X Faction Soldiers Part 3

The drive back is rapid, but well executed. Randian seems to keep the accelerator down for
the entire journey, despite this, the car remains glued to the road, hugging the corners
tightly without losing speed or skidding. Brass spends the entire journey concentrating
sharply on the road ahead, keeping his eye out for cameras and police cars, occasionally
pointing out a road to avoid. Randian seems to predict which roads would lead to one of
Brass party balloons, and his route was entirely devoid of cameras.
After about twenty minutes of driving, we arrive at what appears to be an old shunting yard;
A graveyard for old train carriages waiting to be scrapped. Everybody climbs out of the car
except for Brass, who shuffles across into the drivers seat.

Where can I ditch this Rand? He asks looking up through the window.
Theres a lake about a mile down the road He tells him, Wind down all the windows, and
put a rock on the accelerator, it will sink like a stone.
Alright, take this He says, handing Randian the case he recovered from the van earlier.
What is it? Randian asks, Are you sure it doesnt have a tracer on it?
Its the thing Zero has been looking for
But what is it?
I dont know exactly Brass nods, A piece of new money tracking technology to stop
money laundering or some shit. Snowden something
Right Randian nods curiously.
I step towards Brass, Are we bringing our new friend?
Yeah, get him out of the back, take him back to the squat and get him nice and
comfortable.
I grin wickedly as Brass pops the boot.
Holding Indy up, I peer on as Pogo excitedly flings the boot open and grips the bloodied
semi-conscious Bootman with both hands, dragging him out roughly like the carcass of a
hunted animal.
The squat itself is different to what I am used to. There are numerous carriages for sleeping
in, as well as an underground work basement and a few engine sheds. There is a mixture of
old, rusting freight trains, and a number of passenger carriages too, scattered in no
discernible order. The rate of oxidisation suggests that the carriages had been shunted here
sometime between the third and fourth world wars, during the ill-fated public transport
reformations. The decision whether to scrap or repair these old carriages was probably tied
up in red tape somewhere, a meeting on the horizon, constantly being pushed back to
accommodate for more pressing priorities.
We set ourselves up in a string of carriages in the centre of a group of others. The light of
the Petroline candles wouldnt be visible here, and nobody would be able to hear us for
miles. Some of the more cautious Grimesters had taken to inhabiting the engine sheds or
the work basement underground; I suppose they werent keen on the idea of being exposed
from every side. I could see the advantages of an underground squat, but having thought it
through, I realised that the carriages were actually safer; they had a wider field of vision,
and multiple escape routes. If they were raided, youd see it coming, in the work basement
youd be trapped. That being said, it was Indy that really swayed my decision in the end; The
work basement was bound to be damp and dirty, and his wound would almost certainly get
infected. Also, there were only two Chemists in this squat, and both of them slept in the
carriages.

The carriages we settled in were designed for passengers. Tables were in place between the
seats throughout most of the carriage. Cannisters had been set up on some of them
functioning as improvised kitchens, others had been completely smashed out, replaced with
mattresses and blankets. Petroline candles of every different colour were scattered about
the carriages, all except for the carriages at the front and the back.

Indy had been quickly taken to the back carriage, where I was told a Chemist had a bed he
could stay in. That lead me to deduce that the front carriage was for small arms, bombs and
munitions.

There were five carriages in total, the three central carriages were divided into what looked
like a sleeping room, covered in mattresses and blankets, a kitchen and what one might call
a common room. It was here wed brought our resident Bootman.
Big Boots! Big Bollocks! Big burly butterfly bollocks! Pogo sings, skipping around the
Bootman excitedly.
Big bad boots! Big sick city! Burned down his house to make the sky look pretty!
He kicks him sharply in the ribs, as the Bootman rolls across the floor moaning in protest.
He lies there, in his piss-stained underwear, hogtied with rope and gagged with electrical
tape.

My attention flitted between Pogos savage torment of the captive Bootman, and Sadie,
who was marching around the carriage, wearing the Bootmans helmet and swinging his
baton about like a soldier in time to the discorded music coming from a speaker on one of
the tables. I joined Sadies hypnotic dance, stamping my new boots, which Id liberated from
the Bootman, and swinging my arms and head around wildly.

The other punks in the carriage were smoking, drinking or snorting lines on the tables about
the carriage, or lying in various states of intoxication. A couple at the far end of the carriage
were under the table fucking furiously, as though their lives depended on it, spurred on no
doubt by the euphoric effects of some chemical or another.

I walk across to the Bootman, raise my foot in the air and stamp down hard on his chest.
Fucking swine fucker I spit.
I turn back and walk down the carriage, passing Sadie as she swings the Baton around
indiscriminately.
Watch where youre swinging that fucker I hiss.
She ignores me completely.
I pass through into the next carriage where a Chemist leans over Indy, whose leg is raised
high, and tightly bandaged.

The chemist is short and baby-faced, with tufts of unkempt sandy brown hair and an air of
docility about him. Chemists often looked somewhat meek, or maybe they were just
perceived to be this way by the rest of us, because they rarely, if ever, saw any real action.
The life of a chemist was an easy one, compared to that of any other X Faction insurgent.
Chemists were always given a bed, were well-fed and never asked to contribute food, drink
or supplies to a squat in return for lodgings. Their skills alone were their bargaining chip to
immediate esteem within a squat.

