Date: 11/11/2008
Location: Westminster Station, United Kingdom, Free Systems of Monoceros
Date: 11/11/2008
Location: Westminster Station, United Kingdom, Free Systems of Monoceros
[WHY SHOULD I CARE ABOUT THE MC, or why we should want the Androids gone. Theme: Be someone else to someone else.]
The voice from the ship-bourne TV spoke in a clean, confident, upper class British accent that did not distract from the brick that went through it.
The ship was brightly lit and well decorated, with a tasteful patterned carpet on the “ground”, and finely-cushioned, beige crash couches for each passenger. Not even fresh, poorly drawn graffiti saying “DEATH 2 SLUP” over the cracked screen could distract the passengers from crossword puzzles and pleasant chats.
[GIVE MORE CONTEXT? WHO ARE THE ANDROID SUPREMACISTS, AND WHO IS SLAITON]
Over the TV, films from 20 trillion kilometres away made their way to my eyes. Teenagers with mechanical augmentations were filmed kidnapping people on empty, bullet-ridden streets, putting children into small chicken cages for a parade. This was followed by followed by those same teenagers stripped naked by militiamen of the Slaiton Union Party and led onto carts.
A display which would otherwise be forgotten between breakfast and the morning pint. Until:
“2 BRITISH NATIONALS AMONG 150 HOSTAGES TAKEN BY ANDROID FORCES ON SLAITON DURING RAID, FEARED CONVERTED”. “SLAITON UNION PARTY MOVES FIRST TROOPS INTO ANDROID AUTONOMOUS ZONES ON SLAITON”. “ANDROID CASUALTIES SURPASSES 750”. “PROTESTS AGAINST SLAITON UNION PARTY MILITARY ACTION COINCIDE WITH REMEMBERANCE DAY”.
The passengers looked up, faces turning from apathy to horror.
Images of Android protesters marching on the streets, were intermixed with a livestream of a giant uncontrolled fire near an “Android Autonomous Zone” in the open central areas of Trafalgar Square, contrasting heavily with the synthetic Victorian-style buildings. The TV cut to SLUP supporters yelling obscenities and throwing bricks at the Android protestors on random streets. Followed by people with blood dripping from their heads and ears, laying on the ground, guarded by 2 exhausted paramedics.
An American tourist nervously floated towards me, holding a Lonely Planets, and asked me how he could avoid “Trah-fell-gerh Square”.
“Where’s your hotel?”
“Uh… it’s the Holiday Inn…”
“There’s 3 of them last I remembered. Is it the one on Trafalgar, the one on the South End, or the other one?”
“Uhh…” “Show me the booking.”
As he opened up his giant backpack and haltingly pulled out some paper, a yell in Polish came from one cart ahead. I looked up the airlock and saw two guys arguing. I didn’t speak Polish, but the words “Android”, “SLUP”, “hostage” and “liberty” was made out.
I took the paper from the man before he responded, glancing through his hotel reservation. A symphony of human anger coalescing in a screaming match made an attack on my ears, just as I spotted the words “Holiday Inn Trafalgar”.
“Book another hotel!” I returned his booking reference before signalling him to get to the back of the ship, at which point he began leisurely packing his booking reference back into his giant backpack. I pushed myself towards the back airlock, just as more Polish people floated past me, ready for a fight. For a second, an adrenaline-induced thrill penetrated me until I saw how they knocked the poor bastard into a crash couch.
The back of the ship was calm, and I re-entered one of life’s many great escapes – a good fiction about the destruction of the Solar System and humans being genocided by an eldritch race of aliens. More screams came from the far, far front, until I closed the airlock.
The ship coasted into Waterloo Spaceport soon. Overheating and queasy from the gravity of Westminister, I hopped off while station cops rushed into the front of the ship through the unnecessarily wide port walkway, the familiar smell of pepper spray attacking my nostrils. I saw fresh glitter from a glitterbomb covering the portholes, and the backpack man bloodied by whatever had happened in the cabin I had left.
Outside Waterloo were some temporary checkpoints with plastic tables, staffed by exhausted officers and German Shepards. There were giant signs telling us not to smuggle bombs into the United Kingdom.
