet I could see my feet clearly. Splashes of phosphorescent paint of same nature adorned the wall at low level. Even now, this illumination was being slowly rinsed away by the flowing water. I assumed that that this was intentional, that the dye had been placed low enough so that it would be quickly wiped clean, removing all trace of the route. Our mysterious strangers were quite inventive it seemed. How glorious.

So rarely did I get to encounter gentlemen of exceptional intelligence. The change was downright refreshing. Whether these folk would turn out to be friend or foe was momentarily inconsequential, I was merely pleased with the fact that men of their caliber still existed. Not only existed, but were apparently organized. Now lathering some paint on a wall does not make one the next Archimedes, but the foresight that it insinuated was most promising.

While visibility was better than expected, the air quality had begun to deteriorate. This was to be expected, of course, when one practiced subterranean travel. The manner of pollutant was quite unanticipated though. A type of smoke was beginning to infiltrate these narrow warrens. The further I explored, the worse the pollution became, and the louder the disturbance grew. Simple logic deduced that the two were linked. Some manner of great machinery must reside within the tunnels. This thought vexed me. Vexed me horribly it did. For I was unaware of any engineering marvels in this district. I did not like being in the dark to large events such as this.

I was finally forced to don my mask for the second time in an evening. While this was not quite its designated purpose, it was surely more than up to the task of filtering some soot. Once the apparatus was placed on my face, and the leather straps cinched tight around my head, my right hand rose to the small thumbwheel that protruded slightly right along the jawline. I clicked it backwards two notches, feeling the various cogs and springs click and pop within the mask as the filtration elements were cycled through. I did not want to defile the expensive fine filters used for my work when much coarser, affordable ones were more than up to the task of this manner of particulate. Suitably protected, I trudged on.

From the change in the echoes, I could discern that I was very near the main line. From here the machinery seemed to sound like multiple separate devices, rather than one giant motor. Intriguing. I then froze in mid-step. It seemed I had caught up to my quarry. He stood not ten yards before me, talking excitedly with a trio of queerly dressed men. Their attire was hardly befitting a semi-public outing such as this. They all wore varying types of goggles and masks, some of them being types I had yet to encounter. This was not uncommon, and could even be considered quite prudent under the current circumstances. Our dear hero wore such a respirator. It was a snug-fitting metal contraption, with a row of brass portholes along both sides of the nose. On each cheek was a glass bubble containing some manner of burbling liquid. Green in the left cheek, blue in the right. What a marvelous device. I made a note to attempt to examine the construction at a latter date.

One of the men he spoke to had a most bizarre choice of hairstyles. His shoulder length mane was plastered against his skull with some manner of grease or oil. One of his compatriots was shorn smooth as a billiard ball, while the other wore some manner of leather skullcap. All three wore form-fitting leather coats with high collars, although the style of each varied somewhat. The gentleman in the cap, for instance, had a jacket with leather and brass shoulder pads. In stark contrast, the bald man's coat seemed to be of a very thin and fine leather with an utter paucity of add-ons or adornments. All three men also wore very heavy-duty boots of a type I was not aware of. The footwear was ankle high thick leather, with what I assumed to be vulcanized rubber soles. They also had brass toe caps, and more metal plating along the outside of the foot. What manner of men were these?

While I tried desperately to surreptitiously listen in on the conference, my attempts could hardly be called successful. In my defense, the odds were stacked against me. The roar of machinery was louder than ever in here, plus all four gentlemen were speaking through masks, which have a dastardly habit of muddling enunciation. While picking out every word was an exercise in futility, I could snatch a snippet there and again. From what I could piece together the drab fellow had been scouting for...something, and had then had his scuffle. He then returned hear posthaste to inform his comrades of the events transpired. I inferred that he believed the encounter with the fine boys in black to be at an end for the evening. I was less convinced. Many a night had shown me that those men were quite tenacious, and did not take a trouncing lightly. They had a long memory, and a longer reach. No, these subterranean fellows had almost certainly not seen the last of them.

I was surveying the scene, attempting to contrive a plan of action, when suddenly the path was laid out for me. My reverie was broken by an unmistakable sound: that of the hammer being thumbed back on a Thruxton Repeating Rifle. Oh bountiful fate, my night was salvaged after all. Only one organization carried such a weapon. It seemed I was not the only one to trail our dear boy. The point man could barely be glimpsed in the darkness back behind the quarreling quartet, taking his time drawing a bead on the fellow I had followed here. At that moment, a vile and venomous rage swam up from the depths of my soul. Unflinching and unyielding self-control had kept me alive and sane these long years, but the sight of that uniform and that weapon turned me into quite the unstable creature for a moment. Control was reestablished soon, but by that point I was rushing forwards in a half-crouch, my gauss pistol already unholstered and held at my side.

Needless to say, my new found associates were less than enamored at my approach. They all turned to me, and began scrambling to ready armaments against me. I ignored this fumbling, having eyes only for the somber man in the center. Once I had closed the gap I reached upwards, snatching the young man roughly by the collar of his overcoat and yanking him to his knees. As he fell my right hand rose, snapping off a trio of shots. The faint clicks of the fine weapon were deafened by the shouting around me, but my eyes could easily track the missiles. Un: lower abdominal region. Deux: center mass, sternum. Trois: upper right cheek. The uniformed man buckled and drooped to the gritty floor, and then the floodgates opened.

The tunnels across the chamber from me vomited forth a wretched rush of uniforms and weapons. In the brief pause that occurred as each side attempted to discern what exactly was occurring, I offered a helpful suggestion to the leather-clad men clustered around me. “It would behoove you gentlemen to vacate the premises promptly. It might get loud.” They hauled their confused compatriot to his feet, all the while keeping their wicked little pistols steady on the mob ahead of us. I calmly stowed my pistol again and unfastened the remaining buttons on my coat. Straightening my cravat as I loosened my shoulders, I bid my colleagues adieu.

At that sound they released a furious volley of fire downrange, and immediately dashed deeper down the tunnel into the smoke. I was hot on the tail of the assault. Even as the constables were reeling and attempting to return fire on their fleeing attackers I was closing on them. My thumbs dipped inside the wide cuffs of my jacket, gripping the metal rings protruding there. Increasing the tension on them, I felt the coiled springs violently retract as the rings pulled the retaining clips out. That was the clue to pull my fingers back as far as possible, to prevent losing a digit. The springs propelled a very slim blade from each sleeve, and I snatched them tight. Such beautiful little pieces, all brushed steel and mother of pearl. The hilt of each stiletto housed a snub-nosed revolver that was sighted along the blade. The small rifled barrel did not provide much range, but could be quite effective in melee combat.

