The Final Conflict with Archangels

Mark stood on the tracks, surrounded by the noise and labor of the workers. They were busily repairing the rails, each swing of the hammer and the clatter of metal echoing throughout the area. The wind ruffled his hair, and the dust that rose into the air mingled with the smell of iron and wet earth. Everything was as usual, a bustle of hard work, and it seemed that it would always be that way, until Gene came along.

He ran up to Mark, his face distorted with worry. There was a clear fear in his eyes that he couldn't hide. Gene looked around nervously before speaking.

"Mister Engineer! People from the Union of Gabriel the Archangel have set up an ambush where you are going."

Mark turned calmly towards him, as if Gene's words could not shake him. He continued to get ready to mount the trolley, adjusting his sleeves and showing no sign of excitement.

"You can't be afraid, Gene," he said firmly, as if repeating a truth that had to be adhered to in any situation. "Even when you're scared."

Gene, however, clearly did not share his boss's calm. He did not take his eyes off Mark, continuing to speak with despair in his voice:

"I want to warn the guys, mister Engineer. They must be ready!"

Mark exhaled and, moving closer to Gene, put his hand on his shoulder.

"Okay," he said, "but I order you: under no circumstances are you to use the weapons I gave you. Understand? These revolvers are for emergencies only. We don't want any trouble."

Gene, still worried, nodded, but his face remained tense. He wanted to say something, but Mark, getting on the trolley, raised a finger, as if to emphasize the importance of his words, and said with diligent determination:

"The proletarian squad must prepare itself for an uprising, and not for a vulgar knife fight. Do you understand? We are not here to arrange massacres and showdowns. We are here for a great purpose."

His words, encased as if in hard armor, were meant to sober and strengthen every worker he interacted with, reminding them that they were part of something more important than just physical struggle.

With that, he started the trolley, and the mechanism crackled to life. Mark glided along the rails without any hurry, feeling strangely calm, as if the threat Gene had just voiced did not touch him. He was heading forward, into the thick of things, like a yacht sailing on a calm sea, where each storm was just another wave he could ride out. There was no panic in his head, only a clear sense that everything that was happening was just a stage on the way to something greater.

Meanwhile, Gene, a little taken aback by what Mark had said, quickly ran to the workers whom he had recently supplied with revolvers. He had to tell them that Mark had ordered them to remain calm and not rush into using weapons, despite the threat. But he still had some jitters, and he did not know what was waiting for him ahead.

Mark rode forward, feeling the light rhythm of the trolley sliding along the rails. Around him was the forest - trees thickening the shadows, thickly growing moss and tall grass, all of this smoothly shimmered outside the windows of the trolley, when immediately a strange, inexplicable chill rolled over him. It seemed that this was only a brief moment - one instant when the air became a little heavier, and the silence of the forest, broken only by the clatter of the wheels, seemed to deepen.

He continued to ride, absorbed in thought, when suddenly his gaze fell on a figure standing on the rails a little ahead. It was a tall, moustached man in a white suit, who seemed to dissolve into a light cloud, standing out against the dark forest. The white cap on his head only enhanced his strange and unnatural appearance, sharply contrasting with the gloomy surroundings. The man stood directly on the track, paying no attention to the approaching trolley, as if unaware of the threat of the iron rails and the noise it made.

Mark was not afraid - he had enough experience not to panic - but something eerie, elusive and alarming overshadowed his thoughts. This man, snow-white and motionless, as if carved from stone, caused a strange sensation in Mark's soul. He felt a cold shiver rise up his spine, although not a single element of the landscape told him of a real threat. On the contrary, everything around him continued to sound and move as usual: the grinding of wheels, the noise of the wind in the trees, and only this man - a figure, almost mystical, stood before him, as if on the very edge of his perception.

When the figure in the snow-white suit and white bowler hat suddenly appeared against the forest, as if the earth itself had raised him, Mark felt a strange sense of recognition. He had met this man before, when he had first arrived in Cambridge. It was the same one who had made him uneasy at first sight - Jordan Thurlow, the leader of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. He stood on the rails, motionless, as if unaware of the approaching trolley. His suit glittered in the sunlight, creating the impression of a translucent silhouette, as if cut out of fog.

When the trolley finally stopped, creaking with iron, Thurlow remained where he was. No fear, no movement, as if he were sure that Mark was sensible enough not to run him over like a fool. Mark watched him from where he sat, in no hurry to get out. There was no surprise or fear in his eyes, only a cold awareness that there would be no words between them now, only action. Thurlow walked toward him with his usual confident slowness. His eyes, cold and penetrating, met Mark's with a subtle hostility, but without the fierce challenge that might lead to conflict. He simply looked, as if expecting Mark, like everyone else, to understand that all the outcomes were already known.

As Thurlow approached, his smile was not genuine. It was the smile of someone waiting. He put his hands on his hips, taking his time to take the next step, as if time had slowed for him. He said nothing, and his silence seemed to be part of the game. He stood there, and Mark knew that it was a silence that should not be broken.