74.

  "Mageling, what is it?" I heard the Pigeon King's cry.

  I'd thrown myself back in terror, breaking the circle, and reality flooded back into my being. I blinked. The face was gone. I laid back on my elbows, my face contorted in fear, my mouth full of sour saliva, my heart thundering in my chest, and sweat pouring down my temples. My muscles twitched and shook as the adrenaline dissipated throughout my system. I panted and tried to draw enough breath to respond to him, but I just shook my head instead.

  "You saw it again, didn't you?" the Pigeon King said quietly, and I nodded. He looked around and nodded his head as suddenly the fires were being relit all over the church, and the Pigeon King looked rather pensive. "It should not have been able to get in here," he muttered to himself and then waved a dismissive wing. "Whatever you saw was just a conjuring of your mind, not reality," the Pigeon King said decisively. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

  I took a few more deep breaths, pulled myself back into a sitting position, and nodded, flicking sweat from my brow.

  "I know where it is. There's a warehouse down on the waterfront in Greenwich.”

  The Pigeon King nodded. "Do you know specifically which one?”

  "No. The images went too quickly," I said. "But it was rusted, disused, and there were bright neon signs that weren't working properly. They kept flickering on and off." I blinked heavily and continued, "There was pink and purple graffiti, with big letters all over the side of the warehouse.”

  "I will send scouts ahead of you. They will find your warehouse,” the Pigeon King said.

  "Good," I said, gathering myself, my voice growing steady. "I want to go there tonight and have a look at it.”

  The Pigeon King thought for a moment.

  "Yes, it would be wise to do some reconnaissance. My pigeons will find you on the waterfront and lead you to your warehouse. I must continue my rejuvenation now," he said. "I cannot waste any more time on this little adventure of yours. From now on, you will be dealing with one of my seconds." He waved a wing at one of the completely black pigeons, who hopped up onto the dais next to him and stared at me with beady black eyes.

  "This is Ruku," the Pigeon King said. "He speaks your tongue to an extent, and he will marshal my forces and aid you in whatever way you need. You may summon him with the feather I gifted you. Simply hold it and speak his name and he will come to you. And if, mageling, you survive the next 24 hours, I shall call upon you again when you are needed.”

  With that, the Pigeon King took off, his pigeons following behind him in a V formation. The last to go was the black pigeon, Ruku, who looked at me oddly and then nodded.

  "Goodbye," he said, but his voice was more of a coo, the word "good" coming out as "goooooooodbye." Then he took to wing and flew into the darkness.

  *

  It didn't take me long to get down to Greenwich, although, much like Lewisham, this was a place tainted by Sable Systems and mass surveillance. Fortunately, the waterfront was largely disused and rundown. It had once been a site for river commerce, then after that, factories. Once the AI revolution had taken place and industry was all but killed off, they had tried to build homes, but as the Thames broke its banks and grew wider, those homes were also abandoned. So now the waterfront had become nothing more than a boggy quagmire of failed ambitions and empty buildings. It was the perfect place to bring in a shipment of drugs as no one came down here, and no one cared what happened here, except for me.

  By the time I had arrived on the waterside, the pigeons had located the warehouse. The odd black pigeon, Ruku, greeted me and led me to a dilapidated tenement that overlooked the warehouse. There should have been be no activity here; there wasn't even electricity. But I saw torches, I saw cars going in and out, and I saw the Syndicate setting up. I stared at them through a pair of binoculars I had picked up from Jed’s pawnbrokers, and grimaced. There were at least 20 Syndicate heavies, and these didn't look like the unconscionable goofs that I had run into before. These were hard-faced men with military bearing.

  Even now, maybe a whole 24 hours before the shipment came in, they patrolled regularly in patterns and pairs. There were no blind spots, and they had even erected makeshift flood lights hooked up to generators. They were clearly expecting me. I cursed myself for revealing my hand to Black John by asking about the shipment. They knew I was after it now, and they'd clearly beefed up security. The men on patrol all carried what looked like military-grade automatic weaponry, the type that can fire enough bullets to shred a crowd in under a minute. I wouldn't be getting away with a few low calibre pistol shots in the armour this time. I couldn't just go in wildly and hope for the best. I needed a plan, and I needed backup.

