Mercatore:Vindication

[MaltaMoss 1771]

The Clock is Ticking, the ball is in your court.

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The streets were unbearably cold that night, the pounding of feet and crackling of flames accenting the darkened night sky as the orange glow illuminated their faces. 

Dressed in black, plating pressed against their chest as they heaved beneath the plumes of drifting smoke. Men, women, young and old, standing side by side as the marker of injustice burned fervently before their eyes. They had come inside under a cloak of darkness, fulfilling the oath they had taken alongside their comrades at arms to purge the holy city of all that stood in the day of true freedom. And as the mockery went up in flames, the passion in their hearts spiraled into an elation.

"Alexsei, my friend, we did it."  One muttered beneath the rag obscuring the lower half of his face, trying not to cough as the thick smoke whirled around them.

One Simon Roberts stood among the enflamed structure, his eyes widened with awe as the flamed licked and danced their way up the walls. Sparkling displays of ember stricken wood came tumbling to the ground in splashes of splintered fragments, shattering upon impact with thunderous noise. When they gathered together in that room, all seemed to now be worth it.

"Of course Simon, of course we made it." The taller of the pair speaking said in the same muffled tone, clasping a tough callused hand upon his fellow militiaman's shoulder. 

As they spoke the others began to erupt in cheers, staggering backwards from the increasingly violent fury bubbling up from the once stagnant and sturdy flooring of the Ministry of Justice. To them, it held an almost catharsis. It had all been building up to this, a valiant declaration of war and escalation of their conflict wrapped in secrecy. No nobody would call them, petty vandals, miscreants, or misguided, they were a threat. And they expected to be dealt with like one, what was once a joyous organization of dutifully dedicated detectives had turned against the blade that had struck them down. A product of Tyranny, a product of injustice.

"The time for celebration comes later, brothers, for now we must go. Our message has been sent, and the pigs shall soon hear our voice." The one called Alexsei shouted out over the amassed band of terrorists, rallying them around his command and to the sound of his booming speech. 

The footsteps started once more, clattering to escape what was rapidly becoming a hellish inferno as the same men in black came streaming from the front of the building and across the streets of Oren. They all ran in the same step, trailing behind one another as they flew from the fire they sparked. And as screams erupted around them, calling for soldiers, calling for water, the perpetrators were already gone. Into the forest, out the back gate they ran, satisfaction plastered across each and every one of their usually grim and solemn faces.

Simon had simply done as he was told, the book he scribbled in and the etchings in the rubble left by their knives making their voice heard. And as the dust settled, and the fire died, all that was left was their reminders. Their message.

On a large stone brick, engraved carefully into its front facing side, in broad scratched in lettering it read,

K
"The Clock Strikes Six, and we march one step closer to freedom. The Nightmare will come to a close, a new dawn will rise. Viva Mercatore, may God Save Oren for nobody else can."

The same message, plastered upon nearby walls, under benches, and in the stumps of trees. A war had begun, a quiet war. Only time will tell of it's conclusion.

For now, the secret was revealed, the game could begin.

[chacmul 274]

(Obama gaming)

[Javert 5540]

Viktor Bishop smiles down from the Heavens, knowing full well that one day he shall be avenged alongside the other innocents the Imperials wrongly killed.