%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
And when the sun's down and the moon full, you can be sure the Mechs are watching... |
[Introduction]   The year is Eighteen Hundred and Seventy-Six Anno Domini, Thirty-Ninth year in the reign of Victoria, Queen By the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and Empress of India (recently added, mind you, with the conquest of that fine nation). A staunch supporter of her empire and her people, Victoria has personally overseen the development of newer and better technologies, putting her astute understanding of all things scientific and mathematic to work for her people. As her Kingdom grows, so too does the might of Britain's scientific and industrial revolution, a might matched only by their staunchest ally: the Yanks across the pond, whose Civil War has finally ended and whose lively minds have matched Victoria almost stride for stride. Together, they are known as the Steam Conglomerate, and they might as well rule the world. Along with her undoubted mind, Victoria is a woman of deep and unmitigated faith, believing firmly in the afterlife and in the presence of otherworldly beings. It has been fifteen years since the death of her husband, the Prince Consort Albert, and Victoria has attempted desperately to find a way to bring him back. Scientists and occultists alike have come together to bridge the gap between life and death. Technologies blossom and there has developed a deeper understanding of the occult nature of this world, including those things that should rightly be left alone. Unfortunately, however, those things that should rightly be left alone have not. Supernatural beings, awakened, annoyed, and discovered via the Queen's incessant proddings, have seeped into British society, particularly in the environs of London, home of the Institute for Scientific and Paranormal Development. Ghosts, goblins, bean sidhe, even the odd vampire and werewolf lured out of their hiding, have been known to attack the innocent people of London. Hyde Park has been all but given up to these creatures, and only the stupidest, bravest, or most prepared dare to enter its confines after sundown. The Bureau for Paranormal Investigation and Elimination just happens to be home to the stupidest, bravest, and most prepared. Called the Queen's Mechs, it is their duty to capture, study, and oftentimes eliminate beings of paranormal essence. Headed by the Shadow Man (whose official title is more along the lines of Chief of Paranormal, Supernatural, and Preternatural Study, Capture, and Elimination, etc etc, which is, of course, why they call him the Shadow Man), the Queen's Mechs are in charge of keeping Britain safe from the rampages of angry spirits. And they have the technology to do it. For, in Service to the Crown and for Love of Kingdom and even Empire, the Queen's Mechs defend, often at the cost of their own lives, their own happiness, and even their own humanity. ***** Woo! This campfire is based on a dream I had. I know, I have weirdly awesome dreams. Anywho, our characters are members of the Bureau for Paranormal Investigation and Elimination and, as such, are Queen's Mechs. In case you hadn't noticed, this campfire is very steampunk. As such, the technology in this campfire will be beyond that actually possessed by Victorian Britain. It will not, however, include futuristic sci-fi, Star Wars inspired doo-dads. Everything is powered by gas or the recently discovered and still rather unwieldy electricity. But electricity is not necessarily OUR electricity. It's steam-fed electricity. Hence steampunk. For inspiration, turn to The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (the comic, of course), 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne, and the really awful movie adaptation of Wild Wild West. Stuff like that is always apropos. The new comic Legenderry by Bill Willingham is awesome, as well. Or Howl's Moving Castle, Treasure Planet, or The Prestige. I actually managed to come up with a pseudo-plotline for this one and everything! YAY! Furthermore, I have outlined seven characters that featured in my dream. I'm picking the one that *I* was in the dream because I can do that (as well as the character I think most people will have trouble with, unless they know a lot about the Civil War). The others are all up for grabs. This should be tres fun. Also, everyone knows my rules for campfire excellence. Please follow them. Thanks. And now to the characters: Tell me which one you want when you accept. Isabella Barker, called Izzy, 24: An Archivist-turned-Street Mech, Izzy is one of the closest people to being completely human and even she's been wired to accept telepathic communique from the Shadow Man. Intelligent and witty, Izzy's main purpose is to know and see things. She's not particularly gifted in fighting, nor is she upper crust enough to pass as one of the blue bloods, but she has a great mind for tinkering. Her vest and coat are lined with pockets full of fanciful doodads and tools, most of which she fashioned herself, that mostly keep her out of trouble. She is forced to dress like a man (not that she minds) because technically women can't be Queen's Mechs; at least not out on the streets. As such, she is seen by most as one of the guys. She is partners with Jonny. (Taken by: Professor Q  )Jonathan Foster, called Jonny, 27: Jonny should be dead, really. After the explosion that took his right arm, left leg, and blew off half of his face, Jonny should not be walking. But thanks to technology, Jonny is not only alive, he's better than ever. He boasts a mechanical left leg which acts just like his human leg, but is stronger and more resilient, the left side of his face has been replaced with copper and a mechanical eye that allows him to spot supernatural creatures from huge distances, and (perhaps most awesome of all) his right arm has been replaced with a steam gun that shoots electrical charges. Electromagnetic things being, of course, a pain in the ass for ghosts and stuff, this gun is muy helpful. Jonny is still the same old Jonny, though, with a human brain and human heart and stomach and other things, but not many can see past the mechanization to the human within. Only Izzy sees him for what he is and for that, he is eternally grateful. Obviously, partners with Izzy. (Taken by: Dr Matticakes Myra  )Abraham Shaw, called Abraham if you please, 30: Abraham is an American from Virginia, from a good family, if not the wealthiest. He is also a member of the American Bureau of Paranormal Defense, currently a liaison with the Queen's Mechs. Abraham was a boy when he joined the Confederate army and fought with John Singleton Mosby as one of his raiders. Mosby was a smart man and Abraham was a smart enough boy to realize it, so when the war ended, Abraham knew that it was just about time to join on up with the Republicans and get to putting the country to rights again. For this, he was banished from his home in Lexington (still reeling over the loss of Stonewall Jackson two years prior) for being disloyal to the continuing Southern Cause; he joined the new BPD owing to his prowess with his trusty Winchester rifle and a predilection for seeing spirits. He is working with the Queen's Mechs now in order to promote friendship and conciliatory feelings with the Brits. His major skill is, as I said, with his Winchester and his ability to see spirits. (Taken by: Professor Q , though this is a second character for me because people have had so many issues writing for