Forums » General Roleplay » That Abode of Peace [1x1]

The night-time fog - green, foreboding and tenacious - twisted along the streets and through the miserable quarters. Late night had largely vacated the streets; the fog only seemed to emphasize its desolation. It settled over one of the many large cemeteries outside of the city, creating a lonely scene that seemed almost morbidly picturesque.

Until the arrival of several shadowy figures sliced through the serenity.

Two men, utterly silent and shrouded entirely in black, made their way through the graveyard with utmost care. It had become customary back in the days of the unmitigated body trade, after all, for some families to set watchers and traps.

A third man brought up the rear; a veritable scarecrow of a man with too-long limbs and bright, bespectacled eyes set in a face as startlingly gaunt and cadaverous as the subterranean multitudes that surrounded him. He had an implacably dishevelled look about him that seemed very much at odds with his dirty-blonde hair, fine clothes, and airily professional manner. The latter, however, didn’t come as a surprise to his confidants; Dr. Michael Hodgson - as his title implied - was indeed a professional.

The resurrection men had largely died along with the practice as new regulations regarding the trade of bodies had surfaced, but a handsome sum per corpse tended to quell any questions when it came to contemporary practices. The doctor had quickly acquired two regular ‘mourners’ to help him gather subjects - and he would occasionally fight his growing fatigue to accompany them on their outings.

He chuckled slightly as his men found their target, envisioning the all-too-predictable scandal that would erupt, were they to be discovered. A medical man and licensed anatomist stooping to such sickening matters! What would ever bring such an affluent and fairly well-respected man to do such a thing?

The lurid tales that would be spun in the wake of the discovery wouldn’t come close to the truth, and within that fact, Michael found a secret thrill. Not even his mourners knew.

The exhumation process was meant to be relatively simple and quick; dig down to the head, open the top part of the casket, slide the body out, remove the clothes. And Dr. Hodgson’s mourners knew what they were doing. The doctor didn’t dig; the last outing had seen him collapse in an uncontrollable coughing fit. And when the flecks of blood began to spray, the three had decided to abandon their plans for the evening.

However, he wouldn't be deterred for long; he had offered to remain with his men, helping in less strenuous ways, overseeing their work, and acting as a lookout during their future outings.

Mindful of this new resolution and anxious from inaction, he began to scan their surroundings.";

The Doctor probably wouldn’t see much, except for a blur of blackness on the other side of the graveyard, which disappeared behind a statue of the Virgin Mary. That blackness was the clothing of a young adolescent, who breathed heavily, their dark blue eyes snapped open like they had just seen an evil spirit. Although on sight the youth was of indiscernible gender, they were indeed a she, and she wanted to be anywhere but there right now.

Must hide like the vermin that I am. Make myself small- very small, and quiet; especially quiet. If I can’t make myself small, then the least I can do is be quiet.

She rehearsed the same thing in her head again and again, forcing herself to remember what she was told to do in this situation, if she risked being found out.

Can’t get caught- being caught is a fate worse than death. Be vermin, you are vermin, be vermin.

She crouched down, holding her knees close to herself as she tucked her head in between them. She forced herself to breathe as little as needed- breathing was noise, and noise is something she didn’t want right now.

'Noise is the Devils’ work- you make noise, and the Devil will find ya, and drag ya to Hell!'

A brief thought passed her mind, a wonder if the men over there were of the Devil, whom had finally come to drag her down to Hell as punishment for her lifelong sins. It wasn’t impossible, considering all she’d done- certainly her sins were Hell-worthy?

No… no the Devils’ men would have already dragged me down by now.

She shivered at the thought, but forced herself to remain calm. Maybe she was safe… after all she was hidden well.

I’ll be… oh no…

She looked towards her left, where a clearly dug-out grave lied, with her shovel resting in front of it. The shovel she needed in order to walk back home…

Please… please don’t see it…

Michael twitched, turned at the sudden movement of the shadow in the corner of his eye, unsure if it had been a product of the constantly creeping fog, an animal, or someone a bit more threatening.

Or a spirit, he thought with a wry smirk.

With a motion to his mourners and a finger to his lips, he picked up a lantern. With light in hand, he crept toward the statue, minding every footfall, the light’s valiant attempt to slice through the occasionally stifling smog appreciated, even though the layout of the graveyard had been thoroughly etched into his memory.

At least until he nearly tumbled into a hole.

He spat something very un-gentlemanly under his breath as he regained his balance, and brought the light down to the open grave.

Stiffly, carefully, he bent to pick up the shovel. He examined it, set it back down. And the alibis he had been mentally preparing melted away as he noticed the size of the set of footprints surrounding and hurriedly leading away from the scene.

