Lo; a city Proper and a den of rats. The smell of rain on pavement. A dawning darkness looming over the annual birth of time; a new decade, at that. A permeating smoke from an old soul with an even older cigar. A few shots of bourbon to take the edge off. The taste of iron in the mouth. A phone rings, and a dead man answers. Floozies flood the streets in excitement, as politicians poison the minds of the innocent. Ignorance rotted away society as thought was replaced with stimulation.
Angels fall while devils rise, although complacency and neglect were, truly, the real sins. Someone could run a knife through their stomach, their entrails spilling out onto the asphalt; but would they feel it? If bishops told them that was sanctification, would they believe them? If society praised their boldness, would they repeat it? Then begs the pressing question: if but one, or—dare one to dream; many—truly cared to make a difference, would it be so?
Perhaps, or perhaps not. And yet, a few still tried. I remember the night their exhaustions brought forth harvest; I could see and hear them from my window…
…
The Weapon stood, the signature thick, sticking lifeforce dripping off the tool he found such unfortunate satisfaction in, leering over a corpse lying in a pool of its own filth. His breath was hoarse and shallow, his eyes still wide. The aforementioned few stood around the macabre sight, each covered in varying degrees of befoulment, exhaustion, blood, and hope that they might have done enough. Enough to reconcile with each’s own regrets and burdens, albeit. The Host crouched low, her spirits at peace once again, and brushed her hand across the dead man’s cheek.
“He looks oddly handsome like this. Much more than he did as he walked, anyways.”
The Angel, his glow having dissipated from its vibrance only moments ago, had quickly pulled out a thurible, lit its contents, and was waving it rashly over the body.
“Eugh- this oughta help with the smell.”
The Purge piped up, its violent voice permeating from its horrifying visage.
“Why don’t we just fucking move it?”
“I’m not touching it! Ripper Jack over here butchered it; we’d have to haul him off in chunks, and frankly, I don’t want to do that right now!”
The rain had stopped by this point, and the man’s fumes were, indeed, putrid. The Weapon spoke.
“When one’s viscera is exposed, the foulness of their soul can no longer be hidden.”
The Host smiled endearingly.
“Oh, you have such a way with words, darling.”
The Angel wrinkled his nose.
“You two are gross.”
The Beast, a considerable amount calmer than moments before, and much more historically spoken, shook his head.
“Nay, nay, fair youth’s love be a wondrous thing.”
The Scholar interrupted, stepping forth from the sidewalk; he had stood so far away during the encounter.
“Look, not to disrupt whatever this is, but did we do it? Is everything better or, or what? It seems like…-
But he spoke no more, and stared blankly into the distance, as he had done a few times before. The Weapon turned away, occupied with the removing of his mask to lick the blood off his blade; the Host watched; relishing in the rejuvenation, before turning back to the associates he found himself acquainted with through these times.
“I believe we have accomplished what we set out to do. It would be good to depart from this place and rest. I will draft up a declaration of the events which transpired and a suggested course of action to proceed with. I…I thank you all. Goodnight.”
And as if he was concluding a business meeting, the Weapon turned away, walking into the night. The Host dusted off her dress before departing as well. The Purge was, oddly, never there. The Angel was busy narrowing his eyes at the Scholar, whom was now twitching, his eyes rolling as odd murmurings emanated from his mouth. The Beast shuffled over betwixt them.
“I dost fear the night hath not yet fled, and the rain doth accompany it still. I do pray that I be mistaken; dost thou hear mine qualms then, O Angel?”
“Someone does. I feel the same though, I don’t think this is it, the end, I mean. He’s probably right though, we should rest-”
The Scholar snapped, completing the thought abruptly.
“-while we can.”
The other two stared, as the Scholar blinked rapidly, head twitching only slightly, before turning off and departing without another word. The Beast furrowed his brow before addressing the Angel oncemore.
“If thou dost believe it be the finest course to pursue, I shall hibernate to mine heart’s full delight. Goodnight, sire.”
“Uh, yeah, sure, sure. Goodnight, man.”
They both departed; the Beast to the woods and the Angel to the skies.
…
And yet, I wish, truly, that you might know the accounts in their entirety, so that you may come to your own revelation as to why this was certainly not the end to the fight they fought so. This triumph was assuredly one of great renown, and the interweaving web of tales which it took to get to this moment was a vast sea of oddities of such a haunting nature, but it would not satiate their demons, as each refuted their own promise that very night; the nightmares ensured their rest be an abysmal one.
Please, allow me, along with a few others I have known to fill in the gaps, to inform you of what transpired, as to pay respects to the rejects society hath forgotten about. I am not a writer, and I am certainly not a poet, but I will do my best to recount the things I have seen. Sooner, ideally, as I am unsure how long I might have left.
It started with ink stained pages.
12.29.’29
Reflections
The City isn’t all that appealing, no. Perhaps to the chaotically inclined, it might be something of a societal jackpot. People of every which and where, bustling about in their merry many lives. He shouts, “I drink tonight!” as he downs bottle after bottle, destroying property, or perhaps himself, in his haze; she snickers, “He’s made a fool of himself!” as she seduces another helpless victim, her wickedness spreading like mold spores in rotted sustenance, and the barkeep smiles, knowing that his pockets will be full off of the people’s secrets, idiocrasy, and overindulgence.
That was the most repetitive of things, truly, and it was dreadful. One writes of this as the New Year was dawning nearer, and one would have much trouble indulging in the anticipation surrounding it. See, it was the Roaring Twenties, or that is what they called it, at least. While the liquor was cheap and spirits were high, inhibitions of both moral and financial were at the lowest stock one would hope no one had invested in. It seemed each person lived their hours without any regard for the next minute.
The government saw nothing wrong the state of the people, see. As long as they were happy, it meant they were busy, and if they were busy, they were distracted. A world of dopamine overdosed corruption, and one had to live in the proper meat of it. Maybe it wouldn’t be all bad, maybe one could learn to adapt to the bubble with restricted oxygen the general public seemed so happy to asphyxiate themselves in, if it weren’t for the divides this society had built up around themselves. The troubling aspect was that of those who refused to be confined in betwixt walls; whether by choice or curse. Those who refuted found it truly unsafe to leave their residence, majority fault lying in the unsavory hands of the mayor, Mr. Bunts, a twisted, sadistic man; of course he was in a position of power.
He had gained something of a cult following along in his campaign and party, but whether that was attributed to fear of his power or support for his message is a mystery still unsolved. His ideology was one of a corrupted sense of purity, as he vowed to cleanse the City from any impurities that poisoned it within, which, although not explicitly stated, meant the cripples, the cursed, the wretched, and the disfigured. And he left it at that, taking no further action to persecute the poor; he let the residents do that for him, turning a blind eye to violent bigotry on the streets he ruled over.
Thus, the Underground was formed; where the Kafkaesque have gone and still go to find their version of freedom, which, by nature, was a haven built inside the sewer systems and industrialized sublevels of the City. The Underground was a place of confined bitterness and struggle, where hope was lacklustre, yet the only thing each truly owned. The foul wafts of air which occasionally flooded into existence certainly didn’t help. There were some who were overcome with such strong emotion that they charged the City themselves, to no avail, and often a bloody misfortune met them along the way. So, most stay in the Underground, lest they chance scorn of every degree, punishment if unluck finds them, hoping that there might be a day where society evolves to a point of blissful acceptance.
And this was why, truly, the City was onus inutile stercoris. I pray the New Year breaks the cycle.
-Sicarius M.
Sicarius sat in his study, if you could describe it as such. His corner of the Underground was decorated with only a few items: an old desk from a printing press office, a box of wax candles, an inkwell, a quill, sheets of parchment, a used and retired military cot, and a wooden chair, which was currently inhabited by its owner. These items had been salvaged, surmised, or stolen over the course of his time in the Underground.
