"Chance is the providence of adventurers."
>Napoleon Bonaparte
A Chance Encounter
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Re: A Chance Encounter
PLYMOUTH, DEVON.
Friday 25th March 1977.
Samual brocklesby cast his eyes about the empty hall of the Palace Theatre. It was dark and dingy, even with all the lights on. Only the stage, where he now stood could boast any real illumination, and even that was a poor effort when compared to some of the theatres he had visited in the Great Capital's West End.
“Oi! Who d'ya think you are? Anthony Hopkins?” called Davey Davies. He sniggered at hisown joke. “Don't think the Royal Shakespeare Company's looking for anyone right now. Besides, no one's gonna pay to hear your voice or see your ugly mug up here under the limelights.”
Sam tunred his head to look at Davey but didn't bite. He wanted to but he also needed this job. More importantly he needed the steady income.
Davey was a tall thin man, no older than Sam's thirty years. He had a narrow rodent like head topped with a thinning yet dishevelled mass of brown hair. His neck was scrawny and sinuous and despite his predilection towards Cornish pasties and clotted cream scones, he looked like he hadn't eaten in months. Because of this his clothes hung from his body as though they ought to belong to someone else.
Davey Davies was a carpenter by trade, and a pretty good one too.
He worked for Bill Nodder, an ex-Devonport Dockyard shipwright and foreman. Bill had left the yard with a tidy redundancy package. The best thing he'd ever done, he liked to tell people. Bill had gone out on his own, setting up the carpentry firm; Nodder & Co. Carpenters & Joinerers.
Bill's firm hd won the contract to refurbish the dilapidated theatre.
That was how Samuel Brocklesby came to be stood on the stage in paint spattered dirty clothes holding a heavy toolbox in one hand, contemplating ripping Davey's head off.
“Mind you,” Davey continued with his derogatory comments. “You could probably make it as a pantomime dame, or even the fool! No, actually the dame would be better for you. D'ya like wearing dresses Samantha?”
Again the overwhelming urge to reply swept over Sam, only this time the urge would have taken the form of giving the scrawny little bastard a damned good thrashing!
Davey was always ragging on Sam, trying to get him to retaliate. The rake like man knew of Sam's criminal past and was just itching to get Sam fired even though Sam could find no reason for Davey to dislike him directly.
Sam shuddered as he fought back the anger.
Bill Nodder, just entering from stage left saw the slight movement and mistook it for something else.
“Aye,” he said, “tis cold enough in ere buy! Still, if you and I can get that old stage backdrop down we'll have enough wood t' get that old boiler in the basement fired up.”
The old shipwright grabbed a hammer and jemmy bar from his toolbox. “Come on then ship-mate,” he called to Sam.
Sam followed the boss back stage.
Davey watched him go and under his breath mocked the words, “ship-mate”.
Sam caught the remark and noticed how Davey hadn't said anything aloud now that Bill was present. He also realised why Davey was so antagonistic; before Sam had arrived he and Bill were tight as a drum. Now though, Bill had the ships that Sam had served on and that he had worked on as a common point of reference.
Sam could see how he may have ruffled Davey's feathers, but he'd be damned if he'd quit because of the man's insecurities.
With a shrug and a sly grin to himself, he piped up, “See ya, Davey!”
**
The days work had been hard and Sam felt tired. Despite the cloudy overcast day, Sam Brocklesby squinted and shielded his eyes as he opened the door at the rear of the theatre. As he stepped out into the street a refreshing spray of drizzle was whipped up into his face by a strong gust.
He didn't mind that it was raining, yet again. In fact he would have liked it to be raining a little harder. This stuff would just make him damp and cold.
He rented rooms over in St Judes and was looking forward to a nice relaxing evening in front of his fire.
The sound of laughter and merriment flowed out into the street as the door to the Pheonix public house opened…
Friday 25th March 1977.
Samual brocklesby cast his eyes about the empty hall of the Palace Theatre. It was dark and dingy, even with all the lights on. Only the stage, where he now stood could boast any real illumination, and even that was a poor effort when compared to some of the theatres he had visited in the Great Capital's West End.
“Oi! Who d'ya think you are? Anthony Hopkins?” called Davey Davies. He sniggered at hisown joke. “Don't think the Royal Shakespeare Company's looking for anyone right now. Besides, no one's gonna pay to hear your voice or see your ugly mug up here under the limelights.”
Sam tunred his head to look at Davey but didn't bite. He wanted to but he also needed this job. More importantly he needed the steady income.
Davey was a tall thin man, no older than Sam's thirty years. He had a narrow rodent like head topped with a thinning yet dishevelled mass of brown hair. His neck was scrawny and sinuous and despite his predilection towards Cornish pasties and clotted cream scones, he looked like he hadn't eaten in months. Because of this his clothes hung from his body as though they ought to belong to someone else.
Davey Davies was a carpenter by trade, and a pretty good one too.
He worked for Bill Nodder, an ex-Devonport Dockyard shipwright and foreman. Bill had left the yard with a tidy redundancy package. The best thing he'd ever done, he liked to tell people. Bill had gone out on his own, setting up the carpentry firm; Nodder & Co. Carpenters & Joinerers.
Bill's firm hd won the contract to refurbish the dilapidated theatre.
That was how Samuel Brocklesby came to be stood on the stage in paint spattered dirty clothes holding a heavy toolbox in one hand, contemplating ripping Davey's head off.
“Mind you,” Davey continued with his derogatory comments. “You could probably make it as a pantomime dame, or even the fool! No, actually the dame would be better for you. D'ya like wearing dresses Samantha?”
Again the overwhelming urge to reply swept over Sam, only this time the urge would have taken the form of giving the scrawny little bastard a damned good thrashing!
Davey was always ragging on Sam, trying to get him to retaliate. The rake like man knew of Sam's criminal past and was just itching to get Sam fired even though Sam could find no reason for Davey to dislike him directly.
Sam shuddered as he fought back the anger.
Bill Nodder, just entering from stage left saw the slight movement and mistook it for something else.
“Aye,” he said, “tis cold enough in ere buy! Still, if you and I can get that old stage backdrop down we'll have enough wood t' get that old boiler in the basement fired up.”
The old shipwright grabbed a hammer and jemmy bar from his toolbox. “Come on then ship-mate,” he called to Sam.
Sam followed the boss back stage.
Davey watched him go and under his breath mocked the words, “ship-mate”.
Sam caught the remark and noticed how Davey hadn't said anything aloud now that Bill was present. He also realised why Davey was so antagonistic; before Sam had arrived he and Bill were tight as a drum. Now though, Bill had the ships that Sam had served on and that he had worked on as a common point of reference.
Sam could see how he may have ruffled Davey's feathers, but he'd be damned if he'd quit because of the man's insecurities.
With a shrug and a sly grin to himself, he piped up, “See ya, Davey!”
**
The days work had been hard and Sam felt tired. Despite the cloudy overcast day, Sam Brocklesby squinted and shielded his eyes as he opened the door at the rear of the theatre. As he stepped out into the street a refreshing spray of drizzle was whipped up into his face by a strong gust.
He didn't mind that it was raining, yet again. In fact he would have liked it to be raining a little harder. This stuff would just make him damp and cold.
He rented rooms over in St Judes and was looking forward to a nice relaxing evening in front of his fire.
The sound of laughter and merriment flowed out into the street as the door to the Pheonix public house opened…
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Re: A Chance Encounter
From the flaky red door of the pub emerged a group of men, each of them in the cheap suits and dirty hats of working men, though Sam knew none of these men actually did a hard day’s work.
Across the street Sam locked eyes with one of four men who where just leaving the pub; Terry Morehouse.
Terry was a thug who enjoyed hurting folks behalf of his crimelord boss, Marcus Angorus.
