Chapter Two, Part One

-Chapter Two-

Part One: “Troubling Visions”

 

Roland slept deeply, lying amidst the coal in the back of the train car. His dreams were plagued with images from before. The fight played out in Roland’s mind again, with the strange visions and recollections of his old dreams parading in the background like some strange picture film. One particular segment of the dream was new to him. In it he was running from the alley where he killed the guards, and he kept running until he could run no more and fell, just like he did that very night. But then the dream continued after he fell, and he saw that strange new young officer with white hair lean over him before dragging his limb form under the overpass where he woke that morning. This dream troubled him, not just because it was strange, but because it felt real as well. It was almost like he was dimly aware it had really happened. But why? He awoke with a jolt to discover rain spattering across his face.

He shook the drops from his face and brushed his wet mess of hair to the side.

He gazed across the hilly grasslands. It was bleak, though he imagined it looked fine during a sunny day, the rain transformed these places into some of the most dismal landscapes in the world. He was sure he wouldn’t have minded it at all though, from the comfort of a warm passenger car on a train. Comfortably isolated in a little bubble of peace and quiet, with nothing but the rhythmic jolting of the train to remind him that he was away from home.

No, instead he was in the back of a coal cart where the world eagerly impressed itself upon his mind with the rushing wind and rough jarring of every bump. He climbed out of his cart and hopped over to the next cart’s roof. While the rear of the train consisted of mostly coal cars, the front half of the train was made up of box cars. It took a couple nervous leaps and frightening slips before Roland slowly adjusted to moving on top of the cars. To give him something to do, he worked his way forward until he was only a few cars short of the front. He would stop here to avoid the attention of the men driving the train.

It continued like this for the better part of the day, the rain continuing to pour down hard until late in the afternoon when it finally sputtered out. The clouds parted revealing the sun, and a quiet peace descended upon the landscape. All of the the sudden the world seemed a happier place.

Roland was just starting to enjoy it when the train came to a bridge and he saw it.

Further up on the river he was crossing over was a small structure, a fishing hut judging by the nets hung on its side. Perched on the edge of the cliff side where it drew close to the river, half of it hung out over the edge supported by wooden beams. From it extending another fifteen feet was a wooden walkway, a sort of dock high above the water. At its end was a small crane with a net attached, ready to be lowered into the river for a catch.

But it was not this strange fishing hut that held his eye, but rather the figure that stood on the dock looking at him. It was too far to really know, but Roland felt certain that this figure was not simply watching the train, it was watching him. He couldn’t make anything out though, until a small wind picked up and ruffled the figure’s dark coat. Roland caught sight of what looked like white hair glinting in the setting sun. His dreams the night before came flashing back, troubling his mind. Was this the officer? He had to know.

He stood up to go before he realized the significant obstacle in his path. He was still on a moving train. Roland started to consider just waiting for something soft to pass by that he could jump unto, however it was at this time then that a second issue presented itself: The train, in order to cut off going around a jutting bit of coast, passed into a tunnel up ahead.

Roland cursed silently in his head, pausing only briefly to consider how oddly stereotypical this situation was. A man on the roof of a train meets crisis in a coming low ceilinged tunnel. He might have laughed if he wasn’t that very man about to greet a stone arched tunnel entrance with his teeth.

He thought about going back to the coal cars, but those were far to many cars back to reach swiftly. He could run, but he wasn’t so confident with his ability to balance on the moving train as to attempt a reckless dash of speed.

Well, it is either the absolute certainty of death at the tunnel, highly possible death tripping off while scrambling for the coal, or the not-good-but-certainly-better chances of jumping off into the brush without breaking something, He thought to himself.

Putting it that way, he decided jumping now was the better idea.

It was easier than he expected, leaping out before his mind had time to think and second guess his decision. Once he was falling his mind became almost unsettlingly calm and calculated. He had expected as much. Before he obtained his office position he had been a bicycle courier. Often this put him in precarious situations as he needed to meet specific deadlines for delivery regardless the weather. He had crashed his bike a few times, and in those incidents found his mind to be in a similar state of calm.

Roland’s mind was clear and he could easily plan his landing as he fell, though positioning his body in accordance with that plan was difficult. He managed to bring his feet underneath him and he met the ground with a jarring stop before falling hard on his side from momentum.