Hows he doing? I ask.
Hes alright He responds, Ive removed the bullet, cleaned the wound with some ethanol,
and given him a dose of Virginia Brown for the pain.
I nod, looking at the semi-conscious Indy, whose quasi-happy face is beginning to drool.
He wont be able to walk on it properly for a while, hell need a crutch and youll need to
change his bandages twice a day, and keep the wound clean so it doesnt get infected.
I nod, dreading the thought of being impeded by Indys injury. I wonder if it would be better
to find him a long-term secure squat for him to hole up in for a while, at least until he can
walk again.
Thank you I say raising my thumb to the Chemist.
I quietly leave the carriage and walk down passed Sadie, and towards Randian, who sits at a
laptop, hurriedly typing. I walk over, noticing that the laptop is hooked up to the thing that
Brass took from the van.
What is it Rand? I ask, crouching down next to him.
Well He says, maintaining square focus on the screen, It looks like this case contains a
piece of hardware, the integral part of a machine designed to assign every existing piece of
hard currency, and digital currency with a serial number and CrystalChip
Is that it? I ask, wondering why we risked our lives to get it.
Thats not just it He continues, It also contains part of a database for logging the exact
transactions that are made with Fiat or digital currency, what was traded, where the trade
was made, and by whom.
Whats Fiat currency? I ask.
Hard cash. He responds blankly, Latin for as it is.
I thought cash already had serial numbers on it.
It does He replies, But this is different He turns his face away from the computer screen
to face me.
This means that in roughly about ten years time, cash-in-hand transactions will become a
thing of the past, every payment made will be registered, the notes in your wallet will be
officially yours to spend and save. If anybody else tries to deposit them into their bank
account, they will be refused.
So, what? This will mean notes and coins will have to be scanned every time you buy a pack
of fags?
Effectively yes, but it also means that you cannot give somebody money, unless you ask for
authorisation from the Bank of England.
I dont even have a bank account I mutter.
Randian turns to face the computer screen once more, typing rapidly,
I imagine they planned to release this technology gradually, starting with digital currency
only, then graduating on to notes for trades and purchases over a certain amount, and
finally coins.
I nod, So its yet another method of surveillance.
Its yet another system designed to tighten the stranglehold the party already has over the
British public, wrapped in the guise of public service He nods, The party will flood the
media with stories of money laundering, theft and fraud, and give the impression that the
country is on the brink of financial meltdown. Then theyll introduce a way to stamp out
money laundering, blackmail and theft entirely. Theyll demand that every scrap of Fiat
currency is brought to the Bank of England for processing, then theyll implant every note
and coin with a tiny Crystalchip that will contain a serial number, and information on who
owns that particular unit of currency, why they own it, and where it was last used. If a unit
of currency is not deposited into the bank after a certain time period, that coin will become
unusable.
I nod dejectedly.
But if coins and notes have to be scanned every time theyre used, that means every shop
and private seller will have to have one of these scanners. What if people just refused to use
them?
They could Randian states, And Im sure there will be some who will. In the same way
they GrimeNote is not accepted by the general populace, people could continue to use cash
as currency, and circumvent the governments control measures.
And if they did?
Then the media nightmares they dreamt up would be fleshed out. Government sanctioned
criminal kingpins would dominate entire cities, paralysing people with fear, forcing them to
return to the partys plan of monitored currency.
Randian wipes his brow.
Loan sharks and mobsters will have their day, but it will be nothing more than a puppet
show
Thats fucked. I shake my head, But this is just hardware, surely they can just pop another
one off an assembly line?
Not quite Randian grins, The beauty of this piece of hardware is that it is built entirely
upon self-replicating algorithms, which produce a code for each transaction made, each one
linking back to a core code, the source code if you will, which is based on Snowdens
algorithm of stand-alone mediation
Id heard of Snowdens algorithm, though I did not understand it intimately. From what I
knew, it was a mathematical formula to create rhizomatic codes, based on a single formula
which could not be replicated.
This not only ensures that all the other codes make sense mathematically, and so can be
verified as legitimate, but also processes each transaction based on the original source
code.
In English please? I say mockingly.
What it means is that the entire system cannot be hacked or altered, as each transaction is
supported by every other. New transactions must be mathematically exact, and its precise
code is generated by an algorithm related to the code produced by all previous
transactions. He nods, A masterpiece of mathematics.
Randian inhales wearily.
However, as the core algorithm is contained in this piece of technology we have in our
possession right here, the entire system is flawed. There cannot be two source codes, or the
whole system is vulnerable. Randian beams excitedly, What this means is that if this new
economic system is put into place, then we, the X Faction, have the means to destroy the
economy entirely
I smile wickedly at Randian.
I bet this is a wet dream for you eh Prince? I say, feeding off his excitement, You know I
have a couple of those GrimeNotes you created
Im glad you do He smiles, returning his focus to the laptop, Zero truly is an excellent
champion of our cause. I dont think the Big Boots had any idea what they had in the van
I think if they did, theyd have fought harder I grin.

All at once I recall the fight, and remember that Brain was the only real casualty.
Sorry I recount sheepishly, I didnt mean to be insensitive to your friend
What? Brain? He laughs, He really was the Brains of the operation wasnt he? His brains
were about as much use in his skull as they were splattered across the pavement
Did you know him well?
Not really He shrugged, He followed me like an orphaned lamb. Hes better dead than
captured
Why did he follow you?
Because in the same way the weak cling to the strong, the imbecilic cling to the gifted
Randian grins smugly.
This callous attitude irks me somewhat.
You dont care that he died?
I dont care who dies in the pursuit of liberation He says, without breaking focus Id give
my own life if there was no other way to avoid it.
I clench my teeth and breathe deeply.
You know what I dont like about guys like you Randian? I say coldly, You sit behind your
laptops like faceless drones, crunching numbers to make your stand, and although your
efforts are effective, when it comes down to it, youre so disengaged, so divorced from
reality, that you represent the same cold-hearted fuckers who sold this country down the
shit-pan I seethe angrily.
He turns his head away from the computer screen to face me.
And do you know what I dont like about guys like you, IcePick?
Go on I nod.
Guys like you and Brass and Indy think that terrorising a local population through acts of
physical destruction and terror alone will incite them to rise up against the ruling party. Did
you ever consider that youre driving them further into their arms? Did you ever think that
people have become so terrified to walk the streets that theyd gladly sell their remaining
freedoms for the security of the Paramilitary Police?
Youre right I nod, Violence is not the answer. Violence eliminates the fucking question.
Randian stares at me with contempt.
You ever killed a man Randian? I smirk.
Have you ever saved one? He responds blankly.
I pause. Briefly, I consider entering into a heated discussion with Randian about the politics
of the Insurgency, but decide against it. These things can go on for hours and they never
change anything. Ultimately, everybody ends up agreeing that we are all on the same side.
Whatever we do Randian I nod, Well win in the end.
He turns back to face his computer screen.
And even if I had been killed out there, Im glad you were there to stop the van getting
away.
He turns back to face me.
Thank you Pick. He smiles.
What do you reckon? A quick line to dust off the cobwebs? I say pointing backwards down
the carriage.
Not right now He nods, But thanks
Suit yourself I say, turning to leave.
I walk back down the carriage towards Sadie, who is still marching up and down the
carriage, twirling the baton. As I approach, she whips the baton into the air, thrusting it
towards my face, narrowly missing my nose.
Stand and deliver! She shouts mockingly.
Got no money I laugh, Got no life
She gnashes her teeth at me, growling playfully.
But I have got a little bag of Saccharin Sunrise, if youd care to join me in a line?
She drops the baton and jumps forwards, wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs
around my waist. I stumble backwards slightly, then regain my balance and march forwards,
throwing her haphazardly onto a seat.
Sunrise! I shout across the carriage, Who needs one?
A bustle of feet can be heard from each end of the cabin, as a multitude of people appear to
join the table. The couple who had been fucking under a table earlier rise wearily to their
feet, stumbling towards us. The man roughly pulls his jeans up over his semi-flaccid cock.
The girl, who is still mostly naked, follows quickly behind.

