Adventure Wanton Racing

[James]

The Prologue
That Might be Relevant

“BGAWK!”

Light flooded his vision as Pete opened his eyes, looking up through the forest’s canopy. He watched the chicken move gracefully through the cloud. Nature was truly beautiful. And also unexpected as Pete had long since came to the conclusion that chickens couldn’t fly. It was almost as if the bird had defeated the laws of nature, which kept it grounded, so as to provide some sort of segue from one story to another. A solitary tear rolled down the meditating man’s cheeks. All of nature was a plot point.

“Agent Kaez,” Sir Michael Caine said, appearing from between the trees. “You know you ain’t an easy man to find?”

Pete looked at the impeccably dressed yet elderly man in front of him, his muscles tightening. “I don’t go by that name anymore, Sir Michael. You of all people should know that. Not after… well, not after what happened in between the last story and this one.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Master Pete,” Sir Michael replied, slipping effortlessly between characters. “The bureau needs you. We all need you.”

“I can’t go back.”

“James promises that you don’t have to spend the entire story holding a branch and yelling ‘BGAWK!’ for every piece of dialogue,” the man added.

Pete stood, his loose yet non-descript clothing swaying in the breeze as he walked to the large oak tree in front of him. Pausing for just a moment, he stuck his arm straight through the bark, his entire forearm sinking into the tree. When it came loose once more, a gun was clutched between Pete’s fingers. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he said, heading towards the pathway through the woods.

“And not a lot of people know that,” Sir Michael Caine added.

***

“Hello, personnel-wing of the A.W.R Bureau of Investigation, how may I help you?”

Agent Zovo stood at his kitchen counter, staring down at his breakfast in front of him. “Yeah, I want to book a couple of days off for next week.”

“And which days are those, sir?”

“The last few days before my retirement,” Agent Zovo answered, dropping the phone back down onto the receiver.

“Crikey.”

“Seriously, Jason,” Agent Zovo said, spinning on his feet to face the man leaning against his oven. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

***

Bloodeye paced back and forth within his cell. Three years of solitude was taking its toll on the former gang lord. All he had to look forward to each day was the morning post, which brought news from his snugglekin who lived in the cells four rows down from him. He would write his precious lovepie a letter that was delivered to her at every dinner time. Even letter writing didn’t help speed up the time, though, of three long years of prison.

It wasn’t surprising then that Bloodeye found himself jumping as the lock in his cell door clicked and the great metal slab swung open. A tall, robed man entered the room, his face covered by the black cowl the man had elected to wear with a small majority. “Are you the man called Bloodeye?” he asked.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” Bloodeye sneered, rising to his feet. “You wanted to gaze at the greatest crime lord this city has ever seen?”

A sound rose out of the man’s throat, a distant cousin of laughter, as he pulled down the hood of his robe. Bloodeye stumbled back against the wall, his eyes widening at the sight in front of him. The man’s face was rotting, bits of flesh hanging from his chin and nose. Bloodstained teeth rested on a cracked, decaying lip.

“Sekot?” Bloodeye mumbled, his hands shaking. “I thought you were a judge? Sorry, I meant to say myth. I thought you were a myth?”

“This city deserves a new type of criminal, Bloodeye,” Sekot said, smiling widely. “And he’s going to be… fabulous!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sekot grinned, turning to the reader. “It’s on. It’s go time. Coming soon. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… but it’ll probably again be told from Matteo’s perspective for the sake of continuity.”

Coming... soon? Yes, actually.

[James]

Chapter One

The Establishing Scene[/center]

The spurt of red raced swiftly by boarded up windows and brick-walled alleys, closely followed by the tail of a dark, long trench coat. The Director of the AWR Bureau (formerly known as: AWR Police Force), James (unchanged from: James) sped through the seedy underbelly of his city. Drawing in a lungful of air with every chance that he had, his shoes brushed against a small garden wall before continuing down another darkened alleyway. While his legs felt as if they were powering through treacle, James wasn’t about to let his target escape.

“Come on, Emma!” he roared, looking over his shoulder to see his very attractive companion barely managing to keep in touch. “We don’t have a moment to lose!”

Looking down, James visualised the streets of his city. The car would have to cross over the nearby bridge before heading to the suburban jungle that his target was heading to. James’s pulse quickened as he realised that they were falling behind the likely route of their prey. Their mark was going to escape unless they upped another gear. With suffocating grimness, James realised there was only one course of action left.

“Na-na-na-na-na-na-naaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, na-na-na-na-na-na-naaaaaaaaaaaaa,” James hummed, holding onto a street light as he used the metal to propel himself around a corner. “Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum, da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.”

Within a second, James burst out into incoming traffic as the small, silver car came into view in front of him. The Director knew he had him. Gritting his teeth the best that he could manage with a pronounced overbite (o-ver-bite), James leapt cleanly over an incoming car and found himself directly in front of the target. The car screeched to a halt, smoke rising up off the tiny tyres. Behind him, James was aware of the panting Emma who had just appeared, almost as if she had apparated.

“Police! Open up!” James yelled, clutching at his ribs as the car sat unmoving in front of him.

