Author's Notes: A big thank you to my reviewers for all of your kind words. Here's the next chapter and now that my muse has been sedated, these hopefully will start coming a bit faster. As always, enjoy and review.
Philip and Charles trudge back to their aunt and uncle's flat after yet another torturous day at their new school. Making friends has been impossible. Whether it's from the fact that the kids in this school have almost all known each other since they first started or because of the media hype that's followed the twins or the boys holding out with hope that their mother will be found and they can go back to their old school, it doesn't really matter. Other than each other, there is no one at their school that would qualify as a friend even though they've been going there for nearly a month and the loneliness is getting to them.
Despite the fact that they have each other, sometimes it's nice to have someone new to talk to, but that's not an option right now. All the other kids have been picked up by their mum's in their bright shiny cars while the twin's aunt and uncle have to work to try and make ends meet. A little over a month ago, the twins were just like those kids, but now they're the outsiders looking in.
When they get back to the apartment building, a place they still don't consider home, Philip charges into the small flat, throws his book bag towards the guest bedroom with a bit more force then necessary and then plops down on the couch. He turns on the telly in hopes of some mindless entertainment that he can lose himself in before Aunt Ruth comes home and makes them do their homework.
Charles, the calmer of the two, follows his brother into the building at a more sedate pace, picks up Philip's bag and takes into the bedroom with him. He carefully puts the bags down before pulling his Good Boy out of a bureau drawer and turning it on. He lies down on the bed he shares with his brother and starts to go through his emails from his friends.
The last email in the queue is from someone he doesn't recognize and he tentatively opens it, expecting it to be spam and suddenly he's glad that he's lying down. He rereads the message several times before launching himself off of the bed and grabbing his brother's Good Boy out of the bureau. He races into the family room, turns off the telly and tosses Philip the small device.
"Oy, I was watchin' that!" Philip yells as he clumsily catches the thing thrown at him.
"Check your email," Charles instructs.
"Why?" Philip snarls, not happy about having his show interrupted.
"Just bloody well do it," Charles insists.
Philip mutters a few choice words under his breath as he turns the device on and brings up the email program. He scrolls through until he sees a message by someone he doesn't know.
"It's just spam," Philip grumbles getting ready to delete it.
"Read it," Charles orders.
"Why?" Philip demands.
"Just do it!" Charles nearly yells.
"Fine," Philip mutters angrily and opens the message.
My dearest boys,
I don't know where to begin so let me just start with saying how much I love the two of you and it just kills me that I can't be with you right now. I know you both must have a million questions you want to ask me, but I really don't have any answers. Just know that I'm safe and that I love you both with all of my heart. I'm not sure how long I'll be able to email you or how often, but when I can, I will. So if I stop sending you messages, please don't give up hope, I'm still out there somewhere and I will always love you.
Love,
Mum
Charles watches him carefully as his brother reads the message and Philip's eyes get really large.
"Bloody hell," Philip gasps.
"Ya think it's really her?" Charles asks nervously.
"I sure as hell hope so," Philip mutters, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Charles sits next to his brother and they stare at their Good Boys, not sure what exactly to make of all of it. They're still there when their aunt comes through the front door some time later. She's tired and cranky and she's sure not in the mood to deal with a couple of emotional kids.
"Put the games away boys," she instructs, barely looking over at them. "It's time to do your homework."
"Aunt Ruth!" they both yell, startling the woman.
"Look what came in the email!"
"It's Mum! She's alive!"
"Ya gotta call that detective and let him know!"
"Call the Finger, that detective couldn't find his arse with both hands."
"Boys! BOYS!" she yells to get them to both stop talking at the same time. "One at a time, please. What's this about your mum?
"She sent us an email," Charles proudly states, shoving his Good Boy into her hands.
"Oh my word," she whispers after reading the message. "Go get your books and do your homework, boys. I need to ring up Detective Finch."
Over an hour later, the boys are still sitting at the kitchen table trying to get their homework done, but unable to concentrate. They're a bit sore about having their Good Boys confiscated, but since they couldn't seem to stop staring at the email, Ruth was left with no choice. As they're grumpily getting through their math homework, there's a knock at the door and Ruth quickly goes to answer it.
The boys can hear her talking to a man and a moment later Ruth returns with Finch and Dominic in tow. She shows them the Good Boys and Finch mutters something under his breath as Dominic lets out a sigh of relief. The boys watch the men suspiciously as the younger one starts doing something with the Good Boy he's holding.
"Alright, Chief, I've forwarded the message to our email accounts," Dominic states as he hands the device back to Ruth.
"Are you boys sure this is your mum that sent this to you?" Finch asks the boys.
"Who else would send it?" Charles asks. "The only people who've ever had our email addresses are our parents, Aunt Ruth, Uncle Tom and some friends."
"It could be someone's idea of a joke," Finch tells him. "A sick one, mind you, but a joke none the less. I want you boys to reply to whoever sent this and send us a copy, I'm sure there's a way to do that without letting whoever sent these know."
Finch looks at Dominic and Dom nods.
"What do you want us to say to her?" Philip asks suspiciously.
"Ask her what happened, see if you can find out where she is," Finch answers, turning to look at the other boy and handing the device over to him. "Any clues as to why your father was murdered and why she was kidnapped would be very helpful."
"So you want us to forward anything she sends us on to you?" Charles clarifies. "Should we let her know that we're doin' that?"
"Yes, please send us any messages she sends you, but don't let her know just yet," Finch replies. "We want to make sure it's really her first."
"You'll find the addresses in that Good Boy," Dominic states, pointing at the small device that Ruth is holding.
