I am so sorry. I know this excuse's old: my computer broke down. But it did
happen. *darn!* So, here's more. Truth to tell. . . the quality isn't as
good as before. I'm planning to wrap it up and start on the second to the
sequel soon. I feel like Doyle writing from and after the Adventure of
Empty House. *hehehe*
Enjoy, Review please, it'll help me a lot. Thanx!
She sat down by the side of the street, right next to a pile of mud that smelt distinctively organic. Her arms were crossed in front of her flat, underdeveloped chest, and her eyes searched shrewdly at every passing face. It was a hobby of hers. Sitting by the road, pretending to be a piece of the wall, watching all kinds of different pedestrians. A little girl dropped her tiny doll's shoe, which rolled right in front of Alinere. It made her smile. She picked it up and handed it back to the little princess in satin, who, in turn, smiled shyly back at the dirty yet handsome stranger. Her mother, however, pulled her away with a nasty scold. She continued to look at them as they walked away, at the smaller figure practically merged with the taller figure in skirts.
"Mothers are all fools, and all fools are alike." She was taught in the earliest years of her so-called training. How old was she? Couldn't be more than three or four, she supposed. What is it like to have a mother? To have a warm presence near oneself and a authority figure to turn to when in distress. It was the first time in many years she had wondered about that, then she slapped herself mentally. She had Lord Wilkins, and that was enough. She had learned very early, perhaps too early, in life that she was different from other people. She had a destiny that was far greater than any man of her time. She was the heir to an old and powerful society. Nevertheless, a dying society that was now composed of nothing but fools and imbeciles. She had vowed to rebuild the Trinity Order, but that was not enough. She needed resources to help her get there. Her resources? Herself, that young man Holmes, and her uncle if she was willing to trust him. However, there was more to that, far more. But the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, these forces had to be united.
Alinere blew some hot, steamy air on her cold pale fingers and yawned. It was getting late. Oh, yes, what about Holmes? He was an enigma if there ever was one. There were days that she was sure that he wore his heart on his sleeves, yet there were most times she could not get anything out of him even if she cut him open like a trout. Nonetheless, there was this. . . certain. . . quality of natural aloofness that made her jealous. These cold British ways, she thought, that boy has outdone his fathers and grandfathers combined together. No matter how she spurned the common mass, no matter how she repeated to herself of her noble ancestry, she always felt no better than those dirty-eating worms. Holmes, on the other hand, had done it perfectly well without any nurturing of it. A tiny smile appeared at the corners of her lips. Good thing no one saw it, for her handsome face then looked wild to the degree of insanity. She also knew that he was not as infallible as he appeared, and it was his utmost weakness.
She hated being so calculating all the time, it was a natural reflex for her. For once, maybe she could just live for the moment, without a thought to the consequences. It was impossible. The responsibility was too great a risk. From the distance, she could hear a clock hitting at twelve. It was time to go.
She passed through revenues and stinking streets, crossed the open sewerage and ran her hand pass the cold stone walls. London, London, it was still a strange city to her. It's got so many people but it's got no soul. She sighed a little, just a little. Then without warning, a figure flew by, brushed her slightly, then vanished into the shadows again. She looked down in her hand, there was a tiny piece of paper that wasn't there before. It ran, in a hurried scrawl:
H- captured: warehouse on south-side Florence Street. Hurry.
"Blasted," she muttered under her breath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sir, I have absolutely no clue of what you are speaking of." Holmes stated defiantly then swallowed hard, "if this is some sort of robbery, I can state that I don't have more than a shilling on me and would be more than glad if you can just let me go." Holmes scanned their surrounding: a giant empty warehouse. Damn, nothing to use as a weapon, unless you can use years supply of dust to kill. He then turned his attention to his captor, to his gun. Holmes never knew how danger can immensely increase his concentration. His age: fourty-five to fifty. Height: no more than six-foot- two. Occupation: rough work with his hands, possibly blacksmith or factory worker or both. Suffered mild arthritis. Haven's slept for at least two days. Just ate a mince pie for dinner. Not very casual with guns. . .
As Holmes ran this things over in his head, his captor grinned shakily, still aiming the revolver with a even less steady hand, "all of you are nothin' but bunch of cheats and liars." "That gal has done a good job of training you." That gal? Oh, no. He knows of Alinere. "I know what kinda stuff y'all made of and I know I won't be able to get anythin' outta you." He made the gun click. "But I do know, however, that one Trinitian down is one soul gone to hell." Then he grinned, a mouth full of crooked teeth on a face full of crooked pleasure.