One of the officers pulled me aside. “First time in Westminster?”
“No, maam.”
“Where are you from?”
“New Hong Kong/Novvy Leningrad, but I live in Golden Gate these days.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Sorry about what happened to it.”
“Thank you, maam.”
“Off the record, were you involved in those uprisings?”
“I’d rather not answer that question, maam.”
“My apologies. Can you open your backpack?”
I unzipped it, revealing procurement documents, electronic schematics, wire strippers, and plenty of empty space.
“Thank you. What brings you here?”
“Work.”
“What sort of work?”
“Ship procurement.”
“For who?”
“The GRPC.”
“Really?”
“Yes, maam.”
“Are you secretly a spy?”
“Wouldn’t tell you if I was, maam.” My relatively transparent role leaves me far from death. Or worse, prison time.
“Ok. Are you aware of the protests…”
“Unfortunately, yes. My intentions are to find the closest tube station and get to my accommodation.”
“That will be Westminster Station, across the Thames.”
“Thank you, maam.”
“You must be used to this, right?”
The fuck sort of question was that? “Nobody should be used to this.”
She nodded, stepped aside, and let me outside Waterloo.
Despite being 17:13, it was dark. Right outside Waterloo Spaceport, the towering marble memorial plaque for The Glorious Dead was lit up for Remembrance Day, only blocked by the “ceiling” 20 meters above the ground. Even the homeless man before it looked more respectful than ever. Bought him a sandwich.
Made it across the plaque next to the so-called Thames, a river-sized chasm carved in the middle of Westminister Station where a stream with the strength of a flaccid hose ran through it. The closer we got to the Thames, the more Android protesters there were. Mom, Dad, and 2-3 children holding books from famed Android supremacist Issac Asimov, who believe in aggressive augmentation to the self, such as muscular enhancements or Android conversions. Prayed that they would not grow to become political martyrs to feed the meat grinder of the late 2000s.
Walked across the Thames towards Westminister Tube Station and I scoured the landscape for the Tube or rooftop photographers. The narrow bridge was crowded and several people far too intoxicated in drink or political agenda bumped into me. One of them was adequately sober and apologized. I returned with a forced smile and a nod.
The Slaiton branch intends to expel its unaugmented population from what it views as “rightful Android land” after a conflict with SLUP.
The Houses of Parliament, a building as old as the squabbles it houses, was right across where a discussion on continued support for SLUP was discussed. Slaiton Union Party, the largest political entity representing Slaiton, was formed in the 1980s as an anti-Soviet, focused on preserving autonomy of the city 20 trillion kilometers away.
Soviet-funded terror campaigns involving Androids in the 1990s has resulted in Android expulsion from most of Slaiton, and even to this day NATO provides some funding to the city to resist the Soviets, drawing the ire of the protestors today.
Many ceasefires were brokered by the Soviets, NATO and even the Authority. If recent news are indicative of anything, they haven’t worked.
And stood right outside it was the remnants of a protest crowd (thankfully, mostly teenager-free) that seemed docile and dormant. The inebriated Londoners watched with reservation and confusion and occasional utter contempt.
A drunk man yelled at the protesters. Couldn’t hear anything except “WANKER!” Concerned man was beaten back by sheer volume of the protesters, and was nearly pulled in by the crowd for a traditional Android conversion until they were stopped by police officers.
A bit of adrenaline came out and made me feel as if I was 18 again.
Westminster Station soon entered my vision and I snapped out of it.
The stench of humans inside the cramped station and electric fires overpowered me, and I felt at home despite being 20 trillion kilometers away from it. I was so at home, I didn’t realize that an Android had self-immolated 15 meters behind me. "Viva la resistance!" Then, ear-deafening silence.
A scream pierced the crowd and nobody moved. My backpack felt heavy as serenity hit me, the searing heat registering in my mind but not in my heart.
Fucking idiots. I felt the desire to inflict pain on whatever 40-something Android supremacist who filled this robot's brain with tales of self-sacrifice. The screams of someone clutching what was left of his friend resurfaced and tormented me such, I crashed on the floor.
