08-09-2016, 04:40 PM
Sunlight streamed unadulterated on the newspaper sheeted across Morven's lap, a styrofoam coffee cup balanced on the bench slat next to her, half cradled in the grip of one hand. Air tickled the edges of the paper, barely touching the perspiration on her bare legs. Summers never clung so tight and sticky back home.
The latest figures reported staggering numbers of registrations. She was surprised at how many so willingly offered their identities, not least when Ascendancy spoke in the same breath of a society that would, she'd bet, give anything to get their claws into such a list. How would the government even begin to offer protection against a threat like that (she didn't even like to think of the possibilities) - but, more to the point, why should they? In fashioning himself a god, Nikolai Brandon cast the same glow upon all others who shared in his gift. Made them something more. Made them hateable. A target. Competitors.
Why would he want to protect them?
This morning the tabloids had splashed old photos of the Tower Bridge explosions, drawing new questions at the lack of incendiaries ever discovered at the scene. Hairline cracks multiplied into what might easily become deep fissures. The fear was a seed cautiously watered, uncertain of an enemy but determined to find blame for the sudden instability. Questions burst like a dandelion blown into the wind, the hedged answers little more than questions themselves.
Even the broadsheets were not much more circumspect in their rampant speculation. What can these people do?
But of Ascendancy himself, they spoke no ill.
The man was the talk of the moment. Articles of his life and rise, old news, dusted off and polished with new shine. She'd passed a dozen newsagents displaying glossy celebrity magazines sporting his severe, immaculate face. The secret to youth at 62! they sang. The newsfeeds replayed the footage a hundred times, imprinted with different commentators, new angles, rehashed analysis. Everyone wanted to put voice to such an historic event, to memorialise themselves within it. Even street vendors already hawked plastic replicas of Moscow's Triumphant Arch.
She folded the paper next to her on the bench, took a sip of bitter coffee, and settled to watch the rivers of people flowing endlessly in both directions; glad, for once, to be free of the current. Her eyes half lidded. It was nice to do nothing. Until she noticed the disturbance shift uneasily amongst the crowds.
Two men, hunched in heated conversation.
Averted eyes swept clear of the budding confrontation; a natural hollow surrounded them, left them standing in a bubble. Morven lifted the sunglasses from her face, perched them on top of her head. If looks could kill. Suddenly one of the men slammed back. Even through the forest of people she could see not a finger had been laid on him.
You're fucking kidding me. Instinct urged her to her feet. A bubble of anger at the sheer stupidity. Morven shoved her way close, frowning, and caught the aggressor's wrist in her hand. "Enough."
He scowled, surprised at the intrusion, and snatched his arm away. Something akin to fear flashed in his eyes before he turned and ran, shifting into the crowd headed for Kensington South.
"Asshole,"
she muttered.
The latest figures reported staggering numbers of registrations. She was surprised at how many so willingly offered their identities, not least when Ascendancy spoke in the same breath of a society that would, she'd bet, give anything to get their claws into such a list. How would the government even begin to offer protection against a threat like that (she didn't even like to think of the possibilities) - but, more to the point, why should they? In fashioning himself a god, Nikolai Brandon cast the same glow upon all others who shared in his gift. Made them something more. Made them hateable. A target. Competitors.
Why would he want to protect them?
This morning the tabloids had splashed old photos of the Tower Bridge explosions, drawing new questions at the lack of incendiaries ever discovered at the scene. Hairline cracks multiplied into what might easily become deep fissures. The fear was a seed cautiously watered, uncertain of an enemy but determined to find blame for the sudden instability. Questions burst like a dandelion blown into the wind, the hedged answers little more than questions themselves.
Even the broadsheets were not much more circumspect in their rampant speculation. What can these people do?
But of Ascendancy himself, they spoke no ill.
The man was the talk of the moment. Articles of his life and rise, old news, dusted off and polished with new shine. She'd passed a dozen newsagents displaying glossy celebrity magazines sporting his severe, immaculate face. The secret to youth at 62! they sang. The newsfeeds replayed the footage a hundred times, imprinted with different commentators, new angles, rehashed analysis. Everyone wanted to put voice to such an historic event, to memorialise themselves within it. Even street vendors already hawked plastic replicas of Moscow's Triumphant Arch.
She folded the paper next to her on the bench, took a sip of bitter coffee, and settled to watch the rivers of people flowing endlessly in both directions; glad, for once, to be free of the current. Her eyes half lidded. It was nice to do nothing. Until she noticed the disturbance shift uneasily amongst the crowds.
Two men, hunched in heated conversation.
Averted eyes swept clear of the budding confrontation; a natural hollow surrounded them, left them standing in a bubble. Morven lifted the sunglasses from her face, perched them on top of her head. If looks could kill. Suddenly one of the men slammed back. Even through the forest of people she could see not a finger had been laid on him.
You're fucking kidding me. Instinct urged her to her feet. A bubble of anger at the sheer stupidity. Morven shoved her way close, frowning, and caught the aggressor's wrist in her hand. "Enough."
He scowled, surprised at the intrusion, and snatched his arm away. Something akin to fear flashed in his eyes before he turned and ran, shifting into the crowd headed for Kensington South.
"Asshole,"
she muttered.
![[Image: Morven-past-life-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/Morven-past-life-banner-scaled.jpg)