Automated Utopia :: Chapter Nine.
Title: Automated Utopia
Author: fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG-13 though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Pairings: Spike/Fred.


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Automated Utopia :: Chapter Nine.

Lighting several candles around his desk, Wesley carefully began unsealing the small paper packets that Gunn had collected from the cab company. He poured the particulates onto a clean, white piece of paper and began to sift through the larger pieces with a pair of metal tweezers. Spike stayed more than a comfortable distance from the former Watcher in the confines of the study. He felt useless, not sure of what to do or even how to ask how he could help.

Spike realized he had never been in Wesley’s private study before; it was just off the library, cramped and not very airy. He suddenly longed for the house his mother had made a home on Grosvenor Square, a home that he wished to share with Fred. Though Spike had loved other women deeply, no other had brought out such domestic feelings in him. There was a time just a day previous when Spike had not been sure of what his true emotions for the young inventress, if they were just those of friendship and deep affection or those of love. But being without her, the emotional turmoil he struggled with knowing that he had been unable to protect her, Spike was convinced that he had all of those feelings and more for Fred. Even if she did not feel the same, he would bring her home safely. The sound of glass tinkling brought Spike out of his thoughts. Wesley had opened up the leather valise in which he kept his forensic tools and removed a few vials, holding them up to the candlelight.

“What are those?” Spike asked, expecting to be rebuffed.

Wesley removed the cork stoppers and poured the vial’s contents onto another clean sheet of paper next to the one he had already prepared. He replied, “Some of these larger gray particles that Gunn collected looked familiar.” He moved his chair over, wordlessly inviting Spike to take a closer look. “When it was observed that some of the pottery in the Northead collection that had been left behind were facsimiles, I took some samples from the broken pieces. You see, they appear to be quite similar to what was swept out of the cab.”

Standing by the desk, Spike leaned over to examine the crumbles of clay, “They certainly seem to have the same scent.”

Preparing a glass slide of the material from the passenger compartment of the cab, Wesley placed it under a microscope, “There seems to be a large amount sawdust mixed in with this.”

“You couldn’t just tell that from taking a whiff of that stale odor,” Spike said in a manner that came off far more sarcastic than he had meant for it to sound.

Wesley had always been curious about the hypersensitive nature of vampiric senses, and his curiosity helped him try to take no notice of Spike’s abrasiveness, “You’ll have to forgive me for not having the same olfactory capabilities as a bloodhound.” He continued to compare the splinters of wood and sediment to what was taken from their investigation at the British Museum under the lenses of the microscope.

Spike gave a little indignant huff through his nose and took to exploring the study. He spotted Dr. Breedlove’s notes about the books that were taken. As he skimmed through what appeared to be standard Librarian Miniscule, Spike was frustrated by the abrupt change from Ancient to Modern Greek in the text.

“Could you do that a little quieter, please?” Wesley admonished.

Unaware that he had been reading aloud, Spike sat down in a chair and began to try to make sense of the book’s incomprehensible language. He recalled what Fred was trying to talk to him about at the Jolly Dogs’. The music and raucous frivolity inside the theatre along with the head injury he had suffered after did not lend itself to fully grasp what she was attempting to convey about possibly translating the text. The one thing that did stick out in his mind was the word “syllables.” If Fred had been onto something, and admittedly she often was as she was an incredibly clever young woman, then perhaps the syllables of the text themselves was a clue.

Sounding the words out several times, Spike tried reading a few lines, and then just the words in Modern Greek. “Epinosi… tou… Outopia…”

Welsey turned around and asked Spike to repeat what he had read, which the vampire did. “The ‘Device of Utopia’?” Wesley spoke carefully as he moved to look at the pages Spike was viewing. “Where did you read that?”

Spike explained what Fred had mentioned about translating the books using syllables. “I’m not very good with patterns, but I thought that I would try just reading only the words that were more modern together.”