him before. If you feel like you want Abraham, let me know and I'll delete his introduction and give him to you.)Ezekiel Monroe, called Zeke, 25: Zeke comes from one of London's best families, though he's considered by most to be something of a useless dandy, not to be taken seriously. Because of his fortune, he's still sought after by the vicious dames and their daughters, but his reputation as a flake has lessened that somewhat. Really, Zeke is a consummate actor who can convince people of anything he wants them to believe. Actually, he's quite brilliant, astute, physically fit, and as reliable as the tax collector. His ability to take on a character allows Zeke to infiltrate anything. The people of the ton are more than willing to talk in front of a dandy, and the lower classes are easily tricked despite their suspicions. He is a popular man among the Mechs, although some of them aren't quite sure he's to be trusted since no one can tell when he's not acting anymore. (Taken By: Aiken4LOTR )Brandon James, called Brandon, 26: Brandon and his twin brother Connor are from the lower classes, taken in by the Bureau for their ability to melt into the shadows and win their way out of any situation, either with words or with a weapon. They are both really intelligent, but Brandon has more cunning than his brother and a streak of righteous anger that can come in handy (but can also lead to problems). Both of Brandon's arms are completely mechanized, though they're disguised to look like flesh (Brandon spent some time in Washington, where cyborg technology is a touch more advanced than in London). They can handle intense heat, cold, sit under a falling anvil, etc, and remain unscathed. It allows Brandon to be the brawn of his duo with Connor, because his arms never get tired and are unnaturally strong. Brandon hates the supernatural, especially the fay, because the fay are the reason Connor is so messed up now. (Taken By: Wiskers )Connor James, called Connor, 26: Brandon's twin has completely mechanized eyes. They are like Jonny's except more so. He cannot actually see like humans do, but he can see souls. And he can tell if a soul is human or supernatural. Connor is forced to constantly wear his goggles, which allow him to navigate as if he weren't pretty much blind, though his vision is still nothing to an average human's. Connor lost his eyes to a brownie who was feeling particularly malicious and poured boiling water onto them while the boy slept. It also caused his face to pucker, so most of his facial structure is now metal of some sort, though he also benefited from a visit to Washington. Unlike Brandon, Connor is soft spoken and a thinker; Brandon was the one who was devastated by his brother's injuries. Connor is closer to Brandon than to anyone else, but he also likes to go and hang with Izzy and Jonny because they're much calmer than his brother, who is given to exploding. Connor has also been wired in much the same way as Izzy, so he can receive communiques from the Shadow Man. (Taken by: Dr Matticakes Myra )Secondary Character: This character CAN BE chosen and added to the team, but is currently a liaison to the team. Charles Hardwick, called Charlie (by Izzy) or Hardwick, 29. Charlie is a Chemist, specializing in explosives/weaponry, but is well-versed in everything that a chemist can do. He spends more time at HQ than most Street Mechs, but is very hands on with the development and implementation of his little inventions, so he insinuates himself into various teams quite often. Hardwick usually prefers to spend time with Izzy and Jonny, both because of his fascination with Jonny's cyborg technology and his affection for Isabella (he was her mentor when she first joined the organization), but he will spend time with anyone willing to have him. His specialty is explosives and weaponry, particularly those that are effective on supernatural spirits. A bit of a mad scientist, Charlie is nonetheless remarkably charming and charismatic, and well liked by just about everyone. He is also Scottish. Any characters that aren't chosen will be handled by the other writers as pseudo-secondary characters. We won't have to write actual additions, but they aren't just going to be random NPCs, so occasional scenes from their POV would be really nice. **Huge thank yous to .Wolfie.
for the righteous banner!** |
| The sun hadn't shown its face in weeks, but that was nothing new for London, whose intrepid citizens donned rain capes with all the aplomb of a desert sheik at the merest hint of bad weather. Problem was, the ghosties always came out with the shadows, so the longer the clouds persisted in dominating the broad dome of the sky, the more work found itself heaped upon their already heavy load. Isabella Barker, called Izzy by just about everyone with a modicum of common sense, hadn't had a day off in almost a month, and the constant patrols were beginning to wear on her thin shoulders. There were circles under her eyes, and her veins were more coffee than blood these days, but until the sun showed itself it would be all the Mechs could do to keep the supernatural types in check. For the past few minutes, Izzy had been staring at the soot-stained brick of a townhouse, specto-goggles pulled down to cover much of her softly pretty face. She'd invented the things herself, using Mech technology and a little bit of ingenuity, and now half the department wanted a pair for themselves. What she looked at now, flipping lenses back and forth in agitation, should not have happened in this area of town. Cheapside was not a bad neighborhood, all things considered. A bit working class, but the sort of working class that had money to spend and something to prove. Not the sort of people who would typically invite a ghost into stay, though Izzy supposed there were bad seeds everywhere. But the idea that they'd gotten this far away from Hyde Park...Izzy shuddered at what that portended. There was a peculiar sort of corrosion in the brick, as if it had dematerialized, melting away all at once and leaving a rotted hole where before had been solid foundation. Izzy rubbed the back of her neck and scratched at the scars crossing the skin beneath her hairline--the remnants of being wired into the Archive and the telepathic network--a nervous habit she'd picked up long enough ago that she didn't even remember how it had started. Over the past month, things had been going very strangely. There had been a disconcerting lack of actual supernatural activity--very few sightings, even fewer attacks--but every day, more and more signs of spook activity left their calling card around town. And more, they were spreading. A year ago, Izzy would never have believed that they'd gotten as far as Cheapside. But here was a sign blatant enough that it might as well be framed out in gold coins. Whatever was happening, it wasn't good. And fact was, it wasn't just the ghosts that had gone into stealth mode. The fay had all but disappeared, as well, sending the elder James twin into apoplectic fits. Brandon pretty much assumed that the Courts were behind everything these days, and their disappearance could only mean they were planning the Apocalypse. As far as he was concerned, Titania was the root of everything from a hangnail all the way to murder, war, and the plague. No matter that the Seelie Queen had entered into a Pact with the human world promising the Courts of Light would refrain from all dealings with the mortal realms. Brandon wasn't subtle enough for that. To him, fay were