Man Made Infamy

The Adamson family was neither well respected nor thought of poorly. They were neither here nor there…no one gave them much consideration at all in any matter.

Until they had a son.

Fandral was a handsome boy. Intelligent. Robust and confident. He would make a fine match, for though the family was not absurdly wealthy (like the Odinson's), they were comfortable. And Fandral was an only child.

So, the Adamson's made certain that Fandral was at all of the social events. He was presented at all of the balls, local functions, assemblies…

But Fandral would have none of it. He was content with a book.

He was also content with paying for his pleasure when the need took him, he was not a proud man.

This suited Lady Adamson ill, and she berated him for it.

He did not care to listen to his mother, and spent his time at university wasting it on prostitutes and on books which weren't assigned.

Lady Adamson could neither disown nor throw her beloved son out of the house. So she kept him, on the condition that he found work and did not bring his prostitutes home.

Fandral agreed, and it became increasingly easy to abide, for his father passed and his mother remarried.

He did not care for Lord Durlish…he would not forsake his father's name.

Not that he was particularly attached to it, it was the principle.

When he met Mary Jane Kelly, he was in a place in his life which spoke of lost time. He was a jaded man. A regretful man.

And she made him laugh.

In the midst of his self pity, a Welsh prostitute made him forget himself, and laugh at his situation. That was not nothing.

Not nothing…

But Mary was light. She flitted from person to person, never attaching never owning never wanting…

Fandral wanted her. He was attached. He fell in love with her, and he laughed at the entire thing. He was in love with a prostitute! How trite. How adorable.

How pathetic.

He hated that he couldn't confess to her without her disdain and ridicule. She would never allow herself to be owned in such a way…to belong to someone was to be a prisoner. To love was to belong. Thus, love was a prison. A cage.

She never realized that she was in her own cage, built of her own doing and folly. Trapped, because she was poor.

Mary was blessed by virtue of her pretty face, but she never bothered to look beyond that. Never bothered to foster her other gifts because she couldn't sell them.

And so, Fandral loved her from afar…suffered her many lovers. Suffered some of said lovers taking advantage of her. Suffered, indeed, her contempt when he issued concern.

And tended her wounds when she was beaten, or raped…

She loved him, he was certain.

She just never said it.

George Lusk heard heard the frantic knocking on the door to his office. He was exhausted by frantic anything, and this was no different. He stood reluctantly, and went to the door deliberately, a bit of a hunch to his stature.

Admittedly, he was surprised to see Loki Odinson there, a scowl on his face.

"Loki! This is…"

"Stay away from me. Stay away from Jane. We are doing important work, and while I'm certain that your…heart…is in the right place, you'll muck everything up with any interference."

"Pardon?" Lusk wasn't accustomed to be spoken to in such a manner, most respected him; at least incidentally.

"I believe you heard me quite well. I know that Jane made mention of 'sharing information.' There will be no need to share anything. You have your club. Your patrol. Be satisfied with the knowledge that you are fulfilling the known names' in the neighborhood desire to be of some use," and Loki turned to leave.

"Now see here, Odinson," Lusk began.

Loki turned and pushed him against his door…one hand on his shoulder, the other pinning his hand behind him. "Do not address me thus, you vacuous cur. I know what you are about, and I do not wish to be a party to it. What reason have you to be concerned about some miserable prostitutes' death save your own pocket and the fact that you visit the brothels yourself? As I said, Jane is not your concern. And neither am I," Loki dropped Lusk's wrist and stepped away, holding his gaze.

"Why are you concerned, Loki, hm? What is in it for you?" he glared at him.

Loki smirked at him slyly. "If you think I'll indulge you with an answer, then you are more daft than I thought," he turned away from an infuriated George Lusk and left the place.

He heard him slam the door shut, and continued on his way, with a feeling of accomplishment. Loki didn't hate Lusk as much as he was exhausted by him. He was much of what he avoided in people…every one of Thor's failings wrapped in a loud, obnoxious package save the good looks and charm.

…and when Jane said that he would stare at her…

Loki knew that Lusk paid for his sexual exploits. He had heard he was a bit…unorthodox in his kinks. He would not subject himself to thoughts of Jane being maltreated by a perverse sexual deviant.

At least, not unless he was the perverse sexual deviant. But he wouldn't maltreat her. He would…

He smiled as he strode toward the Market.

He wasn't even certain if he had those tendencies. He rather suppressed that particular inclination. He had been honest with Jane when he said that he had paid for sex twice in his life.

