But, a half hour into his time downtown, something else had drifted over the packed masses of refugees and pilgrims and militiamen. It was hard to define: a bit of tension, and a bit of anticipation. The odor was faint enough to suggest something unconscious, a collective emotion. The aggregate scent of a crowd of people who weren’t consciously aware of how they felt. There was no neurotransmitter, no pheromone he could identify in particular. This scent was more elusive. He was only able to lock it down through the memory fragments it triggered.

Coal gray sky. A biting chill in the air. Hundreds of men and women bundled up, clustered around barrel fires. Everyone talking. Excitement in their voices. Anxiety on the air, mingled with gun-oil and anticipation. Something was about to happen.

A few seconds later, the scent of anxious anticipation started to rise. Roland heard the deep bouncing thrum of heavy rubber wheels on pavement. His hindbrain tied the sound to a particular species of obsolete armored personnel carrier, originally manufactured in Bulgaria. After following its route for several seconds his hindbrain guessed the APC was bound for the main square.

Roland spent the next few minutes jockeying for a good position close to the gallows. He wasn’t certain that’s where the convoy was headed. It seemed like a good guess though. And he was quickly proven right when the APC pulled up to a stop just a hundred feet away. The crowd stopped and gawked as the heavy doors slid open. Soldiers in full-body armor stepped out, dragging six men and women in honest-to-god manacles and chains out into the dying light.

The captives were all SDF. Roland didn’t even have to make an educated guess on that one. The Heavenly Kingdom had made sure to dress them in their tattered and blood-stained uniforms. They were, all of them, emaciated and broken-looking. The evidence of torture was so clear that Roland’s enhanced eyes weren’t even necessary. The captives had broken, bleeding fingernails, black eyes, painful limps, and feet that looked like they could barely stand to touch the ground.

One of the Martyrs, a tall man wearing a red beret instead of a combat helmet, strode ahead of the group. He had a voice-amp in one hand. He raised the other up in the air in a prayerful gesture that was matched by most of the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters,” the Martyr’s voice boomed, “today the Lord and his loyal soldiers have delivered unto you a blessing.”

The crowd tightened around Roland. He could see, hear, feel as people rushed out from cafes and shops to watch. The fear and excitement was so thick in the air Roland was sure even unmodified humans could have sensed it.

“Here we have six prisoners from the SDF,” the Martyr began. “These men and women were all captured in the last week. Rather than accept their defeat, they chose to fight as insurgents against the Heavenly Kingdom. God and his Martyrs are merciful. But these sinners have spat on that mercy. Now it is our privilege to execute upon them the judgement written: this honor have all his saints. Praise ye the LORD!”