The arrival of midnight brought with it a chilling mist to the city of London; thick wisps that obscured all vision beyond a few feet, making the pavements and walls of buildings slick and damp in a cold sweat. Unusual for the summer, yet not unheard of. The occasional build-up of condensation brought about by the hot weather, (or something like that) would be the embarrassed excuse given by the weather department the next day, as they were at a loss to explain something that, by rights, should not have even existed. Yet most who were witness to this weather phenomenon were oblivious to it; tucked safely away with an office working a night shift, or outside on the streets, far more concerned with what it might conceal; every sound muted to a bare whisper save for one’s own breathing and hammering heart, which pounded painfully and seemingly loud enough to wake up the entire city.
Atop an office building like any other, the mist darkened, swirling violently as it formed a vaguely humanoid shape at the lip of the roof. It was little more than black smoke, perhaps more insubstantial than the mist it-self…except for the eyes, two burning red-hot embers in the area where the head would be, the only thing to indicate that the figure was there, rather than a simple trick of the light of the moon, strangely muffled, as though the mist reached into the sky to snuff out its presence as well. It stood atop the building for a time, gazing out upon the mostly sleeping city. A ritual it had observed for several nights now, each time in a different location, its purpose as unknowable as its intent, for it kept its own counsel, save for perhaps the mist, which followed it around with all the loyalty and tenacity of a particularly stubborn dog. Powerful and ancient beyond human comprehension, it simply watched, as if it knew something of the future to come, a future no doubt filled with pain, suffering, and unbelievable sacrifice. For power ever attracted power, and any who could but look upon this terrifying and mysterious visage would know, instinctively, that it was not alone. It was simply the beginning. The first, and certainly not the last.
Seconds crept into minutes, which crept into hours, and eventually sunrise. As quickly as it had appeared, the figure disappeared, vanishing into the mists it had spawned. Perhaps it had never even been there at all; simply a trick of the mist, which was even now being relentlessly burned away by the morning sun as it crawled above the horizon to herald the start of another day. Unseen and unwitnessed, perhaps it had never existed in the first place; many were the tricks of the night, and the imagination was parley to such fancies as cloaked figures in the night. Perhaps then, this one last jest before morning, a sour and uncharitable note from the night as it was forced to give way to the day: an apparition of ominous cast and ill intent, a reminder that the day could not last forever. But then, perhaps…perhaps it was a sign of things yet to come. A warning, ever ignored…and ever forgotten.
---
Emily had always hated Covent Garden, especially in the morning rush hour. Packed with snobby businessmen who thought they were better than other people, tourists who didn’t speak a word of English and always had their hands over their mouths when talking to you as though you had some kind of disease, beggars who couldn’t be arsed to get a job and preferred to leech off other people instead, people trying to sell you some-thing or get you to donate to something stupid in some country that probably didn’t even exist and, inevitably, spoilt children screaming at their parents, reminding her far too much of her own childhood. She hated this cesspool of humanity more than anywhere else, and it was times like these, when she was forced to intermingle with the rabble, that she missed New York’s underbelly. At least down there people were honest with themselves. These English people seemed to think they were above it all, but in truth they were just as big of pieces of shit as their less refined cousins across the sea. It was times like these she wondered why she had ever come to London, and why she was still there. Especially now, with recent events in her life being what they were.
Her target, a man in his late forties she knew well – far better than he would ever dare admit – moved easily through the crowd, his natural girth and arrogance getting people to literally part for him, much like a sea forces itself through the ocean’s currents. Her former boss, Eric (not his real name; none of the cabbies could pronounce it, so they simply called him that…she had never even bothered to find out what his real name was), she had been following him for the better part of four hours, and was beginning to get bored. She had planned on blowing him up in his house, but it was clear that he had no intention of returning home until tonight, if then, and she had better things to do than follow him around all morning…after all, he had friends and family that had been just as responsible for fucking her life up.
