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The pins from her fallen hat rested neatly in the hems of her sleeves, ready to slide out at the slightest flick of her wrist. It was not difficult to see what thoughts he was having in regards to her, since she had glimpsed his eyes roaming over her body, completely devoid of lust.

Why do men insist on overreacting?

"You may relax, Mr Vonheldus," the Lady St John intoned with the slightest bit of humor, though she kept her gaze forward. "If this is a trap, it is a stupid one." Vonheldus could see Raleigh's hands quickly reach behind her, and underneath her jacket. There was a swift rustle of fabric, before a fierce tug brought her corset tighter around her frame.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" The taunt came out in the form of a gasp.

Invigorated, Raleigh stepped forward, leaving Max behind her, and made her way to the group. Her mind was empty of thought of action, but her heart was giddy, which made her impulsive.

30 seconds.

Raleigh's eyes brimmed with tears, but she was simply too ladylike to let them fall.

20 seconds.

Her vision was starting to go white at the edges.

15 seconds.

Raleigh let out a gasp of despair when she got within hearing range. Which seemed to have gotten their attention, particularly the woman's.

10. . .

"Is there no man in Britain who can find," there was a dramatic pause that Raleigh had not intended. The world flashed black for a moment, but Raleigh brought herself back in time to finish the act.

3. . .

"-who can find one humble crumb of "cheese" for a lady in need?" To her credit, Raleigh managed the air quotes, before she swooned and fainted.
"Excuse me! Oh, I do beg your pardon! Coming through, please make wa-- OH GOOD LORD, I'M TRULY SORRY ABOUT YOUR SHOPPING MADAM, I DIDN'T SEE YOU THERE!"

The Lord Peter Smithers, senior agent of "The Cheese Shop" and personal aide to Q, desperately attempts to make his way through the horde of prams and chatting women that dominates the streets of London city.

He is not having much success, to tell you the truth.

Forming an almost impenetrable wall of pram, dress and discussion of Lady Witherview's new corset that she wore to the Ascot the other day, Smithers attempts to locate an opening and quickly begins to realise that his cause is a doomed one. Settler Street lies just a few hundred metres up the street he currently walks, but at the speed the wall of prams moves, he'd be quicker turning round, returning to his house and then coming back.

Suddenly, his eyes fall upon a shop with multiple doors, stretching out just long enough for him to move through and get past the pram horde. "Excellent!" he mutters under his breath, darting forward as quick as his feet can carry him, clutching his top hat to keep it from flying away. Smithers darts through the doors, knocking through a display of pocket watches and knocking over a rather startled employee. "MY MOST SINCERE APOLOGIES, SIR!" Smithers yells as he races out the second doors just ahead of the wall of prams.

Pounding up the streets and performing a very apt impression of the White Rabbit with his pocket watch, he turns into Settler Street muttering "I'm late, I'm late, oh Lord Q's going to have my bal--", only to see two men arguing over some curious transport with a red-haired woman standing beside them, a well-dressed gentleman with his hand in his coat and OH GOOD LORD THAT WOMAN'S ABOUT TO SWOON.

Rushing forwards, his top hat going flying off towards the horde of prams and triggering many a furious glance in his direction followed by angry muttering, Smithers just manages to reach the woman in time before she hits the ground. Fanning her furiously with his sleeve, he looks up at the man next to him with his hand in his coat and says "Pardon me sir, but would you be so kind as to assist me with this woman?"

* * *​

In amongst the pram horde, one pram in particular seems to detach itself from the rest and linger just off from Settler Street. The woman pushing it seems fairly ordinary at first glance, even if her clothing seems a little out of date for London standards, yet look again and one will quickly notice the thick-set arms, the hairy legs and the moustache poking out from under the large hat.

