Before his death, a strange sort of clarity settled upon Alexander. It felt as if the pain of his wounds faded into a state of numbness, and his clouded eyes became unnaturally clear. He could see his murderer step onto the rooftop, a rifle held in her hands. She was dressed in olive green fatigues, with a set of webbing hanging from her chest, holding pouches filled with magazines. Over her shoulders she wore a bulky daysack, and Alexander could make out the long tube of a rocket launcher hanging from a strap. Her face was hidden behind a black balaclava, but the faintest hint of dark brown skin could be seen in the gaps around her emerald eyes. In her hand she carried a long rifle, its muzzle steaming in the cold morning air.

Alexander watched as she stepped through, spotting his wounded form, and raised her rifle to her shoulder, ready to fire. He braced himself for the inevitable crack of gunfire, but it never came. His eyes, held tightly shut, slowly opened and he saw his attacker standing over him, still pointing her rifle at him, with her eyes darting from side to side, as if she couldn’t quite see him. She shook her head, and that seemed to dispel whatever had happened to her. Ignoring Alexander, she wandered over to the edge of the roof, rested her rifle against the balustrade, and removed her daysack, opening the topflap to reveal a small stack of rockets.

Alexander stared at her in disbelief, his heart racing wildly in his chest. She must have seen him, she must. And yet, she had acted as if he wasn’t there at all. It couldn’t have been mercy; Alexander had heard her, and her accomplices, slaughtering their way through the building and laughing among the bodies. With a start, he realised that the pain from his wounded legs was fading, and the bleeding gashes were slowly clotting over before his very eyes. Slowly, he pressed his feet against the floor in an effort to stand. His legs were unsteady, and he almost fell over as his right leg bucked on the ascent, but he managed to haul himself onto his feet. Again, the gunwoman made no reaction, occupying herself with loading the rocket launcher, and acted seemingly unaware of his presence.

He stumbled unsteadily around the rooftop, massaging life into his legs, at one point passing directly in front of the woman, who offered no reaction. As realisation sank in, Alexander began to laugh before he quickly caught himself and stopped, in case he was wrong. Every now and then the news would be occupied by a bad ‘awakening’, as the accepted term had become. People who burst into flames in the middle of a school, or the victim of a bank robbery who suddenly took flight and fled. Some believed people ‘awakened’ through trauma, and threw themselves in front of trains in a fatal example of escapism, whilst others held that radiation was involved and blamed nuclear disasters on secret superhero projects. In truth, no one knew the cause but every child dreamt of waking up one morning with the strength of ten men.

Alexanders reverie was interrupted by the sound of rotor blades cutting through the morning fog. In the distance he could see a small grey helicopter making haste towards Temple, scattering the fog as it went. The roof’s other occupant saw it as well, and she ducked behind some cover, peeking out at the approaching aircraft. As it closed, Alexander began to make out indistinct figures dressed all in black, and the sound of gunfire changed as two opposing sides met in the streets. The counterattack had begun, and the Security Forces were scrambling to regain control of Temple. The helicopter closed the distance rapidly, flying so low that it was forced to follow the curve of the Thames. At Waterloo bridge, the aircraft rose abruptly and soared over the rooftop of the adjacent buildings, narrowly missing the flag post atop Somerset House. As it drew closer and closer to Temple, the gunman stepped out from behind her cover and shouldered her rocket launcher, her aim following the helicopter’s path.

Acting almost on instinct, Alexander leapt forwards and rammed the sword into her stomach. In his haste, he had neglected to remove the blade from its scabbard, but the woman bent double, and the rocket launcher clattered to the ground. She looked up in anger, and Alexander saw her eyes open wide in shock as he drew back the sheathed blade. Her eyes locked with his, he was sure she saw him now, and she reached to draw a short knife from a pouch on her lower back, but then her eyes glazed over again and she looked at the knife in her hand with obvious confusion. It was then she collapsed amidst a hail of gunfire, sending Alexander scrambling backwards, as one of the commandoes fired from the advancing helicopter. The aircraft swung over the rooftop and came to a hover above the building opposite. Alexander watched, quite confident they couldn’t see him, as a team of commandoes dropped down on long ropes, before disappearing into the building through broken windows.

Clutching the scabbard tightly in his hand, Alexander began the descent down the former offices of Smyth & Jenkins. Every part of him screamed to flee, to leave this place behind, but a kind of morbid curiosity won out. He had to see, to understand what happened, and so he stepped into the offices on the fourth floor. Carnage met him, his friends and colleagues lying scattered around the room either dead or very near to it. By the door lay the lone corpse of one of the attackers, his death made clear by the lacerations that covered his corpse. Resting against the far wall in a pool of blood, Sir Nathaniel Smyth was staring up at the window, wheezing through injured lungs. He was seemingly unaware of Alexander’s presence, though the old man’s eyes seemed to drift his way before returning to the window. Alexander knelt before him, and took his frail hand in his arm. Confused, Sir Smyth turned his head and his eyes widened in shock as recognition dawned. He spoke in a thin, rasping voice, intermingled with a strange gurgling sound.