My conscience showed up as a hallucination and pointed at the 4 fire extinguishers near the exit, like a crack addict trying to search for copper in the walls. So, I got up. Pushing against the crowd to the exit was surprisingly easy as much of the crowd was still frozen.
I ignored my conscience and stumbled right up the exit, trying very hard to ignore the screaming robot behind us. Every step was agony and I was grateful my legs overrode my brain. The sound of two fire extinguishers behind validated my decision.
Both of my legs gave up by the time I crawled up the stairs. Puked my guts out and yelled at my conscience for nearly getting us killed again.
"Sir? Are you ok?"
A young voice came from above and I looked up. A young counterprotester equipped with a hoodie, a Slaiton Union Party flag, and an umbrella to counter pepper spray. No gas mask, no urban map. Another goner.
"I'm… fine."
"Sir, are you sure? You're vomiting and yelling at a lamppost."
"Really, I'm fine. Go home… please. Before you make them do something bad to you."
She let off a look of disgust and stormed off.
Hands trembling, I had to refocus my mind. Counted lampposts, drank some water and the headache subsided.
Getting back up, I looked for the next station, likely outside Trafalgar Square. Metal barricades surrounded my position like barbed wire on Olympus Mons so I probed for weaknesses in their lines.
A few Android supremacists’ flags draped over a mangled Union Jack and Solar War era dress uniform. Underneath were poppies laid by those who travelled far and wide to honor The Glorious Dead today, stamped by a million boots and kicked to the side to make room for pro-android scribblings. Maybe there’s an allegory over here but I was too busy to care.
Suddenly, 9 cops, like cattle drugged up on Adderall, found an opening and breached the lines. I followed, stopping only to respect the traffic laws that the policemen were flagrantly violating.
I approached the breakthrough point, where the police cordoned off a corridor isolating protesters and counter-protesters, making lewd suggestions towards the opposing side’s parents.
As soon as I crossed the cordon to try and get to my package, I saw… nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a growing crowd of Android supremacists walking down a street. Confused, I followed the trail like ants to a food source.
The crowd, mostly under 26, were aimlessly following the New Thames upstream. Maybe they were a distraction wave the Android leaders sent with heavy casualties expected. I found myself repulsed by the leaders and cast silent pity on them.
It was only when I saw the confused eyes gazing AT me, did I realize that I had not followed the protest but BECOME part of the protest. Armed with this newfound power of controlling the crowd, I walked down a narrow street distinct from the main artery of the protest. Like ants to food, many followed. I let out an audible wheeze.
My fun was cut short by a silence. The lack of sound coming from the population in front of us was all the confirmation I needed.
Counterprotesters. I turned to leave.
Then I looked around. The kids lacked experience, and did not notice the counterprotesters. And the Android leaders who set this trap were not in punching range.
Echos 20 trillion kilometers away struck fear into me, and I remember the sobering conversations I had with people. Words never enough to heal were muttered. Incense burned. Prayers offered. A million pointless gestures, all unnecessary if someone had been brave enough to drag my compatriots away from the scene that day. [I’M SITTING ON THIS FOR A WHILE. I DON’T KNOW IF THIS IS USEFUL.]
[HE NEEDS TO THINK ABOUT JUST LEAVING?]
My heartbeat raced to 140BPM. My back became sweaty. I stopped turning away, matching the crowd’s speed.
I took a deep breath. It's just walking, right?
A dark, quiet street was found that would lead us between New Ben and Trafalgar Square and closer to my package, and took it, leading the lemmings along.
Then it happened. The silence broke as counterprotesters behind us approached and made guttural noises. As I turned the corner, the Android supporters hurled rocks and all hell broke loose.
A glimpse showed a small woman (or man, I could not tell) being abducted by Androids, screaming. Had to stop myself from looking back or turning back, lest the rest of the pack stay.
This was everything I had loathed about aggressive protests, condensed into half a street. Children being goated into self-sacrifice as the leaders sit safely in tents far behind the lines. I vowed never to pay such a heavy price for justice and here I am, watching it happen again.
And just as fear threatened to overtake me too, a warm feeling filled my cavities. The adrenaline rush was back, and no matter how much my brain associated that feeling with running away from my old apartment, I felt GOOD.