The Angorus family were just one of the many criminal families that sprang up near the turn of the century after Sam’s great-grandfather had removed the then de-facto numero-uno crime boss, Durban, from power.
Plymouth’s underworld and the Brockleby’s had never really gotten on that well.
The problem right now was that, stupidly Sam had managed to get himself in debt to Angorus and was a little behind on his payments.
“Brocklesby,” Terry Morehouse roared.
Sam sprinted away east. He knew that if he could keep going, get over the hill and down passed the Citadel and into Sutton, he had enough friends and family there to hide him from Morehouse.
“Oh, shoot!” Sam exclaimed as he heard one of the men closing in.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw a lithe form behind him. It wasn't Terry.
This man had a hard face, all angles and lines, and his eyes were even harder still. About fifty yards behind him was Terry and the other two.
Just fifty yards? The lithe man was nearly on him.
Sam let him get closer, then spinning, his leg bracing him in the turn, the ex-marine slammed his fist out.
It should have cracked into the man's nose, breaking it and temporarily blinding him, but the man was incredibly quick and dodged to the side, avoiding the blow completely.
In return he brought his knee up as he passed, striking Sam in the thigh.
It wasn't a particularly fierce blow but enough to make Sam jump back with a grunt.
Then the man was charging in, hunched over in a rugby tackle.
As the arms wrapped around him and the shoulder thundered into his stomach, Sam let the momentum take him, at the same time he smashed his elbow down onto the man's back.
Sam recognised instantly that it was the wrong thing to do as the man suddenly became a dead weight and fell onto his legs.
Pushing and punching the man off him Sam scrambled to his feet just as Terry came charging in.
Terry was a street fighter and liked to play dirty. His cosh was already in his hand and he swung it in at Sam viscously. It missed only by the smallest of margins and Sam felt it whistle passed his cheek and strike the small bag he still carried slung over his shoulder.
The bag chinked as the club struck, reminding Sam of it's contents.
Shoving himself away from Morehouse, he grabbed his claw hammer and pulled it from the bag. Instantly he threw the heavy bag at his opponent.
The marine let the hammer slide in his hand until the head was against his fist, the claw curved neatly between his thumb and finger to rest comfortably across the back of his hand.
Terry had caught the bag and shoved it back at Sam.
It landed short but the contents spilled across the road. Quickly Sam scooped up a fat bladed screwdriver and held it like a knife, threatening the gang of men.
All four men, now the the exceptionally fast runner had recovered his footing, began to circle Sam.
Terry was the only other man wielding anything like a weapon.
Sam was suddenly aware of the onlookers now and wondered how they would react if he actually skewered one of these men on the end of the screwdriver.
A man jumped at him and Sam blocked the punch with the head of the hammer.
The man yelped and danced back clutching his fist in his other hand.
Terry held back but the other two came at Sam at once.
He blocked, parried and counter-attacked, trying to deal as much damage as he could without actually stabbing one of them or smashing their skull in.
Terry saw an opportunity. As Sam turned his back on him, dealing with the other two, Terry jumped forward bringing the cosh down on Sam's head.
Sam's vision was a white blur and he felt his knees crunch into the cobbles.
Another blow struck home, this time across his back and the was down on the ground.
“Get him up!” he heard Terry growl.
A hand gripped his arm. His vision was clearing and he saw the wood chisel from his bag in front of him. He didn't know where the hammer had gone, only that he didn't have it. He grabbed the chisel and as the men dragged him to his feet he struck, sinking the razor sharp tool into the upper thigh of one of his opponents, just below his groin.
As Sam had expected, upon pulling the blade free the blood poured from the man's leg as thouigh someone had opened a tap.
The man yelled in agony and upon seeing the blood soaking his trousers and trickling onto the street, he clasped his hand over the wound trying to contain the free flowing liquid.
Outraged, Terry and the other men threw themselves at their opponent.
Sam met Terry's charge with his forehead, smashing it into the thug's face, all caution gone, falling back on his training and his fighting instincts.
For all intents and purposes Sam was back in Singapore, fighting the Sung-Hai gorillas during their uprising. He could easily have opened his eyes to see jungle all around him and not thought it was at all out of place.
A fist lashed out catching Sam in the side of the head.
Terry was already staggering back but the last man was coming at him again.
Sam caught the fist with his right hand and guided the punch past him, stepping into the blow so that he could hook his arm over the top, leaving the man's bicep under Sam's armpit.
It only took a shift of the ex-marine's weight and a strong jerk of his shoulder to snap the man's arm at the elbow.
He went down with an agonised scream.
Terry by now had recovered his senses and at the same time his companion, the one with the damaged hand, had grabbed Sam's mallet.
His own senses on edge Sam retrieved his hammer just in time to counter the attack from the mallet.
Knee coming up quickly it struck the attacker in the stomach, giving time for Sam to slash out with the hardened steel head at Terry Morehouse.
“Fucker!” Morehouse yelled leaping clear of the attack.
Sam kept the hammer swinging and having missed Terry he smashed the tool into the top of mallet-man's head.
He went down quick and didn't move.
Enraged, adrenaline flowing through him like some drug Sam held the bloodied hammer aloft threateningly. “Come on, Morehouse, you sack of shit! I'd be doing a lot of people a favour by killing you. Well?”
To Terry, who looked around at the three bested men and seeing Sam Brocklesby looking like hell's own fury manifest, it seemed the best option was to withdraw.
He pulled the cosh's strap from his wrist and threw the club to the ground, stepping back from the lunatic before him.
“Ok Brocklesby, you win this one,” the thug announced through gritted teeth.
Sam knew that if he left Morehouse then the man would go to the Angorus family and bring more goons. He'd probably not be walking away from that encounter. But then, with Terry moving away, showing all signs of someone about to leave his injured friends and run for it, he couldn't bring himself to commit cold-blooded murder.
Not letting go of the deadly hammer, Sam began backing away too.
He thought that with his retreat Morehouse might have the decency to check on his fallen comrades. It wasn't to be. Once the gap was sufficient, Terry ran.
Sam knew it was in the right direction for anyone wanting to get to Angorus territory.
Across the street Sam locked eyes with one of four men who where just leaving the pub; Terry Morehouse.
Terry was a thug who enjoyed hurting folks behalf of his crimelord boss, Marcus Angorus.
The Angorus family were just one of the many criminal families that sprang up near the turn of the century after Sam’s great-grandfather had removed the then de-facto numero-uno crime boss, Durban, from power.
Plymouth’s underworld and the Brockleby’s had never really gotten on that well.
The problem right now was that, stupidly Sam had managed to get himself in debt to Angorus and was a little behind on his payments.
“Brocklesby,” Terry Morehouse roared.
Sam sprinted away east. He knew that if he could keep going, get over the hill and down passed the Citadel and into Sutton, he had enough friends and family there to hide him from Morehouse.
“Oh, shoot!” Sam exclaimed as he heard one of the men closing in.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw a lithe form behind him. It wasn't Terry.
This man had a hard face, all angles and lines, and his eyes were even harder still. About fifty yards behind him was Terry and the other two.
Just fifty yards? The lithe man was nearly on him.
Sam let him get closer, then spinning, his leg bracing him in the turn, the ex-marine slammed his fist out.
It should have cracked into the man's nose, breaking it and temporarily blinding him, but the man was incredibly quick and dodged to the side, avoiding the blow completely.
In return he brought his knee up as he passed, striking Sam in the thigh.
It wasn't a particularly fierce blow but enough to make Sam jump back with a grunt.
Then the man was charging in, hunched over in a rugby tackle.
As the arms wrapped around him and the shoulder thundered into his stomach, Sam let the momentum take him, at the same time he smashed his elbow down onto the man's back.
