Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: This is the first chapter to contain some actual gameplay...granted it was just walking around, but when I wrote this I was still really excited to write my way out of that introductory cutscene.

Ealdwic

Friday, October 27, 2:26PM

It turns out to be a lot easier to get to Ealdwic than I thought. The real challenge was packing. It takes some time to sort through the wreckage of my room and find everything that's salvageable. It takes even more time to decide what I like enough or will need enough to lug around with me. I pack my clothes in a duffle bag, along with some toiletries. Then I pack my backpack with other essentials: my glasses case, clip-on shades, and lens cleaning cloth; a lighter, a flashlight, a sturdy waterbottle, a small first aid kit (basically just bandages), and a compass. I also bring a small leather-bound Bible, my laptop, a flashdrive, a couple of notebooks, and three mechanical pencils. It might strike some people as odd to include some of the latter in a list of essentials, but as a writer I consider them important. In fact, I seriously consider leaving the first aid kit out in order to better accommodate the charger for my laptop, before realizing I can just jam the kit into one of the side pockets.

I'm left with what I can put in my pockets and carry on my person. I make sure to wear a pair of blue jeans with big pockets, along with my striped hoody. I stuff my pockets with the wallet from my ruined purse, lip balm, a pocket knife, an assortment of scrunchies and hairbands, and a rattail comb. I make sure the letter the woman gave me is in my pocket as well. The last thing I add is perhaps the most important to me: the silver cross necklace left to me by my mother. I put it on, letting the cross slide under my shirt.

With all the packing, and having to practice magic until I'm burned out afterwards, I'm not ready to leave until the early afternoon. I give the apartment one last look before I leave. I don't know when or if I'll ever be able to return here. I hope they can get it fixed up for Becky. Maybe they'll find a new roommate for her too.

When I leave the apartment, I find an old cab waiting by the curb. The gray-haired driver looks up from his paper as I approach and flips his light on. As he does, I see a cross-shaped ring on his weathered finger. This must be the Templar driver. I throw my backpack and my duffle in the back before climbing in.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asks.

"Can you take me to Ealdwic?" I ask.

The driver smiles beneath his mustache. "Of course, miss. We'll be there directly."

We drive for the better part of half an hour. I've never had a chance to familiarize myself with London's streets, so I quickly become lost. At last, though, the cab pulls up to a police barricade in one of the older parts of the city.

"Sorry, miss, this is as far as I'm allowed to go," he says, pointing to the barricade. "Ealdwic's inside, though, and they'll let you through, since you're expected. They'll get you sorted out. God bless you on your journey, miss."

I smile and shake his hand. "Thank you, sir." I pull out my duffle and backpack and walk toward the barricade. The cab pulls away as soon as I close the door.

The barricade is guarded by two policemen wearing bulletproof vests and carrying submachine guns. I walk carefully toward them. One of them holds out a hand, signaling me to stop. "Sorry! Can't let you through without authorization."

I remember the letter the woman gave me. I dig it out of my pocket and hold it out for him to inspect.

The policeman give me a puzzled look. "I don't know what that's supposed to be, but it's not-"

Before he can finish his sentence, a woman in a black trenchcoat comes up behind me. She flashes a badge at the two policemen. "Alright, lads, D.I. Shelly. The girl's with me," she says, taking me by the arm. The policemen let us past without objection. Once we're past the barricade, Shelley releases my arm and says, "Do us both a favor and don't go flashin' that letter around out here. The boys on the cordon haven't been briefed. As far as they're concerned, this is all just 'heightened awareness' after the terrorist attack in Tokyo."

She gives me a level look, then, stopping beside me. "But I don't deal with the bureaucracy, I deal with the truth: about the secret London, about the Templars."

"You know then," I said. "Am I in the right place?"

Shelley huffs. "If you mean, are you in Ealdwic, yes. As for that being the right place…" She shakes her head and looks me over. "I would say I hope you know what you're getting yourself into but you have no idea. Even I only get as involved as I have to, for the sake of us little people." She shakes her head again and starts to walk away.

I'm worried. "Are you saying they're dangerous?" I ask.

Shelley chuckles mirthlessly and turns back to me. "You've seen it on the news? The Tokyo Incident?"

I nod.

"That's what happens when your new crowd lets things get out of hand," she says. She steps closer to me and says warningly, "Not here, not on my watch: that's the deal. That's always been the deal."

"And do they keep it?" I ask.

"Well enough." Shelley shrugs and waves me on. "You'll be safe inside Ealdwic. Go see one of the prophets prophesying up the road, by the tube station. They'll fill you in on the kind of crazy you've got ahead of you. Best be prepared." With that, she turns and walks back toward the barricade, calling out after her, "My sincerest condolences!"

