To say we are bad, however, is not to say we are evil. We were created by Father out of a great kindness. Father strove for perfection. We are what he perfected. We are perfection; we are the next wave; we are the Übermensch. Father was not evil; therefore we are not evil. But we are bad.
We run, my brothers and I, liberated of our fortunes because we had become fat and complacent. To the victor go the spoils, and so they should. The world has no place for losers—except the stew cauldrons and brazier pits.
Our loss is a blessing, a reminder of who we are at our core. Father’s pride. We are hunters; seekers of Epicurean delights! We revel in all that is carnal. It is glorious!. And so we run because we can. We have nothing left to lose and a kingdom to gain, we run, my brothers and I, free of the illusion of freedom.
Our numbers are few, but we are well coordinated—and we are well armed thanks to a cache of weapons discovered in the catacombs. I feel a thrill, my spine literally tingles as we use the bracelet of Mars to call down the fury of Jupiter. For the second time in as many days, fire from above clears the way to the caverns below. I throw the bracelet to the bottom of the new-formed pit, a beacon to guide the traveller to a secure harbour. Our foreign guests are now free to touch down in one of the more remote caverns, beneath an area of the city known as the Old Quarter. It is a district restricted to the citizens above, physically sealed off for decades. But for the citizens beneath no such border wall exists.
“Brothers,” I look about and see my jubilation mirrored in the faces of those nearest me: Leviticus, Mortimer, Bob, Spurgan, Möbius, Tobias—Father’s angels. In them a reflection of my own joy, my own exuberance, my own vitality. “Come; the chariot of the Gods has descended! Our hour of reckoning is at hand!”
Events unfold like clockwork. We climb the walls and jump down to the top of the ship. Tars understands the mechanics of this great vessel. It is only a moment before he has discovered how to open the top hatch. Leviticus has the dynamite he and Mortimer stole from the farmer from Dairy. we’ve tied it all together in one large bundle. The sparkling glow from the fuse as it takes is almost too bright for us, even with the goggles. I turn my head and drop the dynamite into the ship; Tars reseals the hatch.
I want to giggle like a child, though I stifle the urge as such behaviour is unbecoming in a prince. The muffled explosion from inside the ship is so satisfying. Anything alive in that vessel must surely be dead. “Open the hatch,” I can hardly contain myself. “Let us see what treasures they brought us.”
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