Sam recognised instantly that it was the wrong thing to do as the man suddenly became a dead weight and fell onto his legs.
Pushing and punching the man off him Sam scrambled to his feet just as Terry came charging in.
Terry was a street fighter and liked to play dirty. His cosh was already in his hand and he swung it in at Sam viscously. It missed only by the smallest of margins and Sam felt it whistle passed his cheek and strike the small bag he still carried slung over his shoulder.
The bag chinked as the club struck, reminding Sam of it's contents.
Shoving himself away from Morehouse, he grabbed his claw hammer and pulled it from the bag. Instantly he threw the heavy bag at his opponent.
The marine let the hammer slide in his hand until the head was against his fist, the claw curved neatly between his thumb and finger to rest comfortably across the back of his hand.
Terry had caught the bag and shoved it back at Sam.
It landed short but the contents spilled across the road. Quickly Sam scooped up a fat bladed screwdriver and held it like a knife, threatening the gang of men.
All four men, now the the exceptionally fast runner had recovered his footing, began to circle Sam.
Terry was the only other man wielding anything like a weapon.
Sam was suddenly aware of the onlookers now and wondered how they would react if he actually skewered one of these men on the end of the screwdriver.
A man jumped at him and Sam blocked the punch with the head of the hammer.
The man yelped and danced back clutching his fist in his other hand.
Terry held back but the other two came at Sam at once.
He blocked, parried and counter-attacked, trying to deal as much damage as he could without actually stabbing one of them or smashing their skull in.
Terry saw an opportunity. As Sam turned his back on him, dealing with the other two, Terry jumped forward bringing the cosh down on Sam's head.
Sam's vision was a white blur and he felt his knees crunch into the cobbles.
Another blow struck home, this time across his back and the was down on the ground.
“Get him up!” he heard Terry growl.
A hand gripped his arm. His vision was clearing and he saw the wood chisel from his bag in front of him. He didn't know where the hammer had gone, only that he didn't have it. He grabbed the chisel and as the men dragged him to his feet he struck, sinking the razor sharp tool into the upper thigh of one of his opponents, just below his groin.
As Sam had expected, upon pulling the blade free the blood poured from the man's leg as thouigh someone had opened a tap.
The man yelled in agony and upon seeing the blood soaking his trousers and trickling onto the street, he clasped his hand over the wound trying to contain the free flowing liquid.
Outraged, Terry and the other men threw themselves at their opponent.
Sam met Terry's charge with his forehead, smashing it into the thug's face, all caution gone, falling back on his training and his fighting instincts.
For all intents and purposes Sam was back in Singapore, fighting the Sung-Hai gorillas during their uprising. He could easily have opened his eyes to see jungle all around him and not thought it was at all out of place.
A fist lashed out catching Sam in the side of the head.
Terry was already staggering back but the last man was coming at him again.
Sam caught the fist with his right hand and guided the punch past him, stepping into the blow so that he could hook his arm over the top, leaving the man's bicep under Sam's armpit.
It only took a shift of the ex-marine's weight and a strong jerk of his shoulder to snap the man's arm at the elbow.
He went down with an agonised scream.
Terry by now had recovered his senses and at the same time his companion, the one with the damaged hand, had grabbed Sam's mallet.
His own senses on edge Sam retrieved his hammer just in time to counter the attack from the mallet.
Knee coming up quickly it struck the attacker in the stomach, giving time for Sam to slash out with the hardened steel head at Terry Morehouse.
“Fucker!” Morehouse yelled leaping clear of the attack.
Sam kept the hammer swinging and having missed Terry he smashed the tool into the top of mallet-man's head.
He went down quick and didn't move.
Enraged, adrenaline flowing through him like some drug Sam held the bloodied hammer aloft threateningly. “Come on, Morehouse, you sack of shit! I'd be doing a lot of people a favour by killing you. Well?”
To Terry, who looked around at the three bested men and seeing Sam Brocklesby looking like hell's own fury manifest, it seemed the best option was to withdraw.
He pulled the cosh's strap from his wrist and threw the club to the ground, stepping back from the lunatic before him.
“Ok Brocklesby, you win this one,” the thug announced through gritted teeth.
Sam knew that if he left Morehouse then the man would go to the Angorus family and bring more goons. He'd probably not be walking away from that encounter. But then, with Terry moving away, showing all signs of someone about to leave his injured friends and run for it, he couldn't bring himself to commit cold-blooded murder.
Not letting go of the deadly hammer, Sam began backing away too.
He thought that with his retreat Morehouse might have the decency to check on his fallen comrades. It wasn't to be. Once the gap was sufficient, Terry ran.
Sam knew it was in the right direction for anyone wanting to get to Angorus territory.
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Samual Brocklesby had grabbed a pack as soon as he got to his rented rooms at in St Judes.
His cousin, Pete, had seen him as he was coming into town, still carrying the hammer.
Peter Brocklesby had calmed Sam down and taken him into the St George, off Cornwall Street. There, a stout later, and having explained the events to the weather worn son of his father's brother, Sam had been brought to his senses. He'd have to get out of Plymouth for a while, probably go to the Great Metropolis or the Capital, somewhere a man could disappear amongst the teeming masses.
Pete owned a fishing boat and would be putting out to sea in the morning. He told Sam to get his things and meet him back at Sutton Harbour this evening. He'd get Sam out of Plymouth and up to Dartmouth or Exmouth where Sam would be able to make his way to wherever he decided to go.
The less any of his family knew about his whereabouts, the better.
It was cold and dark by the time Sam had gathered his important belongings together.
Just as he was about to put out the light he heard the stairs that led to his attic room creak. It was the fourth stair, it tended to make a long groaning sound and then a bang whenever any weight was put upon it.
Sam blew out the lamp and moved to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains.
Below, out in the street and blatantly obvious for anyone to see was Terry Morehouse and at least a dozen other men. Stood with Terry were two other men Whom Sam recognised. The first and the least surprising was the tanned Marcus Angorus, obviously here to make sure Sam was dealt with thoroughly.
More surprising was the second man, Davey Davies. Although he looked like a sheep amongst wolves Sam knew instantly that his antagonistic work colleague had led Angorus here.
“You prick,” Sam cursed quietly. Quickly he pulled the old revolver from his coat pocket. He'd hoped the weapon was going to be nothing more than an unnecessary precaution tonight, but sadly that didn't look like it was going to be.
Someone tried the door but it was locked. Whomever it was then tried to barge the door.
Sam ran to the bathroom at the back of the house and threw up the sash. He was three floors up but he had no choice.
Climbing out gingerly he perched upon the sill, his legs shaking slightly from either adrenaline or a little fear.
Sam's heart missed a beat when his heavy pack unbalanced him and he grabbed hold of the window frame, freezing in position.
With his heart now in his mouth Sam reached over for the drain pipe.
It was old, put up in Victoria's time and not well looked after. As soon as his weight was on it fully it began to pull free from the stonework.
There were yells from the street side of the house at the noise Sam made as he crashed down onto the rear outhouse roof.
The down-pipe being made of cheap iron had folded about half-way down it's length so that it had slowly levered him to the ground, well, slower than falling at least.
Despite the gravity of the situation Sam chuckled to himself at his his good fortune.
Now he had to get away as quickly as he could, as he knew Marcus' men would be coming around the corners of the street heading for the back alley.
**
Samuel Brocklesby had thought he'd managed to get clear of his pursuers, however just at the last minute he'd been spotted.
Having a good lead he'd run on towards Cattedown, but Angorus' men were mobile, using steam-cars to get ahead of him, meaning he had to keep changing his approach. Not only that but he didn't want to head directly for Sutton as that would show Angorus exactly what his plan was.