"Any help you boys can give us would be greatly appreciated," Finch says, looking both boys in the eyes. "Getting your mum back is our highest priority right now, so please remember to forward those emails."
"Ok, Inspector, we'll do that," Charles assures the man.
"Thank you," Finch responds before turning back to Ruth. "Thank you for calling us. We'll keep in touch."
"Thank you, Inspector," she replies as she shows them out.
When she comes back she finds the boys trying to compose a message to send to their mother. Deciding that it'll be easier to let them do that than trying to force them to do their homework right now, she puts the other Good Boy on the table and goes to make dinner. For better or worse, the woman pretending to be her sister may still be alive.
"What do you think this means, Chief?" Dominic asks after they have been driving for several minutes.
"It means either some sick bastard is playing one very cruel joke on those boys," Finch begins with a sigh. "Or the man who killed Jones isn't a very good kidnapper and she's gotten hold of a computer."
"What do we do with her if we do find her alive?" Dominic questions.
"That's the real question, isn't it?" Finch replies with a sigh. "Do we go on pretending she's the boy's mum or do we ship her back to wherever she came from?"
"Why not let her continue being their mum?" Dominic inquires.
"Because we can't be sure she's English," Finch answers.
Dominic isn't sure how to respond to that so they drive on in silence once more.
V returns to the Shadow Gallery after four days covered in dust and grime and feeling rather proud of himself. The last of the track has been laid and he's moved the train onto them, not an easy feat with an unstable power supply to make the train move. He knows he's going to have to work on getting a more reliable source of electricity down there and he starts making a mental list of items that he'll have to 'acquire' to run power from the Gallery down to the station he has the train hidden in.
He closes and locks the door behind him, resetting the alarms and traps outside the door after he's done securing the portal. He picks up the empty knapsack and the bag with his equipment and heads for the main area of his home. He steps through the inner door and is greeted by the smells of a roasting chicken and woman humming.
"Oh, V, you're home," Audrey smiles at him from the entrance of the kitchen. "You're just in time. Dinner is almost ready. Good heavens, what happened to you? You look like you've been rollin' around in the dirt."
"I have been setting the stage," he proudly tells her.
"A stage for what?" she asks, a bit perplexed.
"An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told," he quotes at her.
"Come again?"
"The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king," he purrs as he drops his burden and boldly steps into the middle of the Gallery.
"Are ya feelin' alright?"
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players," he continues while he struts about. "They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."
"Um, V…"
"Out, out, brief candle!" he laughs loudly as he flies around the room, his cape billowing around him. "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
"Did you hit your head or somethin'?" she demands.
"I assure you, Audrey, that I am quite well," he tells her as he finally stills his motions.
"Then what was all that about?" she questions, waving a hand around to indicate his performance.
"A large part of my plans are now in place and I am simply overjoyed with their completion," he states and she looks at him funny.
"Whatever ya say," she replies, worry lines creasing her brow. "Like I said earlier, dinner is almost ready. Ya might want to get cleaned up a bit."
"Ah, yes," he says, briefly glancing down at himself and then going to collect his things. "I do look a bit of a fright. I shall be back shortly"
With a flip of his cape, he disappears down one of the many hallways and she stares after him a bit bemused.
"I'm livin' with a crazy person," she chuckles to herself as the timer goes off and she returns to the kitchen to get dinner on the table, not knowing that V heard her quite clearly.
V returns to the kitchen some time later properly cleaned and attired to find Audrey just starting to clean up.
"Oh, there you are," she says when he walks in. "I hope ya don't mind but I made up a plate for you. It's in the oven keepin' warm."
"No, of course I don't mind," he replies while he retrieves his food. "Thank you for the kind gesture. Might I ask you something?"
"Sure, what is it?" she responds as she starts to fill the sink with hot soapy water.
"When I arrived home, you were humming Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture," he reminds her. "Was there a reason why you were doing this?"
"It used to be Poppa's favorite piece of music," she answers while she starts washing the dishes. "I don't know if you ever had this problem here in England, but in the States young men would customize their cars and put in these sound systems that would shake your fillin's out from two blocks away. They really seemed to like tormentin' people in minivans and such since they weren't considered 'cool' cars. At any rate, Poppa always wanted to put big ol' speakers in our minivan and then blast the 1812 Overture at them, using a recording using real cannon and musket fire, but Momma would never let him. I'm not sure why I was hummin' it earlier, but it always puts a smile on my face when I hear it."
"Fighting fire with fire," he muses as he picks up the cutlery off of the table. "I like it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some work do take care of."
"Of course," she replies. "I'll be in the art storage room when I'm done in here. I'm startin' to really get a hang for all of these paintin's and things."
"Good, I'm glad to hear that," he says with a nod. "I shall be quite busy, so please do not disturb me unless it's truly important."
"Ok," she responds, not bothering to look up as he exits the room.
He retires to the monitor room, locking the door behind him and pops out the disc that was in the recorder. He puts the disc in the player and starts playing back the meetings that Percy held during his absence. The mask and gloves are set to the side as he settles down into his chair, ready for some information gathering or at the very least, a bit of amusement.
He listens as he eats the lovely meal Audrey prepared and he chuckles to himself as the first meeting consists of Percy griping about the food poisoning that he and his compatriots have suffered. The next meeting consists of Percy assigning a new lackey to the job of finding Audrey and while this bloke doesn't look like a fool, V is confident enough in their secrecy that he's not worried. The third meeting holds nothing interesting for V as he puts his now empty plate off to the side and returns his mask and gloves to their proper place. While he's pulling on his final glove, the final meeting starts on the monitor and within moments what transpires there makes V's blood run cold.
"An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told" – King Richard III
"The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king" – Hamlet
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts" – As you like it
"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." – Macbeth