《Crimson Revolutionary》


 1. Agent Deva / Chef Fred

    The grey smog, even during summer made the sunlight hazy and mute, the streets were littered with shadowy blurs as one could not see further than 2 meters when the smog was at its worst. The streetlights were made of steel, having a withered metallic silver color, they dotted the streets and looked like ethereal fuzzy orbs that floated in the distance. The Monarch¡¯s Palace loomed at the top of the hill at the center of the city, looking down on all its surroundings.


    In one of the corners of one of its run-down cobblestone buildings, two sharply dressed men stood in a room only lit by the candle in the corner, the flames flickering even though there was no draft. The types of furniture - a table, four wooden chairs, a dresser and a clock, all of them worn-out and seemed to be older than they already are. One of the sharply dressed men when taking a closer look was betrayed by their shabby overcoats and makeshift grey scarf. Whispering just enough to hear each other, it was as if they were cautious not to let even the candle in the corner hear their words.


    ¡°This is the assignment. Agent Deva, follow it to the letter. There should be no excuses.¡± The taller man said with a commanding tone, his voice raspy yet firm, his eyes which had yellow pupils looked at him with no pity. Agent Deva, with his coonskin cap, the cigarette in between his fingers shuddered when he heard this. In the Imperial Security Bureau, there was never a warning. You just disappeared, returning as a corpse, made an example of. With a gulp that struggled to go down, he swallowed his saliva, and just saluted the taller man. ¡°Eternal Life to the Monarch!¡±


    His superior left the room and took the candle with him. The room was now ashen, shapes could hardly be made out, only a few shades away from complete darkness. ¡°5 months of infiltration, and this is what I get. I sometimes miss you, Georg.¡± He thought to himself, his big brother Georg was the opposite of what the Imperium represented, wholesome, warm and rebellious. ¡°I wish I knew where you are at these trying times.¡±


    Agent Deva left the building in a hurry, the streets had mechanical cars-which were the trend of ¡°The Time of Progress,¡± as the Monarch called it. Black soot sparsely covered the streets, the footpaths were miraculously symmetrical, a homeless person here and there, and yet the economists were claiming that this was the peak of civilization and it could only get better and better. He walked with purpose, each step sturdy as a nail, almost like a marching band, he scanned the area twice every time he reached a corner, the city was easy to get lost in, the smog making it worse.


    As he arrived to his destination, he could see the building ¡°Claire¡¯s Outhouse,¡± a rustic cafeteria with dim neon lights which dazzled fuzzily from a distance through the smog. A couple of hooded figures outside setting the tables, their figures professionally moving, laughter could be heard from the distance.


    He opened the front door of the cafeteria with a familiar pull, a bell chimed to announce his entrance. A friendly warm smell greeted him first as the smell of honey, toast and coffee drilled through his nose. Without any attempt of resisting, he heaved in two breaths of the smell, a delight for anyone in the morning rush hour.


    ¡°Fred, you¡¯re finally here !¡± a toasty voice called out to him, ¡°Your shift starts in 10 minutes.¡± A girl with red hair, a frilly blouse and a long skirt greeted him. He smiled as warmly as he could and replied ¡°Almost didn¡¯t make it, Claire, but hey, here I am.¡± ¡°You always almost never make it.¡± She squinted to show her playful suspicion, ¡°We can¡¯t afford to have our head chef die so easily.¡± She playfully elbowed him softly and giggled to her amusement. Agent Deva hastily took off his scarf and overcoat and hung it at the employee¡¯s closet and pulled out his chef''s apron and hat. He looked over the diner, it was filled with a yellowish hue, an effect of the yellow light bulbs they used. It was a small diner, a cozy one where locals frequented, round tables and long chairs were the setup, a raspy music playing in the background playing the radio. There were already 6 people who were ordering their food, early in the morning, the morning rush hour was about to start. On top of the window, which showed the kitchen from the diner¡¯s side was a huge sign that read out ¡°No Low-tier Magic or above inside the Outhouse.¡±


    He went straight into the kitchen where a group of people were already there preparing the food, prepping the essentials for the days ahead. They all noticed Agent Deva walk into the kitchen, they all turned towards him and greeted him. ¡°Chef Fred, good morning.¡± was hummed in a synchronized way, showing that this was the usual way things had been for some time. Fred greeted each of them as warmly as he could possibly could, but kept an air of professionalism to it that they couldn¡¯t get too chummy with him.


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    And right then, one of the smaller cooks read out one of the orders and the kitchen became alive with their duties. ¡°Two Honey Toasts and two condensed coffees on table 4, Two Lamb chops and Butter beer on table 2, and 4 shredded pork to-go on table 1.¡± Agent Deva pulled up his sleeves as he got to work.


