Some people were asking about which names went with which 'Bots, so really quick, Brendan Foiche is Bumblebee. Hagen Shackleton is Hot Shot. I think those were the only ones that needed clarification, right? Let me know if y'all have any more questions! I really really appreciate the reviews!
Chapter One:
The Story of the Typist
Miss d'Iacon the typist was a woman of a delicate countenance never far from a smile or a frown as the situation merited; cool, gentle, and sharp in discourse and tenderly human in sentiment. Known to the populace as a figure of mystery and imaginings, but known to those that merited her favor as a woman both beautiful and capable, never without a quick word and a keen eye. The reasoning behind the murmuring that followed wherever she went chiefly lay in the fact that, though never married and quite aloof, she ever wore a black ribbon over her heart and could, at times, be heard describing herself as a widow.
Of course, the more romantically inclined dreamed that she had been engaged and that something dreadful had befallen on the way to the chapel, while the more down-to-earth posited that she had, perhaps, been in love and that it had not turned out to her liking.
Whatever the reason, Miss d'Iacon never gave them more to speak of than necessary, for though she had a remarkable tolerance for the deeds of others, the one thing that she could not abide was gossip.
"It is," she was fond of saying, "The most thoroughly useless of all past times, and liable to cause great injury if left unchecked."
What was noticed most often about the woman is that when she rode her bicycle to and from her places of employment as a typist, she was sometimes followed by a well-dressed younger man whom she referred to as a cousin.
It chanced upon one dark morning, when Miss d'Iacon went about her way to her place of work, that she fell into rather distasteful company and was obliged to do something about it.
By happenstance, it was an hour in which the folk were still asleep in their beds, and not a soul stirred on the wet and glimmering streets. Being of a sound mind and good common sense, Miss d'Iacon did not stray from the lighted procession of the lamps as they struggled to send forth their glow through the fog. On this morning, of all mornings, she had no desire to be followed, for her employer had entrusted her with the delivery of a personal nature, and it was well-known that the man had enemies; unscrupulous and petty men often found their way to the house that had rivaled her employer's for time out of mind, and any chance to do mischief to a representative of that house was quickly leapt upon.
In the stifled silence of the London fog, Miss d'Iacon and her companion passed a row of shops, still and ghastly in the flickering light, and came to a place where the sphere of comfort vanished abruptly. Like a cavernous mouth in a craggy face, the entry to a recessed courtyard broke the line of shops and doors, stealing away the glow of the lamps. In the light of day, it would be considered a dirty, ill-kept place, and people might hurry past. In the darkness, it presented a sinister aspect; a monstrous creature crouched between buildings with maw open wide to greedily receive those driven by desperation or necessity to enter.
It is not to be wondered at that the pair of cyclists did not wish to linger near the entryway. As they came upon it, Miss d'Iacon paused and turned her head towards the dark place.
"Did you mark that?" she asked; when her companion answered that he had not heard anything, she added, "I thought I heard a door opening."
"Let's not stay here," the young man begged of her, "We ought to deliver the parcel with all good speed, and I must confess that this place chills the blood in between dusk and dawn."
"I can hardly disagree, my dear Mr. Foiche," Miss d'Iacon murmured, "For I seem to recall that this is very near the place where we first intercepted the package! Do you remember?"
"I do," said Mr. Foiche in a changed voice, "I very nearly had my throat torn out, dear cousin. How can you believe I would forget such a night?" And he resolved to sulk.
Each of them slowly moved their bicycles onward, having heard no further sound of doors in the darkened courtyard. If they could but reach the end of the street with no particular incident, they knew they could continue their mission at ease, for there was a policeman who took it upon himself to patrol the next block over with admirable diligence.
All at once a sound of running came up out of the fog behind them, and before they'd gotten beyond another two shop-windows, Brendan Foiche was forcibly pulled from his bicycle and down onto the wet cobblestones. Miss d'Iacon circled up and turned back without a second thought, greeted by a rather hellish view.
The attackers were some five or six men, broad-shouldered and swarthy with a pugilistic air as tenable as their foul breath. They wore the black and purple livery of a certain house of a certain nobleman who was known to be no friend of their employer's. Brendan, of course, was putting up a wonderful show of his boxing-lessons, and left more than one of the brigands with a free sample of what might occur when one angers a Foiche. The leader of the rout, with a kind of devilish coolness of temper, took hold of a great fistful of Mr. Foiche's light hair, as it had come loose of the band he was used to tying it back with. In a sharp motion, the fellow gave a sharp tug and pulled back his prisoner's head, exposing his throat.