“Whoa! Hold up,” a voice called, a jewfro weaving in between traffic. “This is getting ridiculous. You’re directly quoting lines now!”

James waited for his fellow agent to appear beside him. The Canadian was panting in the intense heat of twelve degrees Celsius as he grew ever closer. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Matteo.”

“And why the fuck is Emma Watson following you around?”

“She’s my companion,” James answered, shrugging his shoulder. “Solving mysteries and stuff, you know how it works.”

Matteo sighed as he straightened his crisp, clean suit. Both members of the AWR Bureau were impeccably dressed, as they always were lest Sir Michael Caine would criticise them. “No, you’re not the fucking Doctor. Look, Emma, I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this and if a film version is ever made you won’t be required to play yourself. Now, just go.”

There was a capitalised CRACK and then Emma Watson was gone, leaving only the two men standing in the middle of the road. Car horns began to ring out like a grand orchestra. “Furthermore,” Matteo said, coming to stand beside his Director. “Don’t pretend that you have memorised the entire city when I know full well you were looking down at the GPS on your watch in that chase scene.”

“Fuck man, they didn’t know that,” James sighed. “Why are you ruining my fun?”

“Because you said this was going to be from my perspective and instead it started with you,” Matteo answered, his blood boiling in anger.

“Happy?”

Matteo nodded, his fingers tingling with warmth as he moved towards the car in front of him with slow, measured steps. Already he could see the driver of the car cowering in his seat through the glass of his windscreen. He wasn’t making any effort to save his contraband; he knew that it was already too late. You couldn’t ever escape from the AWR Bureau. Hearing James’s footsteps behind, Matteo reached down and pulled open the door with a flourish.

“Alright, Agent Croswynd (formerly known as: Agent Tamwyn),” Matteo parenthesesied. “The game is up. Give up your illegal goods.”

“And try not to make a scene,” James added.

Agent Croswynd clambered from his car, various gold coins clinking in his velvet pockets as he moved. “Hey, I’ve changed now. I got a new name and I’m confident. I don’t constantly need validation anymore.”

“Don’t you?” James said, an eyebrow disappearing into his fringe.

“Don’t I?” Agent Croswynd stammered. “No, I don’t! Really, I think, umm, what do you think?”

Ignoring the conversation unfolding next to him, Matteo reached into the car and picked up the two plastic bags that sat on the passenger seat. Swallowing back the rising bile in his throat, Matteo dumped the content of the bags upon the side of the road. DVDs, books, models and bed sheets fell in a heap upon the ground. Everything was plastered in brightly coloured foals.

“You disgust me,” Matteo spat, turning back to look at Agent Croswynd. The man refused to meet his eyes. “Even worse than your taste is that these aren’t even real, you can’t tell the difference between a fucking foal and a pony.”

“What?” Agent Croswynd said, his eyes growing wide as James stepped forward, clutching a pair of scissors.

Cutting off a single, solitary hair from his head, James dropped the strand onto the pile of illegal items in front of him. Heat licked at the trio’s face as the bundle of foal-decorated memorabilia went up in flames. While Agent Croswynd sobbed, Matteo and James shared a nod of quiet content. It was another day and another job well done. Their city would eventually be cleansed of the equine curse.

“You know,” Matteo said, looking down at the small bonfire in front of them. “I can’t help but feel that there might be better uses of the Bureau’s time.”

Laughter burst forward from James’s lips, the man swinging on the balls of his feet to face his comrade. “Please, Matteo. There hasn’t been a murder in this city for exactly one hundred days.”

No sooner had the words escaped the Director’s lips than a beeping broke through the sounds of crackling flame. All three of the Bureau’s employees fished into the depths of their pockets to pull out mobile phones of varying side and technological advances. Words rose up from Matteo’s phone, spinning in the air as he read the holographic message. A tiny pigeon escaped from James’s, a miniscule note wrapped around the animal’s ankle.

“Fuck, I hate it when your humorous foreshadowing comes true, James,” Matteo hissed, grimacing.

“Is that an exclamation point or a smiley face of a man winking while licking his nostril?” James asked, pointing down at the note in his hand.

[James]

Chapter Two

Introducing a Plot[/center]

“Cosy, watchful neighbourhood,” Matteo uttered, easing himself out of the car.

The row of well-kept, expansive houses stood guard over the tens of freshly mowed and immaculately pruned front gardens. Flowers watched over small patches of vegetables. Tiny, ridiculously looking hybrid cars kept their headlights on nearby bicycles, which looked more expensive than the automobiles themselves. Whispering neighbours peered out from between curtains to inspect their once peaceful street. And a policeman bounced upon the ball of his feet, whistling as he stood in front of the crime tape wrapped around one of the houses.

“Agent Croswynd,” James said, locking the car with a flick of a button. “Start taking photographs of everyone who is even glancing at this commotion, we might need to go through them in a later chapter.”