    He raised his arms and a few utensils floated around him, it was like watching an orchestra being waved about. Every purpose was intentional, no excess action, ¡°Fred¡± had proven his worth with his ¡®legitimate¡¯ chef degree and his fine use of magic to help with his cooking.


    During lunch break, which was at 3 in the evening, ¡°Fred¡± would prepare a special array of dishes for all the staff. Thus, the tradition of not taking orders an hour before 3 was upheld so as to allow the staff for their lunch breaks. This made him well-liked by everyone, the waiters, the bouncers and the other cooks, even Claire herself never skips the lunch the ¡°Fred¡± makes.


    ¡°Another rebel hiding place raided,¡± the radio spoke in a monotone voice. The room turned slightly stale. ¡°How do they always find people, snitches? or spies?¡± One of the younger cooks, Lapen asked, not loud enough for the people outside the kitchen to hear, but enough for everyone to hear in the room. Claire sighed. ¡®Bounties, surveillance- Nikolas is choking us. Last week, Old Man Werner turned in his own niece for a bag of silver.¡¯ She slammed a tray down. We''re being driven to the corner.¡± ¡°It would be better to not let everyone know crucial information, expecting them to be caught, we are against a dictator who doesn¡¯t mind killing senselessly.¡± ¡®Fred¡¯ replied while thinking, ¡°Nikolas, calling The Monarch by his name is one way of losing your head.¡± He continued, ¡°Once caught, your nearest families get executed with you.¡±


    The room grew quieter. Only to be recovered by Claire¡¯s optimistic tone ,¡±And that¡¯s why we fight. No one go home after we close up tonight. We have something to do.¡±


    It quickly reached 10 pm, the closing time. All customers had left and the diner side of the building was already dark; the kitchen had a dimmed light with hushed talk happening. Everyone had already taken off their work attire and dressed themselves in the clothes they came in with. There were 18 staff members and all of them were sitting in the kitchen, preferred beverage at hand, they were softly talking to each other about what was to happen.


    Lapen whispered to ¡®Fred¡¯ ,¡±Where do you think we¡¯re going? I hope none of us die tonight.¡± ¡°Same, Lapen, but that¡¯s also the risk of what we do, for the Revolution, for the People.¡± He replied, winking.


    ¡°How is your sister by the way, I heard she got sick with the Soot fever, have you sought for healing or medicine?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly, healing costs too much and the priests keep our bio-data as we get healed, plus it¡¯s costly as heck, akin to selling your kidney. Medicine, yes, some herbal syrups have been prescribed by fellow comrade healers but there is not much that it can do, living in the city, not having a purifier or clean water.¡±


    Agend Deva nodded solemnly and thought to himself whether he should help Lapen out. He quickly fished out a vial of magenta liquid and gave Lapen in a secretive way so other people won¡¯t notice it. ¡°Give this to her in three portions, do not miss a day, this is a Purifier from the black market. You can repay me later, maybe small portions by the month, no interest.¡± He winked.


    Lapen tried to hold back a tear, and struggled with it. Yet a tear managed to slip past his efforts which he quickly rubbed as subtly as possible.


    Before he could say anything Claire came in after locking up the diner, closing the windows and turning off the lights, and looked around the room, meeting each pair of eyes with a confident look. ¡°There is an update on a captured rebel captain from the countryside, caught in Dervun, his family has been rounded up and will be executed together tomorrow in front of Nikolas¡¯ Palace. We are ordered to do all we can to stop it, we move out tonight, they are being held at¡­¡± Claire checked her slip of paper again ¡°Golden Sylum. The Hotel, it will be heavily guarded. But there will be an opening. The captured Captain¡¯s name is Georg Tamphon.¡± As she said those last words, a cold chill ran down Deva¡¯s spine. He finally found out where his brother had been.

 2. Hushed Preparations

    ¡°We are the Dandelion Brigade !¡± Claire¡¯s voice echoed in the hushed kitchen, not afraid that the walls may have ears. Claire drove her knife into the table. The blade quivered between them like a compass needle. "They call us weeds? Good. Weeds strangle empires. Tonight, we bloom thorns. God bless the grass that grows through concrete ! We have fought several battles before, lost loved ones and enacted justice for the People.¡± her voice cracked a bit, her passion still the same. ¡°We have been rug rats, cobble singers, painted poets, yet we have grown stronger - now we are Gutter snipers, Stealth brawlers and Gear Junkies. We have come a long way, and yet the Revolution happens everyday. Let us renew our conviction and give our all !¡±


    The room straightened as Claire spoke, backs rigid like soldiers hearing a war cry. This is how she got the position, a Red Scholar scouted her in the dumps and trained her to become one as well, now she¡¯s gaining experience as an Urban Guerilla.


