A Brotherhood of Crows.

The city of London is a city of absurdity.

London is home to two kinds of people; the absurdly rich, the segment of society whose wealth made them seem distant and alien, and the absurdly poor, who toiled silently to make sure the absurdly rich could continue their absurdity. The rich were absurd out of choice; their money and their infrastructure distorting their gaze, so that to them everyone outside of their bubble was freakish and mockable. The poor, however, lived in absurdity because they had no choice.

No greater example of this absurdity could be found than the Rim; a ramshackle shanty town that hung out over the River Thames as it curved near the Isle of Dogs. Its story was typical of London’s absurdity. As London had grown, and the rich had gotten richer and the poor had gotten poorer, the neighbours of the rich had expanded like a coffee stain. The once working class districts of Hackney and Mile End had been obliterated, flattened to make way for more eye-wateringly expensive high rise houses, more soaring skyscrapers for the rich to work in, more neat little parks which amounted to their only sense of nature. And the poor, those who had been born and lived and loved and died in those neighbourhoods, had been driven into the river. Some years ago, the only affordable place to live for those whose salaries did not equate to more than the entire wealth of some Commonwealth countries, had been boats; rowing boats, river barges, old pleasure cruisers - often dozens of families had been forced to occupy a riverbound existence, as a flotilla city, a city within a city, formed on the Thames. The people who cleaned the home of the rich, who taught their children, who tidied their street, and served them drinks and slept with their businessman in exchange for meagre amounts because they had no other choice, floated upon the gray waters of the Thames, because they had nowhere else to go.

And then the backlash had begun. Influential people, people with money, wanted the river back. Thus, successive Mayors (with the backing of the Commonwealth government) had driven the boats further away from the city, until they had all congregated and crashed and combined where river was at its narrowest, at the curve of the Isle of Dogs. And there, absurdly, the absurdly poor of London had settled, and built up a shanty town from where, at all hours of the day and night, they crept out into the absurd city of London. And so the Rim has been born.

As we entered the Rim, I could tell the many intricate levels and passageways and storeys of the Rim had been built in the knowledge that it would not last. Every few years a new Mayor would vow to get rid of the Rim. It was an eyesore. It was unsafe. It simply wasn’t London. Where the people who kept the city moving, who dwelt in the shacks and slums of the Rim, in houses that jutted precariously over the river water, would go was not a question the government felt needed an answer.

There was only one way into the Rim, currently - a narrow gangway which stretched precariously from the bank on the Isle of Dogs out into the messy concertina of a city. It was here that Tobias and I arrived. We were stopped and questioned by two burly guards. Neither was armed with anything more lethal than a cricket bat (in one case) and an almost comically large spanner (in the other case). The Rim had its own form of law, certainly (the Met only ever entered the Rim on immigration raids) but the Rim guards could not risk carrying firearms. Should someone come into the Rim meaning trouble, there would be little they could do.

In truth, I reflected, as we walked, cautiously, across the swaying gangway, wobbling above a dark and dank looking Thames, the guards were meant to be an early warning system. Many of the citizens of the Rim had fallen foul of the Debt Fluidity act. Debt Fluidity, (or, Bill for the Protection and Recovery of all Assets) was a new phenomenon, which saw money owed to the state or private interests requiring payment no matter what happened - bankruptcy was effectively annihilated because even if someone declared bankruptcy, the creditors could still demand the money. Stories drifted about on the holo of people throwing themselves out of their first floor windows to their deaths as the bailiffs broke in through the ground floor. Most sadistically, Debt Fluidity could grow, like a liquid filling a container. File for bankruptcy? The debt is doubled, for my inconvenience. Home repossessed? The debt is tripled, as you, the debtor should have learned to avoid debts in the first place. Die before the debt is paid? It is transferred to your children, and their children, and their children, and with each generational shift the debt is multiplied, so that children would learn from the sins of their parents. I remember the announcement of Debt Fluidity on the holo. Must have been three or four years back. The Prime Minister gave a press conference. He talked about the need for fiscal responsibility, and encouraging aspirational business interests and of being “harsh but fair” on debtors. “We must all pay our dues,” he had intoned, to applause “It is the prices of citizenship.”

