Unquiet Intervention

I : Terrible Things

Only Heaven knew what had truly caused the elusive riot that had erupted along the streets surrounding 186 Fleet Street on that fearful night in late January.

Or perhaps, it was Hell?

No one knew of the maddening hunger that infected the minds of the loyal customers that had once ritualistically eaten at Mrs Lovett's Pie Emporium. But those unfortunate souls who had happened upon the scenes of the public feasting on one another until there was nothing left but bone... they soon quickly tried to escape the cobbles of Fleet Street.

Some were successful.

Others... not so much.

If anyone had even bothered to bat an eye, or had listened to those fighting their urges to tear off any human skin they came across, then the events of that fateful night may have turned out incredibly different.

But of course, nobody listened.

The authorities, with their crease-less navy-blue uniforms and tarnished medals, all loaded their muskets without warning and shot down any irrational-looking civilian who approached their make-shift barricades.

The sickly streets became more like a bloodbath that would often be seen at the after-math of a pointless battle, rather than some kind of outcry or disagreement. Rivers of red trickled down the hollow nooks between cobbles and flooded aimlessly down the side-gutters.

The scatter of motionless bodies made it clear that there wasn't a single survivor left - they were either half-eaten, or had been completely peppered with bullets.

The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air, like the sullen reminder of cowardice that never wished to leave. The streets, for once, were completely silent. The feeling of grief and shock seemed to cling to the smog-filled sky that night, like even nature knew of the terrors that had occurred.

It appeared that the city itself, was in a feeble state of mourning.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Slide.

Draw.

Strike.

Fire.

If one was to hypnotically stare into its very lucid, amber-ish core, it would likely destroy every scrap of existence that a being once knew.

And that's why no one ever found a single scrap of evidence that actually pointed to the many people of London being stark-raving cannibals. The fact that the authorities and papers called out the travesty as nothing more than a riot of angered citizens... well, it provided the perfect cover.

But of course, the source of the towering flames hadn't just been some minor repercussion of a so-called 'riot' breaking out. If anyone had truly cared enough, they would have realised that the fire had been purposely started...

... from the dingiest depths of Eleanor Lovett's bake-house.

The bodies of deceased feral customers were the first to be swallowed up by the unholy flames, and the swift spreading of the fire created a convenient wall between the lifeless shop above... and the filthy sewers down below.

Noxious flesh-melting fumes and ominous swirls of black smoke engulfed the entire of Mrs Lovett's former establishment, along with the majority of buildings and slum streets close-by. The path of flames consumed every flesh-stripper and innocent within its destructive path, until nothing was left but thin scatterings of ash and cinders.

All that death, all that destruction...

... formed from a single flickering match.

Even the arsonist themselves was struggling to get away from the path of ruthless flames they had created. The sewers had been their only possibility of survival.

Thick, gashed leather boots smacked against the ground as the culprit speedily snatched at their chance to escape. Bodies were still lodged in the side-gutters and awaited the arrival of the warm licks of untamed fire, which wasn't all too far away now...

The perpetrator could hear the lull in the chaos and panic in the streets now that nothing but sinister silence flooded in through the iron drains above. Their footsteps slapped across the thin layer of sewer water rhythmically, their movements growing faster and faster with each of their anxious breaths.

The echoes of voices bounced between the pipe-lined walls - though it wasn't clear whether it was something real, or completely imagined. The person seemed to be on high alert due to their desperation for escape... then again, perhaps it was just the disturbing surroundings of the sewers alone that was messing with their mind.

As they fled further and further away from the spitting orange of the hungry flames, they delved deeper into the desolate, decrepit tunnels beneath the city of London.

The eerie voices seemed to get louder and more distorted, so much so, that the person let out a sharp intake of breath and pressed their bloodied hands to their ears. They squinted their eyes, wishing for the tremendous noises to stop. Somehow, they managed to keep on dashing forward.

The flames were fast approaching now... so it was only logical for the person to start darting their bloodshot eyes about, looking for a hatch - or rather anything - to escape the hell that was the London sewer system. They knew the map of the tunnels like the back of their hand... and therefore, knew that there was no chance of outrunning the blazing fire.

The scent of burning had mixed into the sewer-stench of decay now, and for that they could only choke harshly, sensing that the deadly smoke would soon enthusiastically fill their lungs.

The viper-like whispers they'd been deafened by, soon eased out of their eardrums, like each soul had gotten sick of tormenting them with incoherent mutterings. Their hands dropped from their ears in order so that they could swing their arms in time to their strides, yet their eyes narrowed again once they realised that the voices had only been replaced with the loud snapping of the rampant fire behind them instead.

Panic set in.

They brayed their tired legs harder, faster. Their pants grew harsh and ragged, their wide grey eyes piercing every wisp of smoke through the dark, hollow tunnel ahead of them. Escape seemed futile, but they kept on running, regardless of what they believed.

What they knew.

The rusty, copper pipes flew by either side of their peripheral vision, cutting into their focus like it was a deliberate act of disorientation.

Perhaps this was it. This was their punishment after everything they'd endured, everything they'd committed.

But this couldn't be the end.

Not now. They'd barely just begun.

There was no way they were giving up this easily.

They'd already fought fearlessly...

... there was no reason why they couldn't fight again.

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A/N It's far later than I planned but here it is, the start of Act 2 :) Sorry for the massive wait, I've just been planning a hell of a lot and  working on the direction I want to take this, so I really hope that you'll like what I've got in store. I couldn't resist just posting this short prologue, so please enjoy the next chapter too. It won't be too long until the next update, thank you for reading, as always! :)