I watch her leave and try to tell myself she's just a pessimist. Still, what she said about the Tokyo Incident bothers me. Something had always seemed odd there. What horrible thing had happened there, and were the Templars somehow to blame for it. Would joining them put the responsibility for future incidents on my shoulders? If that were the case, I'd be better off trying to make it on my own. At least that way the limit of my destructive potential was one room at a time of an apartment.

I walk down the cobbled streets, deeper into Ealdwic and—I can only hope—in the general direction of the subway station. I wonder why I couldn't have just taken the subway here in the first place, and bypassed the barricade. I wonder how a place like this can even have subway service, when it doesn't show up on any maps.

"Would you care to take our personality test?" a woman says, interrupting my thoughts. "It'll analyze your true being!" I look over to see a smiling woman in a business suit standing beside a cloth-covered stall emblazoned with symbols of what looks like a sunrise seen through a church window. A title beneath one of the symbols reads: "Church of the Morninglight."

I can see other men and women in suits standing around the stall, accosting various passer-by and trying to get them to either take some of their brochures or do the personality test. I've seen it before, with other groups, and the whole thing screams cult to me. I paste a smile on and politely decline before continuing on my way. I may be ready to embrace conspiracy theories, but I'm not about to be dumb enough to drink the Koolaid, as it were.

Thankfully, I'm walking in the right direction. In a little while, I find myself at a two story brick building with large open entryways. Faded signs on the building's front announce it to be "Ealdwic Station: Underground." But a more recent, larger sign has been hung over this, which says in hand-painted letters, "Ealdwych Market." Looking inside, I'm inclined to believe the large sign. Inside the stairs to the subway all seem closed and boarded up. Some sort of bazaar has been set up inside, made up of ramshackle stalls selling an eclectic mix of wares. I don't see any "prophets" in evidence, but I hear something from the other side of the building. I walk around the station to find a small square beside it. A raggedly dressed man stands on a crate at one end of the square, holding up a hand-puppet of a king, while a crowd stands around, listening to him speak.

Surely this isn't it, I think to myself. But there are no other people speaking around. I shrug. Well, prophets in the Bible did sometimes do strange things…and there's nothing to say this guy is really a prophet. Still, maybe he'll say something about the Tokyo Incident. I step closer, joining the crowd so I can hear what he's saying.

For the moment, he's speaking in the high voice of the puppet who waves his little arms dramatically. "Too late to start recycling!" he says merrily. "Hehe! Too late to go to raves to save the gorillas! To cash out those Anansi shares! There's a storm comin', mondo storm. Paint your glass houses shut!"

The man pauses, and points to the puppet. "You don't have to take his word for it," he says in his own voice, which is surprisingly much deeper. "This is a warning from the sun. It says it's old, tired, and scared of death. It says you've lived as young gods for too long: spoilt children who only need to wish for something, and it'll come true! Well, those days are gone now and won't be here again! Hahaha! Sorry!" He grins under his beard.

Then he seems to look straight at me, though it's hard to tell with the sunglasses he wears. He pauses for a second and lowers the puppet to head level. "I'll show you how it all goes down, through the medium of unreliable narration."

Now I feel like he's really talking to me, as I'm probably the only English literature major in the crowd: the only one who has studied and considered unreliable narration to any great extent.

"A vision of the future," he announces. "This could be your lucky day!" He pauses to smile at his puppet. "Tomorrow and all the ones after…not so much."

He lowers the puppet completely then, and turns to the crowd. I still somehow feel like his words are aimed at me, though. I no longer have any doubt that this was the man Shelley was calling a prophet.

"It's a hot wet day," he begins. "Ever notice how the apocalypse always comes on a wet day?"

I hear thunder, though I know it isn't real. I shake my head to try and clear it.

"There's the smell of warm air, and stale piss."

I want to hold my nose at the sudden smell that assaults my nose.

"The atmosphere is electric. I mean, actually electric, sparking off the tracks, lifting and snapping your hair."

I'm starting to sweat now, and a tingling sensation washes over me. I think I can feel my hair starting to stand on end and I try to brush it down. I'm beginning to wonder whether or not I used enough power this morning when I realize that my ponytail is laying flat, just where it's supposed to be, even though I feel a static charge that should be making it fan out like a corona. Whatever it is I'm feeling, it isn't affecting my actual hair.

"A voice over the speakers that you don't hear, you itch."

I am already scratching my neck. I make myself stop, but it takes effort.

"The black signal sounds…"

My vision swims. I find it difficult to keep my balance. I let my duffle bag fall and stagger backward a pace. Then my feet seem to miss the pavement. I fall sideways. Darkness closes in over me.

"Lights out!" the prophet says. It's the last thing I hear.

Next Time:

Tokyo Incident