The front few officers were just beginning to turn towards me as I reached them. Hurried recalculating on my part devised new tactics. Left hand thrust to throat of subject A, carotid artery punctured. Pivot ninety degrees right. Fire one round from right pistol to temple of subject B, skull crumpled. Two steps forward. Parry subject C's rifle with right hand, perforate femoral artery with left hand. Buckle knees, retreat one yard via backwards somersault.

Catching a quick breath, I could ascertain that these odds were nigh impossible to overcome in this particular scenario. A solution would have to wait, these rude gentleman were interrupting my reverie. Back to work. Half-step forwards, drop to crouch to avoid gunfire overhead. Lunge forwards , strike upwards at brachial arteries of subjects D and F. Subject E, in the middle, received a headbutt to the solar plexus, and then a puncture to each kidney. In the split-second of stillness, which was annoyingly disturbed by some ignorable gurgling and wheezing, a great screaming wail could be heard streaking our direction from farther down the pipe.

My peripheral vision was called into action for this, as I could not remove my eyes from my adversaries, even for a moment. I could glimpse a great smoking missile rocketing towards our altercation. My antagonists were rather lacking in the discipline department, as nearly all of them turned towards the sound. It would have been foolhardy for me to ignore such a bountiful opportunity. As I began rapidly dispatching targets, I finally took notice of the sorry state of my ensemble. The combination of brick dust, sewer grime, and arterial spray had taken a dreadful toll indeed. I had most certainly not dressed for a rambunctious evening.

A deafening noise more akin to a thunderclap than anything else rocked me from my stance. The resulting wave felt like the blow of a maul to my chest, and sent my ears ringing and stomach churning. Even as the echoes were reverberating all around, a second and then third blast went off. Once I had regained a degree of equilibrium and remembered how my eyes worked, I saw that nearly all of the jackbooted thugs lay sprawled about, some of them missing rather integral body parts.

A great screeching scream approached from the right, and I was spattered from the waist down with all manner of muck and mire. Horatio was certainly going to be able to open a whole new wing of his establishment. A turn to the rude interloper produced quite an odd image. Our drab little protagonist from earlier sat astride a great steaming, smoking, two wheeled monstrosity. He also happened to be resting a rather unsavory four barreled scattergun across the pommel of his saddle. He looked worse for the wear since our previous encounter. His overcoat had disappeared and his pallid face was streaked in soot. “Oy, yobbo! On the sodding bike, now!” The voice was muffled moderately by the mask, but it was obviously a bit panicked. That was something I had not expected.

Breaking open the weapon, he thumbed in new shells as I stowed my own implements. The firearm got stored in a sheath along the front suspension of the smoking beast. I had scarcely settled my derriere onto the saddle when we roared off in a cloud of steam and smoke, the tail end wagging about on the slick stone in a most disquieting manner.

This raucous contraption was blatantly built utterly without compromise. I had never ridden a more uncomfortable vehicle. That being said, I am unsure as to whether I had ever ridden a faster one either. The small boiler in the middle of the cycle radiated truly epic amounts of heat. The rushing wind and splashing water cut down on this slightly, but not enough to matter. The only thing worse than the heat was the sheer noise and vibration. The turbine beneath my seat screamed as a tortured soul escaping from Old Scratch himself. Every creature comfort had been sacrificed in the name of sheer acceleration. The leather saddle was the only nod to ergonomics, and that was too little and too late.

As we entered the swirling cloud of smoke and added our own plumes to the mix, we encountered dozens more leather-clad riders. These brave and reckless gentlemen were scattering in all directions, shooting down unlit passageways at mind-bending velocities. A few of the interlopers had commandeered fallen machines and were roaring off in pursuit. My host slowed somewhat, reconnoitering. A veritable free for all was occurring in the middle of the chamber. Black clad officers clashed with greasy subterranean daredevils. We wove through this fracas, occasionally clipping foes where applicable. Apparently a few hundred pounds of smoking, shaking machinery can be an improvised melee weapon, provided one has the necessary equilibrium.

Emerging from the melee, we began to gradually increase our speed. Visibility was drastically limited due to the fumes, but the splattering of more luminescent paint allowed a degree of navigation. The cacophony of the machinery was not quieting, as was expected. This was most disconcerting, and could only mean one thing: we had guests. A quick glance to our stern confirmed this. A phalanx of constables astride pilfered vehicles was closing rapidly. When I informed my host of these developments, he took the appropriate action. That is to say, he pushed the throttle level forwards with his thumb and the boiler between our thighs roared in response. The sudden acceleration caused our rear wheel to bark in protest, stepping out of line for a moment. The velocity and racket both increased exponentially.

Simply outrunning our pursuers had a dismal probability of success. They had comparable machines, and none of them was burdened by the excess ballast of a passenger. Out maneuvering them or besting them in combat were the only options, and I was unsure how much more prolonged battle I could sustain at this point. I could merely hope that my pilot was as wily as he was intriguing.

We began edging closer and closer to the right hand wall. I drew my elbows in close as to not snag one of the dripping bricks. The mortar in this section was in dismal repair, and many pieces jutted out into the passageway. Our unfortunate power to weight ratio was already beginning to hamper us, as our lead was diminishing. Abruptly my pilot backed the throttle way down and leaned us hard to the left. The footpeg under my left heel sparked violently off the rough floor as we peeled off on a sweeping bend towards the far wall. Both tires shrieked as we fought to maintain our aggressive angle of attack. The uneven stonework of the tunnel caused the screaming to take on a vibrato quality. The smoking monstrosity slid and skipped across the damp and filthy floor as my guide sought to keep his aim true on the target ahead. The target in question was a disturbingly narrow side corridor.

Once we were nearly aligned, the throttle was reapplied, and we returned to the vertical plane. At this point he brusquely booted a lever mounted on the forward frame of the machine. This dropped an amalgamation of lenses, prisms, and mirrors in front of one of the portholes of the boiler. This wrought-iron encased piece bathed the space before us in a flickering glow. It was far from daylight, but more than adequate for our purposes. We tore down the paved channel with nary a foot to spare off either side. The heat and noise, which had previously been quite bothersome, had now elevated themselves to being downright excruciating. This was surely a punishment for some transgression. Which one of them, I was uncertain, but it must have been something quite dastardly. To my associate's credit, he soldiered on. I could merely cling tight, and hope for open spaces. The amplified vibrations were beginning to cause a most unpleasant churning of my bowels. This was why I attempted to avoid those raucous establishments such as the Foundry. Repetitive amplified vibrations did disagreeable things to my biorhythms.