    Agent Deva was sitting in the corner polishing his handgun, making sure everything was working, he also had a foldable rifle with a serrated knife as its bayonet  to his side, this was for long range, yet in this urban warfare, long range hardly ever happens, with the fog and all. After finishing up on his handgun, he then took the magazines for his handgun and filled them up with ammunition. Each round clicked into place. For the mission. For Georg. For the ISB? His hands faltered.. His handgun used a .380 ACP, bullets were easier to make if one had the materials. Melissa spat. "Bullets cost two rations each. Make ¡¯em count." The Resistance depended on themselves for this, resources were scarce and yet with each territory in control, with each Empire armory raided, their power increased incrementally.


    After loading 6 magazines of 6 rounds each, he augmented them with his magic. Then he took out a cartridge for his rifle, 6 rounds each as well, he was not fond of automatic rifles, he also prepared 4 magazines and augmented them.


    ¡°The operation tomorrow is as follows - Stealth Brawlers, Gutter Snipers and Gear Junkies will form the infiltration and the extraction. While the Urban Guerillas will be the distraction, so me, Fred, Andre, Lyla and Roza will be the distraction - we will hit the police station just next door with remote vehicle bombs and hit the Golden Sylum as well, there are two knights, an Iron Verdict and a Seraphim. We don¡¯t know from which order, but there is a high likeliness of the Seraphim being a Hussar. So once we engage with them, the Infiltration team will proceed immediately.¡±


    ¡°But boss, a Seraphim is way out of our league, even yours.¡± someone who was sitting next to Agent Deva spoke out, a girl who had tight braids and a clear innocent expression, her attire was that of a Punk, chains and all. Claire nodded ,¡±Yes, we won¡¯t be able to take down a seraphim with all our strengths combined, that¡¯s why I¡¯m choosing the strongest amongst us to fight. We will hit and then we will run. The infiltration team, especially the Gutter Snipers will ensure our escape.¡±


    Claire¡¯s voice dropped. ¡°Seraphim Hussars eat rebels. Remember Brighton?¡± The room flinched. Nobody forgot Brighton. Natalie¡¯s hand crept to her neck-where Brighton¡¯s sole survivor bore a Seraphim¡¯s brand: a smiling mouth with six angel wings carved into flesh.


    Everyone gave a salute and started readying their materials.


    Among the Stealth brawlers was Natalie, she suddenly disappeared and showed up in a different location - brandishing glaives as her weapon, with dozens of throwing knives attached to her in a band criss-crossing her chest. The Gutter Snipers, their leader Gonov held his long barrelled rifle and quickle pulled the trigger, no bullet in the chamber, but his different stances showed how he handled the weapon with finesse. He had a gadget that shot out into the roof which made Claire growl at him, but the gadget pulled him up and it shot again in a different direction, he was an expert an finding the best location to secure a position. ¡°Gonov, remember Wester ? That day you dangled at the side of a building all day¡­ Do you want to dangle all day after this mission?¡± Claire reprimanded him for damaging store property.


    And then the urban guerillas, generalists in their specialization, they could do each of every skill, albeit without the peak skills of specialists. They are quick to adapt, and are the best at fighting on the streets, door to door, wherever there needs to be fighting.


    ¡°You really should mind your own business, my gadgets are fine. They do the job.¡± One of the Gear Junkies, Melissa, a small petite woman with a specialized lens in her helmet argued with Trent another Gear Junky. ¡°But if you do it like this.¡± He took one of the bombs, and rewired it in the blink of an eye. ¡°You¡¯ll be able to set it off without your button.¡± He eyed Melissa as if he won the argument. She did not back down ,¡±The point of it is that we need to control the cars before they explode, that was what the wire is for. A timed bomb is different to my special bombs. Please, you¡¯re a fledgeling questioning a veteran¡±. Melissa snatched the bomb back. ¡°Your ¡®improvement¡¯ nearly blew my hand off last time.¡¯ Trent¡¯s grin faltered. ¡®That was one misfire¡¯ ¡®One hand, Trent. One.¡± Trent chuckled with nervous laugh and just looked away. She puffed her chest up savoring the verbal victory.