fay, Seelie or no. To hear him tell it, the Pacts were all an elaborate ruse to give Mab and the Dark Court free reign over humanity, and the entirety of the fay people were just waiting to slide the knife across Victoria's throat. In this case, Izzy had to wonder if maybe his rantings had some merit. Not the Apocalypse, of course, but the idea that the Courts might be in league with the ghosts and the Otherkin. It was suspicious, this sudden disappearance. This being everywhere and nowhere, as if they knew exactly when a Mech would be around and were leading the entire organization into a trap, one bread crumb at a time. There was nothing in the Archives about the cooperation between the various supernatural communities--apparently, it hadn't happened once in the entirety of supernatural history--and the lack of knowledge had Izzy nervous. Nothing good came of the spooks being one step ahead of them. She would just have to wait for Jonny to wake up and confirm what she hypothesized. Her goggles weren't perfect, and she wanted to make sure that she hadn't gotten a bad reading. The trinket was merely a copy--externalized, of course--of her partner's mechanical eye, and she would prefer him to affirm her findings. But he was asleep in the alley, subject to a sleeping draught that she'd surreptitiously given him some time ago, desperate for him to get some rest. He was half mechanical these days, and so stronger than the average human, but the copper and wire parts of him were heavy, and dragging around a steam gun attached to the right side of his chest was not exactly comfortable. The sixteen hour days were taking their toll on him, if the labored pants of his breathing were anything to judge by. He was limping, too, the hinges holding his metal leg to his torso shrieking with every step. There had been days when he'd insisted on carrying Izzy, when the lack of sleep had finally caught up to her, though she knew it took every ounce of his will to keep from grinding to a halt and falling to his knees. Jonny didn't much care for complaining, and he especially didn't care for worrying his partner, so he kept his mouth shut. Izzy worried nonetheless. Jonathan Foster was her best friend, as close as family to her and more. Most street teams were close--people sometimes forgot the twins weren't permanently joined at the hip--but few had the bond that she shared with Jonny. She owed her life to him. After all, it had been keeping her safe that had gotten him blown all to bits, back when she was new to the streets and at the whims of the ghosties' nastiest tricks. Whatever had driven him to do it, Jonny wasn't telling, but that single act between new partners had tethered their souls together forever. So, no matter how much he might try to hide it, Izzy knew how close he was to collapse. It was for that reason she'd jabbed him with a sleeping potion--she'd invented it herself, back in the days before joining a street team--several hours earlier, and stood their post alone. He'd been wobbling on his feet, a month of no sleep and no days off finally winning the war of exhaustion and will, and Izzy had no longer been able to stand the sight of quiet pain in his eyes, so she'd finally forced him to rest. He wouldn't even know she'd done it, truth be told. It was a good serum she'd developed, and the injection sight looked like nothing so much as a bug bite. Jonny had carried her while she slept, head cradled against his chest as they walked the alleys of Cheapside, where they'd been stationed for the past few weeks. The Mechs had gotten them a room at a local inn to do their washing up and eat a few meals, and they'd even managed to get some sleep there on a few nights, but they'd gotten most of their rest on the streets themselves. And the room had only had one bed, which certainly wasn't ideal. Not even necessity made the idea of sleeping in the same bed as Jonny anything less than uncomfortable. Despite the copper covering almost half his face, Jonny was still a man, and sleeping in the same bed as a man made even Her Majesty's only female street mech blush. Theirs was a peculiar relationship, a give and take of sacrifice and selfishness. And the overarching debt that Jonny refused to acknowledge and Izzy refused to let go. He had saved her life, and she returned the favor by saving his humanity. After all, she was the only person in all the world who treated him like the flesh and blood human being he still was, despite a few modifications. It was the least she could do for him; after he'd given it all up to keep her safe. A creaking from the alley let Izzy know that her partner was finally awake. Turning around, Izzy called out to him, her voice sweet despite the grating tones of her speech. “Oy Jonny, come ‘ere and look a’ this.” Izzy flipped the lenses up on her specto-goggles and beckoned to her partner, waving a gloved hand through the steam and grit that seemed to grow from the streets these days. From inside the alleyway behind her, Jonny emerged, sounding like nothing so much as a chorus of angry cats with every metal step. Izzy grimaced, full lips pulled into a moue of concern. She would have to take a look at his joints the next time they had a chance to return to their room. It was funny, actually; she was totally willing to stare, unabashed, at a half naked man--a man that was still a man in all the important places--for the sake of mechanics, but sleeping in the same bed as him for necessity's sake was enough to set her to sputtering awkwardly. So long as she was tinkering, she was able to push aside the discomfort of such intimate dealings. And, truthfully, that was probably a good thing. None of the Docs back at HQ could take care of him anywhere near as well as Izzy could. Jonny Foster was a well-formed man, for all the unfortunate metal covering so much of him. His leg wasn't that noticeable, really, but for the sound of the pistons as he stepped, and Izzy had made some modifications to the original design over the years so the sound it made was almost impossible to hear in the everyday bustle of London's streets. Hidden beneath much-patched tweed pants, one could hardly notice that his leg wasn't flesh and blood at all. The steam gun was harder to hide, and Izzy hadn't managed to design anything that looked like an arm and shot like a gun, so, for now, an unsightly copper mass it remained. Izzy wondered if she would be allowed to design a mechanical arm--just an arm, and not a gun--for him. She'd been witness to her beloved friend's face when he had first seen the twins' modifications, and it had broken her heart. For now, however, the Shadow Man seemed to favor the fire power over the aesthetics. It was why the Yanks did everything related to prosthetics so much better than Britain ever could. Something could be both functional and pleasing to look at; it just cost a little more money and a little more ingenuity. Something Izzy believed Jonny deserved in spades. Hell, the James brothers had been shipped over to America after Connor's accident, though that had been more a matter of necessity. Britain just hadn't possessed the technology necessary to save Connor. Alas, their boss did not approve of such 'frivolous spending' and, until he did, Jonny would continue to bear the brunt of society's prejudices. Until such a time, Jonny would just have to put up with Izzy tinkering with what he had. She'd already made the gun more efficient by improving its cooling system and making it lighter. The day she was allowed to give him an actual