I pull the baggy from my jacket pocket, along with a GrimeNote, and empty the entire
contents of the bag on to the table. I press the GrimeNote onto the pile of powder, and use
the handle of my flick knife to grind it up. Partway through my task, the train door opens,
and Brass stumbles in.

Brass! I beam, setting down the knife and walking over to greet him.
Did you get rid of the car? I ask extending my hand. He grips it tightly, and we mutually
slap the back of one anothers interlocked hands before releasing.
In a lake about a mile up the road. Put a brick on the accelerator, sank like a stone.
Hows your shoulder?
Fine He says sharply.
I imagine he was in more pain than he let on, but kept it quiet.
You should get it looked at, Indys in there with the Chemist, monged out on Virginia
Brown
I dont want any of that shit He spits, And I dont need it looked at by no Chemist
Suit yourself I grin, Saccharine? I say, pointing to the table.
Go on then.
We all convene at the table, as I separate the powder into slim lines. Rolling the GrimeNote
up into a snoot, I take a line. The cut is fairly coarse, and stings my nose a little, but the
effect is instant. At once my vision becomes crystal clear, as if my senses are all sharpened,
and a feeling of tremendous excitement begins to rise from the pit of my stomach, dancing
around on my insides, and shooting up my spine. As the energy reaches my head, my lips
stretch into a broad smile and my eyes widen. I struggle to contain my ecstasy, and dropping
the snoot, I burst into a fit of raucous laughter. Sadie plucks the snoot up and hastily snorts
a line, dipping her finger into the remaining powder and brushing it against her gums. The
effect on Sadie is more reserved, as she slumps back in her seat grinning like a child.
Clumsily, she hands the snoot to Brass, who methodically places it into his nostril and bends
down, snorting deeply and thoroughly, running the tip of the snoot over the remaining
powder to ensure not one grain is wasted. He tips his head back, sniffing once more, then
carelessly tosses the snoot to one side.
Hey man! I say, tipping my face forwards, trying to supress my laughter, Be careful with
that note, I want to keep that!
Its just paper mate Brass says, his head still tipped backwards.
Actually its a fine cotton. Sadie interjects, her words slurred and dopey.
Its a Polymer-Cotton mixture I say correctly, And theyre all gonna have CrystalChips in
them soon, Randian said so
Fuck your Polystyrene note IcePick! Brass laughs, sitting forward once more.
I reach out to collect the note from the table but find it is being passed around by the other
Grimesters at the table.
What was that thing for then? Sadie asks, half-listening to my previous comments.
Randian says it was gonna be used to make all the money in the UK traceable.
Is that it?
Its more complicated than that. I cant be fucked to explain it, go ask him yourself.
Nah She nods, I dont really care that much. Plus Randians a boring cunt.
Too right. I nod.
Randian, seemingly unaware of our comments, types ferociously at the keyboard, his
fingertips flicking from key to key in a fluid motion.
Right! Brass stamps his feet down, and rises up, I wanna pay a little visit to our guest, Mr
Boots of Big.
Theyre my boots now mate I laugh, stamping on the ground repeatedly.
Take them off! Brass barks.
No, fuck that
You dont wear the uniform of the enemy, idiot. He shouts.
I stand up from the table and square up to Brass.
And who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and cannot wear? I snarl.
Brass looks down at me, sniggering.
The confrontation seems to have drawn the attention of Pogo, who looks up at us gleefully,
before returning his focus to the Bootman, stroking his face and hair and whispering in his
ear.

Settle down boys Sadie intervenes, Let Pickaxe keep his shiny shoes
Icepick I snarl.
Whatever She shrugs.
I turn, looking down towards the door at the far end of the carriage.
Wait I say raising my hand, I should check on Indy.
Hell be fine Brass says dismissively.
You dont know that
What are you so worried for? Hes a hard man, hell cope.
Have you had your shoulder looked at? I say, pointing to his shoulder.
Its fine, I looked at it myself. He says, peeling his leather jacket off carefully.
I look at the wound; it is swollen and heavily bruised, with dark congealed blood all around
the centre point where the bullet hit.
Stings a bit Brass sniggers oafishly.
The bullet seems to have scraped across the top of his shoulder, tearing a slice of flesh out
of him. The bullet itself seems to have had a cauterising effect on the wound because the
amount of blood is minimal for the size of the wound.
At least get it cleaned up I say, If that gets infected, your arm is fucked
Yeah Sadie says, Itll become gangrenous and rot off. Then the infection will spread all
the way to your bollocks, and theyll drop off too. Then your head will roll off, and youll
have-
-Thats enough Sadie I say smiling. I turn to Brass, Most of that stuff will probably never
happen I say with mock-sincerity, Plus, his bollocks rotted off years ago, he had them
switched with two brass balls that bash together like a Newtons cradle. Ding dong ding
dong! I sing, the effect of the Saccharine hitting me harder.
Brass reaches out and slaps me across the face.
Nice face Pick He sniggers, Nice face.
I turn, walking towards the door. I open it and make my way towards Indy and the Chemist. I
can hear the footsteps of Brass and Sadie behind me.

