Disclaimer: I do not own Youjo Senki

Further note: This story's discussion thread is on SpaceBattles Forum's Creative Writing section.

A\N: I am borrowing some characters from one of my favorite webcomics, Sunset Grill. There is absolutely no need to read the comic to follow this story, but I recommend you do it anyway because it's a great comic. Also, since I know nothing of London in the 1920s, I will be making up local street names and addresses (like Solly).

Chapter 7

While the rest of the crew was riding high with money in their pockets, Oliver looked quite downcast. As expected, he realized that we were in quite a bit of trouble if we didn't find ourselves a secure base of operations. Well, better to say they were in a lot of trouble. I, of course, had my illusion spells, and could disappear at a moment's notice. Still, I'd invested more than a month into this crew, making myself invaluable to them and building their confidence to the point they were willing to stand up for themselves. It would mean quite a bit of lost time to start all over again. Which is why I'd waited until I had a plan before moving on Biggins.

Solly Street existed near one of Londinium's many docks. It was far back enough to be away from the chaos and stench, but close enough to get steady traffic from a wide variety of people. It was also ten miles from McClane's normal area of operation, meaning distance alone would help protect us. Our journey there was uneventful, or as uneventful as any journey can be when it includes three overexcited teenagers riding on the famous Londinium Underground - a rare treat, it seemed. But we had money to burn, and implementing my plan today required us to be in a certain place by a certain time.

Sal's Pub was one of the newer establishments on the street, and one of the best examples of the low-end Londinium public house, in that the food was identifiable and the drinks unwatered. It was also what passed as an office for the local gang boss, the man taking a long and leisurely dinner every day between 7 and 10.

My crew trooped in out of the cold night, stamping feet and blowing on fingers. I had to keep from openly grimacing at the stench of wood-smoke, alcohol and tobacco, and the thick haze that hung over the room. Not for the first time, I thanked my short stature which kept my face out of the worst of it. I spotted Murdoch immediately, sitting at the bar with a shepherd's pie and a mug. He spotted us as well, I saw the glint of his eyes in the large mirror behind the bar, but he didn't so much as twitch, seemingly focused on his meal.

Even if I wasn't wary about approaching a career criminal, one does not interrupt a man at dinner and then ask for a favor. However, Murdoch was such a fixture in this place pretty much all the staff was on friendly terms with him. As such, it was simply a matter of occupying a table and waiting for one of the staff to come by and then tipping them enough to arrange an introduction.

As luck would have it, the one to attend us was a girl called Lena. A dark-complexed stocky woman of around 20, and getting her was both good and bad. It was good for my plan since she was the senior waitress and thus far more likely to get us an audience. It was bad for me because she was one of those rare sorts that don't let poverty crush their spirit of generosity. While laudable, it also meant she'd immediately identified me as a runaway when I came by alone to scout the place, and had spent my entire visit discreetly trying to determine if I needed help, a policeman, a bed, or even a job. And, apparently she had a good memory, as when she stopped by her first words were, "Tatsumaki, good to see you again! Who are your friends?"

Yes, Lena had immediately spotted 'Tina' as incompatible with my illusionary ethnicity, and had managed to get my full (fake) name out of me. She pronounced it well, too. Of course, now I had my entire crew staring at me in surprise. I rolled my eyes at them. "Tina's just a nickname, dolts." Turning my attention back to the waitress, I replied, "I'm doing great. This here's my crew, we take care of each other. Oliver there's our boss, and that's Tim, Tom, and Jenny."

Lena had very expressive eyebrows, one of which she now raised at me. "Your crew, huh?"

"Yep! Speaking of, Oli wanted to talk to you about something."

She turned towards our fearless leader with a smile and an inquiring look. She had a nice smile. Oliver obviously noticed given how he seemed momentarily tongue-tied. I had to struggle not to groan aloud. What a time for his teenage hormones to kick in! Reaching across, I jabbed a knuckle into his ribs. That startled him out of his daze and got him talking business. I did notice though that he babbled a bit and gave her an entire pound note as a tip. Now I had to roll my eyes, a few shillings would have been more than sufficient. Judging by Lena's amusement she'd noticed as well. Credit to her, she did nothing to encourage the poor sod, instead taking our orders professionally before moving on. As we had our dinner, I noticed Lena stop by and banter with Murdoch. She must have passed on our message, because his eyes once more found our table in the mirror before turning back to his drink.