arm, however, with actual fingers, she totally would. And she would give him back his eyes. More than anything, she wanted to see two human eyes looking down at her instead of just one, which was a constant reminder of what he'd given up for her. "Whatchoo need, Iz?" His voice was groggy, still half asleep as the last of the draught worked his way through him. He looked well rested, though, which was good; at least one of them should be awake. What made it worse, they had overnight duty in Hyde Park with the rest of their squad. Street teams patrolled in twos, but they belonged to larger squads of six, and Hyde Park duty was the job of a full squad. It meant putting up with listening to Brandon's diatribe about the fay, but it also meant seeing the younger twin and Abraham. The American was always good for a story, and he was the only member of the team who seemed to remember that she was actually a genuine female beneath the menswear. “Dunno, ye crow. That’s why I called you ‘o course. Need that eye o’ yours." Izzy stopped and swallowed. The Mechs had been after her to control her more outrageous speaking. As the only female street mech in Mechs history, the Queen had taken a special interest in her. As such, her speech had to improve. She still had a tendency to swallow her Ts, but her grammar was steadily improving. And Jonny was a real sport about helping her out. "My spectos are pickin’ up on sumfink--something--but I can’ ken what it is.” Looking down at the bricks again, Izzy pushed the lenses back over her green eyes and stared hard. “Really Jonny, I'm pri'ee sure this 'ere is anov--another--sign." Jonny knelt, his mechanical leg groaning in protest, and looked over at Izzy, human eye finally awake and a smile tugging at his lips. The explosion had left those alone, and his teeth, which Izzy considered something of a miracle. He'd always had such an expressive mouth, and its quirks provided great insight into his moods. “A spook, eh? Well, yer the one wit’ the fancy gadgets, so I'm sure ye know yer own answer.” Izzy glared at him, the effect more than ruined by the painfully obvious magnification of her verdant gaze. It made her look even more doll-like than usual, and certainly not menacing. Snorting, Jonny fixed his gaze on the bricks, right where they met with the sidewalk. His left eye, the mechanized replacement, flashed gold and examined the spot. “Well Jonny, I'm right...aren't I?” Izzy reached into her coat and pulled out a pair of gloves and a sample kit, which Charlie had given her for any time they needed something tested back in the labs. It paid to have a friend in Chemistry, especially one that liked to blow stuff up. Between the Chemist and Izzy's own proclivities, there was almost nothing that she couldn’t find in her pockets if she needed to. “Do I need ta swab or wha?” Jonny leaned back after almost a full minute of scanning the spot on the brick wall. This building was only two decades old; there was no reason for it to look like the Roman ruins that surrounded London on all sides. Sure sign that a ghost had yanked it back into the ether as it passed through. “Aye, Iz. Ghostie as sure as I’m a Mech.” Izzy sighed and knelt, the wool of her pants scratching against the skin of her upper thighs. “I’m sure Charlie will wan’ ta see this.” Opening a tube of red liquid, specially concocted to test spirit residue, Izzy dipped a cotton ball into the top and tipped it, allowing just a bit of the chemical to soak into the material. Wiping it against the wall, Izzy watched as the stain disappeared from the bricks, though the hole remained. That would need repairing lest the disease spread. Replacing the stopper on the tube, Izzy pulled out a small jar, dropped the cotton in, and placed everything inside her great coat. “C’mon, let’s get back ta HQ. They'll want to see this, and it'll give us a chance to take a break. I'm so tired I'd sleep through Brandon's fay Apocalypse.” Standing, Izzy patted her chest, feeling the jars press rather painfully into her as they jostled. She was not an ample woman, but she was by no means boyish, either. Her mother had said, before dying and leaving Izzy to fend for herself at fifteen, that Izzy would make a passable wife someday, whatever that meant. Izzy sometimes wondered what her consumptive mother, with whom she'd never been close, would think of her eldest daughter working for the Queen's Mechs and, more, working as a street investigator. She wondered what mother would think of Jonny, the only man in her life with whom she'd ever cultivated a relationship. Jonny nodded. “A chance ta res' in a real bed'll be good. Dunno 'ow I fell asleep 'gainst a wall. Ye shoulda woke me up." "Nonsense," Izzy replied. "Ye needed the sleep an' I needed the chance ta stretch me legs. An' now we get ta go back ta HQ and 'ave us a proper sleep." Pulling her goggles from her head, she slipped them into their pocket and continued to stare at the spot in the wall. "Cheapside. All the way 'ere in Cheapside, Jonny. Jonny shook his head. “’Ow’d they get from Hyde Park all the way ‘ere?” Running his hand over the barrel of his steam cannon, Jonny shuddered. “Bastards, the lot of ‘em.” Izzy nodded, pulling her cap off of her head, revealing a tumbling mass of cinnamon curls that fell to just below her shoulders. She never bothered to put it up like the proper lasses, preferring to keep it bundled beneath whatever hat she'd donned that day. Running her gloved hands through the unruly bundle, Izzy sighed. “Well, Cheapside’s got more’n more folk movin’ on in. Ye know the ghosties prefer the silver spoons. Betcha anyfin’ there’s some collaborators up the ol’ apples and pears--er, stairs.” “Empress needs t’ send the lot of ‘em to the Tower,” Jonny spat. “Anyone ‘oo’d help the ghouls is…despicable.” Izzy looked up at the man as she piled her hair back under the black fabric of her cap. It was never a good idea to reveal too much of her femininity. The job was difficult enough already with doe eyes and a full mouth, not to mention the graceful line of her hips. There was nothing particularly graceful about a man's hips. It had taken her months to perfect walking like one. And though she certainly approved of wearing pants--such freedom!--she didn't know how she felt about walking as if she had something to prove to everyone. It just seemed silly. Shuddering at the thought of British citizens turning against their own Queen, Izzy leaned against the wall as a couple of gentlemen walked past. She touched her cap, but did not remove it from her head. More than anything, it was important that no one knew she was a woman. Mechs could not be girls, leastwise not ones that went out into the streets. The Queen let her stay more out of curiosity than anything else. A scientific oddity to be studied and hypothesized over. Part of the control was in keeping her anonymous. Hell, part of her safety was wrapped up in everyone thinking she was a man. No telling what someone would do if they ever found out. Outside of the Queen and the Mechs themselves, no one--no one--could know she was a woman. Jonny nodded politely at both men, who eyed him warily and then crossed over to other side of the street, fearful as always of cyborgs. “Bloody swells. We’re tryin’ ta keep ‘em safe and they’re runnin’ like a coupla beefs wit’ da blue bottles after ‘em.” Izzy felt and ignored the pain in that statement, instead patting Jonny on the back by way of sympathy. She would have hugged him, but there were limits to being a man among men and, apparently, men