Jack rapped his knuckles on the heavy wood exterior door of York's laboratory, glancing down at his pocket watch as he adjusted the leather case under his right arm.

From inside the laboratory, he heard a clatter of something falling to the floor... then swearing... and then several smaller crashes. A long string of more swearing got louder, then stopped, and the door swung open.

York's hair stood out at all angles, his glasses askew on his face. Something... green, dripped from the bottom of his apron. He was breathing hard, and he glared at Jack as a few tendrils of smoke curled up from behind him.

"Err, pardon, Mr. York, but I believe you may be on fire," Jack said, spinning his finger in the air to indicate that York should turn around.

"Again?" Exasperated, York glanced over his shoulder, turning like a dog chasing its tail trying to see his own back. A small orange flame smoldered toward the middle of York's back, slowly consuming the heavy fabric of his stained "white" coat. Jack reached out and smacked at York's coat with his leather case, extinguishing the flame.

"Fourth time this week," York explained, straightening his glasses and coughing a bit. He stepped back from the doorway to let Jack inside. "I've been experimenting with some particularly volatile compounds lately and I just can't get the formulation stable!"

York turned back to look at Jack, who stood at the doorway clutching his leather case. "Wait, why are you here?"

Jack blinked. "We had a meeting arranged. I said I would meet you here at noon today to make sure we had everything in order for the applicants."

York furrowed his thick eyebrows at Jack, thinking hard. "And I believe I said that you could take care of it and that I didn't want to be bothered."

"Well, you are being bothered, Mr. York, as I won't be doing this alone. You have indispensible knowledge about it that will assist me, and the more assistance I have, the sooner I will be done with this dirty business!" Jack shook his case at York.

York merely smirked, stepping around a table covered with shallow metal trays filled with different colours and viscosities of liquid. He walked to an area at the back of the lab, next to a writing desk piled high with shifting towers of papers, and sat in his old leather chair, well worn and patched and bleeding stuffing at the bottom edge of the cushion.

He gestured for Jack to sit in the chair opposite him, rickety and wooden and currently containing a device that may or may not have been powered by ants. Jack gingerly lifted the glass domed device and placed it on the floor nearby, then sat. He leveled York with a serious stare and opened the leather case, removing a sheaf of papers.

"I've decided to invite them all on the expedition," Jack stated simply.

York blinked in surprise. "All of them? Even the child?"

Jack shrugged. "With Mentmore's funding we should be able to cover wages and expenses for everyone, and the more minds and bodies we have on the problem, perhaps the faster it will be solved."

York shook his head slowly but stayed silent. He began rummaging in his pockets. "I suppose that's your decision, Mr. Prism." Finding a stub of a cigar, he lit it and puffed on it quietly.

"I've already sent letters... and a messenger to that one... unsavoury fellow."

"Very well. When do we get under way?"

"In one week's time, noon next Monday... they are to meet with us here."

"Here?! I can't have them all in here. They'll touch my things! A child in my lab? No, no! Out of the question!" York gestured wildly with his cigar, puffing smoke from beneath his moustache.

"We'll push the tables together there, and shift those shelves and have room for everyone. Besides, it won't be for long. We'll be setting off soon enough."

York glowered, hunching into his chair. "I don't like the idea one bit."

"Where else do you propose I put them? I haven't room for it, and it's not like we're part of any reputable establishment."

York smirked. "But you are, Mr. Prism. You are. The Royal Society for the Advancement of Science is a reputable establishment, and as the Shepherd you are entitled to all of the rights and privledges of any member of the Society, and more."

"And, what, I should just walk into their offices, say, 'Hello there, I'm the Shepherd... you know, from the secret inner circle? Yes, can I have a room for the day please? Large one, thank you.'? I'm sure that'd go over well."

York chuckled. "Well, of course not. But..." He turned, leaning over and taking a sheet of paper from one of the piles on the desk. He turned it over, deemed it unnecessary, and found an inkwell and pen. On the empty side of the page, he quickly scrawled a symbol. He handed the paper to Jack. "Show them this. They'll know what it means."

Jack squinted at York curiously, looking down at the paper. "What does this mean?"

"It's your pass inside."

((All right everyone! Sorry for a bit of a delay - been a bit of a rough weekend for me.

Your characters have all recieved correspondence from Mr. Prism inviting you to join him at York's laboratory. You have been issued a small amount of money to pay for your trip there, and been advised to pack lightly, but to bring clothing suitable for travel. You may not be returning for some time, so remember to tie up all your personal affairs. Those who are a bit far away may have to find some rush passage to make it there in time - perhaps aboard a dirigible.

It is now the following Monday morning, the day everyone is set to meet - your characters will be in town, readying themselves for the meeting with Mr. Prism. You should take at least your first few posts to explore your character and their feelings getting ready for this new adventure. You can give a little more back story and stuff for your characters and kind of get into the feeling of them before interacting with others. When you're ready, begin making your way to York's laboratory on the edge of town.

It is a wood building in the middle of a field, in an area on the outskirts of town devoted mostly to tanneries and fish processing. Those buildings are packed tightly together, creating an awful stink, but York's lab is isolated, and most of the trees on the small piece of property appear to have been burnt, or have otherwise lost their leaves. It is somewhat dilapidated, and there are several unlabeled metal drums sitting beside the front door. On that door is a note which will direct you instead down several blocks to a more official building. You will likely want to make the trip on foot, as it's not far. The door to the laboratory is locked, and if you chose to knock, there would be no answer or sound from within.

You will then begin to make your way toward the Royal Society's offices. You will likely run into other applicants along the way as you arrive at York's lab (assuming you do so on time), and can begin interacting with one another at that point.

Remember, we're using 3rd person perspective ("Jack said..." rather than "I said...") and we have a 3 post limit per day. Also, if you are interacting with someone else, please bold their character's name in the text, but please only bold it the first time it shows, not every time. If you have any questions or need a bit of guidance let me know - and have fun!))

Two figures ran in the heavy after-work traffic rush, dodging billowing skirts and sprinting in between carts, scaring horses along the way.

The first figure was a boy, face stained in soot, hair thick with clumps of dirt and a wide grin on his face. He laughed as he pushed aside a group of seamstresses going home, making them squeal and curse. He giggled as he jumped over the cane of an old man, who tried to make him stop by tripping him up and yelled "Keep up you!" to the figure following him.

The second figure was, presumably, a girl. She wore a makeshift dress, made out of heavy rags, and a greenish shawl from which a few blonde tendrils peeked. She breathed heavily as she tried to keep up with the cackling boy. She dared a glance behind her and smiled to herself. Her pursuer was losing ground, he was nearly half a furlong away now, and she could only faintly hear his shoutings of "Stop! Thieves! The little rats got at me again!"

As she looked forward, the back of the boy was suddenly right in front of her. She shrieked, skidded and ran into him. He pulled her up and hissed:"Rozzers!" Ahead, two policemen were slowly coming their way, tipping their hats to passersby and twirling their batons. Behind them, the shouts of the baker's boy grew louder again. The boy stared at his companion. She frantically looked round and in an instant found her escape.

"They haven't seen us!" she whispered and pulled the boy into an alley by the back of his shirt. The little street was narrow and smelled heavily of urine. The girl shuffled over the unhardened floor, stepping over debris and what she hoped was a sleeping man, dragging the boy after her. "Do you even know where we are?" he wailed, "If it's a dead end we're trapped!"

He was right, of course, she thought to herself. By the sound of it, the baker's boy had met the rozzers and was making his complaint. "Of course I know where we are" she said dismissively, walking resolutely and flicking her eyes left and right, looking for a way out. There was always an alley splitting off, or a pipe, or a door, or *something*.

"Come on come on" she hissed under her breath, as she heard the rozzers starting down the alley. And then she saw it, a broken window halfway up the wall. It was small, and wouldn't fit big bulky men with batons. She pointed up silently. The boy routinely put his hands together to give her a lift up.

She scrambled head first through the window, cutting her hand on the frame, and fell into pitch blackness. She inhaled sharply, clutching her hand, and tried not to scream as something hairy and wet slid past her.

"Sarah!" The boy was still outside, scrabbling to get in. She got unsteadily to her feet and, finding his hand on the window frame, pulled him in. "Jeez, what took you" the boy started, but he was broken off by a hand thrust over his mouth. The children sat there, in the dank and warm darkness, waiting for the policemen to walk past.

After what seemed like an eternity, the grumbling sound of men talking faded away, and Sarah got up and peeked through the window. "All clear" she said, and the two of them climbed outside.

As they made their way through the city in the dimmening light, the boy opened his jacket and took out his prize loot for the night: a flaky pastry filled with meat. "You know, they say these are made of dead gegors and rats." He grinned and bit it. "Don't be gross, Jack" the girl said "Beggar meat wouldn't be worth a ha'penny for an ounce."