The people weren’t exactly poor, but luxuries were far and few to come by. Sicarius was bent over his desk, his papers illuminated by a suicidal wick, and his papers torn across their flesh by the ink-stained knife that was his pen. His gift of writing had been a most needed blessing to the Underground. He brought news of the City for the bitter, spun poems for the children, and dripped letters of lethal intent for a Mr. Foreas.
Mr. Foreas was a prominent member in a round table of individuals who sought after justice, a table dedicated to finding their own way to revolution, as well as acting managers of the Underground. This table was christened The Melius Cras; for a better tomorrow. The skeptics would mock the legitimacy of the group, scrutinizing the efforts and whether or not they were truly effective, as any people do with their governments. The supporters would praise the name of The Melius Cras, as it gave them something to hold hope in, as any people do with their governments. Sicarius, while he believed in the cause, thought their efforts somewhat fruitless, and their methods somewhat tactless.
It was why he agreed to lend his pen to them in the first place, as the chains of corruption within the City linked far further than just the elites who ran their wretched parties of carelessness. Perhaps a silver-tongue would prove to be a prevalent ally to not only the great minds of the soothsaying group, but to the people of the Underground as well. Nevertheless, he still lent his stained, yet sagacious, tongue to the efforts of this rebellion.
They used his letters as a way to communicate to both the Underground and the City, for various purposes. Some, in regards to the Underground, were calls-to-arms as they attempted to build a militia in preparation for impending warfare on the City, while others were public service announcements informing the people they would rather not have to clean up disgraced bodies due to negligent individuals charging the gates of penthouses themselves. In regards to the City, most were threats of numerous crimes against their humanity, however, perhaps one of the lesser-known facts of Sicarius’ works, was that there were a few letters exchanged between him and a contact within the City.
They knew not of each others identities, for each one’s own sake, but the main subject of their writings were negotiations, of sorts. See, both individuals saw the divide as worthless, for each’s own reasoning, and thus; they had common ground on which to agree upon. They used this as the pinnacle of their relationship, and through said relationship, Sicarius was able to provide the people of the Underground with the most appreciated of privileges, that being ‘the Witching Hour’; an hour of dusk in which people of the Underground are permitted to venture the City alone, save the judgmental watch of the law while they did so. Although, in instances as this, no one truly knew how a simple letter could achieve such miracles, and that alone, was just one of Sicarius’ secrets he locked deep inside himself.
There was one other prominent thing to mention about this world, perhaps the most prominent thing. A thing which Sicarius referred to as ‘the Price’, or in full, the Price of Comfortability. It was previously mentioned that the divide was in place due to the Underground being comprised of a people which most would label as odd, disfigured, poor, or wretched; these can be attributed to the Price. Every society has those who Pay, in order for those who refuse to Pay, exempli gratia; the City, to live their most joyous lives. Unfortunately, not many individuals choose to Pay, but rather are forced, born, or otherwise cursed into Payment.
One might attribute the Price to a lament of political and economical caste estrangement, but no, there is far more at hand than simply the rich and the poor. See, Sicarius believed with utmost certainty in the supernatural. He believed stories, myths, and legends all had a basis of fact to them, and even if the dramatized tale was misconstrued from the truth, that majority of legends were rooted in some form of supernaturalism. Heroes, is what they called them, something like Buck Rogers. And yet, no matter whether one had ability or not, it was their choices which made them heroes. Lo; the Price. For every hero born, a villain, a monster, is made as well.
Decades afore, there was a young bewedded couple who pissed off the wrong deity, saint, or some other supernatural being, the details are unclear due to time’s muddying of historical waters. In their obscenity, the being cursed the two, imbuing them with a horrible visage and grotesque design; their faces had been forcibly peeled off of them by the hand of the being itself. Once the torturous screams had faltered, and their flesh lay plastered across the ground as insects began to decompose their gift, the being left them.
What was left was a disturbing sight; for the woman: a tissued layer of muscle fit with two sockets, both occupied by unsettling eyeballs, hardly any gums, but quite prevalent teeth, empty holes where there was once a nose, and the ripped borders which outlined where normal skin met consequence; for the man: the entity had ripped away further than the muscle, and left the man with a window to the bone, a clear insight to the skeleton within.
And yet, while they felt every ounce of pain, they would not die. If only that were the worst. Soon, the couple realized that their bodies began to decay more rapidly than was natural. Every day, their muscles atrophied, they thirsted more, and energy depleted from them more and more. It became apparent that there was a deep hunger within them, a hunger for something to fulfill what they were missing, a hunger for what would make them feel healthy once more. A hunger for flesh and blood of another living creature that would resupply their own body’s shortage.
See, the mystical being had stripped away their body’s ability to produce enough, well, everything, just enough so that it would deteriorate at an accelerated pace. The wife had discovered this first. On a certain night, while her husband lay sleeping, she lie awake, as her mind began to collapse on itself with thoughts of atrocities she could submit her betrothed to, in hopes it would cure her suffering.
Perhaps there was an animal nearby she could have attacked instead, however, we will never know, as she succumbed to the temptations, bearing a stone clasped in hand, and smashing the man’s skull repeatedly. Even as he awoke in a panicked state, it was much too late to cease the carnivorous rampage the woman had embarked on.
Leaning forward, she tasted of the man, and instantly, she began to feel the effect. Her body began to regenerate, and she could feel her lungs properly fill with air for the first time in too long a hiatus. The adrenaline fueled her to continue her cruor, ignoring the pleas of her once lover, and finally, after a disturbing count of blows against his head, he was dead. She drank and ate to her fill and stood, replenished and normal. It was then she saw the body and what she had done to it. And she grieved.
The woman went on to live in complete solitude within a forest, as she could no longer trust herself to be around civilization. She stalked the woods, searching for sustenance and hydration constantly. Yet no matter how many berries, mushrooms, or whatever else she could find, there was always a looming emptiness that grew stronger every day, until finally, she would snap, going into a primal surge due to lack of carnivorous consumption, hunting for a victim to feast upon.
Typically, it would be an unsuspecting deer or rabbit, however, she had made home within an abandoned cave, at least, she told herself it had already been abandoned when she found it.
The picked-clean carcasses from a family of three bears begged to differ.
As such, the cycle continued for years, and one would hope the woman would live out her days as a cryptid of the forest, lost to legend, to eventually pass within its coniferous walls. Alas, a wandering dendrophile happened to chance upon these woods one fateful day. He was a man from a distant town whom had set out for adventure, which he proper found that day, or rather, it found him.
The woman, now appropriately middle aged after such time had passed, found the passing adventurer hiking through a path as the evening slowly dripped across the sky, finding its way to night at its own pace. He trudged through the trail, oil-wick lantern in hand, and a sheathed weapon at his side. She watched him curiously for a while, as it had been quite some time since she had seen another human.
Eventually, her curiosity turned to carelessness as she made something of a ruckus within earshot of the traveler, attempting to get a better stalking angle. The traveler turned, apprehensive, searching for the source of the noise. He could just make out a figure hidden amongst the birch, so he called out to it.
“Who goes there? Don’t think I’m not afraid to shake-a-flannin’, ya hear?”
If not obvious, at this point in the tale, it is around the Fourteen-Hundreds, but the woman, having lived as a recluse for so long, knew not of the slang which this person spoke with. Very odd. The traveler drew a type of hunting sword as he shouted to the trees, clearly fearful at the situation. The woman was no longer proficient in speech due to the lack of its necessity in nature, however, she could still remember basic words, and so decided to indulge in the traveler’s call.
“Hello.”
Her tone was calm and even, on the outside, one would never think that she had not spoken to a human being in years. This fact was prevalent to the traveler as well, as his stance faltered upon hearing her greeting, taken aback by a woman’s voice, as well as the conciseness of it. And yet, he tried to regain his composure as he called out again.
