Post by Lord Nethercross on Aug 20, 2010 18:08:06 GMT -6
Lord Nethercross sat at a cluttered desk in the third floor office of a luxuriantly refurnished, as-yet-unnamed establishment, situated on prime real estate immediately west of Trafalgar Square, recently purchased at great cost to himself and his *ahem* partners. Having been given access to a significant fund, all of it off-the-books, he'd already "spent" half of it and invested most of the rest. Well, if I'm to be sent on some fool's errand with the Queen's purse in hand, I might as well do it in style, and maybe get something done out here, he thought, self-satisfied.
He was going over the guest list for a third time when the telephone rang, startling him. He muttered incoherently as he walked over, picked up the receiver, and turned the crank that generated power to run the infernal machine. I don't know why I consented to have this thing installed. I can't stand this constant telephony... useless idiot... "Hallo, Mr. Griffith. Yes, send them in. Tell them I will join them presently. And next time -" he seethed in a thin-lipped monotone, "please deliver the message personally - this line was not installed so you could avoid walking up two flights of stairs. Thank you." He replaced the receiver on the contraption with a loud clang, breaking off a piece of the holder. "Christ," he grumbled, feeling the sudden urge to break off the other piece before regaining his composure. Well, that's just shoddy workmanship, that is, he told himself once he'd calmed down. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink at his "tea" with the Admiral, earlier that afternoon, but he was starting to feel good about this whole thing - he could make it work to his advantage.
He returned to his seat, intending to make his guests wait a while before making a fashionably late entrance. They had all received a calling card under mysterious circumstances, uniquely worded to pique their curiosities, and had by various means been enticed to meet at this time and place, to discuss a proposal: the foundation of a new club. They were a motley crew, indeed - for unlike the old boys' networks of Clubland, those of humble origins or of the weaker sex would not necessarily be denied entry to this new society. Nethercross once more reviewed the list of invited guests. Some of them he knew, most he did not. Some were from upper class backgrounds, most were of the middling sort, or from the lower class. Many had skills that could come in handy - a doctor, a mechanic, an explorer, scholars and scientists, police detectives and military men, and so on - but many of them were of modest means and talents, and could have had no idea why they had been summoned in such an extraordinary fashion. Many of them shared one ominous factor in common - they had few living relatives or close relations in London, meaning fewer people to ask questions in the event of a staged disappearance, or - heaven forbid - death under mysterious circumstances. Those who did not meet this last criterion could be bribed or blackmailed into silence if necessary.
Lord Nethercross could hardly believe this was really happening, so he read his orders one last time before incinerating the telegram - just to be sure: Form club as front for secret society STOP Investigate and categorically disprove deny or discredit so called supernatural psychical cryptozoological and other unexplained phenomena in public record STOP Record then suppress or destroy any evidence of aforementioned phenomena if found STOP Monitor advances in exploration archaeology scientific and technological developments etc STOP And there it was. He lit the piece of paper on fire with a bemused smile. Shannon Fitzpatrick, he said, what a fine mess you're in now - the Queen sees a ghost, and now you're looking for faeries and vampires and life on Mars... he scoffed. Mr. Fitzpatrick had other ideas, his own agenda: Well let's see if we can't accomplish something of some real value. Keep a lid on the revolutionaries. Keep those jingo imperialists from getting us in a war over another thousand acres of barren scrubland... maybe work towards home rule for Ireland. I daresay if it be otherwise, we'll win an empire at the cost of a United Kingdom... he talked to himself like a promoter talks to a boxer before a fight, preparing to enter the meeting room. It begins...
He opened the door and waltzed in with an unassuming nod of the head. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologize for the somewhat, ah, theatrical circumstances of our meeting, thank you for coming on such short notice - I'm delighted to meet you all." He cleared his throat, "I'm Shannon Fitzpatrick, Lord Nethercross," he bowed his head ever so slightly, "but of course you each have my calling card. You're here because, in your own various ways, you are all seekers after the truth interested in expanding the boundaries of human knowledge - and that's what this is all about." He took a seat at the head of the table, and motioned with a grin to the person seated to his right. "Please, introduce yourselves, we'll get acquainted, and then I'll explain in detail why I've brought you here under such... unusual pretenses."