Well well well Brass says brashly, surveying the assortment of medical equipment in the
carriage, Isnt this the well-oiled machine?
The chemist looks up at Brass, confused.
Ignore him. I say to the chemist, Hes just delirious from blood loss. He took a bullet in
the shoulder a few hours ago
The chemist looks up to Brass shoulder.
Is it serious? He asks.
Are gunshot wounds ever serious? Brass chuckles to himself.
Alright big fella The chemist says shaking his head, Kneel down, I cant look at it properly
when youre stood up.
I am not kneeling down Brass spits.
Come on you big overgrown fuck! I say slapping him on the back.
Ill sit. He says, sliding onto one of the seats, Somebody get Doctor Dicklittle a stool to
stand on
The chemist, barely five foot four inches tall, has to strain to examine the wound.
After a moment of poking around, the chemist clicks his tongue and smiles.
Well, the good news is, its just a graze.
Will I ever play piano again? Brass says in a whiney voice, before laughing heartily.
The chemist turns around, retrieves a pad from a green plastic case, and a bottle with a
rubber cork in it. Unplugging the cork, he begins to dab the pad with the contents of the
bottle.
Of course, we will need to clean the wound. The chemist says, slapping the pad down on
Brass shoulder.
Brass roars in agony as the chemical burns his wound. Instinctively, he flicks his arm out,
knocking the chemist to the floor, who laughs raucously at Brass.
What the fuck did you do that for you fucking prick? Brass scolds.
Well The chemist says through his laughter, Looks like you wont be getting a lolly for
being brave young man!
Sadie giggles at this comment, sticking her tongue out at Brass as he moans heavily, holding
his arm tightly.
Shit He spits, That just makes it feel worse.

I manoeuvre my way across to Indy, who is fast asleep, with his leg propped up on pillows. I
look down at him. There is a bit more colour to his face now, but his road to recovery will be
a long one.

Did anyone see what happened to his hat? I ask.
It fell off when he was shot. Brass responds.
Damn it I say looking down at his head, Now his hair will be all messy.
Brass grins in my direction.
Sadie abruptly departs from the carriage, heading back to the one wed been in previously.
Brass I say directly, Are you leaving tomorrow?
I reckon so yeah
Where are you heading?
Not sure, Irelands out of the question. Ive got a friend in Hartlepool. What about you?
Manchester or Liverpool
And Mr Industry?
Hes coming with me
In that state? Brass points to his leg.
I have to
You dont have to. Hell be fine here.
He wont. I state, If this place gets raided, Indy will be bagged.
It wont get raided Brass responds.
You cant know that I say, Were only six miles away from the choke point, the Boots will
be scouring the area for squats.
Brass nods dejectedly.
You could come with us. I say, half pleading with him.
No Brass responds, I travel alone, I never bring people with me, its just trouble.
I look away in disdain.
Pick He says gripping my shoulder, Wait here
Brass disappears into the other carriage. I keep my eye on Indy as he murmurs in his sleep. I
can hear Brass leaving the train altogether and wandering out through the yard. A few
minutes later, he returns with a pistol in his outstretched hand.
Take this He offers, Its the one of the pistols Sadie stole. I had to get some bullets from
the underground work basement He says, handing me a box of bullets.
Thanks Brass I smile, putting the pistol and the bullets in my inner jacket pocket.
Ill help you boost a car tomorrow, and well bring it right into the yard for Indy, but youre
on your own from there okay?
I nod gratefully.
Now come on mate Brass says slapping my shoulder, Lets not let Sadie and Pogo have all
the fun with the Bootman He grins.
I follow Brass through the door into the previous carriage, towards the Bootman.
We gather around the unconscious Bootman and Pogo. Who has taken to cradling his head
and whispering in his ear.
Wake up, wake up oh sleepy Boot. Dreams so royal, dreams so regal, wake up with your
liver in the beak of an eagle! He sings softly in his ear as he strokes and caresses his hair.

Get up Pogo I spit, Ill wake the fucker up.
Pogo looks up at me like a puppy whose been denied a treat.
Get up. I reiterate.
Pogo drops the Bootmans head on the floor roughly, standing up, he steps over the
Bootman and shuffles himself between Sadie and Brass. Sadie shuffles away from Pogo in
disgust.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small plastic bag of Victory powder, a potent
stimulant. I open the bag and tip a small pile of the powder onto my fingertip and press it
into the mouth of the Bootman, rubbing it under his tongue and grinding it into his gums. In
moments, his eyelids flicker open. The Bootman takes sharp panicked breaths as his eyes
roll about in his sockets.
I put the bag back into my pocket, then grip the Bootman by the throat, holding my palm to
his face.
Look at what you did I growl.
His eyes are unfocussed.
Look at my scar I spit angrily.
The Bootman wearily focusses on the scar on my palm.
Where am I? He says in a dry, chalky voice.
Youre in hell son I grin, and I am the devil.
Pogo shrieks in laughter, and pounds at his chest with his palm.
Rule Britannia! he sings boisterously, Britannia cant be saved!
I close my hand and punch the Bootman in the head.
Britons forever ever ever shall be slaves!
I grip the Bootman by the collar and drag him away from the wall.
Standing up, I kick him sharply in the hip. Brass stamps roughly on his ankle several times, as
the Bootman moans in pain.
Look what you created! I shout, kicking him sharply, Under the world you created, weve
been growing, festering, waiting for you
Pogo cuts short his parody of Rule Britannia, pushing through me and Brass, he pounces on
the Bootman, tearing voraciously at the flesh on his face. He screams in agony as Pogo bites
down on his neck, ripping strips of flesh off the Bootmans neck with his teeth. Brass holds
his kicks, looking down at Pogo in awe.
The Bootman looks up at me, his eyes pleading for mercy, for release.
This has gone too far.
I pull the pistol from my jacket pocket, pop the barrel and see it is already fully loaded.
Clasping the barrel shut and rolling it into place, I aim the gun squarely at the Bootmans
head and pull the trigger.
A deafening shot rings out as the Bootmans head bounces against the floor of the carriage.
Blood spreads quickly in a pool from his head. Pogo looks up at me, whimpering in
disappointment.

In a flash, he leaps at me, knocking me backwards. I stumble to the floor, his eyes burning
into me, twitching with rage. Pogo strikes at my face roughly. Before I can recover, he hits
me again and again. My body goes limp, and the gun falls from my hand, clattering to the
floor. The onslaught stops suddenly, as Pogos weight is wrenched off me. I open my eyes to
see Brass, who has gripped Pogos arms, and locked them behind his back, lifting him clean
off the ground.