‘Laszewski. I had… I had forgotten you. How, how had I forgotten?’ His eyes were wide, almost manic, and they studied Alexander as if the two were meeting for the first time.

‘It’s alright sir,’ Alexander said in an attempt to bring his employer back to the here and now, ‘I’ll go and get help. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.’

Smyth laughed, coughing up small flecks of blood as he did, before speaking again.

‘That’s kind of you my boy, but I’ve seen enough battles to recognise a sucking chest wound. I’ve not long left, but I’m glad you survived… Someone should.’

‘They won’t get away with this.’

‘I know son. Still… we made the bastards work for it.’ He laughed again, and his eyes fell upon the lone green corpse by the entrance. ‘Leave me here. It is as fine a place to die as any.’

‘I understand.’ Alexander replied after some hesitation. He held up the sword before the old man. ‘I have your sword sir; it wouldn’t be right to go unarmed.’

‘Keep it lad, I hope it serves you well. You’ll certainly need it more than I, if you are to escape this hell.’

At this, he fell silent. Alexander stayed with him until the end, unsure of weather Sir Smyth would forget him if he let go of the old man’s hand. Scant few minutes had passed by the time he breathed his last, but outside the sounds of battle had drawn closer as the gunmen were driven back. He left Sir Nathaniel Smyth amongst the wreckage of his ancestors’ firm, and descended the stairs until he stood once more under the cold light of day.

He moved through Temple as if in a dream, passing isolated groups of gunmen exchanging fire with soldiers from a dozen different agencies and regiments. The commandoes were slowly gaining ground, but the gunmen were dug in. It was then that Alexander began to hear a new sound, intermingling with the crackling gunfire. It was a low whirring noise, like the beating of innumerable wings, mixed in with the occasional high-pitched cry. The sound grew louder and louder and gradually the firing stopped, as the fighters tuned their ears to the sky in confusion. The air filled with tension until, like a bursting dam, the streets descended into a wall of black feathers.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ravens filled the streets, looking more like a black cloud of feathers than an ordinary flock. They fell upon the gunmen with animalistic fury, burying them under beaks and claws. The remainder swirled through the streets in great spiralling masses that flowed up and down like an unnatural river. Alexander stood dumbfounded by the sight, immensely grateful that the ravens seemed just as ignorant of his presence. Unfortunately, that was a double-edged sword and he was almost bowled over as part of the flock collided with him. He retreated into a small alleyway, leaving the birds stumbling about on the ground.

It was this hidden vantage that he saw a creeping mist fill the other end of the street. Unlike the white haze of the usual morning mist, this fog was a pale turquoise colour and seemed to glow with some inner light. As Alexander looked closer, it almost seemed like he could make out ghostly faces swirling in the fog. When the mist met a group of gunmen, it enveloped them and kept flowing. A few moments later, it lit up with strangely muffled gunfire and Alexander could hear banshee-like shrieks. Stuck between these two obstacles, the gunmen still on the street began to huddle together, still laughing and shouting but in a far more manic way.

Without warning, an armoured figure ran out of the mist. He was covered from head to toe in crystalline growths that mimicked a suit of plate armour and he moved at an unnatural sprint towards the remaining gunmen, his fists balled. They spread out and began firing, but the bullets either ricochet off the edges of his armour, or impacted with seemingly no effect. Feirefiz was the heart of the Bow Street Runners, a fighter without compare who hit his opponents with the force of a freight train, bending the metal of their rifles with his armoured fists. The gunmen didn’t stand a chance, and soon only the crystalline knight was left standing on the streets.

The flocks of crows rose and separated, revealing a man dressed in a black doublet, with a white shirt showing through artful slices. The rest of his clothes were similarly archaic, and he paired black breeches with a wide brimmed cock hat, three black feathers stuck to its brim. The top half of his face was hidden by a masquerade mask that mimicked the beak of his namesake. The raven’s face, for the mask ended below the nose, was dark skinned, and he sported a beaming smile that spoke of a natural cheerfulness. His head darted around, following his flock, and he looked upon the spiralling black birds much like a doting father. The Raven strolled up to Feirefiz whilst his birds swarmed through broken windows, darting in and amongst the buildings, amidst both avian and human.