It was as we were finishing our own meals (positively delicious when compared to Imperial K-brot) that the gang boss wandered over and sat down at our table. He wasn't a big man, actually being the some inches shorter than Oliver, but he held himself with undeniable menace. He looked us over with a cold gaze before stating in accented Albish, "You know who I am." As we variously nodded or muttered assent, he continued staring at us. I knew what he was doing of course, trying to pressure us into giving something away. It didn't bother me in the slightest, as Imperial interrogators, no matter how incompetent, were far more intimidating that any gang boss. Alas, none of my comrades had my training. An oversight I'd have to correct, as Oliver cracked inside a minute and soon was giving Murdoch chapter and verse about our circumstances.

The negotiations ultimately could have gone worse. Since there was a possibility of trouble following on our heels, Murdoch squeezed twenty out of us as 'insurance'. Once that little dominance play was over, he became far more helpful. I suppose you couldn't organize anything, even crime, without rules, and Murdoch had quite a few of them. No crime at all along the road between the Pub and Tilbury Docks. In certain areas, only muggings and pickpocketing was acceptable, no going after businesses or residences. In other areas, we could commit burglary and robbery if we wanted to, but only with his permission. Absolutely no sexual violence or murder in any area he claimed, and if we did it outside, we couldn't rely on his protection. And of course, how much we could expect to pay for his protection.

He was also forthcoming with useful information. Where we could find a cheap bed, which pawnbrokers practiced selective blindness, which of his subordinates specialized in certain types of business in case we wanted expert advice (for a fee). In fact, he was so helpful that it made me suspicious. It took a few minutes, but I eventually figured out his game. He was subtly trying to break us up. All his helpful advice played up the fact that the various members of the crew had different interests and temperaments. Cautious Tim was offered the low risk option of being a runner. Tom and Jenny were pointed to a woman who ran Murdoch's thieves. And Oliver had dangled in front of him the chance to get involved in the gang proper, once he'd proven himself.

I couldn't blame the man. A unified gang, even of teenagers, could create a challenge to his control of the area. Offering us diverging opportunities gave him a chance to separate us and slowly supplant our loyalties. I guess there was a reason he'd held on to his turf for so long. After thinking about it, I decided to help him along. Since he seemed willing to shelter us, there was no need to jeopardize that by triggering his paranoia. In the end, I didn't care if I had my own crew or not as long as I could continue working towards getting my new identity and some decent savings. Plus, being on my own meant less chances for my true identity to be revealed. While maintaining my illusion spell had become as instinctive as flight spells had once been, accidents could still happen. That was why I'd taken the precaution of dyeing my hair black, since my blond locks were my most obvious cosmetic feature.

As such, when he turned his attention to me and asked if I'd like to join the thieves, I gave him my most professional smile. "There's very little I can't do, with a little practice. I'm up for anything. In fact..." I broke off as a thought came to me. Looking around, I spotted my target and gave a call, "Lena, that job you offered me, is it still available?"

Lena turned towards me with surprise, "Yeah. You want it?"

"Well, since I'll be moving nearby, why not?"

"It's only part-time, though."

"Its fine, every little bit helps."

"Alright, then you can start tomorrow at six."

Nodding in satisfaction, I turned back to puzzled looks from the others. "What's with the looks? You lot have been outside, haven't you?" I asked, waving a hand at an iced-over window. "This way I get to spend most of the evening in a warm pub, and get paid for it."

There was some good-natured grumbling at this from the others. I could see some of them were already thinking if they could get jobs to keep them out of the cold. I wasn't all that enthused about a job in the service industry but since I didn't expect to conduct much criminal activity after sundown (ironically enough), I could afford to waste it holding down a minimum wage job.

As the five of us were leaving to go find someplace to lay our heads, Murdoch held me back. His words were quiet, but clear. "This is a good place. Sal is good people. You do not cause trouble here, you hear?"

"Don't worry Mr. Murdoch," I replied confidently. "Your rules were very clear. I don't shit where I eat."

January 2, 1926, Berun

The contrast was startling. This time last year, the office had been bustling. Tempers running short as people running on too much booze and coffee worked hard to keep the Francois at bay while taking the fight to the Legadonians. People wishing each other a happy new year were doing it ironically.

Now, half the offices weren't even occupied as people extended their Solstice vacations or slept off hangovers. It was as if the chaos and fear of the war had never existed. If any further proof be needed that humanity was but a farce to amuse the gods, Zettour felt there was no need to look further.

Drawing a deep breath, he did his best to dispel his ill humor. After all, an optimist would call this behavior a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. And he needed all the optimism he could get these days.

