The tiny space was cramped, falling just sort of a studio apartment space. It was dank and smelled of mildew, dirty sheets trampled with shoe prints blanketed a part of
the concrete flooring, the tiles having long since pulled from their
foundations. The tiny square windows were closed shut with slitted
shutters, slivers of sunlight painting white lines across the floor. The din of thousands of people bustling about in the streets far below mixed with festive sounding music and the constant churn of
steam powered airships chugging past far above. Scattered across the
ground as well as posted up on countless lamp-posts and building facades
were flyers with a single man's grinning face plastered on it, his
hands stretched out to embrace a few words in bold: For the Future!
Six people sat in that room, four men, two women, all clothed in dusty coats to ward off the chilly winter air. Their faces were that of grim focus and concentration, despite the festivities below. There was no insignia on any of the figures there that marked them as belonging to a group, but they seemed to move like a coordinated team. It was almost like they breathed and thought the same things. Cigarette smoke gave the air a gray tint in that contained space. One of the men, tall and muscular with a short, black beard engulfing his chin, moved toward the window, pushing it open a tiny slit with his gloved finger to peek outside. He let out a sigh, moving back over to the group.
"Listen up." He spoke with a low voice, looking each of the others with a serious face. "I've only got time to say this once. Gordon's going to take the stage at 3:00 sharp. His speech will last thirty minutes, each of you must be in your positions before then." He glanced over at the woman sitting beside him. She was tall with long dark hair and eyes set in firm, commanding glare behind a pair of glasses. "Finale."
"Alright." She leaned forward, laying out in the space between all of them a crumpled sheet of paper. On it was a diagram of the wooden stage erected just outside in the city's Town Square, a wide scaffolding covered with decorative sheets and drapes. She tapped three of the sides of the stage. "Six guards are stationed here, Gordon's elite bodyguards. Ten more are dispersed in the crowds, they won't be of much concern as of now. Teams of five armed militia men are stationed in the surrounding buildings, on standby."
One of the other men, skinner and younger than the first ran his fingers through short red hair, messily cut. "Damn, the number just keeps going up."
The older man gave him a sharp glare. "There'd be less if someone hadn't let slip that something was going down today. If we screw this up, there'll be a hundred more on the entire organization's back, and it's over." His glare became stronger, if that was possible. "So don't screw up."
Finale patted the first man on the shoulder. "Alright, alright. We all know our jobs. Rest and Sharp will be in the crowd and distract the guards on my signal, and lure them away. Just look inconspicuous until then. Overture and I will be setting of diversions in building over and will provide ground support to Rest. When it's clear, Grave, you take the shot."
The man whom she called Grave blew out a puff of smoke, his face looking more stressed than the others already. A metallic case sat upright beside him, one arm propped up against it while he fixed Finale with a haggard stare. "I don't like this."
The others stared at Grave with that very same grim look and said nothing. It was the first man, Overture as Finale had called him, who spoke. "A job's a job, Grave."
"I'll bet it is," Grave muttered, putting the cigarette to his lips again. It didn't seem like the cigarette was giving him that calming effect that it usually did. "It's dirty as hell, that's what it is."
"It has to be done," Finale said icily. "Elegy will give support to Grave." The only other female in the room gave a silent nod, nervousness showing on her face more so than anyone else's.
There was the whine of speaker interference that filled the air, interrupting the festive music, and the ambient sounds of the crowds gave way to a roar of cheers. Overture stood up, looking over at the window. The others followed suit. "It's starting." Overture looked to everyone. "Be at the rendezvous point at 5, no later. Keep your eyes peeled."
"Sir."
"Okay, let's go."
Six people sat in that room, four men, two women, all clothed in dusty coats to ward off the chilly winter air. Their faces were that of grim focus and concentration, despite the festivities below. There was no insignia on any of the figures there that marked them as belonging to a group, but they seemed to move like a coordinated team. It was almost like they breathed and thought the same things. Cigarette smoke gave the air a gray tint in that contained space. One of the men, tall and muscular with a short, black beard engulfing his chin, moved toward the window, pushing it open a tiny slit with his gloved finger to peek outside. He let out a sigh, moving back over to the group.
"Listen up." He spoke with a low voice, looking each of the others with a serious face. "I've only got time to say this once. Gordon's going to take the stage at 3:00 sharp. His speech will last thirty minutes, each of you must be in your positions before then." He glanced over at the woman sitting beside him. She was tall with long dark hair and eyes set in firm, commanding glare behind a pair of glasses. "Finale."
"Alright." She leaned forward, laying out in the space between all of them a crumpled sheet of paper. On it was a diagram of the wooden stage erected just outside in the city's Town Square, a wide scaffolding covered with decorative sheets and drapes. She tapped three of the sides of the stage. "Six guards are stationed here, Gordon's elite bodyguards. Ten more are dispersed in the crowds, they won't be of much concern as of now. Teams of five armed militia men are stationed in the surrounding buildings, on standby."
One of the other men, skinner and younger than the first ran his fingers through short red hair, messily cut. "Damn, the number just keeps going up."
The older man gave him a sharp glare. "There'd be less if someone hadn't let slip that something was going down today. If we screw this up, there'll be a hundred more on the entire organization's back, and it's over." His glare became stronger, if that was possible. "So don't screw up."
Finale patted the first man on the shoulder. "Alright, alright. We all know our jobs. Rest and Sharp will be in the crowd and distract the guards on my signal, and lure them away. Just look inconspicuous until then. Overture and I will be setting of diversions in building over and will provide ground support to Rest. When it's clear, Grave, you take the shot."
The man whom she called Grave blew out a puff of smoke, his face looking more stressed than the others already. A metallic case sat upright beside him, one arm propped up against it while he fixed Finale with a haggard stare. "I don't like this."
The others stared at Grave with that very same grim look and said nothing. It was the first man, Overture as Finale had called him, who spoke. "A job's a job, Grave."
"I'll bet it is," Grave muttered, putting the cigarette to his lips again. It didn't seem like the cigarette was giving him that calming effect that it usually did. "It's dirty as hell, that's what it is."
"It has to be done," Finale said icily. "Elegy will give support to Grave." The only other female in the room gave a silent nod, nervousness showing on her face more so than anyone else's.
There was the whine of speaker interference that filled the air, interrupting the festive music, and the ambient sounds of the crowds gave way to a roar of cheers. Overture stood up, looking over at the window. The others followed suit. "It's starting." Overture looked to everyone. "Be at the rendezvous point at 5, no later. Keep your eyes peeled."
"Sir."
"Okay, let's go."
