The Knower of Truths

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Michael adjusted his hat, tightened his tie and slipped on his jacket. It was a horrible thing, pure brilliant white, with a gaudy golden lining. He hated it. It was a nightmare to clean alongside simply being awful to look at. He reached into the inside pocket and removed a small metal rectangle. He prised it apart and placed the front half to the front of the jacket, and the rear half inside. It snapped shut, magnets pulling them together. “Approved Tour Guide,” read the text across the badge. He sighed, pushed open his front door and stepped out into the street.

Around him the city bustled, tourists clicking away at cameras excitedly taking pictures of anything and everything. Michael had grown up in London and was used to dodging through foreign tourists on his way to whatever awful job he had that week. It was different now though, everything was, once the Council had arrived. Michael stepped carefully around a family who had decided to stop and photograph a passing bus. They clasped their cameras in clawed talons, scales covering their hide. They chittered amongst themselves, words on their alien tongue slithering through snakelike heads. One of the children, or at least Michael was assuming it was a child, seeing as it was only three feet as opposed to the larger seven-foot-tall creatures, shot him an awkward smile, its face twisting in a way it had never been designed too. He gave the child a wave and it turned to one of the adults, chattering away happily.

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