Of all the people who could have been made redundant, he had chosen her. Without a shred of remorse, de-spite what they had been through – or perhaps because of it, for he was a married man – he had simply pro-nounced that her services were no longer required, as though she was some common whore or his pet mis-tress, and not his most reliable, hardworking employee. He had no idea – no idea at all! – how much she had worked for this job, this life. In five minutes, he had destroyed everything she had worked so hard to build since she arrived at London, barely two years before this. She had more than proven that she was the most hardworking and dedicated of the lot, yet did that matter? Not in the slightest. People had joined up after she had, why not get rid of them? That was how it was supposed to work. But no. He had singled her out (she doubted he had let anyone else off, despite his claims) and that was that.
He was going to pay. That bastard was going to burn for this. Him and the rest of those fat, middle-aged pieces of shit who spent more time reading the bloody paper than they did actually driving, always undressing her with their eyes, for she knew that look, all too well. She’d put up with abuse, taken every shift she’d been given (she had, in fact, just come off an entire night shift; her eyes felt like they were filled with grit and her head pounded with the promise of a splitting headache if she didn't sleep soon) and never once had she complained, although more than once she’d wanted to blow each and every one of those fuckers sky high. This was to be her reward for her uncharacteristic patience? Laid off simply because her boss was a spineless worm who couldn’t get his hands out of his co-workers filth-encrusted trousers? Things were NOT going to end this way. He was going to be sorry that he’d ever messed with her.
He entered Battersea Pie Station. There to stuff his face again, like he always did; she’d seen him come back before with empty wrappers, the stink of grease about him…more so than usual, anyway. She’d had enough of following him, like some sort of deranged stalker. Here was as good as anywhere else. Better, perhaps. It might make people a little more subdued, which would mean they wouldn’t be so damn noisy and, with any luck, that morning grogginess those who were lucky enough to get to sleep at night experienced would stop them from overreacting. Nine in the morning was far too early for a fuss, after all. Clenching her fists, she focused her will.
She had never been entirely sure how she managed it; her powers were, for the most part, incorporeal, limited to illusions and blinding people. Cheap parlour tricks, really – most magicians could do better – yet, when she did this, the results were always devastating. At her command, light coalesced around the roof of the building, small liquid goblets like the contents of a lava lamp, swirling, drawn to a single point, before suddenly exploding downwards in a pure, concentrated beam too radiant for even Emily to look at to strike the small shop, briefly illuminating the people inside before they, too, vanished, and the entire building seemed to explode outwards, obliterating the small café and much of the building it was a part of, hot metal and plaster showering the street, those closest to the explosion propelled away, their lifeless bodies hitting the street with mundane finality a few feet away. A stunned silence, during which crackling flames licked at the remains of the building, before the people on the street seemed to regain their senses, and almost in perfect unison erupted into frenzy, swarming the street like panicking ants. She spat to clear the taste of bile from her mouth as the stench of blood, faeces and charred bodies assaulted her nostrils. Perhaps the only negative side effect of using her powers this way: the smell was absolutely disgusting, and the sight made her want to vomit.
Emily cursed as she was clipped by a passer-by, momentarily breaking her concentration and rendering her visible. Fuming, she refracted the light around her form, invisible once again. They always did this! Idiots! What were they panicking for? If it were a suicide bomber, what on earth made them think that there would be another one nearby? What kind of idiotic terrorist would target an insignificant pie shop anyway?! Could they not form a logical conclusion in those pitifully small brains?
Their irrational panic – and the noise they were making, like they were all being tortured in some unspeakable fashion – irritated Emily further, and she unleashed a second strike; this time in the middle of the street, where most of the people were congregating, each one fighting to go off in an entirely different direction. Another blinding flash, and the street exploded, sending rubble and worse raining down on what remained of the crowd. What remained of them fled in the opposite direction in unison, and Emily sent a third ray after them, sending bodies spinning through the air.
There. Now you’ve got something to scream about.
Sirens started blaring in the background…evidently someone had kept their head and called the fire department. Sirens meant fire engines and, inevitably, policemen. And, more often of late, these other men, garbed in ridiculous armour and wielding antiquated weapons. Some Order or something, that dealt with stuff like this. Probably fancied themselves to be like the superheroes in the comics. The stuff the government funded these days was ridiculous – bloody stupid indecisive country; if they’d voted cleanly one way or the other, maybe this place wouldn’t be such a shithole. Either way, it was time to leave. She’d follow the crowd for now, perhaps have a little more fun with them – disrupting the masses was highly therapeutic after one had just had an extremely lousy morning – before she settled her score with the rest of them, the others that had ruined her life. She’d see them burn as well, before the day was out. Nobody would miss a few worthless cabbies. It might take her some time, but she’d track each and every one of them down and blow them up in much the same way. Perhaps she’d even take her time with a few of them, scorching their skin off and roasting them in their own juices before finishing them off.