  I looked at Ruku and his pigeons, wondering how much help they could possibly be against such weaponry and odds. But the Pigeon King had seemed pretty confident in them, and he didn't strike me as a creature that put his faith in weaklings. What I really needed was a way to thin the crowd of opposition. It wasn't like I was going in to steal the drugs or anything; I just needed to be able to get in and destroy them. If I could do that quickly, I needed perhaps a minute or two in the warehouse and then to be able to escape.

  As I pondered, plotted, and started figuring out routes, I saw a car pull up. It was another black SUV, and out of it stepped a long, black-trousered leg. My hands shook as they gripped the binoculars. It couldn’t be. There was no way he could be on his feet again so soon!

  Black John climbed out of the car and began barking orders. He didn't look great, if I was being honest. His head was bandaged, he still hugged his arm gingerly against his body, his gait was a bit crooked, and he looked pissed off. He snapped at the men around him and then stomped into the warehouse. That wasn't good. I didn't fancy another fight with Black John, especially with a couple dozen more men at his back. This time, he would know my tricks and what to expect. I had to lure them away and even the odds in my favour somehow.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I sighed, stretched my neck, and my stomach growled as I looked into the distance. The sun was beginning to break across the horizon. I needed to get ready because I would be doing battle with this small army in maybe only a matter of hours. I looked at Ruku. You would have thought I had become used to talking to pigeons by now, but it still felt awkward.

  "Can you keep sentries here for me?" I asked him tentatively, and Ruku nodded his head. "The shipment won't come in until the evening, probably in the middle of the night. But I need this place watched the entire day and night. I need to know how many men there are, what kind of weapons they have, and any other information you can get me."

  Ruku nodded again, then turned to his pigeons and began cooing to them. Three pigeons took flight, soaring over the warehouse and then literally flying straight into the grounds, landing in different spots and pecking at the ground like any other dumb pigeon would. The men didn't even look at them twice. Of course, they wouldn't, they were just pigeons. What greater infiltrators could you ask for than the ubiquitous urban pigeon?

  "You know where to find me, right?" And again, Ruku nodded. "If you see the shipment coming in, then come get me, but I should be back before then." He nodded again before turning back to the warehouse. He sat down, tucked his little feet under his body, and stared impassively down at the warehouse.

  *

  You know how in all those old action films from like 70 years ago, where the hero is some giant, muscle-bound, oiled up freak of a man, and they're getting ready for their final climactic battle? It's all adrenaline, heavy rock music, big guns, ammo, grenades, face paint, and body armor. They're pumped up and ready to go kick some ass. Yeah, in real life, it's not like that at all.

  I stopped at Jed's on the way home, grabbed some supplies, then went back to my silent apartment. I sat in my empty room and began crafting dozens and dozens of Bang Rocks and Chalk Bombs. I didn't feel a rush of adrenaline, just dread. I re-taped Grandad's bat and cleaned my Wrist Rocket. I even had time to redo all the matrixes of protection on my leather jacket and the plate carrier, going over them again and again, adding more and more layers of protection. I cleaned my goggles and tried to scrub the blood from my boots, but the adrenaline never came. The excitement never started. I didn't feel like some badass getting his arsenal ready to take down an army of enemies. I felt like a lamb waiting for slaughter, dread and anxiety building in my chest.

  Because you see, sudden violence isn't actually that bad. You don't really have time to think; you just react. Adrenaline and instinct take you through the motions of survival. But this waiting, hour after hour, leaves you with nothing but time to think, and thinking about what awaited me almost paralyzed me with terror. I wasn't some big, oiled up action hero. I was a scrawny, pale kid about to take on trained killers and mercenaries with some damn pigeons as backup. The more I thought about those men, their numbers, their training, their weapons, the more I began to realize there was little chance of me surviving tonight. How could I?