"But the rats are good eatin'" the boy chuckled, and stopped in the flickering amber streetlight. "This is your stop, m'lady" he said. He looked up at the large, looming building and shivered. In the chapel next to it, a mad, high-pitched bell started clanging. "Just in time" Sarah said, "when they leave mass I can sneak in with the rest of 'em."

Jack made a face. "They'll beat you anyway. Don't know why you keep up with it. You can come with me, you know. We have food, and we can walk up to the harbor and watch the sailors fight." Sarah sighed and looked at the massive stone building. Its small, barred windows made it look like a prison, which, in fact, it had been at some point. It still had the royal crest above the door and a latin phrase. One of the older girls had told her it meant 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here'. Sarah, who had never learnt latin, was inclined to believe her.

"I'll take a warm kife over a cold piece of stone anyday, Jack. Freedom isn't worth that much." she said. The boy looked at her wearily. "Have it your way" he whispered, and ran off. Sarah hid around a corner, waiting for the throng of children to leave chapel.

((OOC: Picture changed. I'll have my post up in one second.))

Tap tap tap.

A young street urchin stood outside Apartment 5-2-1. He'd been collared off the streets of Tokyo for pickpocketing, but managed to smart-talk his way out of having his hands chopped off by the furious police man. Thank the gods, a passing post-man had assured the sergeant that he would find the boy suitable work to keep him occupied. Handing him dozens of packages, letters and postcards, he had sent the urchin scurrying off to deliver them across the vast city. His current task was to deliver a letter written in English. He had hardly learnt basic hiragana and katakana of the Japanese alphabets - let alone a different language entirely. Having asked several wise, wealthy and snobby-looking men and women to translate the address, he had finally learnt the name and location of this letters addressee. Mr. Steel-san. He lived in a dismal little apartment, close to the Emperors palace. And now the boy had neared the place, he discovered that it reeked of some chemical. Almost like the rice-wine spirit sake, although the boy had only smelt sake when drunken men left their tea-houses and came to beat the boy for further entertainment when the Geishas failed to amuse them.

Inside Apartment 5-2-1, Elijah lay spread-eagle on the tatami mat, his head fogged up with chloroform. He vaguely wondered what he was doing here in Japan - and where the devil was his assist? He had sent the boy out nearly a week ago to post a letter back to England, and the squire still hadn't returned! Elijah groaned, trying once again to push himself up into a more comfortable position. He had retrieved the documents Matsukata-sama required yesterday, and was now dismissed from his services - not without a hefty wad of Yen in one pocket and a curious deep blue glass bottle in the other. And how did he come to inhale chloroform? Ah - it was inside the bottle. He had uncorked it, and soon after collapsed. No time to ponder why that was now, an important letter was expected. He pulled his numb body over to the dresser, and faced his reflection in the dusty, cracked mirror. That darn hair, short yet long enough to fall in front of his eyes in a most annoying manner. It was a dark blonde colour too, not the sharp black of the Japanese around here. In the short time he had been here, it had gained him many glances of fear or suspicion whilst walking the streets of Tokyo. He also had a peculiar look to him. He wasn't bad-looking at all - on the contrary, he was handsomely striking with those piercing blue eyes. But his face seemed too experienced, too wise for one of a mere twenty-six years. Perhaps it was the glint of courage and adventure in his eyes. Nevertheless, he looked quite groggy today, after that surprise fix of anaesthetic. Nothing a sharp inject of caffeine couldn't fix. Now, if only he could find the coffee..

Tap tap tap.

Forcing himself up on his feet, Elijah stumbled towards the door. He cursed the visitor, quietly. Why on Earth would somebody visit at this hour of the morning? He pushed back the strands of hair that hung in front of his face, and opened the door to find a small, filthy urchin. The boy looked no older than eleven, and held a letter in one hand, presumably addressed to Elijah. The boy bowed deeply, muttering an "ohayo gozaimasu"

"Good morning to you too, boy. That letter - is it for me?"
"Hai" The boy bowed again, this time holding the letter out at arms length. Elijah took the letter from his grubby hands, brushing the dirt off the envelope and opening it. He turned away from the grubby ragamuffin in the doorway and read the letter three times over. When he was eventually done, he turned back to the boy.
"Boy, what's your name?"
"Ryu" he stuttered in reply.
"Ryu-chan, want to earn yourself some extra pocket money?" Ryu looked at him eagerly. He had clearly never been given pocket money before, nor understood what it was - but the word 'money' stood out like a flag. Elijah frowned. Damned assist disappearing like that. I suppose I have no choice in this. "I need you to head down to the British Embassy here and inform them of my departure. Ask to pass this message on to a man named Featherstone" - he handed Ryu a slip of paper -"Then I must have an airship booking immediately to London. Here, take this and get me a ticket. And hurry, boy! I don't have all the time in the world!" He shooed the boy away, thrusting a wad of paper money into his hands.

Once Ryu had departed, Elijah gave the apartment a once-over for his posessions. He pulled up the mat and patted the floor for the loose floorboard. On finding it, he pulled it up and removed a brass pistol, an elaborate dagger made of some bluish metal and a string of multicoloured beads. He then crossed the room to the kitchen sink. With a single easy tug, he pulled the sink from its rotting frame and from the gaping hole, removed yet another set of daggers, a small leather bag, three more pistols and a strange pair of green-glass goggles. He strapped his various weapons and accessories to his person, with daggers in his boots, guns secured to his belt and even more hidden elsewhere. Finally, he opened a dusty cabinet and removed a black trilby hat and a bottle of absinthe. Elijah then took to pacing the floor, waiting for Ryu to return.

He didn’t care how much his father thought he needed this job. He didn’t care how much it ended up paying. He didn’t care that it would be a rewarding experience in the end. The blasted train was hot, and all Bon-Hwa knew was that he wanted off the bloody thing. Babies wailed in the arms of their mothers, not the soft, gurgling fuss, but the piercing screeches that made you want to take a gun to your head. This case applied particularly to the twins just beside him. They seemed to be in a contest with one another, their faces painted with a scarlet flush spawn from their consistent screams. When one let out a cry, the other one shrieked ever louder deepening that red until they looked like baby dolls whose heads were replaced with radishes. I’m going to kill myself before this train ride is over.

Bon-Hwa released a heavy sigh. His father insisted that he travel within the commoners section, and bought the second cheapest ticket he could find. ‘This is for you, son! To better your view on the people who mean so much to our work!’ Dak-Ho had cried, beaming. This did absolutely nothing to ‘better his view’ on the common folk. In fact, it made it much, much worse. He would give anything to be with his mother instead of on this stuffy train, where he had nothing to do but sit there listening to the symphony of screeching babes whose mothers did nothing to try to shut them up but bounce them a little in their arms.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice beside him called his attention. He looked up at the young woman with the twins for the first time. She had the appearance of someone around his age, with soft features and messy brown hair that managed to be charming around her kind face. “Could you reach in my bag and hand me a bottle?” She had a thick accent, perhaps French? Bon-Hwa glanced around at his feet, spotting a large, tattered brown bag nestled just under the seat. He dug around in the bag for a few seconds, and withdrew a slightly warm bottle.

“Thank you,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. My hands are just kind of full, as you can see.” She let out a light chuckle as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

As he handed the young woman the bottle, he cocked a brow and questioned, “Are these two yours?”

The girl laughed again, “No, no. These are my nieces. I have to keep up with them for my brother while he’s out of town. I see a lot of them,” she affectionately pinched one of the girl’s cheeks, “he’s a very busy man, isn’t he Layce?” The little girl just gurgled as she happily sucked on the bottle.

Bon-Hwa’s only response was to provide a curt nod. He wasn’t in to conversations with strangers. Their lives meant nothing to him, his life meant nothing to them. He glanced out the window. They were traveling through what appeared to be a dilapidated sector of the city. The edifices here stared with broken eyes upon the train, and some crumbled in on themselves—defeated. Many of the street lamps were rusted to the bone, some even distorted so far as to crumple over in a submissive stance. He didn’t like that the train was slowing in this area.

“Well, this is my stop,” the girl smiled, rising. She halted for a moment, and looked back with confusion at Bon-Hwa, “Are…you not coming?” Bon-Hwa wearily eyed the look of concern dancing in her features. He shook his head. “Oh. I see,” she muttered, her eyes held a strange new look, something of…sympathy? “Well..g-good luck!” Bon-Hwa watched with a bewildered expression stapled to his face. Why had the girl eyed him with distress as she had? He watched dejectedly as nearly all of the remaining riders began to clear out of the cart. Again, he groaned, burdened by the newfound distrust in his final destination.

