London. It is the heart of an empire the sun sets not. It is the birthplace of a revolution that sparked the death of Mysteries all across the globe.
Now,
now, it is under siege. For the first time since it was Londinium, it is contested by an enemy not of its blood. It is choked under a fog that is pervasive, that saps the strength of mortal men and kills them slowly. And at the helm of the invading force, is a man that is not a man, backed by the power of a prophet that is not a prophet.
But therein lies the weak point of the invaders.
They are
not men in full. They do not consider in full what the centre of the world's hegemon has in store.
And in this, they err.
"Somebody save me!" An exhausted man, emaciated and limp struggles as he steps out of a fog bank on the corner of Piccadilly and Berkerley. Behind him, the shadows of mockeries of humankind whirred as they chase him with blades for arms and drills for legs. The man cursed his luck, to be out in this messed up world but he
had to, his family needs food and now he's going to
die. A stumble from a loose stone send him sprawling as the Marionettes seemingly cackles, whirling to shred him to bits and piec-
"Fire!"
A sudden fusillade of shots hit the dolls, sending three sprawling on the floor as blasts of lightning hits them head on. The fallen man looks at his saviours. A line of police officers, armed with muskets unlike any he had seen. Leading them is a man, heavyset with thick moustache, armed with a revolver and a sword as he charged forth. The officers behind him followed suit, the bayonets on their muskets glowing red.
Against defenceless Londoners, the Marionettes have a free reign. Against police officers of the regular sort, they would murder all with some scratch and dents. But against these ones? Garbed in black-clad uniform with more protection than full-plate and with arms clad in lightning and fire?
Akin to these dolls' namesakes, the strings are cut down with ease.
"Citizen, it is not safe. Why are you out here?" The main officer said, eyebrows quirking as he reloads his gun.
"I- My family needs food Sir. We ran out of the supplies two days ago and well-"
"I thought so-" He sighed. "Miller and Derek, escort this man to his family and then get them all to Walham, at the edges of this engulfing madness." Two of the officers snapped in a salute before they lift the man up.
"Thank you, Sir."
He snorted. "I am
no Sir. I am merely a servant of the public. Now go, pack your belongings and move to a place more safe than... this."
Yes. This. The sky is ringed with a hole barely visible, a thicket of fog that saps and murders all, a merry band of dolls who contend themselves with murdering innocents. And that's just the
start. As the civilian went on his way, the leader of the men allowed himself a deeper sigh.
"Abberline, sir? Is it truly wise to do split up with all these bloody Marionettes around the way?"
"It will have to be. There are more civilians on our round to corral. Those two are good enough to escort a family." Especially, left unsaid, due to the armaments and raiments they now wield and wear. It would be unthinkable just a week ago but
now? Now he can push the fight to these inhuman beings.
"Let's go, we have a patrol to run." And with a chorus of yesses, Frederick George Abberline moved through the fog clad town.
"I
must say, not-so-old 'chap. This is an
unusual meeting."
"Indeed. But this is an unusual situation." Sherlock Holmes nodded at his adversary's words. Directly behind said adversary, his confidant stand ready, in case this meeting turns sour. Or, more likely, for if a third party intervenes.
"Well, which particular fact would you remark, oh detective?"
"A personal curiosity then. Pray tell, James,
why are you three decades younger?" Indeed, top to bottom, the Napoleon of Crime is not an aged mastermind of evil. Not on the surface anyway. A youthful man with sliver-grey hair
is youthful. But the eyes, his dull-blue eyes, radiates a sharpness most severe. One that indeed, matched the sharpness of the clear-brown eyes of the detective.
"Why, I've been always like this, Holmes. Have you perhaps considered that I was merely putting up makeup and disguises?"
"I have considered that but then I remembered Rotterdam."
"And I remember Batavia yes." James Moriarty steepled his fingers, resting his digits on his chin as he leaned back on his chair. "So
now, what do you want us to do? My men are
busy. This fog is bad for business of all sorts."
"Then I am here for the business of the Clocktower."