Soon, but not soon enough mind you, we decelerated, and my senses attempted to reassert themselves. I saw that we had reached a dead end. Oh no. This would not do, not at all. While the small opening would force our enemies to come single file, we would eventually fall. I had no desire to recreate Thermopylae, I was well aware of how that had panned out. Resting a hand on the pommel of my pistol, I kept a keen eye turned rearwards. As the pursuing force grew ever louder my pilot began slowly rotating us by means of much feet shuffling and occasional bursts of tire smoking throttle.

Apparently I had not noticed the low opening at the end of the passage on the right-hand wall. As I rose up to peer over the shoulder of my rescuer I discovered a most unsettling sight. We sat perched at the top of a very narrow stairwell carved into the stone itself. The steps were dripping with groundwater, and worn from thousands of footsteps. At the base of the sharp decline a faint electric flickering could be glimpsed. Negotiating that descent on foot would be a moderately tricky proposition but riding down them was daring to the point of recklessness. I attempted to convince him of the folly of this strategy, but he would have none of it.

His right hand drifted from the controls to rest upon his left forearm, and there he manipulated some unseen device that lay beneath his sleeve. At that point his eyes rolled backwards in his head, revealing only the bloodshot whites. So he sat for a few brief moments, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Then, as suddenly as it began, he rejoined us. His eyes snapped back down, locking onto mine. The irises had nearly disappeared within his widely dilated pupils. He tossed a mildly unstable grin my direction as he opened the throttle wide.

We leapt out into the dark stairwell in a burst of smoke, steam, and shredded rubber. I do believe we managed to entirely miss the first few steps, as it was painfully obvious at which point we landed. I do also believe that at no point in the descent did we have greater than twenty percent traction. The journey was more of a quasi-controlled slide than actually driving. We were constantly slipping to one side or the other, but he powered through, counter-steering into each skid. Each of these flicks caused our stern to careen off of the slick walls, adding showers of sparks to the madness. The suspension was also woefully inadequate for dealing with punishment of this magnitude. The machine bucked and leapt like an untamed beast. Still we accelerated, moving ever forwards, ever downwards.

Suddenly we leveled out. This respite was short-lived however. After a few scant yards of open and level platform, the floor beneath us vanished and we dropped downwards with a sickening lurch. The fall was brief, only a few feet. Once I had gathered my wits, I noticed we had somehow managed to enter the metro tunnels. Our meager light did little to illuminate this vast cavern, but it was of no concern. These deep trains did not operate on steam, as the ventilation for such machinery was inconvenient (as I had seen proven by my encounter with the leather-clad miscreants). No, these trains operated solely on electric motors. The entire system had recently been redesigned by the finest minds from the university. We sat astride the median running between two opposing sets of rails, and down the center of each set of tracks hummed great electric coils, arcing and spitting lightning to the steel tracks.

Opening the taps yet again, we roared off, kicking up a large fan of gravel and mist. Raising his voice above the roaring turbine and the rushing wind, my pilot took the first step, uttering, “you owe me some words, mate”.

“In what sense?” came my reply.

“Cheeky monkey...I mean who the toss are you, and why were you there?”

“Ah, there's the rub. I followed you, sir, because I could use a man of your talents. The name is Fawkes, by the way. Not to be confused with the bushy-tailed canine.”

The conversation would have to be put on hold for a moment, as a great crackling of energy and rattling of steel signified that we were about to be overtaken by one of the great beasts of energy whose home we were invading. As the locomotive passed us, the displaced air jolted us violently, thrusting us towards the other set of rails. My host, capable as ever, corrected for this and we rode on. I briefly made eye contact with a passenger in one of those luxurious compartments, seeing their eyes widen and mouth open. Then they were past. The whole time, buffeted by wind, the energy from beneath the rails arced up into opposing coils on the undercarriage of the cars. Unavoidably, this energy also arced to us, sizzling off of our bike, as well as any other metallic implements we carried. This was a most unpleasant situation. One must grit their teeth and soldier on though, this was not a world for the weak.

Soon I began to feel the faintest wisps of fresh air on my sweat-streaked face. The harsh smell of ozone began to mingle with that of that of the smoke and the mold. Long before the glow began to grow ahead of us, these faint sensations gave me hope. As we rushed towards the horizon I closed my eyes, basking in the smell of fresh air full of rain. I had not realized how much I had missed the open sky during my short foray under the streets. Man was not meant to hide down in the dark. At least, not this man.

I opened up again as we began nearing the end of the tunnel where I could see the night sky, caught in the midst of one of the torrential rainstorms that made this city infamous. The tracks continued on along a steel truss bridge that spanned the river. I was perfectly content to continue riding the median ad infinitum until I noticed that the solid flooring disappeared once the bridge began. It was replaced with just the load-bearing beams. I then asked me yet-to-be-named guide, “think you can manage this?”

“Come now sir, I don't question the way you stab men about the head and shoulders, don't be questioning the way I drive”, came the chuckled reply. With that he guided us up onto one of the rails, and thusly balanced, we roared out onto the bridge.

I began to look about, trying to pinpoint our location, as the romp through the tunnels had seriously disoriented me. Looking up I saw the towering spire of the university ahead of us, stretching to the heavens. Repeated bolts of lightning struck the tower and coursed down its frame. I also noticed that the captains had been wise enough to dock their airships on some of the lower decks, as to minimize their chances of suffering an errant shock themselves.

Under this dramatic flashing light and the cleansing rain, the city seemed almost beautiful again. It became a mass of glistening surfaces and glimmering lights, a veritable dreamland extolling the possibilities of mankind if we could only properly direct ourselves. I knew that this was only an illusion, but it was a comforting one. Our speed out here was moderately lower than it had been in the tunnel, mayhaps my pilot had some sense of caution after all. A most reassuring notion.

I was enjoying the fresh air and the lashing rain, but I knew it would not last long. This jaunt through the open air was but a brief respite, not our destination. I could already glimpse the yawning mouth of the tunnel ahead of us, its recesses unaffected by the strobes of lightning. Glancing about again I concluded that we had indeed managed to elude our pursuers. This young man was proving himself rather invaluable.

