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The Stained Tower Book 2: The Commoners Seek Strength

In the cold month of December, I sit in the corner of the now quiet boathouse restaurant staring out the window. The view of the wintertime New York Central Park and the frozen Lake is as it has been for three weeks now. Hundreds of people are off in the distance going about their day. None of them are visitors like one might expect. They all live in Central Park in tents and other makeshift shelters. Though their shelters are makeshift, there are some facilities I erected on repurposed land both to the north and south of this restaurant that sits near the center of the park. 

This whole situation may sound like it’s some kind of music festival, and some are expecting a show, but many people here have come to gain new strength. My eyes drift to the frozen waters of the Lake. As has become the norm, one can occasionally see the silhouettes of enormous fish. I’ve heard some of these fish can grow as big as sharks, and after a few pets went missing around the camp, people learned they are not to be trifled with.

Still, that is not why everyone is here. I turn my head toward a famous lakeside terrace named Bethesda Terrace. Viewed from the front, Bethesda Terrace is a large red brick plaza with two levels connected by a pair of grand staircases. There are several reasons the Terrace is famous, but the big three are its construction during the American Civil War, its 1873 Angel of the Water statue and fountain, and finally, its beautiful sunken Arcade.

The last one is closest to the reason everyone is here right now. I focus on the opening of the Arcade. Bethesda Terrace Arcade is an arched 1860 walkway at the center of Central Park that connects Bethesda Fountain to the Mall. The Arcade is known for its gorgeous Victorian era Minton’s encaustic tiles. These types of tiles would be on the floors of European cathedrals, with one exception. Bethesda Arcade is the one place in the world where these famous tiles are instead installed on the ceiling.

Even still, the reason everyone is here is not those tiles or even the Arcade itself. It’s what is brewing beneath it all. Beneath the brick and soil, roots of glass and haze twist, preparing to usher in a new way of life for every person who chooses to inhabit Central Park.

Looking away from the window, I stretch my arms and crack my neck. Though I am neither the creator of the glass nor the haze, I am the perpetrator of what’s happening above them.

I am Terra Iris Galtry, and I am many things. I am a young woman with unnatural silver hair, heterochromia, and fabric stitched to nearly half my body. I am a Spirit Scribe specializing in hexes, contracts, and Ku sewing. Finally, I am the famous and formerly unwilling figurehead of a crime syndicate who operates under the name Galtry.

I remove my silver spirit tome and quill from my canvas bag and place it in my lap. 

I have the strange habit of journaling from time to time. That might not sound strange, except I am a Spirit Scribe. All Spirit Scribes have a spirit tome, and everything that happens to the Spirit Scribe is automatically recorded within their spirit tome. That is because the Spirit Scribe and their spirit tome’s connection is beyond what anyone outside the Hex Church can imagine. 

Because of the automatic recording, many people would think journaling is pointless for Spirit Scribes. Except, when it comes to memories, what is genuinely important about them is not what happened, but how you felt and what you thought in those moments. In time, how you truly felt and thought will take on a sense of nostalgia. They’ll grow dim or even just be plain forgotten.

I remove some black ink from my bag, balance it on one side of the tome, and then dip my quill in it.

Putting pen to paper, I write,

>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Three months ago, the Cosmic System announced its presence to the world and warned of the changes to come—a cataclysmic returning of Earth to its natural state.

The first month for me was touch and go. I was delicately pulling strings within an organization that bears my image and name but which I have no meaningful control over. 

Two things changed for me two months ago. When I came across a group of escorts, and when Lorelei and Vicent told me about a fairy they had met. So while I gained the loyalty of these escorts, I also began looking for this fairy. I had been in search of a spirit ever since my despicable father forced a contract on me that stipulated I contract a spirit, and I strongly suspected this spirit-like fairy might be one.

When I found the ‘Fairy’ named Constance, I didn't know what I planned to do, but I intended to leave with a contract weighted in my favor. But the first words she ever spoke to me nearly caught me off guard. In slightly different words it was, “Is that you? It is me, remember me? Did you forget about me?”