Luckly, the fight was too disorgnaized to spread quickly and most of the lemmings got out unscathed. We rejoined the main force and made it out of New Ben.
With the crowd now attached to some other armchair revolutionary, I made my way towards the closest tube station. There was the smart way of doing it, which was to pass through unmarked streets towards Westminster Station, and blend in with the drunks. There was the other way of doing it, which involved approaching Trafalgar Square where a self-immolation was attempted during the morning’s memorial ceremony. Having to report an abduction to a cop, guess where I went.
The road towards Trafalgar Square was largely peaceful. Adrenaline wore down as the crowd thinned out. I saw the large, beige-colored rock in the middle of the avenue known as the Cenotaph. Rumors for a large-scale Android terrorist attack on the Cenotaph were likely exaggerated. It was the one place where the police were stationed to quarantine and judging by the lack of stomped poppies on the ground, it worked.
Maybe there's another metaphor here but I was too hung up on the abducted woman to care. How is she feeling? Scared? Helpless? Does she regret coming today? Who will find her body? What will she remember post-conversion? Will her protest buddies mourn her? Will they keep protesting? What will it take for them to stop? Why didn't I help her?
I did try to help her, didn't I?
Approaching Trafalgar Square stood a team of exhausted cops. One of them, however, let out a voice.
“Yo.”
I caught him saying it before the words got through his throat. He looked at us, then looked at the two Android supremacist girls next to us.
“Hey, you two!”
The two pro-Android girls holding flags were dragged out of their conversation in an indeterminate Warsaw Pact language, and looked at the policeman with confusion and horror.
“There might be counter-protesters on the way to Trafalgar. Be careful.”
Realizing the policeman wasn’t planning to put them in prison, they expressed gratitude. I immediately told him of the abductee.
[IS IT NECESSARY TO ADD MORE MORALFAGGING HERE?]
“We have orders not to breach the Android perimeter.”
“They’ll convert her soon!”
“We don’t know that. Our priority is keeping the Androids contained in Trafalgar Square. I promise you; we’ll recover her later.”
I’m old enough to know “later” means “never”.
“I understand.”
Soon, I approached Trafalgar Square, where just outside it contained the next tube station. And as much as I hate to admit it, the adrenaline rush felt GOOD and I wanted more of it to get my mind off this poor woman.
Android supremacists became denser as approached Trafalgar, with more signs being lifted, some of which (especially the “Muslims for Androids” sign) would get them converted on by Android forces. And among this crowd, a few kids were hoverboarding with no fucks to give.
I soon saw the source of the plastic fire: a pile of electronics was being burned inside Trafalgar Square, temporarily occupied by pro-Android forces for the day. A giant tent stood next to a statue in the middle of the Square, and the pro-Android forces had cordoned an “Android safe-space” using crude barricades from trash cans and metal poles. Only people with augmentations and pro-Android journalists were allowed in. Hypocrisy? Maybe, but hypocrisy is man’s greatest virtue and that’s a good sign that the Androids still shared some sense of humanity. Next thing they should learn is brutality, unprofessionalism, and how to get appendicitis.
An argument right outside the perimeter formed, offering a good source of adrenaline. A group of 4 Poles criticized the Android supremacists, something about them breaking every ceasefire over the last 20 years. Android supremacists joined in to overwhelm them. Before the encirclement was complete, the only girl in the group rushed forward with audacity of a cornered gazelle. Her voice was drowned out as she yelled something.
Whatever she said, it must have worked, as the two men who were 4 inches taller than her pulled back. Android supremacists attempted to scatter towards the darker, unmarked streets where they could blend in with the drunks.
A bright yellow object struck my left shoulder. I barely maintained composure and just when long-dormant instincts attempted to punch back, I saw that the bright yellow object was a cop, baton in hand. And she was supported by 6 other cops.
I clumsily stepped aside and saw the policemen physically isolating the 3 Poles from the Androids. Before they got into position though, the young girl broke through into an unmarked alley. Despite the nerve-shattering pain in my shoulders, the adrenaline made us feel good.