“Pardon, who are you? What is a woman doing out in the woods by her lonesome?”
This statement disturbed the woman slightly, as it almost sounded patronizing. Perhaps the corpses of the bears would make for a good attorney in this case. But, there was something about this man that she found oddly charming. In any case, she entertained the conversation further.
“Home.”
The traveler was shaken by this statement; surely he had met a ghost or ghoul which haunted the forest; his grandfather was right. He grasped his sword tighter and spoke assertively, or at least, attempted to.
“Miss, come down from there at once, show yourself!”
“Why?”
“Well, to proper look at you, of course!”
“Look?”
“Yes, look at you!”
The traveler was starting to get rather annoyed with this ghoul. Maybe he ought to just mind his own business and move on. The woman started to descend, but was hesitant about showing her true visage before this man, as she was uncomfortable revealing such horrors upon a mere traveler. When she paused, the traveler, not having expecting her to oblige, softened his stance.
“Please? I mean you no harm, I assure you– as long as that kindness is returned.”
Very well, she thought, and she cautiously made her way into the light of his personal inferno, the glow illuminating her presence. She deliberately looked away from the traveler, her hair long enough to conceal her curse’s mark.
“Look.”
She said the statement as a firm response to his request, but the traveler wasn’t satisfied. He was certainly surprised to see a lady in her state, as she was quite dirty from nature, her hair had outgrown itself as a bird’s idea of a manor, and had adorned her body with what appeared to be a skirt made of autumnus leaf. However, despite this, she appeared just fine; she wasn’t malnourished or appeared to be ill in any way. She was…oddly…beautiful? This both confused and intrigued the traveler. His tone softened as he spoke once more.
“Oh, hello there. I apologize, I didn’t mean to offend or frighten you. It was your presence that, in fact, had frightened me, thus my response.”
She did not respond.
“Why do you hide your countenance? Can I see your face?”
“No.”
“Come now, there is naught to be fearful of. I only wish to know the face of my stalker, is all.”
He spoke the last line with an air of humour, but the woman feared his comedies would dissipate if she revealed herself.
“You look, you fear.”
“I can assure you, I’ve seen plenty of ugly mugs in my lifetime, I’m sure you can’t compare.”
“Fine, you look.”
Slowly, she peeled apart her curtains of hair, as her head was still aimed at the ground. The traveler leaned back, peering, trying to see what this woman was hiding. She very slowly, and deliberately looked up at the traveler.
His eyes widened rapidly,
his heart began to
panic;
she
had
No face.
No face?
Where there would be skin, there was none, no, and instead was a bloody mesh of muscle and tissue, accompanied by two sockets filled with eyeballs, rips in the flesh for nostrils, and teeth set into the skin devoid of lips to cover. His mind raced. She had no face. She had
NOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACENOFACE
But.
But.
Somehow.
Through some obscure lenses of glorification.
To the lonely, he still found her beautiful, despite the horrific flaws.
Her eyes darted across the traveler’s face then to sides of the clearing they were in at a rapid pace, anxious. The traveler, having initially recoiled at the horrifying sight, was now, gradually, leaning back into her presence.
“My- I- I don’t know what to say. You- you are not up to dick, miss. We need to get you to a doctor, come now, we mustn’t waste a moment!”
He reached for her hand and grasped it tightly, trying to pull her to follow his lead. But she pulled back, refusing.
“No.”
“No? What do you mean no? You are sick, you need help, please, I don’t want you to die! Come on!”
“Sick, no.”
“What?”
“Cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, um, I see…”
The traveler had only heard stories of curses and hexes, but he never thought any of it further than stories to scare any vazey fellow that would believe them. He would’ve certainly been in disbelief if he was not staring at something so obviously impossible. He relinquished his pull and turned back to face the woman once more. With a soft voice, he spoke.
“Well…I suppose there’s no rush for a doctor then, huh?”
And they stayed together for a while.
Though the rest of their dialogue was never recollected or preserved, what is known is that they communicated for quite some time. He told her stories of his life, she showed him the forest and he showed her his craftsmanship, and they were merry. Eventually, the man needed to return to his journey, as he was expected to arrive at his next destination at a specified date. The woman decided to join him, as she longed for companionship once again. He loved her, and she loved him as well.
Over the course of the remainder of the journey, she told him of the full nature of her curse. Shockingly, the man did not scorn nor shun, but instead he attempted to find a solution, a cure, or by any means a plan for every night she hungered which they spent, now together. The two laid together on the third night of their meeting, and on the next day the man devised a plan.
And it was so; on the fifth day, as was usually when her hunger was just on the precipice of mania, the man would go out and slaughter an animal or two for his beloved, and on the fifth night she would drink of its blood, and she would be satiated until fivemore days beyond. They were happy together, as she could finally love again.
The woman’s name was Geneveive, and the traveler’s, Archibald. The new couple lived within the town Archibald had set off to, with Geneveive having covered her face with strips of cloth under the guise of a horrid case of measles. Most people never bothered to question this, and the ones that did were too busy nursing the hoe-handle to do anything about it. They mostly kept to themselves, living a very private life inside the town.
Eventually, they bore a child, and when he was born, as they birthed him in secret within the confines of their own home, the two were in utter disdain and sorrow throughout the delivery. It sounded as if the infant was in terrible pain, even within the birth canal, and yet, they could do nothing but persist. When the cries had stopped, they feared for the worst.
A moment later, an intense contraction ripped through Geneveive’s body, as their baby boy was admitted into the world. To the grief of the parents, he was born without a face, same as his mother. Thus, through this event, it was learned that this curse Genevieve carried was hereditary.
It becomes an arthropodal weave of webs as one tries to track down the curse through the bloodlines of his ancestors, as most lived very secretive lives. The people part of this cursed bloodline came to be known as the Afflicted. All this to say, Sicarius would’ve much rather denied his Price rather than be born a bloodlusted faceless outcast. His lineage was another of his infamous nondisclosures, as it bore such negative connotations, even within the Underground.
He had a weekly ‘supplier’ whom he had cut a deal with when he moved to the Underground, someone who was politically minded and capable of murder, and his shipments had gone this far without being noticed by anyone. In return, Sicarius sent letters with the names of people he wouldn’t mind disappearing.
The only other person which knew of his beshadowed Price was that of Mr. Foreas. This was why Sicarius up at such an hour pouring over parchment and bleeding ink out from his wounds. The particular work, which he was now almost finished with, was perhaps one of the most important pieces of literature Sicarius had written thus far. It was a final cry of outrage from the Underground to the City; a cry of injustice, just about a declaration of war to the entitled, at least. It read:
We, the Underground, speak towards your graceless society. As a pig eating slop gets slaughtered for meat, we approach you adorned with aprons and cleavers. We have suffered the injustice you have inflicted upon us for far too long. Bigotry is your stench and abuse is your perfume; we approach you with Solventol to scourge you from the earth. If our message is not yet clear, allow me to diminutize it: Revolution rises as the sun, inevitable and unavoidable. In the night after next, we will stand and walk directly into your City, soundless.
We will not walk with malicious intent, we will walk with nobility. However, should any of your people, even one in solitude, attack or disgrace any of us, we will retaliate in the most brutal of ways. Our sanguineous rampage will be historical; we will make it so. If you do not wish this fate, you will let us walk through the City, back and forth, three times, without interruption. Afterwards, you will let us reside within the City whenever we desire to do so. We will be citizens of the City, if we please. You may write back with any questions, you have two nights, as the New Year will bring about this New Age.
Presented lies my Opus Mortis.
–Sicarius M.
It was simple, but it conveyed what he thought necessary. As he finished his signature with a flourish, with impeccable timing, there was a knock at the door. As was routine for Sicarius, he replied with the same four words he said to anyone who knocked at his door.
“The bank’s closed, dick.”
