The Doves that Strut

8

"Hey." The voice that always brightens up everything.

"Hey." I turned as she approached, a lopsided grin creeping over her face.

"Damn, you're blazing in this outfit," Claire exclaimed, holding my collar and unzipping my jacket. She turned over the inside, and glid her hand on the cloth. "Fancy," she smiled. She was wearing a black jacket like mine, combined with her iconic jeans and boots. The internet called it a salute to Syles Adler.

"Thanks," I replied.

"Where'd you get this? I've never seen you wear it," she asked, flicking up a side of her brows.

"I bought it yesterday. I didn't have anything black in my closet to put on."

"Geez, how much did it cost?"

"A week of lunch money," I shrugged, "but that's alright. I can make do with just bread."

"Well, I assure you, that it was totally worth it." She exhaled a breath of sweetness. "Black suits you."

"You don't have to make such an effort to raise my self-esteem," I grimaced, shuffling my hands into my pockets.

"No, I'm not!" she cried out in mock indignation. "Right, we better get going. They're starting the protest at eleven, and we've got—" She looked around, and spotted a digital clock hanging in front of us, halfway to the ground but still out of our reach with the ceiling four times my height. "—half an hour. Just enough to make it there in time."

We were at the subway station. It was Saturday.

"Alright then," I said. Joining the sparse stream of people, we pushed through the turnstiles—they're still there, not removed yet at every station even though public transport had become free of charge years ago (to reduce traffic congestion, the mayor had explained, like what they first had done in Luxembourg). Fragranceport had always been my lovely hometown, but for the very first time, I was doubting my impression as the gears squeaked upon our nudges.

We took the escalator to the platforms, whereupon the microscopic vibration of the floor tiles signaled the arrival of the train. We hopped on and easily found ourselves two seats since there weren't many people at the time. We sat past six stations and got off at Maple Street Station. We climbed the stairs, pushed through the nominal turnstiles again, and walked straight forward after leaving Exit A.

"Justice for Syles!" After a few minutes of walking, at the intersection of Maple and Jaden Street, we could already hear the chanting from afar, a person belting out the slogans and followed by the crowds who echoed like a well-rehearsed choir of voices. "Justice for Syles!" The respondents' voices overlapped, in unison with each other. If there hadn't been the thunderous volume that traveled across blocks, I couldn't have had the confidence to decide whether it was only one determined man with a big mouth and a strong pair of lungs chanting.

"We want the truth!"

"We want the truth!"

"Resist corruption!"

"Resist corruption!"

"Come on," Claire said. I hurried after her, pacing up as the chanting grew louder and clearer.

After the fourth crossing, we reached our destination, the City Hall. It was a short building, only four storeys tall, but it surely commanded its own sense of grandeur, the style derived from the temples of Ancient Rome. At its front were ten giant marble columns supporting the roof, while the stairs connected the entrance and the massive grey courtyard about the size of the football pitch we had at school. And I thought, If we just ignored the signs of modern man dotted around, we could really imagine ourselves back in Rome with the facade of this building. Spectacular, it looked.