"Gone to hell? Wait, wait, what are you talking about?" he didn't know what to think. This apparent crazy individual acted as if he find the Trinity Order atrocious. But that was not Holmes' chief objective right now, it was to stay alive. He knew if he could just diverge his attention for a fraction of a second, he could get that gun. Nonetheless, there was still a great risk. His fighting training had gave him incredible reflexes, but to his displeasure, he was trembling from fear. He remembered his mother, his brothers, Lord Wilkins, Aline, and last of all, his father. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and thought, if he get through this alive, he'll even be glad to see him.
"Slithering little fella, ain'tcha?" to Holmes' a moment's relieve, he put the gun barrel upon his right shoulder. Behind him, a dark figure soundlessly landed from above. Aline gave Holmes a sideways grin as her feet padded across the floor without any noise. She stood right behind the man, raised her elbow high with determination. He reached behind him and grabbed a handful of dirty, blew it right into the man's face. Screaming with pain, he cried for his eyes. Aline hit squarely on the back of his neck, knocked him unconscious with a yelp. She picked up the gun, and tucked it into her belt. "How are you, Holmes?" she said and held out her hand.
"Who, who," he was ashamed of his stuttering, "who is he?" he pointed at the man lying on the cold floor. Suddenly, he felt very cold sitting in the moonlight, he was practically, bathed, in cold sweat. Putting his hand on his heart, his breath relaxed a little, then he placed it in his companion's smaller hand, and got pulled to his feet.
"A confederate of the Scarlet Ibis, must be him who informed the police. I should have known that he would position one of his men there. Ugh, stupidity," she hit her forehead. "I'm sorry, Holmes. This is all my fault," she put her arm through his to support him, "C'mon, let's get you home." He felt dizzy and sickly, and didn't remember much more than the bumpy hansom ride and climbing the tree to the window of his room. Before he got onto the cab, she handed him the gun she confiscated. "Here, take this. There are four bullets in here. Don't keep it out of reach and don't let your folks see it. Regnat trinité, my brother." He didn't even remember replying the Trinity motto to her. He did, however, vaguely remembered seeing two other figures in black came to pick up the unconscious man. But he couldn't tell if it was a dream or not.
Enjoy, Review please, it'll help me a lot. Thanx!
She sat down by the side of the street, right next to a pile of mud that smelt distinctively organic. Her arms were crossed in front of her flat, underdeveloped chest, and her eyes searched shrewdly at every passing face. It was a hobby of hers. Sitting by the road, pretending to be a piece of the wall, watching all kinds of different pedestrians. A little girl dropped her tiny doll's shoe, which rolled right in front of Alinere. It made her smile. She picked it up and handed it back to the little princess in satin, who, in turn, smiled shyly back at the dirty yet handsome stranger. Her mother, however, pulled her away with a nasty scold. She continued to look at them as they walked away, at the smaller figure practically merged with the taller figure in skirts.
"Mothers are all fools, and all fools are alike." She was taught in the earliest years of her so-called training. How old was she? Couldn't be more than three or four, she supposed. What is it like to have a mother? To have a warm presence near oneself and a authority figure to turn to when in distress. It was the first time in many years she had wondered about that, then she slapped herself mentally. She had Lord Wilkins, and that was enough. She had learned very early, perhaps too early, in life that she was different from other people. She had a destiny that was far greater than any man of her time. She was the heir to an old and powerful society. Nevertheless, a dying society that was now composed of nothing but fools and imbeciles. She had vowed to rebuild the Trinity Order, but that was not enough. She needed resources to help her get there. Her resources? Herself, that young man Holmes, and her uncle if she was willing to trust him. However, there was more to that, far more. But the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, these forces had to be united.
Alinere blew some hot, steamy air on her cold pale fingers and yawned. It was getting late. Oh, yes, what about Holmes? He was an enigma if there ever was one. There were days that she was sure that he wore his heart on his sleeves, yet there were most times she could not get anything out of him even if she cut him open like a trout. Nonetheless, there was this. . . certain. . . quality of natural aloofness that made her jealous. These cold British ways, she thought, that boy has outdone his fathers and grandfathers combined together. No matter how she spurned the common mass, no matter how she repeated to herself of her noble ancestry, she always felt no better than those dirty-eating worms. Holmes, on the other hand, had done it perfectly well without any nurturing of it. A tiny smile appeared at the corners of her lips. Good thing no one saw it, for her handsome face then looked wild to the degree of insanity. She also knew that he was not as infallible as he appeared, and it was his utmost weakness.