Sam found himself in the town centre again and although not his original idea, it suited him well. The Victorian buildings offered plenty of places for someone to hide.
Things were looking up now for the first time in hours and the ex-Royal Marine found a stair leading up to a balcony at the rear of a shop. There were crates and all sorts up there amongst which Sam hid.
Hours passed.
His cousin, Pete, had seen him as he was coming into town, still carrying the hammer.
Peter Brocklesby had calmed Sam down and taken him into the St George, off Cornwall Street. There, a stout later, and having explained the events to the weather worn son of his father's brother, Sam had been brought to his senses. He'd have to get out of Plymouth for a while, probably go to the Great Metropolis or the Capital, somewhere a man could disappear amongst the teeming masses.
Pete owned a fishing boat and would be putting out to sea in the morning. He told Sam to get his things and meet him back at Sutton Harbour this evening. He'd get Sam out of Plymouth and up to Dartmouth or Exmouth where Sam would be able to make his way to wherever he decided to go.
The less any of his family knew about his whereabouts, the better.
It was cold and dark by the time Sam had gathered his important belongings together.
Just as he was about to put out the light he heard the stairs that led to his attic room creak. It was the fourth stair, it tended to make a long groaning sound and then a bang whenever any weight was put upon it.
Sam blew out the lamp and moved to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains.
Below, out in the street and blatantly obvious for anyone to see was Terry Morehouse and at least a dozen other men. Stood with Terry were two other men Whom Sam recognised. The first and the least surprising was the tanned Marcus Angorus, obviously here to make sure Sam was dealt with thoroughly.
More surprising was the second man, Davey Davies. Although he looked like a sheep amongst wolves Sam knew instantly that his antagonistic work colleague had led Angorus here.
“You prick,” Sam cursed quietly. Quickly he pulled the old revolver from his coat pocket. He'd hoped the weapon was going to be nothing more than an unnecessary precaution tonight, but sadly that didn't look like it was going to be.
Someone tried the door but it was locked. Whomever it was then tried to barge the door.
Sam ran to the bathroom at the back of the house and threw up the sash. He was three floors up but he had no choice.
Climbing out gingerly he perched upon the sill, his legs shaking slightly from either adrenaline or a little fear.
Sam's heart missed a beat when his heavy pack unbalanced him and he grabbed hold of the window frame, freezing in position.
With his heart now in his mouth Sam reached over for the drain pipe.
It was old, put up in Victoria's time and not well looked after. As soon as his weight was on it fully it began to pull free from the stonework.
There were yells from the street side of the house at the noise Sam made as he crashed down onto the rear outhouse roof.
The down-pipe being made of cheap iron had folded about half-way down it's length so that it had slowly levered him to the ground, well, slower than falling at least.
Despite the gravity of the situation Sam chuckled to himself at his his good fortune.
Now he had to get away as quickly as he could, as he knew Marcus' men would be coming around the corners of the street heading for the back alley.
**
Samuel Brocklesby had thought he'd managed to get clear of his pursuers, however just at the last minute he'd been spotted.
Having a good lead he'd run on towards Cattedown, but Angorus' men were mobile, using steam-cars to get ahead of him, meaning he had to keep changing his approach. Not only that but he didn't want to head directly for Sutton as that would show Angorus exactly what his plan was.
Sam found himself in the town centre again and although not his original idea, it suited him well. The Victorian buildings offered plenty of places for someone to hide.
Things were looking up now for the first time in hours and the ex-Royal Marine found a stair leading up to a balcony at the rear of a shop. There were crates and all sorts up there amongst which Sam hid.
Hours passed.
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Portman, Portman & Blake, solicitors. Their premises was a shining tower some twenty storeys high, an eclectic mixture of old and new styles, stalwart Gothic strength mixed with modern glass and neon.
From street level, in a narrow lane between two similar, if not quite so tall buildings, a figure in a dark suit, matching top coat and wide brimmed hat smirked at the pretentiousness of it all.
Plymouth was a fine coastal city, its prosperity growing on the back of the Naval Yard's success, a point that many within the yard chose to ignore.
But the undeniable truth was that were it not for the naval bases at HMS Raliegh and HMS Drake, and the fine skills of the Dockyard's workforce in building and maintaining Her Majesties Fleet, then Plymouth, Devonport and the other surrounding towns would have faded into quaint mediocrity.
Although the city proper remained a busy hive of industry, wrapped up in a Victorian and Edwardian veneer, here in the scope the architects built using their own imagination, or at least what they could get passed the conservative eyes of the Plymouth City Council's Etherscope Oversight Committee. There were some people who said the EOC was impotent, and that certain wealthier businesses and even individuals were being allowed to get away with almost anything.
Pretension then, was rife. As in the major London Boroughs, hundreds of miles away the middle classes used opulence to signify wealth and wealth signified success for most businesses.
Ironic then that the aristocracy, the true power within Great Britain tended towards a more subtle display.
The figure looked at his watches. He wore one on his wrist and one on a chain in the pocket of his waist-coat.
The fine pocket watch was set to the Prime Reality time, whereas the wrist watch displayed the local time.
Plymouth's counterpart in the Etherscope, Drake's Harbour, had its clocks running three hours behind that of the Prime.
Someone, probably from the EOC, had done a study and found that the three hours gave the most beneficial handover between prime and ether shifts. No one else seemed to mind, those that entered illegally. It normally gave them longer to 'play'. It also meant that non-immersed users could work longer hours to achieve what their immersed counterparts could.
Satisfied that the employees of Portman, Portman & Blake would have gone home by now, and the building would be occupied by nothing but drones and gremlins. He felt confident that he could avoid or deal quickly with any of those.
Although he'd done his research in the 'Prime', he would still be cautious upon entering the building. Yes he was aware of the automated and gremlin security, but there had not been any indication of human security within the building.
Of course it meant nothing, as his sources had all been unwitting collaborators within the solicitor's menial staff. None of them had mentioned security being jacked in day or night.
However it didn't really matter where in the world the security were – distance from the Prime meant nothing in the scope.
From street level, in a narrow lane between two similar, if not quite so tall buildings, a figure in a dark suit, matching top coat and wide brimmed hat smirked at the pretentiousness of it all.
Plymouth was a fine coastal city, its prosperity growing on the back of the Naval Yard's success, a point that many within the yard chose to ignore.
But the undeniable truth was that were it not for the naval bases at HMS Raliegh and HMS Drake, and the fine skills of the Dockyard's workforce in building and maintaining Her Majesties Fleet, then Plymouth, Devonport and the other surrounding towns would have faded into quaint mediocrity.
Although the city proper remained a busy hive of industry, wrapped up in a Victorian and Edwardian veneer, here in the scope the architects built using their own imagination, or at least what they could get passed the conservative eyes of the Plymouth City Council's Etherscope Oversight Committee. There were some people who said the EOC was impotent, and that certain wealthier businesses and even individuals were being allowed to get away with almost anything.
Pretension then, was rife. As in the major London Boroughs, hundreds of miles away the middle classes used opulence to signify wealth and wealth signified success for most businesses.
Ironic then that the aristocracy, the true power within Great Britain tended towards a more subtle display.
The figure looked at his watches. He wore one on his wrist and one on a chain in the pocket of his waist-coat.
The fine pocket watch was set to the Prime Reality time, whereas the wrist watch displayed the local time.
Plymouth's counterpart in the Etherscope, Drake's Harbour, had its clocks running three hours behind that of the Prime.
Someone, probably from the EOC, had done a study and found that the three hours gave the most beneficial handover between prime and ether shifts. No one else seemed to mind, those that entered illegally. It normally gave them longer to 'play'. It also meant that non-immersed users could work longer hours to achieve what their immersed counterparts could.
