Along the twisted roads of the City, the omnibus swayed from side to side. It heaved with the teeming mass of humanity, garishly dressed tourists rubbing shoulders with tracksuited Roadmen or the bulky jackets and flat caps of the Firm. It was the start of the day, and the streets were filled with a sea of suits emerging from under the earth, where the Tube lines crisscrossed Greater London like the arteries of some horrific organism. The bus passed through the city in fits and starts, held back by the traffic that forced its way through the winding streets. In truth, this traffic was transient. Five thousand people lived in the Square Mile, the rest travelled in from other districts, or took high speed trains to leave the green fields for the monotonous grey of the city, bringing the number of people within the ancient boundary to five hundred thousand.

Alexander sat on the top deck of the bus, watching the rain slide down the thick glass and looking out into his home. The streets of Whitechapel were a warren of tall brick buildings from the turn of the last century with the occasional, optimistic, high rise tower or office block breaking the skyline. Aleksander’s family had lived within these buildings since his great grandfather had followed the retreating Polish army in its desperate exodus from Gdansk. He had earned his revenge in the Royal Air Force, and had decided to accept the British offer of permanent residence when the World War turned Cold. Most of Alexander’s neighbours were descendants of the King’s Polish Legion, as the exiles came to be known, and the thought of their lost homeland created a unique sense of loyalty to their adoptive state. Yet even the most fervent idealism must bend to reality, and though the area was relatively crime free Whitechapel still owed fealty to Old King Kray.

The bus wound its way down a warren of old streets, the beam connecting it to the overhead cabling swinging wildly from side to side, before suddenly emerging into the relatively open sky that surrounded the Tower of London. Once the tallest building in the City, the Tower now looked like little more than a squat fort in comparison to the skyscrapers that now filled the city. However, even sunk into the ground, it was still an imposing site that seemed menacing in comparison to the statelier palaces of Buckingham and Windsor. Atop the battlements stood the Tower’s Guards; National Servicemen with the Royal London Fusiliers, in camouflage uniforms with rifles ready, patrolled alongside weathered veterans in the dark blue of the Beefeaters. These old soldiers chatted animatedly with their young colleagues, keeping a watchful eye on the streams of tourists that flowed in and out of the Middle Tower.

Flocks of Ravens flew from the tops of the towers, darting in and around the ancient masonry. Should the Ravens ever leave the tower then England will fall, and the sight of these vast flocks had become a symbol of hope in recent years. Alexander could faintly make out the master of these birds standing atop the White Tower. In the aftermath of the Gunpowder Plot, the Beefeaters had only managed to save a single bird from Fawkes’ attack, and for a while it looked like the Ravens would die out in their entirety. Then the Raven first revealed himself by bringing in hundreds of birds from the Forest of Dean, a cloud of black feathers clutching onto the roof of a high-speed train, and sending them flying throughout the streets in a masterful display of aerial acrobatics. Rumour said the Raven was not local to London, but no-one could deny that he had earned his place in the Bow Street Runners.

Alexander had grown up in London, and the Bow Street Runners had been his childhood idols, stalwart defenders of the realm and a symbol of hope in the slums of the East End. Every child of the city grew up to idolise the heroes who defend the Crown Jewels and moved through the streets with an easy confidence that could only inspire. It was a tragic irony, he reflected, that most of those children ended up working for the gangs in some way or another regardless of who their idols were. Still, the superheroes were a welcome sight, and most people cheered when they delivered a key strike against criminals or supervillains, the city had always loved spectacle.

His journey would have been much faster by Tube, but at this hour those carriages became packed with people, and the bus offered a decent view of the city. Right now, the view was of the strange mixture of monumental late Victorian architecture and glass-fronted modernist towers that surrounded the Bank of England. As the bus passed in front of the Bank itself, fittingly built in the style of an ancient Greek temple, Alexander caught a glimpse of the soldiers patrolling atop the building: distant figures in camouflaged uniforms and khaki berets that only made them more distinct in comparison to the black and red check of the City of London Police. Soldiers had been an almost universal sight on the streets of London for months now; the city was still reeling from the Gunpowder Plot of two years ago and the city’s villains had recently begun capitalising on the weakened government presence. London was a powder keg, and most believed it was only a matter of time before it went up in flames.

On and on the bus went, through the city, past the still-shattered dome of Saint Paul’s, now shrouded in scaffolding and teeming with labourers in high-vis clothing. Past the statues of rampant dragons holding the Cross of Saint George that marked the boundary of the city. Fleet street now; where Alexander disembarked before the gates to Temple, from whose stone arch the white cross on black of the Order of Saint John hung proud. The banner was little more than a concession to the Temple’s owners, and the majority of the district had been leased by law firms for centuries. Still, the rents from this place helped to fuel the Order’s work in supporting the practice of medicine across the world. Alexander slotted himself into the crowds of lawyers that flowed into the district, his suit and tie a perfect fit in the crowd. He was not one of them, not yet, but soon his placement would be done and he could begin his career as a barrister.

