London, England
Two hours From Now...
"
As we head into the week, I'm sorry to say that all Londoners had better keep their coats on and fires burning as heavy snows continue to fall across the region, Cambridge suffering the worst of it. The snow has left no less than a dozen small towns within the region blocked off. Relief services have been called in, doing all they can to get all those stranded within their homes. Thankfully, hopeful reports have the entire effort finished within the week. Luckily the snow has stayed away from the Westminster district, leaving most Londoners very thankfu-"
The tv flickers as the channel changes to yet another news station.
"
-elford, the new town created in Shropshire some twenty years ago, is reported to have the highest unemployment rate in the West Midlands region. The rate is higher than the unemployment of all it's neighbouring towns including the likes of Wolverhampton, Brierley Hill, Wednesbury and Bilston just to name a fe-"
A click and the channel changes again.
"
After just three Months, Prince Edmond has officially left the Royal marine-"
"
Former Prime Minister Harry Macmillan is finally laid to rest in the village of Horsted Keynes. The late prime minister died this last year at the ripe old age of 92-"
"
The economy is not getting better. We were told that the unemployment rate would fall below 3,000,000 by the end of the last year, but no recent report has come out in support of-"
"
As the heavy snow comes down around England, the House of Parliament is slowly filling back up. The members of the 49th Parliament meets for this month as they prepare for their final terms. The victors of the 1983 General Election will convene for a final time, conducting the rigorous process of dissolving in time for the General election taking place this June."
The television flicked off, forcing the screen to black and saving the poor listener from any more of the grating voice of the anchor. Richard Bailey grunted as he stretched his legs. The feeling of sitting down for hours on end had gotten to him. He could barely feel his arm anymore, and the feeling boredom had long since overtaken his every thought.
Waiting for the show to start, it's always the worst part. The phone next to him rings, and all feeling of fatigue is gone. He snatched the receiver before the first ring was finished.
"Yes?"
"
Everything's been wired, and the underground's all set up."
Richard smiled.
"Any complications?"
"
None that I could see. I've got Sharah-"
"
Crystal," Richard corrected, tapping an aggravated finger against the armrest, "Her name is Crystal, remember?"
There's a nervous chuckle on the other end of the line.
"
Right, I've got Crystal and Tempest here. Tempest's been doing her little dance for the last few hours. According to her, we can start the second you hang up."
Richard hummed, stroking his chin. His smile slowly widened as the perfect thought came to him.
"No, don't start until I give the signal. The second you see it, meet me at the rendezvous point."
"
Got it… what's the signal again?"
Richard chuckled, "You'll know what it is."
He clicked the receiver, cutting off the call. He dropped the phone and grabbing his jacket, he threw it on and stomped out of the apartment. Only a single flight of stairs separated him from the rest of the capital city. He skipped down the steps, tapping his fingers on the guide rail.
Bump-bada-bump-bump-bump!
His feet hit the ground floor with a bang, finishing the little tune with a magnum opus. He always liked those kinds of symphonies. There was an absolute beauty to them that he found mesmerising to witness.
The small beginnings, where you could be forgiven for falling asleep from the lack of noise. The lack of change, of any real excitement. Just a slog of events that somehow define every note of every day.
But then, there's a change, a little click that turns your head. Not many normals notice it, but the few that do see it are the intended audience. They latch onto the sound, follow it everywhere it goes. As the song goes on, more start to notice. Some ignore it; others think it's just a coincidence. Then the pace increases, more notice, but there are still the ignorant few who couldn't turn their ears and face the music.
The composer knows this, and he prepares for it.
So when the audience least expects it, the symphony explodes into life. Sound erupts from everything that can make it, drowning every sense until everything is consumed. The crash of a drum draws the eyes, the smash of the tambourine takes it away. The violins stretch and roar to the high heavens. No matter where you are if you're in the audience, there's something that forces you to notice it.
Young, old. Ignorant or genius, the music draws them all in.
And eventually, the sound builds till the ceiling threatens to burst.
Then the ending comes, the most crucial moment.