Good morning, London.
Atop an office building like any other, the mist darkened, swirling violently as it formed a vaguely humanoid shape at the lip of the roof. It was little more than black smoke, perhaps more insubstantial than the mist it-self…except for the eyes, two burning red-hot embers in the area where the head would be, the only thing to indicate that the figure was there, rather than a simple trick of the light of the moon, strangely muffled, as though the mist reached into the sky to snuff out its presence as well. It stood atop the building for a time, gazing out upon the mostly sleeping city. A ritual it had observed for several nights now, each time in a different location, its purpose as unknowable as its intent, for it kept its own counsel, save for perhaps the mist, which followed it around with all the loyalty and tenacity of a particularly stubborn dog. Powerful and ancient beyond human comprehension, it simply watched, as if it knew something of the future to come, a future no doubt filled with pain, suffering, and unbelievable sacrifice. For power ever attracted power, and any who could but look upon this terrifying and mysterious visage would know, instinctively, that it was not alone. It was simply the beginning. The first, and certainly not the last.
Seconds crept into minutes, which crept into hours, and eventually sunrise. As quickly as it had appeared, the figure disappeared, vanishing into the mists it had spawned. Perhaps it had never even been there at all; simply a trick of the mist, which was even now being relentlessly burned away by the morning sun as it crawled above the horizon to herald the start of another day. Unseen and unwitnessed, perhaps it had never existed in the first place; many were the tricks of the night, and the imagination was parley to such fancies as cloaked figures in the night. Perhaps then, this one last jest before morning, a sour and uncharitable note from the night as it was forced to give way to the day: an apparition of ominous cast and ill intent, a reminder that the day could not last forever. But then, perhaps…perhaps it was a sign of things yet to come. A warning, ever ignored…and ever forgotten.
---
Emily had always hated Covent Garden, especially in the morning rush hour. Packed with snobby businessmen who thought they were better than other people, tourists who didn’t speak a word of English and always had their hands over their mouths when talking to you as though you had some kind of disease, beggars who couldn’t be arsed to get a job and preferred to leech off other people instead, people trying to sell you some-thing or get you to donate to something stupid in some country that probably didn’t even exist and, inevitably, spoilt children screaming at their parents, reminding her far too much of her own childhood. She hated this cesspool of humanity more than anywhere else, and it was times like these, when she was forced to intermingle with the rabble, that she missed New York’s underbelly. At least down there people were honest with themselves. These English people seemed to think they were above it all, but in truth they were just as big of pieces of shit as their less refined cousins across the sea. It was times like these she wondered why she had ever come to London, and why she was still there. Especially now, with recent events in her life being what they were.
Her target, a man in his late forties she knew well – far better than he would ever dare admit – moved easily through the crowd, his natural girth and arrogance getting people to literally part for him, much like a sea forces itself through the ocean’s currents. Her former boss, Eric (not his real name; none of the cabbies could pronounce it, so they simply called him that…she had never even bothered to find out what his real name was), she had been following him for the better part of four hours, and was beginning to get bored. She had planned on blowing him up in his house, but it was clear that he had no intention of returning home until tonight, if then, and she had better things to do than follow him around all morning…after all, he had friends and family that had been just as responsible for fucking her life up.
Of all the people who could have been made redundant, he had chosen her. Without a shred of remorse, de-spite what they had been through – or perhaps because of it, for he was a married man – he had simply pro-nounced that her services were no longer required, as though she was some common whore or his pet mis-tress, and not his most reliable, hardworking employee. He had no idea – no idea at all! – how much she had worked for this job, this life. In five minutes, he had destroyed everything she had worked so hard to build since she arrived at London, barely two years before this. She had more than proven that she was the most hardworking and dedicated of the lot, yet did that matter? Not in the slightest. People had joined up after she had, why not get rid of them? That was how it was supposed to work. But no. He had singled her out (she doubted he had let anyone else off, despite his claims) and that was that.