One upside to the low traffic was that there was no one to remark on the people he was meeting today. Major Ugar from logistics, Colonel Spengler from Personnel, and Colonel Helgen from the Engineering Corps. Officially, they were meeting to oversee the administration and provisioning in the new territories the Empire had acquired. Unofficially, each of them had reason to be deeply disgruntled at the current state of the Empire.

Ugar was the simplest - he deeply admired Major Degurechaff, and was a representative of those who felt the people responsible for her disappearance should be hunted down like dogs, borders be damned, and the Major be welcomed back to the Fatherland with open arms. Simple, understandable, and utterly in opposition to the current policy of cooperation.

Spengler was slightly more complex. He was in charge of recruitment and training of aerial mages. With the incarceration of Major Degurechaff, The Empire's only mage battalion capable of using the Type 97 orb had been rendered unreliable, and the Empire had to scramble for an alternative. Oh, it was perfectly possible for an ordinary aerial mage to use a Type 97, but there was a world of difference between using it and using it properly. While Degurechaff had filed full reports on the 203rd's training regimen, all they had was a set of instructions that often seemed illogical, if not outright counterproductive. Apart from the girl herself, the only people who knew the theory and science behind the 203rd's training were her most trusted officers. Faced with having to trust Degurechaff's most vocal partisans with training her replacement, the Empire had instead opted to throw large chunks of their mage corps blindly through the training regimen in the hopes of recreating the 203rd.

Like any sane man, Spengler had objected to that plan, especially once he studied what the training entailed. Like a good soldier, he had gone through with implementing it when his objections were overruled. When the casualties started exceeding the 203rd's total wartime losses, the Empire's High Command followed their newfound fascination with scapegoats and demoted and removed Spengler from his position. And while a demoted Colonel with a fresh black mark on his record might not wield much power, Heinrich von Spengler came from one of Prussia's oldest aristocratic lines. They were not the richest, nor the most powerful, but simply existing in prosperity for 800 years gives you friends in all sorts of places, and Spengler was willing to use that influence to see the Empire's military removed from the hands of politicians that would throw away heroes like used towels.

Helgen's motivation was the most obscure yet. He was the man that had ordered the closure of the Type 95 project, and had stuck by it in spite of the prototype miraculously starting to work. By the time of the Brest disaster, he had already moved on to a completely new department, and had been utterly uninvolved in any of the ensuing mess. But when word had trickled down to him that the Type 95 project had been secretly restarted with an even bigger budget and Schugel was once more in charge with an unlimited access to personnel, he had gone on the warpath. He remembered the obituaries of brave men lost to that demonic device, the desperate plea of a young girl who was willing to face the front lines rather than live one more day with that instrument of suffering, and as far as he was concerned, anyone trying to replicate that insanity were insane themselves.

What Zettour found the most interesting about these three men were that they were not unique. Rather, they were but a sample of a deep undercurrent of resentment that had sprung up following recent events, not just in the military, but also in the more politically aware sections of the civilian population. The truth is, much of this resentment had absolutely nothing to do with Major Degurechaff, or aerial mages in general. But the way the government had chosen to handle her and the 203rd had helped expose the cracks, some of which had existed since the time of the Holy Roman Empire.

The meeting itself lasted well over an hour. Someone listening in would have found it entirely innocent, and that was because it was. It mostly concerned the movement of personnel to meet the new demands placed on the military. Only someone paying close attention and with access to a General's level of operational information might spot the pattern - the soldiers being moved included large portions of those identified by the government as politically unreliable. Particularly, mages of the former 203rd. They were not moved anywhere sensitive (because that would set off alarms), rather they were moved to the blandest, most boring posts possible. Some might think they were being sidelined. Zettour saw it as being protected. Right now, the Empire was a dangerous place, particularly for a mage closely associated with the Major. In such a situation, 'out of sight, out of mind' was a survival strategy.

Zettour did not consider his actions treason. After all, he was simply protecting valuable military assets from the vicissitudes of politics. And if some of his protectees found themselves in positions that, while unimportant on the surface, might suddenly become extremely important if a few other things were to go wrong elsewhere? Such is the fickle nature of fate.

Zettour had plans. He always had plans, it was literally his job to have all the plans. There was a distinct line between planning and doing. While he was concerned over recent occurrences, it was possible the Kaiser and his court might come to their senses. It was possible the ship of state might right itself and Europe would stabilize after the recent fracas. In such a happy situation, he was certainly not going to upset the cart over personal feelings. But in case drastic action became needed, he would be prepared.