Wesley took out a few index cards from a desk drawer and began writing words independently from several lines, making a pile for the ancient and modern words. After a short time and some rearranging, they had a tract which read in Modern Greek:

“When the petals of the heart are full, the passage will open to eutopia (Paradise)… the Device of Utopia will unlatch before thorande (the door)… ”

Surprisingly, when both men rearranged the Ancient Greek, it formed the same translation, only with “dystopia (Hell)” in place of eutopia.

Spike looked to Wesley with some confusion, “Whoever took Fred also wants to use the books taken from the Museum to open a gateway to Heaven or Hell?”

“Good Lord,” Wesley gasped, “of course! Fred opened the portal to Pylea that enveloped her and brought Lorne to our world. That could be why she was taken. She would be a natural choice for such an endeavor!”

“But how would they know that about her?” Spike said, picking up a few of the cards.

Wesley supposed, “Your fish friend has telepathic powers, correct?”

“You think that that’s why they kidnapped George? To find the right person to open this portal?” Spike looked very thoughtful, “It is no coincidence then that we saw him just as Fred was explaining her theories to me.”

“No, and I fear even more now for Fred’s safety if she is operating under the assumption that a type of syllable pattern will translate this work, especially if she is not familiar with the language,” Wesley sighed, pressing his knuckles into the desk’s surface.

Spike felt that fear as well. If Fred was not able to do what they wanted, then whoever took her would have no reason to keep her alive. He prayed that if she was able to work on the translation, she could stall for time, but how much time did she have left?

*****

Dr. Phyllydia Breedlove lived in a quaint ground floor flat attached to a private park near the British Museum, a short enough distance for her to walk to work. The lamps were bright on the darkening streets as Angel knocked on her door, announcing himself as a Scotland Yard detective. As he knocked, the door creaked open.

Gunn sighed, “That is always a grim sign.” He and Angel called out to Dr. Breedlove, but received no answer.

Angel motioned to Gunn to enter, “You’ll have to go on ahead if there’s no one to invite me inside.”

Gunn nodded and toed open the door, which swung precariously, allowing Angel to view the entire room. The front room was Spartan in its cleanliness, an antithesis to Sir Augustus’s office. Taking a turn about the room looking for anything out of place, Gunn noted a shadow passing beneath a shut door.

Checking his steam cannon pistol to make sure that its water canister was loaded, Gunn edged closer as the shadow once again moved about the room. With quick movements, he turned the knob and with his momentum at its highest threw himself into the room, pistol at the ready. He was instantly tackled to the floor, something hard pressed to this throat.

Angel shouted out Gunn’s name as he watched a flash of blonde take the large man to the floor. He pressed himself against the invisible barrier that prevented him from entering the flat.

Gunn’s eyes focused on his attacker and looked up to see former-Inspector Kate Lockley crushing an umbrella against his neck. It seemed that at the same moment he realized it was Kate; she stopped and lifted up the umbrella as she recognized him. She helped him to his feet as he clutched his bruised throat.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Kate said, “but you frightened me.” She stood in the threshold between Dr. Breedlove’s bedroom and the front room and gave a short wave to Angel.

“Kate, what are you doing here?” Angel was surprised, watching Gunn slump against the doorjamb, catching his breath.

“A little ‘B and E’, nothing you haven’t done to solve a case,” Kate looked over her shoulder at Gunn, “Case in point.”

“It was only a little ‘E’ and no ‘B’, thanks to you leaving the door open,” Gunn replied, his voice raw.

“I didn’t leave it open; it was like that when I arrived,” Kate frowned. “At least I know that I still have a lead.” Off of Angel’s confused expression, Kate tossed the umbrella into a corner and continued, “Obviously, Dr. Breedlove is still alive if you cannot enter her residence.”

Angel felt his skin prickle with annoyance, “What do you think you’re doing, Kate? You do not have the protection part of Scotland Yard, anymore. If you were caught, you could be thrown in prison.”

“Technically, I was caught,” Kate walked up to the open front door as though she could feel the mystical barrier that kept vampires from entering a home uninvited. Her voice was level, but her eyes flicked with a cold anger that Angel had only seen before in Spike’s eyes, “Are you going to arrest me, Angel?”

Whether or not it appeared so, Angel was pressing his body against the invisible barrier, his body nearly shaking with his frustration, “I want to help you.”