just simply did not hug other men. Unless they were Zeke, of course, but Zeke was special. And he seemed to take a special sort of delight in discomfiting other men. “Yer a good man, Jonny. Don’ worry none ‘bout those toffs. We’ve go’ ta get back to HQ. The Underground ain’t slow at this time o’ the day and yer a biggun.” Smiling her most sincere smile, Izzy grabbed Jonny’s hand and brought it to her lips, taking advantage of a brief moment of privacy. “Yer tha mos’ important thing in the world ta me, Jonny. Don’ ya forget it, either. None o' those tossers mean nothin'. ” Jonny blushed, the red standing out even more against the copper covering the top left of his face. “Oy Iz, don’t ge’ all sappy on me, now. If’n I din’t know bettah, I’d say that Zeke ‘as gotten ‘is claws inta ye.” “Jus’ like ye ta ruin a perfectly good momen’ wit yer smart arsed mouth, Jonny Foster. Anyway, back ta Whitehall so Charlie can get his grubby little ‘ands on this swab. We should know ‘oo this ‘ere ghostie is and what they’re doin’ in Cheapside. Plus, we’ve got Hyde Park duty t’night with Abraham and the twins. Always somefin ta do in Hyde Park at nigh’.” Izzy pulled her pocket watch out and snapped it open with her thumb. “Trains’s due in ten minutes. Les go.” Jonny screeched his way down the street--she would have to take the time to fix him up back at HQ--standing behind and just to the left of his partner, who appeared to saunter aimlessly, even as she watched everything in their environs. It wasn’t quite sundown, but there were a few supernaturals that could walk around during the day and they were known for being particularly vicious. Unlike Jonny, who was a walking weapon, Izzy had nothing to rely upon but her senses and her reflexes. If something surprised her, she stood little chance. A sharp pain drilled into the back of her head quite suddenly, as if someone had taken a stiletto to her eye. Wincing, Izzy halted and rubbed at her temples. A message coming in from HQ, from the Shadow Man. Jonny stopped behind her, resting his one human hand on her back in support. Isabella, Shadow Man needs you and Jonathan back here immediately. There’s been an attack on Buckingham Palace. Our spies believe it is a conspiracy beginning in Mayfair. Return before sundown. The pain disappeared as quickly as it had begun, releasing Izzy to breathe easily again. “Shadow Man?” Jonny asked, voice full of concern. He’d been angry upon learning that the Shadow Man had had her wired up upon joining. Being an Archivist was bad enough--no one needed an entire organization's files telepathically wired into their head--but being both an Archivist and receiving dispatches from HQ, that was almost too much to take. Eventually, as he realized that Izzy was more than capable of handling both sets of input, his anger had subsided. Now he just wished that it were him wearing the wire; he was stronger, and had experience with mechanical body parts. He'd told Izzy once that he didn't like the idea of her being in pain. At the time, Izzy had dismissed his concerns, voicing her own need to be useful to the organization; now she sometimes wished he had taken the wire. Izzy nodded by way of answer. “Got ta get back ta HQ. Somefink’s goin’ down at the Palace. Some folk up in Mayfair attackin’ the Queen. Shadow Man wants everyone back.” Clenching her fists, Izzy looked up at her partner and growled through clenched teeth. “Le’s go. Time for the Mechs ta show ‘em what's what.” |
The flash of bluish flare was all the warning they had , bursting through the carriage front: “IZZY DOWN.” He bellowed, grabbing his small partner who’d been facing the wrong way, tucking her under his half-mechanical body. She squeaked in alarm but he had clamped his one hand over her shoulder and had his gun pointed into the supernatural light. Closing his human eye, he watched through his artificial one, seeing through the red tint, the shape of a ghost, dancing, prancing, burning through the Underground. The figure of a woman in long skirts ripped up to her waist so that long, stocking clad legs could be seen running through midair. A ring a ring of rosies and a pocket full of posies... The ghost gaily sang as it dashed past so fast that he couldn’t aim with enough accuracy not to risk the other terrified lives in the carriage. A ring a ring of POISON, your Queen is often NOISOME. She went to bed, off with her head! And Jack came tumbling after – Sobbing followed behind the song, Izzy was wriggling from underneath him but Jonny kept her to his chest as he lurched to his feet, dashing after the blue apparition. “QUEEN’S MECHS. STOP!” Izzy’s grip was tight on his shoulder as he barged through each carriage door, ignoring the tunnels as they streaked through, ignoring the passengers cowering away from him as much as the haunt. Crashing through again Izzy’s voice called out again, “QUEEN’S MECHS. STOP WHERE YOU ARE!” And suddenly the carriage was empty, the ghost was burning white and turning to face them. Gone was the woman with the stockinged legs, Two blind Mechs, two blind Mechs, see how they RUUUUUNNNNN. The mouth was wide, gaping open into a black pit that swallowed all the white glowing light. All thoughts of capturing the thing flew from his mind. Jonny raised his arm and fired. * “Mister Jenks, I did what seemed like needed.” Jonny explained, “Izzy and me, we was comin’ ‘ere when it happen’d. Shadow Man called.” There was a long pause. Mr Jenks was a tall thin man with a thin long face and pale calculating eyes, his circle around the two Mechs ended with him coming to sit behind his desk, half in shadow, glowering with disappointment. “I know that The Shadow Man called you, which is why I’m so surprised that you didn’t try to capture this... singing ghost.” Izzy shifted on his left, “Sir, we did try. But it weren’ nothin’ we ever real seen. I’ weren’ no ghostie like the ones we been used to.” Mister Jenks lent back in his chair, steepling his fingers and looking through them to the two Mechs, “Explain everything.” * “D’ye wanna stop lookin’ black as Newgate over there Jonny?” Izzy chided as he lumbered along beside her, “T’ain’t much like yer to be so serious like.” She was right of course, he was struggling to put one foot in front of the other and with the way that his leg squealed beneath him, he was certain she was trying to ask how he was doing more than anything else. He shook his head and passed her one of his half grins, “Ain’t nothing, Iz, just still wonderin’ at ghosties in Cheapside.” Her lips pursed, either annoyed at his dismissal at her enquiry or in similar concern, “Aye, it’s odd. Makes me fink dem James’ are mayhaps righ’.” “A horror innisen.” He added, trying to lighten the mood that had blackened at the mention of their paranoid colleague, “But yer sayin’ dere’s bin an attack on ‘er Majesty... It’s go’ta be linked.” Blackfriars station was the closest to where they’d been on Cheapside and at this time of day it lacked the numbers of people that made walking difficult. He still noticed the few trawling round, the way their eyes zoned in on him in fear before looking to his diminutive partner with puzzlement. He still was not sure how she passed for a bloke, but he supposed his eyes were biased, being in on the secret and all. Their usual amicable quiet fell between them and he followed his partner comfortably, ignoring the lingering tiredness, thinking harder than usual, worrying over the Queen. They called him a ‘Queens Mech’ and it was easy to see just how literally that was meant