Day 5

‘They kill folk like us, down there, I reckon,’ one of the other prisoners nattered on.

Sham was in the back a large prison automobile, one powered by a steam engine large enough that the citizens of Haven stopped and stared at it, their eyes full of awe. He and three other prisoners were handcuffed and sat on a pair of metal benches—ones hard enough that they felt every bump in the road on their arse cheeks.

As if Sham’s back wasn’t in enough pain as it was.

And they’d been riding around for hours, now, headed all about the city picking up prisoners. Not just in the Harbour District, either, but from the Commercial Zone, the Darkyards, even someone from the Sunrise District. Sham supposed there weren’t many automobiles of this majestic size in the city of Haven, much less under the command of the police force, and so they’d get a full day’s use out of it before returning to the dungeons. Not that Sham was in any rush to get there, of course.

‘Just think,’ the same prisoner continued. ‘How often do you see someone get out of jail?’

‘My cousin got out a few weeks back,’ another helpfully replied, her tone making him seem oblivious to the fact that this testimony conflicted the other prisoner’s point.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, ol’ Tony. Took him away for conning some rich merchants. And then he got out again. Thought they’d got the wrong guy.’ This prisoner leant towards the man at her side—an apparent gentleman, sporting a thin but well groomed moustache and a pocketwatch that glistened as though new. She held her hand up to her mouth as if to pretend her following words were a secret. ‘He wasn’t the wrong guy,’ she said in mock-whisper.

‘Hmm,’ the well-to-do gentleman replied through pursed lips.

‘Alright,’ the first prisoner replied. ‘Well, besides him, who else do you know who got out? We’re headed for our deaths, I’m telling you. We’re—’

‘Cousin Huw got out last year.’

‘Well damn, woman. How many cousins you got?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Just the two.’

‘Nice family,’ the gentleman muttered, raising his eyebrows.

Sham couldn’t help but be amused by the irony of the situation; this man, too, was in the back of a prison vehicle. ‘And yet you sit beside us.’

A wry smile crossed the man’s face. ‘An unfortunate twist of fate, I assure you. I have it on rather good authority that it won’t last long.’

The woman’s eyes lit up. ‘See?’ she said, gesturing to the man at her side. ‘Posho here thinks we’re getting out, and all.’

‘He might be getting out, yeah,’ the talkative prisoner responded. ‘But he don’t count.’

‘What? Why’s that, then?’

‘Cos he’s not like us, is he? He’s got money.’

‘Friends in high places?’ Sham asked of the gentleman, perfectly happy to let the other two prisoners natter on.

Another smirk. ‘I don’t know that I’d describe them as high places. But…’

‘...places none the less?’ Sham finished for him.

The man nodded. ‘Something like that.’ He reached forwards with his hands, bound together as they were by the metal handcuffs. ‘Gresley,’ he said.

Sham reached forward also, shaked the man’s hand in the most uncomfortable fashion. ‘Sham,’ he replied.

A pounding at the front of the van. A metal latch slid open.

‘Quiet back there!’ one of the two police escorted shouted. ‘Or I’ll…’ He trailed off, apparently not quite sure what he’d do.

The rambling prisoner snorted. ‘Or what?’ he posed the guard. ‘What’s someone as namby-pamby as you gonna do? Wave your handkerchief at me? Give me a stern look? You ain’t from round my parts. Bet you ain’t even fired that weapon of yours.’

The guard’s mouth twitched.

‘He’s got a point,’ said a bodiless voice. The other guard. The driver. There was an element of mirth to her tone.

The wide-eyed woman leant forwards, stuck her tongue out at the guard. Then a moment of apparent inspiration seized her and she jumped at the open panel, tongue extended, meaning to lick the guard’s face.

The “namby-pamby” guard lurched backwards, shot the prisoner an expression of disgust, then slammed the panel shut once more.

Sham looked around at the other prisoners. At the wide-eyed prisoner, looking pleased with herself, at the rambling man roaring with laughter, and at Gresley, slumped back in his uncomfortable seat and gazing around at the walls of this transport cell. ‘I remember the before times, you know,’ the gentleman said.

Sham’s heart skipped a beat. Was this another time traveller? Someone who could actually shed a light on what was going on here. ‘You mean…’ he prompted.

‘Oh, before the dawn of the engine. Before the downfall of the monarchy. You know, the so-called “good old days”.’

Ah. Not a time traveller. Just a sentimentalist. ‘You don’t look old enough,’ Sham replied. It wasn’t a compliment, just a statement of fact. Well, it was only a little bit of a compliment.

Gresley tilted his head. ‘One of the benefits of wealth,’ he said. ‘A healthy diet, clear air—does wonders for the skin.’