Plunging back into darkness, we left the rail and returned to the graveled median, and rode on through the tunnels. It was apparent that my guide spent no small amount of time in these warrens as he never hesitated to consider directions or to plot a route. Dipping down one tunnel and then another and another, we burrowed farther into the bowels of the city center. In one such passage (I cannot say which one, as they all looked too similar) we leapt over the rails on the left-hand side of the tunnel with a burst of throttle, causing the electricity to arc to the undercarriage of the machine as well as our boots. We rode in this way for a while, cramped between the rushing stone wall and the spitting, crackling rails. Suddenly we banked hard to the left, into the wall. Instead of the harsh impact I braced for, there was merely a rough slap and a sound reminiscent of large bat wings fluttering, and then we were in another tunnel. I whipped around in the seat, and saw large painted leather curtains swaying back into place. A rather inventive way of concealing a tunnel entrance. It surely would not stand up to close inspection, but was adequate for misleading the eye of one viewing from a train or other vehicle. Which was the point surely, not much foot traffic was likely at this location.

This tunnel contained no electrical coils, and was lit solely by our meager, makeshift torch. After a moment, my host throttled down, expelling the excess energy in a billowing, hissing plume of steam. Turbine deactivated, we coasted on quite steadily for some time, slowing gradually. Barely creeping, we rolled up a shallow ramp welded and bolted onto what must have at one point been a station platform. It was now barren save for a woven iron gave covering an alcove at the rear corner. To that we traveled. Once all momentum had been exhausted, we dismounted, and the machine was braced with a stand that deployed from the undercarriage.

“Can you roll the gate up there?” asked my pilot as he set about unfastening his mask.

“Not a problem, sir,” replied I. Trusting in the man's judgment, I began loosening the buckles on my respirator as well as I trotted over to the barrier. I slipped the device off over my head and tucked it back safely within my satchel. All gear properly accounted for, I gripped the rusted portcullis and heaved upwards mightily. This caused me to nearly fall over backwards, as the seemingly decrepit gate lifted quite easily on well-oiled tracks. Yet more misdirection.

A soft chuckling behind me informed me of my guide's amusement. “Careful there old boy, you needn't break a hip on my account.”

Oh yes, this was why I avoided people. I had forgotten. How wonderful of him to remind me.

Humming lightly to himself, my counterpart kicked the stand back into place and began rolling the cycle into the old freight elevator I had opened. After bracing it against one of the walls, he slid the gate back into place and tugged on a worn brass lever protruding from the floor. With that performed, we began rumbling upwards



“Do I earn the honor of receiving your name at this juncture, sir? Or are you going to continue keeping up this “mysterious stranger” farce?” I pointedly asked.

“Fair enough good man, fair enough”, he chuckled. “The name is Geoffry Hawkins, but everyone just calls me Trust.”

“I am sure that is because of your trustworthy and upstanding character, n'est-ce pas?”

“Oh but of course! No, mate, it's short for brain trust. I am a one man walking, talking, building, drinking, theorizing, contradictory and utterly inflammatory brain trust. At your service”, he proffered with a flourish.

At this I took pause. “Ah...so you are quite mad, then?”

“As a bleeding hatter, mate. Come on down the rabbit hole, it's just grand.”

At that point our lift shuddered to a stop and the gate rolled upwards revealing a sprawling workshop that looked as if it had been struck by a mid-grade typhoon. A large prop-shaft ran the length of the chamber, wrapped in multiple places by belts that connected to all manner of machinery. Scattered amongst the metal working devices were all manner of beakers, centrifuges, and great lengths of glass tubing ferrying all manner of fluids hither and thither.

“Come along then”, beckoned my eccentric guide as he wheeled his vehicle out of the lift and towards the rear of the shop. I followed and as we rounded one of the abundant workstations I saw a vast row of similarly designed cycles, along with other more...creative means of conveyance. Backing our battered warhorse into an empty slot against the wall, Hawkins told me to make myself at home. “Tea should be on the boiler, mate”. He then began busying himself at the nearest table, rummaging through racks of vials and test tubes, humming merrily to himself.

Meandering back that direction, I deduced that due to the sheer volume of projects in various stages of completion that our dear host must employ a number of assistants. Seemingly to lend credit to that hypothesis, I spied a folded scrap of paper tucked into the handle of the steaming teapot. Now I respect a man's privacy as much as anyone, but it would be reckless to spend too much time in the lair of an unknown subject. Thus, discreet research was acceptable. Unfolding said document, I prepared to perform a quick skimming of the contents but was halted indeed. The text was in a language I was unfamiliar with, which was a rather unique experience in and of itself.

“What's that then there, eh?” called Hawkins, poking his head under one of the nearby shelves.

“A note of some nature, although I am unclear on the language...so I am not sure of the author or desired recipient.”

Stepping up onto the table, and then over the racks of shelves, he plopped to the ground next to me, scattering a great number of small tools and parts. Peering over my shoulder, he smiled in recognition.

“That's just from Edward, my boarder. He apparently borrowed my Swiss coat, dirty bugger.”

“Ah....and pray tell, what language is this, dear Hawkins?”

“Hawkins....I told you it was Trust you sodding arse...” he muttered to himself, snatching the letter from between my fingers and wandering deeper into the chamber.

“Trust, my dear boy, my deepest and most sincerest of apologies are offered to you, I meant no disrespect.” I can play the game as well as any, you see, my treasured audience. Leaving a distance between us, I followed on. He paused up ahead, glancing backwards. “I would never in my darkest days intentionally cause offense, good sir. My poor addled brain is still quite shaken up from our escapade, which was masterful by the way. The name shall nary cross my lips again.”

“I hate that bleeding name, I didn't pick it. What good is a given name, eh? It says absolutely nothing about the character of a man. Now a name a man grants himself, that speaks words, volumes even. A veritable library of inferences and deductions and conclusions can be drawn off that one thing. Names hold great importance, they are not to be decided upon lightly. Who came up with the idea of naming infants? They haven't developed a name yet. A name shines through like a beacon through the fog, begging to be discovered.”

Suddenly pivoting and leaning in perilously close to me, he squinted, examining me. “You said your name was Fawkes... that's not a name from your parents is it, you little polished poof? I don't trust a man without his own name...” From this distance it was possible to see the quivering bloodshot eyes and the slightly discolored vein peeking above his stained collar. My right thumb gripped the release ring for my blade again as I stared the raving man down.

“Fawkes is the name I call myself, and we are leaving it that. Mind your tongue boy,” I cautioned.