when looking at Jonny Foster. He was tall, broad, physically impressive and half made out of metal. It was no strange thing that he caused heads to turn and eyebrows to raise and it was certainly normal for people to wonder what any normal looking human was doing with a lumbering, half-robot monster. But he didn’t normally lumber, not when he was well oiled and maintained. It was the weeks like these, where they rarely slept and never returned to the mechanics that saw his footfalls become heavy and awkward. He wouldn’t pretend that the thought of grease and some attention on these squeaking joints didn’t give him enough energy to compensate for the aches he suffered now. No doubt that coming night, just like any night, they would be chasing the ghost s and the ghouls, the real monsters, the hideous and ferocious fiends of the sort of fiction loved by fools and romantics. Tonight, between Paternoster and Poultry, but whatever it was that had targeted Buckingham Palace... “It ain’ wrong to fink dis bin in de works a while, Iz?” He mused aloud, “Buckingham bein’ so close to Hyde Park... an’ wid all of our cases seein’ traces all the way round here.” She looked up at him, her large pretty eyes understanding what he was trying to say, that this call felt like they’d been waiting for it for weeks, that whatever it was brewing felt like it had just been waiting for its moment, “No. And I know we bin seein’ signs. Yer noticed ‘em yerself Jonny, wid that inscription last week.” Jonny couldn’t read that well. He had learnt from old newspapers discarded and read aloud to him by the other kids kipping around London. But the other week his specto-eye had landed on blood-painted graffiti, declaring the Queen and country had lost its way, that change was in the air. It wasn’t a crime that they were authorised to look into, not being a supernatural crime, but it had unsettle d Jonny and thusly unsettled his partner. He’d asked Izzy to enquire at the precinct whether anything had come of it. So far nothing had, only confirmation that it was human blood from at least three different sources. The lack of sulphur, ectoplasm, ghost residue or any other indicator of foul play meant that that was all the information she could wheedle out of the blue-collared officer. So despite their days being much the same as usual, finding evidence of some kind of spook in Paternoster, discovering what was probably a newly birthed golem on Fleet Street, identifying a new bite taken out of the wall in Cheapside... there was only the usual unusual, simply spread outwards from their normal habitats in parks and slums, their continual and bloody binges rattling the confidence of London. The fact that it was Cheapside though... that there were these instances, the writing on the wall, the evidence of golems... Cheapside was over four miles from Hyde Park or any of the other hot spots for supernatural activity. Cheapside was full of ‘toffs’, as Izzy liked to put it. Cheapside wasn’t ghostie friendly. Or it hadn’t been. Being told to hurry to HQ because of an attack on the Palace, that was the last straw for Jonny. His mind whirred and he was sure that it must rumble with the amount of evidence churning round and round, trying to connect. He was smart, that was why they’d hired him over some of the other brawn. He was the guy who saw things in a different light, who twisted and turned the rubix cube until ever side was in alignment. Izzy was still smarter, but she had to be, being the exception to the all-male rule. But even though words fluttered like birds across a page for Jonny Foster, and even though people found it hard to see past his hulking metal body, he was the one that saw patterns in puzzles and put them together like no one else. The rattle of the train brought him to attention. Izzy chuckled, “In yer own ‘ead’ dere?” “Aye. And not gettin’ much sense from nothing.” He admitted, again a hint of a smile crossing his face, “But yer wincin’ like that Shadow Man’s still in yers. Sommat comin’ trew?” Izzy knew his thoughts on her wired-brain, knew that he hated seeing her in pain and her smile was only slightly hollow this time, “Nah Jonny, I’d tell yer if dere was. Is jus’the usual.” He called them After-Spasms, where her head throbbed after she received a call, “I’ve some of dem ‘Merican pills yer can ‘ave .” “Those are fer yer joints. Yer not to be givin’ them to me.” He frowned. His joints. His artificial joints with their artificial nerve endings that felt rust like a scab constantly being pulled off. Not that he’d tell Izzy those details, but he knew that she knew. They stepped onto the train that pulled up. * “So you receive our message, decide to take the train back to base, ponder the benefits of returning, contemplate the cases you have been receiving and then, when the first clue falls into your laps you shoot it.” Mr Jenks continued after Jonny drew breath, his voice was low and dripping with scorn, “Jonny Foster, this is quite unlike you.” “Sir, the thing changed shape.” Izzy interrupted, leaping to defend her partner, “It were jus’ a ghostie but then it did sommat, is mouth became it all.” “Mister Jenks,” Jonny laid a hand on her shoulder, “When I shot tha’ fing, it didn’ do wha’ dem ghosties do. It didn’t dissipate. It shattered.” “Shattered?” “Aye.” Jonny nodded to Izzy, who withdrew a collection of tubes from her bag, “We collect’d somma dem pieces too, is like is a glue.” Mr Jenks took one tube between two fingers and rolled it between them, looking at the strange gunk inside, “It’s almost like flesh.” “Aye.” Jonny knew they were digging themselves out of the grave, “But it were passin’ trew the carriages like smoke.” Mr Jenks nodded, nodded, nodded. His brows had furrowed so his eyes were obscured behind dark, wiry hair, “You two, join the other teams. Mr Hewitt-Hayes will be debriefing you on the Palace assault. Neither of you, however, are to mention this to anyone else. I will inform our esteemed master and he will no doubt call upon you soon.” |
| Abraham Shaw had seen the elephant. All four years of it, in fact, after he'd joined up at fifteen. He'd pretended to be older—seventeen, actually, though by the time he was seventeen, they were taking boys as young as twelve to serve the Confederacy—and had been there all the way from First Manassas to Appomattox Court. Early on, he'd been under Thomas Jackson, called Stonewall for his resilience and steadfastness, but his quick eye, crack shot, and skill in the saddle got him reassigned to John Singleton Mosby in 1863. Good thing, too, because Stonewall Jackson didn't survive that year, and Abraham wasn't sure he could have handled watching his hero die such an ignominious death. He'd taken a bullet to the shoulder—sad thing was, Abraham was pretty sure it had come from one of his own men, just like what got Stonewall—in 1864, and missed most of the latter half of the year. Unfortunate, that; if he'd been up to it, Mosby would have let him in on the big Greenback Raid that October. A last hurrah, since everyone knew the bloody Yanks were gonna win the war by that point. A lot of men had nightmares about the war. The sound of musket fire could set an otherwise stoic gentlemen to shaking unaccountably, carnage dancing before their eyes once more. Some guys went back to find old friends only to find out they'd never come home. Disease and starvation killed their families, and Sherman burnt their towns and their fields. Hatred burning in their hearts, they nevertheless couldn't rid themselves of the terror