He was going to pay. That bastard was going to burn for this. Him and the rest of those fat, middle-aged pieces of shit who spent more time reading the bloody paper than they did actually driving, always undressing her with their eyes, for she knew that look, all too well. She’d put up with abuse, taken every shift she’d been given (she had, in fact, just come off an entire night shift; her eyes felt like they were filled with grit and her head pounded with the promise of a splitting headache if she didn't sleep soon) and never once had she complained, although more than once she’d wanted to blow each and every one of those fuckers sky high. This was to be her reward for her uncharacteristic patience? Laid off simply because her boss was a spineless worm who couldn’t get his hands out of his co-workers filth-encrusted trousers? Things were NOT going to end this way. He was going to be sorry that he’d ever messed with her.
He entered Battersea Pie Station. There to stuff his face again, like he always did; she’d seen him come back before with empty wrappers, the stink of grease about him…more so than usual, anyway. She’d had enough of following him, like some sort of deranged stalker. Here was as good as anywhere else. Better, perhaps. It might make people a little more subdued, which would mean they wouldn’t be so damn noisy and, with any luck, that morning grogginess those who were lucky enough to get to sleep at night experienced would stop them from overreacting. Nine in the morning was far too early for a fuss, after all. Clenching her fists, she focused her will.
She had never been entirely sure how she managed it; her powers were, for the most part, incorporeal, limited to illusions and blinding people. Cheap parlour tricks, really – most magicians could do better – yet, when she did this, the results were always devastating. At her command, light coalesced around the roof of the building, small liquid goblets like the contents of a lava lamp, swirling, drawn to a single point, before suddenly exploding downwards in a pure, concentrated beam too radiant for even Emily to look at to strike the small shop, briefly illuminating the people inside before they, too, vanished, and the entire building seemed to explode outwards, obliterating the small café and much of the building it was a part of, hot metal and plaster showering the street, those closest to the explosion propelled away, their lifeless bodies hitting the street with mundane finality a few feet away. A stunned silence, during which crackling flames licked at the remains of the building, before the people on the street seemed to regain their senses, and almost in perfect unison erupted into frenzy, swarming the street like panicking ants. She spat to clear the taste of bile from her mouth as the stench of blood, faeces and charred bodies assaulted her nostrils. Perhaps the only negative side effect of using her powers this way: the smell was absolutely disgusting, and the sight made her want to vomit.
Emily cursed as she was clipped by a passer-by, momentarily breaking her concentration and rendering her visible. Fuming, she refracted the light around her form, invisible once again. They always did this! Idiots! What were they panicking for? If it were a suicide bomber, what on earth made them think that there would be another one nearby? What kind of idiotic terrorist would target an insignificant pie shop anyway?! Could they not form a logical conclusion in those pitifully small brains?
Their irrational panic – and the noise they were making, like they were all being tortured in some unspeakable fashion – irritated Emily further, and she unleashed a second strike; this time in the middle of the street, where most of the people were congregating, each one fighting to go off in an entirely different direction. Another blinding flash, and the street exploded, sending rubble and worse raining down on what remained of the crowd. What remained of them fled in the opposite direction in unison, and Emily sent a third ray after them, sending bodies spinning through the air.
There. Now you’ve got something to scream about.
Sirens started blaring in the background…evidently someone had kept their head and called the fire department. Sirens meant fire engines and, inevitably, policemen. And, more often of late, these other men, garbed in ridiculous armour and wielding antiquated weapons. Some Order or something, that dealt with stuff like this. Probably fancied themselves to be like the superheroes in the comics. The stuff the government funded these days was ridiculous – bloody stupid indecisive country; if they’d voted cleanly one way or the other, maybe this place wouldn’t be such a shithole. Either way, it was time to leave. She’d follow the crowd for now, perhaps have a little more fun with them – disrupting the masses was highly therapeutic after one had just had an extremely lousy morning – before she settled her score with the rest of them, the others that had ruined her life. She’d see them burn as well, before the day was out. Nobody would miss a few worthless cabbies. It might take her some time, but she’d track each and every one of them down and blow them up in much the same way. Perhaps she’d even take her time with a few of them, scorching their skin off and roasting them in their own juices before finishing them off.
Good morning, London.
]