Curiosity overcame nerves; he stood slowly, lifted the lantern. The meagre light he held before him reflected coldly off his glasses, twin shining, empty circles on a bony face.

He turned.

The light would meet two dark blue, terrified eyes which shot further open on contact with his own. The owner of said eyes was a boyish adolescent of a rather dreary appearance. Whoever this was wasn't well, and it's hard to decide just where to being with describing this unwellness; scars- many infected- covered her entire body; the right leg bent at an unnatural angle, revealing the youth to be crippled. The child also, to be quite frank, smelled. Covered in grime, it was as if the adolescent had never so much touched a bath, or any clean body of water, for that matter.

After a few moments of hesitation, the youth would begin crawling backwards, as fast as they could. They only took their eyes off the three in order to see just where they were headed. However, they were also moving at a snails pace, and they knew that.

Oh, how she knew that.

I'm gonna die!

He blinked, completely and momentarily thrown, prepared for another body-snatcher at best, and an authority at worst. Then he held up a hand to signal his mourners, who had been frozen, staring intently at their employer for direction. Each nodded in turn and then returned to finish their work, carefully opening the lid of their prize as if nothing had happened.

He turned back to the child. Strained eyes took in the other’s condition – every bruise, cut and infection, coldly analytical. Under fifteen, malnourished, certainly not able-bodied. His mind raced through various possible infections and treatments, and idly wondered about what his former classmates had been treating at the workhouses. He lingered on the leg.

The momentary spell broke once the youth began to move again.

“Erm-boy! Wait, wait one moment, I’m not going to hurt you!”

With lanky, unhurried strides and lantern still preceding him, he followed the young intruder.

The 'boy' would keep going back, forcing herself to go faster, ignoring the cuts and bruises she gained as rocks and twigs stabbed and scratched the palms of her sweaty, bony hands. She would only stop when backing up roughly against the metal fence of the graveyard. The youth grimaced in pain, and then looked back towards the man with an attempt at a threatening glare. (Albeit it was not very threatening at all, coming from one so frail, she would admit.)

"S-stay b-b-back! I-! I-I w-w-warn y-ya!" The adolescent would stutter in an equally weak warning, grabbing the poles of the fence to try and bring themselves back up on two, wobbly feet.

A somewhat humourless smile began to tug at one corner of the man's mouth.

"Or what?"

He reached, a careful attempt to steady the youth.

"...here, stop that now, you're re-opening a lot of these, half of these look infected already...you're putting all your weight on that leg, don't...here, let me help - what are you doing out so late?"

She continued trying to pull herself up, only to fall on her limp leg. "Dammit-! L-look, I dun want any trouble! Jus' lemme be!" It came out more pleading than she had meant, so she bared her unkempt teeth at him, looking a bit like an ornery stray cat caught up in a tree as her muscles tensed.

Michael grabbed the boy as he went down; carefully lifted him up, supported him under his shoulder, around his back.

"For GOD'S SAKE, BOY," he hissed, "I'm a doctor. You need one. I'm here to help. If I let you be, your problems will only get worse -!"

And then trailed off in utter frustration. Snapping at the poor boy wouldn't accomplish much, after all. But he didn't let go, even when two shadows slowly materialised behind him, through the fog.

"What the hell is a'matter with you?"

"...up to someot. Who wouldn't be, 'round here? Let him be, 'e'll chirp, send us all to the gallows..."

The boy struggled, wanting to get away. Even more so when the two strange men appeared. "Lemme go," he cried, "ye're gonna gimme in trouble! Ya dunno wot ye're doin!" He didn't put up much of a challenge, and it'd be easy to keep a hold of him. In vain, the youth would reach over to his shovel, which was several yards away, by the open grave. "Gimmie my walkin' shovel back! Ya can't do this! I dun need ya help!"

The shadows continued to mutter to one another.

"..sort of kidsman would send 'im out here at this hour, in this fog?"

"..not even fit enough for a snakesman..."

After a glare from Michael and a slight pause, one shadow wandered to collect the shovel, and passed it to Michael's waiting, unoccupied and outstretched hand. He, in turn, passed it to the boy, but didn't otherwise relinquish his hold.

Michael began again, in a gentler tone.

"In trouble! With whom?"

The boy would cling tightly to his shovel, not as if it were a weapon, but as if it were a shield. Despite his stubborn and unruly demeanor, it was obvious he was beyond frightened. "N-none o' ya business! Jus' trust me when I say that I...I-" There's a pause as his shoulders slump and his eyes become sad. "I gotta get goin' right now! Please- I'm beggin o' ya! Jus' have some mercy already and lemme go!" His voice was getting desperate as his insolent facade was slowly breaking on the surface.