And all around us, the white lights of Kodaks from spectators lit up the dark and misty Westminister air. War profiteers, all of them, viewing the act of living in the moment as an ad slogan. If I had my way, I’d detonate their Kodaks in their hands.
Then I saw the Androids who were chased away enter a back alley towards Trafalgar Square, carrying a large sack of potatoes that, on closer inspection, was a small Polish woman whose screams were drowned out by intoxicated yelling.
I immediately went to the police in front of me and told them of this girl who would be converted soon. I was nearly drowned out by the protestors chanting how she deserved it for supporting the Android expulsion movements on Slaiton and SLUP’s recent attacks on Android zones.
“I promise you; we’ll recover her later.”
“I understand.” I turned back to the tube station. It was weird being on the other side of mob justice, and I avoided the gaze of the protestors who wanted to punch me too.
It's her fault for intervening. She should have stayed back. I don't want to be converted too. Someone else will handle it, I’m sure. I’m sure. I’m sure. Just like they did with everyone else back during our own protests.
I looked back at the cops, who returned to the perimeter.
My brain screamed again, stopping my attempts at gaslighting myself. Who the fuck am I kidding? Nobody came for me. Nobody's coming for her.
[MORE MOREALFAGGING?]
So, I made a plan. Step one, disguise myself as an Android supporter. It didn’t take long.
In front of me stood a white, orange-haired man who carried the angriest face I have ever seen. He used both chubby hands to stabilize his Kodak, leaving his arm-slung PDA and his flags on the ground. I walked up, heart racing like a madman, and picked his arm-slung PDA and flags up.
Across Trafalgar, under the Holiday Inn (temporarily barricaded with metal struts), stood a defiant band covering Elton Britt's Uranium Fever. A crowd cheered, some of which had GRPC-shaped poppies and some had Android flags. I stood and watched the musicians perform adjacent a hill of trash, Android supporters on their way to chase them off. Like a man stepping into the lifeboats of the Titanic before looking back at the performing band, I gave my salutations, and never looked back.
Getting inside the barricaded parts of Trafalgar proved challenging as two Androids watched the barricade. Jumping the barricade would draw too much attention. So I walked through a “checkpoint” alongside a crowd of six, flag in hand but augmentless save for the arm-slung PDA. Was immediately stopped by an Android who questioned my lack of augmentations.
“STMircoelectronics got a new wireless signal transmitter. 400kHz signals mean no need for the Ka-band antenna.“
This was an attempt to overwhelm the Android with buzzwords that made sense individually but made no sense with context. The Android soon went off to molest the other 6 protesters.
Trafalgar’s was populated. As I welcomed the adrenaline with open arms, I breezed through and approached the circus-sized main tent with the electronic pyre. It felt weird being here without being. Wondered what I'll find in there. An operating theater? Carcasses? Or two Belka units ready to rip my head open? I was surprised when I got in.
The abductees were nowhere to be found. Just billboards documenting the Android plight (with an Android bias, naturally) and one poorly-maintained Androids on security duty with metal pipes that acted as makeshift batons.
I decided to leave, when a thought popped: Why don't I ask the guard?
So, I took the closest clipboard on the table while everybody was looking, grabbed a pen in my pocket and gave my most passionate-looking grin to conceal my twitching. "I'm with Texas Instruments! Where are the convertees?"
Then I saw the "guard" did not have working optic sensors. The half-damaged CRT screen on its chest said "Leicester Square Park".
The small, narrow path to Leicester Square was dominated by an eerie silence as if a million drunkards cried out and were extinguished. Population went up again as I approached Leicester Square Park, a small garden surrounded by cinemas and restaurants.
The main tent (GAZEBO? WORD FOR GIANT TENT) was guarded by a lone, bored-looking guard with artificial-looking hair eating a sausage. I scouted it and waited for an opportunity by wandering in the nearby Christmas Market that was somehow still operational.
15 minutes later, something happened.
A man in a pub outside the occupied area yelled “YOU REAP WHAT YOU SEW! BLOODY WANKERS!” an overly simplified explanation for the current conflict. I will save my personal opinions on Android forces and the current conflict between them and the GRPC for later, but I will remind the viewer
that up until 07/11/2008, a 9-year ceasefire was in place that the Androids unilaterally broke.
