Gentlemen of Danger

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Quiet One, Apr 17, 2013.

  1. Gentlemen of Danger

    Dr. Nathaniel Crippling walked into the inn he was staying at after a long night of house calls. Word had travelled around Frankfurt that a brilliant doctor had come and people had been meeting him on the streets asking if he'd see to their sick children or loved ones. Nathaniel could never turn down such a request, but he knew that getting them meant he would have to leave soon. He was, afterall, a wanted man.

    As he shook the rain off of him and hung up his coat, the lady of the house walked up to him and started speaking to him in frantic, rapid German.

    "Mrs. Holshung, please. Slower," he said in German as he gripped her arms.

    "A man came to see you today," she said. "He said he was with the English government. He wants to meet you."

    English. He had run from England. There was so much he had done, almost none of it he remembered. He did his best not to let Mrs. Holshung see how nervous this made him. He gave her an appreciative smile which looked haunting on his sunken face.

    "Thank you, Mrs. Holshung. Please let me know if he stops by again."

    "That's the thing. He's still here."

    Now the curteous smile left him. Every instinct in his head was yelling at him to get out of there now. But his serum was in his room. Without the serum...there was no telling what would happen. He gave her a cursory "thanks" and headed upstairs.

    He found the Englishman standing at his table. He was definitely English. He had that prim and proper way about him that got in the way of any real science. That was why he was always such an oddity when he lived in England.

    "Can I help you?" Dr. Crippling asked.

    "I firmly believe that you can," came the reply. The man had short blonde hair and a very formal attire. He looked as if he were about to attend an opera. "My name is Christian Angel. I'm in the employ of Her Majesty's government. We've been searching for you for several months now."

    "I thought you would be," he said back. Crippling's hand trailed to the brass device on his wrist. The push of a button was all it would take to get him out of there.

    "You're situation is quite odd. For so long you were the most notable man in the scientific community. There are so many patents wth your name. I have some in this red folder here. Then, without any warning, you turn to murder. There are at least seventeen deaths linked to you. I'm sure you know this. But what's struck me as the oddest thing of all is that after the numerous murders you've been implicated in - all occurring during the peak of the lunar cycle - you suddenly stopped. Even more curious," he added, this time holding up the gun Crippling kept locked away, "is why you have a revolver with only one bullet in it."

    "I'm saving it," Crippling said simply.

    "And the reason the bullet is silver?" Angel asked.

    He knew more than he was letting on.

    "Why are you here?"

    "To protect the Crown, its neighbors, and the world," Angel told him. "I'm offering you a chance to be useful to the Crown once again. In exchange, Her Majesty is willing to offer amnesty. I have here a train ticket to Luxemburg. If I see you on board, I'll take that as to meaning you accept the offer."

    He set the ticket down on Cripplings bed and turned to go. Crippling grabbed the ticket and looked at it curiously. It was certainly real.

    "Why do you want me in Luxemburg?" he asked.

    "I don't. I want you on a train heading for Luxemburg."

    With that Mr. Angel departed. He forgot, however, to take the red folder stuffed with Dr. Cripplings numerous designs and patents. He picked it up. He'd forgotten how many he'd sent in. Well, he thought, at least he had something to read during the train ride.


    Ulysses sniffed the air at the Frankfurt trainstation and coughed. Disgusting. It was a small miracle he got these people to set aside a space of water just for him. These things ruined everything they touched. why was he agreeing to help them? Other than that he was promised his own piece of private ocean to hunt in.

    He hid his body from everyone, covered his shining blue skin with numerous layers and a long trenchcoat. He had a wooden nose straped over his face that he kept in place with a scarf. His slightly pointed head he kept hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. His grasp of English was tentative at best, so he spoke very little. All the same, he was sure he was attracting the wrong kind of attention.

    He spared one last look at all the metal and glass of the station - an affront to the forest that once ruled here, if you asked him - and boarded the train. As he stepped inside, he felt something brush against him. Something moving very fast. He looked about the floor and stared behind him, sure that someone had thrown something. But there was nothing at his feet and no one behind him. He shrugged and entered.


    O'Haren wasn't one for waiting. Not when time was on his side. The fact the slow English of everyday had caught him still astounded him. He kept looking back at his actions, trying to find the mistake that gave him away.

    He was more surprised that they hadn't locked him up for it. Instead, they wanted his assistance. Didn't that just figure from the Limy Brits. Punish 'em to death unless they've got something useful.

    The people trying to board the train were taking forever. He looked at his watch and gave it's top button a push. The watch's hands moved an exaggerated slowlness. O'Haren lookd up to see everyone else following suit. The color of everything was slightly muted, not as bright. O'Haren marched his way past the lot of them, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, not really caring if he bumped into any of them.

    "'scuse meh. Comin' through," he said. There was no acknowledgement he was even there.

    Someone was already on the stair for his train car - the last car. He walked up and shoved his way past him.

    "Pardon me, friend," he said, then stopped to get a better look at him. His skin was a sickly pale blue and he appeared to be very moist, like he was perspiring. O'Haren shook his head. Poor guy. He quickly went to his seat.