London, 1919

The little boy groaned, looking outside from a window.

"I just hate rainy Sundays" he pouted, sitting back on a chair. He was about seven years old, with light brown fur and golden eyes.

"I still haven't met anyone who likes them, Howard" his father said quietly, without turning his gaze from the book he was reading.

The boy made a face. It was raining, his mom was away to pay a visit to grandpa Hiram and he was stuck home with his father...who was obviously reading another of those boring scientific books.

Being son of a physicist really sucked.

"Hey, dad" he called out, climbing on his father's knees "can you tell me a story?"

His father sighed. "Howard, can't you see I'm rea..."

"Oh, please!" he pleaded, giving him a poutey look "pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease..."

"Alright, alright, you've won" his dad closed the book with a sigh "then tell me, what do you want me to tell?"

He didn't need an answer: the grin on his son's face was easy to understand.

"You don't want me to tell you that one, do you?"

"Well..."

"Howard. I've told you that story about ten thousand times."

"Exactly. One more time won't make any difference" the little boy said innocently.

His dad chuckled. "You have a point."

"Then you're gonna tell me the story?"

"I guess so. But no interruptions, young boy. I'm not much of a storyteller, you know."

"Okay" he promised, sitting more comfortably on his father's knees.

His dad leaned back in his armchair, then he began to tell:

"Now, our tale begins about twenty two years ago, shortly before the night of Queen Mousetoria's Diamond Jubilee..."

London, 1897

Olivia Flaversham sat sadly in a can, hugging her knees. She had spent the whole night wandering trough London, looking for her daddy, but she hadn't met anyone that could help her. She had tried to ask for help to a couple who was walking on the sidewalk, but they had just given her a disgusted look before get away without even listen to her.

"Beggars", she had heard one of them muttering.

Olivia closed her eyes, trying to stop her tears. She was alone, alone in the world, and no one was going to help her to find her dad. What did that bat want from him?

Maybe her dad was dead by now, and she would never see him again.

The little girl choked back a sob and stood up. No, she couldn't let herself to give up: she had to find her dad, one way or another.

But how?

Almost as an answer to her unspoken prayers, a newspaper landed just before her, carryed by the wind. She looked down, and a short article caught her attention.

"Famous detective solves baffling disappearance..."

A golden-eyed boy was hiding behind one of the many barrels who were around Ratigan's lair. He was about eight years old, with black hair, dusty gray fur and black nose. He scrunched his brow in confusion as he watched Fidget shoving the toymaker inside the cell-barrel. What was going on now?

He shrugged, quietly padding away. He was used to see such things happen in the sewers, and like his father always told him, it was not his business.

Besides, he was forbidden to leave his quarters without his permission. Father would get mad if he found out he did.

But, anyway, rules ar ment to be broken, aren't they?

He was sick and tired of being stuck there: he rarely got to go on the surface, and he truly missed the warmth of the sun. Sewers were definitely not a nice place, gloomy and damp as they were...but by now sewers were his home, whatever he wanted or not.

His father had taken him about two years before, after his grandmother's death. His grandmother had never truly accept him as her grandson: she had accepted to raise him just to respect to her late daughter, though she wasn't very fond on her. She often told him his mother was nothing but a fool, getting involved with such a despicable man as his father was...but she always refused to tell him his name, no matter how much he pleaded.

"He's dead, Jeremy" she kept repeating "he'll never come back. Good riddance. Why do you care?"

She was lying, but he couldn't know it: therefore, Jeremy had been very surprised when his father had send his thugs to take him, the day after his grandmother's death. No, he wasn't just surprised: he was scared to death. He would never forget the first time he had seen him in his hideout, after being taken by his henchmice: massive and threatening, he looked like a giant to the frightened six-years-old boy.

He had looked at the trembling child with a grin, as if his fear amused him.

"Stop quivering, silly boy. I'm not going to hurt you" he had said, with a soothing and yet somehow frightening voice "now, Jeremy...do you know who I am?"

The boy had shaken his head, not even daring to speak.

"Some spoken words would be hightly appreciated, young boy" he had said dryly, staring at him with his yellow eyes as he could see trough his soul.

"N...no" Jeremy had whimpered "I don't know who you are."

"You actually can speak, then. So much the better. Then your grandmother never told you about me, did her?"

"I...I don't know what you're talking about" he had said with a shaky voice "please, sir...I just want go home" he had pleaded, though knowing there was no one waiting for him at home by now.

Professor Ratigan had just grinned.

"You are home."

Since then, Jeremy had barely left the sewers four or five times, and never withouth a henchmice to look over him: the upper world was far more dangerous for him then the sewers itself.

Down there, in the underworld, he was safe. Being under the protection of the Napoleon of Crime, he was untouchable: no one would have dared to hurt him knowing the consequences.

It had taken him almost a year to learn calling Ratigan 'father', and sometimes he still addressed to him as 'sir' or 'professor', but Ratigan didn't same to care very much about it: actually, he didn't seem to care about him much more than his grandmother did.

Though reluctantly, she had kept him with her rather than leave him alone in the world, and after her death Jeremy had felt desperately alone. Weak and alone.

Maybe his father didn't love him – or at least he didn't act as if he did – but still he hadn't rejected him. Ratigan had given him a place to live and his protection when he he had nowhere to go, and Jeremy was grateful for that.

Little he knew, the day he saw the Hiram Flaversham being imprisoned into his father's lair, that his life was about to change forever.