Black Dawn - Beneath Westminster
BLACK DAWN
MICHAEL FAWKES - The cellars beneath Westminster Palace
Fawkes.
A name that echoed through history.
The man who had tried to blow up parliament.
And now, here he was, another Fawkes, tasked with the grim tradition that had haunted this place, and his name, for over four hundred years: searching the cellars before the State Opening of Parliament.
He gripped his torch tightly, sweeping the beam through the shadows, across the ancient stone, abandoned dust-covered desks, and forgotten boxes of paperwork. Normally, this was a routine job, something done for formality's sake. Nothing ever came of these searches. But tonight, Michael Fawkes couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something ... was off.
His boots echoed through the corridors, the sound swallowed by the darkness and the demons. He tried to convince himself there was nothing wrong. Nothing out of place. Nothing to be worried about. It was just nerves. The weight of history filled this place, so who wouldn’t be a bit anxious? But as he moved deeper into the cellars, his unease only grew.
“Is someone there?” he said, loud enough that if there were, they would hear, but not loud enough to disturb the ghosts. He shook his head. There wasn’t. Just nerves.
"Shake it off, Fawkes," he muttered. “Seriously, you need to get a grip.”
The search teams usually stuck to the main chambers, the same ones checked every year, but tonight, something was pulling him further. Deeper. It felt like there was something down here. Something waiting to be found.
A rusted iron door. It was half-concealed by shadows and screamed, "Don't go in." Yet, Michael had no choice. He had to know.
He eased his fingers around the knob, twisted, and pulled. The door creaked opened. He paused to take a breath before stepping into the vast, cavernous cellar beyond. The air was colder than the corridor, much colder. He stepped further inside, the torchlight sweeping ahead of him.
Then he saw it.
Something that didn't belong.
It was the size of a car, surrounded by old crates and discarded barrels, half covered by an old tarpaulin. Wires, flashing displays, and two coloured liquids, blue and red, held in see-through containers secured to the sides.
His heart pounded in his chest. The sheer size of it. A bomb. One that could bring down the entire Palace of Westminster.
Every instinct screamed at him to run. To get out of there. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to report this. They had to know. They had to evacuate. His hand trembled as he reached for his radio. “Con…Control, this … this is Fawkes….”
"You weren’t meant to see that."
The voice was calm, controlled, and close. Right behind him. Michael swung around. And there he was, dressed in black, a gun with a silencer gleaming in the torchlight.
"No," Michael gasped. "Don't."
He barely felt it. A nudge. A tap. A nick. His hand instinctively reached for his chest, his fingers trembling as they came away slick with blood. The torch slipped from his grasp, clanking as it hit the floor. And then he followed it down. His vision blurred, then darkened. His breathing came in quick short breaths, slowed, then stopped.
"Wrong place, wrong time," the man whispered as he stared down at him, then stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
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