Vittori

Note: An excerpt from my short story, ‘Vittori.’

On the outside, it looked like any of the other clubs that lined the dark night street, the name 'tRiNity’ flashing garish pink in bright, searing neon above the door. The inside was no different, steeped half in darkness, half in flashing, oscillating lights of every colour under the rainbow. Dozens upon dozens of young, gyrating human bodies were crammed up to the walls, filling the place with an almost claustraphobic cloak of warmth, and everywhere, the sound of techno music blared and thumped through the speakers until the whole place became a vibrating, buzzing hive of activity and sound.

Alcohol, sweat... and the sweet, salty perfume of warm human blood pumping beneath the skin. It was a veritable feast of the flesh. However tempting it might be, though, Stacey knew she had one small part to play in her role as messenger before she could go off and have some fun (and food) of her own. Earlier, she had carried out her instructions dutifully, and delivered the message to Sydney, a request from her esteemed superiors for a meeting ‘that would be of much benefit to him.’

Now she dutifully led Sydney along, skilfully slipping through the heaving clusters of humanity before them until she'd reached the back of the room, unlocked the door there and passed through. Down corridors they went, and further corridors, until finally, they reached their destination.

A bright red door stood before them, manned by two guards, dressed in the traditional penguin-black and white. Flicking her short red hair and batting her eyelashes, she snickered at the younger of the two. "Stuck on guard duty again, eh, Felix? What'd you screw up this time?"

He glared at her, scowling, "Aw, shut ya face. None of your damn business."

"Well now, that's no way to talk to your superior," she said, her voice falsely sweet as she smirked at him. "In every way, might I add. Now, are you and Silent Bob over here going to let us in or do I have to make you? We've got a very important guest in to see the boss, and trust me, neither of them will be happy if you just stand there like some gormless muppet. Move it!"

Still glaring at her, Felix nonetheless obeyed, and with his partner, they dutifully opened the door and let them past. Stacey strode past them with a smug wink and the sharp click of her heels, smiling at the sight that greeted her. "Good evening, sirs. Here he is."

Camulodunum

Note: A piece of short fiction I wrote for the Paris Burning fandom, a story about personified cities: https://thecitysmith.tumblr.com/

London dreamed of her red-haired fairy queen, Paris of Apollo in all his golden glory… Camulodunum, too, dreamt of a figure. But for him, there would be no omens of love.

At first there’s only the fire, engulfing his whole world until it’s all that exists, red-orange-gold, and the figure right at the red-hot beating heart of it. He can’t see who it is, whether it’s even man or woman, for the figure’s flame itself. At first no features are visible, when suddenly two white burning eyes sear into life, and a gaping white maw tears itself open in a scream, but it’s no human sound, only the deafening roar of the flames-

And then Camulodunum would awake, shaking and sweating… Just a dream. What City does not fear fire? But it would be many cups of wine before the taste of smoke and ashes was washed from his mouth.

At least the wine was one thing he could thank the Romans for.

Back when he was Camulodunon, he’d been a fierce warrior, as proud and wild as his Trinovantes. And he’d been proud of them, his very first citizens, so proud – the strongest, mightiest Celtic tribe of all Britain! No City had ever been so proud of their children. Even when the Catuvellauni conquered them, again and again, it only stoked the flames of their pride and anger, and every time Camulodunon had soared on it, a phoenix reborn. Together they had charged into battle, the City clinging to the back of a chariot, long, dark, greasy hair flying, sword and spear flashing and his mouth agape in a joyous, roaring song.

He’d believed them gods, invincible, eternal – and to his cost. For a City should never idolise its people.

When the Romans invaded, he couldn’t believe it when his king surrendered, had thundered and rage, all to no avail. But defiant to the last, when they forced him to meet the Roman invaders, he’d strode straight up to Claudius, glared down at him… and spat in his face.

They sheared his long dark hair off as punishment.

For once, his legendary temper proved useless and Camulodunum could only watch in despair as he was colonised, as they enslaved his people or drove them away, took their land, broke their backs and souls under the whip and chain, filled his streets with their ageing Roman veterans and families. His once taut muscles waste away and sag, and Camulodunum, who’d never run from any battle, flinched at the sight of his Briton slaves and their thoughts when they saw him.

