The policeman fell, torso tearing at its abdomen as it bent backward and crumpled over. Luxen dancing as a single point of light through its body and returning it to death before it had a chance to call for help.
Far from the first that Simeon Taylor had destroyed - he reminded himself as he flicked the blade clean of any blood. His conscience was always unburdened, he knew they were already dead. A sin to call human, even. With a flourish in perfect silence, Luxen was sheathed. Simeon noted his form was hasty, but he thought to let this one slide. This was no fencing strip.
His legs burned, he knew his way home through the dark but at this rate he’d have to take more discrete routes. Simeon was running out of time, the hour call for five was too long ago, it’ll be six any second. The warmth of his morning cloak was a blessing during the long cold nights but his outfit only got in the way now that he had to move quickly. He would have to leave it home next time, if there was a next time.
The things he saw defending the city many hours ago changed everything. He knew the existence of Anomalies meant this world had no true laws, facts are not real. But he could at least believe Anomalies were the enemy - as he’d been taught. But that… Abomination was working with the police. A mound of aching red flesh puppeteered by sharp, copper pipes and clockwork. The Chimera swung at something unseen, shafts of brass and teeth unfolding, snapping, cutting through its flesh which seemed at odds with the rest of its form. Swiping in a massive arc, cracking mechanically until it eventually crashed into the victim with its suddenly formed jaws. Shaking the street with a clang resembling a giant brass bell. He'd heard sounds like that before, hundreds of times during lockdowns. He had to tell his family.
They were all gone now, The Chimeras. Likely shifting to a smaller frame, then slithered into some tiny gutter or hiding in other dark places just out of sight. He continued his assault towards the palace. His lungs strained against his tight-fitting blouse, air hissing through his lips. Mary Street, past Richmond Place and through Bishop’s Avenue. The rocky, poorly paved road making an inconvenient and risky path to dash across, tearing at his leather boots which – though well used – we not used to circumstances like this, hopefully any scuffs can be polished out. The rest of the upperclassmen were privy to such details. Especially the rest of the Taylor's; his parents well included.
Then it happened. That all-too-familiar sound. Creaking, centuries old metal moans from high above. The sun finally began to open its eye. The giant bulb that perpetually remained lit, was only ever covered and never disabled. Its many eyelids crashing into each other as they whirred open.
Sim cursed out loud, then cursed internally at his recklessness. Not that anyone heard him above the commotion. Wasted thoughts, he thought, and composed himself. The sound will cover him. He can be reckless now, he has to be.
An ever-expanding ravine of blinding light, quaking as it widens, crawling over buildings as the bulb is rapidly unraveled. Colossal chains and rusted, dry metal screaming in unmaintained agony as the electronic speakers scattered across every street suddenly blared music in a futile attempt to drown out the noise. Both reverberating off the ceiling, and far, far out of sight echoing against the horizon - the cavern walls.
The sun was rising. The morning anthem had begun.
He thought about sacrifices, slipping into a dark alleyway. This was no shortcut, but the shadows were always his ally, his round glasses might catch the light without them and his colours would surely stand out. He cursed his shortsightedness, literally speaking anyway.
Each electronic speaker continued failing their attempts utterly to sync up with the others, the optimist’s interpretation would blame their distance between each-other rending harmony impossible, but the truth of the matter was their designer simply didn’t care enough. Sim barely slowed as he weaved through web-like piping. Most of it taking unnecessary twists and turns before reaching their destinations, if they even served a purpose.
Today the cacophony was a small blessing, Simeon thought; nearing his destination, as the heat of the sun crawled up his back and raced ahead of him. River street was ahead… He would need cover, or his tracks would echo through the entire City from that wide road. The Police had retired from their nightly duties and undoubtedly positioned themselves at their stations, everywhere. But Silence was also coming up, like clockwork Simeon knew it would be. The same as he’d always heard it every morning for the past 17 years. He could make it across the road, surely before-
The false sun announced awakening, now fully unrestrained. A series of deafening shrieks rang everywhere, as six building-sized pressurized pistons exploded into place, locking the many lids open in Six. Clear. Beats. The trumpets ceased, loosely choreographed with the ancient mechanisms making up the world he lived in, and then there was a pause. A silence.
Skidding to a halt just before the clearing, wincing and catching his breath. Simeon leant against the wall and mouthed silently. “A one… Two… Three…”
“… Allez!”
The speakers began to sputter the beginnings of a bass drum solo, and he ran across the road, rising in pace. Simeon’s rapid footsteps shared the faux-rhythm of the percussion as the piece continued. He was part of the terrible performance, his thin leather boots clanging against the iron fence of the palace grounds as he mounted it. With a flourish and a stumble into the dry brown grass, the chorus was here.
He flinched.
Everyone Flinched.
A dozen worn trumpets were released from the shackles of the score. Pinging off every copper pipe. Quaking through every drain and gutter. The bricks themselves trembled and longed desperately to escape their mortar binding and shatter to pieces on the pavement.
Sim was reduced to instincts alone, tripping but ultimately recovering. His thoughts now disintegrated by sensory over-stimulation. The stars - when they finally felt like doing so - began to close. Drifting to sleep now that the sun had claimed its wrathful dominion over the rocky sky. Each star expending enormous, audible effort to retire. Hundreds of tiny, rusty mechanisms contributing – as they always did – to the city’s well-worn wake up call.
His third-story bedroom window finally came into view, left discretely ajar. Blending in with the dozens and dozens of other windows making up the walls of his family’s impressive home. His heart pounding in his ears, his head aching from stress, his legs losing almost all sensation. One last push.
Every instrument began fighting for dominance in a reprising bloodbath of desperate and confused patriotism. He drew Luxen.
Charging at the house and launching off a lower windowsill with effort he didn’t have, kicking off the otherwise useless drainage pipe that ran by his window, and wedging his saber between the window flaps, at long last, sim crashed his windows open and collapsed onto the floor of his room. His companion clattered beside him.
Halt! Safe.
His clothes were surely getting dusty on the floor but he hadn’t the room to care about that, now that the numbness across his body quickly vanished all of his joints were searing, bruises he didn’t notice were coming to light, and found himself coughing as if his lungs were finally catching up with him, and punishing him for the abuse they received. Luxen rang continuously even after rolling to a halt, as if groaning with him.
He was back in the palace, alive. None had seen him, and the last echoes of the national anthem were finally fading. The echoing, aged, choking, head-splitting anthem-
“The time is Six O’clock. All is well”
-of UnLondon.