Twisting Stagnation

One: Desire

"Anybody can become angry-that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way-that is not within everybody's power and is not easy."  

--Aristotle

He spat at the ground and glared at the cold, hard sidewalk.

The poor man that begged on the corner wasn't their problem. The urchins that ran around barefoot in the deep alleys were a non-issue. A single mother clutched at her child, both of them weeping as men unceremoniously ripped through her house; she didn't matter. She had brought it onto herself when she played with Erbain, and lost. The men and women, the rich and poor, they all walked shoulder to shoulder, concerned with their own business.

There was no empathy here, the young man realized, especially not for someone like him. He wasn't the victim, just the victim's son. A half-victim, amongst thousands. He wasn't really that special, was he? And yet he knew that he could do something about it.

Grunting something incoherent to himself, the man kept walking. Scuffed designer shoes slipped out from beneath the hem of his pants and tapped against the solid ground as he weaved in and around the bustling crowd.

They surged past the street corner and crossed the intersection with their usual hunchbacked gusto, their whispers of conversation broken only by chilling coughs. Men stared blankly at the crowd from atop their horse-drawn carriages, while their animals plopped filthy loads on the street, the aroma barely discernible in Erbain's thick air.

The man shrugged, then adjusted his trench-coat against the bitter wind that bit at his exposed skin. This is Erbain, he thought as the people, the very life force of the city, flowed around him. He let his innocent eyes wander, searching for something in particular within the legion of fellow citizens, something he desperately hated and feared.

It wasn't long until he found it.

A young thief slid his dexterous hands into the pocket of a well-endowed woman and took out a thick purse. A group of mangy thugs on the edge of an alley smoked while they watched people pass through cynical eyes. A city guard and a business-suited man talked on a corner, the businessman giving the officer a package the size of a monetary bill.

A shiver ran down the man's spine. He glanced away, choosing to stare daggers at the gum and debris that littered the sidewalk instead of the festering street. He was right. It's everywhere. They are all around us.

Something clicked within him; a barrier broke down. It wasn't rapid or sudden. It had started over time, collecting anger and rage and strength until a tiny shove was all that was needed.

There was a time where his father would have quelled that anger, dispelled that rage and made it into something useful. They had taken his solace and all that remained of his family. Simply put, he was angry.

He shoved his hands into his jacket and hunched his back, becoming one with the crowd of dirty and unimpressive men. In his pocket were two pieces of paper: the first, a letter wrought with ornate scrollwork and a precise hand; the other, a clipping from a newspaper. He touched the crumpled piece of newspaper, the edges of it jabbing at his fingertips. He pulled out the clipping and unfolded it, the frayed edges still scarred from where he had torn it out of the obituary.

Baron Found Dead In House, Circumstances Questionable, the headline read in bold letters. Below, on a tear-stained page, the article went into finer details that threatened to bring back painful memories. As he had done a thousand times in the past few days, he turned the page over and looked at his father. The rough image stared back with ink-stained eyes.