He was shadowed by another anachronistic figure, a short man wearing the overexaggerated beak of an archaic practitioner of medicine. This ‘Plague Doctor’ moved accompanied by the clink of dozens of glass vials, some held securely in bandoliers or cartridges whilst a worrying amount were simply tied onto his belt with string. This concerning collection of chemicals was kept separate from the Plague Doctor’s unseen body by a long leather overcoat, that bore obvious signs of hastily improvised repairs, made with whatever scraps of leather could be found. The Plague Doctor’s face was wholly covered by the seemingly archaic mask, though delicate filters dotted along its length spoke of some hidden sophistication. The overall effect was not dissimilar to the ruthless impersonality of the surgeon, and the Doctor seemed to have a presence beyond his diminutive height.

The swirling cloud of unnatural mist flowed even faster as a small passage separated, and a silhouetted figure strolled through, moving with deliberate purpose and confidence. The last member of the Bow Street Runners made her appearance, the ethereal mist lapping at her heels. She was a young woman, though age was often unreliable when dealing with awakened, and long locks of flowing black hair accentuated her pale face. She wore a long dress of ragged pieces of leather and cloth, with a shoulder less top whose deep décolletage exposed an intricate design of interlocking runes that covered her chest, back and arms, glowing with the same turquoise light as her fog. Most of the Bow Street Runners were seen as symbols of hope and a source of inspiration, but Morgan the Fay’s reputation was far less clear cut. Popular opinion held that her power drew upon the very dead themselves, and, having seen the indistinct shapes that swirled through her mist, Alexander was inclined to believe the rumours. Whatever her reputation the Runners clearly held no animosity towards her and the four heroes immediately fell into animated discussion.

‘Barricades are up on either end of Fleet Street, there’s a machine gun on the balcony of Somerset House, the Tube is sealed and the army have snipers on the other side of the river. They’ve sealed off the exits. Our priority now is to find survivors and lead them to safety.’

The Plague Doctor spoke in a voice that seemed to carry natural authority, albeit somewhat muffled by his long mask. His briefing was interrupted as a lone raven flew down, perching on its master’s reinforced gloves. After a moment spent, apparently, in silent communication with the bird the Raven turned to the other members. From his hiding place, Alexander noted that his smile now seemed a lot more forced than it had been.

‘There’s nothing on the east side except for death. The killers are congregating around the Church, I think they’re planning a last stand. There are still pockets of survivors to the West and North, and the SAS have taken back the South.’

His voice was obviously more familiar with loud boisterousness, and sounded unnaturally subdued. Upon receiving this report, the Plague Doctor spoke again, his voice unaffected by the loss of life.

‘Good job. We’ll split up. Raven with me, we’ll take the North. Morgan, Feirefiz, clear the West buildings. Any complications, get in touch over the radio.’

He set off at a sprint, accompanied by the chinking of glass, and the Raven followed shortly behind. The armoured bulk of Feirefiz moved as if to do the same, when he spotted his teammate engrossed in some distant object. With a start, Alexander realised that Morgan the Fay was looking right at him, though with the distance it was hard to tell weather it was he who had her attention, or any part of the building above him. With a gentleness uncharacteristic of his size, Feirefiz placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder which seemed to bring her back to the here and now.

‘Are you alright Morgan?’ He spoke, his voice, though reverberating strangely, conveyed a sense of familial concern.

‘I’m fine,’ the eldritch figure replied after a moment’s pause, ‘just got a little lost in my own head. Sorry.’ In spite of her wild appearance, her voice was surprisingly soft.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she shrugged off his hand, ‘I can handle it.’

‘So long as you’re sure.’ He didn’t press the issue any further, instead beginning to jog off into the glowing mist.

Morgan the Fay followed almost immediately, and Alexander was left alone in the ruins of Temple. These streets, that had so recently been teeming with a sea of suited figures, were almost entirely bare and Alexander moved along them alone with his thoughts. Alone, that is, save for the occasional black-clad commando team’s who sprinted across the streets, preferring to move unseen through the buildings. It was after a particular near miss, where he had unknowing stepped into the centre of an emerging firefight, that understanding settled in. Alexander the upcoming law graduate couldn’t exist anymore. For one thing, he had no idea how to stop his newfound ability and he could hardly continue to work amongst a society that doesn’t even know he’s there.

Outside the Temple, the streets were unnaturally clear, all the traffic having been diverted. A church on the opposite side of the road had been opened up as a triage centre, and paramedics in green uniforms were wheeling out a constant stream of injured people, under the protection of a squad of soldiers, and their armoured vehicles. Further down the street a barricade had been set up, with ambulances constantly rotating through. The barricade was constructed from two ‘Flying Pig’s’. large armoured trucks whose sides could extend to block off whole streets, giving them their unfortunate nickname. These relics of the last century had been rushed back into service in the past two years, and were a common sight on the streets of Britain. As he passed the harried Lieutenant responsible for keeping back the crowds of journalists, or those succumbing to natural curiosity, Alexander came to a conclusion of sorts; what had happened to him was simply too big to process. Instead, he simply decided to walk home, and catch a good night’s sleep. One way or another, he would be a different man when he awoke.