The offices of Smyth and Jenkins had stood on this site since the Regency, and they had an illustrious pedigree that placed them on good standing with the corporate community. It was perhaps unsurprising that their office did not conform to the modern standards of wide-open spaces and glass walls. The firm was housed in a delicate old building that was all plush upholstery, panelled wood and deep red carpets. Alexander loved it; it was everything he thought a place of power should look like. Sometimes he found the work of drawing up forms and collating case files tedious, but he was determined to make something of himself. His great grandfather had fought in the Second World War and, upon returning, had decided to open an electronic shop that had been passed down to his son, and then again to Alexander’s father. His father loved his shop, but Alexander could see that everything he was doing was to ensure Alexander got the chances he hadn’t, the chance for a life beyond a corner shop in Whitechapel.

Currently, opportunity had Alexander sifting through fifty-year-old documents he had copied from corporate archives, seeking to put together a complete package of information so his superior could support the client in a dispute over patent ownership. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t overly fun but there had been some enjoyment in hunting through the old archive. Ultimately, this was potentially a very lucrative contract and though Alexander’s wage was small, if they won then he would receive a not insignificant cut of the fee. There was something he enjoyed about all this hunting around for information, something in it that fulfilled his fantasies of adventure. He had fallen into his role with eagerness, and he was dressed to match. In a snappy black suit with a white shirt and a rich red tie which he had concealed between a thick wool overcoat he looked every part the city professional. This effort to conform was marred by a face far more youthful than his peers, most of whom were already qualified lawyers, and his unusual height that saw he would always stand out from the crowd.

The day went on, and Alexander fell into the usual routine of filing paperwork, taking calls from his equivalent in the client’s corporation and making small talk over the kettle. The culture of Smyth and Jenkins was somewhat old fashioned and the firm encouraged its staff to get to know each other, with the aim of building upon a professional network that the employees could call upon should they need to leverage their influence. It may have been old, and a little nepotistic, but it allowed the comparatively small firm to punch far above its weight. Alexander didn’t have his own office, like many of the firm’s senior members, but he enjoyed working in the small communal area with ready access to other’s ideas and opinions. It also helped that he didn’t have much of a social life, and viewed his work as a way to make the friendships that he had lost back in Whitechapel.

Glass shuddered in the window frames as the low hum of a busy office was shattered by the distant thumps of explosions and the sharp retort of gunfire. Panicked shouts spread throughout the room as people’s worst fears came to roost. ‘It’s Fawkes!’ some cried in terror, while others shouted the names of supervillains, anarchists, criminals or terrorists. Some crowded against the windows, others began to crawl beneath their desks whilst most simply sat stupefied, as if they could not believe the evidence of their ears. Alexander ran up to the window, looking over his crowding colleagues, and saw tall pillars of smoke rising from beyond the next rooftops. In the haze of fire and smoke he could almost make out what appeared to be a distant figure, twisting and turning in the pillar like some sick celebration. His scrutiny was interrupted by the sound of a metal cane rapping against the marble floor and he turned to see a hunched figure step out of the grandest of the firm’s offices. Sir Nathaniel Smyth, ruler of half this ancient firm, raised his arm high and shouted as far as his raspy voice would carry.

‘Everyone, stay calm! This is the heart of the United Kingdom! We are surrounded by thousands of police and soldiers, not to mention the Bow Street Runners. All we need to do is bunker down and await rescue. Now, I need a stalwart volunteer to bar the doors.’

‘I’m on it, sir!’ Alexander shot up, determined to do his part and prove his grit.

‘Good man, Laszewski.’ Sir Smyth spoke as he hobbled over to Alexander, placing his arm on the young man’s shoulder. ‘The doors are solid oak with wrought iron fittings, a stout piece of metal between the handles will hold till judgement day.’

He began to walk to his office, beckoning Alexander to follow. Once their he reached up to a wall fitting, and removed a curved sabre before sliding its gleaming metal surface into an ornate scabbard. On a gold disk embedded in the scabbard were the letters KBE.

‘Her Majesty gave me this, at Windsor castle in ’86, for my service in the Coldstream Guards. It’s Damascus steel, should stop anyone coming through those doors. Twenty-eight years it has hung on my wall, I think it’s long overdue some use.’

‘I’m honoured, sir.’ Alexander exclaimed, holding the sword with all the reverence he’d show a priceless artefact.