Satisfied that the employees of Portman, Portman & Blake would have gone home by now, and the building would be occupied by nothing but drones and gremlins. He felt confident that he could avoid or deal quickly with any of those.
Although he'd done his research in the 'Prime', he would still be cautious upon entering the building. Yes he was aware of the automated and gremlin security, but there had not been any indication of human security within the building.
Of course it meant nothing, as his sources had all been unwitting collaborators within the solicitor's menial staff. None of them had mentioned security being jacked in day or night.
However it didn't really matter where in the world the security were – distance from the Prime meant nothing in the scope.
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Keeper
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Re: A Chance Encounter
The figure waited another half hour, just to be sure.
The street wasn't busy, unlike the cobbled road outside Portman, Portman and Blake's real establishment in Plymouth's city centre.
There the four storey, narrow building formed part of the old Victorian backdrop to a thriving part of town where shops lined both sides of the street, on the pavements small traders sold their wares from stalls placed at strategic intervals and delivery men plied their trade in a constant stream of carts and wagons.
In fact there were enough horse drawn vehicles still in use in this part of the country that many of the young urchins made a good living from selling manure to the gardeners and home-owners in the suburbs.
When the additional half hour was up the figure crossed the darkening street, moving swiftly without breaking into a run.
From under the brim of his hat his sharp eyes scanned the ancient looking stone walls for the view-matic lens he knew was there.
This device recorded images of this part of the scope for security.
Once found the device was easy to foil. In the artificial night of the Drake's Harbour scope the brim of the hat and the dark, non-descript clothing would ensure that there was very little to define the shadowy figure. No way of telling who the figure was, not that that mattered, as his avatar need not look like his physical self.
As it was, the figure looked exactly like his true self, with the exception of the rather plain clothes. It made the illicit activities all the more challenging if he had to avoid being spotted.
Of course, should he wish then he would change the image of his avatar. There were risks and there were risks, the art was knowing which ones were worth taking and when.
Thinking back to his first experience within the scope, after taking an illegal tab and finding himself in a London den of hedonism he had wondered how the ether knew to make his avatar look like him?
His friend had explained how a persons avatar was in the first instance the users own self image, a mentally sculpted projection of how a person saw themselves, physically, however if a person had low self esteem or possessed some physical blemish or defect that really bothered them, then their avatar could appear with a exaggerated form of the defect or some other way of 'uglifying' the image.
Conversely, someone with a great opinion of themselves would likely have an avatar far grander than they are in reality.
Those people whom possessed a greater understanding of the scope, or a very strong will, could engineer their avatars into whatever form them desired.
From beneath the figures coat a crossbow was revealed. The figure aimed the bow at a balcony four floors up and pulled the trigger.
The bolt's hardened tip slammed into the stone, penetrating deep, barbs holding it in place.
Trailing from the bolt was a thin line, like catgut, but it was incredible strong.
Attaching the steel eye at the back of the crossbow to a karibina on his belt the figure braced one foot against the wall.
Activating a winch within the crossbow the figure slowly began walking up the side of the building.
He could have spent time and altered the physics of the local area allowing himself to simply walk up the side of the building's exterior wall as though it were level ground, however, doing so ran more than a risk of alerting a system administrator for the Drake's Harbour domain.
No, this way, though longer and harder, was less obtrusive.
Reaching the balcony he clambered over. Unclasping the crossbow he merely flicked the safety catch on and the device faded away.
He gave a resigned sigh. That was ten or so minutes of his life invested in creating an object that would have one single use then break down into purest ether once more. Speeding up his 'programming' of the ether was something he'd have to look into. More practice would probably help.
Now came the hard part for the figure.
Drake's Harbour was a very large domain, a city in itself within the ether.
Many of the businesses that operated within that domain were housed in a separate domain of their own with merely a shell of a building represented here in this one.
Passing through the main entrance here would mean more than being on the other side of the wall. You would step through a gateway or bridge to this other place, it might be close to Drake's Harbour or it might be an unquantifiable distance from it.
Portman, Portman and Blake were just such a firm.
Before proceeding any further the figure remained crouched upon the balcony watching the buildings around him for any sign of an observer. He wasn't expecting there to be anyone actually looking for him, but that didn't mean the couldn't be another scope-rider or just a passing tab jammer who happened to be in the area.
The figure wanted no one to know he'd been here.
Satisfied that there were no unwanted observers the figure stood bringing from his pocket a small can that looked like it could be shaving foam. From beneath his coat he removed a small wheel brace.
Usung the brace he slowly drilled four holes in the wall forming the corners of a large square.
Next the lid was removed from the can and the nozzle placed over one of thee holes, infecting a turquoise foam into it.
He continued working until all four holes were filled.
After this the figure removed a small brass box from another pocket. Four wires were attached to the box, with an electrode at the end of each wire.
Quickly he placed one into each of the foam filled holes, then sliding back the cover on the box he flicked the switch revealed inside.
Immediately the section of wall contained within the square changed, rippling like fluid yet holding its texture and shape.
With a final check over his shoulder the figure stepped through the liquid wall.
The street wasn't busy, unlike the cobbled road outside Portman, Portman and Blake's real establishment in Plymouth's city centre.
There the four storey, narrow building formed part of the old Victorian backdrop to a thriving part of town where shops lined both sides of the street, on the pavements small traders sold their wares from stalls placed at strategic intervals and delivery men plied their trade in a constant stream of carts and wagons.
In fact there were enough horse drawn vehicles still in use in this part of the country that many of the young urchins made a good living from selling manure to the gardeners and home-owners in the suburbs.
When the additional half hour was up the figure crossed the darkening street, moving swiftly without breaking into a run.
From under the brim of his hat his sharp eyes scanned the ancient looking stone walls for the view-matic lens he knew was there.
This device recorded images of this part of the scope for security.
Once found the device was easy to foil. In the artificial night of the Drake's Harbour scope the brim of the hat and the dark, non-descript clothing would ensure that there was very little to define the shadowy figure. No way of telling who the figure was, not that that mattered, as his avatar need not look like his physical self.
As it was, the figure looked exactly like his true self, with the exception of the rather plain clothes. It made the illicit activities all the more challenging if he had to avoid being spotted.
Of course, should he wish then he would change the image of his avatar. There were risks and there were risks, the art was knowing which ones were worth taking and when.
Thinking back to his first experience within the scope, after taking an illegal tab and finding himself in a London den of hedonism he had wondered how the ether knew to make his avatar look like him?
His friend had explained how a persons avatar was in the first instance the users own self image, a mentally sculpted projection of how a person saw themselves, physically, however if a person had low self esteem or possessed some physical blemish or defect that really bothered them, then their avatar could appear with a exaggerated form of the defect or some other way of 'uglifying' the image.
Conversely, someone with a great opinion of themselves would likely have an avatar far grander than they are in reality.
Those people whom possessed a greater understanding of the scope, or a very strong will, could engineer their avatars into whatever form them desired.
From beneath the figures coat a crossbow was revealed. The figure aimed the bow at a balcony four floors up and pulled the trigger.
The bolt's hardened tip slammed into the stone, penetrating deep, barbs holding it in place.
Trailing from the bolt was a thin line, like catgut, but it was incredible strong.
Attaching the steel eye at the back of the crossbow to a karibina on his belt the figure braced one foot against the wall.
Activating a winch within the crossbow the figure slowly began walking up the side of the building.
He could have spent time and altered the physics of the local area allowing himself to simply walk up the side of the building's exterior wall as though it were level ground, however, doing so ran more than a risk of alerting a system administrator for the Drake's Harbour domain.
No, this way, though longer and harder, was less obtrusive.
