The Last Romantics

Kings of The Industrial Wasteland

The next day we visited the factory, the first unguided tour we had ever embarked on. The paths were familiar, the walkways and the halls, though this time we were not following in the familiar shadow of our father, we were not watching him as he scolded his exhausted workers, not listening to the obscenities he would use to describe their apparent lack of effort or subpart product. No one dared disrespect us today, nor would they dare mess up in their production, for fear that Mycroft would turn out to be the same sort of monster that his father had grown to be. I wasn't sure what sort of boss my brother would amount to, though the way he dressed today, in a black suit with a fur lined trench coat and a hat tipped low down to his brow...well he was beginning to dress the part of manager, that was apparent. The factory itself was disheartening, with so many disheveled workers slaving in their stations, lifting large vats of molten metal, operating machines that breathed smoke and pollution into the air around them. Any drop of water, even sweat, instantly evaporated into the putrid air, and the entire room stunk of bubbling rock and flesh, the fruits of tireless labor and sacrifice only for the salary enough to live another day. It was hellish, perhaps the most vivid scene of human suffering I had witnessed since I had last visited my father's place of occupation. Though today there was something especially horrific in the conditions, today there was the opportunity for change. It made my stomach turn to realize that nothing would be done, would it? Mycroft batted not an eyelash; he showed not a speck of remorse. My brother's heart, wherever it might have lurked in the years before my departure, had been removed entirely from the equation. His humanity had leaked out with my father's life force, and beyond the responsibilities of a brother he now took on the weight of the family name, fortune, and legacy.
"Mycroft, this is terrible." I commented at last, noticing a man standing next to a large stirring vat, his arms draped in singed cloth as he gripped a large metal crank, turning a large gear that would stir the mixture to the right consistency. The man's face was drenched in sweat, crusted entirely as the moisture was sucked right into the dry, sweltering heat of the confined factory. It was supposedly winter out of these doors, though within the walls of the factory it may very well be Hell itself.
"This is what they are paid to do, brother mine. I cannot change it, lest we sacrifice the fortune they are providing us with." Mycroft muttered quite indifferently.
"Can't you find an ounce of remorse within yourself? You're not sounding like yourself at all!" I scolded harshly, at last looking away from where I saw a small child, crawling throughout the motionless machines in an attempt to dislodge apparent rubble from the halted gears.
"Sherlock, don't you grow soft on me." my brother growled. "We do what we have to do, what the economy demands of us!"
"This is inhumane, it's murder." I insisted.
"It's money." Mycroft explained flatly; as if such a word should heal all the damage that had been inflicted, as if such a concept of income could really faze me now. With all the money in the world, oh what were we going to do with anymore? Each one of these lives lost, well what were they sacrificing themselves for if not for a marginal increase of their master's already massive bank account? They were the ones on the front lines, dying because of this madness. Each pair of eyes I focused on sickened my stomach more and more, each man with a story, each mother with a child, each child without a future... It was corrupted; there was something entirely wrong with the way the system was operating. Something entirely unacceptable. Though what was all the more heartbreaking was my brother's reaction, my brother's capability! His unwillingness to see a problem, only a profit! Before long I had seen enough, as we made our way deeper into the factory, now where the walls seemed so far away, I had to make my escape. I had to run away from the stinking heat, the boiling flesh, the toiling workers who strained their eyes towards me for any plea of help. Me, standing in my suit and jacket, with my leather shoes and my full stomach, oh up for investigation by the pleading, burned, hungry workers who were entrusted under my family name. Each one of these lives wasted, and for nothing but myself! Oh if my career path was not yet decided before that visit well it certainly would be now! I could never put myself in front of such a factory, I could never associate my first name with the last name printed upon that building side. I would never be the boss, never in control. I'll leave to Mycroft, the man who seemed to have lost his heart the moment I gained mine. These months had allowed many things to change, and from seeing the state of things it really hadn't changed for the better. I walked swiftly towards the exit, thick black smoke coating my lungs as I inhaled deeply, my shoes slipping through the substances that the air would not accept, the waste products that would be dumped into the river instead, to avoid any proper disposal and the inevitable cost of such environmental responsibility. I was disgusted by what I saw, and when at last I burst through the doors of the factory and back out into the freshly fallen snow, tinted with the black debris falling from our smoke stacks, well I was once more reminded about the grievous conditions my good fortune had come from. Night and day I thanked God for the fortune we had been blessed with, but now those blessings seemed more like a terrible burden, each dollar soaked in blood! I wandered far from the factory, trudging now through the snow and huddling myself into the trench coat I had worn, acclimating terribly for the sudden change in temperatures. From escaping a room intended to melt metal now to an atmosphere that froze the water around it, well it was not a very good shock to the body. And so I sat for a moment, finding myself about a half a mile up the river, far enough away that the sounds of heavy machinery were able to fade to the background, replaced now with the slight gurgling of the steam as the water passed through the gaps and cracks in the massive, immobile chunks of ice. I huddled onto a park bench, having cleared the snow from it with a simple swipe of my indifferent hand, and stared into the stream. It was still pure, untainted water, good enough to drink! And to think that such pristine a stream would be tainted just a little while up the way, mixed with all the foul waste