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The Empty Shadow

Protege Series

By Jonathan CostaPublished 5 years ago 44 min read
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It had been a very long time since he’d returned, but walking up those seventeen steps he remembered what his old friend had told him those many years ago, “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.” The deep wry voice echoed like a ghost in the recesses of his mind. Finally reaching the door, his weathered hands brought the key up to the lock, but his hand shook and fumbled; dropping the key to the ground. As he cursed and bent down to pick it up, his wife approached him up the stairs. Placing one strong and yet gentle hand on his shoulder and another on his, she conveyed enough strength to him. She knew how hard a day it has been for him and how hard this was for him. Old memories, that had been put on the shelf so-to-speak, have been picked back up. She rubbed his back comfortingly as he exhaled heavily and gripped the key in momentary frustration with his own emotional turmoil. She held her hand out for the key. Looking her in the eyes, she kissed him on his cheek. “It’s okay.”

Reluctantly, he handed over the key and she inserted it into the lock. Opening the door, the hinges groaned after many years of remaining closed. She took him by the hand and led him inside, she flipped on the lights and the room lit up, but it was not what he remembered. The piles of books, boxes, and other clutter were nowhere to be seen. The skull was no longer on the fireplace and the jackknife that pinned the mail down was absent as well. All that was left was the chair that he used to sit down in and listen to the beautiful violin play. So many memories that filled every inch of the building were only shadowed markings on the walls and floor.

“I remember that chair,” she spoke up finally and circled the lonely piece of furniture.

He looked away from the chair and put his hands in his pockets. She knew how hard it was for him, but she would never truly understand what it meant being there again after so long. Despite that, she seemed determined to help him face it. Pulling him by the arm, she sat him down in the big chair and sat down on his lap; wrapping her arms around his strong shoulders. Even though, they weren’t young anymore, she made him feel immortal. He needed all the help he could get if he were to endure the emotions this place gave him.

“I’m going to miss her too,” she agreed. “Mrs. Hudson was a tough old bird, but the sweetest of them all still.”

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. Earlier they had come from Mrs. Hudson’s funeral and surprisingly enough, she had willed the entire 221 building to John.

“John?” she asked resting her head on his. “Are you sure you don’t want to move in?”

John looked off into the distance and sighed. “No.”

“What are you going to do with it?” she inquired.

“I don’t know,” John answered.

John looked over at the door where Sherlock would disappear behind and then rush back out to their next adventure.

“Well, could we keep the chair?” she added. “I love this chair.”

“I’ll think about it,” John uttered in a wearisome tone.

The two sat there for a few more minutes and then she finished passing through the rooms to see if there was anything else worth taking, but the building was vacant except for that one chair. After she returned and rubbed his shoulders comfortingly, the two left, locked the door, descended down the stairs and exited the exterior door. As they locked up the final door and started strolling down Baker Street, John’s mobile buzzed.

“Hold on, Mary, I’m getting a call,” John slowed his pace.

Mary slowed down and John stopped, looking at the caller ID, “Blocked Number.”

John answered, “Dr. Watson speaking.”

“John, how are you?” the cold crisp yet familiar voice responded.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Watson sighed, “To what do I owe the honor.”

“If I could inconvenience your time for a few minutes, I have a proposition for your new inheritance,” Mycroft Holmes invited. “Please meet me at the coffee house across the street. Come alone.”

Mycroft hung up before John could accept or decline. It wasn’t something he ever enjoyed about the Holmes brothers, but it was something he had come to miss. Turning to his wife, John opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“Go ahead, I’ll meet you back home,” Mary insisted. “It’ll give me the chance to find some good moving people if you choose to take that chair.”

Mary kissed him on the cheek and turned away towards the tube station. With one last wave goodbye, he made his way across the street to the coffee house. Entering, John saw Mycroft Holmes was sitting alone with a folded newspaper and a hot cuppa on the table beside him in the rear of the coffee house.

“So the Holmes on High has decided to have a cuppa with the mortals today,” John sarcastically huffed. “What? The Diogenes Club getting too crowded?”

“Take a seat, John. I don’t want to waste a second of your time more than I must, and I certainly don’t want to waste my own,” Mycroft gestured to the chair opposite of him. He seemed to be taller than John remembered, despite sitting down. It was his cold grey eyes that remained the same, illustrating perfectly the cold machine that was Mycroft Holmes. Even with his age, Mycroft Holmes was most likely the most intelligent man on Earth, and with his younger brother passed, he remains without equal mentally.

John sat down and turned to Mycroft. “Alright, Mycroft, what is that you want?”

“It’s been quite the time period since we last spoke. Sherlock’s service, I believe it was,” Mycroft recalled. “And now with dear Mrs. Hudson joining him, I’d say I was moved, but you would know better.”

“Funny, I don’t remember seeing you,” Watson scoffed.

“I paid my respects, but what intrigued me the most was the leaving of the 221 building to you,” Mycroft stated. “I imagine it being sentiment that drove that decision; what with you and Sherlock being the longest tenants in the building’s history. Since Sherlock retired to that beekeeping hobby of his, I had begun to think of the world without Sherlock Holmes ‘on the case’.”