He was forced to wait for his wits to gather, his breath to catch up, and for his legs to recover from their jelly-like state before he could move on. Not wanting to get lost in a land he did not know, Roland opted for following the tracks back to the bridge, then making his way along the riverside cliff until he could reach the shack where he saw the woman.

Thinking on this matter as he walked, he considered the possible outcomes of meeting this woman. If she truly was an officer, then he was walking into his own grave. If, though, his dreams had any substance, then possibly he might get some answers or direction. It didn’t matter really, with the amount of troops hunting for him now, it would not take long before he eventually found his way to his own death.

The cliff had no real edge at the end nearest to him. It was simply a steep slope that grew steeper until plunging vertically into the river’s swift cool caress. Further along, however, the slope became gradually less steep while arriving at the same vertical plunge, making for a sharper and sharper angle until there finally developed a hard crisp cliff edge.

The trip was difficult at first, the steep slope leading to several heart panicking slips and slides. Roland’s eyes were glued to his feet, and his left hand pressed hard against the slope while his right hand flapped the air in a primitive attempt at balance. Time seemed to creep at first, speeding only ever so slowly as the slope grew more gentle and easy to navigate. Roland could now walk with confidence of footing, though he found himself still just as nervous.

He walked for a good five minutes in the open, striding straight towards the fishing shack perched on the cliff, all the while his eyes fixed upon the small dirty window facing his direction. Roland could not help but wonder if he had already been seen. What was he even going to say when he arrived?

“Hello Ma’am, I delivered the package like you requested.”

“Hello Ma’am, I saw you standing outside and I thought I’d peek in and say hello.”

“Hello…”

No, it was all foolishness. He was going to get himself shot, but he only hoped he might get a good solid answer out of her first. Besides, there was also the matter of his peculiar dream that was bothering him. If this vague dream of his was true, and this woman had saved him, then perhaps she was only person that had any clue what was going on, and where Roland should go next.

Roland reached the fishing shack, and paused a moment to compose himself before swinging the door open… to find an empty dusty room that appeared disturbed for the first time in many years.

What was this? Roland quickly cast his eye across the interior, but nothing living stirred amongst the old crates and barrels. He stepped back outside and took a quick tour of the nearby grounds, but found these to be just as empty. Where had the woman gone? From here things were quite flat, and what slopes there were held no cover for someone to hide. It was only rolling hills of grass. So where had she gone? Roland returned to the shack, a little puzzled but also relieved. It appeared he needn’t worry about just who the woman was after all. Curiosity prodded him into peeking back inside the shack. The sun was in the process of setting, casting its fiery golden hue over the grasslands. Now would be a good time to look into a place to sleep.

The interior of the Shack was thick with dust, the wood of the building and the furniture was rotten and weak. Breaking into a few barrels and crate revealed them to be mostly full of junk or long decayed fish skeletons. Roland had just about given up when he spotted a small ladder leading up to a loft. Though not what he had expected, or wanted, the discovery at the top proved most interesting. There was a small telescope, pressed up with its end sticking out of a broken window pain. It had been cemented in place, it could neither be moved elsewhere nor could it even be rotated where it stood. It simply pointed at one thing. Peering down the lens, Roland found this to be none other than an old lighthouse.

Strange, Roland thought to himself, I’ve ridden the train along this coast a few times, but I don’t recall any lighthouses.

It then struck him that this lighthouse was where the railroad entered the tunnel, cutting off the long jutting finger of stone which was home to this lone tower.

Giving a glance at the setting sun, and another glance at the filthy fishing shack, Roland swiftly decided that he would much rather venture out to this lighthouse and take his chances there then spend the night in this dusty wreck of a shack.

 

Chapter one, part two

-Chapter 1-

continued

Part Two: “Kill him…”

“Kill him. Then find his ID number and have a replacement for whatever his pitiful job is.”

The officer’s voice rang clear and loud. Its sound echoing deep into Roland’s mind. Kill him… kill him… kill. That was it. Kill. He was dead. Felix Wilhelm Roland was to be no more. No more… no. These two singular thoughts held for a moment in Roland’s mind.

Kill… no…

No.

He could have sworn it was his own thought, but it came from somewhere he was not sure of.