Get the fuck off him you freak He barks, hurling Pogo across the carriage.
He lands with a crash, rolling helplessly across the carriage. He quickly picks himself up,
charging towards Brass, who swings his foot into the air, connecting with Pogos face, once
more knocking him backwards. Pogo, unperturbed by his assault charges once more
towards Brass, throwing himself headlong into his torso, sending Brass stumbling
backwards. I push myself up to my feet as Brass and Pogo tumble passed, entwined in
combat. I move to the side of Pogo and strike him hard on the side of the head, which
seems to have no effect on him at all.
A shot rings through the air, and our attention is drawn to Sadie, who is holding the pistol in
her hand, pointing it skyward.
I dont mean to break up this love triangle She sniggers,
But this gun has four bullets left in it, and if you guys dont spit one anothers cocks out of
your mouths right now, Ill bury every last one of them in your fucking lungs. She shouts.
And that would make the Chemists job a lot harder, so please, show me some courtesy
Brass, Pogo and I back away from each other slowly.
Pogo breaks the silence, bursting into a fit of laughter.
Something funny, clown? Sadie spits, pistol whipping Pogo across the face.
He whimpers, then falls silent, skulking away out of the carriage door and into the night air.
Yeah youd better fuck off! Brass barks after him, Fucking lunatic!.
I laugh heavily, Nice one Sadie! I say as she lowers the gun Did you see that?! I turn to
Brass.
That fucking clown He says in disgust.
Thanks for jumping in I slap Brass on the back lightly, avoiding his wound.
No bother He says dismissively, Well bury the Bootman tomorrow, in the basement.
Good shout I nod, Lets get him outside for now, well put him under the carriage.
I look over to Randian, who cautiously watches on, reluctant to depart from his laptop
screen. I look across to the punks at the other end of the carriage; those that are conscious
peer on with reserved intrigue.
I look down at the body, briefly I consider who he was outside of the Paramilitary Police. I
evade the thought quickly, reminding myself that hours ago he had a shotgun in his hands
and wouldnt have given a second thought to blowing my head off my shoulders. He is -he
was- the enemy.
I grip the Bootman under the shoulders as his head hangs limp. Dragging him across the
carriage floor, I avoid directly looking at him, and instead focus on the viscous blood as it
smears thickly across the floor. The coppery smell clings rebelliously to my nostrils. I take
shallow breaths, trying to limit my breathing. I hate the smell.
Brass wrenches open the carriage doors, then crudely grips the Bootman by the ropes used
to tie his wrists together and yanks him roughly out of the carriage. We crudely stuff his
body under the train, tucking the arms and legs under the wheels.

Back in the carriage, the remaining punks who were watching arbitrarily during the scuffle
had settled back into their respective seats and makeshift beds, settling back into the sweet
comfort of inebriation.

You got any more Saccharine? Brass nudges me.
Yeah I say, ruffling through my pockets, Sadie? I tip my head in her direction.
She grins wickedly, and we move back towards the table wed occupied previously.

At the table, we take turns snorting lines of Saccharine. Each line helps to nullify the
actuality of the events of the evening, making it feel as though it is all just a spontaneous,
but deliberate act; a piece of Noh theatre without rehearsal. My release is intercepted by
Brass comments, which continually pull me back into reality.
Thats what separates us from Pogo Brass rambles, We do what we have to do, knowing
were working towards a cause
I nod in agreement, dabbing the remaining powder with my finger and pressing it into my
gums.
Pogo just wants to cut people up, he gets a hard-on doing it He says, bridging his fingers,
Im not saying I dont enjoy a good bust-up
Yeah I say, I live for a bit of danger
But hes a fucking nut job, he dont care about fighting tyranny, he just wants to cut fuckers
up.
Youre scared of him! I laugh, Youre scared of Pogo!
Am I bollocks Brass snaps, I could take him out in a heartbeat, Id snap his neck. Im not
intimidated by a guy dressed like Donald McRonald
Dress to distress! I snigger, Thats our thing right?
Fuck him Sadie says dismissively, Better hes on our side
Youre not wrong I agree
What about you Prince? I shout over to Randian
He glances over briefly.
Pogo? He says, turning back to the screen, Hes psychotic.
I mean, were fighting a cause here, were fighting against a totalitarian regime. We fight
because its the only thing we can do. Weve thrown our lives away to battle an oppressor,
in a war which we may never win. Brass says passionately, Me, you guys, Indy and Rand,
well never see the spoils of our struggle realised. The war will be won long after were
dead. Well bear witness to the new world as dust and ashes
Youre right I say, Brain can pay testament to that, just like the boys in Brighton. That
which we do today is interred with our bones
Too right Brass nods, Pogo doesnt understand it. An insurgency is knowing when to
advance, knowing when to retreat, and knowing when to harrass He continues, You
occupy the spaces the enemy has abandoned, and retreat when they hit you in force. Never
let them catch you, always fight on your own terms. Strike like lightning, but be gone before
they hear the thunder
I nod, appreciating Brass Napoleonic speech.
We will never lose He says passionately.
Ill drink to that! I say raising an imaginary glass in the air, Does anybody have anything to
drink?
Fuck it Sadie says, pulling a hipflask from her bag and handing it to me Lets get fucked
up.

The early hours roll on, and we continue to obliterate our conscious thoughts with drugs
and alcohol, until the events of the night and past as it was is a distant memory, the future is
annulled, and all that exists is here and now. Chemicals rush through my brain, and in my
drug induced state, it seems as though the lights from the Petroline candles spin and flicker
like vertiginous imps, dancing to the unheard tune of a demonic fiddler.
I mean Brass slurs, Back in the 1960s, when Buzz Armstrong walked on the moon He
says, leaning back in his seat, his eyes rolling around in his skull,
That was Lance Armstrong I say in jest,
Whatevever He shrugs, When Louis Armstrong did the moonwalk, they thought wed be
fucking robot bitches and driving around in flying cars by now
Sadie and I laugh heavily at this.
Two wars later, and still no space cars! He says, slamming his fists on the table.
Here we go here we are I sing whimsically, Were driving in a space car!
Brass continues the chant, spontaneously turning my lyrical outburst into a song.
Over moon, through the stars, driving in a fucking space car!
Dont act like you havent seen us, when we orbited round Venus I continue,
Over tree and stormy sea Sadie chimes in, I see them and they see me!
From this point, we each take turns to add a line to the song, starting with myself, then
Brass and finally Sadie.
Here we go, here we are, were flying in a space car!
Round and round the world it goes, where it stops nobody knows
Wheel of fortune, wheel of pain, someday well be back again
Did you here the sirens call? When we flew down Chinas wall?
Flew the world and saw fuck-all
Spat out of hell and Im standing tall"
Here we go, here we are, were in a fucking space car!
Stopped at Mercury to refuel
Danced with the King and fucked the fool
Skinny dipped in the royal pool
In our fucking space car
King came out in royal rags
Cos I fucked the queen and gave her crabs
Wants my head upon a slab
Jumped into my space car!
Said theyd have me in the stocks
Told them they could suck my cock
Hit the pedal like a shot
Crashed my bastard space car
Had a crash, got a lash
Smashed my teeth out on the dash
Broke my fingers, broke my toes
Blacked my eyes and burst my nose
Found a nail, found a tooth
Drinking whisky on the roof
Where deceivers speak the truth
In my little space car
The singing continued for what felt like hours, becoming more frenzied and discorded with
every line, as the song progressed, our lines began to overlap, ascending into a crescendo of
chaotic disharmony, and crashing wearily into silence.