And now, many of those caught in the wash of Debt Fluidity hid out here, on the Rim, hoping that no one would find them. Many had lost everything already, and they slept in filth in the bilges of broken boats. Many had no hope, and were simply looking for a place to lie still, foetal, until they throw themselves into the unflinching grey waters of the Thames. Many of them knew they were still being sought, and the poorly armed guards might not be able to slow down, or even raise the alarm, before the debt collectors found them again.

And it into this chaotic mess of broken boats, barges, river debris and fragmented lives that Tobias and I walked, looking for a man called John the Baptist.

“Why John the Baptist?” Tobias asked as we threaded our way through the narrow deck of an old river barge. On either side, boats and shacks had been set up as open fronted shops. This was the Rim’s market.

“John built this place, in effect,” I replied. We were walking sideways, sliding between gaps in the crowd. “He’s also an arrogant fuck, and thinks of himself as the saviour of these people. Which is true. To a point.”

“You work with him before?”

“I did him a favour once,” I said, as we ascended up a precious rope bridge between the market barge and what appeared to be the broken hull of the Commonwealth airship, perhaps a bit of war wreckage that had somehow found its way into the Thames. “Now he owes me one.”

Tobias frowned. “You do lots of favours for lots of people.” he said as ducked under a low toppled mast, the remnants of a once luxury yacht, now, by the looks of it, a makeshift school.

“Best currency around,” I replied. “Money can be frittered away on any little thing. It gets sucked away from you just because you’re alive. Once someone owes you a favour, you can call it in as and when needed. You set your own rate of exchange. A favour is worth more than all the gold in London.”

“Is that why we have no money?” Tobias shot back.

“No,” I ducked under a low prow and began to ascend a shaky rigging, “We don’t have any money because we get on fine without it.”

“And because we make our living sorting out supernatural problems?”

“That too.”

“And because you’re one of those weirdos who doesn’t like money.”

“It is the root of all evil.” I paused, trying to get my bearings. The Rim was always changing - new boats collided with others, some were hoisted up to create new levels; the whole thing was a ramshackled maze that only its oldest denizens knew how to navigate.

Tobias snorted. “Commie.”

“Anarchist, actually. Come on, this way.”

Eventually, we came to the closest thing the Rim had to a town square - a gargantuan cargo vessel, hoisted out of the water, several levels about the murky Thames. Its deck, once lined with cargo containers, was now an open space, surrounded by other wrecks like houses, and the people of the Rim drifted across it. Ahead of us was the smashed, chaotic remains of what might, at one point, have been many many ships, crushed together and mashed into something now akin to a castle turret. Only John the Baptist would build himself a castle in a shanty town.

“Did you have to bring all those throwing knives?” I asked over my shoulder. “I can hear you clanking, as can half of London.”

“Well, you’re the one who won’t let me carry a gun,” sniffed Tobias. He reached under his hoodie and adjusted one of the bandoliers of knives hidden within.

“Yeah, because if I gave you a gun you’d start trying to twirl it around your fingers, call everyone ‘partner’ and then blow a hole in my bathroom ceiling.”

“Whatever makes you say that?”

“Because the only time I gave you a gun you started twirling it around your fingers, calling everyone partner and then blew a hole in my bathroom ceiling.”

“Yeah but...come on, we could try again? For the sake of scientific accuracy?

“...no. Besides, you get on well enough with your staff. And you have all those knives now. Though you should probably be aware a fair few of them are butter knives,”

“No they aren’t!” he cried, defensively.

“You look like a cutlery draw with intent.”

“Also,” Tobias, presumably trying to change the subject. I saw him very briefly draw one of the knives from the sheaths, see it was a fork, and hurriedly hide it, “It’s a bit rich you talking about not having money in a place like this.”

“I think,” I said, glancing around, “that puts us on an equal level with the general population.”