But that didn't mean that he had had sex two times.

It did mean, however, that he hadn't had intercourse in a long, long while.

He was nervous at the thought. He really didn't fancy scouring Whitechapel Road in a few years looking for his release in the form of one of the prostitutes.

He may not have a choice, though.

Loki went into Asgard and found Fandral at his station. "Afternoon, Fandral. Lovely day," and he went to the back.

"Mm," replied the clerk, and he turned a page.

"Fandral," said Loki, returning. "How often do you go…erm…out?"

"Out?" he turned another page.

"Yes. Out. For…ah…" he took a sip of tea. "For…"

Now Fandral looked at him. "Are you talking about sex?"

"How shocking you are, Fandral. It's incredible anyone suffers your company," he exclaimed. But then, "Yes. Sex."

The clerk smiled at him. "It depends, Loki. Not as often as I used to, that's for certain."

"Right."

"Are you thinking that you might need…?"

"No," he interrupted. "No…just thinking…"

"Planning?" he smirked.

"You know, Fandral, I can think of about a hundred things I'd rather be doing than have this particular conversation with you.'

"You mentioned it," he shrugged and went back to his book. "No luck with Jane, then?"

Loki cleared his throat. "No," was his abbreviate reply. "But then…I haven't really done all that much."

"What have you done?"

"Ah…she said that she didn't regret kissing me. I agreed. That was all, really."

"Humph. You ought to have kissed her then and there."

"According to you, Fandral, I ought to have proposed marriage to her by now," Loki walked away and went to the back once more…

"Well, I don't know about all that, but you would have had at least a few kisses to speak of. Perhaps a bit more," he muttered under his breath.

"These are the names I've recovered from the local universities, Miss Foster," Selvig handed her a list. "There are quite a few names. Not sure how we will be able to investigate all of these," he looked around the apothecary. Jane was keeping it a bit darker…things seemed closed up and close…almost as if she was hiding…

Jane looked at the paper. There were over a dozen names. "Well, I suppose we can divide them into groups… you take a few, I take a few, Loki…" she smiled.

"I s'pose," he smiled.

"Erik, what do you think of the Vigilance Committee?" she fished delicately.

"Hm. I think it's a lot of people thinking that they are doing right by the neighborhood, but are really just interfering."

"Isn't that what Loki and I are doing?"

"Well, yes. But on a smaller scale. And you really only speak with me. That's all right," he smiled at her.

"They all mean well, I think. It's just that Lusk…"

"I know. You needn't explain further."

Jane nodded, and dropped her eyes.

Selvig looked at her with a ghost of a question upon his face. "Will…Loki be here? I rather thought that we'd be meeting together."

"I think so. He had an errand to run…"

"He is a good sort, Miss Foster."

Jane looked at him. "I know," she smiled. "He is a very good friend."

Erik stood, but stared at the floor. "That he is. And you. The two of you make a good team."

She stood with him. "Are you leaving? What about the list?"

"You and Loki figure how to divide it up. Assign me what you like. I need to be gettin' home, Miss Foster. The missus tires of the late hours," and he left.

Jane swallowed and looked around the shop. She had grown increasingly wary of coming to work, and had subconsciously made the place less welcoming. She was fearful, to be frank, and she thought that less people would come if it was darker…more closed…

She was sinking into a depression. She could feel it, though she couldn't name it, because Victorians in the East End couldn't afford to name their melancholy. They went on. And she was much more fortunate than most…she reminded herself of this regularly.

But that didn't mean that she wasn't wary of unfamiliar faces. Of coming to work at all. Of men. Of everything…She was falling into a despair, and she felt powerless.

Jane loathed feeling powerless. She was a strong woman, this was not how she behaved ordinarily.

But neither was there ordinarily a killer on the loose, disemboweling his victims…

And they were no closer, she was sure of it! He lurked in the shadows, biding his time. And though she and Loki believed that they had discovered a possible motive, there was nothing, really, to suggest it was. So, they had nothing. Nothing, and women were dying.

Nothing, and Jane, herself, was in danger…

Nothing, and she might very well die, her killer nameless, save a ludicrous title he may or may or not have penned himself.

Jack the Ripper.

Jane began to close up the shop, her head low, her stomach empty and churning with worry.

"Jane?"

Her breath caught. "Loki?" she turned and saw him standing in the doorway, closing it behind him.

"Did Selvig leave already?" he walked in and sat on the fainting couch, keenly aware of the significance he attached to it.