His tone was calm and even, and his message was one of firm, yet courteous, denial of parties to intrude upon his bastion of calligraphic obsession. For majority of curious passerby, this the only response they would get, if any. Lo, a response came from beyond the spruce-built entrance, and thus was the only response that would’ve permitted entry, as the speaker knew very well.
“Mystery’s already solved, bruno.”
Bruno was slang for “tough guy”; Mr. Foreas was the only one who knew Sicarius’ little back-and-forth stick well, and both had an understanding of the other’s boundaries. This was why Mr. Foreas was permitted.
“A moment, sir.”
“Of course.”
Sicarius ran his fingers through his hair as he slowly resigned himself to return to regular movement, departing from his hunched disposition after hours of work. The declaration was the last of his affairs for the evening, thankfully, but the days labor had been spent over many others; it was now he wished his posture was better. With a resigned sigh, Sicarius stood up from his desk, pushing back his chair with his legs, and rolled his shoulders back, stretching his muscles as he began to retrieve his vestments. At the moment, he wore a cinerous pair of Oxford bags; due to the loftiness of them, they were quite comfortable and suitable as evening wear; lengthy black socks; shoes were nonsensical at this hour; and a simple black turtleneck; sometimes it was a bit drafty within the Underground.
His hair was lengthy and disheveled, and his eyes seemed bloodshot, if only slightly. Sicarius stepped to the side of his desk to locate a pair of quite ragged boots, with which he slipped on, and propped each on his chair to tie his laces. Additionally, he covered his hands with a pair of ebony leather gloves. Draped across the back of his chair was a dark scarf, which he hung around his neck. The final piece to his ensemble lay within his desk. Sicarius scooted his chair over to the side and opened a drawer inside the desk, to reveal scraps of parchment, spare ink bottles, and, most importantly, a mask. He had casted the item himself using a wooden fire, a skillet, discarded cans, and an odd shaped cement hole as a mold. Sicarius donned the mask, concealing his cursed visage, and walked over to the door.
Stanley Foreas ran the Legatio department of the Underground, which was the legal and diplomatic proceedings. He was an accomplished writer in an entirely different field of prose than Sicarius, as writing legal documents was something Sicarius was certainly not proficient in. In dealings with the City, and internally in the Underground, drafting documents to bind agreements at the legal level proved effective to individuals devout to the laws and loopholes they staked their careers on, most notably, Bunts.
Mr. Foreas wore a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up, a gray vest over, gray dress pants, black, gently scuffed, formal shoes, a white wristwatch, and a gray fedora to finish the outfit. His skin was dark akin to that of bitter chocolate, and he always held the sickeningly sweet scent of molasses or brown sugar.
As Sicarius opened the door, Mr. Foreas stood with his back to him, hands clasped behind him, his pose being one of patient waiting. He turned to the creaking of the door to face the figure of Sicarius.
“Ah, there you are, sport.”
“I distinctly recall requesting not to be addressed at that.”
“Close your head and listen. Our lovely Emcees are calling for an audience with yourself.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes, they seem, how you would particularly say, ‘rather disconcerted’.”
Mr. Foreas was right, he would particularly say words as such.
“For what purpose?”
“They, um, wish to speak on the basis of our dear Opus Mortis.”
“I see…verily, I had only completed it moments before your arrival; it has not even been sealed yet.”
“It matters not, sport, grab it and let’s get a move on, savvy? They’re waiting as we speak.”
“Let us make haste then.”
Mr. Foreas had an interesting vocabulary, although, truly, Sicarius did as well. His tone, however, seemed austere, so Sicarius obliged the request and retrieved the letter before following Mr. Foreas to the table of The Melius Cras. The band of believers met in a secluded room within the Underground, the layout of which was similar to a sewer system, in fact, there was a section of the Underground which connected into the sewer system of the City; foul. Mr. Foreas led Sicarius across precarious wood-and-metal scaffolding amongst several turns and vaults, all in the direction leading higher and higher, to lead into the aforementioned room of the Melius Cras.
The two ducked under a low hanging entrance to reveal the table the den, the very heart of the Underground. The room was made of steel with a large balcony towards the right of the room which one could view the most of the Underground from. Curtains were half drawn at the moment, concealing majority of the view, which actually had a deeper meaning to its design. The window was there as it was the prominent view, not only for the Melius Cras to see the Underground, but vice versa.
The Melius Cras swore to keep an open line of communication between them and the people, and anyone could walk into this room at any time, for any reason. Most had enough respect to trust them within their affairs, however the offer was always open. The curtains were half drawn, as was of significance; it was as a promise to the people to never conceal themselves from the people, as the City’s government does. Half-drawn was more of a symbol of serious business occurring, which most saw it as a reason to not disturb them. Around the room were lamps and candles to serve as lighting. There were several shelves with assortments of cheap booze and cartons of cigarettes upon them as well.
The back wall was adorned with a dark flag with the symbol of the Underground embellished upon them; a miniscule candle in the bottom centre of the flag. The candle was lit with a white fire, yet there was a vast trail of smoke emitted from the wick, weaving up the flag in a hazed pattern. The noirceur color of the flag represented the darkness they lived in, as well as the grim reality of life; the candle, the truth of mortality; the flame, a light of hope for change and purity within the darkness; and the smoke had a duel meaning: the rising prayers from the people to the Heavens, and communication from the Melias Cras to the people.
The second meaning was derived originally from the use of smoke signals when someone is lost or stranded, however, the Underground equivocated it to the impressive amount of smoke, borne from the aforementioned cigarettes, broadcast from these very chambers whenever the Emcee, shorthanded slang from the people, was meeting over more concerning affairs.
Finally, in the center of the room was the most prominent feature of the room: a great wooden table, and at the moment, there were several notable figures all positioned around it, seemingly lost in thought. Sicarius knew not these individuals as well as he did Mr. Foreas, but he did know of their identities over the course of his time in the Underground. The Melius Cras was made up of Eight individuals who led Eight different departments of the Underground. The departments, as well as many other aspects of the Underground, were named in a dead language which had been mostly forgotten or disregarded; one can clearly see why the Underground chose to adopt it. The names and departments of the Melius Cras were:
Margot ‘Mickey’ Newberry, of Speculandi; reconnaissance of the City and watchdog of the Underground, as well as sleuth work in wherever she saw fit. Her hair was always well-groomed, blonde, and long. She wore a brown heathered, oddly fuzzy, suit, both jacket and pants, a white button up, and a soft yellow and brown tie to match. She also wore a pair of brown leather gloves and a brown paperboy hat, as well as holding a small, brown, leather purse at her side. Her eyes were consistently red and aggravated in appearance, and she had a knack for overhearing things she shouldn’t. She was a very capable woman with a background in espionage, but Sicarius never knew exactly how she was so good at sneaking around.
Thaddaeus Montecourt, of Ecclesia; the Church of the Underground. He was an older, balding man, and wore priestly garments; long, black cassock robes with a dark, raisin colored trim, a zucchetto cap of the same raisin color, and an ornate, golden necklace with a dark purple jewel in the center. Montecourt was an intimidating figure, standing tall and speaking in his signature deep, reverberating voice, and always speaking of things holy and pure. He was ritualistic and devout to his faith, and encouraged others to follow in his footsteps. Intriguingly, he had the habit of covering his eyes and eyelids, his ears, and his mouth in the black remnant of charcoal. Something to do with seeing, hearing, and speaking no evil.
Dr. Gwendolyn Cross, of Medica; medical center, to the best of the Underground’s ability. Dr. Cross was a very sweet young woman, donned in gray garments akin to a dress, the wrists fastened with white cuffs, a white collar, and a white apron spanning from her neck to just past her knees. On her left arm, there was a faded, gently gray band wrapped around it, a red cross symbol in its center. Her hair was a faded orange and hung a little below her neck, and on her head wrapped a white nurse cap, one with the same red cross symbol, and the cloth swung down to match her hair’s length. She was known as the Clinic, as wherever she went, the presence of health and wellbeing came with her. Oddly, she always had a mild look of anxiety, tending to stare off into space at times.