“Which is my point,” Tobias waved an arm at the ramshackled buildings around us, “No one in this town has any money, us included. But for these guys, that’s just life. They are broke. You choose not to have money. And you only do that cos we’ve got means to survive without it- my doing, incidentally.” He hesitated, and glanced at me with a sudden earnestness. “How do you think these poor bastards feel, hearing you talking about money as if it’s an optional extra? Don’t you think they’d love to live for one day in that world?”

I opened my mouth to reply but closed it again for two reasons. Firstly, we’d reached the door to John the Baptist’s castle, and secondly, because he had a point.

We approached the door, and stopped there.

“You sure I have to wait outside?” Tobias said. He crossed his arms and propped himself against the door frame.

“Fraid so,” I replied. “John’s very particular about the people he talks to. He agreed to talk if it was me and me alone.”

“Fair,” Tobias popped open his wrist unit and started tapping away, “Well, be careful in there, okay?”

I glanced at him sideways. “Um, thanks?”

“I have condoms if you need them -?”

“2/10,”

“You’re welcome,”

I pushed through the door and stepped inside. The interior of this space might well have been vast, a great cavernous hall. Its true size was impossible to tell because almost every square inch of was filled with enormous piles of junk. As I entered, I passed a massive stack of torn tattered cushions, many of them spewing stuffing. Next to them was a pile of window frames, each one glassless and gaping. As I walked forward, I ducked under the crumpled wrecks of broke bicycles, dangling from the ceiling like meat hooks. Light filtered into the room from windows mostly blocked off by towers of human detritus, and it was dim, almost church-like inside. Yet for all of the mess, there was a kind of method here - someone had taken the time to meticulously organise each pile by object type: mountains of old glasses, plastic wrappers, empty take away packets. And that someone I found, at the heart of the grand collection, sprawled upon an ancient car seat.

“ELIJAH!” boomed John the Baptist, “So good of you to call!”

John the Baptist wasn’t just fat, but running, leaping and bounding into morbid obesity. He must have weighed thirty stone at least, and he was tall, taller than me, and his girth made him seem to fill every space with the great expanses of his flesh. Yet when he saw me he leapt to his feet, and moved with surprising elegance to greet me. The enormous hand which seized mine and gave it an enthusiastic pumping was hard, the fingers calloused from long years of manual work, and from his grasp I could feel that beneath all the fat, that gave him the appearance of an oversized baby, was a good deal of muscle.

“John,” I said, taking back my hand, which had gone numb. “Good to see you again. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,”

“Not at all, my boy!” John spoke in only one volume, a great booming, foghorn of a voice. “Always a pleasure to see a friend of the Rim! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

John settled back into his throne, and regarded me beadily, his eyes dark beacons piercing out from rolls of fat. I patted my pockets for my tobacco pouch, and then thought better of it. I didn’t know how flammable John’s collection of rubbish might turn out to be. Instead, I crossed my arms and tried to ignore my nicotine cravings. “You know me, John,” I said, “I’m here to call in a favour,”

“Ah….” John the Baptist leaned back in his chair, which creaked worryingly under his weight, “Of course….of course...I suspected as much. Your famous system of favours…”

“That’s how I work, John,”

“Oh, I know, my boy, I know,” He leant forward, a movement far too quick for a man of his size, “Everyone does. You know they talk about you, my baptized?” he inclined his head towards the world outside, “Your name is well known in this town...not your real one, fear not...but they do say that the Sleepwalker will always come to count the cost in favours,”

Fucking hell, that name gets everywhere. “I’m flattered. I need information from you, John. About a job. And I need you to be discrete.”

“Of course, old thing, of course,” a slow smile spread across John’s wide face. “Your currency is information. We’re not so different in that respect,” his hand suddenly plunged into one of the nearby piles. “Do you know why I collect my little things and bric a brac?”

Because you’re a compulsive hoarder? “We all need a hobby,”

“A hobby?” there was a sudden steeliness in John’s normally amiable voice. “This is more than a hobby, my boy. Look at this,”

He had pulled something out of the pile and held it up for me to see. I squinted at it in the gloom. “A toy car?”