In his mind’s eye he saw four men. One stood surrounded by the other three. They all appeared to be scruffy, mismatched attire. And it seemed the sound of gulls were echoing in the distance. Sailors? He wasn’t sure. The three attacked and the man lunged into action. As he countered his opponent’s attacks, the world shifted. It was now in the dark corridors of his dreams, the attackers wore uniforms not unlike the Imperial Police, and the man’s attire was but a simple black blank uniform. The man’s face held him now, it was no longer scruffy, thought grizzled. But more importantly, it was his own.

How? But I’m just an accountant! I can’t, He thought to himself.

No longer.

He knew what needed to be done, for he watched himself do it. But how could he be sure it would work? He had never done any for of fighting in his life. However there was no choice. It was this or die.

Two guards shoved him against the alley wall and and reached out to hold him there against the bloody stain from the informant’s execution while a third guard prepared to take aim. It was now or never. With a burst of speed he reached out with his right hand and seized the pistol from the holster of the guard on his right. His left hand grabbed the arm of the second guard and pulled him in front of himself in time to catch the the bullet hastily fired by the third guard. He fired the pistol point blank into the ribs of the first guard, shoving the second forward into the third. Shocked, the third hastily attempted to pull free of the dying embrace of his comrade. This delay gave all the time needed for a shot to the head.

One shocked officer and an equally shocked Roland stared at the carnage. The officer was speechless. So was Roland. But it appears some wit found its way into the poor accountant’s mind, for he ran. He rand fast, and he ran hard. Harder than ever he had run before. First he simply ran to his apartment, but the sight of himself in the reflection in the door glass nearly frightened him him to death. His dark jacket, open, showed a white dress shirt now red with blood. Looking down, he still held tight the pistol he pulled from the first guard. He couldn’t hide, the officer still lived and would recognize him. They would search every house, as they had done before, and he would be found. He either died, or he ran. So he ran.

Haunted by visions of what had occurred, images from his dreams, and that particular strange vision that came to him when he thought he would die, he ran blindly as hard as he could until he fell. He dreams rushed in to claim him, but not before he felt the sensation of being dragged.

Night passed, alarms range, troops stormed out into the streets searching. The man was identified, and his apartment raided. His office at work as well. The Imperial Intelligence and Investigation, I.I.I. Or the “Eye” found no evidence that this man was a resistance sympathizer, or any recent event that could motivate such action. Combing the streets they found him not. Reports found all as it should be, no evidence of Mr. Roland or any resistance activity for that matter. The only thing of interest being a side note of a report where an officer encountered a young woman with unusually white hair. When he and his squad attempted to catch up to the woman in order to question her as to why she was out past curfew, she rounded a corner and they inexplicably lost her, though where to the officer was puzzled.

Headquarters staff dismissed the report as myth, and reprimanded the officer not to take to drink when important searches are supposed to be underway.

The search was called off just before daybreak the next morning.

The sun rose and life continued relatively normal to the casual eye. This, however, was not really so. The city was buzzing with rumors, juicy fiction and twisted truth, of a mysterious dark stranger who violently hunted down a squad of guards, tearing them to pieces with his hands. The officer barely escaped alive, and lost his left leg in the process. At least that is how the story was being told. The tale grew to include claws, and the perpetrator was lo longer human, but some dark evil beast crawling out of the sewers to slay the strongest of men to drink their souls. Faster than a train at full steam, and able to leap over entire city buildings in one bound, the best was said to be strong enough to rip up and Imperial Battle Tank with its own claws. This beast killed an entire detachment of Elite Imperial Death Corps with no effort, snapping the Commanding Officer in half with only its mind, leaving him paralyzed to watch his own men killed. The I.I.I. arrived in time to learn what happened before the poor man died.

Amidst all the hubbub about the “Souldrinker,” no one seemed to notice the small article published in the corner of the newspaper detailing a police report regarding a supposed resistance sympathizer who killed three Imperial Policemen before fleeing.