The agent nodded as another member of the AWR Bureau stepped out from the house in front of them, motioning for the two leading members of the Bureau to follow them. Matteo spied three description-less men disappearing up the stairs, no doubt to look for any further clues and avoid being given names, as Agent Injin stood waiting for them at the door to the kitchen. The young man smiled and then frowned at the pair as they drew closer to him. Matteo attempted to calm the new recruit with flash of his pearly whites.

“Director Rowland,” Agent Injin squeaked. “Assistant-Director Di Giovanni, I’m glad you could make it. We’ve got a real bad case here.”

James walked passed the young man and ran a finger along the thick, oak door that kept the kitchen from view. “Murders generally are, lad,” he said, turning to face the new agent. “What have we got?”

“Umm, yes, his name is Steve Filler. He was found here by a friend of equal importance. Has a record, being arrested for once running with the Bloodeye Gang. Spent several months inside before being released on good behaviour. Met my uncle at a weather convention in Washington where they spent hours discussing the importance of t…”

“That’s enough, Agent,” Matteo said, patting the man’s shoulder before pushing open the green, birch door.

The Assistant-Director felt his stomach churn, bubbling dangerously as he caught sight of the bloodied body laid across the table. Blood stains ran down from multiple wounds, trickling down to coat the dining room table in a thick, reddish garnish. Where scraps of his clothes had been torn away, Matteo could see bruises and cuts decorating the corpse in front of him. Lifeless blue eyes stared up at him, the man appearing as if he was still silently screaming. Steve Filler’s killer was intent on causing the man as much pain as possible before finally laying him to rest.

“God, it smells as if someone has died in here,” James said, rubbing at the bottom of his nose. The Director walked over to the chair that Steve sat lifelessly in, kneeling down to inspect the wounds upon his legs. “What did they do to you, son?”

“They killed him, sir,” Agent Injin said.

“But what else did they do?” Matteo asked, wheeling around to look at the rest of the living room. A sofa rested across from them, offering the perfect view to the large screen television upon the wall. Obviously a simple robbery hadn’t been the motive behind the attack. Yet, several of the dresser’s draws had been pulled out, papers scattered across the carpet. The killer had been looking for something, Matteo decided, but he had no idea of what.

“Crikey,” a voice said, causing all three members of the AWR Bureau to jump several inches off the ground.

Agent Dragon and Agent Zovo stood under the empty doorframe, staring at the scene in front of them. While Agent Zovo looked on in grim calmness, the colour was rapidly draining from Jason’s face.

Taking in several gulps of air, Matteo felt his heart returning to a normal beat. “Can we have a ‘no sudden exclamations of surprise while at a crime scene’ rule? And why are you two late… and together?”

“Umm, we shared a cab from the Bureau?” Agent Zovo answered, his face suddenly paling in the meagre light from the kitchen’s bulb. Jason seemed intent upon staring at the carpet, kicking at it with the toe of his shoe. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Fill a body bag with Mr Filler’s remains and send him to the morgue,” James said, turning his attention away from the body that lay sprawled across the hard, wooden floor. The Director threw a glance around the room, noticing the various plates and glasses that sat upon kitchen shelves, glinting whenever a flash of moonlight scurried through the drawn blinds. “And for fuck sake, get Continuity in here asap. This place is a mess.”

[James]

Chapter Three

The Perspective Switch

[/center][/size]

Bloodeye watched with more than a little disgust as Sekot rummaged through the pockets of the corpse upon the chair in front of him. Criminals had a code of honour. You could rob a guy. You could kill a guy. If you were feeling particularly fiendish, you could rob a guy and then kill him. However, in Bloodeyes’, you didn’t kill a man and then rob him. It just wasn’t sporting.

“What are we even looking for, boss?” Bloodeye asked, pushing the final word begrudgingly up his throat.

Staying silent, Sekot yanked his hand free from the pocket. A rusting, bronze key was clutched between his fingertips. “This.”

Eyeing the blood-stained key, the former gang leader could only shrug his shoulder. “What’s it for? It’s been a while since the last update.”

Bringing a finger to his rotting lips, Sekot double-turned, facing away from his new henchman as he stared at the expensive, living room dresser in front of him. Papers were quickly thrown to the floor as the contents of the various draws were searched. He didn’t want to take any chances. Bloodeye, though, was left more puzzled than before as he watched his boss work in front of him. Apparently, they had come to this small apartment in search of the key that now sat within Sekot’s pocket. Why were they still standing in the scene of their crime?

“Look,” Bloodeye began, his hand moving slowly to the revolver tucked within his belt. “I appreciate the whole ‘breaking my ass out of jail’ and all, Sekot, but if you’re going to leave me in the dark then I’m heading off.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

Bloodeye didn’t wait for any identification marker to the piece of dialogue, pulling the gun free from his belt in a single motion. The bullet was roaring through the air before either man had blinked, embedding itself deep within Sekot’s chest. There was a sound of ‘blargh’ and then the walking dead man barrelled over, landing spread-eagled upon the ground. Thick, green liquid stained the expensive cream carpet, pouring forth from the bullet hole as Bloodeye stood cautiously across the room. The gun was still held out in front of him.

“Smashing,” Sekot whispered, pulling himself to his feet. “I didn’t know whether you still had it in you to kill a man.”