“I did not ask for your help nor do I need it,” former-Inspector Lockley suddenly looked full of hauteur as she continued, “I am on my way to solving my case as well as yours.”

Angel was taken aback, “My case? What do you know about the robbery at the Museum?”

“I’m not telling you anything that could compromise my investigation,” she replied.

“Damn your pride, Kate. This is about more than a few missing knick-knacks,” he said, “You will tell me what you know.”

Kate glared at him, “Just like all the times you were so open and honest with me when I was an Inspector? I may not be a member of the Met anymore, but I can do my job with or without you. Same as always. You should learn to do the same.”

“This is different…” Angel began, but paused. He knew that there was no difference as he was not a fool, but he could not reorder the past and change how he misused Kate’s trust.

“Winifred Burkle,” Gunn spoke up, straightening his shirt collar, “She is a member of our family, and she’s gone missing.”

Kate looked over her shoulder at Gunn, her expression softening. She turned back to Angel, “And you think it has something to do with the robbery at the Museum?”

“Recall that thing that attacked us at the Museum? Well, one of its kinsmen was used to kidnap Miss Burkle,” Angel said softly.

A look of deep concentration crossed Kate’s face. She quickly returned to Dr. Breedlove’s bed chamber and out of Angel’s sight. Gunn followed her and finally had a good look around. The room had been completely ransacked, a far cry from the pristine front parlor. Kate rummaged through a stack of papers on the floor until she withdrew the document she was searching for along with picking up other papers and a fairly large book undiscernibly. She brought the items out into the parlor, pulling a small escritoire, arranging the items on it, and bringing it over to the door for Angel to see from his position in the hall. The pages were covered with alchemical glyphs, sacred circles, and drawings of demons.

“When I was searching Dr. Breedlove’s room, I found this,” she lifted a piece of paper that appeared to have a list scribbled on it with many of the items already crossed off. “I told you at the Museum that I had been investigating the disappearances of many demons along the Strand, and I think that Dr. Breedlove’s been doing a bit of shopping.”

Kate’s hand thrust the piece of paper into the hallway for Angel to hold. He scanned it closely. Fyarl… Vrykolakas… Valkren’nesh… Splendeen… Angel paused at the last two demons crossed off the list. They had found Norman, a Valkren’nesh demon, at the Museum, and Betta George, who had been last seen at Fred’s kidnapping, was a Splendeen demon. “I think that our two investigations might have just become one,” Angel said breathlessly. “Kate, what led you to investigate Dr. Breedlove?”

“I had been spending most of my time in the theatre district on the Strand, trying to dredge up any information about the demons that had gone missing,” Kate began, “but there were never any witnesses to the actual abductions. However, many people spoke of seeing a Simmons’ Cab speeding away from the scenes after the incidents.”

Gunn’s eyes widened, “And you were the “lady-peeler” that the manager at the cab company said was lurking about asking questions!”

Nodding, Kate continued, “I decided that I would wait to see if the kidnappers would return for the cab again, and surely enough they did- Dr. Breedlove and a young man. I remembered seeing her being escorted home by two officers on the night of the Museum robbery. It wasn’t hard to figure out who she was after using up what will probably be my last favours from my contacts at the department.”

The question of why lingered in the air. Why would Dr. Breedlove be involved in demon kidnapping? Why would she have orchestrated a robbery of the Museum that seemed to be so important to her? Angel asked Kate to pass him the other papers, which she did without hesitation.

As a vampire of the Order of Aurelius, Angelus had been entered into not only rigorous training in combat and hunting but scholastic endeavors as well. He had been taught about the history of the Order, demonology, various languages both human and otherworldly, and magicks as well as alchemy. It was the duty of every Aurelian vampire to learn such things to be considered a credit to the Order. He would later come to regret teaching Spike and Drusilla such things after several of their residences spontaneously combusted over the years.

“Can you understand it?” Kate inquired, curiously.

“Yes,” Angel replied, “it’s alchemy and summoning magick.”

“Alchemy? Like turning iron into gold?” Gunn said, looking over the book Kate had lain on the table.

