Heir to the Throne (2/2)

WARNING: As before, the following contains themes not suited for younger audiences or those of more sensitive dispotion. Viewer discretion is advised.

"An Unhallowed Cradle..."

Samuel Baker had never seen Victoria Thorne act the way she was acting now. Granted, he hadn't known anything about her until last year, and he hadn't learned very much about her even then. He Still only really knew three things, even now - that she was headmistress of an Alchemist school in London, that she was a skilled swordswoman and that she stood no nonsense from anyone. She was like Mary Poppins, if Mary Poppins flashed a piece everywhere she went and would skewer anyone who looked at her funny.

She was not a woman who flinched at anything, in short. So to see her now, looking suddenly and starkly haunted, was a shock to both the former Destined Hero and to Horace Irving, who was still bound and kneeling on the floor.

"It is... not something Alchemists like to acknowledge." The words came out of Victoria Thorne's mouth slowly, haltingly and unwillingly, as though she were trying to free a stubborn toffee from the back teeth. "It is one of the worst crimes of the Decadence, when they tried to do something far worse with homunculi than just making slaves or experimental fodder. It... it allows complete and total manipulation of genetic material. An Alchemist isn't limited to just sperm and eggs, or raw flesh, if they can throw it into an Unhallowed Cradle. Whatever you want, within reason, you can grow it."

She directed a piercing look at Sam. "Do you remember me telling you about the Stalingrad Incident?"

Sam blinked. "Um... no. Because you didn't. You just said 'let's not repeat the Stalingrad Incident' and then didn't elaborate no matter how many times I asked you."

"Correct. Because we don't talk about the Stalingrad Incident."

"...then why-?"

"But," Victoria carried on smoothly, as if the blonde hadn't spoken, "the Unhallowed Cradle was a major factor. The things it made possible, as well as what it could potentially make Thus, part of the global ban on homunculi included the destruction of every Cradle that could be found. But, thanks to a little... shoddy record-keeping on the Soviet's part, not all of them were accounted for."

And it was at this moment that Horace Irving, never the brightest bulb in the box to begin with, thought this was a prime opportinity to chip in once more.

 "That's right," he said, out loud with his entire mouth. "And do you have any idea how much a single one of them costs on the black market? Never mind making an entire new one from scratch. Which I'm pretty sure isn't possible anyway, because the original blueprints-"

There was a noise like ice being cut in half, and the tip of Blue Ben was suddenly much closer to the sweating Horace's face.

"Consider yourself lucky that, right now, we're not considering you fully culpable," Victoria hissed. "But the possession of an Unhallowed Cradle cannot be excused. It's the key to creating far worse things than abominations in mason jars. If we can prove you actually possess one, and no doubt we'll try our best, then you can expect us to leverage the full extent of the law and Alchemical Lore against you. Understood?"

Horace didn't even try to speak this time. A sword blade in your face was generally a good warning that you'd already put your foot in it.

Sam huffed. "Still, it's not much to go on, is it? A high-school dropout, paid by some mystery woman to make monsters in a warehouse? If you even believe even half of what this loser's saying."

"I wouldn't be so dismissive, Mr. Baker," said Victoria, still keeping her sword pointed at the trembling Horace. "It tracks with what we know about him and why he moved to this area of London to begin with. And who better to commit your crimes for you than somebody completely beneath notice? Nobody would ever suspect a man so average the eye slides right off of him."

"You don't have to be so hurtful," Horace murmured. But nobody listened to him.

"This is not a man of initiative," Victoria went on. "He's very obviously acting on behalf of somebody else, even if it is of his own choice. He'll be punished, no doubt, but until we have the full facts of the case, pinning the entire blame on him will be like throwing tomatoes at the puppet and not the man with his hand up it's arse. And we can only sort that out once the main business is taken care of."

"Speaking of which," said Sam, "I wonder how he's getting on with that."

There was a brief silence. Turning his head, Horace noted that the woman - Victoria - had suddenly gone silent and stony-faced. This seemed to surprise Sam yet again, who looked at her as though he thought she might have wandered off with the fairies. The silence dragged out a little longer.

"...maybe I was asking too much," she muttered. "I know it has to be done, and we couldn't wait for the Kingsguard to arrive, but... is he even up to it? Would it not have been better to have him report back and then...?

"Oh, he's fine," said Sam. "He's twenty now. He can handle himself."

"Unless he meets the Big One," said Horace, without even thinking about it.

"The what?" 

"Oh, that's the one that got too big for the-"

And it was only upon looking up and seeing the faces of Victoria Thorne and Samuel Baker that Horace Irving realised the full scale of how unbelivably fucked he was. He thought he still was only waist deep in the metaphorical quicksand. But the incredulous anger radiating from both of his captors was like a splash of ice-cold water to the face. He now fully understood that he was, in fact, neck deep in it, and there were no amount of stray jungle vines to pull him free this time.

"...I should really learn to keep my mouth shut," he lamented.

Heir to the Throne (1/2)

WARNING: The following contains themes not suited for younger audiences or those of more sensitive disposition. Viewer discretion is advised.

Scientists are actually preoccupied with accomplishment. So they are focused on whether they can do something. They never stop to ask if they should do something.
- Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park

~Coastal London, England, Mantraverse~

Horace Irving's day had not been off to a good start, because he'd cut himself shaving.

And that was saying a lot. Because Horace Irving was the kind of person whom, if they stood still for long enough, would fade into the background noise of the universe at large. He was unmemorable in the same way that empty space is - nobody paid much mind to him or, even if pushed, remembered him at all. Friends would have called him a quiet sort and keenly interested in Alchemy, except that would require him to have any quality remarkable enough to obtain even one friend.

The disinfectant stung like a red-hot needle as he rubbed it over the gash on his neck. He clenched his teeth and tried to focus on the shape of his own nose instead.

He wasn't even a real Alchemist - and he would fully admit it if you asked him. He'd dropped out of St. Jerome's Alchemical Academy because the very mundanity of his being had translated to his own schoolwork. It wasn't that he was stupid - far from it. But it wasn't that he was smart, either, which was the problem. He'd sat so painfully in the middle when it came to grades that, in a rare moment of self-reflection, he'd realized that it held no career prospects whatsoever. 

And for several years, he'd aimlessly drifted down the current of the great river of life, not particularly caring if he touched shore or not. Until this job had come along, that is.

The sticking-plaster was layered carefully over the wound.

It still baffled him, even now, that he'd been paid so much to do what he was doing right now. Of all the people in all the world to find to do it, why on earth would you ever pick a failed Alchemist who nobody ever remembered? Surely, there were people actually much more qualified to do it than him? And why...?

He looked at himself in the mirror and heaved a sigh. Mostly because his eyes kept wanting to slide off what it saw and look at the wall behind him instead. Not even his own eyes wanted to remember him.

Oh, well. The money was good. It had bought half-decent equipment - not the professional stuff, but close enough that it didn't matter. The flat he was in was roomy enough and out of the way of anyone who might ask awkward questions. No landladies to come knocking for rent, no neighbours peering. It was close enough to the warehouse district that he didn't need to waste money on a taxi, so no paper trail there.

And the results were promising. Give it a few more months...

He stepped out of the bathroom, his cut still twinging. There was a lot to do today. Check on the cultures, top up the blood - he'd have to buy more chickens soon - get some milk, keep the Unhallowed Cradle ready for-

And then the front door burst open, and Horace Irving's day became significantly worse.