In silence, we rise from the seats and depart. As we pass into the carriage with the
mattresses, I briefly glance down at Randian, his concentration still resolutely bound to the
screen. His face is screwed up in frustration, staring intently at the screen, his fingers
tapping incessantly.
Good night, sweet Prince I snigger, as I close the carriage door behind me.


Good night Ivan Pribylov. I guess thats why they call you IcePick. The initials of your name
were far too open to detection from the Boots. A Russian refugee, you must have been just
a baby when you were came to Old Blighty. Oh how cruel they were to the Baby Reds.

I restrain myself from shouting his name out. That could only end badly. Once again, I am
proud of my ability to control my impulses. My ability to supress my primal urges is one of
my strengths, an Ace card that none of the others possess. Compulsion is a perverse Imp.
Seems nobody hear can live in the bosom of chaos without putting something up their nose
or into their veins. I can hear them right now. All three of them, fucking like animals. I can
hear them panting. I can hear the slapping sounds, groans of pleasure intermingled with
screams of pain. Who is fucking who? Maybe theyre all fucking each other.

I cant judge. They fought bravely tonight, they need a release. Two injured and one dead,
and yet nobody -save for Prybylov- took even a remote interest in what it was all for. They
just hear the word Zero and theyre ready to die. That kind of loyalty can lead an army to
victory, that kind of loyalty can oppress a nation.

But who is Zero? Where is our zealous leader?
It wasnt the man I met last night. The man who came to our squat recruiting volunteers for
a job of the utmost importance. No, he was somebody else, a fraud. The fate of Grimesters
who pretended to be X or Zero was well known; they were beaten to within an inch of their
life, if they were lucky. It had roused my suspicions when I heard he was here, it lead me to
abandon my reserve, temporarily, and enlist. It could not be denied that the man was
magnetic. He was in and out in a flash. Brass, Sadie and Pogo must have met him too, but he
sent an emissary to recruit Mr Industry and Prybylov by the name of Pyrus.
The right hand does not know what the left hand is doing. This is just one isolated piece of a
puzzle, put together by a party with interests that I can only assume are counter to our own.
This technology, the Snowden machine, is incomparably brilliant and consummately
complex. There is very little chance that the Paramilitaries knew what they were
transporting, and there is no chance that Zero could have known. I realise that now. Only
the highest party members could have information about the real nature of this device. So, I
ask myself, what would the puppet master do after the technology is recovered? Tie up any
loose ends, or rather, sever them entirely. He will take the Snowden machine, and ensure
that the Grimesters who fought for it are removed from the picture. Somewhere nearby,
the Paramilitaries are putting their boots on, loading their guns and donning their shields,
ready to strike. Somewhere behind the scenes, the Puppeteer is preparing the steal the box
for his own gain.

I snap my laptop closed and rise to my feet. I pack everything into a single bag and pick up
the box. I silently slip the carriage doors open and slither out silently. Taking soft steps, I
move out between the trains and into the yard. As I reach the end of the carriage, I look out
into the darkness. There is nothing there. No lights in the distance, no figures in sight.

Peek-a-boo!
The shrill bi-tonal voice rings out from under the carriage.
Pogo the clown.
I look down at him, as my heart begins to race from the shock and beads of cold sweat form
on my brow. His laughter sounds like a dog whimpering.
Did you see the Eagle? I ask him.
No no no no no stop it! He whines, rolling about under the carriage.
The Eagle swept down from the heavens, he landed on my shoulder and whispered in my
ear.
Dont! Dont! Dont! He cries out.
He asked me where you crawl and sliver I say, leaning down towards him.
Stop it! He whimpers, They sit on his wings, the cursed things! Fly fly! To the sky! To die!
He asked me if he could peck at your liver! I whisper.
Pogo, shuffles backwards, further under the train carriage, whimpering in fright.
I stand tall and walk away.
Examining Pogos mind was like walking around the ruins of ancient Greece. Though
beautifully crafted, it was decayed, broken and served no function. I knew Id run into him
one day, so Id taken it upon myself to learn his tics and habits. A man such a Pogo was
volatile, and could turn on you in a flash. I had to have a contingency plan, a way to break
his will, crush him, turn him into a nervous wreck.

I left the shunting yard by climbing over a fence, and disappearing into the forest. I would
walk four miles East before finding my car, covered in foliage. Then Id drive to Liverpool,
taking country lanes and B roads, and make my way to Ireland. The borders would be
crawling with Paramilitaries, which was why it was the best place to hide.

The haziness of the previous night hangs on me like a heavy stone. The carriage is cold, and
when I breathe out I can see my breath. I consider getting up, I dont like to sleep in, and
hunger gnaws at my stomach, but most importantly, I want to leave. Id get up, boost a car,
pick up Indy and make my way to Edinburgh. I know I need to leave, but the warmth of
Sadie and Brass keeps me seduced and sedated. We have formed an oddly formed huddle,
which to an outside observer would probably look uncomfortable, and yet, our naked
bodies are warm and comforting, like a heavy blanket.

I cast my eyes out languidly about the carriage; the mattresses are stuffed crudely into
corners, overlapping each other and bending at the corners. They are of all different sizes
and fabrics, and are covered in the sleeping bodies of about nine different people in various
states of undress. Some are totally naked, and others fully clothed and jacketed. Blankets
are sparse, and as many as three or four people are forced to share one. Others are sleeping
on a bare mattress, fully clothed, curled up in the foetal position.