If it wasn’t so funny that she directed the question to ‘God,’ I might have been lost for words. Still, answering her was easy. After all, those were questions I often asked myself. So, I told her what I always wanted to hear, that I wouldn’t forget her. Without even realizing it, I answered her as Terra would. I left that night inexplicably excited to speak to her again, and without the contract I came for.

Days later, we signed a spirit contract as equals, and because of that, not only our lives but the lives of tens of thousands will be forever altered, for the better, I hope.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<

A man’s voice breaks me from my reverie. 

All at once, a cacophony of noises fills my ears. I raise my head, finding a waiter in formal clothing gazing at me with a smile. 

“Did you say something?” I ask.

“Ah, Miss Speaker of Speakers, I was just asking if you’re thirsty?” He raises a bottle of red wine and displays the label, so I can read it. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, but we are in the process of pouring the wine for your toast.”

I blink and glance around. The restaurant is bustling, and the sounds of merriment are loud. All the tables are covered in white linens, fine china, and waiters are pouring red and white wines into everyone’s glasses. The kitchen doors swing open. Out walks multiple waiters and waitresses carrying enough hors d’oeuvres for three hundred people.

My eyes drift upward to where a handmade banner that reads, “Arrival Day” hangs. Seeing the banner, everything clicks into place. I close my tome, hide it in my bag, and straighten my back. 

I check my face to make sure the mask I am wearing is still securely on my face. The mask covers my hair, face, and eyes, but if not for the slight distortion of color, I wouldn’t even know I was wearing it. That’s to be expected of the Helping Hand’s work. 

I’ve been wearing the mask pretty regularly because my father, the Bishop of Manhattan, has returned to the city, and he’s searching for me. Luckily, the role of ‘Speaker of Speakers’ had been pre-established for me, so I’ve been wearing this mask that is modeled after Constance’s own helmet and living under that moniker full-time for around six days now. Only a few people know that it’s me wearing this mask, and with my father back in town, that’s how it needs to stay for the time being. 

As for what’s happening, I arranged an ‘Arrival Day’ event at the Boathouse restaurant for everyone that has been awarded a token. We have six hundred of these tokens to give to people. Five hundred of them allow someone to awaken and enter the Cosmic Systems Beta. This will enable them to begin gaining strength and leveling. Then one hundred of them will allow both entrance into the Beta and first entry into the Tower. The people here right now have earned one of the former. None of the latter has been given out.

Constance and I have built the Tower up as humanity’s ‘mercy’ or ‘gift.’ Thanks to people being desensitized to this kind of idea by countless novels, video games, movies, and television, many people immediately understood what was being implied, and they ate it up. Of course, this was also helped by the ever-worsening state of the world and the alienness of the Cosmic System. 

All of that is why it’s critical that all things involving the Tower are made out to be both significant and meaningful. Every single thing that happens to the Tower needs to feel like something that happens to everyone. This is why I also moved their families to the most coveted spots on Pilgrim Hill and arranged a BBQ for their families.

“Miss Speaker of Speakers?” the waiter’s voice questions once again.

“Ah, the wine! My apologies,” I respond, waving my hand. “I was so lost in my writing I guess I was in a daze.”

He shakes his head. “It’s no big deal, really. We weren’t sure what you were doing, but we didn’t want to break your concentration.”

“I was just writing and reminiscing.”

My eyes move toward the bottle of wine still being held by the waiter. 'Nebbiolo red wine. I guess that’s fine. I’ve only drunk wine once or twice, so I don’t know what it tastes like. It really doesn’t matter to me.'

Clapping my hands together lightly, I say, “A superb choice of wine, and the orange color indicates it’s aged a few years. Nebbiolo is a touch quaint for some, I’m sure, but I personally love it.”

“Excellent!” He sets it on the table and begins uncorking the bottle. With a small laugh, he says, “We had a long debate about the best one to recommend to you, so I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

“A great choice.” I wiggle my finger. “I’m very picky about my wines, so I’m glad you’re all so well informed.”