Agent Zhu, of the Chinese Secret Service, watches the commotion on Settler Street with narrowed, disgruntled eyes.
"-This is humiliating!-" says a voice in Chinese from the pram. Inside, the tiny Agent Mao, dressed in full British baby attire, glares up at his comrade.
"-And how do you think I feel?-" replies Zhu, "-They have me all dressed up in a corset and skirt! This is a shameful way to treat a Chinese agent.-"
"-Orders are orders, I suppose...-" laments Mao, lighting up a cigarette in his pram and offering one to Zhu, who accepts, "-Do you think those are the British agents?-"
"-They look insane enough,-" notes Zhu, beginning to push the pram forwards again, "-Shall we inform the others to set the ambush up?-"
"-Good plan, my friend. The sooner I'm out of this disguise the better. You know they made me wear the nappie and everything?!-"

* * *​

Back on Settler Street, Smithers picks up the unconscious Raleigh and looks at each of the faces he's surrounded by before smiling, recognising their faces from the dossiers he looked out a few weeks ago.
"So as I understand it, you are all looking for some 'cheese'," he says, somehow managing to use finger-quotes despite holding an unconscious woman, "If you would like to follow me, it's just this way."

Across the table, Monsieur Blanc stares back at Florentz, completely unmoved by the joke just made.

This was not unusual for the man, however. He wasn't known for laughing at jokes. Or emotion.

"I already employ a very talented flower arranger from the south of France, Monsieur Delacroix; I require your services for a different matter." From under the table, Blanc pulls a file as two waiters bring food to the table. "I took the liberty of ordering for you," Blanc explains as he hands Florentz the file, "This will not be a problem, non?" His eyes at this point seem to hint that it would be a very good idea for this not to be a problem.

Laying his napkin across his lap, Blanc has a few mouthfuls of food before continuing. "Your next mission is detailed inside. You should find all the information you need in there, but if this is not the case you may ask now."

The file informs you that a few weeks ago, one of the top British agents was killed whilst carrying extremely important documents (you are not informed exactly what the documents are). It is believed that the documents are still on his body, which is being moved back to Britain aboard the Cruise-Class Airship 'Victoria's Wrath'. You are to pose as a traveller and board the airship, avoiding other enemy agents who will undoubtably be after the documents too, before stealing the documents for your employers.

Also, you will have Agents Laurent and Renard accompanying you. They are total morons.
Smithers leads the assorted group of individuals down Settler Street, carrying the unconscious Lady Raleigh with the assistance of the Earl of Lincoln whilst discussing the weather. Settler Street seems quieter than the average London street, seemingly more one for living on than shopping on. Smithers walks with purpose, however, or at least with as much purpose as a man can when also attempting to carry an unconscious lady.

"It's just a little... further down this way," Smithers wheezes; having spent much of his professional life behind a desk, he is unused to such strenuous activity. However, not more than a hundred metres or so down the street, a sign reads Ye National Cheese Emporium' with the words 'purveyor of fine cheese to the gentry (and the poverty-stricken too)' underneath. "There... there we go, not far now..." Smithers breaths, still failing to look as if the effort involved in carrying a lady was not killing him.

Entering the shop, the smell is the first thing noticeable, a medly of cheese scents coming together to assault the nostrils of all customers with particular vigour. Shelves line the shop, each holding cheeses from all across the country. One shelf, dusty and unkempt, sits in one corner, the sign above it reading 'Inferior, Non-British Cheeses Produced By Uncivilised Foreigners (Particularly the French)'.

It looks as though it has not been pursued, stocked or even cleaned in a very long time.

At the back of the shop is a counter of glass, also containing cheese, with a till set up upon it. Behind this is possibly the largest man any of the agents have ever laid eyes upon. He makes the House of Lords look like a summer retreat for particularly fine young British women, his neck hidden under multiple chins and his girth pressing against the counter. He looks up at Smithers and nods.

"Lord Smithers, you've returned I see," the man booms, "You may go through. The rest of you, however, I must ask what you are all here for. Procedure, you understand. Did you bring anything with you that might suggest... you were looking for something or than 'cheese'?" His huge hands snap up to accompany the word 'cheese' with finger-quotes.

Well at least now they found the damn shop. Unfortunately, Nemo seemed to decide to come along as well. If this cheese shop was having a party of some sort, it'd be a lot less fun with him there. Ah well.

Smithers didn't seem to be doing too well with holding the unconscious woman, but his perseverance was admirable, if not a bit foolish. "You know, you might want to hand that woman off to me before you drop her..."

The stupendously fat man at the back of the room asked them about why they had come here, and John had to wonder if this was really going to be a party after all.
"Um, yeah, I got invited to a party." He took the invitation out of his jacket pocket, throwing the card with just the right spin to land on the counter in front of the corpulent man.

"What'd you need it for?"