Morning found itself looking upon a rather pathetic looking Felix Roland slowly coming to his senses. Eyes still closed, he gradually became aware that he had been awakened by some form of discomfort. Lying there listening, he came to a few conclusions as to what the origin of discomfort was. First, it sounded like someone was yelling outside his apartment window that he most likely left open. Second, a screw must have worked loose on his fan and now the room was filled with faint rattling sound. Third, he could feel he was still dressed in his clothes, and must have forgotten to take them off the night before. He dimly recalled a strange dream during the night, while not his usual haunting dream it was certainly a nightmare in its own way. He opened his eyes and was greeted by a world that normally would have shocked him bolt upright, but in his foggy half asleep state failed to do so. Three more conclusions were then made. He was not, in fact, in his bed, but lying underneath a bridge. After glancing around this was followed by the puzzling fact that he held a pistol, even though he clearly recalled it was strictly forbidden that a citizen own a weapon of any kind. The final conclusion made then was that he was wearing a dark red almost black suit, and he knew he owned no such suit.

It was around this time that reality forcefully asserted itself upon his half operational mental facilities enough to perform their functions correctly. No one was yelling outside, but rather that was the sound of a propaganda loudspeaker calling for anyone with information regarding the “runner” to report to the Imperial Police as soon as possible and claim a reward of 50 trade coins and a bonus ration packet when the runner is caught. Runner. Those men who resist the Empire and yet somehow live long enough to run for the rest of their lives. The events of the previous night came rushing back and Roland realized that he himself was now a Runner. And his suit was not dark red. It was bloody.

The rattling sound grew louder and he turned to his head to see something far worse than a fan with a loose screw. Roaring down a road off to his left was a half-track loaded with Imperial Suppression troops. Trained for putting down rebellions and hunting “Runners.”

Roland allowed himself a groan of self pity before dragging himself upright. Though everything in his mind screamed that he ought to be a wreck of emotions. This was not so. He felt no guilt for fighting against an oppressive foreign regime that sought to squeeze every last resource from his now captive homeland. Though he felt obligated to be disgusted at himself for ending life, he was also all too aware that if he was to live for very long this would most certainly not be the last time.

He dusted himself off and walked out from under the bridge, all the while pondering just what exactly he was going to do. A glance up and he discovered the sky to be full of war zeppelins, turning off their search lights one by one as dawn lights up the still sleeping world. He had to keep low until those went away, unless he was keen on being hunted down from the air. Last time he checked, accountants weren’t bomb-proof. Though technically, he mused, he was no longer an accountant. He was a Runner. But before he could really be a Runner, he needed to actually run and survive the experience long enough to make a lifestyle of it. Dangerous as it may be, it actually began to sound exciting to him.

Train. Yes, that is how he’d get out of this city.

Roland found he was somewhere on the outskirts of the city. He could see the railroad that curved around either side of the city stretching out before him. More importantly, he saw the maintenance shed directly ahead. That’ll do.

A few moments later found him looking a different man. He washed the blood and dirt from his face and hair in the washroom sink, borrowed a pair of worker’s coveralls and heavy work boots to replace his bloody dirt covered suit. He also added to his attire some wool gloves that would keep him warm in the chilly autumn air. Cutting the tips off to keep versatility, he pulled the gloves on satisfied for now that he much better attired for what the future might hold. As an afterthought he grabbed a filtration mask from an emergency safety locker as he went out the door, just in case the Empire should decide gas was a better way of dealing with problems. The railway workers were equipped for cleaning up all sorts of nasty messes of toxic things, he hoped this mask could handle whatever gas the Imperial troops might think to use.

He checked the pistol he had taken when he fought the guards. Five shots. He would need to do something about that at some point. Nothing he could do now though, and not worth staying in this city to try to get more ammunition. This place was crawling with people looking for him.

Visgard Northern Shipping, twelve o’ clock sharp and right on time. Hauling loads of coal mined from a mountain range to the south, the only men on board were the men up front running it. No one close enough to hear Roland drop from an overpass into a coal filled cart.

Knowing he is safe for the moment, he manages to drift to sleep, his last thoughts coming to terms with his new place in life, and his new identity and a Runner.

Something changed in that young, timid former accountant that day.

Chapter 1, part 1

-Chapter 1-

Part 1: “Papercuts”

The man sat at his desk, almost motionless. Lost in thought, asleep, or dead, he did not stir. Two stacks of paper were neatly stacked on either side of him on his desk, and a blank computer screen before him blinked, the only movement in the stillness of the bleach white office room. A door could be seen on the wall behind the man, dark lines outlining it, no visible latch or handle. When he was to leave, he would be let out.