Still, the man smelled of cheap booze, hatred, and broken dreams. Anrdoid protesters (including some older models, likely the bastards who filled that self-immolator with tales of self-sacrifice) came outside of the main tent and tried to drag him in. The guard watching stopped deepthroating his sausage and joined them.
Took 4 deep breaths and wasted 15 seconds looking at my watch to hype myself up. Mind racing, heart pumping, eyes never so focused. Walked inside the tent like I belonged there and saw carefully choreographed chaos.
I saw a radio with regular checkins from pro-Android protesters holding the barricade. I saw a whiteboard where they said they would pull back after 11pm or 3 conversions to use as bargaining tools against the UK government. I saw electronic tools all over the ground and a workbench for conversion. The workbench had terrible cable management and equipment was lying everywhere.
I’ve seen mass graves with better organizational standards and hygiene. There was a walkie with all the frequencies that they operated in.
I thanked God that my enemies were this dumb and took the walkie, hands shaking.
Further in was the tired-looking non-augmented Pole, sitting on the ground with bare hands tied with zipties secured to a hook above her head. An electronic lock secured a rusty gate between me and her. While she frantically looked for the closest brick, rock or trash can to smash it, I unplugged it. It went limp and the door swung open cleanly.
I opened the cage and pulled a wire stripper from my bag to cut the zip-ties. Accidentally cut her hand and she flinched.
Clearly traumatized, she immediately hugged us and broke down crying. This dampened my adrenaline rush, and I was taken aback, feeling sorry that she had to experience this. My mind raced for a solution I hadn't needed since 1996.
"It's ok… everything will be fine." I petted her hair, lying through my teeth.
I tried to get her off me so I could stand up. She seemed to possess inhuman strength and I could not get her off me until her muscles gave up 25 seconds later. I told her to give us a minute.
I gave myself 90 seconds to go through the tent, stuffing as much intel as possible into the backpack. Hard drives, comm frequencies, major safehouses in Westminster and York Station, all unceremoniously dumped next to my tie and shower gel.
I spent another 60 seconds searching through the horrible workbench for a soldering iron, buried underneath schematics, obsolete integrated circuits, and unfinished bags of cookies. My twitchy state caused burnt fingers and I screamed in pain.
I stuffed the iron, now at 400 degrees, into a wastebasket filled with paper. Smoke came immediately. We walked out, trying to keep our heads low despite the jitters from the adrenaline. We had spent a total of 4 minutes inside and left the tent, the Polish girl holding in her sobs and us looking for the exit.
I held a jacket over her to keep her warm. Her move speed was erratic, switching between the desire to leave and the desire to curl up into a ball. I put on a brave face and encouraged her to keep going with words and regular petting. “We’re nearly at the exit, just keep going. You’ll be safe soon, ok?”
Eventually though, she had enough. She went limp and collapsed on the ground right outside the exit but still in complete view of the Androids, crying.
"Please, get up." I gave an unsuccessful pep talk, certain that unwelcome stares from protestors and bystanders were on us. I imagined what would happen were captured. Tape recordings of Rangers being tortured by the Anrdoids, and protesters screaming in pain mixed into a stereo of suffering in my head.
A yell in binary came from the tent. Androids and augmented humans came out. Some of them pointed at us, yelling a colorful mixture of racial slurs in binary.
Out of options, I put her right arm over my shoulders and hauled her away. She probably worked out because she was surprisingly heavy despite a slim body. I signalled the girl, still bawling, that we were to hide among the crowd.
I was scared and so was she so I started narrating our surroundings to calm us both down. "Y'see those single men booking a trip to Kovacs Station? Some young, some old. And some divorced for so many years, the allure of being a rich man in a small pond turns from a degenerate pipedream into the only chance you don’t die alone. Until the Thai girls take your money and make you a homeless expat."
"If the police of Westminister can’t stop an 18-year-old holding an overcharged pressure cooker in their backpacks of briefcases or hijabs or England flags, they should all be executed and the remnants distributed to the many homeless to alleviate the food banks."