Look at him. Monument to the Romans, getting fat off our oppression. Collaborator. Traitor. That’s not our City anymore, he’s whore of the Romans now, their pet. Roman Capital!

He hit the bottle and hit it hard. Anything to drown out their hate for him.

But a small part of him still dreamed of his people’s old glories, still hoped, still believed, for he could feel the restlessness in the air, in his people…

Something coming. He could sense it. And yet it made him uneasy, for the dreams kept coming, again and again, dreams that filled him with no sense of triumph. Only fear.

When the Trinovantes first charged into his city he rejoiced, crying and laughing even as his Roman citizens fled, screamed, died, staggering under the sheer onslaught of the slaughter. Even as his streets were burnt and torn apart, until he thought his bones would break and his skin was red, raw and weeping with countless burns, he still laughed. For his people – his true people – had returned to him, and they were glorious, so glorious, his warriors, oh yes, as he always knew they were, his proud, beautiful people. How he longed to be one with them again, to feel what they felt, for it hurt so much, the flames, the terror, the death – so much death! – but it was only temporary, it’d be worth it in the end. You are strong, strong as your people and you can survive this, you’re Capital, and when all this is over you will be mighty and whole again…

“For the Trinovantes!” he screamed, and that caught their attention. But when they looked at him, he saw them shout and point, and suddenly a horde was after him, spears and swords stabbing and slashing, tearing his flesh open like they tore his streets and they cry out, they cry out-

He was forced to flee, hounded into the temple by the people he’d once fought with, once worshipped, and forced to hide with the people he hated.

For two days the Romans hid in that temple, and they turned to their City, crying and begging for guidance, looking to him to save them. But their City remained unheeding, and soon enough they backed away, frightened by his wild, staring eyes and the words, chanted over and over in an endless litany.

“Down with Camulodunum.”

***

That night, he dreamt of the fire one last time, only this time, it was different. The figure was finally visible – a woman now of flesh and blood – but one with fire in her hair and in her eyes, a fire that burned with a need so great it would devour everything in its path.

The fire of rage.

The fire of revenge.

Queen Boudica.

***

When the flames began to consume the temple, Camulodunum finally stirred from his corner, a dead man waking. Outside, he could hear the baying of the Britons (his no longer), cheering for his destruction; it was that sound that crushed the last bit of hope in him. Rising to his feet, ignoring the screams and sobs of the Romans around him, for a moment he was as he used to be, the grand warrior, head held high and his smile a horror, a bloody rictus.

He had hardly any power, this temple all he had left – but it would be enough.

He’d had his people broken, taken, his streets colonised by soft Romans and he’d now suffered the ultimate betrayal; he’d thought himself broken. But Camulodunum was a warrior. And he’d be damned if he went down quietly.

He spread himself through the burning, creaking stones of the temple, grimacing at the flames but pressing on, seeping himself into the very stones until he could barely distinguish himself, man from rock.

With a howl, he brought the temple – flames and all – crashing down upon himself.

City Stars

Note: A short piece of flash fanfiction I wrote for the Paris Burning fandom, about personified cities: https://thecitysmith.tumblr.com/

When she was young, Kuala Lumpur could spend hours gazing up at her night sky. Sprawled on rooftops, curled up on the grass, perched in a tree sipping sweet coconut water, it didn't matter how or where - she could spend hours counting those stars, raised fingers tracing patterns, pictures, writing in all her different languages. They said the stars told tales, containing the souls of immortalised heroes, heroines and creatures, and she liked to imagine them, how even in the galaxies above their stories were still playing out.

Now the pollution has set in, has seeped into her skies, her air, as a dull, but constant itch down in her lungs, she can't see her stars anymore. But whenever she misses them, she'll take her car out and race along her roads and soaring freeways, stepping hard on the gas until even her humid night air whistles with a cold breeze that whips her long hair behind her.

When she wants a quieter moment, she'll go up into the Petronas Towers, right up to the very top floor.

And down below and all around she'll see them, the thousands, the millions of lights of her cars, her houses, her schools, her offices, her towers. She might not have her stars anymore, but here are her heroes, her heroines, but above all, her people. She makes her own stars, red, orange, gold, white, neon, their lights illuminate her from within, and she smiles, that faint, lazy smile.

For there's nothing more beautiful than a city at night.