Stickneedle Jack

A dark and dreary January night, with the drizzle settling over the London rooftops, people scuttling like beetles down on the wet pavements below. The misshapen creature sat on his haunches, the ragged collar of his tattered raincoat drawn up around his face, perched on a gable-end of a listed building deep in the old City’s heart. His eyes flicked from one street-lamp to another, probing, scanning – searching out for anything delicious.

While he maintained his over-watch, his right-hand curled around the back of his head as he smeared away the rainwater from his cracked and split skin. Here and there, a staple or a nail kept an edge of his tortured flesh in place, pinned out like some hideous tailor’s cloth. As he slowly caressed his mutilated balding head, the fingers of his hand kept changing shape, transforming into long silver spikes, wickedly evil and sharp.

Every now and then, a pointed blackened tongue would whisk away a raindrop from his thin grey lips. His feet seemed to curl unnaturally around the roof’s edge, twisting the scuffed black leather of the boots he wore completely out of shape.

This malevolent being hummed to himself as he squatted there, poised like a bird of prey.

“Looking up and down the streets,
 Looking for someone to meet,
 Short or tall, thin or fat,
 Young or old, anything like that,
 Here up high I’ll soon see you,
 And when I do – I’ll…choose…you…”

His eyes locked onto a young secretary, inappropriately dressed for the wintry weather and as rain-soaked as he was, desperately trying to navigate her way in high-heels through the puddles. With an almost careless lurch, he seemed to straighten and then plummet from the rooftop, falling so fast that his movement was a blur. The young girl never stood a chance – at a precise moment, he broke his fall by momentarily clutching hold of some pipe work that ran up the building he’d been using as his look-out, and instantly darted with a phenomenal inhuman leap across the street, over the tops of the passing and crossing vehicles.

No-one else saw him his movement was so fast – one second she had been walking amongst a crowd of anonymous commuters, now she’d been hurled off her feet. Without even stopping, he’d snatched up the girl in his arms, and propelled himself and his trophy down a dark alleyway, lightly rebounding off wet vertical brick walls several feet off the ground.

Landing lightly on his feet, tucked away out of sight behind some small refuse bins, he stifled the terrified girl’s screams by pushing four fingers from his left-hand into her open mouth. She desperately tried to bite down, only to crack several of her teeth, as again, those fingers turned into long steel-like spikes. The girl thrashed uselessly in his grasp, staring up into his face, a face that seemed to be peeling off, it’s skin stretched and fixed in place like some evil parody of the worst kind of cosmetic surgery.

He was tall and lithe, and very strong, and he easily pinned her against the wall. She sobbed, went limp, shivering with fear.

The creature started up its lilting hum again.

 “How do you do, my name’s Jack,
  I’ve taken a shine to you – fancy that?”

With his body pressing her into the brickwork, his right-hand reached up to her neckline, and with a ruthless tearing grab, he ripped away the front of her blouse, carrying part of her bra with it. Again she tried to scream, but the needlepoints of his fingertips pricked the back of her throat, and just made her retch.

He played with her, like a toy, for twenty minutes, until he got bored, whereupon he probed his thumb into her jugular, piercing it and bathing himself in the arterial flow of blood that jetted out of her neck. His skin felt so much better when it had had a proper wash. He folded her body in half and stuffed it unceremoniously into one of the bins.

Stickneedle Jack was back in town.

Dalliances with Danger - Richard Deveraux – Arch-Opponent of Empires

Escaping from HM Prison Dartmoor, where he had been sentenced to serve 20 years hard labour for his attempted bombing of the Houses of Parliament, and ably assisted by his dastardly Siamese henchmen, the Infamous Colonel Richard Deveraux sailed to rendezvous with his anarchist associates in Brittany before taking ship to his remote hideaway in Newfoundland. There, he will set in motion his latest venture to wrestle any amount of power away from the might of the British Empire, and discredit them in front of the entire World.

Rumoured to have served in some far-flung post of the British Empire, possibly even as a young Lieutenant during the Abyssinian Campaign in the 1860's and an Intelligence Officer in the Ashanti the decade after, this middle-aged man has done more to upset the rational order of statesmanship than any war of recent times. Of Anglo-Irish parentage, and purported to be rich from his mineral prospecting in the interior of Australia, Deveraux has sponsored more acts of terror against the European Powers than any other individual or force. Even the new blossoming powers of the United States and Imperial Japan have had cause to rue his attentions.

With his notorious 'Les Enfant Perdus' - Deveraux's own personal forces, his 'Lost Children', unknown in number and from many varied sources - Siamese pirates, Tong gang members, American outlaws, East European anarchists - he has a startling ability to recruit from anywhere, which many observers put down to his enchanting charisma. Along with renegade European officers followed faithfully by their specially-trained cadres, Deveraux has an amazing capacity to field effective armed forces to attempt to achieve his nefarious goals, in all four-corners of the World.

