Newly appointed chief advisor to the president; that was the latest title given to Mr Grock. Once, he had unknowingly hinted to Avarice Crowne his opinion on the 'untrustworthy Revaltians' and jokingly warned him against traitors in his country. Now he was reaping his reward.
Like a man reliant on his medication for survival, Crowne had heaped almost every position to Grock, making him unanimously greater in power and authority than any other Custodian in history. The entire Royal Constabulary was at his hands for public investigations, the Enforcers were ready for secret ones, and his latest addition, the entire Ecclesian army along with its weapons, gave him an internationally recognised force to be commanded at will. This was his pinnacle, the peak nobody had ever achieved before.
How was he stuck in this position, despite his great power? He had armies at his disposal, yet a mere detective, who was practically an ant next to him, had managed to evade him for several weeks now. Sure, he was only half-heartedly chasing after him, but it couldn't possibly be that difficult to trace him, could it?
"There's a reason for this supposed invisibility," he repeated to himself firmly, clenching his fists and making such a terrifying expression, the two messengers backed off in case he exploded.
He must be mingling in with a crowd I'd never expect him to be around, one that constantly avoids the government: either the rebels or the criminals.
—
Before the monarchy had fallen to the hands of Crowne and Grock, bands of simple robbers peacefully coexisted with the other citizens of the country, acting like heroes, defending their and everybody else's freedom from the tyrannical rulers.
However, when the new government arose and replaced the king, everything changed.
Instead of the open, aggressive approach the monarchy used, Crowne's government, the Custodians with the Enforcers as national security, adopted a more deceptive way of running the country.
Within the first week, everyone who had faith in the patriotic criminals that had once been seen as heroes turned their backs to them, convinced by the Custodians that they were essentially common robbers who helped the country for their own benefits. This, of course, didn't go well for them at all. Some were arrested, others tortured horrendously until their bodies were disfigured like lumps of clay. Most were executed on the spot, feared by Crowne in case of another rebellion. As for the few fortunate ones that escaped Grock's purge, they simply fell into typical criminal activities, becoming the vile, cold-blooded killers described by the government's propaganda.
Like water changing it shape to fit into its container, the gang of outlaws, which grew bigger by the day, molded themselves to fit into the new society that had emerged in an instant. From human trafficking to intricately designed assassinations, every crime that could possibly be thought of was performed by these gangs of criminals, who had transformed into the very creatures they swore to destroy. Because of several factors, including contrasting ideologies and uncontrollable masses, separate groups began to form within the underworld to rule over their own territories.
Among these groups surfaced a powerful leader, both experienced and eloquent in speech.
Markus Hoffman rapidly rose among the ranks and when he and his followers had gathered enough resources, securing their strength, they severed the tie between the and the rest of the gangs. To him, there was only one thing he desired: freedom from the Custodians. Thus, another faction arose within the country.
Rejecting other philosophies from the world, which he deemed as weak and unproductive, Hoffman spent the rest of his life seeking freedom and campaigned against the Enforcers while remaining somewhat neutral to the rest of the underworld.
The situation of Ecclesia before the war broke out could be summarised into three different factions: the Enforcers, the rebels, and the underworld. Each one was fighting for their own ideal future. Each one helped balance the country's dramatically imperfect system.
—
Grock, stoic as usual, came thundering down the stairs into the lively lobby of the gambling den. His mere presence shook the very souls of the gamblers seated there; as he strode past them, all heads bowed, all eyes darted away, and all lips shut, sending a drought of noise throughout the room. Every footstep was crystal clear. Nothing, not even the rats, stirred when Grock made his way to the exit. It wasn't until the director of the Enforcers stepped out and hopped into a gleaming black cab then a dull buzzing noise resumed. Nobody dared to utter what had just happened.
Absolute secrecy. That was the Enforcers' motto.
By cutting off weak bonds and shifting attention to unfortunate scapegoats, the Enforcers managed to conceal their tracks effortlessly, leaving behind nothing to suspect.
Nobody was to speak up. Fear of persecution held them in their tracks.
—
Crickets chirped monotonously while the worker shouted orders harshly, raising their lamps in the dark, illuminating the bushy path in front of them. Massive iron gates guarded the entrance of the ammunition factory like an immovable boulder. Two burly men, still dressed in their overalls although it was already late into the night, pulled open the gates with strenuous effort, their muscles bulging in the orange mellow light.
Not too far away, a rather large horse-drawn cart could be seen pulling closer and closer to its destination. Behind the two bulky horses was an enormous cart filled with an unknown quarry covered by a cloth.
"Wait for a moment please, sir," grunted one of the foremen, lifting a plate-sized hand to stop the cart driver. "I'll need to inspect your cargo first, manager's orders. Excuse me—"
Lifting the cover off dramatically as if to reveal any golden secrets that laid hidden, the foreman let out an audible sigh of disappointment; there was absolutely nothing of interest under the cover. He waved his hand and swiftly permitted the cart to proceed.
Right after it entered and whisked out of sight in the black cover of the night, one of the grimy-faced workers snuck up to the foreman and whispered, "What was in there, sir?"
"Nothing much," sniffed back the foreman noncommittedly. "Only tubs of paint and lubricating grease. The manager ordered 'em yesterday."
Together with the rest of the workers gathered there, they returned back into the factory, ready to work until midnight.
An unusually stuffy atmosphere hung around them that night, striking paranoia into them all.
Why was there such a strange feeling? It seemed like… an unsurmountable shadow was creeping up on them…
"Best not to let my imagination run wild," thought the foreman firmly, closing the massive gates with some assistance.
The pale moon had already been out for hours. Perhaps the feeling he had was merely the effects of his toilsome work.
Hopefully, it was.
