The Demons Within

The Rebel Cog

Even in the so called city of chains, hope still burned brightly. Hope for a time when the nearly century long war had come to a close . Hope for a time when Fathers no longer had to bury their sons who were thrown into the meat grinder. Hope for a time when the steel obelisks of industry ceased to belch their putrid black smog into the English air, and the poor masses no longer lived out their days in crippling hunger.

But that hope was swiftly dwindling.

Each time the people rejoiced for a new invention of mass destruction their government had produced, they hoped were dashed with the enemies' newest threat. Each time they celebrated for the rise of a new hero, they were forcibly shoved back into depression with one more body bag to climb into the massive furnaces that spread their ancestors ashes across the globe.

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Under the cover of night, a man -dressed in a heavy black trench coat that was more common among the poorest of the nobility than a workin class man- slipped out of his tiny apartment. Even in the housing district the heavy whir of gears was ever present. It was a dark, but somehow comforting thing to every living being in the nation. It was those gears and the steam powering it that allowed them to continue living. It brought them their water, it grew their crops, and it brought them closer to God himself.

Ever since he was a small child, the man had been told by the priests and Deacons that math was the language of god, his gift to the mortals to harness their world. One Day humanity would ascend, and all would be equal under the eyes of the lord.

Glancing around at the soot covered streets and smog filled clouds, the man was filled with a cynical doubt that most would never feel in their lives. If the lord was real, why would he allow this war to continue? All it had done was pour millions of young men into a useless fight that no one wished for anymore. Everyone who started the damn thing had died long ago, and left it to the newer generations.

Sighing softly as the blasted British rain began falling upon his skin once more. It seemed to rain every single day on this god forsaken island. Perhaps one day he could volunteer to be sent to one of Her Majesty's colonies, but he would not likely be allowed to go due to his Father's "crimes" against the crown.

Just as the rain truly began to pour down, the man reached his destination. While to most it was simply another stone apartment, it was the man's hidden paradise. After unlocking the heavily bolted door he entered the small room.

Inside was piles upon piles of old worn books from ages past. They almost all came from before the war, with a few additions that the man had purchased off of an American Merchant that had come through London about five years ago.

Gently dipping his fingers into a small wooden bucket filled with water, the man watched as the heavy soot and grease from working in one of the thousands of factories all day long. "For god and country" the man said sarcastically, knowing the rain and gears would cover his voice.

Then after a few seconds he walked over to one of the carefully stacked pile of books, wondering which world he would step into today. Perhaps it would be the old Latin bible, made obsolete when the masses swarmed to Ser Isaac Newton's radical ideas of God, Like moths to a flame. Perhaps it would be tales of French Gentry, now a throughly extinct breed of nobility. As bad as the war was for the British Empire, it was a thousand times worse for the French who took the brunt of the feared German Military.

Choosing quicker than normal, he picked up one of the French books near the top of the pile. Despite his best efforts, both the title and Author's name had been eroded away after a century of being passed down by his family, but the story itself had been preserved and translated remarkably well.

Sitting down in one of the two pieces of furniture in the entire room, he began to fall into a whole new world. He left behind the smoke filled sky, the monolithic factories, and angry masses who filled the streets and rioted every other Friday.

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Hours later, when the storm finally stopped unleashing it's primal rage upon the city and the moon finally made a minute appearance between black clouds, the man was brought harshly out of his book by the steel doorknob twisting. Softly grabbing the nearby single shot revolver, the man waited for the door to open and reveal his intruder.

Sure enough, the door seemingly decided to comply with his wishes. However, instead of the expected response all the man did was rush at the cloaked figure outside of the door and embrace it in a crushing hug. After a few seconds the man released the figure, pulling it inside and closing the oak door closed with a quiet thud.

As he turned around, he was greeted with a sight that had never stopped filling his heart to the brim with happiness. The cloaked figure had removed the soaked dark wool, revealing her face to the man. She was a beautiful woman even when looking at the dark bags of exhaustion under her eyes, and her face was partially hidden under a thin layer of grime.

Subconsciously getting thrown back into an age old routine, the man dipped a large cotton sheet into the refilled bucket and handed it to her. They had both taken an almost zealous vow to protect the books, and it wouldn't do for one of them to be the ones to ruin the man's ancestors legacy.

After a few short seconds, the man went back to his chair, attempted to submerge himself back into his fantasy, but something felt wrong. Glancing around, he quickly noticed the only thing that broke his routine. The woman still stood in the center of the room, holding onto some metallic object that thrummed with the same rhythm of the gears.

Rising softly, he looked at the woman's hand, eager to see what could distract her from their nightly ritual. They hadn't broke that long chain since they were both child, and both of their father's were still alive.

She was clutching a beaten brass pocket watch as if her life depended upon it. Her thin fingers slowly opened the machine, resembling a spider testing out a newly created web. It's glossy white screen reflected the light of a nearby candle, casting numbers across her face.

Glancing towards the man, she pursed her lips slightly as if wanting to speak. After a few seconds of awkwardness, the man figured out that she was waiting for the obvious question. His parched, rattling breath pumped from his lungs like a bellow sounding out words as if testing them "Where did you get that f-from?"

Unlike the man's careful speech, the woman almost was forcing out her words, answering before he had even finished. "From the high Deacon! I told you that the lord blesses those who serve faithfully."

Taking in her expression of joy, the man slowly began to nod whilst attempting to push out the thoughts from earlier in the day. He would not ruin her zeal with his own cynicism.

Gently he picked up a book from her most recent pile and pressed it into her arms, reminding her of the reason they were here. Here was one of the only places they were more than insignificant cogs in the machine.

Settling back into his chair, he began reading again, but this time with the woman sitting comfortably next to him. The Nobility may see the masses as mere tool, but they were much more than simple cogs.

With a stroke of brilliance the man grabbed on of the few empty scrolls scattered on the cluttered desk in front of him, and began writing. Perhaps it was time for a new revolution, where the blood of the working class was reforged into a new society, free of their chains.
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There you go Fightora , I'll be back next month ;)

Anyways, hope y'all liked it. I don't really have much to say about this one, other than the fact that I hate the title, so no long paragraphs this time