The last taste the audience is allowed to savour. The last thing they remember, allowing them to frame the entire work in a positive or negative light. And out of all the moments, the ending has the most variations. Some symphonies slow to a stop, letting the audience slow with it. They're allowed to rest, appreciate and fall back into the dull lull of normality. The best endings though are the ones that just stop. All the sound simply cuts off, leaving the audience with a question that no one wants to answer.
What happens now?
All that noise, all that commotion, all that build up, yet this is how it ends? It couldn't be how it ends, or is it? Will something happen next? No one knows, not even the conductor.
Pushing the door open, Richard smiled at the winter snow falling down. Stepping into the street, the wind blew across the street, making those brave enough to brave the roads bury themselves further into their coats. The cold didn't bother him; he didn't even feel the wind. His jacket didn't sway in the wind like everyone else's, and the snow didn't gather on his head. There was only a small prick of cold only to be snuffed away.
He didn't need to worry, so he just walked down the street without a care in the world. A few stopped to stare, bewilderment as he effortlessly made his way through the weather. Others though, they just kept on walking towards the apartments. All that mattered to them was that they could escape what they couldn't control.
Cowards.
The day wasn't going to get any better by running from the issue. Everyone had what they brought with them for the day, and if they'd prepared, that's all that they needed.
A changed man like Richard didn't need to run. He hadn't felt the need to run from anything in almost five years. Not since he survived that sinking ship. Since that
thing descended from the sky.
The image had long since burned itself into his head. A man with gleaming golden skin, and flowing brown hair. Built like Hercules and with an aura to match, the man had appeared out of nowhere. It merely floated on air, the impossibility almost trivial with what Richard knew now.
He remembered that it looked at him. Orbs of gold burying themselves into him without his consent. Then, in a flash, it was gone, never to be seen again even after all these years. No one talked about it, out of everyone that made it out of that godforsaken ocean, not a word was said. Well, all except that idiot who couldn't shut his mouth when the reporters started asking questions. They didn't believe him, why would they? Flying golden men, what the hell was he talking about? Richard could remember one of the reporters trying not to laugh at the story as he wrote it down.
The poor man would be eating every word of disbelief he uttered that day, in just a little bit, everyone would.
Richard stopped, his eyes finally focusing on the flags lining the street. Parliament Square Garden. A lovely place when in season, but with the snow covering almost every inch of green.
A pity, he would have prefered seeing something sweet before everything started burning.
Looked up, Big Ben towered over Great George St, the houses of parliament and even the palace of Westminster. Once, this place represented the center of one of the greatest empires to stake its claim on the world. Now, nothing less than a tourist trap, stupid and annoying.
He kept walking, passing the hordes of unchanged until he stood next to Winston Churchill. Or at least, the statue of him. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his trusty baton. Tapping it against the copper statue, Richard started the downbeat. There was no music, except for the beat that he whispered. Some stopped, some stared, he paid them no mind.
He kept up the beat, until the crescendo.
He pointed his baton at the Tower of Big Ben, and the tip
glowed gold. A beam of light exploded out of the baton, streaking through the air and smashing into the tower.
The famous bell didn't even ring as the beam effortlessly slices through the famous monument. Richard heard someone scream, but he ignored that as well. A flick of his wrist and the beam bisected the building with little effort. Another flick, and another cut.
Then another, and another.
The crumbling sound of the building drew dozens of car horns as the once great tower fell to the ground, smashing against the street, crushing a few insignificant normals.
Richard smiled, putting down his baton as the normals around him continued to run and scream. He glanced towards Westminster, and a few of those guards in the stupid hats were looking his way. He flicks his baton their way, and the golden beam fires out.
The men were dust before they knew what was happening to them.
A few cars and normals died as well, but they were in the way.
The ground shook, making Richard's smile grow ever larger. In the distance, he heard the sound of asphalt crumbling as it caved in on itself.
The London underground, final stop coming up, whether you like it or not.
Just as a chuckle escapes him, the snow stops falling. Tempest, always the woman for the job. Cars still blared their horns; the stupid, annoying, disgusting sounds had no place in this piece! A flick of his wrist, and the beam springs out. Cars are cut, people, plants, even a building. In a second, hundreds of pounds of metal and gore fall to the floor.
Not the best sight, but at least there wasn't any more noise around here.