of that great Civil War. Abraham didn't have those nightmares. And he didn't have hatred burning up inside of him. Not for Sherman or Grant or even Lincoln. He'd wept for the old man on that cold April morning, and wept for the future of his beloved nation. He knew the war wasn't over. He knew the war would never be over. Not as long as there was a United States of America would the Civil War ever really be over. After the fighting, Abraham wondered what to do. He'd become a man, but he had nothing to return to; his town still stood, but the economy was ravaged and the population decimated. And yet there was no one to put it back together; simmering prejudices spilled over, and the south became a land of martyrs suffering for the Glorious Cause. The women donned their Widow's Weeds and mourned their losses, and the men plotted ways to gain politically what they had lost on the field of battle. It disgusted Abraham. They had lost; the paradigm had shifted, and the Industrial North had emerged victorious from the smoke clouds and screaming. It was time for the South to admit they had lost and, for once, to look forward instead of behind; to see where they could go instead of what they had been. God had favored Union. Economics had favored Union. Hell, even the English had proved they favored Union when they dithered on supporting the South. Perhaps it was now time for the South to favor Union, as well. So Abraham had done the unthinkable; he'd followed his Commander into the Republican Party. Like Mosby, he'd decided the future was more important than impotent rage, and done the practical thing. In the clash of identities, he had fought for Virginia; now, when Virginia had lost, he would fight for America. Virginia, of course, turned him out. His family disavowed him, his town shunned him. They pointed to Stonewall Jackson's grave and called Abraham a traitor to everything the man had stood for. A traitor to everything the South stood for. It was at that point that Abraham realized something: Stonewall Jackson was no longer his hero. He'd become a man, and shed the idealism of his youth. He had emerged from the war a man of few words and even fewer displays of emotion. Not cold, certainly, for he could still feel the full gamut of emotions, but reserved in his expression of them; he was not a demonstrative man. But he did feel keenly a sense of honor, and a sense of duty. And a sense that he could work toward a better tomorrow, built from the rubble of the past. He would do what was right, whenever he could. At whatever cost. “Shaw, may I see you a moment, please?” An effete English voice wafted down upon him, as careful in its diction as any cavalryman was with his horse. “It seems we have a situation brewing at Buckingham.” Ezekiel Monroe was not who Abraham would have chosen for a partner. The man was a fop, as ridiculous in his appearance as Abraham was plain. He suspected the Brits had done it just to discomfit him; they were rather effusive in their disdain for all things American. For Abraham's part, he wasn't sure just how he could trust a nation of people who pronounced Lieutenant with an 'F' that wasn't there, and who stared at him when he pronounced it properly, as it was spelled. It wasn't natural. “Suh. What sort of...situation?” “It seems,” Zeke replied, running his fingers through his hair, “that it has been attacked.” Abraham was up in an instant, his rifle against his shoulder almost before he realized it. “Ah assume it was some sort of spirit, as we have been called in.” Zeke stared up at him; Abraham was a particularly tall man. If his parents hadn't made him unremarkably brown, it might have gotten him killed in battle. Fortunately, his brightest feature was mostly invisible, unless he decided to display it, and Abraham preferred to keep quiet. “Indubitably, my good sir. Indubitably. Can't get anything past your Yankee sharpness, can we?” Abraham was used to the constant reminders of his nationality. It still stung a bit being called a Yank—he remained, after all, a Southerner—but he supposed to anyone outside the nation, anyone from America could feasibly be called a Yank. What bothered him, though he would never admit it aloud, was the general consensus amongst these Brits that all Americans were the same. That all of them were uncouth farm boys, wide-eyed and so terribly uncivilized. He supposed it was because Americans were direct and open and they certainly didn't dither about the way so many of the Englishman he'd met seemed to do. Here in England, the form mattered more than the content, and one's birth had more to do with things than one's ability. America wasn't perfect—far from it—but in that respect, Abraham was convinced the 'Yanks' were far superior to their old-fashioned cousins across the pond. “Ah daresay even a Frenchman could pierce the clouds of that mystery, suh,” he replied after a moment. It was easiest, he'd found, just to find common ground in a shared distaste for the French. “Is your Queen all right? Was the attack successful?” “If it had been, things would not be as calm as they are now, Abraham,” Zeke replied, leaning with calculated indolence against the door frame. The spy was a consummate actor, and quite the dramatist. He seemed to thrive upon his fancies, in fact. One could never be sure that Ezekiel was living in the real world at any given time, or giving some performance upon some imagined stage. “But the Shadow Man has recalled our Squad. Apparently, we're to be the ones who look into it. We'll need those eyes—and that gun—of yours.” “They are, as always, at your service. The Bureau wishes to cooperate with the Mechs has much as possible and in whatever manner we may.” Zeke stared at him for a moment. “So earnest, you Americans. Come. I'm sure the others are back by now. I want to see how many times Brandon can blame the Fay in one meeting. I've got a bet with Izzy that it'll be at least ten.” Abraham smiled. He was fond of Isabella, though not entirely approving of her place in the organization. She was tough as brass tacks, though, and sharp as a whip; and she was as straight shooting as any American, for which Abraham was surprisingly thankful. It was hard being a stranger in a strange land. He'd never realized, of course, that England counted as a strange land. ***** It wasn't often that the whole squad got called together to HQ. Usually, they met once a week for Hyde Park duty—because nothing smaller than a full group of six was permitted in that park after dark—and prowled the confines, keeping the ghosties in as much as possible. It was the heart of London's supernatural activity and, thus, the heart of England's. Keeping everything in was just about all they could do of a night. But it was sometimes quite fun, Izzy thought as she followed Jonny down the corridor to one of the many debriefing rooms. They were the only squad here right now; everyone else was out on the streets, cleaning up and calming everyone down. For whatever reason, the Shadow Man had decided to put them onto the investigation, or else they'd be out there right now, as well. Instead, they were here learning whatever it was that the higher-ups knew about this most unprecedented attack on the Queen's person. Izzy thought it would be rather an adventure to go after a real villain for once, instead of the usual hauntings. Between the attack on Buckingham and the...shattering ghost whose remains were even now being run through a gamut of tests and experiments, Izzy was passing sure that this wasn't typical