City of socialists, neighborhood of crime and credulity, den of inequities both real and imagined. The darkness that seeps over the town is marred only by the moon rising over the lone spire of the town hall, lost and unwatched. Only the rushing sound of the distant Turnpike and the patter of hurried footsteps echo down an otherwise deserted Massachusetts Avenue…
..but faintly, on the edge of hearing, a knocking sound can be heard. At first a mere tap, but soon a dull, rhythmic thud that rises from the ground. The thud keeps pace with an unknown heartbeat, and increases in volume until it seems to be an ancient drum warning of a coming danger.
With each thud, a manhole cover in the middle of Central Square shakes, jumps,quivers, but falls back into place. There is silence. Suddenly, the manhole cover jumps twenty feet into the air and lands with a fearsome clank near the entrance to the Golden Donut restaurant, almost crashing into the front window. It shudders back and forth on the bricks, then rests. [more]
A figure, no, less a figure than a huddle, rises out of the manhole, gasping, clawing, straining to crawl out of the maw. With great effort, it slides out onto the smooth pavement, and rests.
Presently, it stands up. First haltingly, then firm. Even through all the muck and the leaves, it is recognizable. It is…. The Works.
The Works looks down Massachusetts Avenue, past the closed shops and the low buildings of Cambridge, to the Skyline of Boston, an uneven line of light in the darkness of the horizon.
"You will be mine again," says the Works, and then it limps off into the shadows.