‘Hm,’ Sham replied, then gestured to himself with his left thumb. ‘Harbour District.’

‘Aha!’ Gresley responded, his eyes lighting up and his arms raising into the air in apparent celebration. ‘Then you may well understand my fight.’

‘Your… fight?’

‘Yes, yes. Against the government. Against their tyranny.’

It was Sham’s turn to smirk. ‘What was your crime, here, then? Treason?’

Gresley batted the question away with his hand. ‘Just a smattering. The real crime is those in power; those who abuse it to grow their own wealth while the likes of you wallow in poverty.’

Sham didn’t quite like the way Gresley had put so much emphasis on “you”, but he agreed with the overall message enough to let it slide this once. ‘And you’d do it differently, I suppose?’ Sham started, then caught himself. ‘Gods, sorry. Was inhabited by the spirit of my mother for a second there. Yeah, course you’d do it different. Everyone would. Most people would even do it better.’

‘Reintroduce public healthcare…’ Gresley murmured.

‘...Sort out the tram timetables…’ Sham added.

‘...Bring back the harbour union…’

‘...Raises taxes on the rich. Or make them pay them to begin with…’

Gresley didn’t seem quite so enthused by this idea, betraying himself with a faltering smirk, but continued on anyway. ‘...Reduce police expenditure…’

‘...and free drugs for everyone!’ the manic woman finished, apparently done with her conversation with the rambling man and now staring on at Gresley and Sham with wide eyes.

Gresley pursed his lips in response, but Sham couldn’t find the flaw in this particular policy suggestion.

‘You’d do all that then, would you? Someone of your…’ Sham gestured to the man’s fitted suit.

‘Me?’ he replied. ‘Of course not. Not that I don’t agree with these suggestions—but I’m no leader.’

‘Well, who then?’

‘Queen Elmira, of course.’

The other three prisoners went silent for a moment, staring on at Gresley as though he were the maddest among them.

‘You what?’ the rambling prisoner finally asked, breaking the silence.

‘Not one of the exiled—’ Sham started.

‘The very same,’ Gresley finished for him. ‘She’s young, yes, but she has some bold ideas. And all she’d need is the throne of Haven returned to her. Her birthright, may I add.’

Sham gulped. ‘Look, getting rid of the current government is one thing, but they’re elected, at least.’

‘In rigged elections.’

‘OK, but… I don’t think replacing them with a despot is the answer.’

Gresley’s smile faded. ‘I’ll forgive that, Sham, because you haven’t met her. She is warm, she is kind. And I think you’d agree with a lot of her goals, given the chance—a man of your intellect would have a lot in common with her, in fact.’

‘Hmm,’ Sham responded, weighing up his response before he blurted out any old thing. It wasn’t often that he got to have such intellectually stimulating discussions, after all, and—

Sham fell to the floor of the prison transport automobile as its driver wrenched it to one side, mounting the pavement in the process. Before he’d had time to truly comprehend what had happened, he heard a loud pop. And then another, a good few seconds later.

Gunfire.

Shouting and screaming erupted around the automobile, though Sham and his fellow prisoners could see little of the outside world through the small crack of a view afforded to them in the sides of the vehicle. He caught glimpses of shapes moving fast, fleeing or hurrying in search of a better position.

‘What the fuck is this?’ the wide-eyed prisoner called out, but none of the other captive had an answer for her.

Another shot rang out. A scream. Not pained, but… anger, perhaps? Wrath?

‘Who?’ the rambling man shouted. ‘Who’d risk this? Attacking the police? Gotta be a mad man, if you ask me. Gotta be…’

But Sham didn’t hear the end of the strange man’s sentence, for an answer was beginning to unfurl in his mind. Who would risk it, indeed? That was certainly a valid question. But more to the point: why would anyone risk it? What could be in this van that someone could want?

Of course, the answer was burning a hole in his pocket. The folded document, the one that the mysterious sailor had given him. The one that was worth a crate of pure skill vials; surely the most valuable of currencies in all of Haven.

A prize, apparently, that they’d kill for.

‘Gresley,’ Sham said, turning to the gentleman prisoner at his side. ‘I need… I need you to hide something for me.’

The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. His eyes twinkled with… what, bemusement? Sham didn’t spare the time to dwell on it, and instead pushed his hand into his jacket pocket and then thrusted the document at Gresley.

The man said nothing of it, only flashing Sham a nod, and then secreted the papers in the facets of his long coat.

‘Don’t tell anyone where it is. Not unless it’s me telling you to. You understand?’

‘I understand, Sham,’ Gresley said, and his eyes twinkled once more.

[SEASONED] THEM TWINKLING EYES: SUCCESS

There’s something there, deep in the stranger’s soul. A truth kept well hidden. A truth you wander blindly into the centre of.