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    Melissa¡¯s ¡®firefly¡¯ drones hummed to life-junk-heap creations with real firefly glands grafted for stealth. Melissa cooed at her ¡®fireflies,¡¯ their wings whirring with stolen magic. ¡®My babies hate Iron Verdicts. Don¡¯t you?¡¯ A drone hissed, antennae twitching toward Trent.


    One of the stealth brawlers, Natalie, a brawny woman with scars all over her arms slowly approached Agent Deva, but as she decided not to approach him and turn. Agent Deva called out to her ,¡±Natalie, what is it.¡± Natalie was surprised ,¡±Do you have eyes in your back?¡± she giggled, blushing a bit. ¡°I was going to ask why you¡¯re not a stealth brawler, you fight so well, and you use magic with the environment, if you weren¡¯t so good at everything else and just saw your fighting, I¡¯d assume you¡¯re a stealth brawler just like me.¡± She said, blushing again when she realized how she just complimented him. Agent Deva smiled subtly and answered ¡°I may fight good, but I can only dream of fighting to the level that you do. Why don¡¯t we spar a bit when we get back, I might need some pointers.¡± Natalie also smiled, she didn¡¯t expect him to compliment her too. Natalie¡¯s scarred knuckles whitened. ¡®You fought like a Brawler in the Scrapyard. I, uh¡­ kept the bolt-cutters you left. For luck.¡¯ She paled. Idiot. Why¡¯d I say that? She just nodded and scurried off. ¡°Awkward bunch.¡± Agent Deva said in his mind, appreciating the group once more.


    As everyone finished up with their preparation, Claire took the spotlight again. ¡°We take the underground passages, the coast has been cleared for us, no witnesses, no guards. But maybe the area near the Golden Sylum may be guarded, even the undergrounds. The distractions will leave near the parking lot near the police station, the infiltrators will do as they please.¡± Stern and precise.


    She headed first towards the deep freezer, she stopped at the middle of the freezer and casted a spell. The air vibrated and a door revealed itself on the floor. She pulled in up one one long strenuous process, showcasing the heaviness of the door. One by one the group proceeded to enter the underground.


    The ladder¡¯s rungs groaned under Deva¡¯s weight. Below, the stench of wet rot and iron (sewage? blood?) thickened the air. Something scuttled in the dark-too large to be a rat. The rat¡¯s spine split-a human finger grafted where its tail should be. Deva crushed it. The finger wriggled, pointing at him before going still.


    It was pitch black, only the glow of underground fireflies and luminous mushrooms could be seen in the serpentine underground passage. The groups was already well accustomed to this as they activated their eyes, a spell known to every rebel, a spell which the empire forbade its subjects to use. This was a spell called Night-eyes, developed by a rural wizard scholar. Seeing well into the night was disallowed by the Monarch, the Monarch wanted monopoly on the shadows, preaching that only He could give the right of sight in the darkness. He provided his elites and foot soldiers equipment called night-vision, a pair of goggles which functioned with minor mana stones. This huge difference in treating the dark was one of many that separated the empire, people who used Night-eyes could be tested through their developed eyes which learned to accommodate the spell and the mana, while the people who use Night-vision had their eyes strained by the lens in front of their eyes.


    Deva¡¯s Night-eyes activated with a wet click-his pupils dilating unnaturally wide. Something scratched behind his optic nerve. The ISB¡¯s loyalty tattoos slithered like worms under his skin, punishing him for using rebel magic.


    The underground caverns were less smoggy, a trickling of water could be heard everywhere, and a small stream of sewage and industrial waste flowed in the middle. The stench of sewage clung like a second skin . Rats skittered past boots, their eyes reflecting the rebels¡¯ dim lights. Tthe homeless, once made illegal had to shift to the underground, they knew how to hide and how to navigate. A large faction of homeless operated with the Resistance and provided information.


    A figure emerged from the shadows-gaunt, eyes milky with cataracts. ¡°Claire.¡± He spat. ¡°Sylum¡¯s crawling with Iron Grunts. They¡¯re waiting.¡± A homeless man, yet, not so homeless as the other homeless. ¡°Thank you for the information, and keeping an eye out.¡± Claire responded and gave him a slip. The homeless informant¡¯s milky eyes rolled back. "The Seraphim¡­ they sing when they kill. Like choirboys. But their mouths¡­" He gagged. "Too many teeth." The homeless person took off after the exchange.


    As they walked for some time, Claire and her group stood by a ladder. While the rest of the infiltration group went ahead, as they pass by, they saluted each other and wished each other for the best.


    The Operation starts in half an hour.


    Deva¡¯s watch beeped. 00:30:00. The countdown seared his wrist. Georg¡¯s noose tightens