“Apparently, I don’t,” Bloodeye replied with a raised eyebrow. His heart was beating faster than ever before, but he contained his emotions. He didn’t want to ruin the badassness of the scene in question.

Laughter escaping from the rotting lips, Sekot closed the gap between himself and Bloodeye and patted the man upon his shoulder. “It’s quite alright. We’ve kept it a secret for a long time, the secret of gay immortality.”

The two men stared at one and another for several moments, taking the measure of each other. Bloodeye didn’t know whether to run or smile. Sekot couldn’t decide whether he should kill the man now or later. They both chose a suitable compromise. Bloodeye grinned awkwardly and took a step back. Sekot didn’t tear the man’s head from his shoulders. Instead, he dropped down into an armchair that was beside him and surveyed the former gang lord over long, discoloured fingernails.

“You want to know what the key is for?” Sekot asked, receiving a nod in return. “That is a fair request. It opens a door.”

Bloodeye stared open-mouthed for a moment. “I had guessed that part.”

“The door,” Sekot continued, “is a part of a safe and within the safe is our goal. It is an ancient artefact that I wish to use on this wretched city. Everything has grown so normal and logical. I want to add a little insanity into the mix. The artefact will helps me achieve this.”

Opening his mouth to reply, Bloodeye found the words lodged within his throat as he heard the scratching of pen upon paper. Spinning on his heels, he saw a tall, impossibly skinny man standing in the corner of the room. A gun and police baton was clipped to his belt. The man hardly noticed that he became the centre of attention, continuing to write away within his notebook for several moments before placing both pen and book back within the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, bowing deeply. “I’m just going.”

True to his word, the man disappeared instantly, leaving Bloodeye once again alone with Sekot within the living room of a murdered man. The tension of working for Sekot was obviously getting to him. Bloodeye could have sworn that he had seen the man before and that he had been clutching a single, solitary branch.

“Come,” Sekot said, unperturbed at the strange man’s disappearance. “We must continue on.”
[/blockquote]

[James]

Chapter Four
Where I Start to Wish I Hadn’t Given Names to Chapters

The main room of the AWR Bureau was filled with bustling activity, people crossing from filing cabinets to coffee machines. All around the room were white boards, decorated with messy, scrawling handwriting and pictures of unsavoury faces. Several people had congregated around one of these white boards as Matteo crossed out another theory from the board. The best minds that the Bureau had to offer had finally decided that their mystery killer had nothing to do with conspiracies concerning the Beatles.

“I think it’s good to know we can rule it out, though,” James said, several agents nodding in agreement. “We’ve also already ruled out an alphabetical killer, but have we considered the fact that the killer is working numerically?”

“What do you mean, chief?” Agent Injin asked.

“Well, just think about it,” James said, moving to write upon the whiteboard. Matteo scrunched up his eyes to try and read the writing. “Steve Filler was this killer’s first victim. Arthur Irrelevant was his second victim. He’s working numerically. He killed his first victim first and then, and only then, did he kill his second victim.”

“How does that help us?” Agent Croswynd said, folding his arms.

“Because,” Agent Injin interrupted, the words slowly escaping his mouth. “It means that we know that whoever he kills next will be his third victim.”

“Exactly.”

Matteo sighed, snatching the pen from his boss’ hand. “I think we might have to consider the fact that we don’t actually have a clue at what’s going on here.”

“I might be able to help with that,” a voice said, the door to the room blowing open as Pete strode through the opening. “While you were lot were idly wasting your lives away, I was actually doing something constructive.”

“Bullshit,” Agent Zovo interjected.

“There’s a technique known only to the monks of the mountain regions of Siddhartha that I have perfected in my years of solitude that might be able to provide us with a clue,” Pete said, shaking hands with both the Director and Assistant-Director.

“Isn’t Siddhartha a person?” Matteo said.

Swatting away the question with a wave of his hand, Pete continued. “It allows a monk to physically travel from one place to another in an instant. The monks use it to travel from the forests of Bhutan to the foothills of Tibet, but I believe there’s another more creative use.”

“Bullshit,” Agent Zovo repeated.

Turning, Pete gave his fellow agent a smile and then bowed. The room turned into a circus as the tall, youthful man completely disappeared. Several agents ran from the room screaming as their more senior colleagues stared wide-eyed at the spot where Pete had once stood. Matteo dropped his pen to the ground and James cocked an eyebrow, tentatively prodding where the vanished man was standing seconds ago. Clutching the desk behind him, Agent Croswynd nearly fainted as Agent Dragon grabbed at Zovo’s arm. The pair quickly took a step away from each other a second later.

There were a few moments of absolute silence, although all pins had been carefully stored before the incident. Then the moments turned to seconds and the seconds to minutes. James walked over to the kettle and made himself a cup of tea. Dropping himself down into the seat of a nearby desk, Matteo opened up a game of solitaire. A discussion about the true identity of Clara Oswald broke out and theories began to swim across the room, the white board being swiftly cleared of all information about the city’s latest homicide.