  I couldn't sit still. Nervous energy and fear kept me moving, kept me twitching, kept me going over the same rituals. I made more copper plates for my Zap Knucks, fixed my gloves, stitched things, cleaned things, scrubbed things. I wrapped myself in bandages, stretched, jogged in place, squatted, did anything to try and burn off the anxiety. But it just wouldn't go.

  Finally, I found myself sitting staring at an empty piece of paper with just the words 'Dear Marilyn' written on top. I don't know why I was writing a letter to Marilyn. I suppose because she was the closest thing I ever had in life to a friend or even someone who cared about me other than Grandad. I felt like I owed her something. Chances were my body would never be found. Once they killed me, the Syndicate would simply make me disappear, and it felt wrong to do that to Marilyn, to just vanish without any explanation.

  This was my fourth attempt at writing the letter. I couldn't find the right words. I've never been great with words. I didn't really learn to read and write until I was 7 or 8 years old, and ever since, I'd always been in the slow classes at school. Words were just complicated to me. They didn't sit still, they didn't make sense half the time, and when I needed them they were always just at the edge of my periphery and out of reach. Eventually, I gritted my teeth and just wrote thank you because that was the only thing that felt right.

  "Dear Marilyn, thank you for always being kind to me. I never understood why you did it. But I always apreshiated it and I wish I couldve repade you in some way. But just no that it matterred a lot to me. So thank you. Alex.”

  I stared down at the appallingly simple note. I'd wanted to write more. I wanted to unburden myself completely and tell her everything that I'd been doing, what I was about to do, and even all the horrific things that happened to me in my life. Maybe just so she didn't think I was a complete lunatic. But I realized as I was scribbling all those thoughts down in my previous letters that I wasn't doing it for Marilyn. I was doing it for me. I was doing it because I needed to pour those things out and put them on her, and that wasn't fair. I wasn't writing this note for me. I was writing it for Marilyn, and at the end of the day, the only thing I had to say to her was thank you. So that's what I did.

  I folded the letter up and suddenly realized I didn't know how I could even give it to her. If I went and handed it to her, she'd think I was going to go off myself or something, and I didn't want to post it on the off chance that I did actually survive and have to face her afterward. So instead, I folded it up, put it in an envelope, wrote her name on it, and left it on my desk so that when eventually the police came looking for the missing people that lived in this flat, they'd find it and maybe give it to her, and maybe she could get a bit of closure.

  After that, I found myself in the living room, kneeling beside Grandad's chair, staring up at his picture, and again there were a thousand things I wanted to say, but I couldn't find the words, or I couldn't make the words make sense. So instead, I just spoke to him truthfully.

  "I'm sorry, Grandad," I whispered in the darkness. "I just can't carry on without you. I hope you're not angry at me." I laid my head on the arm of his chair and just thought about him, remembered him as he was, the way he looked, the sound of his voice, even the way he smelled. I stayed like that for hours, not thinking, not feeling, just disappearing until eventually, I saw darkness falling out of the side of the window.

  It was time.

  I stood up, and again, before I knew it, I had put on my boots, my combat trousers, a fresh black t-shirt, the plate carrier, my big baggy black hoodie, my leather jacket, my MMA gloves, Bang Rocks, Chalk Bombs, Wrist Rocket, see-in-the-dark goggles, on and Grandad's bat strapped to my back. Then I stared down at the balaclava in my hands. It still had smears of blood on it from my brawl with Black John. I swallowed and looked into the mirror.

  That was it for Alex. I didn't need him anymore. I didn't need his weakness, his fear, his tears, or his baggage. I needed to leave all that here. I pulled the balaclava up to my head and then down over my face, my eyes hardening in my reflection. I needed the Gutter Mage, and so did this city.

  It was time to break the Syndicate.