To calm the nerves blossoming in his chest, Bon-Hwa rummaged about in his bag and retrieved a small, square box. He flicked the top open and eased out a hand rolled cigarette, placing the soothing beast to his lips. At the caress of the smoke, an instant comfort encased him and he felt a great deal more relaxed. He allowed his head to fall back against the leather of the seat and his eyes wandered across the landscape. He’d never seen so many street urchins scrambling about in one place. They were everywhere, like insects coating a discarded sugar lump. He noted the further the train scavenged, the more derelict the place looked. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly at a horrid stench. Hurriedly, he puffed a breath of smoke, hoping to overcome the reek of fish melting across this area.

The train once again began to slow, and Bon-Hwa stood alert. This was the last stop for the train, and evidentially the very place he was meant to stop. As the conductor let out a final call, Bon-Hwa gathered his things and furrowed his brow. He had a bad feeling about all this that he couldn't shake.

The cramped little buggy made its way deftly through the streets, moving expertly around peddlers and clusters of pedestrians without losing speed. The driver very clearly new what he was doing, and his passenger was content to sit quietly in the cabin, watching the scenery fly past. After a few more sharp turns, the buggy lurched to a shuddering halt.

"That's about as far as I can take yer, guv," the driver declared. "Yer'll 'ave ter walk the rest."

"That's fine," the passenger replied after a moment, "I can manage."

"Whatever yer say, guv." The driver stepped down from his seat and walked to the side of the buggy. He opened the passenger door and a tall, powerful looking gentleman stepped out. The man had a full mane of silvery hair, and appeared to be getting on in years.

"There yer go, Mr. Mantlemoore."

Lord Mentmore cringed at the apparent slaughter of his name, but said nothing. "Thank you, Jasper," he responded, starting his short trek down the crowded boulevard.

"Oi! Me name's Jarvis, guv." He looked visibly offended, and seemed to be waiting for a response.

"Mine's Mentmore," the gentleman shrugged, continuing to walk. He rounded a corner, and found himself suddenly in the middle of a very crowded city street. People were everywhere, flowing across the cobblestones and surging powerfully onto the sidewalks. The few carriages foolish enough to enter the street were crawling along slowly, islands of slothfulness amidst the crowded sea of humanity.

This must be why the driver wouldn't take me any further, Mentmore mused. He hurried quickly down the road, diving headfirst into the swarming crowds. Mentmore enjoyed walking through the crowded London streets--it reminded him of his time in Bombay. The people in India very rarely bothered hiring a carriage: it was expensive, and uncomfortable to boot. Almost everyone preferred walking in the open air and taking in the sights and scents that can only be found on the Indian landscape.

A noisy merchant jarred Mentmore from his thoughts. "Hot-crossed buns! Get 'em while they're fresh!" A begger emerged from the shadows, jangling his tin cup loudly, and an angry governess chased after a filthy looking chimney sweep who was giggling wildly. Mentmore stepped expertly around a street-performer and his dancing monkey, all the while taking note of the city's varied inhabitants.

Within another minute or so, Mentmore slowed his pace and came to a stop. Before him loomed a heavy stone building, decorated with marble filigree that desperately needed a good scrubbing. He paused before the building's stairs, cooly observing the crowds bustling back and forth. After a long moment of expectant observation, a bespectacled, nearly bald man emerged from the crowd. His face had turned a deep shade of crimson, and he was panting slightly.

"Ah... Geoffrey! Punctual as always, I see." Mentmore made no attempt to hide his mirthful amusement at the man's sudden appearance.

His already flushed face reddened further, creating a strange combination of breathlessness and sheepishness. "And I--puff--see that you--wheeze--are as kind and understanding as ever," he managed between breaths.

Mentmore chuckled at Geoffrey's response. "A rapier wit indeed, my friend. Now... all friendly exchanges aside, I suppose you're wondering why I've asked you here."

An eyebrow lifted behind Geoffrey's glasses. "Another fool's errand, I suppose." Mentmore coughed in surprise. "But then again, I've learned it's best not to ask questions."

"Not that it's any of your business anyway," he barked gruffly. "All you have to do is manage my funds." He paused, and his expression became thoughtful. "Although in this case, I doubt I'd be able to answer any of your questions anyway..."

If anyone had looked into the office they would have thought that they gazed upon a painting. Sitting in the leather armchair at a large hardwood desk was a rather portly man dressed in suitable office attire. His left hand held a cigar - the smoke rising from it the only indication that there was movement in the room. His right hand was upon an envelope as if it had just pushed it accross the desk. Sitting rigidly in a wooden chair opposite the desk was a woman. She was a wraith of a figure, pale and small - her neatly starched dress and jacket seeming to accentuate her slightness even more. Her tawny brown hair was pulled back into a sensible bun, except for a couple of stubborn strands. And she was staring at the envelope as if it were about to devour her very soul.

A sigh echoed through the office as the portly man stirred. Raising his cigar to his lips he drew in a breathe before gruffly adressing the woman whilst exhaling smoke. "Well don't just sit there staring at it. It's not going to bite you Dr. Whitmore."

The woman started at the words and then began to inspect her hands, neatly folded in her lap. "Sir, have I done something wrong?" her thin, pale voice asked, "Is that why you are sending me away?"

"Nonsense, Dr. Whitmore! We wouldn't be sending you at all if that were the case," he bellowed.

Dr. Whitmore looked exasperated. "But sir, why? I thought I was one of your best researchers?"

The man held his forehead and started explaining as if to a child, "No Dr. Whitmore. You are possibly our best researcher. You have an uncanny knack for discovereing when something is a genuine case or when it's merely a hoax. And that is a skill which is far more useful out on the field than in an office. This way, we get you used to fieldwork before throwing you in the deep end. That, and of course you will be reporting to us if you find anything of particular interest to our organization."

"B-but what of my other re-research! I need sub-subjects, I n-need...," Dr. Whitmore started stammering.

"Nothing that you cannot find out there," interrupted the man. "I am certain that everything you require can be found during your journey. You can't pass up the oppertunity for adventure - don't you want excitement? At worst, you can use yourself as a subject - all the greats did. Look at Pasteur!"

But I already am, thought Dr. Whitmore to herself. And no, she didn't want adventure. She just wanted her nice quiet desk with her nice quiet paperwork.

He was wishing her well now, waving the envelope at her. And if that wasn't enough he was using a 'this discussion is over' voice.

Dr. Whitmore walked out of the office in a daze, clutching the envelope to her chest as if her very life depended on it. She wouldn't have been able to remember the walk back to her desk if she had tried. Blindly she started collecting her things together. How would she carry it all - there was little enough room in her doctor's bag. She chose the most important items - her notebook of results, the latest draft of a paper and a photograph, old and fading. She paused as she was about to put it on her bag and stared at it. The yellow tones showed six young girls, all very lively and exuberant - if you stretched your imagination you could believe that one of the laughing ones was Dr. Whitmore when she was younger.

The trance ended and reality came crashing back in. She was being sent on an adventure, she was leaving safety and she had no choice. Clicking the clasp of her doctor's bag shut she took what seemed to be endless corridors auntil she left the building. It was as if the crush of people on the street and the cacophony were trying to assault her.

Taking a deep breathe she started walking to where she may find transport home - she had to pack.

The dormitory was alive with the twittering of young girls. Sarah quietly made her way through the large room, daintily stepping over piles of laundry and maneuvering round small groups of bustling children. Her bed was all the way at the end of the hall, right under the sloping edge of the roof. The plaster on the back wall had long gone, and the bare bricks were moist all year through, but the little corner bed gave Sarah more privacy than any other place in this musty attic.

"You weren't in mass," an accusing voice said, as she reached her cot. The girl on the bed next to her didn't look up from her book as she said it. "You weren't in class either, or in laundry duty."
"Don't be silly, Harriet, of course I was," Sarah replied dismissively, "You just didn't see me. You know how it is, working hard, paying attention in class, reading books upside down."
Sarah pulled back the covers of her bed and pealed off several layers of clothing as the now bright-red Harriet turned her book over. "You 're trouble, Sarah Stibbons." Harriet said, "You think you're so smart, but you're meant for the slums, just like those rat-arsed brothers of yours."
Sarah shot her a searing glance and opened her mouth to reply something nasty, when she heard loud whispers. It was the task of whoever was youngest in the dorm to sleep in the bed right next to the door and keep a lookout at all times. The current crow was a curly-haired and permanently scared looking kid that Sarah could never remember the name of. She did, however, do her job admirably, and the warning whispers of "Sister Magdalen!" rolled through the hall.

Within seconds, Sarah had jumped up and stood next to her bed. She kicked the wall at a point right next to the iron bedpost, three inches above the floor. A rotten brick fell out, revealing a black space that was soon stuffed with the parcel she had carried in the folds of her clothing. The moment Sister Magdalen entered the dormitory, Sarah had replaced the brick and stood to attention with the rest of the girls.