“Ahem,” Pete coughed, appearing within the room once more with a notebook clutched in his hand. “I have some information for us to use.”

Matteo bit his lip, feeling like they were seconds away from unravelling the mystery of the Impossible Girl. “Oh, alright. But where did you go?”

Rearranging his suit jacket with a flourish, Pete grinned. “I travelled to the previous scene where it so happened that Bloodeye and a man known as Sekot were discussing their plans. I know what they’re after.

“Bloodeye’s escaped?” James asked, earning several shoulder shrugs from his fellow agents. “Isn’t he one of our most highly guarded prisoners? And we let him escape without noticing? Quite frankly, we’re not a very good police force, are we?”

“You brought a longbow to a raid, James. The same raid where Pete bloody proposed to one of the criminals. Croswynd can’t even fucking decide on his name. Injin here is afraid that we might leave him behind at a crime scene without anyone noticing. Zovo and Dragon are so far into the closet they’re in fucking Narnia and who the hell knows where Agent Reffy is. We are shit at our jobs,” Matteo replied.

There were several seconds of silence where everyone looked at their shoes, except James who was picking at some skin around his fingernails. “Sorry, did you say something?” he asked, looking up. “I was just thinking about how we should make this place look more Victorian. Anyway, Pete, what did you find out?”

“They’re after some sort of artefact, hey stop that, I say it with an ‘i’. I say artefact, no, with an ‘i’, seriously, what the fuck?” Pete said, glaring daggers at James who just shrugged. He was the James the Character and not James the Writer. “Anyway, they want some sort of art… ancient object that will cause chaos within the city.”

“An artefact?” Matteo repeated, completely at ease with the correct spelling. “Haven’t we documented and secured all artefacts within the city?”

“Not all of them,” James said, the colour draining from his face. “They’re some religious objects that are still floating around the city. I really hoped we weren’t going to have to go to him this time, but we’re going to have to pay Father Jordan a visit.”

“Crikey.”

“Shut up, Jason,” the room said in unison.

[James]

Chapter Five
Like He Fell In Love With The Man Spider

[/size][/center]

Stepping out of the Aston Martin DB9, Matteo slammed the door shut and straightened his suit. The ginger haired Director-General of the Bureau clambered out from the passenger's side, his eyes flicking over to the grand cathedral that stood in front of them. Behind them, Pete huffed and puffed as he raced to keep up with the car. Slipping his hands into his pockets, Matteo watched the panting, red-faced man kneel over next to him. It was the least of which he deserved for suggesting that the Aston Martin was not the most beautiful thing that existed in the universe. As soon as the idiot recognised his mistake and apologised for it, then he could ride in the back.

“You know, it's a lovely building,” James said, rocking on his heels. “It's a pity they had to ruin it with religion and shit.”

Matteo shared a glance with Pete as he finally brought himself back to his full height. “Yeah, James,” he said slowly. “Pete and I were discussing this and we think it's probably best you wait with the car. We know what you and Father Jordan are like.”

“What? You're afraid we're going to throw petrol over each other and burn down the entire city?” James yelled, his arms outstretched in front of him.

“Or argue over gun control,” Pete wheezed.

James opened the door to the car, shrugging. “Whatever. See if I care.”

The other two men rolled their eyes and crossed the road, making sure to look both ways. Behind them, James shouted out to not make any comparison to the clergyman's appearance to Ianto. Matteo gritted his teeth; his boss was right. With James waiting in the car, no one would know what he was talking about. Sighing, Matteo kicked the edge of the curb as Pete strode forward and pushed the great wooden doors open. They swung open like a cliché. Throwing one final glance at their comrade who was now sitting at the steering wheel making car noises with his mouth in between quoting lines from Casino Royale, the pair shook their heads and walked into the cathedral.

The first thing that Matteo noticed was how busy the main hall of the cathedral was. Adults and children were crammed into the various pews, heads bowed in prayer, muttered whispers floating through the air. The second thing he noticed was the gritted teeth of displeasure of all the wives, their hands locked firmly onto a husband's arm. The men seemed unperturbed from losing the circulation to their hands, their eyes following the movements of the nuns walking around. Matteo understood why. They were all bombshells. Their Conservative outfits did little to hide the feminine, leggy figures that they all had. Standing there for several moments, he was only broken from his trance when Pete pushed his jaw back up.

“Come on, Casanova,” he said, punching Matteo's arm. “Father Jordan will be in his office.”

Remembering that the women were all in fact nuns and therefore not available to date, Matteo followed Pete through the pews to the room at the back. They were instantly greeted with the smell of rich mahogany and many leather-bound books. Scanning the various tomes upon the shelves, Matteo spotted their target within an armchair, a Chesterton balanced upon his knees. The Assistant-Director didn't care whether James was present or not. He looked like Ianto and everybody was going to know (come on, Taed, give it up. No one watches Torchwood. No one.)

“Officers!” Father Jordan said, gently placing the book upon the table next to him. “What a pleasure to see you again! But no Mr Rowland this time? Such a shame. I wished to explain to him how the market would solve global warming by moving the Earth further away from the Sun.”