Two more black lined squares could be seen on the wall, one above each paper stack.

A bell rang.

One of the squares opened and the man dropped the stack on the left into it. After this closed, he moved the stack on the right over to the left right before the square above it spat out a new mess of papers.

He set to work, browsing through the pages, ticking off numbers and entering them into the computer.

After he had worked through all of these, he double checked the other pile before it would leave.

Then he resumed staring into the nothing.

This would continue, two or three times throughout the day.

Then the door would be opened and a guard would escort him outside the building.

Then he would walk home five blocks to his apartment. Small, devoid of color or style, it was furnished with a wooden chair, a small table, a primitive stove, icebox, and a small bed all in the same room. He shared a public washroom down the hall.

But it was clean, warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

While he was far from luxury, he wasn’t in discomfort.

He lived in the odd niche where he was of slightly more importance then most workers, and didn’t require and coercion to do his job. Roughing him up wasn’t necessary. If anything, his health was important. He balanced the books for the Empire. So life was relatively easy on this young man, thought it was by no means kind or favorable. But he was content with what he had.

Things weren’t that bad.

Except for an occasional troubling dream.

This very same dream he had this night.

Everything was foggy and vague, more so than what one would expect from a dream. There was a nagging feeling, in the back of his mind, the screamed to him this was important. When he asked his mind why, it was flooded by a dull cool feeling of emptiness.

But every once in awhile he dreamed the dream. Running down dark cramped corridors, chased by dim black figures. Tripping and yelling out to someone to continue. But he could never see who.

Then he would wake up.

Everything continued to routine. His feet would hit the cold floor and shock away the sleepy haze. He would shower down the hall, shave, brush his teeth, then Stop briefly for breakfast with the kind family down the hall that would cook for him as well as their three children. In return he would give his food rations to them. They were more than enough for him, and not nearly enough for them.

Together things worked out.

This morning though was different.

He swung his feet out of bed, but no cold floor met his feet. He was still wearing his stockings.

I must have left them on my feet last night, he thought absently to myself.

He continued, but his morning was off.

He discovered he had slept in fifteen minutes late. Nothing to worry about, he was almost always a half hour early each morning. But this and the incident with his stockings disturbed him for reasons he could not wrap his head around.

I am being foolish, he thought, it is nothing. Just a bad morning.

This he told himself throughout the day.

But that something wasn’t quite right, perhaps slightly wrong even, was not shaken. Everything was precisely five minutes late. He only just barely finished his papers before the bell, and the new stack came out the chute faster than normal causing the whole stack to slide off his smooth desktop.

Picking the papers of the floor cost time, and was a deviation from a life of consistency that shook him to the core.

What was wrong?

He worked harder to make up for time, and by the end of the day he was back precisely on schedule. He felt much better, and was even so optimistic as to wonder if he had saved enough ration stickers to afford a cup of coffee.

The door opened, and the guard motioned for him to leave.

Yet the guard did not escort him, but was called away by another officer.

The young man had to escort himself to the door.

Nothing is wrong, he told himself, the man just has other things to do.

“Excuse me, Mr. Roland, but I need you to do something for me.” The officer’s voice hinted that it wasn’t optional, though Mr. Roland would not have expected anything else.

It is nothing, he thought, surely just a busy day. Yes, that must be it, a busy day. That is why everything has felt so strange.

“Yes ma’am?” He said as he turned.

His eyes fell not on the usual female guard he thought had addressed him, but a new guard, a decorated officer from what he could tell, standing before him. Her appearance puzzled him, for she looked certainly too young to be as decorated as she was. But she did have snow white hair. Roland decided it would be best to not question or think to much on it. Men had lost their lives for thinking too much about things they ought not to. Her voice carried an edge of steel,

“You will carry these to the post at at Forty-seventh Street. Is that understood?”

He hesitated before stammering out.

“…I …I-I’m not a courier, just an account-”

Her ice blue eyes tore through me.

“Not today. You will carry this parcel, or you will be relieved of your duties, permanently. You understand me, yes?”

Roland gulped hard.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

He stumbled over himself to get out of the room as fast as he could, clutching the parcel with a death grip.