Sister Magdalen was a vast matron of a woman, whose posture and demeanor instilled fear in the hearts of all that had the misfortune of being in her care. She stomped through the dormitory, looking left and right at the rows of beds and shouting commands at girls to pick up their laundry. When she reached the end of the hall, she turned her iron glare to Sarah, who couldn't help but swallow hard. "You. Come with me."
"Yes ma'm" Sarah softly replied. She took a deep breath and followed the bulking black mass that was Sister Magdalen, taking care to keep her head up and look absolutely unaffected under the stares of several dozen girls and the malevolent grin of Harriet.

Sarah followed the little dangly light of Sister Magdalen's lamp down several flights of stairs and through the halls that led to the Sanctuary. This was where the 'grownups' slept and worked, and children were kept out by several locked doors and a few old barred gates, leftovers from the building's previous occupation. Sister Magdalen stopped in front of a carved wooden door, knocked two times and then silently ushered the child in.

"Miss Stibbons, do take a seat." A priest sat behind the single desk that occupied the room. He pointed to a simple wooden chair, adorned with an old cushion, in front of the desk. Sarah put on her most innocent face and carefully sat down. She quite liked father MacKenzie, who was much younger than the other caretakers. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties, with pepper-and-salt coloured hair and tufts of fur on his cheeks that never seemed to grow into a full beard. He was considered different, strange, or even radical by his colleagues, because he actually seemed to like children and wanted to make these orphans part of Society. He'd spoken to Sarah many times, in a soft voice, usually with a hurt look on his face. He spoke of Duty, and the Purity of the Soul, and Sarah knew exactly where all those capitals went by the way he said it. This time he looked cheerful, and brandished a piece of paper.

"I have good news for you, Miss Stibbons." he said "It seems the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science has deigned you worthy for employment!" Sarah blinked. She'd seen the flyer, with it's exclamation marks and promises of far-away places, and had taken it with her to show the priest on one of their talks about her Future. She hadn't actually thought he'd go through with it, though.

"You are leaving tomorrow and will be gone for quite a while. I suggest you pack up your belongings before bed. Sister Dymphna will wake you early tomorrow to scrub you down and send you on your way. I have also asked her to find you some, um, Proper Clothes. We must make sure that you make a good impression with the Royal Society, as you will be representing our establishment there." He paused and looked at gritty, tattered child in front of him. He then passed her a note. "You're expected at this address. I'm afraid it's quite on the other side of town, so I have arranged a transport for you with the laundry carrier."
Sarah sat, still blinking. "I Believe in you, child" he said, softly, "You have strayed from the Path many times, but you are Bright and have a Future if you try hard enough. Please don't let these people down." The priest got up and gently nudged her towards the door, where Sister Magdalen waited. She gave her a gruff nod and walked off down the hall, skirts rustling, while the child ran to keep up.

Back in the dormitory, Sarah surveyed her personal belongings by the light of the single stump of candle Sister Magdalen had lit for her. The rough linen bag she'd been given was altogether too big. Sarah carefully folded her shawl and put it in, then paused. She took off the patched skirt she was wearing and put that in. She pulled three pairs of socks from her feet, leaving only two on, and stuffed them in the bag. She then reached into the depths of her baggy shirt and fished out a small pen knife and a medallion, that she hid in the folds of her shawl.

As an afterthought, she kicked the brick next to her bed and felt inside for her parcel. All she found was the rag she'd wrapped it in. She glanced to her left, where a smug looking Harriet was pretending to sleep. "Oh good" Sarah said to herself in a loud whisper "Looks like the mice got it. That'll teach the bastards." She crawled into bed and smiled at Harriet, who was now staring at her. "They put dead beggars in that meat" she told the frightened girl sagely, "The diseases those guys carry will kill anything, including the vermin in this place." Sarah smiled to herself and lay down, disregarding Harriet, who seemed to slowly turn green. In the dying light of the candle, she stared up at the rafters disappearing into the darkness, and thought about the Future.

Edwina sat absentmindedly on the edge of the cliff, dangling her legs like a child. She stared out over the restless waters of the ocean, enjoying the cold spray on her face. She had always loved the town of Cherbourg.
There was a sound behind her, and she turned. A young boy stood there, uneasy, hesitant. Edwina stood. She could feel him taking her in: The breeches she wore instead of a dress, the light brown hair that tumbled free from it's bun to fall over her left eye, the thick boots on her feet. The scars on her hands and cheek.
"Oui?" She prompted him.
"Pardon, madame, mais...vous etes Madamoiselle Artois?" The boy stuttered. Edwina nodded.
"J'ai une lettre por vous, madamoiselle." He held out a clean white envelope in both hands. Edwina took it without comment, scanning the adress. It appeared to be a response to her inquiry about a job at the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science. She noticed that the boy was still standing there with an outstretched hand, sighed, and gave him a penny. He scampered off across the field to parts unknown.
Opening the letter, Edwina found that she'd been invited to a meeting, presumably to discuss her employment. It was to be held in a laboratory outside London. This had been a job she'd been looking forward to, and she was pleased that the letter had reached her in time.
The wind whipped around her as she strode back towards the cottage that she called home. There was much to do before she left, and though the wind was favorable, it could change at any moment.

((OOC:I think the french is pretty self evident, so I'm not going to translate. Cherbourg is a town on the northern coast of France, chosen because it's one of the closest to England.))

((Does our initial post have to have any certain length?

Psst, Julieth, sorry, but some of the french is wrong ))

((Oh no, damn! I am really out of practice..I probably conjugated something wrong, huh?))

((A little, and some misspelling, as far as I can tell ^^))

---end of spam---

The wheels skidded a little as the cart came to a halt. "There ya go, lass" the driver said to the girl next to him. "This is about as far round as I'm willing to go." Sarah picked up her satchel and jumped onto the wet cobbles. She turned round to say goodbye, but the man had already started up his oxen and moved slowly away, leaving a trail of heavy laundry scent behind, that hung still in the dead air.

As the sound of the cart faded away , Sarah suddenly felt very, very small. This part of the city was unfamiliar. Tall factory buildings loomed up around her, and she could hardly see ten feet ahead through the London Particular, the thick fog that rose up from the Thames and covered everything like a soft blanket, muffling all sound. The place looked deserted, and smelled like a cesspit. She opened her bag, pulled out her shawl and draped it over her face to block out the stench. She then looked down at the crumpled note in her mittened hand and set off into the mist.

She arrived at the wrought iron gate when the first factory bells started clanging, calling the workers. Sarah slowly pushed it open, expecting horrible creaky noises and rabid dogs, but heard nothing. The field in front of her lay perfectly still. The skeletal trees cast eerie shadows on the grass in the first rays of sunlight that pierced the foggy veil. She stood stock still and listened. Behind her, a low rumbling started, as the machines in the factories sparked into life in a whirr of cogs. In front of her, nothing.

Sarah looked again at the little note with the address, and up at the plaque by the gate. This was it, no doubt about it. Damn. She carefully started up the driveway, treading softly as if to wake any sleeping giants. As she reached the door she peered at the note, lips moving as she read it. This *wasn't* it. Sarah couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

She turned round and ran back through the fog, as fast as she dared.

The whirring and droning of the many machines downstairs did not quite reach the small office. A man sat lightly on the edge of his stool, one knee hopping in time to some unvoiced song. It had faded patterns and dimmed colors, and the dull wood legs creaked as he shifted slightly. A small, battered suitcase leaned against the desk in front of him. Taking his hand out of his hair, he rubbed his temples, and a moment later the hand found its way back into his hair. His previously closed eyes were now open and focused solely on the various pieces of parchment that were stacked neatly in front of him. He scanned them for the umpteenth time, and saw that they were, as to be expected, no different. He let out a heavy sigh.

“Mr. Foster?” Knuckles wrapped on the door timidly. “Ay, your cousin’s looking to see yeh. Could yeh spare a moment?” The man turned from his papers, and then put both hands to his temples. There was no cause to be nervous, he reasoned. It was only to be a temporary trip until Uncle settled the matters.

“Let Mr. Collins in then, Bert,” he said wearily. He wished he had put a slight note of reprimand on “Mr. Collins” as to remind Bert to speak more formally of the co-owner of Collins’ and Foster’s, but was simply too tired to. He gave the papers on his desk one more moment’s glance, then hurriedly stacked them in his hands. He strode over to the door, and quickly opened it for a surprised Mr. Collins.

“Jackson!” Mr. Collins exclaimed. “I was surprised when Bert said you were actually up in here. I assumed that you had already left! Yet clearly I was wrong.” He took a moment to rub his spectacles on his jacket, a movement Jackson envied for its professional and at ease look. Jackson cleared his throat, and fought the urge to scratch his head. If he was going off to another country of the blasted expedition that was becoming more and more complicated every passing hour, he felt he might need a check for nits. Common though they were, he detested traveling with them. Jackson cleared his throat again.

