Stemming the Torrent
"Stop that water flow! 'Now you're even dragging off powerless old folks? You bastards!!'"
"'Throwing a few eggs justifies shoving guns in our faces?!'"
"'You... you monsters took my husband too...!'"
The crowd around the old woman started hurling their own barbs, kicking off a full-blown protest. Some were flushing red-eyed and sobbing—probably family members of the victims from the recent incident mixed in.
"Eggs...?"
Master murmured softly. I peered closely at what the old lady clutched: a shopping basket stuffed with groceries and household goods. Not a bomb, then—just a protest toss of food.
The security supervisor glanced my way nervously before bellowing at the crowd.
"Haven't you seen the news?! The Supreme Court approved warrantless arrests for terrorists and their sympathizers! You wanna join 'em?!!!"
He waved his hand, and Transco's soldiers—momentarily hesitant—closed in again for the arrest. But the people surged forward instead, blocking her path and raising their voices louder.
"That's just bullshit from those noble judges!!"
"My kid didn't even know shit about ideology. He just... went to a rally protesting the layoffs..."
"Were those damn machines worth more than human lives?!'"
It was like all their pent-up resentment had finally burst. From the corporation's view, it was righteous punishment for mobs destroying vital production assets. But to those folks, the dead were family, friends.
Word of the commotion drew more onlookers from the market, swelling the crowd. And pros like agitators never miss a chance like this.
Mark Beckett, just about to board the transport van, couldn't pass up playing the [Intellectual Resisting Tyranny, Preaching Conscience]. He shoved through the security agents, shouting,
"Citizens with awareness and conscience! This outrage proves corporate rule has regressed beyond the 17th century, past the spirit of habeas corpus! The cold logic of capital erases our humanity, shielding this bizarre exploitation under the nobility like that author over there—"
"Shut up and get in?!"
"Aaaagh!!"
Mark didn't finish before a rifle butt cracked him, sending him screaming into the van crumpled up.
Problem was, the bastard pointed right at me as his dying echo, kindly designating me for the mob. Their furious glares locked on target, like I was the mastermind. Cold sweat trickled down my back.
Transco's response?
"Open fire! Preemptive strike before they turn into a full riot!!"
"No!! You can't do that, you lunatic!!!'"
****
"Urk!"
I lunged, grabbed the back of the security supervisor's neck, jacked into his neural net, and blacked him out. Then I hopped into the comms channel, neutralizing every nearby soldier's signals to block orders.
Luckily, I was in time—they staggered with vertigo or collapsed before pulling triggers. Crisis averted?
"Did you all hear that?? They're gonna gun us all down after all..."
"How could they..."
"They really see us as trash to sweep away?!"
Nope. Fucked.
Horror-struck faces stared us down. The soldiers' hesitation wasn't de-escalation—it gave the crowd time to stew in rage.
-Thud.
Someone in the throng stepped forward. Like a chain reaction, others followed, inching toward us slowly. Tension hung thick in the silence. No one spoke yet, but one raised fist and we'd be lynched en masse.
"Young master! Securing escape route!"
"We can pull back fine, but after that..."
Bell thrust her hands forward, scanning surroundings warily. Master had her blade drawn but trailed off. I knew what she meant.
Leave this festering, and even if we escape, bloodshed's inevitable. This fired-up mob would vent on the Transco grunts. I'd catch political fallout somehow, giving the Shareholder leverage to leash me.
And morally... yeah, stopping deaths is the right call. Idealistic maybe, but talking them down was the only way to keep this from snowballing.
I steeled myself, signaled my guards, and yelled,
"Bell! Master!"
"!! Understood!"
"Hope this works."
Kwaaaaa—!!
Bell fired a laser skyward. The pillar of light bathed the area in blinding flash; the crowd halted, flinching.
Master seized the beat.
Kagagagang—!!
Her blazing purple greatsword slashed the pavement hard. Sidewalk blocks cracked in a straight line like an earthquake rift, flames flickering atop. A clear boundary: cross at your peril.
She planted her blade on the line, gazing calmly at the mob. The blatant show of force cooled a few heads—they gawked, stunned.
Good. Now we're set for [talk].
****
Dialogue's weird—context and power dynamics make up 90% more than words. My guards just primed the field.
If I'd opened with talk, they'd have steamrolled me on momentum. But after that visual dominance, I'm granting them audience. Atmosphere set—now nurture it right. Keep inner enforcer sis and Duke Wellington from whispering "suppress 'em."
"Everyone!! Calmed down now?!'"
"......"
"We have zero intent to harm you!"
I bellowed at the crowd. They blinked warily, cowed. Muted response, but ears perked—good enough.
"We nearly had a disaster from the heat of the moment! Dodged that bullet, so let's call it and disperse!"
Momentum broken, they glanced around confused. No hothead urged violence with laser and vibroblade looming.
Then a timid voice crept in:
"B-but... Transco took our families..!"
Victim kin, probably. Emboldened, murmurs rippled:
"No harm? We heard the shoot order loud and clear..."
"Nobles protecting their own, as expected."
"So no one's accountable, just fades away...?"
Not as fierce, but resentment coalesced. Consensus: someone pays for the double massacre.
Accountability. Perfect fall guy handy. Solvable.
"Of course you can't accept it ending like this! So, I promise you one thing!"
"Promise?"
"Yes. I'll ensure punishment for Transco's security chief who ordered the shooting on citizens."
Murmurs swelled. The chief was already slated for Transco discipline. Twist the charges for optics, parade him for the scandal—easy. With war brewing, they'd toss a scapegoat to calm internals.
"Can we trust that? Who the hell are you to promise?"
"I'm William Elliot Wentworth, 18th Earl of Straford! On my honor, I'll force Transco's compliance."
"Earl? A noble stepping up?"
"Wentworth? That clan that tanked recently?"
"Fallen or not, better than us. Wanna chuck rocks at him instead?"
"Nah... nothing more we can do sticking around."
They eyed each other, me, then my guards' steely glares—and trickled away, vanishing into the streets like it never happened. A few victim reps, old lady included, lingered with odd looks but did nothing.
Security agents stirred, resuming escort. I watched 'em finish.
****
Managed to stave off another riot. Bluff promise, sure, but someone's getting punished fair and square.
Anyway, post-sweat, fatigue and hunger crashed in hard.
"Phew, one mess down. Good work, you two."
"You too, young master. Thanks to you, it didn't blow up."
"Scared shitless when he yelled 'fire'—what kinda response protocol is that?"
"Unreasonable even for emergency. Fortunate you faced it down and persuaded them."
"Had the right bait. Sigh, before heading in, grab a bite somewh—"
"U-um, ex-excuse me!!"
A voice cut in; we turned. Woman with bun hat, orange hair, approaching hesitantly.
Guards blocked her path. She flinched, then timidly proffered something.
"J-just... delivering this... no funny business...!"
"State your identity first. Intent and business with young master—"
"D-delivered it, not my problem... bye!!"
"Hey?!"
She bolted across the street, gone. Bell scanned the item, paused, handed it over.
"You... need to see this, young master."
"Huh? What is it?"
I took it from her. A burgundy envelope sealed with wax seal. Flipped it: fountain-pen scrawl on back.
To the Dear Savior of Thames & Bray,
Young Earl of Straford