Project Gemini (WATTYS 2016 WINNER!)

Chapter Fourteen - The Illusionist. (Part 2 of 2).

All of them changed in this moment. History was made now: the first ever separation order between Human and Pariah had just been signed, sparking the global movement that swept the planet. As London fell, the rest of the world would too.

Zebediah slipped easily through the crowd, a ghost just like him, and headed for the group of politicians that huddled behind the security. Each clutched onto a red briefcase bearing the Parliamentary insignia. He veered off and towards the end of the street towards the idling government cars. Kingsley followed, a part of him fighting the Illusionist's grip and the other reliving the moment.

Glass bottles smashed against the walls.

Any second now they'd break through.

He hurried and snatched Zebediah's arm, yanking him back. "Get out. Get out of my fucking head."

Zebediah ignored him. "Show us what we want, Detective."

"You know what happens next," Kingsley said, eyeing up the bottles hurling through the air.

"So you know it's too late to interfere." Zebediah brushed him off, smoothing over his pale blond hair as he strolled for the cars. "The reports state that two hundred and eighteen people die today, right now. Every report fails to mention what happens to the government officials who witnessed it."

What happened to the bastards who signed the exclusion order, more like.

He gritted his teeth, fighting to think of something to kick them out.

The engines revved on the modified Range Rovers as they drew nearer, military vehicles for precious little politicians. The side door to Number Ten opened and a rush of staff ran out, making a bee-line for the cars. Zebediah paused just before them, electricity rolled across his knuckles as he watched.

"This is history in the making, Thomas," he said quietly. "Aren't you proud?"

He held his ground, shaking his head. "They aren't who you want."

Zebediah chuckled but ignored him, counting them as they darted into the different waiting cars. "One little piggy, two little piggy, three little piggy...more . . ."

The car doors slammed as the journalists screamed.

Kingsley spun to look back down the street, his hand going for the revolver that wasn't there.

The gate toppled as a bottle smashed beside his younger-self, glass hit his face. A fresh burst of pain ran along his old scar on his chin. The crowd had broken the perimeter, coming directly at him.

". . . four little piggy, five little piggy . . ."

He edged back, closer to the walls.

Get out of here. Get out.

". . . six little piggy . . ."

The stampede of protesters sprinted at them.

Out. Out. Out.

". . . I'll be knocking at your door."

The memory glitched. A rush of static filled the glass panes of the windows of the terraced row, the details wobbled, details that weren't there mixing and flicking between memories. The crowd thundered towards them, the ones at the front started to trip and fall—the first victims of the crush—but the swarm stormed through. The masses were angry, and by god they were going to rain down hell on Downing Street.