“I had some papers to sort out, Avery.” He gave a small smile, reminding him that this was not only his boss that he was speaking to, but his childhood playmate as well. Jackson gestured to an old chair next to his stool, and sat down. Avery, however, remained standing. Jackson jumped to his feet, and in his confusion, remembered the papers in his hands. He thrusted them at Avery. “The deeds to my house. I’ve left it completely to Eliza, as she has been staying with me for the last two years. She will be able to take care of it until the time comes when I may- that is, will, return.” Jackson jammed his hands in his pockets, and curled his fingers as tightly as possible. Blasted nits. Came from the factory, of course.

Avery gave a slow nod, still wiping at his glasses. Jackson noticed the intent look in Avery’s eye, and wondered if it was possible that his cousin was in any way anxious. Yet that made no sense. Avery was never worried or showed any signs of defeat or struggle. At least, he hadn’t since they all were very young. This was what made Avery the perfect businessman and Jackson… Not. Avery licked his lips, an action Jackson never saw him do. How very peculiar. “And Eliza is fine?” Avery inquired absentmindedly of his other cousin, and Jackson’s sister. Jackson nodded assent, very confused.

In attempt to steer back to normal conversation, Jackson said “I’ve left my position with Bert, if you don’t mind. He has after all been my assistant for three years, and though he’s a little…” Here Jackson paused, floundering for a word.

“Low class.” Avery gave Jackson a shared smile. It could hardly be said that any of the owners or management at Collins’ and Foster’s were upper class.

“Well, yes. But he does, well, clean up nicely, and he’s very good at selling our glue, he’s made quite a few contacts on his own. And I suppose I can teach him about the accounting for the company…”

“I will do that for you, Jackson.”

“But you are very busy-“

“It’s fine.” Avery smiled at Jackson again, reassuring him of one more duty taken care of, and startling him by another sign of friendship. The two men hadn’t been completely open with one another for several years, not since Avery had taken the position of co-proprietor with Avery’s father after the death of Mr. Foster, Jackson’s father. Though there had been no disagreement, for it was clear that Jackson was unsuitable for the job, the fact that Jackson had been shunted down to a faux “treasurer” for the small company, really a glorified advertiser that did the accounting as well, had remained on all their minds. Avery paused, and then said, “I’m sorry for assuming you’d left without taking care of all this, Jackson.” Pushing on and ignoring Jackson’s wide eyes, he said “I suppose I hoped in a way that you had left. You do realize the great danger you are in, don’t you?”

Jackson gave a weak laugh, and tried to say, “It’s only an upset customer, Avery,” but didn’t quite succeed, as only a raspy high pitched murmur resulted. He cleared his throat again. The small details in the room were looking brighter, and it seemed as if the sun had passed behind the next building for the room appeared darker than before. The dark and spindly desk that had not been dusted for a year and the assorted chairs and stools around it stood out. As did the broken rocking chair from his mother’s house, shunted in the corner, that was waiting for either of the boys (they were boys to Mrs. Foster, though her son and nephew had grown up to help manage and co-run her late husband and her brother’s business) to fix in the spare time she thought they had.

Aver gave him a piercing look and again removed his spectacles to be cleaned. He spoke in a low voice, causing Jackson to lean in. “You know I would only have bothered you for an important reason. I came up here in hopes that you’d already left for that expedition. Cousin, he is outside.” Jackson stepped back, and promptly trod into the desk behind him. He sat down heavily on the top, but made no move to get up. Instead, he leaned back further, and craned his head to peer out the room’s one window. He then sat bolt upright, and sprang off the chair.

“Good Lord, he is outside! What am I to do? You’ve heard him, what with the court case settled, he wants me dead!”

“Seriously hurt, actually.”

“Same idea, Avery!” Jackson paced around the room, and giving in to the tension of the situation, threw his hands up to his head and scratched. “Bloody nits! Good heavens, what am I to do?” Always the emotional one, weren’t you, Jackson? he thought angrily. “Look, have Bert distract him while I pack up my papers.”

Avery nodded slowly, then began to leave. He paused at the door, turning so that Jackson could barely make out his profile in the dark of the stairway. “Good luck on the expedition.”

Jackson grinned slightly. “Much appreciated.” He turned back to the desk, pushing aside papers until a small key attached to a silk ribbon came into view. Jackson walked to the door while twirling the key, ducking under the supporting hand Avery still had on the door frame. As he stooped down next to the heavy wooden crate next to the staircase, he stared pointedly at Avery. “Avery, he’s right outside. Please, tell Bert.”

Avery shifted slightly, and said “I wish there was some other way. I’m sure that we could find a way to keep you safe here. I do think it’s unnecessary for you to leave.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, right?” Jackson said, struggling with the key. “When I’m gone, he’ll have no reason to skulk by the store anymore. That leaves you and Bert,” he jiggled the key fiercely, “and your father, of course, to work without worrying about me, and the company to prosper. That’s meant in the loosest sense of the word, of course. There we go!” Jackson finally managed to turn the key; the crate opened, and a map of Celtic Sea slipped out. The crate was full of maps – hand drawn diagrams showing the streets of London, official maps of Europe updated since the Congress of Vienna…

“I still feel uncomfortable at the idea.”

“It’s for her Majesty, the Queen! Please, Avery, do go on.” Avery sighed deeply, and hurried downstairs. Jackson watched as he slipped out of sight. Sighing with relief, Jackson crossed back into the room to pack maps from a variety of countries, though most were from England and its surrounding areas. Checking the large clock in the display window of the store opposite Collins’ and Foster’s Glue through the dusty window above the desk, Jackson swore. If he didn’t get moving, he was going to be late.






.........
((I'm sorry it's so long, I got a bit caught up in writing it...))

“Maggie, a letter has come for you.” Nellie called from the entry way to the kitchen, “Is it a response to that letter you wrote out?”
Maggie looked up at the girl in surprise, she hadn’t told anyone of her plans.
“What you thinks you be the only one to know the going ons of th’place?” Grace turned from the large pot she was stirring over the fire, “I don’t know where you got this ridiculous notion from.”
“No ma’am.” Maggie said softly as she took the letter. Nellie stayed in place staring expectantly at her.
“Well? Don’t you want to know what it says?”
Maggie held out the letter nervously, her entire future rested on this thin sheet of paper. She licked her lips, wishing she could do this in private.
“Don’t you be getting your hopes up girl.” Grace thrusted the stew covered spoon in her direction, “You a kitchen girl, not an adventurer. Who would hire a girl with no experience? Hmm?”
Maggie sighed, this was the reason she hadn’t told anyone of her plans.
“Now your poor Mama, she knew whats good for you, didn’t she get you this good job here? Now you throw that all away, and for what? I ask you.” Grace finally turned back to her stew, vigorously stirring it as she continued to mutter.
“Go ahead.” Nellie said softly, her eyes shinning in anticipation, “Tell us what it says.”
Maggie quickly scanned the letter.
“I’m in.” she said quietly, her heart thundering. She looked around at the large kitchen, her heart thundering loudly in her chest, “They hired me.”
Nellie squealed, hugging her, “I’m jealous of you Maggie, I wish I had had the courage to apply.” She whispered to her, “You be careful, alright. Don’t forget us here.”
Maggie nodded, to overcome by the news to speak.
“Well, since you be leaving us I suppose you had better gets packing.” Grace said roughly, striking a large onion with her knife. She sniffed, “Go on girl, get on out of here.” She waved the knife in the direction of the door, with the other hand she reached up to wipe the tear that rolled from her eye. If anyone saw they would assume it was from the fumes of the onion not the fact that her dearest friend’s baby was leaving the nest.

All that had been nearly a week ago. Now, two trains and a carriage ride later, she stood in front of rundown building in the middle of now where. The entire place appeared abandoned. And no wonder if you considered the awful stench surrounding the land.
Maggie noticed a small sheet of paper flapping in the wind on the door. Holding her skirt close to avoid the metal drums, Maggie read the directions on the note. With a sigh, Maggie stepped off the porch and flipped open a large book. After quickly jotting down the directions on the note she tucked the book back into her small bag and shifted the bag’s weight on her shoulder. She looked around, hoping a colleague would appear. She didn’t see anyone, but she was early. Maggie sighed again as she set off in direction of the office, praying this whole thing was not a hoax.

Mentmore had followed Geoffrey into the great stone building, hurrying past the lingering patrons in the lobby and through a set of heavy oaken doors. The two men were now seated in Geoffrey's cramped, wood-panelled office. Light filtered in weakly through the curtained window, giving the room a permanently dusky atmosphere.

Geoffrey produced a bottle of brandy from beneath his desk, pouring the amber liquid into two small glasses.