“We thought it was for the best,” Pete said, shaking the clergyman's outstretched hand. “We are purely here on business today.”

Nodding seriously, Father Jordan gestured at the two chairs in front of his desk (how fortunate!) as he walked to the bookshelf by the window. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked, pulling one book down, the shelf sliding away to reveal a cabinet filled with the finest whisky. Underneath the bottles were a line of expensive looking pipes and cigars. “Or perhaps something to smoke?”

“No, no,” Matteo answered.

Shrugging, the priest closed the cabinet and wandered to behind his desk. “So who needs to be taken care of?” he asked, sitting down. “Is Agent Croswynd finally getting to you with all that pony talk? Want me to get rid of him? I can get rid of him. Make it look suicide. Like he fell in love with the man spider.”

“Said Frankie Boyle in Mock the Week,” Matteo muttered quickly.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, just legal reasons,” the Assistant-Director said, swatting the question away with his hand. “We need to talk artefacts. We believe someone is trying to steal an artefact in this very city. As you may know, the Bureau has collected most of them, but we think there's some religious ones floating around that you might know of.”

“There's a few artefacts that I know of still in this city. I'll need a little more to go on,” Father Jordan replied, looking down his nose at the two officers. Unfortunately, due to a manufacturing problem, his chair was several inches higher than the other two.

“We know the art... the object will cause chaos in the city if unleashed and that's it,” Pete said.

“Chaos?” Father Jordan said sharply, the colour draining from his face. Standing up abruptly, the priest walked over to the cabinet and poured three very large glasses of whisky. “Trust me,” he said, when he heard the officers' objections. “You're going to need them. Apparently, your wanted person is after the Pretati Googlus.” [/blockquote]

[James]

Chapter Six

[/size]
Light Metal - It's Like Heavy Metal But Lighter[/center][/i]

“Chaos?” Father Jordan said sharply, the colour draining from his face. Standing up abruptly, the priest walked over to the cabinet and poured three very large glasses of whisky. “Trust me,” he said, when he heard the officers' objections. “You're going to need them. Apparently, your wanted person is after the Pretati Googlus.”

“We know,” Pete said. “You just said that.”

“Did I? Sorry, I must have got confused with the chapter break,” Father Jordan said, placing the three glasses of whisky on the desk.

Matteo reached forward to take the glass, slowly bringing it to his lips. “But what does the Pretati Googlus do? I've never heard of it.”

“Of course, you haven't. The power of the relic is so strong that the Catholic Church sent it away from Europe to be safeguarded in the New World,” Father Jordan explained, reaching for a pipe. “The Pretati Googlus caused the fall of Rome. The Goths found it upon the riverbed of the Danube. They lost it, though, when they attacked Rome. There it floated around until falling into the possession of the Church. When they discovered its power, it nearly disrupted the Council of Constance. It was then that they knew the artefact had to leave the shores of Europe. I had hoped that its existence would have been forgotten by everyone upon the planet.”

“That's all well and good, but... yes, thank you,” Pete said, accepting the pipe that had been given to him by the clergyman. “But what does the Pretati Googlus do? We can't stop Sekot and Bloodeye if we don't know exactly what they're planning.”

Father Jordan allowed a smoke ring to escape his mouth before surveying the two officers in front of him. “The Pretati Googlus does two things, two horrible things. First of all, it takes those souls that have been Forsaken in death and resurrect them to the land.”

“Forsaken?”

“Yes, Forsaken,” Father Jordan repeated.

“No, I think you've misunderstood,” Pete said, taking a swig of whisky before going back to his pipe. “I wasn't questioning the word. I was questioning the capitalisation.”

“Did I capitalise it? Goodness, I don't know why. Let me try again. The Pretati Googlus takes those souls that have been forsaken in death and resurrect them to the land. They are not simple zombies, though. The second thing the Pretati Googlus does is to allow the wielder to determine the form that the forsaken souls will take in undeath. The Goths chose for their zombies the forms of the great Pagan gods. The Council of Constance was plagued with great demons. The Pretati Googlus allows the wielder to make an army of his choice from those souls rejected from Heaven.”

“Crikey.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Jason?” Matteo said, spinning around in his chair. The room was empty except from the three men already in it.

“No, that was me,” Pete said. “What sort of army could Sekot possibly be planning with such an arti-fact? Ha! Victory!”

“Oh, probably an army of Ainsley Harriots,” Matteo answered, swatting the question away with a flick of his hand. “Thank you, Father Jordan. Your help has been indispensable.”

Before Father Jordan could utter a word, a breeze floated through the room as the stained-glass window swung open and James clambered into the office. “Isn't anyone,” he wheezed, wiping the dirt off his suit, “going to address the fact that the artefact is basically Pig Latin for Google Translate?”

“I don't see any reason to do so,” Father Jordan said bitterly. “Now, why don't you leave? Because I'm about to help your two friends here with setting up a small business, employing six to twelve people from the local community and therefore completely deserving to exploit tax loopholes.”