"Really now? I only have
one eye open to the matters occult, you know that. Unlike you, I do not concern myself with the affairs of the Moonlit World more than necessary."
"Yes, I know." He merely
looks at the criminal mastermind.
"...Very well, what do you want to know?"
"No games?"
"Not
now. I, for one, consider our rivalry a
stop in the face of extinction. My cards on the table first. The Clock Tower is assailed. By a bunch of spirits and monsters and more. At the helm is a Russian Magus who you may know by the name Zolgen. He is
invested in the effort to crack open the stronghold of thaumaturgy."
"And failing."
"For
now. I know you enough that you have your
theories on what the damn Russian seeks or what the Clocktower might pose to his plans. But putting that aside, what you
might have known is the fact that there's a mysterious benefactor of a sort aiding the Yard."
"Lestrade briefed me on that." Holmes pointed out, if only to get a word in against his adversary.
"And I know you have theories on
that too but what is important to know is the Yard is holding. More than barely. Enough of the weapons made their way to me and my enterprise-"
"
Criminal syndicate."
Moriarty continued. "-And they are of help. Those Marionettes drops in two shots, and that's just the
muskets. The heavier ones are
powerful, enough to level an entire blo-"
"I am not here to hear you gush about your love of advanced weapons, James. Get to the point."
"And here I thought you would love the theatrics. Whatever happened to your sense of dramatics?"
No answer is forthcoming, except from a sweep of his hands to the windows, blanketed in a layer of fog.
"Fair." Moriarty concedes. "Then, what you want to know is-"
The roof falls in an explosive blast and in a smooth motion, three things happened at once. The first is the near-death of Sebastian Moran, a thrown knife lodging itself in his chest with the force of an elephant's trample. He slams to the wall behind, managing to only fire a single shot that, even with his skill, only grazed the tattered fabric of his assailant, features too indistinct under the cloak they wear.
The second and third happened simultaneously, as Sherlock Holmes, the Detective of Baker Street, thrusted his bladed cane at the assailant, impacting with a meaty
crack that sends them flying out the windows... as the walls promptly exploded into splinters with the clattering of Marionettes rushing in by the dozens.
"You were
saying about theatrics, James?" The detective
tsked to himself. Alone, he might be able to rush through, even with the-
must be- Assassin harrying him. But with Moriart-
"Well, I was waiting for this actually." He said as if the weather was the topic. He lifts Moran up, taking care to not agitate his wound. "Your destination would be the Bethlehem. There is a gift and a clue waiting for you there. Now
leave!"
"But-" Sherlock looks behind him, at the youthful figure and the injured marksman.
"We are not
maidens, Holmes. Besides, have you not heard of the luck of the Irish? Leave." That is a command, the detective knows. With nary a word, he does so, thinning the herd, if only to give his adversary a fighting chance.
He can do at least
that much.
"...Was that necessary, Professor?"
"No~ But I
really want to say that at least once and see his conflicted expression. To see that he
cares. How unlike him."
"Maybe, Professor, you should consider the fact that you and him have been at this cat-and-mouse routine for thirty years and
haven't finished one another." Cutting off whatever rebuttal his boss might have, Moran continued. "Besides, even I am perceptive enough to know what you mean by your saying. The Irish," He said as he spit a gob of blood. "is meant to be fools in that saying. That only the greatest of lucks can help fools."
"And we're not fools." Moriarty said not unkindly, a combat-ready grin gracing his youthful face as an ornate cane materialized in his hands. "Can you stand?"
"Just about." The grunted reply comes. "Plan C?"
"Plan C." The Marionettes rush at those words, whatever it was that held them back is no longer there. Three dozen of them rush in, the clattering of limbs sounding slaughter for the two.
Unfortunately then, the only slaughter that comes is ones that comes for
them.
And for the first time in three weeks after the Siege of London starts, a light shines through the fog from the direction of Walworth Road.
When what few responders the Yard can spare arrives, all they see is a smoking and charred ruin of where the block used to be.
London — Absolute Demonic Fog begins...