"You know," he began, regarding his glass thoughtfully, "I have this sneaking suspicion that you aren't being entirely honest with me."

Mentmore looked up from his own glass. His eyes flashed in aggravation, but his response was noncommital. "Oh?"

Geoffrey moved his finger in lazy, arching circles around the rim of his glass. "Yes. I do."

Mentmore was up from his chair in an instant, barely aware of the glass that fell and shattered at his feet.

"And what's more... I know you don't actually need me to make a withdrawal for you. I have it on good authority that you never spent any of the money you took out the last time you were here."

For a moment, Lord Mentmore looked very old and tired. That momentary lapse of weakness, however, vanished immediately. He stared suddenly at Geoffrey, scrutinizing him with a hard glint in his eyes.

"Shut the door, Geoffrey."

"Wha...?" The confused accountant's sentence trailed off. He rose from his seat, and did as he was told. "Now then, what's all this?"

Mentmore closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, collecting his thoughts. "Can you keep a secret?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Geoffrey. There are certain... people in this world, people who would do anything for themselves." He paused. "Selfish people. Thankfully, these people do not exist unchecked. There are others, though not as many, who go through great lengths to thwart these selfish people."

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Mentmore. "I don't follow."

Mentmore, who had walked across the room to the window, shook his head sadly. "No. I shouldn't expect that you would. I--hullo! What's that?" he interrupted himself with a start. Peering through the narrow gap between the curtains, Mentmore's entire body tensed. Quickly, he whipped his head around to face the confused accountant. "Geoffrey! Were you followed here?"

"What? I--" His sentence ended abruptly, cut off by a blunt blow to the back of his head. Mentmore had grabbed the first object he could reach--the half empty bottle of brandy--and slammed it into the poor accountant's skull. His unconscious body fell limply to the floor, landing in a puddle of liquor and glass shards.

"Sorry, old sport," the colonel muttered. He began sifting frantically through the fallen accountant's pockets, tossing unwanted objects across the room. Finally, his fingers closed around whatever it was he had been searching for.

With a triumphant expression on his face, the colonel lifted himself off the ground and sped hastily out of the dim office.

In his hand, he clutched a key. A big, heavy key.

The sort of key that might open a bank vault.

"Ugh."

Dark Johnny rolled over gingerly, head pounding and stomach throbbing. Sitting up he noticed there was quite a bit of dried blood adorning his head. Blinking slowly and rubbing a bruised hand across his scarred left eye, he managed to figure out he was in the corner of a very loud pub. He attempted the very difficult task of standing and found he wasn't quite up to it. After collapsing with a thud into the dusty corner again, he was quite certain he had been drinking. The taste of alcohol was thick in his mouth and the sight of his emptied flask (the one he always carried with him) confirmed this.


"Ow." he grumbled, brushing back a mass of shaggy black hair from his licorice colored eyes. He knew there was something important he had to do. Something he had to do today.....what was it? He tried to remember...somehow the thought just wouldn't stick in his mind. Just like that faucet he was trying to fix a while ago that wouldn't stay fixed.


"Oh! Bloody----what time is it????!!!" Dark Johnny's memory was suddenly kick-started and panic set in. He remembered the very uncomfortable looking messenger that had been sent to the pub and the shock at realizing his rather messy application had been accepted, blood spatters and all. And now it was occuring to Dark Johnny that he had better be getting his butt over to the place he was supposed to be instead of lying on the ground clutching his head. He scrambled to his feet very ungracefully and stumbled out the door. Even the slight sunlight that managed to peek through the clouds today made him want to run screaming but he forced himself forward. Where had they said it was??? Oh right, somewhere on the outskirts of town.


A few minutes later the stench of factory smoke and fish filled the air and Dark Johnny knew he was in the right place. A few more minutes of the insanely painful ordeal that was walking and he found the building he'd been given directions to. He didn't want to stop and ponder why so many of the trees looked burnt. I hope this run-down old dump has chairs, my blasted head's killing me. Oh great, what's this? Dark Johnny stared at a note taped up (feebly I might add) to the lab's front door. He let out an audible groan as he read that more walking was in order for him.
Thud! His legs gave out (again) and he landed hard on the ground. Attempting to stand was no use....
"Damn. Might as well wait to see who else arrives. Got nothin' else t'do."

Prudence arrived, and immediatly headed torwards the lab. Her train left late, and knew she had to get there. She briefed herself on harder physics terms she had some trouble with. Prudence knows they will test her, but she wasn't sure. Better be prepared.

Prudence finally got there, after some directions from a weird looking man, in exchange for solving a math problem for him. The lab looked almost deserted from the outside. She pressed up against the side of the door that opened. She slighly opened it, and saw people inside. She walked in...

((OoC: Steam driven motor vehicles were around at the turn of the century - I checked - they just weren't mass produced. So in a steampunk world they'd definitely be around. Lady Ashe - your post confuzzled me a little - are you at the locked lab or where the note left there said to meet? At the very least Dark Johnny is seeing someone else approach, you too if you're there. ))

The motor vehicle started shuddering and lurching from side to side along the country road. Wide-eyed, Dr. Whitmore tried to steady herself from being thrown with the motion around the back seat. Internally she cursed at Mr. Chamberlain for having not thought of the difficulties that a country road would impose on such transport.

With a lurch and a groan and a little whine and hissing, the vehicle stopped and the driver turned to her. Whilst still chewing his tobacco, Dr. Whitmore noted with disgust, he informed her, "Don't go no farther than this Miss. You'll have to walk yourself the rest of the way."

"Bu-But Mr Chamberlain said you would drive me to the meeting," she said plaintifly. Her mind was racing - she didn't mind walking, but with her bag and her doctor's kit - which she had had to include basic surgical supplies with for once - she wasn't sure she could manage.

"Sorry ta say it dove, but the road aint gettin' any better an' if I takes you any further, the motor and you and me is going ta be stuck. So how's about you get your things and git goin'," he suggested, rather unhelpfully.

With a sigh, Dr. Whitmore gathered her bags and started walking, one in each hand. She noted, with disdain, that the lower level employees were getting more and more surly every day - he hadn't helped her with her bags or even waited for her to walk down to the wooden barn-thing she assumed was the meeting place.

She didn't notice the smell or general atmosphere initially, as she was too busy concentrating on each step and keeping the bag with her clothing from touching the road as it seemed to try to wriggle out of her grasp purely to get sullied. About half way down the path she stopped and set the bags down, switching which hands they were in - an old school trick to deal with uneven weights. It was then that she saw a rather large man sitting near the door to the decrepit establishment. It was then that she also noticed how charred the nearby trees looked and how dreadful the place smelt - worse, possibly than some sewers. The hairs on the back of her neck began to rise and she started to get nervous. Looking around, she remembered that her driver had left already. It was just her.

Gulping air and trying to ignore her now racing heartbeat, she picked up her bags once more and started carefully walking forward. She tried consoling herself that she could always drop the bag of clothing and attempt to make a dash for it, but it wasn't working as well as she had hoped.

Setting her bags down again, still some distance from what she could now see was a brute of a man she tried to call to him. "You sir, are you with the Society?" Unfortunately it was not nearly as loud as she had intended - her voice catching in her throat, as if it were trying to hide there.

((Sorry for the not-so-longish initial post, but it is quite hard for me to write long and correct texts in a foreign language ^^ I hope I did not make too many mistakes in the text I have now ))

The man was standing in front of a small terraced house, staring at the shabby looking red-brick walls.
He was tall and full-figured, wearing simple clothes in shades of brown. With a loud sigh he turned and walked over to the neighbour house.
KNOCK KNOCK
An elderly woman opened. “Oh, Amos, come in, come in!” she said to the man and lead him into a tiny but well-organized kitchen.
“Have a seat. Tea?” “Yes, thanks, Betty, with sugar.”
“So, the day has come …” Betty said, pouring some black tea in a cup.
“Yes, indeed. I will leave now to meet this scientist and the other fellows.”
Amos took a big rusty key out of his pocket and laid it down on the table. “You will have a close watch on the house, won’t you? I don’t know when I will return but when I am back, I shall live there again.”
He drank the tea in one sip. “I have to hurry now, the laboratory is quite a way from here.”
Betty went to the door together with him. “Take care, Amos, and send me a letter if you find time.” “I will, I will,” the tall man replied and shook his neighbour’s hand.
“Good bye, and tell Annie that I am greeting her!”

He hurried down the street. At the market place there would be a carriage waiting for him, one of his many acquaintances had organized it.
“This will be the last time I see these houses for a while … But it will be good to be away from this place. This will make me stop thinking about them …” he thought.

---

Some time later, at the edge of the big town, he got out of the carriage. In the air lay a strong smell of fish but Amos did not care about it. He had once had repaired an instalment at the sewerage system, the smell there had been worse.