Reaching the balcony he clambered over. Unclasping the crossbow he merely flicked the safety catch on and the device faded away.
He gave a resigned sigh. That was ten or so minutes of his life invested in creating an object that would have one single use then break down into purest ether once more. Speeding up his 'programming' of the ether was something he'd have to look into. More practice would probably help.
Now came the hard part for the figure.
Drake's Harbour was a very large domain, a city in itself within the ether.
Many of the businesses that operated within that domain were housed in a separate domain of their own with merely a shell of a building represented here in this one.
Passing through the main entrance here would mean more than being on the other side of the wall. You would step through a gateway or bridge to this other place, it might be close to Drake's Harbour or it might be an unquantifiable distance from it.
Portman, Portman and Blake were just such a firm.
Before proceeding any further the figure remained crouched upon the balcony watching the buildings around him for any sign of an observer. He wasn't expecting there to be anyone actually looking for him, but that didn't mean the couldn't be another scope-rider or just a passing tab jammer who happened to be in the area.
The figure wanted no one to know he'd been here.
Satisfied that there were no unwanted observers the figure stood bringing from his pocket a small can that looked like it could be shaving foam. From beneath his coat he removed a small wheel brace.
Usung the brace he slowly drilled four holes in the wall forming the corners of a large square.
Next the lid was removed from the can and the nozzle placed over one of thee holes, infecting a turquoise foam into it.
He continued working until all four holes were filled.
After this the figure removed a small brass box from another pocket. Four wires were attached to the box, with an electrode at the end of each wire.
Quickly he placed one into each of the foam filled holes, then sliding back the cover on the box he flicked the switch revealed inside.
Immediately the section of wall contained within the square changed, rippling like fluid yet holding its texture and shape.
With a final check over his shoulder the figure stepped through the liquid wall.
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Keeper
- Magi
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Steadying himself after the transition the figure found himself to be in an unoccupied office. A large oak desk situated opposite the door was neat and tidy and gave nothing away as to the identity of the owner, or even the building which housed it.
Behind the desk was a row of filing cabinets.
The figure moved to them pulling the top drawer of one open. Inside were folders, no headings or labels upon them.
He frowned at this concerned that he might not be where he expected.
Removing a folder at random he opened it and retrieved several sheets of paper.
Though they were unused, each blank sheet bore a header; Portman, Portman & Blake.
A grin spread across the man's face. “Sebastian Reynolds, you really are getting bloody good at this, even if I say so myself!” the figure muttered softly to himself.
His anxiety gone, Reynolds replaced the folder and closed the drawer.
Sebastian guessed that there was unlikely to be twenty floors within this domain, despite the appearance of the Drake's Harbour representation.
No, Portman, Portman & Blake weren't that big a company.
It was Reynolds' guess that anyone brought here to do business would likely arrive at the lobby , get into an elevator and ride it up to one of the top floors, the indicator showing that it was passing floor after floor yet only actually going a few. There would have been no need to design the floors in between.
Opening the door to the office Seb peered out. The corridor was dimly lit and painted a beige colour.
Well, Reynolds thought, at least it wasn't the sickly contrasting bold colours that had become so popular throughout the sixties and into this decade or even the current trend of loud patterns.
He was just glad that the Prime Reality hadn't adopted any of the garish fashions common within the scope.
There was a brass name plaque upon the door. This too was blank. An empty office with drawers full of blank paper. Storage space waiting for something or someone to fill it?
Seb moved stealthily out into the corridor. On one of the other doors he recognised the name of one of the firm's minor legal advisers.
It was an easy assumption to make then, that egos being what they were, the senior partners would have their 'offices' above this one.
The corridor ended in an oak door to which Reynolds pressed his ear. He heard nothing so eased the door open and peered through the gap.
As he suspected it was just a lobby, the same beige coloured walls and beige, lightly patterned carpet.
There was however a tall man dressed in a smart uniform, his brass buttons gleaming and his shoes polished to a mirror finish.
Reynolds froze, his breath catching.
Watching intently he could catch no movement from the clean shaven figure, not a twitch, a shuffle of his feet or even the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Reynolds' familiarity and skill within the scope allowed him to detect and see far more than your average user. He looked at the figure, seeing first the outward appearance, the well dressed man in a uniform. Then he looked beyond the veneer, feeling more than actually seeing the coding and formulae that went into creating this entity.
Gremlin!
Behind the desk was a row of filing cabinets.
The figure moved to them pulling the top drawer of one open. Inside were folders, no headings or labels upon them.
He frowned at this concerned that he might not be where he expected.
Removing a folder at random he opened it and retrieved several sheets of paper.
Though they were unused, each blank sheet bore a header; Portman, Portman & Blake.
A grin spread across the man's face. “Sebastian Reynolds, you really are getting bloody good at this, even if I say so myself!” the figure muttered softly to himself.
His anxiety gone, Reynolds replaced the folder and closed the drawer.
Sebastian guessed that there was unlikely to be twenty floors within this domain, despite the appearance of the Drake's Harbour representation.
No, Portman, Portman & Blake weren't that big a company.
It was Reynolds' guess that anyone brought here to do business would likely arrive at the lobby , get into an elevator and ride it up to one of the top floors, the indicator showing that it was passing floor after floor yet only actually going a few. There would have been no need to design the floors in between.
Opening the door to the office Seb peered out. The corridor was dimly lit and painted a beige colour.
Well, Reynolds thought, at least it wasn't the sickly contrasting bold colours that had become so popular throughout the sixties and into this decade or even the current trend of loud patterns.
He was just glad that the Prime Reality hadn't adopted any of the garish fashions common within the scope.
There was a brass name plaque upon the door. This too was blank. An empty office with drawers full of blank paper. Storage space waiting for something or someone to fill it?
Seb moved stealthily out into the corridor. On one of the other doors he recognised the name of one of the firm's minor legal advisers.
It was an easy assumption to make then, that egos being what they were, the senior partners would have their 'offices' above this one.
The corridor ended in an oak door to which Reynolds pressed his ear. He heard nothing so eased the door open and peered through the gap.
As he suspected it was just a lobby, the same beige coloured walls and beige, lightly patterned carpet.
There was however a tall man dressed in a smart uniform, his brass buttons gleaming and his shoes polished to a mirror finish.
Reynolds froze, his breath catching.
Watching intently he could catch no movement from the clean shaven figure, not a twitch, a shuffle of his feet or even the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Reynolds' familiarity and skill within the scope allowed him to detect and see far more than your average user. He looked at the figure, seeing first the outward appearance, the well dressed man in a uniform. Then he looked beyond the veneer, feeling more than actually seeing the coding and formulae that went into creating this entity.
Gremlin!
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Keeper
- Magi
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Re: A Chance Encounter
Sebastian Reynolds swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He wondered if his body back in the real world would be showing signs of his nervousness.
Whatever he did now would have to be hard and fast, take the gremlin down quick before it had a chance to raise the alarm and put the domain on lock-down.
If that happened than all would be lost for his family and this mission would have been for naught.
Portman, Portman & Blake were pursuing a claim by an Australian land owner to the huge Reynolds estate out at Lopwell on the banks of the Tavy.
Before the Reynolds family became a part of the landed gentry Maristow House and the surrounding estate were owned by the Lopes family.
Henry Lopes died in 1938 just three months after being elevated to the peerage and being granted the title of Baron Roborough.
He would have been succeeded by his son, Massey, however his marriage to an Austrian Countess whose position within the Reich's bureaucracy made him unsuitable for the position and the barony was stopped by the crown.
The title remained until Lady Roborough's death in 1941 at which point it fell into abeyance.
Poor health and loneliness forced Lady Roborough's hand and she sold the Maristow estate to Lord Reynolds in 1940 and she moved away to live with family in London.