As for his motivation, that has been difficult for all to pin down. Some in Western Europe, particularly the French of the Rive-Gauche, have considered him to be a gallant Republican fighting against the despotism of Absolute Monarchy. Others like his German Leftish associates look to him as the First Socialist Activist fighting for the Rights of the Common Man. Many consider him an outright Anarchist, taking on all authority of the Old Order. The British Government label him a Fenian from his previous exploits against them, even upon their sacred hills and vales of England itself.

Now, free again to exercise his criminal intellect, Ministers and Generals meet in darkened rooms discussing how best to counter-act his next Outrage. It’s soon known that it’s not just the British who have concerns about Deveraux, and eventually Lord Napier obtains the Prime Minister’s consent to hold a secret conference in Craigievar Castle, Aberdeenshire. Lord Napier himself then hand delivers invitations to certain foreign Embassies in London, and the scene is set for the Craigievar Conference.

 

Abra-bloody-cadabra

Passwords.

Bane of my life. In the workplace, whenever I want to access media, post anything, read anything, ask anything. And it's all exactly the same at home too.

And of course, you can’t use just the one, because then you leave yourself vulnerable. And you have to renew them occasionally too, refresh the construct and the format, and don’t pick obvious stuff.

At work, I now meander along a security pathway of tedium, filling in passwords when prompted, clicking ‘OK’ dialogue prompts, and always having to negotiate all the additional safety filters.

Do you accept the terms of operating guidelines?

Will you abide by the working practice standards?

You’re not going to be naughty, are you?

As you slowly navigate the layer after layer of text preamble and coloured formatting, you do begin to lose hope. Will I ever get to the end of this ‘logging-in’ process, just so I can do my work that I get paid for? Aah, what’s this? A new one, a ‘have-you-completed-mandatory-security-training’ prompter. I thought this was exactly that?

I needed to re-arrange a parcel delivery today, and the password process was completely busted on that. You’re often left wondering how certain companies ever stay in business, how is it that with such appalling IT, they manage to maintain a market presence.

I should be able to track it, see it winding along country roads and motorways towards me. But of course I can’t. Even with my new password. System has a problem at the moment.

I then e-mail the complaints department and they give me a reference – totally different to the reference for the parcel itself – and a password to log back in with later. I give it a few hours and try it – reference number isn’t recognised. So I wait until several hours – the entire working day in fact – has passed, and try again. Reference number has now been tapped in by some unknown person, but the password – their password they gave me – doesn’t work.

With a great sigh, I shrug back into my armchair and stare at the screen, a harmless and useless cursor line winking on and off at me, awaiting further commands from my fingertips.

And I daydream of chopping firewood, filtering water, skinning animals for food, making cooking stoves from discarded drink cans, and the long-awaited Apocalypse whereupon I can sit atop my fortified hermitage and who so ever fails to use the proper password as they approach me, I can then shoot them.

'In Her Majesty's Name' - The Bazeilles Compagnie of the 2eme Marine Infanterie

Also known as 'The Lightning Relief Company' – the French Third Republic’s Rapid Reaction Force – the Force d’Intervention Rapide – now at the end of this glorious nineteenth century, used to support the Companies of the Legion Etrangere around the globe to ensure French interests are maintained and protected. Not only can these redoubtable men deploy with the proud vessels of the French Maritime fleets, but they often act as the 'Marines-Aeronautique' complement on any French Aeronautical vessel too.

Nicknamed ‘The Marsouins’, the French term for ‘harbour porpoises’ allegedly because like porpoises, the men accompany French Naval ships without actually being part of the ship’s crew.

The Marsouins in turn refer to all other French Army soldiers as ‘Biffins’, quite literally, the ragmen, from what the Marine Infantry perceive as the Army’s slovenly nature and attire. The single exception is the men of the Legion, where there exists a mutual respect. Since the Marsouins fought through the jungles of Indo-China to relieve the Legion garrison under siege at Tuyen Quang, the special relationship between the two forces has strengthened. Now tradition dictates that when Legionnaires and Marsouins meet up, the exchange a solemn presentation of arms to each other to always commemorate the siege and the relief.

Commandant Etienne Francois Gerard leads the Bazeilles Compagnie, the first choice unit within the Marine Infanterie, assisted by his second-in-command, Capitaine Jean-Michel Joubert.