William Donald, affectionately known as ‘Billy Donny’, of Legatus; ambassador and public relations amongst the people. He was a sleazy, greasy looking guy, wearing a full suit, slightly dirtied. His hair was straight and came down to his neck; also very greasy, and was typically slicked back. He was a very sociable, fast-talking salesman, good at giving speeches, charming the pants off of anyone he met, and a tendency to be greedy as all get out. He had an eye for aesthetic and was the leading person attempting to make the Underground more hospitable and comfortable, rather than just a den for survival. He once said, in regards to his position in the Underground, that he viewed hope as easy to sell as an upper floor suite at the Achroous Hotel.
Cassandra Blackwell, of Purgatio; water purification and poison control. She was a sharp looking woman, wearing a peacoat, stockings, gloves, and boots; all black in color. Her hair was black, short, straight, and neat, falling just below her ears; her bangs, just above her eyebrows. She wore circle glasses and had a very pointed gaze. She always did have a pair of gloves on, and carried multiple replacements and changed them often. She kept herself very clean, as was important in her line of work. She shared a team of assistants with Dr. Cross.
Vincent Hastings, of Commeatus; supplier of resources, either gained from deals, scavenging, or otherwise ‘acquired’. He was an gruff man with a solid build, hollowed cheekbones, and always smelled like stale bread and rotten food; garbage. His hair was a dirty blond, wavy and knotted, and was most likely host to generations of lice, his stubble was prominent and patchy, and his fingernails were always dirty. He wore a long, oversized dark green field jacket with far too many pockets, those which were of no telling what was in them, along with a pair of cargo pants with an equal amount of pockets. And yet, amidst his flaws, he was a dependable son of a bitch when it came to gaining supplies and sustenance from anywhere he could find. They hadn’t starved yet, which was something, at the least.
Lydia Devereaux, of Insurrectionis; commander and trainer of the Underground’s small militia of able bodied individuals. She had slightly darkened skin and far too many scars from stories only told after sufficient amounts of alcohol. Her hair was a mane of chestnut curls, spilling past her shoulders in wild spirals, dense and voluminous. The curls gathered at her brow in a tousled fringe, only barely restrained. She was known affectionately by the other rebels as ‘Muck’, after an incident in which she frantically covered herself in mud and foliage to hide herself from a City-borne Police force looking for her. She was also known to have a rather concerning affinity with molotovs.
and Stanley Foreas, of Legatio; diplomatic relations betwixt the City and the Underground, as well as internal affairs.
These were names well known and respected throughout the Underground, and each of them hailed from different walks of life, only to end up here. They were either the greatest, or the least, qualified individuals to lead a society due to their lack of experience. Yet because of their diversity, they were able to think through issues from a variety of angles and viewpoints. During discussions, they viewed debates as a necessary construct to reach a common understanding within a diverse group of people, and as such, they always left this room with a plan built on careful thought and compromise. Truly, a very honorable practice.
As Sicarius stepped into the room, the Melius Cras, which had all previously been in somewhat of a daze, lost to the confines of their own minds, all snapped to attention to look at him. Dr. Cross, the Clinic, was the first to speak, as she quickly shifted her gaze from Sicarius to Mr. Donald.
“Billy, I don’t like this.”
Mr. Donald, ever the Salesman, waved a hand her way dismissively and hastily stepped from behind the table to greet Sicarius.
“Hey there, pal, how’s it going? You remember me, I’m sure, we met at the bar a couple weeks ago; you look good!”
He spoke charmingly, and as he spoke, he did three things: he smoothed his greasy hair back in approach, his hands somewhat forcefully clasped Sicarius’ hand in a handshake, and placed he held Sicarius’ shoulders and looked him up and down, as if admiring his stature. Sicarius did not like to be touched, especially this much. Mr. Donald kept his ramble as a freight train keeps its course.
“Golly, we should hang out more! What say me and you go get a drink after this, huh? My treat, we–”
“Spare the pleasantries, sir.”
Sicarius cut him off abruptly, holding a hand up as signal to cease. Mr. Donald seemed taken aback, but quickly recovered, once again brushing his hair back; a nervous tick, surely.
“Right, right, I apologize, I tend to talk plenty much when things are rather, er, well, let’s just say stressful, of course, you’re a smart man, I’m sure you know what things I am referring to, as in–”
“Holy shit, Billy, shut the fuck up.”
This intrusion came from Ms. Devereaux, the Commander, as she seemed rather tense to begin with, Mr. Donald’s rambling was enough to set her off. He closed his eyes, annoyed, and slowly rotated on his heel with his retort.
“Excuse me, I am speaking right now, miss lady.”
“Yeah, you haven’t stopped speaking, damn palooka.”
“There’s certainly no need for defamation, Lydia. Your stench is defaming enough.”
At this, Mr. Donald pinched his nose childishly, and Ms. Devereaux sprung to her feet and started an intimidating stride to her target. Mr. Hastings, the Supplier, was quick to intercede her path.
“Hey, hey, easy, both of you, knock it OFF.”
“Get your hands off me, moldy-ass brute. I’m gonna wet my fist with the grease from his mop!”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so greasy if someone made an effort to provide some fucking shampoo every once in a while.”
“Who the fuck are you callin’ moldy? Sit your ass back down and be civil for once. And as for you, I’d like to see you scroungin’ the dumpsters and runnin’ heists to provide for anything other than your ego, pretty boy.”
.
These people were not as dignified as Sicarius previously thought.
.
Just before the realms of hell invaded our earth by way of these individual’s pettiness, Sicarius spoke once more.
“If my presence is not needed, save as an audience to your antics, I shall return to my chambers.”
The three, as well as the rest of the Melius Cras, all stopped their fight and focused on Sicarius.
“No, no…no.”
“No, I…am sorry, we got carried away.”
“No, please, don’t.”
Sicarius maintained himself and stated words clearly and concisely.
“I would like to know why I was brought here tonight, I do not want any nonsensical verbiage within said explanation. Please, step forth, someone, and speak.”
There was little movement made for a few seconds, as each member awkwardly waited for another to step up. Mr. Montecourt, the Bishop, spoke up in his deep, reverberating voice.
“Perhaps it is best if we start from what Margot relayed to us.”
A blurred figure which had been leaned against the back wall walked to the table. Her visage was still oddly translucent, even in the light. Ms. Newberry, the Informer, stepped into a chair and crouched low, a figure reminiscent of a rogue. Sicarius could see her left eye was entirely absent, and the disturbing socket that remained seemed slightly puffy.
“On my nightly route of surveillance, I happened to perceive a light on within Bunts’ office, which, of course, was unusual per the time of night, and based on my observations of his own routines. So, out of curiosity, I snuck inside the building and crept inside the office-”
“Pardon, if I may ask, how does one simply sneak into Bunts Tower, let alone the very man’s office as such?”
Sicarius was naturally inquisitive, either to bring some devious scandal to light, or to simply satisfy his own curiosity. Ms. Newberry, however, seemed quite perturbed at the question.
“Is this truly a necessary detour for our conversation, I mean, really?”
In her exasperation, she turned to look at the others, but her gaze found Mr. Foreas’s, who spoke calmly, though his eyes were wide.
“Please, humor him, if you will.”
Sicarius chose to be somewhat snarky.
“Yes, humor me, please.”
With a huff, Ms. Newberry delved into the purse she carried and brought forth a small jar filled with some sort of viscous liquid. Inside the liquid, there was something that looked suspiciously like an eyeball.
