Antique Nightingale

Now, the city of Avon was a very quaint town located a reasonable distance up from the ground, residing on a sort of short, gentle mountain range where many buildings and much of the agricultural resources lay. The main part of the settlement, sort of circulated around a crater which held a basin of sorts, which formed a channel spiraling around the place twice, in an anti-clockwise direction before dropping down the lowering parts of the mountainside.
As it was located in mountains, the town tended to experience quite a bit of snowfall and occasion, flooding during the spring rains, thus many of the buildings had quite high built steps from the street, many of the structures resting upon thick, pattern-adorned columns, made so that flood waters wouldn't get into the houses of unsuspecting residents. The cobbled streets were waterproofed with tar and a mixture of other materials, between the cracks of the polished now-river stones that shone, contrasting with the graying filling that had been scraped into every little crevice. Windows were also placed a good meter or so above the normal street level and were usually quite large to let in the sunlight in the chilly townhouses of citizens. Recently, glass roofs, sheets of glass held together by sturdy metal frames and sealed with the same concoction that was in between the road cracks, had become very popular, especially among the higher classes, in dining rooms, in researcher's archives, for extra lighting and for the odd biologist or two, though, they tended to make full buildings, partially underground for their projects and experiments. The town itself was partially-carved into the gentle rolling hills within the flatter part of the mountain range that spread across the land for a while before suddenly erupting into impossibly tall giants that shot into the clouds and occasionally awoke with flashes of fire, grumbling with the clouds that may be there. It was enchanting, this establishment, also quaint, as it was still quite small as compared to the cities further down the map and near the coast. Two thirds of the year was cold and either filled with snow or floods or, for the remaining third, covered with blankets of short, lively green mountain growth, after the floods. It was oddly fulfilling to live there, life was simple.

Or at least, that's what Emil had so cheerfully been told by a girl some years younger than him as he
was handed a flower
“Although, recently, there's been a lot more foreigners moving in and such to built holiday homes.”
The girl added, as though thinking aloud, brushing away a thick lock of straw-coloured hair.
“Holiday homes?” Emil asked in wonder, “What are those?”
“Well, they're sort o' like private inns that 'ese posh people build but they only live in every once in a while.” She explained in a lilting accent that was common in the natives of the area.
“Goes to show how sill these people are, building fine homes that they don't live in most o' the time while others starve on the street.”
“Ah, really? I haven't seen any in the time that I've been here though,” Emil looked around curiously, just in case there happened to be any poor soul like the ones the girl had mentioned.
“Well, that's because o' 'em foreigners.” She hushed her voice as she continued. “Apparently, they force these people off the streets as well, some even kill 'em or so I've heard.”
“Th-that's awful!” Emil exclaimed in a similarly hushed tone, horrified at what he'd just heard. Rich people, they weren't ever nice anywhere were they? Well, most rich people. “But why?”
“They say that the street people are dirty and lower the good standing of the town, though I don't see why.” The girl muttered angrily “It's not s'if they did harm t' anyone o' 'em poffers.”
The girl immediately shut up as a navy-blue clad figure marched down the street holding a rifle stiffly. A bearskin hat topped his middle-aged head as he proudly and alertly strode down the slippery cobbled road.
“I've heard they even own the constables 'ese days,” she whispered before whipping around and walking off in the opposite direction with an artificial smile, anger just prickling her expression.
Emil paused for a moment, wondering whether or not to question the girl further but decided not to and quietly walking away as well, taking a delicate sniff from the flower she'd given him. It was snowing, so normal flowers should be scarce. Emil continued walking, wondering where the flower had come from and looked at it. Its diameter was about the length of his forefinger and white in colour, its petals the size of large buttons, white as the snow in the streets. Surrounded by the round layers of petals, a bright yellow centre glowed like a miniature star. Or at least it seemed to, its light faltering every time there was a gust of wind. Fascinating, thought Emil as he held it up to the clear sunlight of the morning and smiled.

Then whipped around at the sound of a cry. The portly constable had started beating a ragged-looking child on the street.
“I've told you to get off 'ere once but you just don't listen do you?” His weedy, uneven voice sounded though breaks in the beatings. Emil was horrified and at once, ran to the child's rescue. The flower girl had stopped and stared among the few early morning residents of the district. It was one of the first times they had actually seen a person being beaten unreasonably and also, one of the first times that somebody had stood up to a constable.
“Hey! Stop that right now!” Emil shouted before stepping in front of the cowering child, between it and the bat.
“Get out of the way or you'll get a beating too.” The constable growled threateningly, and raised the black, sleek baton.
“No, Not until you stop beating this child.” Emil said stubbornly and glared at the officer. “This is unreasonable and horrid and you know it.”
The constable turned a light shade of pink and the black baton cut though the air and across Emil's face. Emil winced as he bit the inside of his cheek and spat out the blood in the officer's face.
“That was unreasonable too, constable.” It was his turn to growl, but quietly. The blue flecks in his eyes grew a little darker. Emil suddenly hated this man, for what he was doing, for what he probably had done and would do, and for what he just did. This man is corrupt, He probably has accepted a bribe from those rich people and he just hit me, he hurt me, he needs to DIE His thoughts ran through his mind in an instant as the officer raised the baton again for a second swipe, furious at the show of disrespect. The blue flecks in his eyes flashed red for a moment as did his hands, that reddy-amber light as he caught the baton from the fat, red-faced man. It turned into ash and the man yelled in shock and... pain?
“My hand, it burns! It's burning!” He cried before falling over and plunging it into the light layer of snow. The snow hissed and steamed as he did so and the man sighed in a little relief, while everyone shot a frightened look at Emil, wondering what he had done. He was smiling, satisfied for a moment before his hands briefly flashed amber again and his face returned to its flustered and angry state. Cries of the policeman killed the silence that had collected in the air of the place. The raggedy child, shaking a little started to stand up and grabbed Emil's coat, careful not to touch his hands and tugged on it. Emil looked around blankly.
“Come on! Before more of 'em coppers come 'ere!” The kid exclaimed and started to run into a nearby alleyway.
“Ah, um, okay!?” Emil called after the fleeing child and started to run after him leaving a stunned audience behind him. They were a little scared of the man what had just seemingly burned a constable's hand and thought he may be dangerous, but despite that, most thought that the constable had deserved the punishment for what he had done. He was one of the coppers working for the rich people, most definitely and was now, by these people, considered akin to the scum of the slums.
The flower girl was the first to break the collective silence and walked up, angrily to the constable before giving him an ungraceful kick in the gut and walking off huffily.
“Serves you right, filth.” She snapped and left the scene, others following her example by either calling the man some rather insulting names or physically injuring him in some way. Mob psychology, sometimes it's a good thing after all.

Or maybe not, because that night, the injured constable loped back to the rather quaint little building he worked in for some of the day and loudly complained to his other corrupt colleages, who at once demanded a description and word started to spread among the haters of the lower class that somebody with a mysterious power and courage had appeared to stop their righteous deeds. Emil was now a famous man, and that was just within the first three days of his awakening.