Abruptly his demeanor changed and a look warm compassion flooded his face. “Charlotte my dear, you have the most beautiful eyes,” he cooed.

This abrupt shift was so unexpected I was momentarily speechless. Stammering, all I could eke out was a simple, “Pardon?” I am aware it was hardly a work of oratorical glory, but to be fair, the transition was so unexpected I could not formulate a more dazzling offering. I hope you can forgive me this rare transgression.

“What's that mate?” Trust asked with a confused blink.

“Did...you just call me Charlotte?”

With a hearty guffaw the queer man doubled over into a mad fit of giggles. “Charlotte? Charlotte? You'd make a right ragged minger! What have you been puffin on boyo? Addled brain indeed! Your grey matter has gone all sloppy. Too much time down in the tunnels I bet, the fumes will drive a bugger right mad. You need a proper respirator down there, otherwise you get all muddled and scrambled and twisted and tumbled and turned all sorts of askew. No, no, no, won't do at all.”

Off he wandered again, giggling to himself as he peeled off what revealed itself to be a wig, uncovering a tangled mess of grey and white hair, quite a contrast to his unlined face. The wig got tossed absentmindedly on a workstation, seemingly at random. After a while, I trailed him through the chaotic labyrinth. Plopping himself on a scarred and battered stool, Trust began rolling up the sleeves on his rather ruined shirt. Well, to be fair, it was not exactly the best of garments prior to our debacle. I understood the value of dressing for one's environment, but that was no reason to sacrifice style and dignity. Ah well, not all can be such paragons of fashion as your humble narrator.

Drawing my attention away from the man's sorry state of dress was the apparatus affixed to his left forearm. It was a gauntlet of sorts, carrying a dozen or more vials of differing fluids. A brushed rotary dial sat in the center of the forearm, each point delineated by an alchemical symbol or Greek character. Braided steel cables exited the device and curled up the arm. Some attached to a wicked looking plug that appeared to be surgically grafted to the inner arm, while others snaked farther up under the shirt. The steel plug radiated a rather unsightly bruise, as well as a veritable spiderweb of blue veins. I was at equal parts disturbed by the implant, and impressed by the ingenuity and workmanship.

As he busied himself swapping out depleted tubes of chemicals for full ones, my baffling host turned to me. “Speak your peace quickly there Master Fawkes, time is fleeting. You saved me once, but I have paid that debt. So hawk your wares before you wear your welcome out,” said he, matter-of-factly.

I brushed a small clearing on the adjacent table and seated myself on the edge, taking a deep breath. Exhaling slowly as I pulled my hair back into it's topknot, I paused. I was never very good in situations like these, hard as that may be to believe for one so gifted with a love of words. There is quite a difference between the spoken word and the written, dear reader, as will become most evident. Now speaking to a close confidant is entirely doable, as fancy games are not required. The prior actions one has performed do most of the persuading. In that instance, all one has to do is say the word, and your men will follow you to the ends of the Earth with a song in their hearts and a swagger in their step. This man though...he owed me nothing, and I was at a loss as to how to persuade him.

“Very well Mr. Trust. To put it succinctly, I sought to recruit you for a war.”

“War, eh? I don't know if you've looked about,” as he waved towards the general clutter surrounding us, “but I'm not really a fighter, mate. More of a tinkerer. Plus, who would we wage war against? And for that matter, you don't much look the part of a recruitment officer. And another 'nother thing, since when do those pompous blaggarts recruit anyone? Usually they just recruit with a truncheon and a burlap sack... No I fear you're not quite on the up and up there friend. You best come clean proper quick. We have no tolerance for charlatans around these parts.” This whole torrent of words was proffered with nary a glance in my direction. Keen on his filling of vials and replacement of tubing, Trust's eyes never left the table.

“You are quite correct my good man, I am no simplistic abductor of men. It is against those very thugs and villains that I seek to rage.”

Carefully laying his tools down, the small man turned to me slowly. “Now Master Fawkes...I need to be sure of what you are asking, because this conversation may have vast repercussions for all of us.”

The moment of truth had arrived, as it were. I had lived with this drive in my heart for far too long, and now it was time to throw out the first test-line. “Trust, I am asking you to join me in waging war against the Company.”

“Company? Which company might that be? There's loads of companies about. Hell, I probably own a few myself. Clarity my boy, I want to hear you say exactly what you are thinking.”

Playing the fool he was, although there was no way the man could not grasp my meaning. Uttering my intentions out loud was fully an act of treason. Not that that idea was much of a deterrent these days, as it would not be my first such act, and hopefully far from my last. If the man did indeed attempt to detain me for violating the Acts of Sedition, I could deal with that. While he was indeed sharp, and talented, his probability of besting me in physical combat was severely lacking.

“Fine then. In so many words, I plan to rain fire and destruction upon the East India Trading Company and the puppet government it wields, and to personally put a bullet in the brainpan of the Chancellor himself.”


* * * *
Horatio's Haberdashery and Gentleman's Emporium. A small, difficult to locate establishment, managed by a small, difficult to afford merchant. He would most definitely not be pleased to see me this morning. I let myself in to the store as the sun was just attempting to crest the skyline behind me. I was no doubt his first customer of the day, as he had yet to properly prepare the foyer.

I took a moment to take it all in. This quaint little room was one of my favorite haunts in our fair city. Dear Horatio was a kindred spirit, a man from times nearly forgotten. As such, he eschewed the humming electric lights of current fancy, relying instead on the more soothing gas sconces perched high on the walls. The faint smell of rich tobacco stirred the nostrils, and the swirling carpets compressed pleasantly under the foot.

I could hear light rustling from deeper in the racks, garments being rehung and furniture being dusted. I knew better than to surprise the venerable man, he was rather old, but still quite spry. Clearing my throat, I flicked the bell beside the door with my finger. Standing in the small foyer, I waited, bracing for the chastising I was sure to receive.

A familiar face poked between a rack of woolen overcoats, the old man himself. He appeared the same as always (what I could see of him that was). White hair cropped close to the skull, gleaming spectacles perched high on his nose, and a set of muttonchops that had been known to emasculate many a lesser man. His eyes widened slightly upon seeing me, and he gave a quick glance up and down my bedraggled person, then returned his eyes to my face without a second glance. Ever the professional. Ever discreet.