His eyes light up. “Of course!”

He pulls and the wine cork comes out with a pop. Taking the cork in hand, he leans forward and holds it for me to take. Though I’ve only drunk wine a few times, I’ve spent many a night learning etiquette, and that includes wine etiquette. Those that aren’t educated in wine culture don’t really know the point is to check for cork taint and not to smell the wine. At its worst, cork taint can make the wine taste the same way a moldy basement smells. I take the wine cork in hand, inspect it for defects and brand, and then smell the end that was in the bottle. 

The rosy aroma of red wine fills my nostrils. “Ah, a sweet floral aroma. It’s perfect,” I say, returning the cork.

His smile grows more prominent as he pours the glass and then departs for the kitchen. Gazing at the red wine waving in the glass, I sigh. 'I can’t even drink it in this mask, but it’s the thought that counts, I guess.'

Since I’m technically the host, I look around the room, ensuring everyone is having a good time. The room is full of laughter, and the people in attendance are going from table to table, showing one another their tokens. 

A man wearing a Boston sports jersey holds up a transparent token made of acrylic. Inside the token is a copper flower petal, and on top of the flower petal is the number “351” written in copper foil. The woman in front of him laughs and raises her coin. Her coin has a silver flower petal and reads “248,” written in silver foil. 

“You’re just a copper!” the woman says with a big smile on her face.

“Dude, I don’t give a shit!” The man says, waving her token away. “There’s no point in bragging if you aren’t in the top 100.”

The woman laughs. “Well, first of all, you approached me, and second of all, the Fairy will be picking the top one hundred. The highest token right now would only be a hundred and one. ”

There’s a bang on the table next to them. The two raise their eyebrows and look over to find an average-looking boy of eighteen with his foot propped on a chair. “Did I happen to hear someone say…” He licks his teeth and then raises a token.”...One hundred and one by chance? Or are my ears deceiving me,” he says, barely containing his laughter.

“Wooaah!” the man and woman say in tandem.

I roll my eyes. 

This boy is Daniel, or as everyone around here calls him, Shriek. A couple of months ago, he hit Constance with his moped, was exposed to her haze, shrieked like a thousand banshees, and then tried to eat two bystanders. From the information, I gathered he had a breakdown after that. I contacted him so he could basically work at Constance’s personal errand boy, but he seems to have developed something known as ‘chosen one syndrome.’ 

Constance and I both agree it’s likely a coping mechanism, so we’ve let the boy keep cleaning up Constance’s pet’s messes. Still, if I ever hear the word “harem” out of him though, I’ll literally feed him to the fishes. Anyway, he only has that token because after they arrived, I gave him the one that was on top. I tried to take it back and give him 600 instead, but he held it above his head and yelled, ‘I can hear the call of adventure! Ya-hooo!’ That was the first time I’d ever heard someone say, ‘ya-hoo’ out loud before, and the secondhand embarrassment kept me from intervening. I’ll probably try to get in touch with his mother soon. He’s going to get himself killed with this level of overconfidence.

Most of the other people here are similar to Shriek, minus the chosen one syndrome. They’re all just average people looking for their chance, I guess.

There are some interesting exceptions, though.

In the corner of the room opposite me is an Inuit man. The Inuit man sits at a table full of young to middle-aged adults, all of which have messy clothing and hair. That’s King Zero’s table. King Zero was a retired hard rock musician until he lost his family in Anchorage. Now he’s here trying to see how self-destructive he can be. I arranged for him to meet other musicians, and I think this might be the first night he isn’t drunk or high out of his mind. It’s not hard to find information about someone with a reputation like King Zero; the others have been a tad more difficult.

A few tables over sit a monster of a man that has a metallic smell. At his table sits a young girl and a teenage boy. The man used to be in the special forces, and more interestingly, he’s also supposed to be dead. That deadman goes by the name Terry ‘Silent Giant’ Allen, and the kids seem to belong to an Alaskan Congressman. All things I dug up without their knowledge.