 

Type	Pluck	FV	SV	Speed	Cost	Talents	Basic equipment
Commandant Gerard	3+	+2	+3	+0		Leadership +2, Inspirational	Lined coat, pistol, sword
Capitaine Joubert	3+	+3	+2	+0		Leadership +2, Duellist	Lined coat, pistol, sword
Sergent-Chef ‘Bigor’	3+	+3	+2	+1		Leadership +2, Tough	Lined coat, military rifle, bayonet
Caporal	4+	+2	+2	+1		Leadership +1	Lined coat, military rifle, bayonet
Marsouin	5+	+2	+2	+0			Lined coat, military rifle, bayonet
‘Colos’*	5+	+1	+1	+1			Lined coat, carbine

* Colos: slang term for the Marine Infantry recruited from the French Colonies, often used as auxiliaries to help augment the French Metropolitan Marine Infantry units, and are competently trained experienced native infantry.

Options

* Caporals and Marsouins may purchase the Marksman Talent (+5 points) and/or the Bayonet Drill Talent (+2 points).

* Colos may purchase the Martial Artist Talent (+3 points) and/or the Stealthy Talent (+5 points).

* Commandant Gerard is a devotee of French literature, especially French Symbolism, since his friend Jean Moreas published the Symbolist manifesto, and therefore may purchase the Erudite Wit Talent (+5 points).

* Capitaine Jean-Michel Joubert has served in just about every part of the globe, fighting enemies of France nearly every time. Therefore he may purchase the Fearless Talent (+10 points).

* Gerard and Joubert may both purchase a Monocular Targeting Array each for 7 points.

* Equip all troops with Brigandine armour for 2 points each. Gerard and Joubert may choose to equip themselves with Steel Breastplates (9 points), Faraday Coats (5 points), or Magneto-static waistcoats (2 points).

Takes the bus? No thanks

Well dear reader, I know this is personal preference, but if there’s a journey to be made, the bus is always my last choice. It may be the passion of countless anoraks to travel on an old double-decker, or the conscious choice of all those keen to save the planet, but frankly, give me the alternate options and I’ll take them all every time, and regardless of cost too.

Am I a snob, hostile to the thought of sharing my journey with strangers? No, I would use the train or the tube with the usual pressing throng around me, so then that doesn’t phase me.

Is it the almost constant risk that my magnetic aura – for that is what it must be – attracts every oddball freak who boards and then decides to sit beside me to then share their life story? No, I get that fix on the trains too.

No dear reader, my absolute avoidance can all be traced to one specific single journey, several years past now. Fair to say that I was not involved in any traumatic encounter, no imposition into my personal space from one of the newly acquired ‘friends’, or from anyone else who shared that route at that particular time. It all came about from a simple observation. And a decision not to bother.

It was a usual drawn-out stop-start trundle into town. The beginning of a standard working day. The window provided the opportunity to watch the neighbourhood slide past, as well as the safety from avoiding eye contact with any fellow passengers. You know, that embarrassing risk of a furtive glance matching their furtive glance back at you, at exactly the same moment, where neither of us know in that moment of connection what we should then do about it. Gazing slack-jawed through the glass avoids all that.

We arrived at a set of lights and waited our turn at that junction, always busy with lots of traffic. As I sat there, I saw a man with a ladder propped up against the front of a shop, looking up at the task in hand. There were no obvious tools in sight and he seemed to be concentrating on the signage above the main doorway. It was a slightly awkward spot – on the corner, encroaching on the pavement, the leaning ladder dominating the passing pedestrians, who all – every single one – refused to walk under it.   

He seemed ignorant to any of that, quite engrossed in his job, and left alone to get on with it. And that was why I sat there and watched. And worried.

I had remembered my old forestry work days from decades before.

‘Don’t use a ladder without someone else footing it if you can help it’.

It was a mantra of sorts in those days when I was a lot younger, said to me by wiser and less impetuous heads. Now I found it rolling around my head again, and I had this strange and sudden urge to get off that bus, to insist that the driver let me off, so I could wander over there and tell him. Even to offer to brace that ladder for this complete stranger.

Maybe I was tired, even before getting into work, maybe the breakfast had triggered some odd chemical reaction. I know not – I just know ‘rational-Me’ kicked in at that point to remind me I had two urgent phone-calls to make as soon as I got to my desk.

The bus lurched forward and turned right, and I was awarded a perfect panning shot of that man and his ladder, the shop-front, the pedestrians, his t-shirt, shorts and rigger boots, until passing traffic obscured my view. And within five minutes I had departed the bus at my usual stop, crossed the road at my usual place, waved my security pass at the usual security crew. Just the start of a standard day that steadily increased in tempo until nine hours later, I was glad I got a lift home.

A few more days and a few more bus-trips rolled by with nothing happening of any consequence.

Then at the end of the week, I found myself casually page-turning the local evening newspaper, and there on an inside page was a single column of typeface, headlined ‘Tragic fatal accident’.

The man with the ladder had died. A simple slip, fell from the unsafe and unfixed ladder while using it without any assistance, and lost the straight forward contest of head meeting pavement. And it had probably happened as I was getting off that bus. Or just as I was entering my office building.