When no apparent heir was discovered the title was passed to the owner of the Roborough family seat, Baron Ambrose Reynolds who became the second Baron Roborough.
Only now it transpired that a distant yet blood relative of Lopes had crawled out of the woodwork and was looking to claim his inheritance.
The mainstay of the claimants evidence was documentation found in an old, previously undiscovered set of papers belonging to the brother of Henry Lopes' great-great grandfather, showing clearly the bloodline.
Produced in the days before the scope the document was being handled with great care and security and was currently residing in Mr Blake's safe. Or at least that was their understanding.
In reality the original document lay in so many glowing embers in the hearth of Mr Blake's fireplace. The company safe wide open not feet from it.
Right now though Reynolds was more concerned about getting to the copies stored in the scope, and to do that he had tio get rid of the gremlin guard.
Once more Reynolds reached under his coat, this time drawing forth a weapon that looked like a short barrelled blunderbuss.
He threw open the door, the big barrelled weapon pointing at the guard.
The retort was remarkably quiet, however the blast was huge, flame and smoke billowing out and almost reaching the gremlin.
The shot removed the guard's head in a cloud of blood. The body, still standing, twitched several times before collapsing to the floor and fading away.
Of course, the grape shot from the gun hadn't really torn through flesh and bone, ripping the life from the guard in a gelatinous crimson gloop as there hadn't actually been a bullet.
Like everything within the scope the gun and all of its components were made from ether. It was just the visual embodiment of the attack program. It's attack function appearing like a gun to fire a projectile at its target, only this bullet is a program designed to disrupt the programming of that target, essentially breaking it down into it's base etheric components.
And the body of the guard wasn't really twitching with the residual energy firing around its nervous system. It had simply been the gremlins programming trying to initiate with a substantial amount of its substance missing. With the 'head' gone the gremlin couldn't function correctly and the complex etheric structure unravelled, dissipating back into the ether.
Reynolds breathed a sigh of relief.
Whatever he did now would have to be hard and fast, take the gremlin down quick before it had a chance to raise the alarm and put the domain on lock-down.
If that happened than all would be lost for his family and this mission would have been for naught.
Portman, Portman & Blake were pursuing a claim by an Australian land owner to the huge Reynolds estate out at Lopwell on the banks of the Tavy.
Before the Reynolds family became a part of the landed gentry Maristow House and the surrounding estate were owned by the Lopes family.
Henry Lopes died in 1938 just three months after being elevated to the peerage and being granted the title of Baron Roborough.
He would have been succeeded by his son, Massey, however his marriage to an Austrian Countess whose position within the Reich's bureaucracy made him unsuitable for the position and the barony was stopped by the crown.
The title remained until Lady Roborough's death in 1941 at which point it fell into abeyance.
Poor health and loneliness forced Lady Roborough's hand and she sold the Maristow estate to Lord Reynolds in 1940 and she moved away to live with family in London.
When no apparent heir was discovered the title was passed to the owner of the Roborough family seat, Baron Ambrose Reynolds who became the second Baron Roborough.
Only now it transpired that a distant yet blood relative of Lopes had crawled out of the woodwork and was looking to claim his inheritance.
The mainstay of the claimants evidence was documentation found in an old, previously undiscovered set of papers belonging to the brother of Henry Lopes' great-great grandfather, showing clearly the bloodline.
Produced in the days before the scope the document was being handled with great care and security and was currently residing in Mr Blake's safe. Or at least that was their understanding.
In reality the original document lay in so many glowing embers in the hearth of Mr Blake's fireplace. The company safe wide open not feet from it.
Right now though Reynolds was more concerned about getting to the copies stored in the scope, and to do that he had tio get rid of the gremlin guard.
Once more Reynolds reached under his coat, this time drawing forth a weapon that looked like a short barrelled blunderbuss.
He threw open the door, the big barrelled weapon pointing at the guard.
The retort was remarkably quiet, however the blast was huge, flame and smoke billowing out and almost reaching the gremlin.
The shot removed the guard's head in a cloud of blood. The body, still standing, twitched several times before collapsing to the floor and fading away.
Of course, the grape shot from the gun hadn't really torn through flesh and bone, ripping the life from the guard in a gelatinous crimson gloop as there hadn't actually been a bullet.
Like everything within the scope the gun and all of its components were made from ether. It was just the visual embodiment of the attack program. It's attack function appearing like a gun to fire a projectile at its target, only this bullet is a program designed to disrupt the programming of that target, essentially breaking it down into it's base etheric components.
And the body of the guard wasn't really twitching with the residual energy firing around its nervous system. It had simply been the gremlins programming trying to initiate with a substantial amount of its substance missing. With the 'head' gone the gremlin couldn't function correctly and the complex etheric structure unravelled, dissipating back into the ether.
Reynolds breathed a sigh of relief.
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Keeper
- Magi
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- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: A Chance Encounter
There were no stairs going up, why would there be?
The lift was shiny stainless steel and mirrors and seemed no different to countless other such conveyances Reynolds had been in before.
With the blunderbuss at the ready he waited for the doors to open on to the next floor.
He already expected there to be another guard and was planning to take this one out just as swiftly as he had the previous one.
Ping!
The doors slid open and Reynolds fired the gun. The shot blasted a hole theough the wall opposite.
“Shit!” Reynolds cursed as he spotted the guard coming up from a roll where it had dodged the shot.
As soon as the gremlin guard had gained its footing it charged in at Reynolds.
It was only by the smallest of margins that Sebastian managed to avoid being crushed against the back of the lift, but even so he ended up in a brawl with the guard.
This type of situation, in the prime reality, was exactly what Reynolds tried to avoid at all costs.
Although his physique was not one to be ashamed of, he was by no means a powerhouse, and his skills in unarmed combat were rather lacking.
However here in the scope it was the power of one's intellect that determined ones physical stature.
Intelligent and wise in the Prime meant that here he was also string and fast.
Using that strength he grappled with the guard, and despite it getting in a few choice jabs to his ribs he managed to wrestle the man to the ground.
Even so the gremlin was tough and not going down without a fight.
Somehow it managed to get the pistol from it's holster on it's hip and Reynolds had to use both hands to force the weapon away from himself.
Bashing the guards hand continuously against the floor eventually the pistol fell free, however his balance was out and the guard threw him off.
The guard scrambled to his feet pushing clear of Reynolds but as he threw in a kick the dark clothed avatar grabbed the gremlins foot pulling the guard to floor once more.
instead of entering into another wrestling match with Reynolds the guard flipped over on to his front and crawled towards a desk in the corner of the room, dragging his opponent with him.
Reynolds looked to where he was heading and saw the ether-comm upon the desk top. He knew that was what the guard was going for.
There would be no need for him to dial in a number, he'd have instant and direct access to the system.
One word, “alarm,” and instantly one would sound and an image or at least a description of him would be submitted and that would be the end of it.
The guard's hand grabbed the comm device. Reynolds pulled him back making him lose his grip but the guard fought back, struggling ever nearer to the ether-comm.
Reynolds changed tact, shoving the guard hard so that he crashed into the desk his hand missing the ether-comm.
Then Seb looked for his dropped weapon as he yanked back on the gremlin's shirt. It wasn't far away.
Already off balance the gremlin had no choice and was thrown back.
But the guard had made his decision now and would stick to it. Reynolds knew he had to finish this quickly.
The guard surged towards the desk once more and Reynolds let him go, instead making for his discarded gun.
The gremlin reached the desk and activated the ether-comm at the same instant that Reynolds pulled the trigger.
Once more flame and smoke billowed from the barrel. This time the grape-shot rounds found their intended target, ripping a hole through the back of the gremlin.
It stood mouth moving but no sound coming from it, it's ability to communicate eradicated.