Honestly, when there are this many people from all walks of life, the list could go on forever. 

Ayameko Kazato is a locally famous parkourist. Ayameko organized fast and efficient food distribution in the camps.

Guillermo Rivera a professional deep-sea scuba diver or ‘deep diver.’ Guillermo has been holding free lessons on water purity, fish cleaning, and the various types of New York aquatic life. The adults aren’t as interested right now, but the kids love it.

Gregor Damascus a storm chaser from the midwest. Gregor joined Guillermo and has been teaching risk vs. reward management in dangerous situations. 

Scarlett Kennicott a missionary of the Church in Light. Scarlett has organized religious services for multiple different religions and has been keeping those groups feeling fulfilled.

Dennis Huxley is a wilderness survival instructor. He’s been going camp to camp, showing people how as well as helping them keep warm in the cold. I know he saved one old woman who almost froze to death already.

Looking between all the ‘exceptions,’ I sigh and shake my head. ‘Everyone has a story and background, but none of that is going to matter. What’s going to matter is who stays, who grows, and most importantly, who survives.’

The room turns quiet when the silverware and wine glasses on all the tables rattle and shake. 

Everyone’s expressions turn anxious, and they stare out the big restaurant windows that overlook the Terrace. Mimicking them, I too glance out the window. 

In the distance, I can see gray smoke rising. A few people at a time return to their conversations until the whole room is back to normal. 

I reach for a flyer in my bag that reads, “Please be advised the City of New York is under mandatory evacuation. Civilians that disregard this should be aware we will be conducting military operations. Be warned, anyone in unauthorized military zones may be shot on sight.” 

The whole flyer is filled with words from top to bottom, but it basically says the same thing a thousand different ways. Thousands of these flyers have been dropped twice a day by cargo plane, starting five days ago. They’ll drop them in the morning, and by the afternoon, there will be an explosion somewhere in the north of the city. 

The first time the flyers were dropped, thirty thousand people left the camps, but over the last few days, sixty thousand people took their place. So now the park is now at one hundred thirty thousand people. However, it’s been somewhat effective in the city at large. Thirty percent of Manhattan’s citizenry has evacuated. That does mean there are still over a million people left in Manhattan, but that is still just under half a million that have left. Though, many haven’t escaped far enough to avoid all the danger.

The information I was able to gather said there is some kind of fungal infection spreading in an area called Inwood Hill Park, and the military is taking it seriously. After the crawler virus wiped out most of Anchorage two months ago and in only a few days, it’s understandable that the military would have an itchy trigger finger. 

The fungus is very likely a Kiln’s doing. We’ve seen it on a mutated rat Constance once killed. What the military doesn’t know is Constance’s purple haze can cure it. Despite being harmful on the surface, Constance’s haze is amazing in a lot of ways. However, the problem is that supply doesn’t correspond to demand, so there’s never enough haze to go around.

This isn’t the first Kiln to appear. I witnessed one on Liberty Island pop up myself a week ago. Since that day on Liberty Island, we’re averaging one a day in Manhattan, and the surrounding boroughs and cities are worse with as many as five a day in each. It’s not slowing down either; it’s increasing. 

Next time I see Constance, I intend to run her through the Manhattan Kiln. The others outside the city are harder to get information on. Internet and cell phone service are dubious at the best of times, and the military blocks off Kiln outside Manhattan pretty quickly. I’ve started passing out walkie-talkies because of the service problems, but Manhattan is being casually neglected by government forces. Evident by the fact that they don’t even bother trying to block the Manhattan Kiln, with the exception of the fungal Kiln.

Hearing someone call for the Speaker of Speakers, I look away from the flyer and find two men in suits approaching. These two work for the Consortium. There’s Pierce, a goof-off ladies man, and Lincoln, the calm and cool chain smoker. I haven’t seen Lincoln since the Liberty Island Kiln sprouted, but as I was told, Lincoln is missing a hand.

“Speaker of Speakers,” Pierce says, waving with a suave smile on his face. “We’re with the Consortium, and we’d like to inquire about purchasing a few tokens.”

