"Well this is just perfect," Kipps complained, fingers running agitatedly through his short red hair, making it stick up at odd angles. He was pale, an air of skittish panic replacing his usual I only care about myself, look at me I'm so cool aura. It was distinctly unKipps like and it made George vaguely anxious; his unease increasing the longer he looked at how unKipps like he looked right now. He looked oddly bereft without his ridiculous bedazzled rapier. Having been forced to abandon it in the grass of the cemetery when Joplin had pressed a knife to George's throat. "I was running out of nightmare fuel for a moment there."

"Oh do you ever shut up," George sniped back, uncomfortably.

"Excuse me? Who was it that came to save your stupid backside? I think I've earned the right to complain as much as I want to."

"Yeah well, your 'rescue' leaves much to be desired!"

"I shouldn't even be having to rescue you in the first place! Are you always such an idiot, or do you show off when I'm around? This is exactly the sort of general incompetence that I expect from Lockwood and Co-"

"Please, keep talking. I only yawn when I'm super fascinated."

"You-"

"Shut up," Joplin barked. "You two are supremely annoying! Now get on the catafalques, before one of you gets stabbed."

How could he have been so stupid, he felt like such an idiot.

He'd thought that Joplin had been his friend, someone he could share his theories and ideas with, without fear of being shot down or belittled. It had been so good.

Lockwood and Lucy were great but they weren't like George. They were adrenaline junkies and thrived on danger; most agents were. But he had always been the cautious, books over action sort. He was content to spend hours haunting the National Archives reading, theorizing, digging through years of history to find the information he needed. It was slow, meticulous work; usually done in the background of the larger agencies. But Lockwood and Co wasn't a ...popular agency. They had to do all their research themselves and since neither Lockwood nor Lucy ever deigned to open a book the duty fell to him.

It put him in an odd position.

Outside the team as a researcher and yet inside it as an agent.

In a world all his own.

It was isolating, in a way.

Lockwood had never been receptive to his theories on the problem and his experiments. He let him conduct them, but George knew he hated them. And lately, Lockwood was even more fanatical about the experiments, especially concerning the skull and the bone mirror. They hadn't really talked in weeks. Lucy was better in that she didn't care until it affected her. So neither were really great conversationalists on the subject. And he felt that in science you needed someone to share your discoveries with.

He needed someone to talk with about his theories, discoveries, and experiments.

But he had no one.

The only researcher he really knew was Bobby Vernon and wasn't like he was going to talk to him any time soon.

So when Joplin came into their lives, he seemed like a miracle to George. Sent from above to save him from this pit he had fallen into.

Finally, someone who could share his excitement and enthusiasm for the unknown.

And then it had all come tumbling down.

He was too blinded by the joy of someone finally listening to him and the mystery of the bone mirror to notice that he was being pulled away from his friends.

Taking the mirror to the cemetery to show Joplin was natural instinct. Reminiscent of that childish joy of getting something you always wanted and immediately having to show it off to your friends.

Looking back it had been incredibly stupid. He could only imagine the chewing out Lockwood would give him later. If they even noticed he was gone.

They hadn't noticed him at all for the past few weeks. He was hardly at Portland Row anymore, spending most of his time either with Joplin or at the archives.

If nothing else they would come for the bone mirror.

So now here he was tied to a chair in a catacomb with Joplin, who was being possessed by Bickerstaff and had been almost the entire time.

Using him.

It hurt. More than he cared to admit.

And then Kipps showed up, before Lockwood or Lucy.

Kipps.

His mortal enemy came before his friends.

He came more for the mirror than him... but still.

They should have gotten here first.

Kipps had been rightly confused to see him and Joplin rolling around on the floor fighting. And later when they had both been tied up, he had tried to talk sense into Joplin. Confused by the insane mumblings. And even more, confused when those mumblings were directed at the figure in the corner.

The apparition stands in the corner, held in place by a large circle of thick iron chains filled with iron chains; it flickers occasionally like a malevolent stringy shadow. The pervasive sense of wickedness it brought combined with the bone mirror created a quagmire of malaise and malice.

"He's gone mad," Kipps said. "Someone with more skill than your friends better come save the day, soon."

"Lockwood will come and 'save the day' just fine, thank you," George said. Lockwood was smart, after all, he'd notice the message George had left on the thinking cloth, realize that it wasn't there this morning, and fly out the door to save the day.

And, even if he didn't, Lucy would notice for him.

One way or another they'd come.

George knew they would.

Joplin had been wandering around the room messing with the stand, his notebook and pen, and a pole.

"Yes, yes... in a moment…" he said to himself and then to George, "We must make haste with our experiment as agreed."

Kipps scoffed under his breath.

Using the pole, Joplin grabbed hold of the sheet covering the mirror.

"Now, tell me what you see."

He moved to flip the sheet when DEPRAC agents suddenly flooded into the room. Spreading throughout the ossuary, careful of the chains surrounding Bickerstaff.

"Stop!" one of the agents shouted at the tiny researcher.

Joplin glared, dropped his pole, and hastily moved towards the table, picking up a knife from its surface.

"You fools! What are you doing!? You're going to ruin everything!"

"Mr. Joplin," Barnes walks into the room. "Put the knife down."

He looked ready to fight but seeing so many swords pointed at him, he lost the hazy look in his eyes.

Slowly he put the knife down, immediately he was rushed and led away.

A pair of agents approached George and Kipps, and under the watchful eyes of Inspector Barnes, cut off their ropes.

Kipps stood with a great groan of relief, immediately turning to the DEPRAC agents to complain about what he had been forced through.

George stood slowly, disappointment making his limbs stiff and clumsy. He felt like he had aged fifty years since being forced beneath the chapel.

"Where are my friends?" he asked numbly.

"I haven't the faintest," Barnes replied, "Not here in any case."

George felt faint, they didn't come… He'd been abandoned.

He stared out the doorway everyone had just vacated through.

Maybe, he allowed himself to hope, they were late to the party and were waiting for him in the church.

He didn't know what he'd do if they weren't.

They were, he told himself firmly. They had to be.

The catafalques slowly rose up and George stepped out expecting to be bombarded by shouts of "George!", "You're okay!", "Never do that again, you idiot!", but the church was empty.

DEPRAC had already left with Joplin and the night watch kids were back to work.

Misery filled him.

He had been betrayed, almost killed by a man he'd thought was his friend, and his friends hadn't even noticed. He was all alone in a cemetery in the middle of the night.

Thrown away like those in the graves that surrounded him. Another soul abandoned and forgotten amongst the dead.

Tears gathered in his eyes, his breath hitched, fogging up his glasses. He pressed a trembling hand against his mouth, tears streaming in earnest down his chubby cheeks, wetting his fingers, before moving to wrap his arms around himself.

His legs gave out from underneath him, falling heavily to his knees, great heaving sobs tearing through him.

And alone in the chapel, George wept.