“As you can see, assuming you can underneath that mask of yours, I am missing an eye. In this nasty little jar, surprise, surprise, is the solution to the mystery. If I replace this eye…”
And she did so, as a slimy, yet oddly satisfying, sloppy sound popped as her eye wiggled into place, looking around in odd directions; maybe calibrating? Simultaneously, she no longer appeared translucent, and was now completely opaque.
“There, look, see? Both eyes where they should be. Sight returned and it really fucking hurts. But oh-ho, I’m not done yet! If I were to then remove said eyes…”
Everyone present watched the horror of this woman plunging her fingers into her own eye socket, pulling her eyeballs, the cords clinging to said eyeballs, including the one she had just popped in, and the forceful tug which severed the tie, which was, indeed, quite horrific. The rest of the Melius Cras all made disgusted noises as they watched. Mr. Donald gagged. Mr. Montecourt looked away amidst a silent prayer.
Yet, the moment both eyes were severed, Ms. Newberry disappeared entirely from view. In fact, it was as if she had disappeared from reality altogether, as there was no sound emitted from the space she once occupied. A moment later, the image of Ms. Newberry appeared, now opaque, as she finished her demonstration.
“Ta-da! Since we wanna play fuckin’ magician… It’s a shit power, but disappearing comes in handy, and thus how I infiltrated Bunts Tower. Are you satisfied?”
He noticed that no one in the room seemed entirely bothered by the grotesque display, save for the rippled disgust, as if this was all rudimentary. There were several more questions which rattled about in his mind, but obviously, Ms. Newberry had Paid in one way or another. Or maybe the pain of excavating one’s eyeballs was Payment every time? But then, who is she Paying? He pushed the questions to the side and responded.
“I am.”
“Wonderful. Now, as I was saying, within Bunts’ office I came across a folder which had documents inside it which suggested some sort of weapon…a weapon of mass proportions. The name of the weapon was called ‘The Black Monday’.”
“A weapon of what sorts?”
“I don’t know. Look, its a dangerous tool in the hands of a dangerous man, that’s all that I’m concerned with, frankly.”
“I know not the identity of ‘Frankly’, but I do yearn for more knowledge of this threat if I am to be of any service to you at all. A scholar is only as good as his resources. That is why you removed me from my chambers this evening, yes?”
Ms. Newberry seemed cross at the crass response of Sicarius, but as she opened her mouth in retort, Mr. Foreas interjected.
“Actually, no.”
Sicarius turned to face Mr. Foreas, who had been standing behind Sicarius since the moment they entered the room.
“Pray tell-”
“Sicarius, they know. They all know.”
“Know what?”
“They know whom, erm, lies underneath the mask.”
The room fell deathly silent. Sicarius stared daggers into Mr. Foreas’s eyes from within the holes of the metal on his face. Betwixt their gaze lied a man betrayed by perhaps his only friend, while the other was a man ashamed to have compromised the trust of a friend to the hands of others, albeit for the greater good. Sicarius turned back to the table, his eyes darting from member to member.
“So, you know of my lineage. For what does this matter?”
Ms. Blackwell, the Purifier, spoke up for the first time.
“We know the Afflicted have been a reclused people that historically have been quite, hm, should I say, ‘grauenhaft’, in nature, though its nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. While you have never shown any traits of such brutality as your history does, regrettably, we believe you might have some of the abilities your family tree possessed deep within your blood. These abilities, we think, could help the Underground stand a formidable chance against Bunts and this ‘Black Monday’ he has. Well, erm, at least…more than a strongly worded letter would…”
Sicarius looked Ms. Blackwell in the eyes as she spoke, then broke away in an almost vacant stare at the ground, as the metamorphosizing membranes of thought ricochetted around in his mind, each bounce leaving an inkblot of darkness in its wake, until it consumed him, all within the span of about fifteen seconds. Such is anxiety. With an odd, slow turn back to the table, Sicarius spoke.
“I see. You wish to use me as your countermeasure of a weapon, in order to face Bunts.”
“Is that so wrong? I mean, we all are on the same side-”
Mr. Donald opened his mouth in way of an argument, but was silenced by an authoritative raised hand of Sicarius, who spoke with a fierce bite to his words.
“Spare me your commentary, Mr. Donald. I will have each one of you know that I am not a killer. I have never once wielded a blade nor should I ever find myself in an instance where I will. I refuse to be labeled as a monster or otherwise by way of the sins of the mallacht that is my genealogy. My proficiency lies within my pen and my perspicacity, and if you do not see a use for either of those skills then I am afraid our conversings are finished!”
For a moment, no one dared speak a word, until Ms. Newberry roared angrily with her own response.
“Oh, please, quit the moral high-road, jackass. We’ve all had to make ends meet or defend ourselves and none of us are above taking a life or two in order to ensure either of those goals. Your bloodline hosts an, an, whatever the hell, ‘ancient power’, one of which could help save the entire Underground, possibly more, from Bunts’ wrath. So, man the hell up, pick up a knife, and fight for a better tomorrow, dammit!”
On her last shout, she deftly drew a knife sheathed on her ankle, and forcefully threw it hard enough to stick into the wood of the table before Sicarius. The knife wobbled slightly as it stuck. Sicarius was silent, only staring at the figure of Ms. Newberry. Dr. Cross carefully shifted into the conversation, speaking in an easy tone in an attempt to defuse the tension.
“Alright, hey, easy, Mickey. Why don’t you take a breather and go for a stroll or something, huh? Oh, better, I have some mints in my satchel, if you’d like-”
“Fuck this. The Underground’s blood’ll be on your hands, Sicarius.”
Mr. Hastings was in uproar at this.
“LEAVE, NOW!”
But before he even got the words completely out, Ms. Newberry had plunged her eyes out and disappeared from existence. Dr. Cross closed her eyes and held a hand up, her forefinger and thumb pressed tightly together, visibly stressed from the situation. After a deep breath, she spoke to Sicarius, her eyes with a caution to them.
“Please, you must understand where we are coming from, Mr. Mortuorum. By no means did we intend to label as anything other than what you have labeled yourself as.”
Mr. Donald chimed in as well.
“Yes, I assure you, the Melius Cras is much familiar with the fame that is your quill. You’ve done a lot with your writings, and we have asked nothing of you, save you continue to lend your pen to us, as it is a much, very much, appreciated asset.”
“When we all met earlier tonight, it was of stress and dismay in lieu of Mickey’s information. Previously, we had full faith in the, oh, what did you call it?”
Sicarius murmured.
“My Opus Mortis.”
“Yes, precisely, your Opus Mortis; we believed it to be the best course of action! But after hearing of the possibility of a superweapon…maybe a proper strategy with a superhero of our own would be…better!”
The mentioning of a ‘superhero’ rattled in Sicarius’ mind. He had conflicting emotions about it. She continued.
“Look, it is my understanding that you had a confidence in Stanley regarding your heritage. If I am to deduce this correctly, this would insinuate that you held him in a high enough regard to trust him with this information, yes?”
Sicarius took a moment, then replied.
“This was previously the case, yes.”
Mr. Foreas looked away, his lips tight, his brow furrowed, and his eyes closed. Dr. Cross continued.
“Okay, so then, believe me when I tell you; it pained him to break this trust between the two of you. It was a spur of the moment revelation to a large circumstantial problem.”
Mr. Foreas, ever the Diplomat, spoke softly.
“Bruno, I’m sorry. I should’ve spoke to you first before the Emcee.”
Sicarius was silent for a while, then said two words with a deadset firmness.
“Very well.”
And he left the room.
.
The knife from Mickey was left behind.
A brisk stroll in stride, Sicarius made his way through the winding, sketchy scaffolding which led from the Melius Cras down to the rest of the Underground. A frigid draft permeated the air, gently rippling his cloak as he walked. As he made his way through, people began to whisper and stare, as he rarely was ever seen, only being heard through his letters. Each step was determination incarnate; Sicarius was going to deliver his message by his own hand into Bunts’. Whatever the Black Monday was would hopefully be curbed by his words and his threats, but violence itself would not be necessary, at least not in this interaction. His breathing was fast and shaky.