“No...look closely...do you not see it?”

“Can’t say I do, sorry, John,”

“A far wiser man than I once wrote: the passion of the collector borders on the chaos of memory. You see a toy car - I see a memory. Every one of these items belonged to one of my baptised...do you know how many people have drifted under my wing? Thousands, maybe tens of thousands. They arrive with not a penny to their name, but they do...they do have objects. Things. Possessions. Stuff, if you will. When they leave these shore, sometimes those things are left behind. I preserve them here, a little memorial if you will. Do you not look at this,” he waved the toy car for emphasis, “And wonder what memories lie hidden within? Perhaps it was a child’s favourite toy, a little spark of light in a dark little life? Perhaps it was a childhood memento? Where does it come from? What thoughts went through its buyer’s mind? Does the original owner even remember it, pine for it, wish they could see it once again? All of this, all of it stands a mausoleum to the cruelty of the land folk, who’d rather forget we exist.”

He lapsed into a sudden silence, almost a sad silence. I licked my lips gently; his little speech was unexpected, and I suddenly felt very crowded among the towers of memories. “Information, John. I need some answers.”

The toy car vanished back to where it had come from. “Very well, Elijah, ask your questions.”

“I have one. What do you know of the Brotherhood of Crows?”

John didn’t reply. He leaned back again, and interlaced his huge fingers.

“That, my boy,” he said in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “Is very specific information.”

“Which is why I came here. We both know how well connected you are, John. We know that if anything happens in this city, you hear about it. If anyone can answer me, it’s you, so I’ll ask you again: who are the Brotherhood of Crows?”

“What you’re asking me is -”

“Dangerous? I’ve heard. What I haven’t heard is the answer to my question.”

“This is perhaps, more, my boy, then I owe you -?”

“No, it isn’t. “ I said firmly. “You know what I did for you. You had your back against the wall and everything you built here was about to come crashing down around you. You called me and I saved your skin. At considerable risk to myself. So don’t bullshit me, John. Tell me what you know about the Brotherhood of Crows.”

John sighed, a great weary expulsion of breath. “Very well. The organisation you seek...very little is know. I can offer you many rumours, and few facts.”

“There’s always some truth in a rumour, no matter how well hidden. So give me what you have.”

“They are a religious organisation. Very rich, very powerful, very discrete. Very well connected; it is said that the Brotherhood has roots in both the Severance and our own Government. They have infiltrated the church, the army, our universities, and yet we have seen no trace of them beyond whispers.”

“If the Brotherhood of Crows is so powerful,” I said, slowly, “Then how come I’d never heard of them before yesterday?”

John smiled again, grimly. “Elijah, my boy: is it not the ultimate power to be felt and yet never be seen?”

He had a point.

“Who makes up the Brotherhood of Crows then?”

“Here I have only rumours, dear boy: racial hygienists; eugenists; social Darwinists; the sort of decadent aristocrats who posses fetishes of the darker and more illegal variety; artists, who want to create outside the bounds of taste; clergymen, poets, saints, sinners, abusers, lovers, liars…one might, broadly say, a collection of self appointed Ubermensch.”

“What else do you know?”

“The Brotherhood has its own beliefs - though it is, by all accounts, riddled with factionalism - its own theology, of which I know only half truths and fragments...some say they worship crows, animals which feed on carrion. Other say they worship death itself. Still more say that the Brotherhood has its own holy book, a dark tome which guides their every move - a Book bound in feathers,”

“So, what, are they Satanists? Occultists?”

“Oh come now, old thing, be fair - you may have no faith yourself, but you know as well as I do that Satanists and occultists pose no threat to anyone but themselves, when they realise they’ve been wasting their time on all those silly chalk drawings. No, the Brotherhood is something else entirely...there is more...hearsay, innuendo...stories of beggars going missing from the streets around Westminster; of bodies found in the river, mutated and torn; whispers of acts of utter depravity taking place behind closed doors in a fashionable corner of our fair city...some say they take children. So many go missing these days, and no one cares to look for them. I have even heard of babies stolen from maternity wards within hours of their birth…”

John paused, and his words hung ominously in the air.