'They don’t know who I am with the mask on. This could be fun, but I should probably still give them Galtry-esque responses. The whole Speaker of Speakers thing will eventually be consolidated under Galtry alone.'

I lean back. “Wipe that smile off your face before I make someone else do it in a more literal sense.”

Pierce raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I think I know who you are.”

“You only just noticed it was her?” Lincoln asks.

Pierce shrugs. “I had my suspicions.”

I sigh. “Listen, if you want a token, then earn it. I still have around a hundred or so left, but the Fairy has the hundred that’ll allow entry to the Tower. Those are the ones the pencil pushers in Chicago probably want you to get, right?”

“Oh. I guess that’s why no one has one we can buy off them.” Pierce mimics my sigh and asks, “So how do we earn them?”

“Organize the camps, build some infrastructure, bring me some information or supplies...” I glance out the window. “Fight a fish, maybe. You’re Consortium Solicitors; there are lots of things you should be capable of.”

“Great. We’ll talk to HQ,” Lincoln says with a shrug. “They’ll get something here.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Nope. It needs to be something you did yourself, not something you had that grease sponge from your office send you. Oh, and if I see you with a token that the Fairy or I didn’t give you personally, you aren’t going in.”

The pair frown.

Pierce’s shoulder drop. “So we can’t involve the Consortium at all?”

“If it’s significant enough, creative, or something like that, sure.” Waving my hand toward a table in the corner, I reply, “Anyway, take a seat and stay if you want; I don’t care.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Lincoln says.

The pair walks away, and a man with big biceps, shoulder-length red hair, and tattoos takes their place.

“Lorcan, are the preparations completed for Fairy’s return?” I ask.

Lorcan nods. “Yeah, everything you asked for is done. The Helping Hands finished the work on all the RVs, and the bug dude left not long ago.”

I gesture at him to continue.  “And the other two things I tasked you with?”

“I’ve been following that Leo guy around for two weeks now, and he still just seems like your average cop to me. As for Street Captain Osvaldo, Summer made contact. She and Hoarse are on their way here.”

I nod. “Keep an eye on Leo, and for that matter, Jessica. I’m suspicious of both of them after the rat incident two weeks ago.”

Lorcan’s eyes gawk at a tray of bacon-wrapped jalapenos pass by. “G… Gotcha,” he murmurs. 

“Stay if you want. The power isn’t going to hold out much longer, so everything in the freezer needs to be eaten.” I sigh and gesture in the direction of Lincoln and Pierce. “Sit with the Consortium over there. 

“Sure, if that’s your orders, boss,” he replies, following a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

He walks away, and as he said, Hoarse and Summer walk in through the restaurant doors. They walk toward my table with quick steps. Their chairs squeak as they take a seat across from me without a word.

“Did you find out when and where the ‘End of New York’ party is?” I ask.

Summer nods; her usual attitude is absent. “Yes, Miss… Speaker of Speakers.”

“Both the Street Captain and the Lieutenant will be there…” Hoarse leans forward and whispers, “Are you sure I have to be involved in this?”

Summer glares at Hoarse and then rolls her eyes.

I change which leg I have crossed, and say, “They’re traitors. In the future, when we’re here in New York and there isn’t anyone to call for help, do you really want a traitor at your back?”

“But, the whole top of a branch? That’s like ten people you’re suggesting we might have to…” He shakes his head. “Look, I’ve never killed anyone.”

“They aren’t good people, Hoarse. They’re performing experiments on people with stolen Elixir. They aren’t welcome, and they’re a danger to us all.” My nails pinch the back of my arms. “All that’s left to discuss is the specifics. It’s going to be done.”

“...Erin and I will do it,” Summer whispers.

Raising an eyebrow, I look toward Summer who is staring at her legs. ‘I shouldn’t have misspoken with Summer around. Of course, she’d volunteer after hearing about the Elixir.’