"Boy. Stay with me one moment. I'm going to present a choice. And you'll think me completely mad. And these two will give me shit for it, later. But I'm doing it anyway:

"You can leave now, or...you could come with this complete stranger. I'll do my best to dress those, close what I can. Feed you. See what I can do about your leg-"

"Would you do this to every child from the street, then-?!"

"If I were able. It's clear enough what happened to him." His reply was ice; he warmed again when he turned to the boy.

"As I was saying. Come with this stranger, face the unknown, have a chance at health, safety, security, a new start. Or you could go back to the kind of man that sends sick and crippled children to do his dirty work."

He glanced at the boy's leg again, noted how it bent. He frowned at it, slightly; fury sparked in his eyes.

"You'll be punished either way if you meet him," he added, quieter. "You don't have all that much to lose, do you?"

The boy was about to decline the offer, but paused. He noted the anger in this man's eyes when referring to and glancing at his leg. There was a slight, almost unnoticeable tilt of the teen's head. A moment ago he had been firm in his decision that this man was a liar, and would harm him if he were stupid enough to cooperate.

Now, as he noted that fire in the supposed doctor's eyes...he wasn't so sure. Could something like that be faked- raw emotion? And the fact that said raw emotion was because of something someone did in harm of himself...

And what choice did he have, really? It was late, and at this point it was basically damned if he do, damned if he don't. Still, the thought of upsetting his boss sent shivers down his spine... but...

This person, this doctor was offering shelter and care. If he passed this up, maybe he really would be passing up something grand, something that would never be offered to him again...

He wanted to go, but if his boss found out he would be doomed, and his boss always found out.

He wanted nothing more than to be free from that horrid man, but he was terrified to the bone of him- and it showed on his face as he considered the offer. His dark blue eyes had widened, and if possible his pale skin paled even more. He shook and bit his lip, trying to hold back tears as the fear increased inside of him. The resistance wasn't strong enough, and a few tears- albeit not many- began to flow down his face.

"H-he'll find me, ya know- he always, always finds m-me," be warned, his voice breaking out with a sob.

"Then I will be ready. We will be ready." His voice was curiously hard.

He turned to the other men, addressed them in the same commanding tone. "Thank you, both of you, that's enough for tonight. Leave them at Gray's. He'll have your payment ready." And taking their cues from their employer, the mourners began to move away, their spoils in tow.

His voice and gaze softened as they left, and he turned back to the child.

"Erm...He did...do that to your leg, didn't he, boy?"

A momentary pause. Then, he continued - far more hurriedly and less formal than he had been in the company of his mourners. Almost defensively.

"Look, I may be skulking around in graveyards, but I'm no pervert or charlatan. Totally, completely mad. Probably. One would have to be to some degree if one is out here at this hour, after all. But I'm legitimate! ...Doctor Hodgson, of Harley Street."

The boy would stare at the strange doctor for a few moments, taken aback by his odd mannerism. "I-I am... Crow, sir. I dun have a last name though, I'm afraid," he finally speaks, looking down at his torn trousers and worn, leather shoes. "And... yeh, 'e did do that to my leg. A few days ago- 'e was drunk, ravin' mad and I jus' 'appened to be 'ere at the wrong time, as usual..."

There would be a pause, and then the boy spoke again. "If ye really want to 'elp me, then you should get goin'- he's probably lookin' for me right now, mad as can be at my tardiness. 'e'll beat me blood red if he catches me."

"Then Crow'll be what I call you. I wouldn't condone the circumstances, but please believe me when I say it is a pleasure to meet you."

He looked at the boy's leg once more, though his eyes didn't seem to truly see it.

"I'm...not one to dismiss it as a casual act of the poor. Unlike what some of my colleagues think, they aren't alone capable of such acts. An upright, just society doesn't always produce upright and just people..."

For a strange and uncharacteristic moment, the man trailed off, looked away and was silent. Another very long moment passed before he began to speak, again.

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is...I know your situation very well. Nobody will be beaten blood-red tonight. Trust me, and stay close. We'll be going to Harley Street tonight."

He honestly didn't understand most of the meaning behind the doctor's words, but he said nothing so as to both not seem stupid, and to hurry up the pace. The Taskmaster could appear at any second, and the boy was so paranoid that he constantly looked over his shoulder, as if afraid of something horrible grabbing him from behind, dragging the child away and back to whatever abysmal place he had been residing in prior. At the mention of Harley Street he would nod, looking over his shoulder once more. "'Arley Street it is, then..."