Fogg Asylum was a cacophony of madness. The ragged inmates of the asylum were slammed together in a series of cramped cells, the low ceiling pressing down.
Greg, dressed as a fashionable wigmaker, walked past the cells with the odious Mr Fogg. Fogg carried a large pair of scissors in one hand – for cutting clumps of hair away from the inmates' heads while they thrashed and screamed.
"Oh yes, sir, I agree it would be to our mutual interest to come to some arrangement in regard to my poor children's hair," Fogg smiled. He moved to one of the cells and unlocked it. "I keep the gingers over here. It was orange hair you was looking for, sir?"
"Yes."
Fogg entered the crowded cell — the inmates, all ginger men, scurried back, clearly terrified of Fogg. Greg saw Mycroft, wearing a filthy straitjacket, hunched like a feral animal, cowering in a corner of the cell. His hair had gained some length from the last time the sailor set eyes on him – growing into tangled, greasy curls.
Greg pointed to Mycroft, "That one has hair the shade I need."
Fogg went to fetch Mycroft and hauled him to Greg. "Come, child. Smile for the gentleman and you shall have a sweetie."
Mycroft's eyes shot wide when he saw Greg, but he said nothing.
Fogg prepared his scissors, ready to more-or-less scalp the young man; but before he could react — Greg pulled a revolver from his clothing, grabbed Mycroft and pushed Fogg back into the cell.
He swung the cell door shut, locking Fogg in. "Not a word, Mr. Fogg, or it will be your last… Now, I leave you to the mercy of your 'children'," Greg spat the word. He grabbed Mycroft and pulled him away.
Mr. Fogg turned; he was locked in with the ginger inmates. They slowly began to advance on him. Menacing. Like they were going to rip him limb from limb…