“Okay, so how do I fight them?” I said.

“I don’t know,” replied John. He looked up at me, and something had changed about his face. Gone was the jovial smile and warm gaze, and instead there was steel in his eye, and his voice was not the friendly boom, but a slow, firm whisper. “But whatever you do, Elijah, do this. Leave my Baptised out of it. If you mean to go head to head with the Brotherhood of Crows, there will be danger. There will be blood. You are one man. A formidable man, certainly, but still only one man. If you follow this through, there will be consequences. And those consequences cannot hurt my people.”

“John, I have no intention of -”

“It doesn’t matter what your intentions are,” he snapped. It was the first time he had ever spoken sharply to me, and I took an instinctive step back, “You must do what you need to do. But if, in doing so, you put a single hair on the head of any one of the people who lives in my city at risk...then you will answer to me.”

I was taken aback. This was the first time I had ever seen John angry. It was also the first time I had ever seen him scared. “You have my word, John. No harm will come to the Rim.”

John grunted, a deep, animal sound, and settled back in his chair. One of his massive hand had pulled the toy car out from its pile again, and he now turned it over, gently, as if handling it for the first time. “I believe that concludes our business. We are now even. You have your information. Goodbye, my boy...so nice to see you again…”

His gaze was transfixed upon the toy in his hand, which seemed unnaturally small in his gargantuan palm. I opened my mouth to say something else, but I could tell he was lost in his thoughts. I’d get nothing else from him. I doffed my hat, “John.” and turned to go.

As I weaved through the piles of junk, my mind was turning over itself. John had simultaneously told me a great deal and very little. And experience had taught me that if John the Baptist couldn’t give me a clear answer, then I would struggle. My hand went into my pocket and touched the phone Crucius had given me. I wondered if I should call him - but to say what exactly? That all I knew about the Brotherhood of Crows was that they were very good at hiding themselves? I doubted he’d accept that as an answer...

I pushed open the door and stepped outside. It had begun to rain quite heavily, but the sun still shone, giving everything a sepia tone. I found the light out side blinding, and it took me a minute to adapt after the gloom of John’s chambers. As my eyes adjusted, I saw Tobias, huddled against the side of his door, with his scarf wrapped around his face and his head hunched down against the cold. “Alright?” I nodded.

“All damp,” he replied, a tad sulkily, “Why does it always rain on the job?”

“God hates us, I guess. Come on. We got places to be.”

I began to walk and he fell into step behind me. “Useful chat?”

“I’m not sure,” I lit a smoke, “He gave me something but not what I was expecting, and if you make a sex joke, Tobias, I swear to God I’ll -”

“Uh, Eli? What’s that?”

I stopped dead in my tracks and followed the line of Tobias’s pointing finger. From amidst the muddle of pathways between broken boats that led out onto the square, a man had emerged. The crowd that we had seen earlier had largely retreated indoors to avoid the rain, but the few figures that remained were wrapped up in cloaks, coats and oilskin fishermans jackets. This newcomer was the same, but what made him stand out was the way he walked. His steps were jerky, uncertain. There was something off about the movement of his body - his steps too deliberate, his shoulder swinging almost violently as he walked, slowly, towards us.

I felt my hand drop to the butt of my revolver. I saw Tobias do the same for his staff. Another figure emerged - like the first he was wrapped up in layers of clothing, and like the first, his face was masked. Both wore tatty top hats, torn and decrypt. Then another emerged, and another, and all four began their erratic, stumbling walk towards us.

“Eli,” Tobias hissed. He jerked his head. I turned. Two more had emerged from the other side of the square, and were closing in behind us. What was this? John’s warning to me suddenly came back to my mind - were they his boys, come to give us a lesson? The lead one was drawing closer now.

“Easy, Tobias,” I whispered, and then called out. “Hey there. What seems to be the trouble?”