She swallows. “If… if it’s as easy as spiking a punch bowl or something. Erin and I can cozy up to them and mix it into their party supplies… Erin told me she once… ‘sent her mom's abusive ex-boyfriend on a vacation he never came back from.’

Hoarse stares at Summer and then says, “So you’d need something they could mix into their cocaine? I could supply you fentanyl to add if it means I don’t have to do anything more...”

“...Yeah. That would make it look like an overdose.” Summer’s eyes narrow. “It’s happened to some of my old coworkers before.”

‘Fine. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but it’s got to be done, and something like this is more likely to succeed than anything more direct… I’m not sure I’ll tell Constance about this. She can go a bit longer without blood on her hands.’

My fingers tap against the table as I sigh. “Do it, Hoarse, make sure she has all she’d need. Summer, take Erin if she’s confident and willing.” 

The two nod.

Waiters carrying big trays of food enter the restaurant, and everyone takes their seats as food exits the kitchen. “We’ll talk more later. It’s time I gave my toast,” I say.

While the food is passed around, I stand and tap my fork against my wine glass. The room grows quieter as the hungry guests shoosh one another.

I wait for everyone to turn their attention to me and then perform a curtsy. Raising my hand, I place it over my heart and say, “Thank you all for joining me tonight.”

Someone replies from the back of the room, “And thank you for the food and alcohol!”

Everyone chuckles.

“But of course, you’ve all earned it! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” I drop my hands and then take my wine glass from the table. I gesture toward the window reflecting the orange twilight sun that floats on the horizon. No one is looking at that, though, because it pales in comparison to the four trees made of glass that surround the outskirts of Bethesda Terrace. “Now, tonight, we have gathered to celebrate the Tower’s potential arrival. We aren’t sure of the exact time, but if it happens while we eat, we’ll have quite the view.”

Everyone nods.

“But let's return to what I said previously.” 

I take a token from a small pocket above my chest. Cast within this token is a flower petal and the number “1” sculpted in a purple glass inlaid with gold. Raising it above my head, everyone’s eyes follow it.

I begin my toast.

“The tokens you were all given, you have those not because of whatever your background may be, not because you were born into a powerful family, and not because you may be rich. You have those because you had the strength of heart to come and earn them. You will all witness history because you had the strength of courage to stay here and witness it. Finally, you will all lead humanity forward because you’ll have the strength of mind and body to do so.” 

Returning the token to my pocket, I point out the window. “Here, at this place, those who earn it, those who persevere, those that have the strength, will be rewarded. Today marks the beginning of a journey, not for the old money, but for the commoners who will become extraordinary because they earned it.” I raise my glass and add, “So a toast to all those that will persevere and earn their strength.”

Everyone raises their drinks. “To those that will earn their strength.” Together everyone, excluding me, drinks from their glasses.

I set my wine glass down. 'Not the best toast ever, and I’m not the best one to give it, but I feel it fit the mood Constance was going for in her messages.'

The ground shakes. All at once, everyone looks at the window. 

Someone stands and walks closer. “Are the trees growing leaves!?”

“No, it’s some kind of gas,” someone else replies.

My eyes move to the tree limbs. As they said, haze is flowing out of all four trees and is flowing toward the same point in the sky above the Arcade.

“It’s all the trees,” I hear Shriek shout.

All around the Terrace, trees burst apart, unveiling they’ve all been changed to glass. These also discharge haze of different varieties, but regardless of the color, it all whirls toward the same spot above the Arcade. When the purple, red, black, and gray from the four main trees collide, the hazes intertwine and then spin downward like a drill.

The four-colored drill spins toward the 2nd floor of the Terrace directly above the Arcade where Constance went into hibernation.

When it makes contact with the red brick, the ground ruptures.

The drill is sent exploding outwards where everything it touches is glassed over, forming what looks like a 100-foot circular foundation. Crystal-like obelisks burst from the ground. More haze billows out, and the Terrace becomes clouded, but everyone can see the silhouette rising skyward within it.

And so, under the eager and hungry gazes of tens of thousands, the Tower arrives.