“Like turning anything into anything else,” Angel pointed to the sacred circles meticulously drawn out over the pages, the names of different demon species were written at various positions. Each circle had a different combination of demons. The most prevalent symbol seemed to be a pair of wavy lines. “This symbol is the eleventh Zodiac sign- Aquarius. In alchemy, it means the process of uniting materials through Multiplication, to transform a lower substance into one of higher existence.”

Gunn appeared to have a sudden understanding, “That’s why they took the demons. They want to turn something impure and turn it into a higher being?”

“Not only that, but I believe these circles mean that they are attempting to combine demons together. Dr. Breedlove was apparently being quite frank when she called what attacked the other curates “homunculi” on the night of the attack, though “golem” might have been more appropriate,” Angel quipped though mentally he could barely comprehend such a ghastly concept.

“And it explains why none of us could identify the demon we fought, if Dr. Breedlove created it herself,” Kate raked a hand through her long blonde hair. “But what she… magicked to life seemed to be far from a higher being.”

“Maybe that’s why she has so many circles drawn. She’s going try different combinations until she gets it right,” Gunn surmised.

“And create a hulking gargoyle brute squad in the process,” Angel said, taking another glance at the paper in his hand. “We have to find Dr. Breedlove and whoever’s helping her and stop this before anyone else is injured or killed.”

*****

“This is fairly disgusting stuff,” Spike said, looking over the evidence Angel, Gunn, and Kate had collected from Dr. Breedlove’s flat. Spike’s skin crawled as he thought of the medical experiments carried out by the government on demons that resulted in the creation of a hybrid being known as Adam, which nearly started a demon uprising in Sunnydale, as well as finding himself having a mechanical device implanted in his brain that stopped him from hurting living creatures.

“And quite dangerous,” Wesley spoke, absorbed in the carefully drawn summoning circles and alchemical symbols. “Multiplication is based on the concept of turning something impure and refining it into something pure, such as in the creation of a Philosopher’s Stone. The demons themselves are already pure- purely demonic, that is. They cannot be made any more whole. Werewolves and vampires would have been better tests subjects for such an experiment as they are considered impure beings in the demon world because of the human host body and-” Angel and Spike were both glaring daggers at the former Watcher. Wesley stammered, “Of c-course, I am not suggesting anyone do such a thing, my dear fellows! Merely stating that Dr. Breedlove and any associates she might have are operating on a very ill-educated mode of thinking when it comes to demonology.”

“It gives me a sick feeling in my stomach to think of what they might have wanted to do with little Norman,” Lorne said, holding the small Valkren’nesh demon on his lap.

“So we’ve got a loony bird running around kidnapping demons, practicing alchemy, stealing museum artifacts?” Gunn stated, “And how does Fred factor into all this, exactly?”

“Ah, yes,” Wesley began, “I checked the particulates that you found in the cab. The gray material matched that of broken pottery from the British Museum. Also, the wooden shavings resemble that which was used to pack the shipping crates the pottery came in, which lead me to-”

“Which lead us to take a closer look at the librarian’s notes to see if there was a clue to what was so damned special about those books and the other artifacts in the first place,” Spike bristled.

Wesley ‘ahem’ed and continued, “We discovered that the books could be used to open portals to possibly a heavenly dimension or a hellish one.”

Spike added, “And since Fred has had some experience using books to open other worlds…”

“It makes sense,” Angel nodded, “The only question left is where would they be keeping her.”

“If they are holding Miss Burkle in the same location as they have taken the demons they have kidnapped for these alchemy rituals, then it would have to be some place large,” Kate said, sitting on the edge of the settee.

“I suppose we need to find out if Dr. Breedlove had any access to any spacious buildings,” Wesley replied.

“Like a factory or a warehouse,” Spike said, “From past experience, I can vouch that both are excellent places for setting up a stronghold- lots of places to hide and make a quick getaway.”

Angel turned to Wesley, “Would it be possible that Dr. Breedlove would have access to the British Museum’s holding warehouses?”