My eyes fix on Sadie, her skin is creamy white and silky smooth, almost entirely free of
imperfections, save for a few scars and scratches on her hands. Her outward appearance
when clothed was non-chalant, bordering on abrasive, yet naked she lay before me as a
natural beauty. Her sleeping form made her look almost innocent and virtuous; she hardly
looked like shed spent a single night away from a comfortable bed. This was in stark
contrast to Brass, whose body showed the signs of his lifestyle. On every part of his body,
his skin was weathered, tattooed, and decorated with scars of every kind. His was a body
that had been lamed with rocks, bruised with fists, slashed with blades, branded with
flames, and cracked with bitter cold. His body, even sleeping, was an image of raw
masculinity; his muscles bulged all over, as if his skin struggled to contain them from spilling
out. Both Sadie and Brass were naturally very beautiful, for completely different reasons.

I shuffle my arm free from the pile, and contemplate running my hand gently across the skin
of both of them. Sadie, evidently a light sleeper, begins to stir before I can put my hand
down. Lethargically, she shuffles herself loose from the pile, and sits up, stretching out her
arms and yawning.
Morning tiger I say mocking her.
She turns to face me, How long have you been up?
Im not, Im on the mother of all come-downs
Brass! She says, slapping him on the chest. His eyes pop open suddenly.
What do you fucking want? He grunts roughly.
Im fucking starving Sadie whines.
I shuffle out of the pile and stand up. I pull my clothes on roughly, slip into my boots and tie
them tight.
Ill find something I say, leaving the carriage.
I leave the carriage, and walk along the gangway. A few people are slumped over the tables
and on the floor, in varying states of consciousness. I look around for Randian but notice he
is not about. I pass through the carriage, and enter the Chemists room.
Indy is sound asleep, with his foot raised high. The bandage on his shin is dark red with
congealed blood, and I make a mental note to change it before leaving.
The chemist himself is slumped over a wooden chair with his head in his hands. I grip his
shoulder and ruffle him lightly. He looks up at me, sleep still clinging rebelliously to the
corners of his bloodshot eyes.
You okay mate? I ask him.
Tired He responds.
Hows sleeping beauty? I ask pointing to Indy.
Hes fine, was a little restless in the night but no trouble.
Good I nod, Thank you for looking after him, what do they call you? I ask
Agatho He responds, Agathodaemon for short He nods, And its no trouble
Do you know if theres any food around here? I ask
The underground work basement, theres usually stuff down there, or try the kitchen
carriage
Cheers I smile, Do you want anything?
Im good thanks, but get something for your friend
Will do. Have you seen Randian anywhere? I ask
Who? He responds
The black fella, had a laptop and big black case with him.
Nope, not seen him sorry.
A small pang of worry hits my stomach, overriding my hunger.
Ill be back I say, departing the carriage and hastily leaving the train altogether.
I hurriedly rush around to the underground work basement and ask some of the occupants
if theyd seen him, to no avail. Finally I check the engine sheds, and realise that he has left
with the case.

He was a fucking spy! Brass barks, slamming his fists into the carriage wall, splintering the
plastic.
I fucking knew it!
No you didnt fucking know it! I say, loosely gripping his arms.
He shoves me lose, I never trusted him
We need to get out of here I say nervously, as panic grips at my stomach like a clenched
fist.
I run through the carriage, throw the door open and shake Indy awake. He groans,
reluctantly opening his eyes.
Indy, were leaving. Now. I say impatiently.
The Big Boots will be on us any minute, Randians gone.
Agatho, slumped on his seat, sits up alert.
What? He chokes.
We need supplies, and a car I turn to him.
I can give you whatever you need, but we dont have any cars.
Brass enters the room abruptly.
Well get one He says affirmatively, Ill come with you, well bring it back here for Indy
Thanks Brass I say hurriedly, grateful for his help, Lets go.
Wait. He says, raising his hand, Acky bombs and gloves. He says, handing a box to me. I
drag the gloves over my hands roughly, pop open the pouch on my right palm and carefully
slide the glass disc inside, close the pouch and repeat the process on my left palm. I always
felt safer with the gloves on. The Acky bomb was the final way to prevent capture. A glass
disc filled with a strong acidic liquid. The gloves were made of Alkiurathane, acid ran off
them like water off a ducks back. One hard strike would break the glass and leak acid all
over your attacker. Id learned the hard way back in Brighton just how badly the acid
burned.

I help Indy put the gloves on, and hand a pair to Agatho before leaving the carriage
promptly, and briskly exit the shunting yard through the back door; a small gap in the fence
which lead into a dense forest. We run through the forest, and emerge at the edge of a cul-
de-sac about a mile and a half away, there we locate an old car. Wasting no time on finesse,
Brass kicks the window through, and opens the doors. I climb into the passenger seat, and
he into the drivers seat. He punches a hole in the plastic under the steering wheel and
within less than a minute the engine roars into life. He roughly twists the steering wheel to
the left and breaks the steering lock, and in moments we are driving back towards the
shunting yard.
We pull up near the carriages, and I jump out and run into the carriage, where I find Indy,
who is trying to stand properly. I grip him by the torso, and help him support himself as he
limps out of the carriage and towards the car. Hurriedly, I stuff him into the back seat.
IcePick! a familiar voice shouts from behind me.
I turned to see a tall, skinny man with long dark hair hanging in long curly stands and a
knotted black beard.
What do you want Pyrus? I say impatiently.
What? He moans, You got no time for your old pal Pyrus?
Not when the wolves are at the door. I spit, This place is about to get raided, get
everybody out.
We know, Pick He says, Everybodys out jacking cars
And you?
Eggies coming down with his landy, I was gonna see if you and Indy wanted a lift, but it
looks like youre sorted. Were going to Darlo.
If youve got room, find a girl called Sadie
Sadie the surgeon? He says raising his eyebrows, Yeah I know her.
She was in the carriage last time I saw her, wake up her up and take her with you, and
dont forget about Agatho the Chemist
Whatever you want Pick He grins, Will I see you in Darlo?
I doubt it. Give Eggie my regards I respond, turning to leave.
And dont drive like a dick. I shout over my shoulder.



I never doubted he was a God. I still dont. He walks in the guise of man, but he is
undoubtedly a being of celestial origin. He can see things before they happen. He can look
into the mind of anyone, deeply, intimately, consummately. It was not my place to question
his motives or his methods. He was always right; to be chosen by him was a great honour.
To be part of his grand plan was not oppressive, it was liberating. Most people walk the
earth without direction, following the crowd. Others work towards a personal or common
goal, but live their whole lives without ever knowing if they will succeed, and even if they
do, they may never know if they really achieved anything. They may never know if their
passage was a struggle worth enduring. But I know that his way is the right way, the one
true path for the greater good of mankind, and he will succeed.