"A few minutes ago now," she sat across from him. "He was wanting to get home to his wife."

"Understandable."

She smiled, then took out the paper from the leather pouch around her waist. "Here are the names he unearthed."

Loki took it eagerly and examined it. "There are over a dozen names here."

"I was expecting half as many."

"Indeed," he rubbed his chin, looking at it. Gardener Hubbard. Thomas Fiske. Charles Plumb. Anthony Stark. K Mather. Thomas Edison. "Thomas Edison?" he laughed. "That would be something, would it not?"

She offered him a weak smile.

"What is it?" he put the paper down and looked at her.

"Nothing," she said. But then she paused. He was her friend, as she reminded herself daily. She had no one to confide in, save her father. "Actually, there are some things that are bothering me."

"Such as?"

"Well, for starters," Jane dropped her eyes and played with the hem of her apron. "…there is this odd problem of several women being brutally murdered the past six weeks. And then, I'm trying to help, but I'm not doing much good. And also, I am wholly responsible for my aged father. In addition to that, I'm putting my closest friend in danger…what's more, I'm absolutely terrified that I'm going to end up with a cut throat…dead in an alley…" she stopped, and looked at him. "Loki?"

He was looking at her, and appeared to have tears welling in his eyes. "Jane," he croaked. "I won't let that…you must know," he swallowed and looked down. "…I would protect you, Jane. If you like, I'll meet you every morning, walk with you at all hours…"

She got up and went to him, took his hand. "Thank you. I'm just being silly. I'm just…succumbing to fear. I don't usually do that."

"No you don't."

She smiled, looked at his hand in hers, then let go, and folded her hands in her lap. "Well…that's what is bothering me."

"Yes," his voice was deep.

She looked at him. "What?" she smiled.

He almost did it…he almost grabbed her, pulled her close…but he thought it might be misconstrued…that he was taking advantage of her present fragility. "Nothing," he cleared his throat. "So…how should we deal with these names?" and he picked the paper up once more.

Jane cleared her throat as well. She leaned close to see the paper.

…and her heat could be felt even despite the barrier of clothing…he closed his eyes, reveling in her closeness…

"Perhaps I should take the first…four? You the next…Erik the last five…"

"Very good," he said, looking at her hair…

"It shouldn't be terribly difficult…a couple a weeks…we could have the killer by month's end," she finished with a lilt. The thought was suddenly real…perhaps they could have something to go on in a couple of week's time.

She was smiling, light, once more. She looked at Loki, a slight glow returning to her face.

He smiled at it. He loved that it didn't take much to lift the weight from her. "Have you eaten, Jane?"

"No, actually…I haven't in some time, Loki."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…not since last evening," she shrugged.

"Jane Foster. Get your hat. I am getting you something to eat at Martha's," he stood and adjusted his coat and cap.

"And what a firm voice you use! Is this how you treat all of your friends?" she smiled, retrieving her hat.

"Only friends who neglect their health," he opened the door for her.

"What would I do without you?" she smiled, locking the door.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said softly.

And they walked out into the night, not so dark…

October is a bustle of leaves and dirt on London's streets in 1888. It is a worrisome, foreboding time for those who walk.

The Whitechapel Vigilance Committee had inadvertently gained a reputation. George Lusk had certainly aided in this, but it was acknowledged universally that he meant well.

No matter what Loki said, people still liked the fellow.

It was the middle of the month now, and the patrols had begun once more after nearly two weeks since the double murder. It took a lot of convincing of wives that it would be safe for their husbands to patrol once more.

And they did.

It was October 16th, and Lusk had just arrived at his office in Spitalfield's corner…just round the bend from the Market proper.

He waked in, a bit later than usual, and went to the back of the office.

"Mornin', Mr. Lusk!" came the postman's voice.

"Ah, Hello Mr. Prior. How are you this morning?" he went to him.

"Well enough. 'ere's your letters…and…" he paused. "A package."

"Package?" he took it. It was slightly heavy.

And the postman left, Lusk taking his letters and such to his desk.

He sat, and looked at the package. It was smallish…only about three inches square, and cardboard. He took the card off that was attached to it, and read the following:

From hell.

Mr Lusk,

Sor

I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed

Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

He stood in terror, eyeing the box.

He was paralyzed. Surely not…

And he opened it.

…inside was a pool of red, a stench of fermenting wine…vinegar, blood, and a thing…tiny in the pool…in the center.

He didn't remember screaming.

A/N: so, I did another. I wanted to get to the "From Hell" letter. This, too, is verbatim.