Before Wesley could answer, there was an urgent knock at the door. The clock had just chimed two in the morning, and that sort of knocking was never just a late night visitor. Angel got up and looked through the heavy curtains covering the windows in the vestibule. Chief Inspector Appleyard and Inspector Pleydell were standing on the front steps.

Opening the door, Angel greeted the two Scotland Yard inspectors, “Good evening-”

“Save your pleasantries, you rogue,” Appleyard snapped, pushing his way into the townhouse on Fairfax Street. Angel began to truly wish that the same supernatural rules that prevented vampires from entering homes uninvited also governed human beings.

Pleydell’s face was blotchy and drawn. She glanced around the front hall with her small, calculating eyes. Angel could not help but notice that her hand was on her sidearm.

“Don’t blame me if you had to make a trip here. If the Met would send someone out to fix out Caselli, you could have just sent a wire,” Angel said, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling no reason for faux congeniality. When neither moved to speak, he sighed, “What’s gone wrong now?”

“Did you or did you not visit Sir Augustus after we spoke?” Pleydell asked pointedly. Her anger was palpable.

“Yes, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce and I stopped by the British Museum to ask him some questions,” he replied, feeling that now was not the time for nondisclosure.

Pleydell’s grip tightened on her firearm, the tendons in her thin neck standing out, “You bastard, you murdered that old man.”

“I most certainly did not,” Angel tried to remain calm. “He was alive and rambling when we left him.” The reasoning behind Pleydell’s expression became clear; she had given them the tip about Sir Augustus’s constant pestering of the department and now assumed that they had killed him and now blamed herself for his death.

“We’re onto you and your monster friends,” Appleyard barked, “That old crank put you up to stealing the evidence back from our clerk’s office, and you killed him to keep him quiet!”

“I can assure you that that isn’t true!” Wesley said adamantly. “I was with Angel for most of the day, and there was no murder.”

“And I can vouch for him for the other part of the day,” Kate added, stepping out of the parlor and into the vestibule.

“Lockley,” Appleyard’s tone was that of surprise and disgust. “One would have thought that disgracing yourself because of this lowlife would have been enough to encourage you to make something of yourself and stay away from his kind. Your father is rolling over in his grave-”

“Unless you plan on rolling in your own grave, I suggest you keep your presumptions about my character to yourself, Bartie,” Kate returned his barb. She turned to Pleydell, eyes smoldering with ire, “Anything you care to say, Abigail?”

Pleydell could not meet her stare, her hand slipping to her side and away from her weapon. She and Kate had risen through the ranks together at Scotland Yard. Perhaps if Kate had not lost her position, she would be partner to the Chief Inspector rather than Pleydell. Kate has always been more driven, one step ahead, and Pleydell felt a keen shame at the secret happiness she garnered for Kate being dismissed from the department.

After a few minutes of intense glaring, Appleyard and Pleydell took their leave. However, the Chief Inspector vowed that he would return once he had the evidence to prove that Angel had had a hand in either the break-in at the clerk’s office, in Sir Augustus’s murder, or both.

“Ignore that blowhard, Angel. He’s filled with more hot air than a dirigible,” Spike said, putting his hand on Angel’s shoulder.

Angel was taken aback that Spike was actually attempting to comfort him. The older vampire spoke, “We’ll deal with Scotland Yard later; we’ve got more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.”


*****

George shook Fred’s shoulder gently, “Miss Fred? Please, wake up! I hear someone coming!” He was amazed she was able to sleep at all considering their current situation.

Lifting up her head as she awoke, Fred quickly gathered up her notes, including a complete master key to the symbols contained in the smaller books and the corresponding syllables gathered from her reading of the larger tome as the door began to open. She whispered to George, “Remember our plan, all right?”

George bobbed up in down in what constituted a nod for something that did not really have a neck. He quickly floated to the other side of the room as the door opened. The figure that entered was the taller, thinner of their captors.

“I have come to check on your progress,” the disguised voice sounded extremely anxious even with the distortion.

Fred forced a smile as she handed over her notes, “I believe I have found a pattern. The syllables correspond to these unknown characters. By following my key, you should be able to read the text.”