The truth was, the situation was extremely murky. Any significant action would be premature. Things needed time to settle. Just for starters, there was this newly formed organization, the International Police, or 'Interpol' as they were already being called. In the accusations and counter-accusations that had followed Degurechaff's disappearance, the Albish, backed by America and Waldstatten, had managed to put together a proposal for an investigative agency that would track and arrest criminals across international borders, in cooperation with local law enforcement. They were based in Bern, the capital of Waldstatten, and the first case on their docket was the disappearance of Tanya von Degurechaff. The Empire, determined to prove they had nothing to hide, had signed on as well, along with many other countries. Unfortunately, while a decent concept, any organization put together in such a rush would have more teething problems than teeth. Zettour foresaw it becoming one more source of international friction if the right people weren't involved from the beginning.

In such a sea of uncertainty, Zettour was occasionally tempted to find Captain Matheus Weiss, grab him by the throat, and demand to know what exactly Degurechaff was up to. He wouldn't bother questioning Lieutenant Serebryakov, though. Who knew such a sweet looking girl was such an accomplished liar? Truly, Degurechaff had a unique eye for talent. If it hadn't been for the minute guilty expressions on Weiss' face during the debriefing, Zettour might have swallowed whole Serebryakov's protestations of innocence. In spite of his burning curiosity though, he hadn't pressed the matter. Officially, as long as he knew nothing, he didn't have to act on it. Let them keep their secrets. Besides, it was very unlikely Weiss and Serebryakov knew anything important. It was basic operational security, and Degurechaff was always one for the details.

February 14, 1926, Tilbury Metropolitan Police Station

"We call her China Doll." came the gravelly voice of Detective Sinclair.

His superior looked over his notes and said, "But... all we have is a vague description, 'little Chinese girl of ten or twelve', no name, no evidence...what is this crap?"

"That," Sinclair said gravely, "is the only common point between the Markham, Butcher, and Timothy robberies. We've got no clues, no evidence, the only thing we have is people noticing a Chinese girl hanging about the crime scenes before the crimes were committed."

"Before? Not during?"

"Nope. No one ever saw the actual criminals. Only reason people even remembered her is because chinks are rare those parts of town. Personally, I think she's a spy or a lookout for whatever gang is operating in the city. And it is in the city, all three robberies took place in different boroughs. We wouldn't even know it was the same outfit if it wasn't for the girl."

"Bit careless though, using such an unusual lookout."

"Yeah, I think she might be related to one of the actual crooks. I've got people shaking down the Chinese laundries and opium dens. We'll find something. In the meantime, we should see if we can pick her up and sweat her."

"Do you want us to go around arresting every Chinese girl in the city? Because with this description, that's what it will come down to."

"Well, all right, maybe not. But we should still tell our boys to keep an eye out for a Chinese girl hanging around odd places."

February 19, 1926, Solly Street

Jenny, Tom and I were all giving our smuggest grins as Murdoch looked down at the 160 pounds that was his percentage of our latest robbery. When he looked up though, he was less happy and more assessing. "You kids are good, I'll admit. But you need to cool it. I don't care if no one saw you, people are gonna notice street kids with money to burn and word will get round."

Jenny and Tom looked mutinous, but I fully agreed with him. No matter how careful I was, something I hadn't noticed was bound to trip me up. Besides, by this point I had over 700 pounds stashed away in various places. That was enough to last me a couple of years if I was frugal. I'd also finally located a reliable forger, and identified the documents I'd need to get into the US. Come March, I was going to get my ID (with a new face), my ship ticket, and then I was out of here. So, I had no problem reassuring him, "Don't worry, we're going to lay low for now. I feel like we've earned a little vacation."

Honestly, I had been surprised to find myself working alongside Jenny and Tom. While Tim seemed happy doing odd jobs, and Oliver seemed to have no interest in working with me, Jenny and Tom had been more than happy to act as backup for me. And in criminal work, it's always best to work with people you know.

Outside of the usual shoplifting and pickpocketing, we'd carried out six major robberies, each netting us at least a hundred pounds. In each case, we'd targeted cash holdings (my experience with Biggins having soured me on jewelry) of businesses far away from our home, and preferably on the questionable side of the law.

The trickiest part had always been localizing the cash. It took a good deal of sneaking around to figure out where the cash was kept. Actually breaking in to steal it was something I handled solo, since I had no desire to reveal my magic to anyone. Jenny and Tom simply thought me the world's greatest sneak and lockpick. I'd even had to learn how to pick locks without magic just to sell the charade.