X cannot compare to him, he cannot even comprehend his majesty. So it was with no fear
that I took to impersonating his general. In his service, I would see no harm come to me. It is
my faith that shelters me, but God works in mysterious ways. He would not send me on a
fools errand. This must be part of his greater plan, because I followed his instructions
meticulously. I took the correct route, I arrived at the correct time, and yet nobody was here
to greet me. I looked everywhere, all over the shunting yard. I found the body under the
carriage, the drugs, bandages and remnants of human habitation, but I could not find the
case. The whole places had been emptied out in a hurry.

When the scarred man approached, I knew, just from the way he walked, that he was
possessed with a fury I could not escape. But I knew it was a part of the plan, and Id come
to no harm, so I did not run, I stood my ground. He gripped my neck and lifted me clean off
the ground. I choked, and lost consciousness. Where I am now, I cannot know. I dont know
anything. Its better that way, my leader had said. I dont know anything, so they cannot
know anything. Theres one thing Im certain of though, the scarred man was the one they
all adore. The one whose disguise I wore to carry out the plan. The soldier of X, the
revolutionary leader; the one and the only Zero.



Only free men can negotiate, a prisoner cannot enter into contracts. Mandelas words
tumble through my head every day as I sit in my cell, a prisoner of His Majesty and the
Paramilitary Police. To the insurgents, I was Vollo. Veteran soldier of the X faction, and
faithful follower of Zero. To the Paramilitarys, I wasn a teenage runaway whod been
hunted like a dog, and given a tight leash.

I dont know why I cooperated with them. Theyd never let me go. Theyd use me for
evidence until I could give no more, then theyd execute me. My only hope for survival was
in the drip-feeding of information, and the promise that I had more to come.

I dreamt every night about breaking free. Stabbing my guards in the neck and making a dash
for the door. But every morning Id wake up in my cell, a hopeless prisoner. The lines of
fantasy and reality ran parallel but never met. A piece of metal from my bed broke off a few
months ago. Id spent hours rubbing it against the concrete wall, sharpening it, preparing a
shiv. I tore off a piece of my clothing and wrapped it around the base of it to make a handle,
and gripped it tightly in my hand, but I couldnt do it. I just couldnt bring myself to fight
back. I turned the blade on myself, and slashed my arms to ribbons, soaking up the pain.

Id heard about Stockholm syndrome. Its never as simple as it sounds. I didnt sympathise
with my captors, nor agree with their ways. They were cruel, barbarous and narrow-minded,
and yet, I couldnt help but feel a surge of compassion for my guards for any act of altruism
they bestowed upon me. A plastic spoon to eat with, a blanket, even the act of withdrawing
a punch before throwing it, was enough to make me praise their name. I hated the person
Id become. The instrument of betrayal. Here I sit, in the mouth of Satan, the eternal traitor
damned to remain here in torment, until they see fit to obliterate my mind with bullets.

But as long as the Faction still waged terror, they would need me for information. The guard
came into my cell today. I could tell it was something big, because he stepped across the
threshold into my cell and offered me his hand. Lifting me up, I held out my wrists
compliantly, and he cuffed them.

He blindfolded me and lead me down the corridor.
Youre needed He muttered at me, Big Dick.
I nodded in silent anticipation. It must have been something big if he wanted to speak to me
personally. Hed lead me into a room, sat me roughly in a cold metal chair, and yanked my
blindfold off roughly. The lights glared in my eyes, and I recoiled, squeezing my eyes tight,
my retinas burning, After some time, I peered out from under my eyelids to see my
interrogator.
Richard Big Dick Heston, Englands most senior Paramilitary Police Officer.
Black bowler hat, lined with metal He spoke passively, What does it mean?
Mr Industry I say quickly, cursing myself for giving out the information so readily, A punk
from Hammersmith, met him in the Brighton squat.
Heston leans forward, staring at me, his eyes twitching irately.
I dont know much about him I say weakly.
He relaxes back into his seat, interlinking his fingers together over his chest.
Thats all you know? He asks.
Thats all I remember about him. I say softly.
Okay then He nods, Thank you for telling us.
He rises from his seat, and walks towards the guard at the door. Reaching for the door
handle, he opens the door and moves to leave. Before exiting fully, he turns to the guard at
the door.
Wet his head.


The headquarters was a cacophony of raised voices and hasty whispers this morning. It had
been this way since the early hours. Despite the noise, I could hear the prisoners panicked
breaths and curdling screams from the interrogation room. Waterboarding. Id venture to
say that theyd stick to methods that wouldnt endanger his life or leave any marks. Chances
are hed told them everything he knew, but after last night, there was no room for doubt. It
seems that the powers that be had taken the ambush as an immediate and serious threat to
the stability of the country, not that wed be told exactly why that was at any point. All we
knew was that we had to get the cargo back safely, and in one piece. Failure to do so, was
tantamount to civil war. I look around the room; everybody in it was frantically working
away with furrowed brows and dark, bagged eyes. All except for Heston, who seemed to
possess a regal calmness about him, in spite of the fractious tensions.

At once, the screens snap to black, followed quickly by the lights. The headquarters fall
silent, but quickly erupts with the sounds of clattering feet and panicked breaths, asking
what is going on.

Heston remains stationary, his steely gaze unbroken by the sudden darkness. The screens
flicker back to life, and silence takes hold of the Headquarters once more, as words appear
on the computer screen: HAIL TO THE PRINCE.

The words hang on the screen for a moment, suddenly the speakers crackle, and Rule
Britannia blasts out across the room. The words on the screen fade away, as the animated
image of a man with no limbs appears on screen. He has a golden crown on his head, which
tips and sways as he rolls helplessly on his belly. The man at once sprouts a pair of angelic
angel wings, and begins to flap them, faster and faster. The crown, which now sits firmly on
the animated figures head, begins to glow brightly, as his wings beat so quickly that they
become a blur, like those of a hummingbird. It is then that the figure opens his mouth and
begins to speak.

I am Prince Randian, and I have what your bosses need.
JC Axe 2014

Original Content: http://jcaxefiction.wordpress.com/2014/10/01/x-faction-soldiers-part-3/