“I suppose I might as well go, then. Maybe I'll go out and ask the nuns why they're out there doing all the hard work without no chance of ever being promoted to the rank of Father Jordan,” James said, shrugging as he headed to the door.

“You'll do no such thing!”

[James]

Chapter Seven
Fast Food Saves Lives, People

[/i][/center]

“Step into my parlour,” Bloodeye said, dropping daintily from the roof, “said the spider to the fly.” Before the guards could even react, the man had freed two samurai blades from their case. The twins glinted through the meagre lighting of the corridor, slicing clean through the neck muscles of the two guards. Their heads rolled to the ground, blood splattering across the walls.

Sekot appeared at the end of the corridor, his figure hidden within the depths of a midnight black robe. “Aren't we entering their parlour?” he asked, an eyebrow arched in his henchman's direction.

“Hey,” Bloodeye said, not even turning as he moved towards the door that the men were guarding. “You asked me to get us to the relic quickly, I don't want to hear any back-seat thieving. We're going to have our work cut out to make it there before the ginger and his lackeys arrive.”

***

“The artefact is guarded by a Catholic Sect who lives in the tunnels below the old Civil War base,” Matteo said, clambering into the car with his two companion. Father Jordan was making the sign of the very cross at the door. “Fortunately he's referring to the third Civil War that was fought only in this very city, therefore narrowing down the potential bases to one.”

“Alternative, made-up history rules!” Pete said, discreetly sat in the back. He didn't want to remind the other two that he was not meant to be in the Aston.

“It won't take long to safely secure the artefact,” James said, watching houses and buildings fly past him. Unfortunately, due to an architectural fad in the eighties, many of the buildings were made with wings. “And then it's job done, case closed, story completed. I tell you what, though, I'm feeling famished. Does anyone else want to stop and grab a bite to eat?”

***

“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem,” the monks chanted as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, along the length of the vault.

“It's rather unsettling,” Bloodeye said, the two blades held protectively in front of him. “Don't they do anything else?”

Standing silently at his henchman's side, Sekot watched the monks with a careful eye. They didn't show any sign of two strangers randomly appearing in front of them. They appeared completely indifferent. Pocketing the eye, he turned his attention to the room at large. It was simply four stone walls and a roof. There were no protective traps or dangerous, over elaborate steps to reach the vault. The monks appeared to be the artefact's sole line of defence.

“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.”

“Kill them,” Sekot ordered.

Snarling, Bloodeye charged forward. His blades swung through the air, slicing through one of the monks' robes before an ear-bleeding clang ran out across the room. Staggering back in surprise, the blades tumbled from Bloodeye's hands. The robes of the monk fell away, pooling around his ankles upon the floor. The man's body was completely metallic. From toe to bald head, the man's body glistened and hummed.

“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.”

The monk's hand shot outwards, the barrel of a gun pushing out of his palm. “You have got to be shitting me,” Bloodeye said, stumbling backwards. “Robot monks?”

***

“Excuse me?” Pete said, catching the sleeve of a passing waiter. “I'm just wondering if you know where my Caesar Salad is?”

“It is just being made Consul of Rome, sir,” the waiter said, bowing. “It will be assassinated and brought to your table shortly.”

Pete nodded and turned back to the table. James and Matteo were already shovelling piles of deliciously cooked meat into their mouths. Shaking his head, he reached for the glass of red wine and took a refined sip. “I have just thought of a problem, comrades,” he said, causing for both men to look up from their plates. “We all seem to have been drinking and since we are all clearly responsible characters, none of us can drive.”

“That's a damn good point,” James said, wiping his mouth with the edge of his napkin. “I suppose we better get someone else to run along and secure the artefact. I'll make a phone call to the Bureau after the Treacle Tart.”

“That sounds perfectly acceptable,” Matteo nodded, turning back to his meal.

***

“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.”

Dancing under the fire of one of the robots, Bloodeye unclipped a frag grenade from his belt. It fell to the floor, bouncing upwards before the man's boot made contact with the weapon, directing it straight at the row of robotic, killer monks. They looked down together, watching the grenade roll right into their path. Throwing himself back out of the door, Bloodeye caught sight of the robots kneeling in prayer one final time.

“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.”

The explosion roared forward, heat licking at Bloodeye's skin as he flattened himself against the floor. Somewhere behind him, Sekot stood unperturbed, the flames washing over him. When they fell away, he stood within his robe, unscathed with outstretched arms. Various robotic limbs were scattered across the floor, the ghostly echo of the monk's final chant dying away.

“You know,” Bloodeye said, rising to his feet to brush himself down. “You could have helped.”

***

“Why are you wearing that ridiculously thing?”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor as Agent Croswynd and Agent Zovo made their way down the corridor. They had left the two decapitated guards in the hall, their strides growing longer with each passing second. Guns had been freed from their holster, leading the duo around every corner. While Croswynd was simply dressed in a red shirt and trousers, Agent Zovo was wearing elaborate kevlar body armour. The only part of his body that wasn't protected by the armour were three thin strips around his eyes and mouth.

“Because I'm only a few days away from retirement,” Agent Zovo answered. “And I'm not being killed by some magical, smoke hand that reaches through your skin and tears out your heart.”