The driver handled him his bag and Amos gave him a few coins in return.
“Thank you John!”

“I hope the laboratory won’t be too far away from here …” he thought and started to walk.
In some distance before him he could see an other person, rather small and thin, probably a woman, and with some excitement he wondered if this figure was one of his future fellows.

Amos quickened his steps to catch up with the person.

Dark Johnny turned his head with some effort and noticed someone walking towards him. The person seemed to be struggling with a few rather heavy parcels.

He heard a faint whispered question escape from her but shook his head, trying to indicate he hadn't heard.

"Mind repeating that question? Oh and if there's anyone else with you, I need some help...uh....standin'..."

Dark Johnny slumped back against the building, worn out from the difficulties of moving.

Bon-Hwa had never been so horrified in his life. Oh, how the place reeked of fish! He thought he was going to pass out from the smell. Even the cigarette smoke couldn’t drown it out now. And those eyes—everywhere he walked, the filthy paupers gawked. It was as if they’d never seen an Asian before, or it could be his bizarre hair color, which he’d achieved when experimenting with shampoo solutions for greasy hair. He rather liked it himself, but his father didn’t seem to approve; evidentially, these people wouldn’t commend it either. He glanced down at the sheet of paper crumpled up in his hand. He was just a few blocks away from his goal.

“Won’t ya spah’ a halfpenneh, suh?” a soft whimper came from below. Bon-Hwa glanced down upon the hazel doe eyes of a young boy whose tiny hands, clothed in frayed brown mittens, tugged softly on his pants. Those already large eyes grew into saucers, lashes batting in earnest curiosity. “Why, you’re one of those Orientals! An’ wot odd hair ya ‘ave, ‘specially for your type!” Bon-Hwa dusted the boy off with a sigh. He didn’t appreciate such comments coming from a beggar. “I’m sorreh, suh! I didn’t mean to offend or nofin! I think tha’s amazing that you’re an Oriental. I’ve neva’ seen one before!” He latched tightly onto Bon-Hwa’s pants, yanking a little harder than before. ‘Suh, you’re rich, right?” the boy questioned, summing it up with a glance at Bon-Hwa’s neat attire. “Can’t ya help me and me mum? She works all day at a factory downtown, and brings ‘ome nothing but a meagah serving of bread, only… they’ve decreased her wage, and lately hasn’t had enough to even bri-”

Bon-Hwa crushed a small wrist at his side. A child behind him began to wail and scream as she struggled to get away from him. Effortlessly, he jerked her slender frame up into the air, allowing her to dangle by one arm. He laughed at the sight of her, kicking and squirming, vainly attempting to land a blow upon him. Her face and hair were caked with soot, and cuts and scratches lined her square jaw. She was nothing more than the average street urchin.

“I see,” Bon-Hwa gave her a cold sneer. “You thought…that…you would be able to snatch my wallet away, huh? Well,” he dug about in the breast pocket of his jacket, and with a smirk, withdrew a leather-bound wallet. “Looks like you took a look in the wrong place.” Bon-Hwa turned his gaze to the boy, lowering the girl, but still clutching her in a tight grip. He noted the boy’s look of pure terror for her. “Do you know this little lady?” He gulped, and enthusiastically shook his head no. “I see… Well. You should have no problem with me escorting her to the authorities, then, correct?” He smiled at the boy’s feeble nod.

As Bon-Hwa turned to leave, the boy choked out, “No! Mollie!” he stood, shaking and fearful—almost near tears. Bon-Hwa looked back, a leer painted on his snake-like face.

“Take her, I have no use for turning her in,” he scoffed, shoving her towards the boy. “Next time, think of a plan with some cunning. Only idiots would fall for that little charade.” The two children scampered off with a newfound fear in their eyes. The rest of the children watching passed about secretive glances. Bon-Hwa sighed. I better find this place before I’m mugged… Dusting off his jacket, he advances down the lane, keeping a keen eye on the children watching him like ravenous vultures.

Bon-Hwa took a quick glance at the address. It was a ways down, deep into the belly of this dingy abyss. He crumpled the message and stuffed it into his pocket whilst giving a glance about the place. The farther down he walked, the more weary he grew. This place was a breeding ground for thugs. Pushing his hands in his pockets, he slouched over a bit, hoping to seem more aggressive—for, even though he was highly skilled in fighting, he liked to avoid confrontation if at all possible.

As he delved deeper into the place, he noticed the bustle was slowly diminishing, and an eerie silence descended. Up ahead, he could see a lone property, which was apparently to be his destination. He bit his lip as he mounted the path, the dirt crunching under his boots. Bon-Hwa gave a nervous glance to the burnt trees that moaned softly in the wind, as if crying out in pain. Suddenly, he had his doubts about this place, and this job. If this was where they were to be working… he wanted out. His father hadn’t made him write that horrid letter for something so degrading.

Voices. Just up ahead, he could hear the voices of two people conversing. The other applicants, perhaps? He wanted sorely to break into a run and great them—the place was giving him the willies. But, his pride wouldn’t allow it, and he leisurely approached, scanning over the place with a disinterested gaze.

"Well, that certainly didn't go as I had planned," Mentmore spat, grumbling quietly to himself. He rapped his fist against the inner wall of the carriage in frustration. "Can't this confounded thing go any faster?!"

"Sir." His butler, Leigh, was speaking now from the opposite seat, his voice both stern and soothing. "You've been an absolute wreck since you returned home this afternoon. What happened?"

Mentmore sighed.

"Did your accountant fail to meet you?"

"No, he showed up on time, and I bloody well managed to snag the key and everything!"

Leigh closed his eyes and took a slow breath, the picture of saintly patience. "I don't understand, then. What seems to be the problem?"

There was a pause in the conversation, filled only by the noise of the horses' clattering hooves.

"Geoffrey was followed," Mentmore said at last.

"But you said you already had the key?"

"No, I said nothing of the sort. Had to smash a bottle of brandy over his bloody head."

"Over the follower's head?"

"No, Geoffrey's. Poor fellow... he'll be all right. Nothing a little more brandy couldn't fix, I'd imagine."

Leigh knitted his eyebrows together in concern. "But what happened after that?"

"Well, I snagged the key and all but flew into the back room--that's where the private vaults are, you know--and I opened up my vault."

"And?"

"And... nothing! That's the mystery of it--my vault was empty! Well, not empty, of course, but... the package was gone!"

"You mean... someone got to the vault before you could?"

Mentmore nodded solemnly. "It would seem that way, yes. And I'm almost certain that whoever followed Geoffrey wanted to be seen."

"But for what purpose?" Leigh's eyes widened in sudden surprise. "Was he... a decoy?"

"Yes. I believe he was." Outside, the sounds off the horses' clopping hooves diminished as their path became less road and more dirt. Mentmore looked out the window, and then glanced down at his pocket watch. "Driver!" he called suddenly. "That's far enough."

The driver reacted quickly, and the carriage lurched to a halt in a jumble of confused hoof-steps and indignant horse snorts. "There's no need for me to out do the others with a carriage," Mentmore added with a conspiratorial grin. "I can walk the rest of the way."

Leigh opened the passenger door and removed what little luggage his master had brought for the journey. "Are you sure that this will be sufficient?" he asked skeptically. "We still have time to turn around and fetch a few more things. I'm sure you cou--"

"Leigh," he interrupted with a chuckle, "I'm not going on holiday. I barely had half as much equipment when I served in Madhya Pradesh. Trust me; I'll be fine."

"All right, then. Best of luck!" he smiled as Mentmore patted him on the shoulder. Then, he stepped back into the carriage, which turned promptly around and sped off in a great cloud of dust.

Mentmore pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket and examined it carefully. Then, he picked up his suitcases and proceeded down the dusty road.

In the distance, he could just make out what appeared to be his destination. A small, dilapidated building sat alone in the middle of a field, isolated from its neighbors. The field itself was littered with the charred remains of several trees, clawing at the sky like angry black hands.

"Perfectly dreadful place," Mentmore remarked. A slight breeze carried the smell of rotten fish past his nose.

All of a sudden, Mentmore stopped in his tracks. There were a few figures standing in the middle of the road, and an angry voice with a strange accent pierced the air. Mentmore moved a little closer, and the figures came into focus. There were three of them all together, two children and a man. The man appeared to be from somewhere in the Orient (Mentmore couldn't quite place where), and he was clad in decidedly outlandish clothing. The smallest of the children, a little girl, was whimpering in anguish as the man picked her up roughly by the wrist, and her companion meanwhile looked on in terror.

After a sickening moment that felt like an eternity, the man released his hold on the child. He laughed wickedly, and the children fled in fright. Then, much to Lord Mentmore's chagrin, the Oriental man turned off the road and approached the little building in the field.