Smiling politely at the confused gremlin, Reynolds reloaded the weapon. The gremlin guard was gone moments after the second shot.
No alarm sounded.
Sebastian Reynolds breathed a sigh of relief, hoping now to be free to wander the building.
The lift was shiny stainless steel and mirrors and seemed no different to countless other such conveyances Reynolds had been in before.
With the blunderbuss at the ready he waited for the doors to open on to the next floor.
He already expected there to be another guard and was planning to take this one out just as swiftly as he had the previous one.
Ping!
The doors slid open and Reynolds fired the gun. The shot blasted a hole theough the wall opposite.
“Shit!” Reynolds cursed as he spotted the guard coming up from a roll where it had dodged the shot.
As soon as the gremlin guard had gained its footing it charged in at Reynolds.
It was only by the smallest of margins that Sebastian managed to avoid being crushed against the back of the lift, but even so he ended up in a brawl with the guard.
This type of situation, in the prime reality, was exactly what Reynolds tried to avoid at all costs.
Although his physique was not one to be ashamed of, he was by no means a powerhouse, and his skills in unarmed combat were rather lacking.
However here in the scope it was the power of one's intellect that determined ones physical stature.
Intelligent and wise in the Prime meant that here he was also string and fast.
Using that strength he grappled with the guard, and despite it getting in a few choice jabs to his ribs he managed to wrestle the man to the ground.
Even so the gremlin was tough and not going down without a fight.
Somehow it managed to get the pistol from it's holster on it's hip and Reynolds had to use both hands to force the weapon away from himself.
Bashing the guards hand continuously against the floor eventually the pistol fell free, however his balance was out and the guard threw him off.
The guard scrambled to his feet pushing clear of Reynolds but as he threw in a kick the dark clothed avatar grabbed the gremlins foot pulling the guard to floor once more.
instead of entering into another wrestling match with Reynolds the guard flipped over on to his front and crawled towards a desk in the corner of the room, dragging his opponent with him.
Reynolds looked to where he was heading and saw the ether-comm upon the desk top. He knew that was what the guard was going for.
There would be no need for him to dial in a number, he'd have instant and direct access to the system.
One word, “alarm,” and instantly one would sound and an image or at least a description of him would be submitted and that would be the end of it.
The guard's hand grabbed the comm device. Reynolds pulled him back making him lose his grip but the guard fought back, struggling ever nearer to the ether-comm.
Reynolds changed tact, shoving the guard hard so that he crashed into the desk his hand missing the ether-comm.
Then Seb looked for his dropped weapon as he yanked back on the gremlin's shirt. It wasn't far away.
Already off balance the gremlin had no choice and was thrown back.
But the guard had made his decision now and would stick to it. Reynolds knew he had to finish this quickly.
The guard surged towards the desk once more and Reynolds let him go, instead making for his discarded gun.
The gremlin reached the desk and activated the ether-comm at the same instant that Reynolds pulled the trigger.
Once more flame and smoke billowed from the barrel. This time the grape-shot rounds found their intended target, ripping a hole through the back of the gremlin.
It stood mouth moving but no sound coming from it, it's ability to communicate eradicated.
Smiling politely at the confused gremlin, Reynolds reloaded the weapon. The gremlin guard was gone moments after the second shot.
No alarm sounded.
Sebastian Reynolds breathed a sigh of relief, hoping now to be free to wander the building.
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Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 580
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: A Chance Encounter
This floor was obviously more opulent than the one below, befitting the senior position of it's 'occupants'.
Reynolds walked the long corridors in search of Blake's office.
The office itself was decked out in a very traditional style, all oak panelling and big desk and bookshelves stuffed full of legal volumes. It also looked as though the clerks were in the middle refiling everything as papers lay in neat piles on every available surface.
Reynolds' work now was simple. It took just a few minutes to run a search for the documents in question.
The papers in the Prime and the copies were filed under Anderson vs Reynolds.
Like good little clerks Blake's staff kept a record of every detail of the case including interviews with the claimant, and distribution for every document.
Once more Reynolds smiled as he saw that although copies had been made, none had yet been forwarded on. His father had urged caution and advised him to wait, see what became of the case, but Sebastian now knew that he had been right. By coming here now he had cut his work down exponentially; no chasing documents around the country or the scope.
Reynolds took the documents and put them all in a neat pile, replacing each of them with a copy of the same document, only the original was a forgery. He put a match to the pile, waiting until there was nothing left. He'd already done the same with the document in the Prime, replacing the original with a very good, but none-the-less detectable forgery.
If he had just stolen the documents, then people would have become suspicious, there was a chance the police would get involved and there would be a whole scandal to boot. That was something none of the reynolds family wanted.
Now though, no one would suspect a thing and the case would proceed to court right up until the Reynolds' barrister asked the court to have the documents checked by independent experts of it's choice to verify their authenticity.
Of course it would then be discovered that the papers were in fact fake. Mr Anderson's reputation would be muddied, he may even have to answer to the law for his part in the apparent fraud. If he boxed clever than he would be able to claim that he too was a victim of the forger's art.
Either way Anderson would loose the case and have to crawl back to Australia with his tail between his legs, or languish in Newgate Prison for some time, but the Reynolds family would keep their estate.
Pleased with himself all that remained was for him to retrace his steps, cleaning up as he went.
First stop was the lobby on this floor where he spent some time reprogramming the wall he'd destroyed. Happy with his work ha stood back watching the wall slowly reform.
Suddenly he went rigid, wide eyed, then his avatar faded away.
For Reynolds his vision spun as though he'd suffered a rush of blood to the head, then everything went black.....................
Reynolds walked the long corridors in search of Blake's office.
The office itself was decked out in a very traditional style, all oak panelling and big desk and bookshelves stuffed full of legal volumes. It also looked as though the clerks were in the middle refiling everything as papers lay in neat piles on every available surface.
Reynolds' work now was simple. It took just a few minutes to run a search for the documents in question.
The papers in the Prime and the copies were filed under Anderson vs Reynolds.
Like good little clerks Blake's staff kept a record of every detail of the case including interviews with the claimant, and distribution for every document.
Once more Reynolds smiled as he saw that although copies had been made, none had yet been forwarded on. His father had urged caution and advised him to wait, see what became of the case, but Sebastian now knew that he had been right. By coming here now he had cut his work down exponentially; no chasing documents around the country or the scope.
Reynolds took the documents and put them all in a neat pile, replacing each of them with a copy of the same document, only the original was a forgery. He put a match to the pile, waiting until there was nothing left. He'd already done the same with the document in the Prime, replacing the original with a very good, but none-the-less detectable forgery.
If he had just stolen the documents, then people would have become suspicious, there was a chance the police would get involved and there would be a whole scandal to boot. That was something none of the reynolds family wanted.
Now though, no one would suspect a thing and the case would proceed to court right up until the Reynolds' barrister asked the court to have the documents checked by independent experts of it's choice to verify their authenticity.
Of course it would then be discovered that the papers were in fact fake. Mr Anderson's reputation would be muddied, he may even have to answer to the law for his part in the apparent fraud. If he boxed clever than he would be able to claim that he too was a victim of the forger's art.
Either way Anderson would loose the case and have to crawl back to Australia with his tail between his legs, or languish in Newgate Prison for some time, but the Reynolds family would keep their estate.
Pleased with himself all that remained was for him to retrace his steps, cleaning up as he went.
First stop was the lobby on this floor where he spent some time reprogramming the wall he'd destroyed. Happy with his work ha stood back watching the wall slowly reform.
Suddenly he went rigid, wide eyed, then his avatar faded away.
For Reynolds his vision spun as though he'd suffered a rush of blood to the head, then everything went black.....................