products of my father's wretched factory. I nearly wept to understand it, watching as small fish moved and darted along under the ice, going down stream to meet their death in the face of industrialism. Was this really what the world had come to? Was there no hope for us any longer, were we destined to take the world too powerfully in our stride, to try to control nature and in turn destroy ourselves? The world was ending, the world as we knew it at least. Technology could only go so far, so far as leaving us uncertain of the future, and certainly of our own losses. The wind was beginning to pick up, terribly cold as it snuck through the gaps in my jacket or my coiled scarf. Half of me wished for the carriage to arrive with my brother, insisting that we head home. The other half was hoping I was never called upon again, allowed to fade into the natural world around me until I was found under the thawed ground next spring. And so I merely listened, deciding that I need not trouble myself with what I hoped would happen soon...I only decided to appreciate what I was faced with now. A bubbling brook, frozen with the ice still collecting in the freezing temperatures. A plot of undisturbed snow, glistening with the sunlight that was able to permeate the thick clouds that lay above, shining light in all reflections like could any precious diamond. The sound of a song bird, sitting atop the barren trees, singing for a mate who may never come. And I, integrated so silently. Integrated so appreciatively. What was I these days but part of the scenery, part of the arrangement of nature's beautiful treasures? I was a fool, perhaps that was it. I was a fool for remembering back to my love, Tobias who I had sacrificed so easily! Should I write to him in the coming weeks, explaining my absence? Or should I instead let him go unresolved, his questions unanswered? A rejection, no matter how docile it was, was a rejection all the same. Perhaps he did not care what happened to his troubled friend, lost in the ways of love and human connection as a whole. Perhaps Tobias did not shed a single tear for what might have become of me, considering it a necessary loss. The only thing he missed, undoubtedly, was the book that now sat on my bedside table. No Tobias may not miss me, though Victor Trevor...well there was a loss worthy of consideration.
"Sherlock, Sherlock!" came my brother's familiar voice, the octaves echoing off of the deep snow that separated me from the small search party who came forging through in my footprints. I turned, collecting myself to my feet as if to make the impression that I was only passing through this place, wanting nothing to do with the freezing temperatures or the seemingly insignificant landscape.
"Mycroft, is your tour finished?" I wondered, looking a bit shamefully towards the men who climbed through the snow after my brother, men wearing nothing more than singed overalls and handkerchiefs around their head. They looked frozen solid, with their limbs shivering and snow collected up to their unprotected knees.
"Get inside, the lot of you." Mycroft insisted, waving the workers away with a wave of his leather clad fingers. The workers turned back the way they came, wordlessly.
"Thank you, thank you for your help!" I called after them, though my words might have met deaf ears, for I got no recognition for my help. Such a simple statement sent my brother's lips into a deep frown, and he stood in the cold, his arms crossed in a stern manner with the only sound coming from the crunching of the worker's old boots along the now properly trampled terrain. I looked back at the fading men, wishing they might show up again to disrupt whatever sort of speech I was going to get from this insufferable creature before me. Certainly he was disappointed, though I could not properly place why.
"Sherlock, my toes are turning to ice, and yet you force me to stand here and scold you!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"Scold me, for what? I was just sitting on the bench; I couldn't tolerate that air for much longer." I defended, trying to at least take a stance of innocence. Well I was innocent, surely, for I could not really turn my little escape into a crime or even an offense, no matter what stance I took to look at it. Perhaps Mycroft saw some trouble, but it must only be a trifle!
"We thought you had fallen into a vat, or been kidnapped for ransom! We had the whole factory searching when at last someone noticed footprints in the snow! Sherlock you ought to be more attentive, and more careful! It's no place to wander, no place to disappear from." Mycroft insisted, his frown easing now as his worry passed. I saw that his anger was just manifesting to cover up his deep fear of losing me, though his accusation felt more like the admittance of something far more grievous.
"The only reason there would be a chance of my demise in that place is because of the safety regulations our father has neglected to impose. You felt that fear once, imagining having to send me away to a factory so dangerous every day! We're in the position to change that, Mycroft! Now that he's gone." I insisted, remembering such struggling creatures within the walls of that horrible place. That fear that Mycroft might've felt for a moment, could it not drive him to make the right choice? Could it not sway him in the way of morality, of humanity?
"Watch your tongue, Sherlock. You know how much such measures will cost? And for what exactly? I gain no profit by saving a life, they are replaceable!" Mycroft snarled.
"They're humans!" I exclaimed, stomping my foot into the snow though producing no sound, only drenching my socks with the cold water my foot had displaced. I winced, though tried to maintain the impression of remaining calm. Mycroft didn't look impressed.
"Get to the carriage, Sherlock, and be glad I do not assign you a position at the factory! Be glad you don't need to stoop so low for a penny!" Mycroft exclaimed, clenching his fingers so that the leather stretched with awful tension, straining around his iron fist as it slowly came to a close. I sighed heavily, deciding it was better not to argue with a man I didn't even recognize. I could not understand what had happened to my brother since I had been away, what had those months done to him? Or perhaps what had they done to me? I spent so much time villainizing my brother, well who knows? Perhaps he had always been such a man, without my recollection. Perhaps I had just grown to be a hero, though of what story that was still to be decided. The story of my life, supposedly. Though back then I never knew it to be something so magnificent.