Extricating himself, he made his way through the racks to join me near the door. Standing beside each other, I was even more embarrassed by my sorry state of dress. Horatio's suit could have been a uniform, so severe was its cut and so fitted was its form. He was not an advocate of filigree or decoration on himself, sticking to solid blacks and grays alone. One must always respect tradition and eternal style.

“Still sticking with the handlebar dear boy?” chided the tailor, glancing at my mustache, which had sadly lost much of its form and luster by this point. “I do so which you would adopt a more appropriate style for a man of your stature. With that mess on your face you're likely to be mistaken for one of those frogs across the Channel.”

This mild bantering was somewhat of a tradition these days. So I played my part thusly, “I have no idea what you mean my good man, I have many a fond memory of that nation, in particular the City of Lights.”

“She did have a husband you know,” he dead-panned.

“Not that I ever met.”

A glimmer of a grin was earned from the shopkeep at this. Our ritual completed, the time had arrived to deal with the matter at hand. He once again flicked his gray eyes up and down my person. Clearing his throat, he instructed me, “Sebastian, my boy, could you please step away from the window? I would hate for some passerby to think I was running some manner of flophouse for derelicts.” Ah yes, so it began.

“Honestly lad, how do you manage to completely and utterly destroy my work in such a short time? I hope no one saw you on your way here, the watch will certainly be beating down my door if they see me pandering to vagabonds.” At this point he paused, leaned in, and sniffed the air faintly. “Furthermore, you reek something foul. I have no idea what manner of scrum you manage to always get yourself into, but this sincerely must stop. A man of your breeding should not be trifling with such altercations.”

“Furthermore”, he continued, “if you simply must resort to fisticuffs, at least be discreet man. It simply does not do to skulk about the alleys like some run of the mill urchin. I understand that at times a man must take action to defend his honor...but not like this boy, not like this.” His granite features softened slightly here. The old man had never been informed of my motives or actions, but he had certainly seen the repercussions on a few occasions.

“Fret not my good man, I shall be paying your exorbitant prices for many a year to come”, I assured him.

“You had better, how else shall I finance the upkeep on the shop? Too many thugs refuse to pay perfectly reasonable prices for fine goods, preferring all these cheap imported textiles instead. Tragedies. Now, get your rancid arse out of my foyer and get to the back and clean yourself up and we can see if we can disguise you as an upstanding member of society for another day.”

I opted to take the advice that was not advice, and shambled towards the rear of the shop. Being careful to not soil any of the goods, I wove my way through the warren of wearables and let myself into the small dressing room behind the counter. Even this diminutive chamber was comfortably furnished with a full-length mirror, a stuffed ebony leather chaise lounge, and a porcelain sink, all trimmed with brass hardware adorned with delicate scrollwork. I knelt upon the gleaming tile floor, grimacing slightly at the multitude of aches that this motion elicited from my joints. Running my finger along the bottom seam of the mirror, I found the covert release latch. At my prodding, the mirror swung out slightly from the oaken wall, unveiling a small hatch. This portal covered a chute that descended to the incinerator of the structure. It always pained me to have to destroy Horatio's work, or the work of any artisan, but these garments were beyond saving. Also, it would not do to have such blatantly suspicious items in the shop.

I unshouldered and rested my satchel on the floor inside the door. The old dear had certainly seen better days, but was still holding strong, and had traveled far and wide with me. The overcoat was the first to go, as it had sustained the brunt of the evening's festivities. The Swiss wool had done a marvelous job of cutting the damp chill from the air though. I would have to request the material again. The remnants of my poor gloves were the next to be sacrificed to the pyre. The holstered dagger pistols were next carefully unbuckled from my forearms. A cursory examination seemed to show they survived with no mechanical faults, but a more thorough check would have to wait. These got laid beside the sink, as I was reluctant to stain the lounge with whatever the leather straps had managed to collect. My pocketwatch and billfold got tucked into the satchel.

I next unbuckled my belt and unthreaded it from my slacks, taking the holstered pistol with it. This was deposited on top of the wrist sheaths. My accessories dealt with, I set about unbuttoning my vest and shirt, tossing aside the cravat as well. I assumed my boots were discolored but relatively intact until I looked them over. The stains would easily buff out, but it seemed the subterranean romp had scuffed and scarred the leather to the point that there was little point in attempting to repair them. It would be easier to merely craft new ones. A sad discovery, as comfortable footwear was a difficult thing to find. Plus they were already broken in and well molded. Sad discovery indeed. My spirits were slightly raised as I did have a decade old pair of Italian loafers waiting at my abode, but new boots would have to wait.

The faucet was then turned on, and I rested against the side of the lounge, listening to the pipes gurgle and rumble within the walls as the piping hot water circulated up from the bowels of the building. When I stepped to the sink to scrub the filth off, I jumped slightly as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The evening had certainly not been kind to me. Your humble narrator has never been exactly corpulent, but I appeared to be even more gaunt than usual. My trousers, formerly so crisply creased, now hung loosely on my hips, revealing the ridges of my pelvis. With each breath it was possible to see the ribbons of musculature ripple beneath my skin, the blue veins shining out in stark contrast to the pale and stained flesh. I had become too focused on waging my futile little war that I had been neglecting those biological necessities that prolonged my existence.

Examining my haggard visage in the mirror, the degradation was revealed to be far worse than originally observed. The bags beneath my eyes never really went away anymore, but they were even more pronounced than usual. I had the appearance that I had sustained a sharp blow to each eye, so pronounced was the swelling and discoloration. The only thing detracting from this was the fact that my face was so utterly filthy. A line of dried muck ran latitudinaly across my countenance, where the dripping mud and blood had been obstructed by the seam of my respirator. The area above this line of demarcation was smudged and speckled, only broken by the occasional clean rivulets created by coursing sweat.

Was all of this agony truly worth the effort? Did I really believe I could topple an empire? I slumped against the warming porcelain basin, my hands in the swirling pool of water, watching the whirlpool darken with sluiced-off blood and grunge. How apropos. My stubbornness spreading messes and mayhem to an otherwise orderly environment. Would my tenacity rain yet more destruction on those around me? I had already lost so many...

