1822: Untitled, Chapter 13

Wilkins walked down the street, the same street he had walked down many times before.

But this time things were different. This time, he was not in full control of what he was doing: this time, he was being pushed on to a destination he did not yet know against his will. This time, he was being controlled.

And he was aware of it, too. But there was nothing he could do about it. He remembered the suspect from the Stacey Barman case showing up, with something terribly wrong about his appearance, and shortly after that he’d become this… husk, this shell, this automaton, albeit an automaton that had consciousness and life behind its eyes, even if it wasn’t in control of its own destiny.

The day was just beginning, but Wilkins knew it would be busy in the city. It was the first day of the big sales, and he was supposed to be part of the team ensuring that the crowds didn’t get too out of hand. He hadn’t expected them to, not in a peaceful city like this, but the force had considered it prudent to have a certain amount of presence in the area just in case anyone did feel like starting something.

He was dressed in his police uniform. He didn’t feel like he deserved to wear it in his current state, but that was out of his control. He was being led ever onwards towards the centre of the city, and realised that whatever had him under its control — that Thompson character, he assumed — was sending him towards where the crowds would be.

But why? That was the question that kept rattling around inside his head, and he had no good answer — no good way of finding out, either, save for just letting this experience run its course. He didn’t even have sufficient control over himself to speak, so he was unable to ask Thompson before he left, and now there was no-one to ask, no-one to plead with, no way of crying out for help.

He rounded the corner onto the main street, and saw the shopping area ahead of him. Although it was early in the morning, people were already gathering, waiting for the shopping centre to open, milling around, laughing and talking with one another. They had no idea of the Darkness that crept among them.

Wilkins walked into the thick of the crowd, most people moving out of the way respectfully as they saw his uniform. When he was right in the middle of the throng of people, he stopped and did nothing. He just waited: one minute, two minutes, three minutes.

What was he waiting for? The conscious part of his mind found how still his body was standing to be somewhat eerie; he imagined the people milling around him probably felt somewhat similar. In his experience, the average member of the public was somewhat awkward around police officers; under normal circumstances, he’d have found it quite amusing, but today, he felt that their unease with him was more than a little justified.

The doors to the centre opened and people started piling in. There was some good-natured bumping and joshing, but things didn’t feel like they were out of control. Wilkins felt himself swept along in the tide of people, moving as part of the group as if it was a single living mass and he was just a cell that made up the organism as a whole.

As he entered the centre, he started to feel a change within his body. He felt an energy rising within him; it was warm, but unsettling. His head began to throb, and, blinking, he saw the world twist and shift before his eyes: what he knew as the “real” world shifting back and forth to the strange, dark world he’d caught a glimpse of before.

The energy continued to rise in him until he felt like he was going to explode. Then he did.

At least, it felt like it.

The energy was released from him in all directions in an explosive rush. Tangible darkness seemed to seep from every part of his body; black clouds billowing out all around him.

Some people gasped; others screamed; others still didn’t seem to notice at all. The dark miasma swirled around them and seemed to be absorbed right in to some of the people; as this happened, they stopped what they were doing, became quiet and glassy-eyed, and just waited.

The noise was terrible and indescribable. Then the pain came, and Wilkins found himself suddenly in control of his body again as the dark energy continued to emanate from him. He sank to his knees, letting out a scream — the first noise he’d been able to make of his own free will for what felt like years — and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

The dark miasma gradually stopped swirling and faded from sight. Those who had been touched by it and rooted to the spot found themselves able to move again, with no memory of what had happened before. Those who had witnessed the curious happenings suddenly found themselves unconvinced that they had really seen what they thought they had seen, and then they shrugged, went about their business and left Wilkins just lying on the ground, forgotten.

“Well, that went better than I expected,” said the shadowy figure to Magnus. They had been standing nearby, watching the whole thing. Magnus didn’t understand what was happening, but he felt that it probably wasn’t a good thing. Given the frightening power on display, however, he thought better of acting immediately; he felt he needed to understand the situation a little better first. So he took the direct approach.

“What just happened?” he asked. The shadowy figure laughed.

“Well,” she said. “You could maybe think of it as a… recruitment drive.”

“Recruitment?” he asked. She did not elaborate. He felt he would probably find out soon — and that it probably related to the strange feeling of something being amiss that he had felt a short while ago.