Author: Karen, The Huntress
Rating: R
Warning: AU, angst, language, implied violence
Pairing: None
Archive: DHML Archive
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters.
Fate's Miscalculation
"Damn English weather!" I swear at the foul fog that forced me into this cesspit of humanity in London's Whitechapel District.
One would think in 1888 mankind would have evolved from such primitive conditions as Ten Bells Pub.
I sit to myself and study the crush of uncouth commoners. Yes, common is the best description befitting the brash patrons, their unwashed bodies ripe with sweat.
Both males and females share the debauchery. Unkempt manes, stringy like hag's hair, curtain ruddy faces. Chapped lips curl in yellow-tooth grins and breaths reeking of cheap spirits provide further evidence of the hordes' inferior status.
An unsavory trio of swarthy men throws back their heads in raucous laugher. Swilling tankard after tankard has loosened their tongues for vulgar commentary denouncing nobles, blaming local magistrates and berating Queen Victoria for the pathetic poverty they, through slothfulness and breeding like rats, have wrought upon themselves.
A seasoned barmaid with her skirt high above her ankles spies my isolation.
"What'll ya have?" she inquires with an enticing smile then leans over so unbridled breasts thrust against her flimsy blouse and threaten to spill out on the stained, sticky tabletop.
If the shameless hussy believes a suggestive tile of her body will tempt me to taste the offered fruits she is sorely mistaken. Her wanton methods hold no sway with me.
A curt rely of "Nothing" and a dismissive wave of my hand sends the tart on her way.
The barmaid is no different from countless promiscuous women wandering along Commercial Street.
Every night, like whores whose wickedness destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, the vixens slink from side lanes and alleyways to prey upon sexual weaknesses; to beguile and bewitch and spread their legs for the price of a pint.
But I'm impervious to all their cunning tricks, the fleshy traps designed to ensnare mortal men in sin so grave there's no hope of redemption.
I am the God of Death!
My divinely appointed duty is to silence the Siren's ruinous songs and banish Satin's concubines back to the hell that spawned them for righteousness is on my side and I will never shrink from my destiny.
With no more patience to remain among the inebriated patrons wallowing in depravity, I make a straightway path for the door. Prior to stepping out into the accursed fog I take mere notice of a man sitting in equal seclusion at the furthermost table.
Our eyes lock and for a brief instant I sense he can see into my soul. In anxious haste, before this stranger's brooding perceptive sight might discern my true nature, I break the optical link and depart into the night.
A lone constable, cold and miserable on his patrol, regards me from a pool of mist-diminished gas light. "Doctor Maxwell?" he questions the validity of his speculative identification.
Without a word I lower my head to avoid detection and melt into the pallid vapors.
Crouched in the shadows beyond a roughhewn stone wall, I watch my pursuer pause to fix his orientation. It would be so simply to slit him from throat to navel, but alas the midnight hour is racing toward dawn.
So I wrap my cloak tighter to ward off a lancing chill, take up my satchel then slink off to solicit another harlot and confiscate her wicked heart.
*********
"Damn English weather!" Police Sergeant Heero Yuy swears as he mops clammy mist from my face.
The Princess Alice Pub, King Stores Tavern, The Alma and, finally Ten Bells Pub, the last stop on the Sergeant's nightly circle of London's East End.
Since August seventh, four women believed to be prostitutes had been murdered in the Whitechapel District.
Each "Lady of the Evening" was discovered in various states of horrid mutilation, gutted like field-dressed stags in a manner indicating the killer had considerable knowledge of human anatomy.
There were several lulls and each respite lent false hope the butchery had ended. Yet in the third week of September, just two evenings ago, the grotesque remains of another unfortunate female was found in an alleyway off Commercial Street.
Now with five unsolved cases and few viable clues the heinous crimes dubbed the "Ripper Murders" by the London Times have become Sergeant Yuy's sole assignment.
Heero waits while a Hansom Cab, dapple gray horse at a full trot lest the wealthy occupants linger too long in Whitechapel squalor, rolls by. As the clops of hooves striking cobblestones fade away, he sidesteps a drooling drunk slouched beside the door and enters Ten Bells Pub.
Dressed in ordinary clothing the Sergeant attracts no unwelcome attention as he pauses to give a voluptuous barmaid his order for a pint of stout ale.
Usually the consumption of alcohol while on duty is frowned upon by his superiors, however the strong fortification of fermented brew is required to ward off a sturdy chill and ease the dull aches assaulting his overworked body and overstressed mind.
Accompanied by a worn sigh borne of exhaustion and a hardy dose of frustration, Heero sits down at a table near a trio of boisterous men, their courage bolstered by too many tankards.
Not at all shy concerning their opinions of governmental affairs, even the Queen is a prime target of the scathing comments which serve as a reminder to keep his investigative expertise in full force.
A casual but observant posture and a discreet shifting of shrewd sight is utilized to study the pub's working class patrons.
Predestined for menial labor by lack of suitable education and useful skills, the "salt of the earth" are loud, lustful and ready to brawl at the least provocation.
The barmaid serves a pint topped with amber froth. "Anything else to ya likin'?" she asks, with a wink, a not so subtle display of considerable cleavage and a squeeze on the Sergeant's thigh.
"Not tonight." Heero declines the proposition for sex, but adds extra coins to his payment to soothe her disappointment.
"A right proper chap ya are." the wench declares as she tucks the tip in the pocket of her coarse cotton skirt then hurries off to hustle an easier mark.
After downing half his mug, the Sergeant redirects circumspect scrutiny at the reclusive man seated in a gloomy corner scarcely lit by a candle's flickering yellow glow.
Judging by his finely tailored suit, wool cloak and how uncomfortable he is with the well-endowed barmaid leaning over the table, the gentleman is clearly out of place in the pub's risqué atmosphere.
After a rude wave signals the women's dismissal, the man gathers a black shape from his lap and sets a swift course to the door. Just short of stepping out into the fog-shrouded night he glances in the Sergeant's direction.
For a brief moment eyes lock.
The cold callousness, the frenzied gaze bordering on madness, returned by oddly colored orbs chills Heero's blood.
In those few seconds that seem to last forever, the Sergeant is beheld in noticeable apprehension made more obvious by the way the man clutches a black leather satchel that puts Heero in mind of bags carried by doctors or---
"Surgeons." Heero whispers as his intuitive gut reaction forewarns that something is about to go terribly wrong.
Suddenly the bond is broken.
Sergeant Yuy bursts forth from Ten Bells Pub nearly colliding with a startled constable.
"A man in a cloak just rushed out." he states breathlessly, "Which way did he go?"
"There." the constable gestures up the street.
Not caring if the infernal fog guards the gateway of the dead or the lunatic with evisceration on his mind might materialize without warning to strike a lethal blow, Heero rushes headlong into the night.
After several blocks he stops by a stone wall to get his bearings.
Unaware the harbinger of evil, who vanished like a phantasmal illusion of light and shadows, had debated his demise before merging with the darkness Sergeant Yuy clenches his fists and curses the Fates and his failure.
OWARI
Author's Note: Heero's character is based on Robert Sagar.
In 1880 Sagar gave up studying medicine at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital and joined London's City Police Force. In 1888 he was promoted to Sergeant.
As a former student of medicine and a Sergeant involved in the Jack the Ripper investigation it would have been interesting to have known Sagar's opinions on the amount of skill displayed by the person who murdered and mutilated seven prostitutes between August 7th and November 10th, 1888 in London's Whitechapel District.
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