“That's ridicul...” Agent Croswynd began, his voice being silenced by the sound of an explosion. The pair exchanged a glance and rushed forward, turning corner after corner until they came face to vault with the sight of a battered, melting door.

“Seconds too late,” Bloodeye grinned, sitting on the torso of one of the robot monks. “Put your weapons down and we may not kill you.”

Before either agent could say a word, Sekot appeared from within the vault. He clutched in his hand a small, inky black orb. It pulsed and hummed as he smiled, dropping it into his robe's pocket. Agent Croswynd raised his gun, his finger wrapping slowly around the trigger before the antagonist of this story struck. A smoky hand shot out from the sleeve of his robe, lancing straight into Croswynd's chest. The man cried out, screaming as the hand withdrew with his still beating heart held tightly in the smoky hand's grip.

“I fucking knew it,” Agent Zovo said, pointing the barrel of his gun straight at Sekot's face. [/blockquote]

[James]

Chapter Eight
Unfortunately Not Set in Geneva – Wouldn't That Be Nice, Though?

[/size][/center]

Wiping at his mouth with a small napkin, Matteo surveyed the painting that hung in front of him. White cliffs stood against an onslaught of rolling waves, rocks falling into the clutches of the angry sea. It was a lovely painting. He would have to consider buying it one day from the restaurant when he wasn't busy working a case. Matteo never bought artwork while working; it just wasn't proper.

“Well, I dare say we should start making our way to the crime scene,” Matteo said, finishing off the last of his wine.

“Crime scene?” Pete said, picking a loose leaf from his teeth.

Matteo nodded, standing up. A waiter was already striding over to them, knocking several tables as he walked with speed. “Oh, probably. We can never get the help these days. The agents sent to secure the artefact are probably dead or their fate left in the balance. Nothing can really conclude without the protagonist of the story being present anyway.”

Nodding in agreement, James rose to his feet and reached for his wallet. It was filled with varying wealth from several drachmas to a penny-farthing. The drachmas were now useless. The penny-farthing was handy in the case of the Aston breaking down. Pulling out several shillings and a tuppence, James placed them down on the table, asking his companions if that would be an adequate tip. He just never knew the rules about tipping.

“Sirs?” the waiter said before the other two could reply. “We need your help in the kitchen, immediately! One of the chefs has had a heart attack!”

“Heart attack? We're detectives, foolish boy, not doctors,” Pete said, rolling his eyes before clamping his hand in front of his mouth. He realised his mistake instantly.

“Hello, you were asking for the Doctor?” James and Matteo said in perfect timing. “I am the Doctor. Take me to the man at once.”

Slightly taken aback by the duo in front of him, the waiter nodded and led the men through the sea of tables and chairs. Pete followed, rubbing at his temples. Patrons looked up from their meals as the men whipped by, upsetting their food for being so rude. The Doctors paid no attention, a theme song now thundering through their ears as the waiter pushed through the sliding doors and the group appeared within the kitchen. The rich aroma of deliciously cooked food wafted through the room as it mixed with the quiet sobbing of the staff that had gathered around the fallen body.

“Move out of the way, move out of the way,” James ordered, sweeping into the room. “We may be able to save him.”

“There's a distinct possibility that he may have been poisoned. Get me some salt, a carrot, half a mug of Earl Grey Tea and a kiss from a beautiful stranger,” Matteo said, looking around at the stunned crowd in front of him.

As the two men spoke, Pete moved slowly forward. The chef was a young man, his moustache hardly developed and his skin pale and drawn. Kneeling down, Pete reached for his wrist, feeling for the barest hint of life. “There's no pulse,” he said, looking up at his companions. “Absolutely no pulse.”

“Oh,” James said.

“Well, he's fucked,” Matteo added, shrugging apologetically at the staff. “I haven't got any beef with him but I'll say he's ran out of thyme. I'm terribly sorry for your lost.”

No sooner had Matteo finished talking that a light began to form around the dead man's head, the skin slowly twisting and turning. The face became wider and the hair shot back into the man's skull. Skin darkened and teeth whitened, forming themselves into the most demonic and manic of grins to grace the world. Pete stumbled back as the clean, crisp, white overalls of the man transformed into a multicoloured Hawaiian shirt. A hand tapped against the tiled floor and a green pepper and a red tomato fell from the sky.

“You know how you told me off for foreshadowing, Matteo?” James said, taking a step back as the form of Ainsley Harriot rose to its feet, grunting. “Well, fuck you.”

“Everyone out!” Pete yelled, gesturing to the door.

The first of the chefs rushed to the door, flinging it open. Screams greeted his ears. Blood-curling, heart-wrenching screams. Pushing the chef to the floor, Matteo slammed the doors shut, yelling at the nearby waiters to give him something to keep it wedged close. Looking through the little, circular window into the restaurant, Matteo could see bodies dropping to the floor like flies as monkeys wearing shearling coats tore at the diners' throats.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking back at his two companions. “I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Sekot has the Pretati Googlus.” [/blockquote]