He was going over the guest list for a third time when the telephone rang, startling him. He muttered incoherently as he walked over, picked up the receiver, and turned the crank that generated power to run the infernal machine. I don't know why I consented to have this thing installed. I can't stand this constant telephony... useless idiot... "Hallo, Mr. Griffith. Yes, send them in. Tell them I will join them presently. And next time -" he seethed in a thin-lipped monotone, "please deliver the message personally - this line was not installed so you could avoid walking up two flights of stairs. Thank you." He replaced the receiver on the contraption with a loud clang, breaking off a piece of the holder. "Christ," he grumbled, feeling the sudden urge to break off the other piece before regaining his composure. Well, that's just shoddy workmanship, that is, he told himself once he'd calmed down. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink at his "tea" with the Admiral, earlier that afternoon, but he was starting to feel good about this whole thing - he could make it work to his advantage.
He returned to his seat, intending to make his guests wait a while before making a fashionably late entrance. They had all received a calling card under mysterious circumstances, uniquely worded to pique their curiosities, and had by various means been enticed to meet at this time and place, to discuss a proposal: the foundation of a new club. They were a motley crew, indeed - for unlike the old boys' networks of Clubland, those of humble origins or of the weaker sex would not necessarily be denied entry to this new society. Nethercross once more reviewed the list of invited guests. Some of them he knew, most he did not. Some were from upper class backgrounds, most were of the middling sort, or from the lower class. Many had skills that could come in handy - a doctor, a mechanic, an explorer, scholars and scientists, police detectives and military men, and so on - but many of them were of modest means and talents, and could have had no idea why they had been summoned in such an extraordinary fashion. Many of them shared one ominous factor in common - they had few living relatives or close relations in London, meaning fewer people to ask questions in the event of a staged disappearance, or - heaven forbid - death under mysterious circumstances. Those who did not meet this last criterion could be bribed or blackmailed into silence if necessary.
Lord Nethercross could hardly believe this was really happening, so he read his orders one last time before incinerating the telegram - just to be sure: Form club as front for secret society STOP Investigate and categorically disprove deny or discredit so called supernatural psychical cryptozoological and other unexplained phenomena in public record STOP Record then suppress or destroy any evidence of aforementioned phenomena if found STOP Monitor advances in exploration archaeology scientific and technological developments etc STOP And there it was. He lit the piece of paper on fire with a bemused smile. Shannon Fitzpatrick, he said, what a fine mess you're in now - the Queen sees a ghost, and now you're looking for faeries and vampires and life on Mars... he scoffed. Mr. Fitzpatrick had other ideas, his own agenda: Well let's see if we can't accomplish something of some real value. Keep a lid on the revolutionaries. Keep those jingo imperialists from getting us in a war over another thousand acres of barren scrubland... maybe work towards home rule for Ireland. I daresay if it be otherwise, we'll win an empire at the cost of a United Kingdom... he talked to himself like a promoter talks to a boxer before a fight, preparing to enter the meeting room. It begins...
He opened the door and waltzed in with an unassuming nod of the head. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologize for the somewhat, ah, theatrical circumstances of our meeting, thank you for coming on such short notice - I'm delighted to meet you all." He cleared his throat, "I'm Shannon Fitzpatrick, Lord Nethercross," he bowed his head ever so slightly, "but of course you each have my calling card. You're here because, in your own various ways, you are all seekers after the truth interested in expanding the boundaries of human knowledge - and that's what this is all about." He took a seat at the head of the table, and motioned with a grin to the person seated to his right. "Please, introduce yourselves, we'll get acquainted, and then I'll explain in detail why I've brought you here under such... unusual pretenses."