ghost activity. And then there was the ghost in Chelsea, or even ghosts, Izzy wasn't sure. No doubt the others would have their own stories to tell when they all got together. It made the silence even more ominous, as if it was just the quiet before the storm. As if the ghosts themselves had been planning, preparing...running the Mechs a merry chase to keep them from guessing the pattern. Definitely a real villain, then. And definitely a real adventure. “You will wait in here,” whirred one of the clockwork men, its features obscured in shadow as all the servants of the Shadow Man were. “The others are arriving.” Izzy followed Jonny through the door. The debriefing rooms were small, with room only for a single squad and a debriefing agent, but comfortable for all that. Longer than they were wide, there was enough room for two small couches and two lounging chairs as well as for people to sit in them, provided that they weren't overly large. Even Jonny could fit, if he sat at the back, closest to the door, which seemed to suit him fine. They were surprisingly red, rather like a brothel in Izzy's opinion, though of course she'd never actually seen the inside of one. The boys tended to prefer those assignments, and to keep her away from them. Abraham, in particular, seemed concerned that she not mingle with that sort of society. The American was peculiar in that regard, though Izzy didn't mind. Really, it was like having a number of older brothers always looking after her, and Abraham was the eldest and most protective of them all. Izzy loved to hear his stories of America, particularly New York, where he'd been stationed before coming over to London for a spell. It sounded like such a grand city, and such a grand country, though she suspected that Abraham was hiding the bad parts from her. She supposed she couldn't blame him; she probably wouldn't want to tell anyone about the bad parts of England, either. “Of course you two are the first back. Connor's probably dragging Brandon by the scruff before he goes on a one man vendetta against the Fay.” Zeke's easy drawl tickled its way into her ears, and Izzy smiled even before Jonny moved aside to let her into the room. She and the spy had an on-going bet regarding the elder of the James twins and his notorious hatred for the Faerie Courts. Every time she lost, Zeke forced her to dress like a lady and accompany him on the town; every time he lost, Izzy forced him to teach her one of his tricks. She had learned a lot of new tricks over the years, and worn a dress only once. “They were farv—farther—away, I think. Me'n Jonny were only up Cheapside way,” Izzy replied, speaking slowly to keep her diction under control. “We been back a 'alf hour now, but 'ad us a meetin' with Jenks.” “What did the toad want now?” Zeke was lying on one of the couches. He'd get up as soon as the space was required, but for now he preferred to laze. It was part of the persona, he said, and it was always easier to stay in character when dealing with the higher-ups. One of those lessons she'd learned. “I kilt a ghost on the Underground,” Jonny replied, voice soft. “Jenks were wonderin' why, is all.” “Strange ghostie it were, too,” Iz continued. “It shattered all glass like when 'it instead of dissipatin' like a reg'lar ghostie. And we found signs o' spirits in Cheapside, too. After all this quiet, all this is one day is passin' strange.” “Well, ah imagine that'll be what we auh heah to find out.” Abraham looked up from one of the chairs, where he was cleaning his Winchester for what seemed like the thousandth time since Izzy had met him. He was compulsive about keeping that gun clean, to the point that Izzy wondered if it wasn't some tick he'd developed fighting in that rather nonsensical Civil War of theirs. He rarely talked about it. Izzy didn't blame him. “Or they'll tell us they don't know and we're the ones meant to find out,” Zeke supplied. “I rather imagine it'll lean in that direction. It usually does.” Izzy moved to sit on the couch next to Zeke, forcing him to move his legs. No one wanted to sit next to Brandon, least of all Zeke, so she always did the favor of sitting with him and leaving Connor to deal with his brother. Unless Abraham could be persuaded to move to the other couch and rescue the younger twin, which was just as likely to happen. Dealing with his brother's anger issues was Connor's cross to bear, but the rest of the squad pitched in whenever they could. “So, someone went after dear ol' Vic,” Zeke joked. “They are either particularly dangerous or excessively stupid. Or both.” “Let us assume the formuh and we'll be prepared for whatevah they have planned for us,” Abraham replied, his dark eyes reaching across the room and boring into everyone as he spoke. The Virginian had a depth about him, an invisible pull that could command a room even from a place of stillness. Without even a word, Abraham could tame a crowd, or silence a maddening cacophony; he had merely to turn his gaze upon a person and they would bend to his inexorable will. Izzy wondered where he had learned that. She thought it must be the war; he had fought all four years of it, he'd said once when she had asked, and most of it under the command of a man who operated tangential to the actual battlefield plan. Independent thought and quiet action, Abraham had once told her; that's what Mosby's valued. Abraham's power stemmed from his gravitas and from the depth of terrifying experience he'd garnered for himself. Was being a Mech anything like being a soldier in a war? Or was it easy compared to facing down a row of guns and knowing you were most likely riding to your death? “I seem to have beat the debriefing officer. All glory to me.” Izzy jumped up and launched across the room, wrapping her arms around the slender waist of the man who'd just entered the room. “Charlie! What are you doing here?” The Scotsman returned the hug with an amused chuckle. “Yer dealin' with a criminal mastermind. A bit o' mad scientist is in order, is it not?” The four men in the room were somewhat surprised to hear Izzy squeal in delight, except maybe Jonny, who just winced slightly at the sound. “Yer on the team! Charlie's on the team! That means we're gonna blow stuff up!” Charlie had been Izzy's mentor when she'd first joined the Mechs. He'd nursed her through the surgery—both times—and taught her how to access the Archive using only the slightest mental command. Charlie had also—against regulation—given Izzy her healthy scientific curiosity. She'd always had a knack for building things, but Charlie had taught her to make them useful. He had also instilled in her a very healthy love of explosives, which she was rarely encouraged to indulge. “That was the most feminine thing I've ever seen that young lady do in all the years I've known her,” Zeke commented, eyebrow raised. “So there's a bit of the woman in her, after all.” Izzy's reply was cut off by the entrance of the James twins, followed very closely by the debriefing agent. “If you all would settle down and take a seat,” he began, voice fussy and precise, wire glasses gleaming in the light of the lamps. “There is a lot of information I need to pass along to you and not much time. You're to be out on the streets today.” “Investigating what, exactly?” Zeke asked. “Who tried to blow up Buckingham Palace?” The agent turned and stared impassively at the spy. “Investigating the attempted murder of Queen Victoria and the overthrow of the British Empire.” |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