He would certainly prove his words just as capable as his history’s brutality. Not that Sicarius didn’t believe in killing, within reason, he simply believed that Mr. Bunts was an intelligent, albeit corrupt, man of business. He was a man who valued power and order above all else; it was why his volition was to remove the City of anything, or anyone, who would disrupt the order of the City. It could be a noble pursuit, if it weren’t for his means of achieving it, rumored or otherwise. Regardless, surely a man of his stature could listen to reason. After all, what good is power over a City when the City is in rebellion?
The thoughts ricocheted through Sicarius’ brain as he walked through the Underground, almost at the exit now, but his departure was stumbled by two passing individuals. One was a burly man with short hair, a bushlike beard, and an infectious smile; the other was a kindly woman with a roguish grin, her hair up in a messy-bun. They were both clad in aprons and buttoned shirts, and Sicarius recognized both of these people: the barkeep and his wife. The two owned and managed the Broken Mug Bar set within the Underground, very well, which should be said, as it was an establishment that was a constant source of warmth, metaphorically and physically.
They were carrying crates which contained a humble quantity of groceries for their establishment; Sicarius knew this because he crashed into them amidst his stride. In a moment of chaos, crates were slammed into the ground, alcohol spilled, soup cans splattered, with Sicarius and the woman falling to the ground. The man hastily helped his wife to her feet, and only after assuring her stability did he gaze upon the calamity that was the loss of what little they received from Commeatus that day.
An overwhelmed expression began to dawn across his face as his eyes widened. His wife, sensing his stress, gently squeezed his arm, looking at him with a face which said to him, ‘it’s going to be okay.’ The man held her hand softly as he took a deep breath, staring into her beautiful eyes. With a deep sigh, he turned to hastily help Sicarius, whom had already gotten to his feet by this point. The man was quick to speak.
“Hey, hey, are you alright?”
Sicarius was brushing off his pants and searching his scarf as he spoke.
“Yes, thank you. I…apologize for the destruction.”
“No, no, its all good, don’t worry about it. We’re glad you’re alright, that’s all that matters.”
His wife spoke in her husband’s wake.
“Yes darlin’, please, don’t trouble yourself. Cacas, cacas.”
While this would literally translate from the language of the Underground to ‘shit, shit’, it was moreso slang for ‘shit happens’, or ‘accidents will happen’.
“Of course. I swear, solemnly, to repay this one day, however, I am in much haste at the moment.”
The man responded with a kindness perhaps otherworldly, as he bent over and retrieved Sicarius’ scarf, wringing out the wine from it.
“No worries, stranger, if you can. We would always appreciate it, but you take care of yourself, alright?”
The man handed back the shawl as he said this. In response for a farewell, Sicarius recited a two word phrase of hope.
“Memento vivere.”
“Memento vivere.”
The interaction was over, and Sicarius continued his passage. Stepping out into the City, the sky was a deepset Oxford blue which was accompanied by the source of the frigid draft within the Underground; a glacial wind. The street was an overwhelming sight. Currently, there was an impressively sized parade occurring. No, this was incorrect; it was merely spillage from the manor a few blocks away. One could see the lights, smell the liquor, and hear the swing even from here.
The people in the streets were either too intoxicated to find their way home or too absorbed to quit the excitement. Perhaps a little of both. It was good that the event was occurring as an appreciated distraction. Sicarius shuffled down the street, pushing past anyone in his way, although no one seemed to notice. It was an interesting feeling, as it was as close to invisibility as he had felt before. A brief thought of Mickey. After about three blocks, Sicarius heard a gruff voice in his ear.
“Hey, its Vince.”
Sicarius turned his head to see the grizzled features of Mr. Vincent Hastings. He seemed slightly panicked, but with a set expression throughout. He turned back to face forward on his destination.
“Hello, Mr. Hastings. Do not attempt to-”
“I know, I know. I’m not here to stop you or nothin’. I’m here to offer myself as an ally.”
“I do not recall requesting an ally.”
“No, but you are chargin’ into the fortress of a known enemy with nothing but a scrap of paper in your hand!”
“Mr. Bunts is a businessman at heart; he will listen to another intellectual’s words.”
“And if he doesn’t? I mean, you and me both know the controversies surroundin’ his authority. We don’t know what he could be capable of, Sicarius.”
Sicarius had thought of this fact, but chose to view controversies and rumors as they were: stories based on assumptions without fact.
“Truly, does anyone know what another is capable of until they display so?”
“What-?-look…you chose to establish yourself as a man of letters, completely disregardin’ your heritage of supernatural killin’ instinct.”
Sicarius side-eyed Mr. Hastings from beneath the mask.
“Which, of course, is fine. I believe each person has a right to choose their own path in life. Its why I joined the Melius Cras in the fight against the City’s perverted form of order. Now, I may not be the strongest in the world, but I consider myself a formidable brawler. Within Commeatus, I am solely responsible for ensurin’ my team and I acquire food and other resources to keep the people, me and my family included, fed and healthy. I scrounge the City for scraps and sometimes, Sicarius, those scraps don’t come. So, I do what needs to be done; steal, barter, or kill. Now, all this to say, however this bout with Bunts goes down, wouldn’t you think it’d be wise to have me by your side?”
Sicarius mulled over the monologue in his mind, attempting to see the situation from the proposed perspective; a useful technique for any situation, assuredly. Coming to his own conclusion within his own thoughts, Sicarius shifted his eyes back forward and said nothing more of it. Mr. Hastings took this as a sign to remain by Sicarius’ side. After a moment, or perhaps two, even, they arrived on the other side of the street at the office tower owned by Mr. Bunts.
It was at this point that it began to rain.
Sicarius walked up to the frigid, rain splattered steel that was the set of doors leading into the building and gently placed a hand on the handle, feeling the coldness of it. With a pull, the doors refused to yield; locked for the evening. He then turned to the intercom system and pressed a button to call up the tower. A resounding buzz emanated from the speaker as he did so, and then he spoke.
“Good evening. I request an audience with a Mr. Charles Bunts.”
The speaker crackled for a moment before a man’s voice, clearly annoyed, responded.
“What, what is this, who are you?”
“My name is Sicarius. I hail from the Underground.”
The system fell silent. Mr. Hastings, almost nervously, had been watching over Sicarius’ shoulder during this interaction.
“Maybe you oughta-”
But whatever Mr. Hastings thought Sicarius ‘ought to do’ was interrupted by the doors opening of their own accord. Both figures froze to stare at the oddity. Sicarius looked at Mr. Hastings before stepping into the building.
The atrium, while dark and empty, was an impressive arena of fortune. It was a widened room with a large ceiling and carpeted floors. There were several leather couches adorned amongst two separate lounge areas, both covered by a grand chandelier, and separated by a lavish bar. Behind the lounge areas, there were doors with no windows, one was open, and Sicarius could see inside was a round table with chairs decorated around it. This floor was for the most pristine of business meetings, surely. But precisely what business occurred here, neither Sicarius nor Mr. Hastings blood was rich enough to know of. Mr. Hastings commented on the sight.
“Vanitas vanitatum, fuck…”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“They definitely have clean water here.”
“I would surmise as much, yes.”
Just beyond the bar were two doors, both with large glass windows with intricate designs, slightly larger than the others. As they walked through the atrium, the one on the left slid into itself, revealing a very small room alight by a hanging lantern inside. Sicarius lazily pointed but asked Mr. Hastings a question.