‘You’re quick to trust,’ Sham nodded. ‘Why?’

Gresley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps there is another—’

The end of his sentence was cut off by the sound of another bullet ringing out, this one ricochet off the side of the van with a heavy thunk, denting the automobile in the process. Both Sham and the wide-eyed prisoner hopped backwards, though remained unharmed.

‘Think these walls are bulletproof?’ the rambling man asked.

‘I certainly hope so, my good man,’ Gresley answered. ‘Or we might just find ourselves—’

Once again, Gresley’s responses were interrupted by something hitting the side of the van. The rear, this time, and not a bullet, but what sounded like… a person? The thunk this time was definitely accompanied by a groan, after all. And—

Gresley pushed at the dented automobile door. It swung open.

All four prisoner stared at the door, at one another, and then back at the door again. And then all four of them scrambled to exit.

‘Outta my way!’ the rambling man shouted, his voice muffled by the woman’s hand as she used his head to propel herself forwards. But Sham spilled out the van first, not by merit of speed or agility, but simply by way of being closest to the door to begin with.

He landed at the feet of the guard. The one who’d poked his head through the panel. And in his hand, he held a weapon.

But it wasn’t pointed at him, which, based on the last few days, was a refreshing change. Instead, the guard pointed it at a woman, dressed in black but for a green headscarf made from a torn material, her intense eyes somehow—

MEMORY UNLOCKED (RECOLLECTION)

You feel the explosion tear you apart, each miniscule fragment torn from the next accompanied by a pain that your mind refuses to process. The source? The very same eyes that stare back at you now.

‘You,’ the Target spat.

Sham turned to the group of prisoners behind him, found that only Gresley had already fled. And it was neither the wide-eyed woman nor the rambling man that the Target was speaking to.

‘You remember,’ Sham murmured.

The Target’s eyes narrowed. ‘As, apparently, do you.’

‘Alright, enough!’ the guard shouted, his arm trembling ever so slightly. ‘Prisoners, you’ll get back in the van.’ He turned back to the Target. ‘And you will surrender your weapon.’

‘Oh, will I?’ the Target responded, then nodded to Sham. ‘Ask your prisoner here. He’ll tell you I don’t go down that easily.’

Sham licked his lips. ‘She’s a terrorist,’ he said to the guard, whose attention was currently split between Target and convicts. ‘She’s going to destroy the Tower. Already has, in some ways. Forget us. Stop her.’

The guard considered Sham’s words, but his attention only shifted somewhat in favour of the Target.

Sham heard scrambling at his rear; the other two prisoners taking advantage of the situation in order to flee.

‘Listen to me,’ Sham said again, doing his best to sound earnest. ‘She’s a far bigger threat than me. Don’t let her get away. You understand?’

‘Bet you ain’t even fired that weapon of yours,’ the rambling man’s words rang out again.

Then it was the inner voice’s turn. ‘It’s true,’ it said. ‘Look at him. Look how his arm shakes. See the barrel, unblemished, unfired. You’ve met people like him before, haven’t you? Remember. Remember the face of a coward.’

The voice, as crazy as it might seem, was right. There was only one course of action here.

Sham launched himself at the guard, elbow first, aiming for the ribs. The police officer gasped as they collided, winded, releasing his grip on his weapon—though Sham had hoped that the man would fire it in the process. The time traveller grabbed at the weapon and swung it round towards the familiar face of the woman who would, in four days’ time, destroy Haven’s seat of government.

‘I can’t let you kill—’ he started.

But the Target was gone.

Around Sham was only the winded guard on the floor, the disabled transport automobile mounted the pavement, the spent rounds of a fight now over.

‘You can’t… leave…’ the guard croaked. ‘You’re under… arrest.’

‘Oh?’ Sham said, waving the weapon in the man’s face. ‘And you’re gonna stop me without this, are you?’

The guard considered his options. Sham saw him do the calculations, work out his chance of success.

‘You’ll let me... go, at least?’ the coward asked through heavy breaths.

Sham nodded, gestured away with the end of the revolver.

The guard pulled himself to his feet, clutching at his winded side, and hurried away as quickly as his injury would let him. Sham could only hope that he hadn’t broken a rib. That hadn’t been his intention. Even punching up, to someone of a higher social class, he didn’t want to hurt them. Just.. rough ‘em up a bit, if the situation demanded it. And...

[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED] ESCAPE THE JAWS OF JUSTICE

[LEVEL UP]

Select Skill Upgrade: [Seasoned] // [Heart of Janus] // [[Command]]

...Huh.

And, just as Sham was taking in the skill point that caught him by surprise, someone thrust a burlap sack over his head.