Was it not my own refusal to toe the line that had set all of this in motion? If I had merely played the role dictated to me, the world would be a very different place, and so many needless deaths could have been prevented. I had put my own pride above the safety of myself and my men, and had thus lost everything. I was now reduced to risking my life in worthless scraps in the forgotten parts of town. For what? Did I think I could bring them back? That I would prove the nay-sayers wrong? That I would make everything the way it had been? Impossible. I was one man, under-funded, under-equipped, and with a body that was growing weaker by the day. I was a petulant child, lashing out at the world because he had not gotten his way.
My consciousness was awash with visions of tears and blood, memories of love ones lost and promises broken. My innards churned and my vision swam. Flickers of follies and failures from even farther back kept springing to mind. Friends lost, family disappointed, ventures failed, all of those pitiful moments of sadness and weakness from my past began to well up. Each pained reflection caused me to slip deeper into the hollow of my own self-loathing.

No. This would not do. I was stronger than this. I had not sustained so many hardships and tribulations to go out so quietly. I was not a man to die whimpering to himself in some dank hole. If I had to leave this world, it would be in a much more stirring manner. The world would remember the day that Sebastian Fawkes died. When my time came, I would tear this whole damnable city down around their ears, and teach them the true meaning of fear. Come then Chancellor, for I am worse than you.

My reverie was disturbed by a light rapping on the door. “Come now boy, you've had quite enough time to ogle yourself in the looking glass. We all know how enamored you are with your appearance, but there is no need to be excessive,” crooned the mellifluous voice of Horatio. I could not help but smile slightly at the man. He did have his charm, in an old-world sort of way. I took a moment longer to clear my head of memories of smoke and blood, and then commenced cleansing myself.

Once the detritus had been scrubbed away I did the best I could under short order to set my hair and facial hair in order. I did not have the proper accoutrements to properly style my mustache, but using a bit of water I was able to style it into a semblance of order. I cracked the door open a notch and found the outfit laid with care on the floor, folded with a near Teutonic precision. Scooping it up, I retreated back into the chamber of steam and tile. The suit would do quite nicely in a pinch. It was not quite as stylish as I generally preferred, but it was handsome and clean. Most importantly, it was unobtrusive. Making my way through the high streets during peak hours was a risky proposition at times, so being able to pass for a respectable, if drab, businessman was a wise tactic. The old tailor was a sharp one indeed.

Dressing quickly, I set about cleaning the small chamber. I made sure the incinerator was fully concealed, and furtively wiped away every drop and smudge on the sink and other fixtures. One must not violate the sanctity of one's sanctuaries. Prudence was key. I examined the cuffs of the jacket once I had donned it, and found it to hinder the deployment of my dagger-pistols. This was disappointing, but hardly surprising. Those tools got stored within the satchel as well, leaving my gauss gun as my only deployable weapon. It was nestled safely in the small of my back. This left it relatively accessible, but I was still less than pleased with how hampered I would be in a combat encounter. The first option would be to flee then rather than fight. Correction: the best option would be to avoid all confrontation at all.

Sufficiently situated, I exited the water closet to square my debt with the shopkeep. It had become quite fashionable to purchase goods on a line of credit, but that was not the system here. First and foremost, this was because I was no advocate of being in anyone's debt. What was needed was purchased outright, bartered for, or commandeered. Secondly, old Horatio did not accept credit, for he was not exactly the most trusting of men. A point in his favor. Hard silver being exchanged for the off-the-rack suit, as well as an order for a replacement one of my own specifications, handled, I made my way back into the blinding and deafening world.

The first step into that chaos staggered me. The sheer force of that solar blaze sent me reeling. Squinting into the glare, I grimaced, head already aching. This was set to be a most trying journey home. I had never been able to fathom how the greater populace functioned without protective shielding on days such as this. Best be on with it then. It would only get worse as the day grew. Head down, hugging the wall to try and sustain some manner of shade from the looming edifices, I began making my way towards the nearest carriage station. The sooner this trial was completed, the sooner I could recuperate in a vessel of my own, preferably with the curtains drawn.

I did my best to avoid eye contact with the unwashed masses, without making a scene about it that is. The objective was to leave no lasting impression at all. A man who was not noticed was a man that could not be reported.

My goal was the nearest sky-carriage depot. While the network was still in its infancy, the cables were fairly widespread in the financial and river market districts. There was a paucity of lines reaching to the Bottoms, but my destination was not nearly that far this morning. I had to travel no further than Bursnell Bridge.

Gradually I began to notice that the crowds were slightly thicker than normal. Casually glancing about, I noticed a security checkpoint at the head of the queue. They were examining the identification of every person attempting to board. Bollocks. Apparently my dust-up the evening before had caused quite a row, and thusly an increase of security measures. I was then left with the dilemma of whether to attempt to bluff my way through the gauntlet of thugs, or take a detour. A detour had its own disadvantages however. If the boys were on point, they would surely snatch up anyone who exited the line. Also, one could readily assume that if they were watching the sky-carriages, they would also have soldiers stationed at any other transportation hubs. Thirdly, and most importantly, I was quite tired of this day, and longed to return to my domicile, and would not be delayed again.

I had never shown quite the aptitude for masquerading as der Metzger, who could talk his way through anything, whether it be out of shackles or into a woman's chambers, but I was more than capable of dealing with a few bottom-rung enforcers. In my favor was also the fact that I had in my possession a truly masterful set of personal documents. Actually, to be honest, I had a few sets, but one of those would fit the bill today more readily than the others. While waiting in the agonizingly ponderous flock of sheep, I began constructing my ruse. The trick would be to clear security fast enough that they did not bother to frisk me or empty my satchel. If that happened, blood would be shed, and I had had quite enough of that already. Plus the idea of a full blown battle in broad daylight, in front of dozens of witnesses, while so close to a collaborator's establishment was simply unacceptable.

Fleecing sheep such as this was hardly an insurmountable task. There are simple guidelines to follow when attempting to hoodwink a mark. As stated, I was far from a master of this art, but I had known those who were. I had gleaned much from studying them. Your humble narrator is nothing if not an apt pupil, dear audience. The first step was to keep your tale simple. Simple lies for simple folk. Do not bombard your target with an overabundance of information, as this can easily trip you up. Instead, paint broad strokes with your words, let their minds fill in the gaps with information they already know. This was how the best soothsayers played the game.

Build your story off of the information you glean from your target. People have an astonishing ability to give away data unintentionally, especially when they are focused on being the interrogator. It gives them a false sense of power you see, and they guard themselves less carefully. A man being questioned will always watch what he says, so as to not incriminate himself, but a man doing the questioning…well he tends to be downright cocky. This overconfidence can be exploited by an observant and talented subject.

More important than anything else, however, is the tone. Minor details can be glazed over or even occasionally flubbed if you sell your story well enough. For example, no one will believe you as a member of royalty if you are unable to speak clearly and with authority. Likewise, an aversion to eye contact and a subservient posture can build up the idea that you are a man of lowly social stature. Small things indeed, but oh so important.

