The old dagger, cold in his hand, pulsed icily through its worn handle and into his clenched palm. The blade was tarnished, the edges corroded; the warm tones of the rust belied its cool temperature. He returned the dagger to its hiding place within the folds of his cloak.
A breeze twisted its way through the city square; two doves, taking refuge beneath the eaves of a nearby building, flew off in an explosion of noise.
He glanced about himself, peering into shadows cast by the full moon. No one was about, except for him. He now gazed upwards: he stood at the base of a tower, built of sandstone. It seemed to have exploded from beneath the cobblestone street, growing like an oak tree and dwarfing its neighbors. Ivy clung to its sides, rustling in the night air.
He now turned his attention to the door the tower. It consisted of pine slabs, held together by metal bands. A knocker, in the visage of a lion, was embedded squarely in the middle. The doorknob itself was a small, plain affair.
Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a key, silver and skeletal. Inserting it into keyhole, he twisted. The knob turned slowly, the lock crunched, and the door swung open. He hesitated, and then entered with a resolution. Closing the door behind him, he gazed about: a spiraling metal staircase clung to the wall, rising to the top of the tower; there was no roof. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the stairwell, making the bannister glow like quicksilver.
He grabbed the bannister, wincing. The metal had retained the heat of the day, and burned into his hand. His feet, now on the first step, felt the warmth through his leather boots.
He began his ascent, moving quickly while making little sound. It seemed to him that time was frozen in the tower: he could not say how long it took him to reach the top, whether it was fifteen minutes or five hours. When he reached the top, he paused, catching his breath: he was not used to the exertion. All around him lay London: large factories grew in one direction, houses in another. Candles, burning on countless windowsills, formed constellations along city streets.
The tower’s summit was made of a narrow walkway, circling behind a row of crenellations. Here, he kneeled, peering intently towards a large villa near the industrial park.
Ichabod Cobblestock III owned half of Brinestone Corporation, a series of factories based along the city’s river which manufactured steel. He was six foot three, a large man both height and diameter. He was well-tanned from standing in his garden daily, painting madly as the sun beat down upon him.
His calloused hands were now leaning against a windowsill as he stared out into the night. It was muggy; the air, heavy and thick, bore down upon the city with menace.
He sipped scotch as he leaned farther out of the window. He was staying in a villa attached to the industrial park; built on a hill, it afforded him a good view of the city.
Turning from the window, he swallowed the last of his scotch. Tomorrow would be a long day. Cobblestock placed the empty glass upon the sideboard, burped, and headed to his study. Walking down a flight of stairs, he gazed at the electric candelabras hanging from the ceiling, blazing with a furious blue light. Cobblestock did not care for them, for they gave off a surgical atmosphere, killing the personality of the room.
As he passed through the lounge, Cobblestock was interrupted by Ignatius Brewer, the Vice President of the Brinestone Corporation’s London branch. He carried two glasses of whiskey, one of which he forced upon Cobblestock.
“Ah, Mr. Cobblestock,” Brewer cried, “How’s everything? I trust you’re enjoying your stay?”
Ichabod groaned, and a knot of anger churned within him. Ignatius Brewer was a slimy, backstabbing individual, adopting a deferential attitude when it served him best. But when the moment presented itself, Brewer would burn you, and leave you to the dogs.
“Good evening, Ignatius,” Ichabod returned the greeting, “Yes, I’m enjoying my stay very much.” He stared at the glass of whiskey given to him by the unctuous Vice President. The brown liquid seemed stagnant in its shiny glass. Looking up, he spoke to Ignatius in a tired but forceful tone.
“Mr. Brewer, I’m afraid I can’t talk right now. I’ve had a long day, and we both know the meeting tomorrow is going to be even longer. I’ll see you in the morning, good night.”
“Yes, Sir, I’ll see you over breakfast, then. I’m having this quarter’s profits handed out during tomorrow’s meeting, as you had asked.” Brewer said, irked at Cobblestock’s abrupt goodbye. “May you tell me where you plan to steer the conversation tomorrow-“
“No, Ignatius,” Cobblestock sighed. “As I’ve said in the memos, it’s in its early stages, and I don’t need people to be accusing me of favoritism at the moment.”
“I agree, it’s just that I-“
“No, I’m sorry.” Cobblestock put his foot down, “I need to go over some things in my study, send up Mr. Rawluk.” With this final command, Cobblestock strode away towards his destination.