He took a deep breath of the cold air once outside, wiping sweat from his brow.

I’m such an idiot, he thought to himself, she could have killed me for questioning her.

Straightening his coat and tie, he set a brisk pace down the street. He would be late home for dinner with the family down the hall, and the stressful day had made him hungry.

At least it is almost over now, he thought.

Roland arrived at the post shortly after, delivered the parcel and was on his way.

The guard at the post ignored his existence, and that was just how Roland wanted it.

He started his walk home, with the realization that to get to the post he had walked the opposite direction from his apartment.

He would most certainly be very late for his meal.

This, he thought to himself, is the worst day of my life. Never have I so dearly looked forward to my pillow. Hopefully tonight is free of dreams, and I wake tomorrow without stockings.

Yes, that was it, it was all the stockings fault he concluded.

They started this horrid day, perhaps none of this would have happened if he had woke up barefoot and avoided a slow sleepy morning.

He would be sure to go to sleep a little early so he could wake up with plenty of time just in case.

So much for coffee.

He still had a bad feeling about something.

He was almost to his apartment when he came across it. In the alley one block to the west from the route he normally took from home, there were a group of guards interrogate a shadowy figure.

One shouldn’t watch these things, Roland knew this, but he could not help be drawn in with curiosity.

His nice dark blue suit blended with the shadows, and he carefully stepped close enough to hear.

He heard a voice, the Guard Officer’s voice.

“You are certain, this is their location?”

“Yes, I am sure of it. Now the payment?” said a second voice, the shadowy figure.

“Payment? Yes. We punish traitors, and if you are so willing to betray your friends I’m sure you would betray us as well.”

“What? No! I would never!”

“Yes… yes I think so.”

The officer motioned to his guards, who knocked the man against the wall of the alley while one took aim. A single shot cracked out in the night, and the figure slumped down.

“Dispose of the body.”

Roland turned to go, only to find to his horror that it was too late.

A guardsman stood behind him with his rifle lowered at him.

“Don’t try anything. Move.”

He shoved a terrified stuttering Roland towards the alley.

The officer turned his attention from a ragged piece of paper in his hands to Roland.

“What have we here?”

Roland’s mind raced but his tongue fell behind.

“…I, uh, I w-was just walking home!” his voice nervously rose to a high frightened pitch towards the end. The officer paced for a moment, making a show of thinking even though it was likely he already made up his mind.

He stopped and spoke simply to the guardsman.

“Kill him.”

Prologue

Prologue

I never really knew what it was that I did.

It never mattered to them though. The Lutskenburg Imperial Police rule with an iron fist and a list of ordinances that make it impossible to fully understand what was “legal” and “illegal.” The list grew longer with each passing day.

So this is how I found myself running. No, I don’t mean “on the run” laying low and always moving from time to time. I mean literally running. Never stopping, never getting to breathe, only sleeping for brief moments in the darkest of nights in the darkest of places. Even then, it’s a sleep fevered by nightmares and worry of being caught. It’s amazing how with all the rules they put down, the Imperial Police has the time and power to hunt down all who break the many ordinances. Being on the Police Force grants special privileges and exemptions from the law. If you don’t question what you do, but do it without hesitation, you get to stay. Display enough cruelty and creativity in doing your job, you’ll get promoted. More liberty, more exemptions, better living. All at the low cost of your morality, dignity, and humanity.

And the people flock to it. They go in well meaning. Young men hoping to help their families through it, protect their parents and make it easier for their siblings. But sooner or later their drive twists. In their striving to advance for the sake of those they love, they become what they sought to protect from.

Or maybe not. Who am I after all to look into the human mind, heart, and soul? I could be right, or I could be wrong. I may never know until that day when I stand before the judgment seat.

Somehow I have a bad feeling that moment could be sooner that I am comfortable knowing.

What I do know is this: I run, and they chase. Neither one gives up or gives in.

Ah, the marketplace. You would think this a luxury humanity would have long been deprived of under the strict rule of the Empire. But some things just can’t be rid of. Someone, no matter how little they have, will find ways to get or make things they do not need to trade for what they do need. We are bent on survival, and this is one of many ways our creative minds accomplish that goal. The market thus would always exist no matter how harsh the oppression.