Those poor children... Mentmore thought sadly. Pickpocketing isn't exactly a noble occupation, but I highly doubt that they're doing it for pleasure! It isn't as if they're poor by choice. He turned and scowled at the despicable man approaching the building.

"For your own sake, I truly hope that you aren't going to be a part of this expedition," Mentmore growled quietly.

He subconsciously fingered the revolver concealed within his jacket.

"I'm watching your every move."

Sarah ran full out for two blocks and only then stopped to catch her breath, leaning against a lamp post. She cursed inwardly and involuntarily pulled on the thick navy-blue felt coat she was wearing.

Sister Dymphna had done her best to turn her into a picture-perfect little schoolgirl. The sister nearly squealed as she turned Sarah round, clapping her hands at so much properness. "You look like a perfect little angel" she'd told Sarah, smiling broadly and obviously forgetting that the child had never and and wouldn't, at any point, become an angel. The clothes weren't going to change that. Meanwhile, Sarah just felt awkward. Her shirt and coat were once made for someone four years younger and felt cramped round her torso, while the black lacquer shoes, rubbed till gleaming, pushed her toes uncomfortably together.

But put any dress on Sarah for half an hour, and it looked ragged.
Right now, her coat was heavy from the rain, her once-white stockings and shoes were littered with spatters of mud and water, while the hem of her skirt dripped from running through puddles.

But at least she was back on the street. Yes, the place stank of rotting fish and urine, and yes, it was full of thugs and beggars, but at least she knew where she was. She could feel the eyes of the local populace bore into her back, but they were only pickpockets and thieves. She knew how to handle those. Heck, she *was* one.
Though she didn't actually look like one at the moment, she noticed with a start. So she went back on her way, sticking to the bigger roads, holding a tight grip on her satchel and adopting a scowl that she knew would keep the smaller and more stupid ones at bay.

When the sun had finally broken through the fog and the clouds, Sarah found herself on a small square. The cobbles covering it looked slick and worn.
Round it were huddled, neat looking houses that were obviously old but well looked after. And in the middle of the little square, a single tree, and under it a small, white, marble bench.

On one end of the square was a tall, official looking building with the line 'Semper Scientiae' in gold capitals above the door. Stone steps led up to a massive oak door, with an equally massive brass knocker in the shape of a crow, pointy beak and all. To Sarah, it looked distinctly uninviting. It was the kind of door that no one under the age of 45 would be allowed to pass through.

Sarah paused. The square was empty, but safe looking. Above her, a woman leaned out and shook out a dust cloth. She could hear quiet chattering, mixed with the tinkling of cutlery on porcelain, coming from an open window, and the smell of coffee and toast wafted in little waves around the square, jolting Sarah's stomach. She hadn't eaten since the morning before and her tummy now let out a low, accusing roar.

It was early still, Sarah thought, and the big building in front of her looked sleepy and deserted, she might as well wait for other people to arrive and go in first, just in case there were traps, or ghosts, or worse. Sarah settled herself on the little bench and opened her satchel, carefully extracting a paper wrapped package. She set it on her lap and opened it slowly to reveal two thick slices of bread and a small chunk of cheese. Ignoring the urge to dig in, Sarah carefully broke off a piece of bread and daintily nibbled on it, pretending to be a princess.

After precisely twenty-three steps came another knock at the door. Back so soon? Elijah thought, wondering whether the urchin boy had perhaps left something behind. Perhaps one of his fleas. Elijah shuddered. Bugs were possibly the only thing on this Earth that the adventurer had a fear for - albeit a completely irrational fear. It had all stemmed from this terrible experience back in the jungle of Colombia that Elijah did not particularly want to recall ever again. Dismissing the phobia, he crossed the room to the door and opened it.

"Strauss!" he beamed, welcoming the dignified old man in. Strauss was dressed impeccably in a cream-pinstripe double breasted suit, his silver hair brushed over the visibly balding patch on his head. "My good man, what brings you here of all godforsaken places?" said Elijah, helping Strauss onto a stool.
"Elijah my boy," Strauss spoke with a slight German accent. "Something has arisen. A problem with the Technice de Internacionale Co." He glowered, as Elijah sighed in exasperation, throwing his hands in the air to express his agitation.
"TIC? And I did warn them! That incident back in Venice was too suspicious to overlook. What is it this time?"
Strauss went on to explain about how the French company had breached several strict laws laid down in the International Practise of Science Act by using prohibited gaseous elements of toxic and explosive nature.

Another tiny rap at the door informed Elijah of Ryuu's return. He turned to Strauss, having spent the past few minutes storming back and forth, waving his arms around animatedly. "Strauss, my good man. I apologise for this but I have business back in Great Britain to attend to. I understand you have-"
Strauss held up one hand to silence him, and looked at his watch.
"Your airship is due to arrive in ten minutes," said the man, grinning with that wise sparkle in his eyes. "And I assume you have no form of transport booked for your journey to the station?"
"Ah.. No, not exactly. I did plan on walking-"
"Nonsense, Elijah! Come, come with me. You too, boy." Strauss waved a lethargic hand at Ryuu.

The two men left with the small boy trailing at their heels like a well-trained yet mangy terrier. Outside the building, a rather strange and remarkable piece of engineering was waiting. It was a small locomotive engine - or something - yet there was no track for it to run on. And the engine itself was barely any higher than Elijah.
"Strauss, this is..?"
"My latest invention, boy. I like to call it a Strauss Carriage - perhaps a Strauss for short. It's a miniature steam locomotive designed for two passengers. Excellent engine, you must see the efficiency of this fellow. I believe someday they may even replace the carriage!" beamed the man, lighting a cigar. Elijah laughed increduously at the old man.
"You are expecting me to believe that this will replace a horse-drawn? And where are the rails?"
"You may laugh, boy, but you'll see one day in the near future. Well hop in, you don't have all day. I'll take you for a spin."

Strauss's Strauss had taken them to the airship station in a very short amount of time. The concept of the machine they travelled in was fascinating. A train of this proportion did not need a track to run - attach wheels with some turning capability on them and it became a nippy little vehicle. Efficient, too. Strauss had described how he had used a platinum catalyst to lessen the amount of fuel required. He had also replaced the traditional coal fuel with oil from Persia. It travelled at an astonishing twenty miles per hour, if it was ever needed to travel at such a speed. Now Elijah was aboard the airship, which was currently somewhere over India. The whole voyage was to take a day and a half; this was impressive for an airship even if it was a newly commisioned, cutting edge one. It even used an ultra-light isotope of Hydrogen gas, giving it double-speed over the regular variety. Ryuu, the little stowaway, was curled up somewhere with the luggage sharing his fleas around. Some first class travellers were going to get a nasty surprise when they landed in England. Elijah, having paid for a ticket, sat in the second-class area with his hat dipped, the brim casting shadow over his eyes lest anyone recognise him.

He really had no inkling as to what this forthcoming task would require. It was in the name of Science and Progress - that was clear enough. Probably some slight issue with some stolen blueprints to a new piece of engineering. Elijah laughed inwardly. Why was he wasting his time offering his highly sought-after services here, when he should be spending time on the case of TIC with Strauss, the most noble and respected professor in the modern world? Impulse applying, that's the word for it. He had a gut feeling about this case though. Maybe because it was in Britain? Or maybe because he'd actually had to apply to it. Most often, he was personally sought out by men like Strauss. It made a change to be his own dictator and travel where he wanted, and not where work took him. He had no thoughts on the upcoming proceedings. As far as he was concerned, it was just another job that required able-bodied persons, and he was much more than able. It likely pays pittance, too. You'd be better off staying in Japan, or even going to that job in Russia. He had recently been requested to go to Russia. Some fuel tycoon had built an unregistered building out on the vast expanses of tundra somewhere, and had failed to consult the Ministry beforehand. Elijah, being under the Ministrys employ to 'infiltrate and gather intelligence', had been called to do a spot of spying on the man.

But no, he had turned that exclusive job offer down in order to apply for this one. Cursed instinct, he was clearly getting homesick from all this travelling. Or just maybe his instinct would prove him correct, and this could be the most interesting case he'd ever worked on... His thoughts clouded into each other, encouraged by the soft whirring of the airships vast propellors, and soon he slept. Ryuu would awake him, or perhaps one of the other passengers when they finally arrived in London. But for now, he caught up on some rest before the day ahead.


((Jeeez travelling all the way from Japan is turning out to be hard-going. Massive RP, woah. And expect another one as he gets from London to wherever we're converging :p. And it really hurt because I've been playing guitar all day and my fingers are still raw! I deserve a certificate or medal or something This was wrote to Holst - Mars, Bringer of War! And also Prokofiev - March of the Capulets, seeing as it took longer than one song to write it. Therefore I'm surprised it didn't turn into a battle scene, actually))