Something screams in the back of Richard's head. His warning, always fateful. The descent was far from graceful. The mountainous man crashed with the force of a mortar, tearing up the ground, sending cracks and rocks everywhere. A few rocks dissolved against Richards skin, flashing to dust and nothingness, letting the man sigh at the man as he walked out of his creator.
"I remember telling you to be discrete," Richard commented.
The dust settles, letting Michal, cradling Olivia in his arms, step out of the crater. His choice of attire wasn't what Richard would've thought from the man. Close personal black plate armour over his chest and head, but leaving his arms bare except for a shirt of chainmail that leads to his forearms. His helmet looks almost demonic, a jet black standard knight's helm with black spikes jutting out from the end. Red paint outlined his mouth and eyes, giving Richard the impression he was glaring at him for just existing in front of him.
Truly, it fit the persona of the man who called himself
Onslaught.
A small pouch hung loosely from his hip, the brown fabric clashing poorly with the rest of his armour, but Richard could make an exception in this case.
Jumping from his grip, stretching her back, Olivia glared at Michal behind her mask. Hers was a much more straightforward approach. A red bodysuit with pieces of black armour shaped like flames sprouting from her shoulder blades as well as protecting her vitals. Her mask, however, is a simple crimson red domino mask.
It wasn't much, but when your work was intended to speak for you, you didn't need to do much. A beautiful
Inferno to warm this little party.
Onslaught looked around, his eyes lingering on the scene before him. His fingers tensed but did nothing more beyond ripping the pouch from his belt.
"Sure," he grumbles.
Throwing the pouch at Richard, the conductor caught it with one hand. He let his gaze sweep over the garden.
Not a pretty sight, not at all.
Inferno shivers, lighting a fire on her palm while Onslaught's fingers continued to twitch.
"Onslaught," the knight glanced Richard's way, no doubt raising an eyebrow behind his helm.
Richard pointed, across the Thames.
"Stretch your legs some more, and please clean up the trash."
Onslaught followed his finger, his eyes landing on the row of buildings just beyond the river. He didn't ask what Richard meant; there was no need. He broke out into a jog, his steps crashing against the cement as he made his way into the street. With a mighty crash, the man shot off the ground, ignoring all unchanged laws of physics. In a second, he was nothing but a black dot soaring over the river.
Whistling as the distant sounds of falling buildings and bending metal filled the air, Richard put a golden finger straight through the fabric, opening it, ignoring all those little distractions. Reaching in, Richard pulls out a familiar worn fedora. He slaps the hat on his head, a finger trailing the rim for a second. The second thing he pulls is a small earbud. A little work and it's in his ear where it belongs.
A spark, and a wince, and the familiar sound of static fills him. The last thing is a porcelain mask, entirely unremarkable, save for the single black music note design on the center. Clasping it over his face, Richard turns to the House of Parliament as the sounds of siren's wail in the distance.
Reaching to his ear, Richard waited for the static of connection to disappear.
"Drone, lockdown the building. Crystal, make sure no one gets close," He ordered.
"
Done."
"
Not a problem."
A smile of satisfaction spread across his lips.
Four years of planning, millions of dollars, everything was finally coming together. Richard walked forward, Inferno trailing behind him, the snow melting around her as he felt the heat rise. He was vaguely aware that more fools showed up, but Inferno barely had to flick her wrist to send streams of white-hot flame their way. There were no screams, her flames turning them to ash before their small minds could realize what was happening. Small mercies for those that didn't deserve it. As it stood her fingers lingered too long on her victims, but she would do her duty.
For a little while longer, she needed to play her part.
Richard whistled a different tune as the distant sound of destruction ringed out as Onslaught continued to prove himself worthy of his namesake. Plenty of noise to get everyone's attention.
By now news crews were already reporting the disaster. Hundreds of stories will be circling the country within ten minutes. In an hour, the world will be watching.
The perfect audience.
Richard eagerly rubbed his hands together. It was all coming along very nicely, all thanks to the Book. Tapping his chest, the leather-bound notebook sat safe and sound.
According to it, with this display, it was done. The beginning was finished, the pace was quickening, the world was watching.
Soon, Richard's true
Symphony would finally begin.
And the world will be moved,
whether it wanted to or not.