After practically ripping the papers from Fred’s hands, the figure excitedly said, “Excellent! Oh, this is superb news!” Then, the person snatched up the three stolen books from the Northead collection. As he or she turned to leave, Betta George was caught hedging around the door frame. “Away from there, fish!”

George speedily floated behind Fred. The door was soon shut and locked, the sound of their captor’s footsteps growing fainter down the hall.

“Were you able to do it?” Fred asked quietly, looking into George’s large watery brown eyes.

“I did, but I hope it worked as you thought it would,” he replied.

Fred got up out of her chair, walking towards the door. Ripping a long slit down her elegant gown, she pulled the material up between her legs, tucking it under her bodice, creating makeshift trousers like the flowing ones she had seen in drawings of Turkish harem girls, freeing her legs for a faster escape. She placed her hand on the knob and paused. The taller figure had promised to let her go if she solved the mystery language in the smaller two volumes, but Fred knew better than to trust the word of someone who was willing to snatch people off the street. If her syllable pattern analysis was wrong, then she doubted her kidnappers would suffer to give her another chance.

Steeling her courage, she gripped the doorknob and looked to George, “Get behind me, and prepare yourself to make a run, or rather float for it.” With quiet reserve, she pulled and felt the door come towards her. The coating of sticky cheese from the lunch tray the shorter robed figure had brought in had served as a fine epoxy to gum up the lock. A rush of exuberance that the first step of her plan had been successful filled her with hope, but Fred had to remind herself that they were not even out of the room yet.

Taking her first cautious step outside the threshold of the door, Fred found herself in a narrow hallway. Looking both to her right and to her left, she had to make a decision as to which direction to take. She glanced back at George as if to silently ask him his opinion. Being a telepathic creature, George was very talented at matching facial expressions to tone of thoughts. However, he appeared to shrug, not knowing which way to try. Fred had thought that her captors had been turning left when they left her cell, which meant going leftward would either lead her directly into the hands of her kidnappers or to an exit.

Feeling safer taking left, the scientist and the Splendeen demon were on their way. It was eerily quiet as they wandered down passage after identical passage. There were neither windows nor doors, just endless hallways. Fred felt as though she were in the middle of a labyrinth.

“Does any of this seem familiar?” she whispered as softly as possible.

“No,” George answered, “I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

After making an arbitrary turn, the pair found several doors. One of them had to lead to a way out! Fred decided she would try one of the doors on the wall she assumed was not pointing towards the direction they had come and was running along the outer part of whatever structure they were inside. With utmost caution, she opened the door to find herself in a crate-filled room.

The ceiling in this room was corrugated and considerably higher than in the previous corridors they had been down. The large wooden cases and crates were lining the walls and filled the space, stacked so high and so tightly that Fred could not see around one row to another. George could barely squeeze through the boxes.

Coming to a crate with a loose top, Fred curiously glanced inside to find Asian pottery nestled in curled wood shavings. She went to another open crate and found what appeared to be pieces of a suit of armor. George had been right about the two of them being held in a warehouse of some kind.

“Miss Fred,” George whispered. As she followed him, he pointed with his tendril-like fin to a set of large bay gates like those at the Mews. Wordlessly, they hurried towards the metal gates, but George was hampered by his size while even Fred’s modifications to her gown could not stop it from being cumbersome as she tried to run.

Fred could not be sure, but she heard fast-paced footsteps from behind her. Though it could have been an echo of her own, she knew better than to look to make sure. She kept going, falling against the metal gate, tugging on the rope that should have pulled it up.

“It’s locked,” Fred hissed, pulling on the rope with all of her might. George attempted to help, but it was no use. Fred heard the footfalls again. Now, sure that the feet making the noises were not her own, she grabbed one of George’s fins and dragged him behind a stack of boxes.

“You search that way,” a husky voice said. “I’ll check around this way.”

Fred peered around a corner to see five cloaked figures, organized near the gate. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could almost feel it pressing against her sternum. If they were as silent as could be, then the enclosed rows of crates would provide ample cover so that they would not be detected. Pressing her finger to her lips, Fred then motioned to George that they should continue to try to locate another way out. Each step and breath was precise, listening and watching for another sign of movement from around corners.