She hated being so calculating all the time, it was a natural reflex for her. For once, maybe she could just live for the moment, without a thought to the consequences. It was impossible. The responsibility was too great a risk. From the distance, she could hear a clock hitting at twelve. It was time to go.
She passed through revenues and stinking streets, crossed the open sewerage and ran her hand pass the cold stone walls. London, London, it was still a strange city to her. It's got so many people but it's got no soul. She sighed a little, just a little. Then without warning, a figure flew by, brushed her slightly, then vanished into the shadows again. She looked down in her hand, there was a tiny piece of paper that wasn't there before. It ran, in a hurried scrawl:
H- captured: warehouse on south-side Florence Street. Hurry.
"Blasted," she muttered under her breath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sir, I have absolutely no clue of what you are speaking of." Holmes stated defiantly then swallowed hard, "if this is some sort of robbery, I can state that I don't have more than a shilling on me and would be more than glad if you can just let me go." Holmes scanned their surrounding: a giant empty warehouse. Damn, nothing to use as a weapon, unless you can use years supply of dust to kill. He then turned his attention to his captor, to his gun. Holmes never knew how danger can immensely increase his concentration. His age: fourty-five to fifty. Height: no more than six-foot- two. Occupation: rough work with his hands, possibly blacksmith or factory worker or both. Suffered mild arthritis. Haven's slept for at least two days. Just ate a mince pie for dinner. Not very casual with guns. . .
As Holmes ran this things over in his head, his captor grinned shakily, still aiming the revolver with a even less steady hand, "all of you are nothin' but bunch of cheats and liars." "That gal has done a good job of training you." That gal? Oh, no. He knows of Alinere. "I know what kinda stuff y'all made of and I know I won't be able to get anythin' outta you." He made the gun click. "But I do know, however, that one Trinitian down is one soul gone to hell." Then he grinned, a mouth full of crooked teeth on a face full of crooked pleasure.
"Gone to hell? Wait, wait, what are you talking about?" he didn't know what to think. This apparent crazy individual acted as if he find the Trinity Order atrocious. But that was not Holmes' chief objective right now, it was to stay alive. He knew if he could just diverge his attention for a fraction of a second, he could get that gun. Nonetheless, there was still a great risk. His fighting training had gave him incredible reflexes, but to his displeasure, he was trembling from fear. He remembered his mother, his brothers, Lord Wilkins, Aline, and last of all, his father. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and thought, if he get through this alive, he'll even be glad to see him.
"Slithering little fella, ain'tcha?" to Holmes' a moment's relieve, he put the gun barrel upon his right shoulder. Behind him, a dark figure soundlessly landed from above. Aline gave Holmes a sideways grin as her feet padded across the floor without any noise. She stood right behind the man, raised her elbow high with determination. He reached behind him and grabbed a handful of dirty, blew it right into the man's face. Screaming with pain, he cried for his eyes. Aline hit squarely on the back of his neck, knocked him unconscious with a yelp. She picked up the gun, and tucked it into her belt. "How are you, Holmes?" she said and held out her hand.
"Who, who," he was ashamed of his stuttering, "who is he?" he pointed at the man lying on the cold floor. Suddenly, he felt very cold sitting in the moonlight, he was practically, bathed, in cold sweat. Putting his hand on his heart, his breath relaxed a little, then he placed it in his companion's smaller hand, and got pulled to his feet.
"A confederate of the Scarlet Ibis, must be him who informed the police. I should have known that he would position one of his men there. Ugh, stupidity," she hit her forehead. "I'm sorry, Holmes. This is all my fault," she put her arm through his to support him, "C'mon, let's get you home." He felt dizzy and sickly, and didn't remember much more than the bumpy hansom ride and climbing the tree to the window of his room. Before he got onto the cab, she handed him the gun she confiscated. "Here, take this. There are four bullets in here. Don't keep it out of reach and don't let your folks see it. Regnat trinité, my brother." He didn't even remember replying the Trinity motto to her. He did, however, vaguely remembered seeing two other figures in black came to pick up the unconscious man. But he couldn't tell if it was a dream or not.