‘Now get to it lad, I’ll keep order up here.’ His face, which normally held the kindly expression of a grandfather, was a rictus of grim defiance and Alexander knew that he was resigned to his fate, whether salvation or death. Outside the silent confines of the office, the rest of the firm had taken to cowering beneath their tables or behind dividing walls, just as they had practiced in anti-intruder drills. A few of the more enterprising employees were moving furniture into an improvised barricade before the main doors, but with a word from Sir Smyth the pulled back the bulkiest of the requisitioned furniture to allow him to squeeze through a small gap. He could hear the scraping of furniture behind him as he left.

The firm occupied a four-story set of rooms with a single entrance through a pair of large double-doors. Alexander practically leapt downstairs in his haste, determined to make it to the door before whatever was happening outside could spread this far. Throughout his descent he could hear gunfire and explosions, now mingling with the sound of screaming, getting closer and closer. He took the last set of stairs in a single leap, staggering as his feet made contact with the checkered stone floor. The lobby was empty, everyone was huddled together in their offices, and Alexander sprinted across the room until he could reach out and touch the door.

In an instant the ancient oak shattered into splinters as it was torn apart by an explosion. Caught by the heat from the blast, and the largest chunks of debris, Alexander was flung clean across the room, his arm scraping against the floor until he crashed into the stairs. His courage fled, and he staggered to his feet before scrambling up the stairs. Around his feet bursts of dust spread as bullets cracked the marble and, as he turned onto the next flight, he caught a glimpse of two men dressed in green fatigues and balaclavas, each wielding an assault rifle. As he passed the next flight, he heard the sound of yet more boots filling the hall, followed by another ear-shattering explosion as a bomb blasted through whatever barricade the first floor had put up.

His hearing returned as the sound of screaming intermingled with gunfire echoed up the stairs. Almost muffled in comparison, but delivered at a deafening yell, was the shout of ‘Tír na nÓg!’ that followed the gunmen’s entrance. Alexander fled even further upstairs, pursued by advancing footsteps and yet more shouts, and it took all his effort to keep ahead of the attackers. Some distant part of him was aware of the blood that was flowing down his leg from a vicious piece of shrapnel, but adrenaline was coursing through his veins and he pressed on, heedless of whatever damage he may be doing to his body. Mere metres below him, the gunmen moved systematically up the building, cracking open barricades like the shell of a lobster before moving with zealous fervour through the offices. There was something manic about their cries, and they acted more like revellers than their professional appearance would imply.

Rounding the fourth floor, Alexander slammed his weight against the heavy wooden door, but failed to break through the piled barricades into the office beyond. No help would be coming from the other side; there was no time to open and close the barricade to let him through, and even if there was then Sir Smyth couldn’t risk the safety of the other employees for one man. That was why he had given Alexander his sword, which he still held in a death grip. He had been passing on the honour of his Knighthood to Alexander, a way of recognising his sacrifice. Alexander was not conscious of this reasoning, but some animalistic part of his instincts had worked through the logic and he threw himself off the barricaded door, instead making for the smaller staircase of wrought iron that led through the attic and onto the roof. In a stroke of luck, the long-neglected door separating the inside from the outside collapsed in a puff of rotten wood, and Alexander was struck by the cold light of day.

The air was filled with spiralling smoke, and crackling gunfire mixed with the deep impacts of explosions, the rumble of collapsing masonry, the wail of sirens and the riotous shouts of ‘Tír na nÓg!’ from the mouths of several dozen attackers who smarmed through the streets. Alexander threw himself as close as he dared to the ledge and saw these figures in their green fatigues disembarking from a fleet of ubiquitous white vans. A distant thus below his feet signalled the fourth four barricade being destroyed and Alexander heard not screams, but a shout of grim defiance from his colleagues as Sir Smyth led a hopeless defence. He knew they would come here next, but there was nowhere else for him to run to and his wounds were beginning to catch up to him.

As his vision faded, he gazed over the expanse of the Temple, taking in the shattered dome of St Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. As he did, he caught sight of movement in the foreground. It was the same shape that he had seen swirling in and out of the smoke, but it was closer now. Injury had blurred his vision, but he could barely make out a female form swoop up the side of the building and pause before him. Its skin seemed an unnatural shade, and it was dressed in flowing scraps of cloth that accentuated the inhuman grace of every delicate movement, swaying in defiance of the breeze as if it was swimming in the air. The air behind its back was shaking a little faster as it gained more height to look down on Alexander, and he felt as if his entire life had been examined by those glowing emerald eyes, and found wanting. The monster laughed, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard and yet to Alexander it seemed terrifying in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend. Without a look back, it took to the skies once more, leaving Alexander with his arm outstretched in a futile effort to bring it back.

Dejected, his body slid from the raided lip of the roof and fell into a seated position, looking at the cupola that he had emerged from. Through blurry eyes on the verge of unconsciousness, he saw a green figure step over the shattered remains of the door, clutching a metal rifle in its hands.