“An elevator, is it not?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
They slowly walked into the elevator and were met with a series of buttons: ‘B’, ‘1’, all the way through ‘11’. A metallic slider was currently on ‘1’. Sicarius reasoned that Mr. Bunts would probably elevate himself above all others. He pressed the button marked ‘11’. Immediately, the door slid back out, closing, and the room started to creak and vibrate. The atrium slowly disappeared from view as the elevator took them upwards. There was naught but silence save for a slight tune which played from some unseen source within the elevator. Its name was Muzak; it had a deceitful calming effect on its passengers. Slowly, the next floor came into view.
Before them was a vast room adorned with many expensive qualities. There were numerous bookcases against the walls which housed books with titles in entirely foreign languages, to Sicarius at least. Some had strange assortments of symbols that decorated the spines. Another chandelier of considerable size hung from the ceiling over an intricate, widened desk. Beyond the desk was an impressive window with velvet black curtains, which were currently pulled to the side.
Through the glass, one could see majority of the City. Rain splattered against the panes. On the side of the desk closest to Sicarius and Mr. Hastings, there were two leather chairs sat at angles facing inward. On the other side, there was a much nicer leather chair, almost equivalent to a throne. It was currently inhabited by an individual known and feared by most, if not all, across the City and the Underground.
“Hey there, how are you this evening? Staying dry, I hope!”
Mr. Bunts stood up from his chair smiling with a hand stretched out to greet the figure before him.
Sicarius kept his eyes on Mr. Bunts from underneath his mask and stepped forward. Mr. Hastings narrowed his eyes as his gaze darted from Mr. Bunts to Sicarius rapidly. Sicarius met Mr. Bunts with a handshake and returned his greeting.
“Hello, I am fine. We scarcely arrived here as the rain started.”
“Ah, great! If I might ask, how come you aren’t out enjoying the festivities? It looked like quite the enjoyable scene down there!”
“I’m afraid I am here on rather unsavory business, Mr. Bunts. I have no desire nor need for frivolous pursuits this evening.”
Something of a scowl flashed across Mr. Bunts’ face as his smile faltered momentarily. He cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes, just a little.
“I see. Now, just what business would that be– Sicarius, was it?”
“Sicarius Mortuorum, yes. I took the liberty of formulating my thoughts, as they reflect the Underground’s, via the blackness of ink upon the roughness of parchment. It would do well for you to read its contents.”
“Haha, very well then, Mr. Mortuorum, please, give me this letter.”
Mr. Bunts’ laugh wasn’t genuine, no, it sounded harsh and mocking. Regardless, Sicarius procured the letter from inside his cloak and handed it into Mr. Bunts’ waiting hand. He sat back in his chair and read the declarations that was the Opus Mortis of Sicarius. Sicarius took this moment to analyze this man. He wore a fine, velvet, dark suit, hung himself by a blood-colored tie, held scraggly, wenge-hued hair with dirty blonde highlights, and his eyes…his eyes were almost soulless, and red veins crept around his sclera.
Those eyes scanned each letter of the paper borne declaration in front of him, donning mug smirk. Every now and then his eyebrows would raise quickly and he would nod. Finally, he looked up from the paper at the masked man in front of him.
“You wrote this?”
“Indeed.”
Mr. Bunts nodded, almost with pride, and folded the letter in half, throwing it to the side. He leaned forward, his hands folded on the desk, and looked into Sicarius’ eyes with his eyes narrowed and the same frustrating grin on his face. And he stared.
…
..
.
An uncomfortable amount of time passed, yet Sicarius remained a calm posture and eyes locked.
Finally, Mr. Bunts spoke.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Mortuorum?”
“I would surmise it to be uncouth to consume alcohol during matters of business.”
“Nonsense, please, allow me to poor us a glass. Whiskey alright?”
“If you must.”
“Wonderful. Hastings, would you like a glass?”
“Uh, sure, thanks.”
Mr. Bunts stood from his chair and stepped over to a shelf built into the wall beside the window. Within its contents, Mr. Bunts retrieved three glasses and an elegant decanter with an amber liquid swirling inside. As he poured, his voice was an odd sort of tone. Something between casual and intimidating; a true businessman, of course.
“This is Ten-year old aged Scottish whiskey, kept within an oakwood barrel. It has been triple distilled, which is uncommon, of course, as this particular bottle was made to achieve a smooth, delicate taste. Please, give it a try.”
He slid the glasses to Sicarius and Mr. Hastings, who took them warily. Mr. Hastings gave something of a shruglike expression before tasting the liquid. Sicarius eyed him carefully, but he only saw the much satisfied look upon his face as he drank. Mr. Bunts raised his glass slightly, and Sicarius finally lifted his own to the slit of a mouth which the mask held.
He tipped the glass and gently poured the whiskey into his mouth. Truly, it was of the most refined taste. It was smooth, as if a gentle fog had settled, floating into his throat. And yet, it had a soft burn of flames to it as well, the likes of which warmed his insides. He let out an audible sigh of appeasement. Mr. Bunts, still standing, let out a roguish chuckle, speaking before drinking himself.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Quite, yes.”
Mr. Bunts walked with his glass over to the window, staring out upon the City.
“See, Mr. Mortuorum, whiskey like this goes through a very long process before it can even begin to achieve a level of purification such as this. You did hear the part where I mentioned this was Ten-years aged, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good, because that’s important. Ten whole years aging a substance, each year progressively getting better and better.”
Sicarius was silent, unsure of the relevance of Mr. Bunts’ rant. He continued.
“The thing about whiskey, though, is that its aged within a wooden barrel. The wood absorbs and releases some of the flavor, adding to the complexity and sophistication of the final product.”
Mr. Bunts took another sip, admiring the liquid within the glass.
“The problem though, is that sometimes you have to throw away barrels. The process must be extremely clean, for if its not clean, then the batch gets spoiled. It can get spoiled so fast, so frustratingly fast. Imagine that, years of your life spent perfecting something, only for it to be rotted, ruined, in an instant.”
Sicarius began to suspect something malevolent was creeping into play. Mr. Bunts paused his monologue for a moment as he stared out upon the City.
“The people have elected me as a man in control, to a certain extent, of course. They talk, naturally, as all people do. They spread gormless lies for the very purpose of spreading lies, but truly, I only wish to make this City as perfect as it could be. I wish that my time within power will be used to further this place into glory, even far after I’m gone. The lines around the City; a wooden barrel. Everything within; whiskey.”
Sicarius spoke cautiously.
“Excuse my interruption, but what exactly is the purpose for this history lesson on alcohol you, seemingly senselessly, present me with?”
Mr. Bunts closed his eyes, almost in aguish, as he heard this. He took a couple steps to the side of the window before opening them and resuming his speech.
“The purpose, is this. Whiskey itself knows not when it is to be spoiled. Only the one who owns the barrel can see when impurities risk the rot. And it’s his job to remove the impurities, by any means necessary. The people enjoy their lavishness now, but in new morning, it shall all be removed. And behold, their owner will restore order, and bring this City into aged perfection.”
With a sigh, Mr. Bunts said these words.
“Alas, I lie in wait until that precious dawn. Until then, I will discard what threatens my spirits. I’m rather thankful the Underground’s Weapon stopped by tonight.”
Several things occurred at once. The first, Mr. Bunts let the dark curtains fall to cover the entirety of the window. The second, Sicarius had a revelation: Mr. Hastings never introduced himself, and yet Mr. Bunts casually regarded him when he gave him the glass. The third, a voice from behind softly saying a two-word phrase of lament.
“I’m sorry.”
And finally, a heavy impact to the head of Sicarius, who promptly fell to the ground, unconscious.
…
..
.
And there was a music in the air as conscious thought floated beyond.
…
..
.
Dull ringing, spotted vision.
Dragged across floors.
Restraints and cold bindings.
Darkness.
Murmurs and murmurs and murmurs.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Screams.
And screams, and murders, and twisted reality, and banishment, and overwhelming greed, and the abandonment of hope, and loss of innocence, and the great collapse, and yet;
This was only the beginning.
.
fin.
ink stained pages 
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