"Now you," said the man in as crude and ungentlemanly an air as you can imagine, "You are to hand over the parcel and the letters within it at once, else watch as we spill our young gentleman's blood across the streets!"
Now Miss d'Iacon was nothing so fragile as the servants of the house of Kaon imagined. Though she kept well out of the way of skirmishes so as to complete her tasks with the greater efficiency, that did not make her any kind of coward or frail creature to be pitied; all the time that Brendan fought against the band of rogues, his companion held her hands behind her back so that they could not see what she was doing.
All seemed to freeze as Lord Prime's secretary brought from behind her back not the parcel, containing letters revealing the criminal activities of Lord Kaon's business associates, but a Philadelphia Derringer, primed and loaded. The woman wasted no time with meaningless threats or pleas for peace. It was the work of a moment to pull the trigger, and send a bullet through the cheek and jowl of the man holding Brendan captive.
Mr. Foiche took advantage of the opportunity provided by the bullet, as his captor fell back with a thunderous roar of pain, and pitched himself back into battle with red hot fervor as Miss d'Iacon once more took to her bicycle and made for the end of the street. A piercing sound, like the call of a kestrel, split the rising gray of the morning, and was answered in kind from a street away, to the irritation of the waking neighbors.
The attackers withdrew back into the courtyard, for well they knew that the call heralded the arrival of the Bull's Horn Band, still out for blood over the death of Brendan's cousin Heathcliff. The smack of hobnailed boots upon the stones further warned that they were hard on the heels of Brendan's attackers, and they would not leave without satisfaction.
The local policeman had quite a brawl to break up when his rounds finally brought him to the darkened street, and was obliged to call for a doctor to tend to the two that the Band managed to catch. The other four made good their escape and disappeared between the alleys and the by-streets.
Miss d'Iacon stepped into the shop of a local tailor, quite unaware of the falcon watching her from the rooftops, and found a thin, mousy sort of man being fitted for a new coat.
"My dear Miss d'Iacon, you look quite unwell!" said he; he stepped down off of the stool and prevailed upon the woman to sit and regain her breath. "I do hope I am not the cause?"
"In a manner of speaking, I fear," Miss d'Iacon replied, "Or at least, it was for your sake that we encountered some undesirable company." With a flourish, she produced the parcel from beneath her arm. "Here," she said, "You will find the names of two bankers who have been quietly removing funds from the treasuries and supplying them to members of our unpleasant neighbors."
She did not, of course, outright say that they were paying the House Kaon, for one never knew when there might be spies about, and it would not do to air their personal grievances before the common folk!
Inspector Bell slit the envelope with a pair of shears taken from the seamstress's table, and he briefly perused the contents of the letter. "My dear lady," he said when he had finished, "I cannot thank your employer enough for his cooperation in this matter, nor you for your great courage in coming here to find me. You did not come all alone?"
"No, Inspector, a dear friend acted as my escort until we came across some who did not wish the letters to be delivered. He remained behind so that I might more easily deliver this parcel." the secretary assured him.
"Well in that case, I congratulate you both!" Inspector Bell hastily pocketed the letters and paid the seamstress. "Miss d'Iacon, would you permit me to drive you to the station? I've a carriage waiting outside, and I do not feel that Lord Prime would approve of his secretary cycling alone back to the library after having been in such a dangerous position!" He swept a low bow and tipped his hat. "You needn't worry about any matters of propriety or safety! I should like to take you to luncheon with my wife, if it is agreeable to you?" The typist answered that this was, naturally, a perfectly agreeable arrangement and they left together, meeting Mrs. Bell at the police station.
Neither one saw the black falcon rise from his perch and return to the arm of a robed man in blue, strangely wrapped so that nothing was visible of him save for his eyes, which shone an unhealthy yellow tinge. Beside the man stood a woman of a sharp and inhospitable look.
With a dour glance, she folded her wrinkled hands over her grey silk gown and squinted down at the streets below. "Something's got to be done about that librarian woman," she remarked. "Shall I leave it to you, Bajānā, or shall I have to do everything myself, as usual?"
In a curious, husky whisper, Bajānā merely echoed back, "As usual."
"Very well," Ms. Clamat sniffed, rather offended by the answer. "Go and see to the injured men then, if you'll not help me! I must return to the manor. My lord will be hearing about this disaster, and I daresay he'll be none too pleased."
"None too pleased," Bajānā agreed. Then, with a flick of his cape and a twitch of her skirt, they were gone, and the sun rose to noon over an empty balcony.