Arriving at his study, Ichabod sat down, sighing. His desk was flooded in paperwork, neatly stacked in rows by some anonymous secretary. He would not have had room to set down his whiskey, had he been still carrying it, but it he had placed it upon the lounge’s as he exited, leaving Ignatius Brewer in his wake. Soon, a knock came at the door, and Mr. Rawluk entered, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk. Dan Rawluk oversaw Factory One, a key production facility within the Brinestone Empire. Dan had run it for over twenty five years, turning the factory into a well-oiled machine.
When he entered the study, Rawluk had a binder in one hand, overflowing with charts and data. He was of average height, skinny with thinning hair. He nervously drummed his fingertips upon the desk, causing papers to drift to the floor.
“Thank you for meeting at this late hour, Dan. How’s it going?” Ichabod made a poor attempt at geniality, fighting off his exhaustion.
“Good, good, fine, Ichabod.” Rawluk replied, hesitantly. An awkward silence followed: Cobblestock could see Dan was holding back. A sense of dread rose within him; he had never seen Rawluk consumed with so much anxiety.
“Okay,” Ichabod said, breaking the silence, “Is there anything to report regarding the experimental work?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” replied Dan, moving in his leather chair, “There is. We had another incident in Station 16.”
Cobblestock wiped his forehead with a cloth. The air had grown even muggier. “May I assume that by ‘incident’, you mean accident?”
“Yes, Sir. The man involved, passed. The doctors tried, but the fluid had already spread too far.”
“S***. S***! Has the family been notified?” Cobblestock leaned back in his chair, squeezing the arms in despair. “Haven’t the new safety regulations been put into place?!”
“No, we’ve yet to inform the N.O.K., because the body is just too far gone, questions will be raised. He fell into one of the testing vats...when they found him, it was too late.” Rawluk’s were focused upon the carpet as he said this.
“Hell, of course questions will be raised. A family just lost a husband, a brother…I want to know how this happened, alright?” Cobblestock’s wide shoulders drooped. “I want the family compensated, deliver them the body. The poor man…Dan, I’ve got investors coming here tomorrow. They are not going to like this.”
“I know. We could go to the papers, saying he-“
“No!” Ichabod raged quietly. “A man fell into one of the vats, Dan. And what for? He had no stake in it. He didn’t know what it was for, because we’ve veiled those labs in secrecy. But he died, though, all the same.”
“S***. Ichabod, I know, I know where you’re coming from, but-you said it yourself-we have some of the wealthiest investors coming here tomorrow, eager to get involved,” Dan’s anxious manner seemed to have vanished at this point, “And we need that cash if we’re gonna stay afloat.”
“Dan, you know this project isn’t about money-“
“I know. I know! Money isn’t the end result you’re going for, but if we’re gonna get this thing off the ground…We need cash.”
Cobblestock sighed, burying his head in his hands. “Ok, I see your perspective, Dan. But it’s three in the morning, I need to sleep. We’ll go over this during the meeting.”
“Ok,” Rawluk replied, nodding, “I’ll let you go, then. Good night.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
“God,” Ichabod muttered to the empty room, “Why did you take this man’s life? S***, I don’t know what I’m saying. The blame rests on me, on human error.”
Cobblestock’s eyes drooped. His experiment would go forward, regardless of the doubts being raised by him and by others. Oh, he was tired. Ichabod Cobblestock III fell asleep at his desk.

From his perch upon the tower, he could see the villa clearly: set upon a hill, its façade faced a sprawling garden; its rear backed up against one of the walls surrounding the factory complex. All of this he could see, for the moon was full and bright. Taking a step back, he judged the distance from the tower and the villa: a hundred and twenty five yards, perhaps less.
He took off his cloak, revealing a leather backpack hidden underneath; he pulled it off, placing it upon the warm sandstone. Emptying it, he laid out the contents in neat rows. There was a harness, and several pieces of rubber-coated canvas. He attached these together, and then connected them to the harness. He quickly stepped into the apparatus, buckling himself in.
He strode towards the edge of the tower, and climbed atop the crenellation. Spreading his arms, the canvas felt taut. It spanned his entire body, connected at the arms and feet, creating a type of wingsuit. He felt the breeze catch his wings, the wind pushing against the fabric. He grinned, and then jumped.