The figure didn’t reply. Closer now, I could see his face was wrapped in a scarf, the eyes concealed behind aviator goggles, which poked out from beneath the brim of the top hat. His head hung lollingly to one side, as if he were asleep but his body kept moving.

My right hand tightened around the revolver’s grip. My left I held out, palm out. “I don’t know who you are, but we don’t want any trouble. So who are you and what -?”

With a sudden jerk, the figure lunged. I saw the flash of the wickedly long machete he had kept hidden under the coat suddenly lash out in a long arc. Instinct took over. I side stepped. The movement had caught him off balance, and my left hand found his outstretched arm, grabbing it. My revolver was in my right and I brought it to bear and fired, point blank range, at his head.

The roar of the shot echoed around the square. I was dimly aware of Tobias dropping into a fighting stance, his staff in one hand, a throwing knife in the other. The figure’s head had snapped back at the shot, and torn away his hat, and most of the scarf and I saw beneath it grey, dead skin, the shattered remains of his mouth where my bullet had caught him straight in the jaw. But it was his eyes that I saw most of all - they were pale, milky white, and completely dead.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed.

The living corpse’s arm was winding up for another blow, rain glistening on the blade of the machete as it came around in another arc. I kicked out, caught him in the chest and sent him stumbling back. Something whistled over my shoulder, and I saw a throwing knife embed itself in the forehead of one of the other advancing figures. He didn’t slow. Weapons began appearing in their hands; another machete, a wood axe, a fisherman’s hook. This wasn’t John’s boys come to hammer home the message - this was a death squad.

To my right Tobias swung his staff around, catching one of the attackers on the side of the head, knocking it off balance. Another lunged at him with a fishhook - he had a throwing knife in his hand used it as a parrying dagger, knocked the hook away and slamming the end of his staff into the attacker’s chest. In front of my, machete wielder had recovered from the kick and starting towards me. I fired again, this time blowing what remained of the corpse’s head clean off its shoulders. The body staggered but kept coming, and I had to leap to one side as the machete blade hacked at me. I stumbled, holstered my revolver and let my katais snap out, just in time to block another corpse at it cleaved at me with its axe.

Six against one. Their movements erratic and unpredictable, they forced us back, two attacking Tobias, four swiping and hacking and slashing at me. Nothing slowed them, the headless machete wielder coming in again and agains, as another machete wielder and two axe man pressed the attack. I stumbled and dodged, but every inch around me seemed full of singing steel. One lagged in his attack, enough time for me to slash at his exposed arm with my right blade, severing it cleanly. It fell, bloodless to earth, and with horror I saw the corpse simple snatch up its axe with its remaining arm and continue to attack. They could not speak but all I heard from them was a papery rasp, emanating from dry, dead throats.

We couldn’t win, not like this. I emptied my derringer into one attackers head - punching a hole in his skull that didn’t slow him in the slightest and bellowed to Tobias “Run!”

We broke, Tobias heading left, me right. My blades sheathed and I fired wildly over my shoulder, hoping to draw them after me, to give Tobias a better shot at getting away. Three followed me: headless and the two axe men. I bolted for the edge of the square, and threw myself into the labyrinth of broken boats. The ground was uneven, and I almost fell as I fled, ducking and diving through gaps and over wreckage as I fled. I was aware, dimly, of the dwellers of the Rim screaming and shouting as I raced past them. The corpses kept up, their erratic leaping keeping them just a few feet behind me.

I turned a corner and skidded to a halt. I had hit a dead end. Fuck. All around me shattered hulls made three high walls. Could I climb them? Maybe if I had had time, but there was none, as the three corpses came charging around the corner, weapons drawn.

I snapped out my blades, lowered my body weight, and kept the katais out, ready to parry blows. They closed, one without a head, another missing a hand. The third was limping. It must have stumbled, because from its tattered trouser legs a sickly yellow bone emerged.

