Maxwell Pruss handed over his resignation and collected his pay in the same hour. With one exception. “I can’t accept pay for the final leg of the trip… I lost my flight and… a lot of people…” He pursed his lips, finishing that sentence was too much to ask. So he counted out his funds for the month, and put back a few quid on the desk. He folded the bills and put them in his pocket, then snapped a salute as if he were a soldier addressing his pay officer.
“Thank you, sir.” He said, and the paymaster for the company only gawked at him, mumbling something about not being able to change the books on pay dispersal, but Max wasn’t listening.
In his head, he already had a plan. Or the bones of one, at least. On the radio the speaker was droning on about the attack on the Queen and the heroic destruction of the assassins. Yesterday she’d even gone to see the wounded in both hospitals. The press was preening over her.
As he walked, a young boy was shouting, “Queen talks peace, calls for an end to bloodshed after bloody crowning! Hindenburg disaster, investigation stalls after failed Captain wakes, alleges sabotage!”
He walked past the boy who leaned away from his stack of papers, one hand shaking the latest edition out, almost begging someone to buy it from him.
But Max had no interest in news.
Since the Firearms Act of nineteen twenty, firearms ownership was rare, it still wasn’t particularly hard, and he had a license already, he’d had one since then. Soldiers got licenses automatically so that they could travel with their weapons, and theirs never expired in the event that they were called up for service.
As such, he was able to conveniently go into a shop, display his certificate, and buy a suitable firearm. His choice? A model P15 adapted with a commercial grade computation jewel. That normally would be almost worthless to civilians, as mages were all enrolled in military service, and he wasn’t a mage. If anything, it was just a company’s concept project to allow retired mages to keep their skills up by hunting, only a handful were ever made, and only a few fingers worth ever went to a store. And nobody that wasn’t a mage needed it, so none had ever sold.
‘Until now. Thank you, oh lord, for granting your servant the knowledge of the true path to a weapon of your divine providence.’ He thought as he shelled out the extra quid anyway, peeling off the bills from his roll of cash without worrying about the cost.
Five minutes later, the latest model rifle was in his hands. The old man behind the counter, a sweet looking fellow, stooped with age and wearing thick suspenders and glasses that appeared as thick as his wrist asked, “What’re you goin to hunt with that, a monster? Most folks don’t shell out that much money for the latest model, hell I never thought anyone would buy the only one I’ve got in stock.”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Maxwell Pruss chuckled at the question. “No, I’m going to hunt the devil.”
The old man laughed, “Well in god’s name, bless your hunt, my good man.”
“He already has.” Max replied and with the rifle over his shoulder and the maximum lawful amount of ammunition, he left the shop behind.
----------------------------------------
“...Our Queen is dead! The Royal family is dead! Sad as that is, as a true man of Albion, a true man of the Commonwealth, I tell you that it is better that they rest in their graves rather than have a foreigner on our throne! She was in the Empire! She was a soldier for their forces, she killed the sons of the Commonwealth! Are we going to put the slayer of our people on our throne and kneel and kiss her ring as if that did not happen?!” Winston Churbull shouted to the crowd, he was always good at drawing them, his steady and sure voice, even when raised and indignant, compelled people to listen.
The mob in front of him mumbled quietly, the streets of Birmingham were filled with activity, so much so that even in Birmingham Square, people who were not in attendance, still heard what he had to say. It didn’t hurt that cars were so scarce. People walked, cycled, or took public transport, or in some cases, even went back to horse and carriage. The unfortunate truth of the latter was that now there was usually the faint smell of horse manure in the air, but it couldn’t be helped.
“The Empire is our enemy! If we give them peace now, they’ll feel free to do as they please! They’ll call it a victory, and they’ll be right!” He slammed his fist down on the podium. “We should fight them on their beaches, in the air, on the sea, and push all the way into Berun! That is the only way to defend our isle, and no matter what it costs, this must be done!” Churbull said with vigorous resolve.
“Will we let them cut us off from Europa? Will we be forced to pay the empire tariffs when we dock our goods at the port in the Republic? If we leave them as they are, dominating from north to south, leaving only the Ispagna Collective to sell? And why should they stop now?! Why should the Empire, having won all the west but our island, leave Ispagna alone? With their triumph, they can easily back one side in the Ispagna Collective’s civil war, far easier than we can, and install a favorable regime that is dependent on them. Even if their banner doesn’t wave there, their vile spirits will walk the streets of Madradi! The Kingdom of Ildoa has formed an alliance with them also, what of our holdings in North Africa? Should they close the strait to us, they can take our colonies without a fight!” Churbull exhorted the crowd, “So much for our oil… and so much for our industry… and so much for our Commonwealth…” he clapped his hands together.
“Will. You. Let. It. Die?!” He asked the crowd.
“No! No! No!” They shouted their answer, and some who were not part of the rally, who were only passing by but stopped to listen, raised up their voices just the same.