The Empire thus wisely decided to only wipe it from the public spaces. Better here than where they don’t know its location, better here where they can watch what goes in and comes out. Or at least thats what they think. So here in the middle of a run down living compound, the courtyard is filled with pole-and-cloth market booths. Here, amidst a sea of faces, do I find refuge for a moments breath.

There, in the one corner, stand a group of warehouse workers. They look like a group of men talking a bit between shifts. Nothing strange. But men are never idle, and this is simply an act put up. The Imperial Police rarely come here unless in pursuit of a Runner, someone like me. They never notice something as nonsuspicious as this. But this is the head of the resistance, and here I can sell what little I gain from my way of life. Ammunition. Running and fighting for my life brings much of this my way. But I cannot use it all, nor use every weapon I find ammunition for. But these men pay very well for this commodity.

With this money I can buy my meals, bribe my way through hard places, and purchase the allegiance of many whose aid greatly speeds me on my way, or hinders those that would chase. But right now, it will buy me a new suit. I look like a ragged rebel, for that is what I am.

The people can see it, and they give me strange looks. The propaganda paints Runners to be ruthless trained killers. The truth is that those who had military training ran long ago. Me, I was not even from the hard labor type of work. I was an accountant, kept the books. An easy if somewhat boring life. As long as I did not mind being alone, living in small bare quarters, and long hours, the Imperial Police left me be. I had it easy, no reason to want to run.

For me it was just bad timing. Wrong place, wrong time. That is all it takes. Slowly, you become what the propaganda says you are. Not the evil, hellspawn parts. But the dangerous and capable of violence parts, yes. Those who can’t bring themselves to kill are caught before they can break enough ordinances to get life imprisonment, and that is not very much at all. Those who can’t learn to be good at killing are shot down not much longer after they start running. Other factors weed more out. The ability to live alone, to not make close ties, to always be on the move, to cover your tracks from time to time, and to take the fastest and least expected routes. And you grow. In skills, in physical condition.

Now, after a solid two years Running, I look like any other ex-military resistance fighter, and statistically three times as lethal. But with the new suit -Clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, gray slacks with a matching gray vest, a white neckerchief and a black flat cap- I blend in and look just like another factory worker. A quick shave for another coin and I’m looking young, sharp, and anything but the Runner that I am.

It sometimes strikes me funny, though we live in near poverty many of us still keep our dignity. One can still find a man who works as a barber when he isn’t on shift working for the Empire. And young boys who haven’t been conscripted into the work force yet sit with small tins ready to shine your shoes for a coin or two. I get my shoes shined, tip the boy an extra coin just to see the smile on his face. I could argue that I couldn’t afford to lose another coin, but I am a runner and my life never has been about saving anything for later. Saving means one more thing to carry. And a young boy’s smile? that is priceless.

We may be beaten but we still have our dignity, our civility, our pride. We can treat each other proper, even if we are trodden underfoot ourselves. And until the day when we stop living like life matters is the day when the Empire has one, crushed our spirits and turned us into work machines.

With such thoughts on my mind I prepare to do what I always do: run.

My boots, fine ones stolen from an officer, polished and covered by my slacks look simply like any other pair of leather dress shoes. Until they catch on that I no longer look the part of ruffian, the Suppression Troopers won’t be so hot on my tail. And I can take a slower more relaxed stroll myself, make friends and recover as I may before the chase continues.
-Oh! But excuse me, I’ve completely forgotten introductions and things. How impolite of me, I hope you’ll forgive.

My name is Felix Wilhelm Roland the Sixth.

I was an accountant working under the oppressive rule of the Lutskenburg Empire’s regime. To the people, I symbolize freedom they all dream of. To the Resistance I am either potential for recruitment, or fodder for distraction. To the Empire, I am the heart of filth.

But ask me,

I am a Runner.

“About” page is up!

Well, I’ve gotten the “about” page up, it introduces the story, and myself. I would highly recommend you read if before you start reading.

This being said, the prologue will be post right after this.

To make things easier when reading, clicking the link on the menu for the first book should weed out all the status posts and make only story posts for that book visible. This should make it easier for new readers to follow after it gets started, as well as make it easier to re-read the story.

Thank you, and remember to comment! Feedback is always welcome and highly appreciated.