Headless lunged, machete out. I sidestepped and cleaved with one katai, slashing him from groin to throat, something which would have killed an ordinary man but in this case just sent the corpse reeling into a wall. Handless came at me with with his axe; I parried with me right, and stabbed with my left, cutting away a good chunk of its head. It reeked of decay. I kicked it back, as the limping corpse, unable to strike properly, simply threw itself at me. I shoved it back, hard, and as I did, its shirt tore, and I saw something.

On the corpse’s chest as a pale blue diamond shaped object, almost like an overly large pendant. It looked as if it was bolted to the skin, for around it, blue veins seemed to writhe and pump beneath the dead flesh. I drew back my right katai, and stabbed forward. The blade hit the blue diamond, and passed straight through.

The corpse staggered, its dead mouth hanging open, gormlessly, and then it fell forward into a still heap. I heard a great scream of pain, but not from the corpse: from above me. I looked up.

Standing on the edge of the walls that penned me in, was a man. He was dressed extremely well - a finely tailored suit, beneath an elegant overcoat. He would have looked ridiculously out of place in the Rim, for that alone, were it not for the fact that he had no face. His whole head was hidden beneath a mask, a mask in the shape of a boar’s head, eyes blazing, tusks spattered with blood. And the masked man was screaming, screaming and clutching at his own chest, where, I could see a similarly blue, diamond object, pulsating with light.

My first thought was “What?”

My second thought was “Oh, so they do have a weakness. Thank Christ for that.”

My third thought was “What?”

Headless corpse had recovered and lunged at me. I dodged, and stabbed, aiming for the same part of the chest where the blue diamond had been on the limping corpse. My blade met its target, and the corpse staggered and fell, and the masked man screamed in pain again. Handless corpse was still recovering from my last blow - I didn’t give it the chance to. I kicked it down, crushed it to the ground with one foot, and ran it through.

The masked man screamed even louder, a howl of genuine agony. I yanked my blade out, and stared up at him, a finely dressed mask man, staggering from some immense anguish, clutching at his own chest as if I had stabbed him three times. There was something in his mask, perhaps the wideness of the boars eyes, that gave him a look of fear. He looked down and me, at the now very definitely dead corpse, then back at me, and fled.

Oh no you don’t! I vaulted at the wall, using wreckage as hand and footholds, and hauled myself up. We were right on the edge of the Rim, where the smashed up remains of ships ceased, and there was nothing beyond them but a long plunge into the grey waters of the Thames. The masked man had stopped dead the edge, realising he had nowhere else to go

I drew my revolver and brought it to bear on him. “Stop!” I bellowed. “Don’t move!”

The masked man leapt at me. From inside the coat, he drew a long curved sickle and slashed me me. I tried to bring my revolver to bear on him as he slashed at me, the eyes of that horrible boar mask gleaming, but he was too fast and I lost balance, fell back, as the masked man brought the blade behind him for a killing downward blow.

There was a sudden dull thunk and a ladle bounced off the side of the masked man’s head.

We both froze, him with his sickle poised to strike, me, off balance and ready to fall, just for long enough to see Tobias sprinting towards us over the rooftops, yelling. “Knew I should have packed more fucking knives!”

I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself in a rugby tackle at the masked man, catching him around the middle. He hadn’t expected the blow and he stumbled back, slipped and fell. The Rim was built high, and I reached the edge myself just in time to see the masked man plunge, arms flailing, screaming, falling at least a hundred feet towards the grey Thames. He didn’t reach it. A stray old mast jutted out from a broken wreck, and the masked man hit it with a sickening crack. The end of the mast burst straight through his chest, impaling him like a stuck pig.

I flopped back, breathing raggedly as Tobias reached me.

“You alright?” he said, helping me to my feet.

“I…” my words were raspy, my breathing hoarse, “I’m...fine...they, the blue thing they -”

“The blue thing on their chest?” Tobias held up one. It was dark, a diamond shaped piece of melt, “Yeah, I figured that out...some sort of power source...mate who the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know.” adrenaline was pumping through my body, and I was shaking, aching and exhausted. “But I think this job just got a hell of a lot more dangerous.”