"Look at these Brits seeking the authentic Chinese experience here. You want the authentic Chinese experience? Castrate and lock yourself in a room for 12 years. Post all your credit card details to the government. Yell at the Taiwanese while an official’s 19-year-old cashes in your credit cards and buys his third ship." That got a laugh out of her and she could stand on her feet again. Having reached a position surrounded by bystanders, I took off my black coat and put it on her to throw her color palette off.
As luck would have it, we found a large Christmas Market stall around the corner, breaking line of sight. We immediately bolted, trying hard to push through the crowds. The Androids, now far away from their protest zone and surrounded by counter-protesters throwing rocks at them, did not give chase.
"Are they gone?" She timidly inquired, still clutching to my left arm. "I think so." She immediately came crashing down and clutched my arm even harder, threatening to claudicate it. I could feel the shaking in her hands and the screaming inside her head. I petter her head again and took her on a minor detour.
We hobbled to the bakery in Little Hong Kong to get 6 egg tarts, all to comfort this weeping Polish girl.
The last 1.5 hours had built up to this, and now that the collection was completed it felt like a moment that deserved celebration. Instead, we were shooed forward to make room for the next customer.
I took the Polish girl to Leicester Square station where the cops had set up a perimeter, telling her to munch on the egg tarts.
"Why'd you intervene?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"Why'd you get involved? If you had left those protestors alone, this wouldn't have happened."
"I… I'm sorry!" She begins apologizing profusely.
"No no no, don't be sorry. I just want to know why. Do you know what happened to the people of New Hong Kong in 1996? Stalingrad in 1991? Slaiton in 1986?"
"No…"
"They died."
"I'm sorry…"
"Did you kill them?"
"No..?"
"Then fuck your sorrys. Still, why did you do it?"
"I… I saw the news a few days ago, that scene of the Android supremacists parading those Slaiton children in chicken cages. It's not right!"
"And your first instinct was to charge a crowd of them?"
"They were coming after my friends! Someone had to do something!"
"Someone else would have taken care of it!"
"What would happen if that's what everyone thought?"
I sighed. "How old are you?"
"26."
"Next time you do something like this, promise me you'll think of your parents and how much they'll miss you. And if you're going to do this, please, please, please act with your head, not with your heart."
We walked in silence for a bit more until she asked me:
"Why'd you help me then?"
Thought about what to say. Maybe it was the hogwash the Authority told me about intervening in injustices. Maybe it was the screaming of teenage protesters ringing in our ears. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush. Maybe it was the knowledge that someone has to make the effort to be that "someone else" to someone else.
"Because I bought egg tarts and you happened to be en-route."
Outside Leicester Square Tube Station was a crowd of cops giving aid to another girl who looked similar to the first abductee at New Ben I witnessed, next to a tiny, middle-aged redhead who was comforting the girl by reading for her in a slight Japanese accent. I handed the Polish girl to the cops, who thanked us profusely.
Got a good look at the redhead equipped with nothing but a wreath of poppies. Locked eyes. Two "somebody else's" in a city of 110,000. A city in need of a thousand points of light to illuminate the darkness.
So, I joined her in reading for the abductees until a psychatrist showed up. Looking back, reading about humans being genocided by an eldritch race of aliens might not be a good idea but she seemed entranced. It calmed me down too.
It was only when I got inside Leicester Square Tube Station 2 hours and 5 egg tarts later did I realize I were finally out of there, successfully extracted. Only Android supremacists were inactive ones, looking tired from the day’s festivities.
Our legs buckled and I landed on the ground as the adrenaline I had worn off too. An Android supremacist protester helped us up. Even with the adrenaline gone, that still felt GOOD.
I got to Borough Station and walked a few blocks to the safehouse. She opened the door, terrified, with multiple police scanners in her apartment all covering the protests. She took one look at us and asked, “What the hell took you so long? Where were you?”
“I was… picking up egg tarts.”
“Answer the question!”
I opened the pack and dumped the documents on her floor.
“There’re people who need egg tarts near Trafalgar Station. Shall we get more?”
The last egg tart was cold when we returned.