—
"So they've finally done something useful for once," grumbled the foreman, sitting on the bench comfortably. He held a newspaper in his left hand, while his right clutched a half-eaten bagel. The news of Hartland's arrest rapidly spread throughout the country like an airborne virus.
Casually inserted phrases such as 'one less traitor in the country' and 'origin of war discovered' caused the people to experience mixed feelings. On one hand, they were glad to see that it was not their own government that started another war senselessly, but on the other, worries began to rise concerning their fate. It wouldn't be the first time the Custodians and Enforcers heaped additional laws during difficult times. Security was bound to be tighter now, if it wasn't already, and there were rumors of a strict curfew being put into effect. Overall, the grim news and unreliable whispers created a sort of choking atmosphere in the air, keeping everyone on their toes.
—
Laying down the newspaper after proclaiming himself satisfied with its content, the foreman pushed his checkered cap back onto his head and whistled a happy tune as he headed back to work.
Shouts of confusion rang out from the workplace, which seemed to be more like a lump of stone than a building. Fumes of all kinds of toxic materials punched him hard as he waved the fresh air goodbye and headed into the room to find the cause of the commotion.
"Sir!" panted a dishevelled worker, his skin a little discoloured from the constant contact with chemical fumes. "There's been some kind of bomb set up in the rooms! Nobody's gone near it but—"
"A bomb?" exploded the foreman, jogging to keep up with the panicking worker.
Was the ominous feeling he experienced the night before somehow related to this?
"In here, sir!"
An absolute mess met his eyes; bullet casings were spilled all over the floor, tools were stuck in the most unlikely places but the most surprising thing of all was the crowd of workers. No one moved a muscle.
The hypnotic ticking noise heard by everyone appeared to be coming from a strange, inconspicuous box. It wasn't very large at all— in fact, it was no bigger than a kettle.
Hands trembling, he limped forwards towards the little wooden box with legs stiff as logs.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
There was no mistake about it now. Something was inside, sending a slight vibration throughout the box.
What should he do? Would it detonate if he opened it?
"Excuse me," called a voice from behind him.
One of the workers stepped forwards from the crowd, throwing aside his apron.
For a split second, nobody understood what was happening, but the veil was swiftly removed; standing in front of them, in the view of all the people, was an Enforcer, his clothing quickly switched into the prim grey uniform everyone knew and feared.
"I'll be taking over from now on until my superiors arrive," stated the Enforcer, taking out a pair of gloves from his pocket and handling the ticking box with care. He tapped it lightly while putting an ear against its wooden wall.
"I think," he mumbled audibly, "that this box should be good to open."
Gently coaxing the lid, he finally removed the first layer of the lethal parcel. Next, it was time to defuse it. With painstaking precision, he separated the bomb from the box, causing everybody in the vicinity to scramble out of the way. From here, the Enforcer was unsure of what to do. A strange mechanism was attached to the bomb; it was almost like a mini alarm clock strapped on.
"It's far too risky for me to try and take this apart myself," whispered the Enforcer to the foreman, who was shaking with an utmost terrified expression plastered across his figure. "I've notified the director, so I'm sure he's already sent the unit on their way here. In the meantime, gather all the employees here and have them wait outside of the building along the iron fence surrounding the factory. Is that clear?"
"Y–Yes, sir!" stuttered the flustered foreman, losing no time in obeying the order.
Before the foreman even left the room, however, a cold voice rang out behind him as several other Enforcers rushed in. The laconic words spoken were clear as day, cutting through the air with effortless ease.
"Move out, officer."
Raising his hands, the Enforcer whirled around, marched to his superior and saluted before leaving the room to join the rest of his fellow colleagues.
Grock surveyed the scene with a glance and sighed.
"So they really are targeting this factory. This bomb—"
He bent down, examining it keenly. It certainly wasn't any ordinary explosive. The mechanism controlling the time of the explosion was slightly more advanced that anything he'd seen in his years of dealing with danger. A jumble of gear stuck together like a jigsaw puzzle, moving the hands of the miniature clock second by second, while a tightly coiled spring unwinded with miniscule movements. The escapement, resembling a blunt spiked wheel, rotated every second, which caused the sound of the ticking.
After taking a long look at the curious contraption, Grock clicked his fingers and at once, three Enforcers marched up to him stiffly.
"Tell Unit 2A to hurry up. There may be more than this single bomb hidden in the factory. I'll handle this first; you go."
Making sure his orders had been obeyed, Grock brought his attention again to the clock-driven bomb. He chuckled to himself, though nothing in particular was funny, and began to disassemble the bomb, part by part.
Evidently, it works like a pendulum clock; that is the key to defusing the bomb. Only three main parts need to be considered: the spring, the gears, and the escapement. Those parts are the ones controlling the clock and therefore, the bomb.
The problem is the delicate balance of the system— if the escapement accidentally becomes displaced, it might trigger the clock to go off, setting off the explosion.
Careful fingers, that was all. He just needed patience and time.
Stopping the escapement would mean freezing the time, but what can I use to hold the wheel in place?
Wiping his forehead and wishing he had brought his pipe with him, he held the swinging wheel-like piece from moving.
The clock stopped ticking down.
Wax… Didn't they usually use wax to hold things in place during the assembling part?
Calling urgently for his Enforcers, he quickly got what he needed. With the wax holding the escapement, Grock was finally able to separate the clock-like mechanism from the bomb, rendering it useless. It was now as still as a sculpture; the gears stopped moving, the stretched spring locked in place and the escapement silenced its dreadful ticks.
As if it had been staged, the unit Grock requested for arrived at the scene, a bit too late to help. Glancing at the now harmless bomb in Grock's hand, each one of them saluted and awaited orders.
The first bomb was defused; the question was whether there were any more to hunt for.