The latest haul had been the richest yet. It turns out in many slums, the gangsters collecting rent are middlemen for someone higher in society. In this case, a Lord of some stripe. And once the cash left the thugs' hands, the security around it went remarkably slack, since breaking into houses is something that just doesn't happen in the 'good' part of town. Well, it happened now. I considered it highly unlikely the crime would even be reported since then the honorable gent would have to explain where several hundred pounds in unaccounted cash came from. Still, better safe than sorry. Impressing on my co-criminals the importance of laying low and not spending all the money, I then went to report in for my shift.

Yes, I still worked part-time at Sal's. While the work was tedious, the company was better than most and I'm not one to turn down free meals. It turned out Lena had ambitions to higher things, and was taking college courses with her earnings, with an ultimate aim to become a chartered accountant. As such, I'd finally found someone with whom I could discuss matters of a more intellectual nature. While I'm normally not one for socializing, after spending all my time surrounded by uneducated thugs I simply had to seek out her company just to restore my own sanity. Of course, I had to make sure I didn't display more knowledge than was reasonable for a very curious and intelligent 12-year-old, but even that was better than the level of discourse I usually had to put up with.

Besides, working there provided a spot of stability to my daily routine. It reminded me that I am at heart a salaryman, and honest pay for honest work was the basis for civilized society. I couldn't wait to put this criminal interlude behind me.

February 25, 1926, A Pub in Canning Town, Londinium

"Her name's some complicated Aki shit, but she goes by Tina. Supposed to work in some pub called Sal's on Solly Street near Tilbury. Get her. No one makes a fool out of me!"

The four disreputable men looked at each other, then their spokesman said, "Your Lordship, are you sure? I mean, saying it was some 12 year old Aki brat that broke into your place and got away clean - that don't make no kind of sense."

"I don't pay you clods to think! But if you must know, the police are already looking for someone of her description. They call her the China Doll. Word is she's part of a crew that's stolen a small fortune over the past couple of months. So we get her, we get whoever she's with, and we teach those scum what it costs to break into my house!"

"Ummm... if she's part of a crew, this might be a whole lot harder."

"Do whatever you have to! Don't you people do this for a living? Just get me that little bitch!"

February 27, 1926, Amstredam, The Empire

The young female Imperial military officer wore the uniform markings of Military Intelligence, a badge denoting a trained combat mage, and a Lieutenant's pips. She had stopped at a roadside cafe that served early breakfast, and was enjoying coffee and pastry with her newspaper. Incidentally, another female Lieutenant of the same age in the flying jacket of an active aerial mage was also partaking of breakfast, if much more heartily, in another eatery across the street.

This sight was nothing unusual as both women were regulars in their respective establishments, and often ate at the same time. What no one could tell was that besides the Type 93 orbs they both wore openly on their throats, they both had a civilian-grade orb hidden under their clothes.

The first girl was halfway through her coffee when the mental conversation began.

"Any news, Elya?"

"It's finally happening, Visha. Our first investigators from Interpol. I'm on my way to greet them now."

"They're coming to Amstredam?"

"They did a brief stop by Londinium first, but yes. I don't know why, but I expect they'll talk to you at some point."

"Try to find out, please?"

"You know I will. I'm their official liaison after all, they can't keep me out of the loop. But if they're paranoid, they'll try to keep the best bits close to their chests."

"Who are they anyway?"

"Pair of Americans. A Captain Strong, plus an unnamed assistant."

"I see. Well, be careful Elya. We need you where you are."

"Don't worry about me. I'm not the one who openly thumbed her nose at the establishment!"

The conversation was wrapped up soon after, and both women went about their day. Lieutenant Serebryakov went off to her shift patrolling the skies above Amstredam, and the other girl headed for the docks.

About an hour later, the boat from Londinium pulled in, and a pair of uniformed Americans stepped off. The girl stepped forward to greet the older man with an outstretched hand. "Hello there, I'm your liaison to the Imperial Government, First Lieutenant Elya Roth. A pleasure to meet you! You must be Captain Robert Strong."

The Captain was a middle-aged man of a sturdy build with greying red hair and the uniform of a naval commander. He returned the handshake with a smile, "The pleasure is mine. Captain Strong, formerly of US NavInt."

Elya looked past his shoulder to the girl following him. Brown hair in a bob cut, tall for her age which Elya judged to be a bit younger than her own seventeen, filling out nicely and a face that was pretty even when set in a humorless line. Prettier if she smiled, Elya idly noted. She also noted uniform markings that, if she was not mistaken, indicated an American aerial mage.

The Captain noticed Elya's interest and waved the girl forward. "This is my able assistant, fellow Interpol investigator, and also if necessary my bodyguard. Ensign Mary Sioux."