Fred pressed her back to her crate, peering around it carefully. She was able to spot one of the figures coming down the alley towards where they were taking cover. “Take it easy,” Fred tried to calm George who was obviously shaking.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” he shuddered.

Making a quick but calculated decision, Fred looked into the Splendeen’s eyes, “George, I’m about to create a diversion. I need you to fly as high and as fast as you can and find a way to get outside.”

George appeared shocked, “But I can’t leave you!”

“Trust me,” Fred tried to reassure him, “Get as far away as you can and use your powers if you can to find help.” When George still seemed hesitant, she said, “I’ll be fine.”

When he seemed calm enough, Fred nodded to him. With one last check of the location of the robed figure coming towards them, she got into position. As soon as she felt she could wait no longer, Fred shoved the stack of crates with all her might, sending them tumbling onto her pursuer.

“Go! Go!” she shouted as she took off running through the jungle of crates and boxes. She could hear the others assembling nearby.

George took flight, swooping between crates, panicking, trying to reach an outer wall where another door might be located. He could not help looking behind him to find where his kidnappers were positioned. From his aerial view, he could see the robed figures helping their fallen comrade from underneath the crates. They were heading in Fred’s direction.

“Miss Fred, hurry!” he called out, trying to assist her, but only succeeded in giving away his location.

“Get the fish!” he heard a voice call out. The kidnappers in their long robes and masks had split up, dividing their focus between Fred and George.

George darted between columns, searching frantically for any sign of an exit route, while Fred tried to keep the robed persons at a safe distance. She had kicked off her heeled shoes in her first sprint, knocking over items in her path, hoping to garner more attention while George was flying about. George was beginning to grow tired. After days without a real meal and little sleep, he was slowing down, sinking lower and lower, but by some blessing he managed to arrive back at the door they had used to enter the large storeroom.

Once he was in the outer corridor, he began throwing doors open blindly, his fins having a hard time grasping the door handles in his panic. With fear coursing through him, George heard shouting from behind him. He could not let himself be captured! He flung himself into the next room he opened, slamming the door shut. Bobbing and weaving about the dark room, George spotted a tiny sliver of white light coming from the far wall. He flew to it, his fins touching glass. A window! Albeit a boarded up one!

Searching for a way to open the window and finding none, George began pushing against the glass with his whole body with renewed strength. He felt the glass begin to shift and heard the crackling sounds as it splintered. Floating backwards a short distance, he rushed at it with his side, breaking the window panes. Though he appeared soft and feather-light, George’s body actually had quite a bit of girth. Ignoring the small cuts he endured, George backed up further and sped towards whatever was cover up the outside of the window. This time, however, there was no give in the material.

The clamoring of footsteps could be heard outside the room. George did not have much time left, and he was running out of space in which to gain momentum. He was already at the door when he rushed the window area again. Boards began to move as his squishy body collided with them, the nails squeaking loose from their holes. However, while George could smell salty air and see a bit more light, the boards had not moved enough for him to fit through them.

The door opened just as George was about to give another run towards the window. Knowing that bruising his side into the wood was producing little result and was hindering his flight, George had to take drastic measures and rammed it head first. There was such incredible pain mixed with confusion and the booming shouts of “Grab him! Don’t let him escape!” that George did not even realize he was outside for several moments. He kept flying, hearing the quiet roll of water, but it was not as bright as he had hoped it was.

With a sudden burst, George rose higher in the air as his powers returned, and, like a drug, he was nearly overcome as a thousand thoughts of others nearby flooded his mind, filled his senses. He wobbled back down to earth, his scale-covered belly dragging the ground. The fatigue and fear had overwhelmed him, his energy draining away, but he would fulfill his mission.

Though his mind was a jumble, with his telepathy and the last vestiges of his strength, George called out to all of London like a colossal foghorn across the city, “Spike! Beck! Anyone! Help! Water! Lots of water! A large warehouse! Storeroom! Crates! Miss Fred in danger! Help us!”


To be continued...
(Chapter Ten will be the grand finale!)