I began to compose the proper mindset and countenance for the next encounter. I would channel the spirit of that most vile creature. That vicious, vindictive, venomous monster who torments the dreams of all men. That fearless and pitiless abomination who feasts on the suffering of all who grovel at his cloven hooves. I speak of course, of the bureaucrat.

The first move was to adopt an expression of extreme haughtiness, even downright contempt for those beneath me. I am not afraid to admit that this came rather easily. Ah well, one must attempt to embody their role. While this guise was acceptable, I felt it lacked something as a selling point. Flicking through the files contained within my mind, I gleaned an appropriate finisher. The disdain got sprinkled with a light dusting of impatience. Not furious belligerence mind you, merely a slow tapping of the toe, a minor rolling of the eyes, perhaps I might even venture an exasperated sigh if I felt truly moved. Better to keep that one in reserve though, holster it in case of any truly asinine comments by the ruffians. It is easy to overdo it, subtlety was always far more convincing in my opinion.

After a mind-numbingly tedious wait, the ponderous queue had finally managed to progress far enough that I was brought face to face with the gatekeeper himself. He was quite a little weasel of a man. All nervous energy and self-righteousness. Here was the type of man to keep his uniform on when he buggered some low-end escort. Oh and it would be an escort, have no doubt of that good people. The man was too ineffectual to procure his own free company, and too weak to force it. A man who got by solely on his badge and his billfold was a man to be detested.

“Sir, I am Lieutenant Baxter with the Metropolitan Police Force, and we…”, began the pawn.

“Listen here Boxer, what is the meaning of all this? I do not have the time nor the inclination to deal with infernal delays like this”, interrupted I, relishing the look of righteous indignation on the man’s face. Oh dear, not used to someone who doesn’t cower before you? Splendid.

Reddening like iron in the forge, the dear Lieutenant attempted to rebuke me. “Sir, my name is Lieutenant Baxter, not Boxer, and we are merely performing a routine passport…”

“I can bloody well see that. And as I said, I do not have the time for this, step aside private”, I retorted, letting the title drip with sarcasm so bitter it would make your eyes water.

Swelling with fury and wrath, sweet little Baxter dropped a hand to his truncheon and roared at me. ”You will address me as Lieutenant Baxter and hand over your identification. Now!”

Taking a hearty step forwards, threatening his personal space, I replied very calmly,”well then Lieutenant Baxter, you will address me as Bartelby Teach, logistics coordinator for the Committee of Public Defense.” This was accompanied by unfolding my identification, or at least identification I was using, in front of his sweaty, puffy face. Oh the documentation was exquisite, complete with all of the appropriate seals and stamps, and the photograph had been beautifully altered as well. It even all was held in delightful, standard issue, Bavarian leather wallet.

The rodent squirmed in agony and fear, running his fingers nervously through his thinning, curly copper hair.

“Were you about to assault me, Private Boxer? I do believe the sentence for assaulting a Committee member is rather severe. Mayhaps we should take a little trip down to the gaol to discuss my papers? I am afraid that I will not be the one to take your statement though. Just don’t have the stomach for that work. We do however have a few chipper old chaps who just adore interviews though. We import them. Did you know that? Ferocious little bastards from somewhere out East. Swarthy buggers. Have a penchant for knives.”

I tapped the now closed wallet against his quivering nose, which elicited a small jump and squeak. Such a pitiful little creature. It would be so easy to break him…so weak and fragile. There was an infinitesimal twinge somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my conscience whispering a complaint for my treatment of a fellow human being. This was not the way to live, lying and threatening. I silenced that whimper with an avalanche of will. No. I had been weak once. Sympathetic. Optimistic. Idealistic. We had all seen what that had gotten me. Now there was only the cause. I would do what was necessary. Someone else could be the hero, I would be the soldier.

****

The door to my chambers closed with a metallic whisper. Immediately thereafter, I slid the bolts home, securing the portal to the frame. The anteroom was still a murky chasm, as it should be. Delicate slivers of daylight could be glimpsed here and there along the edges of the heavy curtains. This meager illumination was more than sufficient to navigate by. I resisted the cliché of sighing while leaning against the barred entrance, and instead trudged deeper into my home, seeking a more comfortable reflection space. Who can be melodramatic whilst standing? It is much more ideal to recline as one broods. It aids the ambiance.

I shucked my borrowed footwear as I trudged into the parlor, and sank wearily onto the worn sofa. This night had not gone as planned. Not at all. The firing pin had been struck, and the powder was burning. We had officially transitioned from abstract theoreticals into absolute facts. The evolution was not an easy one.

I had been doing entirely too much brooding and stewing as of late. This would not stand. There was much to do. I had a revolution to lead, an army to gather, and a nation to topple. So much work, and I could not shake the feeling that my borrowed time was drawing to a close.

I had to rally the troops, what few I could find, and strike quickly. The previous day had been too boisterous. Too brash. Anyone surveying the field would have to spy the coming storm. Worse still, my own hand may have been recognized in the dealing beneath the streets. Such was the disadvantage of being such a trendsetter.

If time was so fleeting, why could I not rouse myself from my somber chambers? I would certainly handle my affairs, but first I needed to decompress. The events of the last twenty-four hours had been too much. Too much noise, too much light, too much stress. I could not process that so readily. I just wanted to hide away in my lofty nest for a while. Just a few hours. Just to catch my breath and re-arm. That was it. Not hiding, just resting.

My refuge was becoming my cage. Gilded, yes, but a cage nonetheless. Perched high above the eternal river that bisected our dear city, I could observe, but remain apart. It was so easy to fly above the death and destruction, raging at the night. It was much more difficult to descend into that whirling maelstrom, to be bashed and battered by the crushing waves of humanity.

Oh I would lead them, make no bones about that. Just maybe not quite yet. It could wait, couldn't it? I had waited these long years, surely another few days couldn't matter much. Just a few weeks to gather my thoughts, that was it. Just more time to prepare before I ventured out again. Preparation, that was all.

A soft footstep outside my stoop sent my hand flying to its battle station, grimy pistol leveled at the door. Opening my weary eyes, I roused myself, and attempted to kick-start my once mighty brain into working order. I wasn't concerned about the hand. It would do its deadly duty quite fine.

The number of people who knew where to find me was rather limited. The number of those still alive was even fewer.