I re-read those fifty or sixty words probably a dozen times, and I sat there perplexed as to what I should do. Should I tell anyone? But then what would be the point? I handed back the newspaper with a barely audible stuttered thanks – and I just walked out of the office and went home early. And in a darkened silence I just sat alone and drank alcohol.

And that, dear reader, is not fiction, it’s a brief recollection of a true event. And why I avoid buses now. 

Storyline: 7-Alpha-6 - Point:4

+ Wake Up: Mission Incomplete: Wake Up +

Fuc... what? Noises...

+ Wake Up +

Groggy, need to work my arms and legs. Ears – high pitch whine, in my ears...

+ Move: use Evasion: Reboot: Reminder-Upload +

I struggle to my feet – dust swirling everywhere, and smoke, acrid tasting... Fingers on my right-hand close around the pistol-grip. So, still armed. Good. Stagger a few steps, circle around and scan for whatever I can see. Eyes begin to focus and my brain hauls itself out of its torpor. Hazy recollections and re-plays now – that man I shot in the chest....

That grenade he let slip from his fingers, as my bullets hammered him backwards....

The flash, the concussion wave....

+ Upload Complete: Resume Mission: Standby +

OK Angel.... thank you....

I need to get moving – get somewhere safe, check that this body isn’t about to fail on me and leave me trapped in a useless carcass. I look down at the pistol, safety still off, undamaged and ready to use. My legs are carrying me away from this mess, past the bodies strewn around the floor, none of them a threat. With my mind racing to recall all the relevant segments of the Mission, I know I have to get back on track.

A keepsake flashes into my mind – summer barbecue. I shake my head. Not now. Concentrate.

+ Reminder: Mission Objective within 0.7km: Threat Level: Diminished +

Diminished. Aye, right. Nine now dead, nine who tried to stop me getting this far.

I stumble towards a doorway, the door itself partially open, and Angel helpfully providing a glowing orange direction arrow straight into that part of my brain that’s wired to my eyes. Meant to help, to prompt me, but right now with my ears still ringing and eyes streaming, its really pissing me off.

And then keepsake flashes me a helpful image of some silver tongs flipping hamburgers on a barbecue grill. I crash into the door frame while my head gets reshuffled. Please Angel, make that crap go away – give me clear visuals, and that includes no orange arrows.

+ Readjust: Ocular Display reset: Advise deep memory edit later: Threat Level: Diminished +

Thank you Angel, lets go indoors.

I brace the pistol, one hand supporting the other, scanning left to right and back again, with a kick to open the door wider. That’s the point when Angel mentions my right foot really hurts, and flicks off the pain receptors in my right leg.

I’ve pretty much wrecked this skin, just hope it won’t fall apart any more before End-Mission.

Storyline: 7-Alpha-6 - Point:3

Until that time comes, that long-awaited decommission, I will continue to serve the Grid, as Seven-Alpha-Six, my abbreviated designation from those first days – the months spent underground in that place up north, where was it again? Where the Army (was it my Army?) took me to a camp where I agreed – aye, I volunteered for this shit – to be the next generation soldier.

So that’s me. The ultimate military commodity, a precise surgical asset, stealthy and untraceable. The ultimate assassin. The ultimate victim? Ultimate denial.

Keepsakes – sometimes they make me wonder, make me laugh. Make me question why I kept them at all. But even though they interrupt, they serve the purpose to remind me to focus too, strangely enough. And they remind me I wasn’t always like this, because I know some of those keepsakes aren’t borrowed from anyone, are not downloaded skills, or not some form of resolution enhancement. They are real memories. My own memories. Memories to cherish – if only I could pinpoint those exact keepsakes.

“Honour and empire, with revenge enlarged, by conquering this new world, compels me now to do what else, though damned, I should abhor.”

Really think that, keepsake? Why remind me of that now, at this moment?

It probably heralds the arrival of Angel, my Grid Interface. I chose to call her Angel – indeed, I chose to have an Interface with a feminine disposition. I no longer remember all the reasons why, but it still works for me. Angel isn’t a real person, she’s just a master programme, a dump of code within the operational system that runs nigh on everything, even me at times. There have been moments where I wished she was real – hoped that she was a technician, back at the office, ready and available on speed-dial. Available for late night dinners and cosy cuddles. Reality sucks sometimes.

+ Grid Upgrade: Task Outline: Delivery imminent: Standby +

Keepsake must have tried to remind me I needed to listen out for the Grid. Clever keepsake. Should I wake myself? What keepsake was it? I thought momentarily about asking for a re-play but then decided against it. Priorities and all that.

I’m here Angel, download away, let us see what delights we have to look forward too.