“A darker one to be sure,” Watson added.

“My thoughts exactly,” Mycroft agreed, “And I realize he wouldn’t have approved of this project, so I thought it best to keep it clandestine until an appropriate date revealed itself. Now with you, the closest thing Sherlock has ever had to a friend, inheriting the very building where the Holmes-Watson adventures began; I would venture to call it providence.”

“What are you on about?” John questioned. “What project?”

“I have constructed a list of various reports across the globe of youths with extraordinary skills and talents. With this list, we can choose any amount of these youths and train them to becoming as great if not greater than the Sherlock Holmes. I have never been one for teaching so I had decided to have you appointed to head this program. 221 Baker St would be the perfect place for the program to begin in it’s grassroots stages. Since Sherlock’s death, crime has risen 25% and the police are struggling to keep the peace. Enter my solution; taking up of a project that brings promising youths from around the world and train them into the a new generation of great men and women.”

John pursed his lips in skepticism. “You dragged yourself all the way to Baker Street to tell me this...”

“I imagined you would need convincing.” Mycroft opened the folds of his newspaper and pulled out a thick file. “The program is happening with or without you. I simply thought you were the most qualified and would even want to be a part of this. Take it or leave it, but I have the feeling you will want to take it.”

Flipping through the file, John was impressed by the planning that had been put into this idea. There were even floor plans for renovations to be made to 221. There was more than enough space in the building for what they would need. It would follow the architectural features of a hostel, but with a few extra features for training specific fields.

“And this list?” Watson inquired.

“Some more qualified than others, but I’ve included five profiles further ahead in the file,” Mycroft noted.

“There are only pictures here,” John observed.

“Well, if you are interested in seeing more; there is a level of discretion to this program,” Mycroft added, “Well?”

John and Mycroft took a cab to Mycroft’s office at Whitehall where a smart screen that took up the entire wall presented all of the information regarding the program.

“Kimball O’Hara, currently serving in Tibet, has been trained by the best before he turned thirteen. Irish, British, Pakistani and Indian citizenship. An agent of MI6, Tibetan monk, and he’s just turned 17,” Mycroft presented the first candidate.

“He’s Irish,” John noted, “and he’s from India?”

“Born in Lahore, Pakistan actually, and yes. His mother is unknown and father was part of the Maverick Special Forces, killed in the line of duty. No one knows how he got to grow up in the slums of India, but he had documentation with him and has served brilliantly ever since,” Mycroft continued.

“Mavericks? Weren’t they disbanded?” Watson noted, “Special Forces, right?”

“That’s need to know,” Mycroft evaded, “But our Kim here has inside access to the Mavericks, MI6, Freemasons, and every culture from Afghanistan to Bangladesh.”

In a temple high in the Tibetan mountains, a long haired Kim O’Hara was sitting in the lotus position preparing. Unlike his other contemporaries, he didn’t empty his mind during his meditation, but he organized his thoughts in the calm atmosphere of the Tibetan mountain temple. There were a few things that he appreciated about the Monk life, but he didn’t agree with everything. He actually chose to grow out his hair like a yogi and tie it up in a topknot. He leaned forward slightly and fluidly rolled backward onto his shoulders. His folded hands came down with him and his weight transferred onto his palms. His legs unfolded so that his knees rested on his chest and he flipped up on his feet. He continued his defensive movements like a soundless dance. Kim made time every day for this routine to keep his body limber. Most of the other monks preferred slower practices, but Kim knew from experience; self-defense is a necessity in the real world. He could almost hear the rushing of the nearby river slowly making its way down the valley plain. It was when he was meditating that he was at his most alert. That is why he heard the patter of a monk's feet rushing toward him. Opening his eyes, he saw his elderly yet spry Master.

“Sifu Teshoo,” Kim adjusted to a traditional bow. Even though they didn’t have many things in common, Kim was a good judge character and proud to be a pupil of Teshoo Lama.

“Chela Kim,” Teshoo echoed the traditional bow and handed a flip phone to him. “Your other brothers have sent this to you through Mahbub Ali. He is also here to see you.”

“I shall go see him. Thank you, Sifu.” Kim bowed again and Teshoo bowed back.

“This may mean that I will have to leave,” Kim acknowledged.

“You have your family out there and in here,” Teshoo added. “You will be missed, but we are also patient for when you return.”

Starting to bow again, Kim spontaneously hugged Teshoo one last time. Teshoo patted Kim on the back and smiled. Kim and Teshoo finished with one last bow, Kim turned away toward the waiting area near the entrance of the temple. Kim walked down the graceful temple halls and turned the phone in his hand. Kim had given his phone to Mahbub Ali, also known as MI6 Agent C.25, telling him to return it the next time he needed help. If Mahbub wasn’t just visiting, that meant that Kim would have to leave the temple and his Monk brothers. Smelling the incense burning fill the halls, Kim knew he would miss the serenity he could only experience here. Turning one last corner, Kim caught glimpse of Mahbub standing around and looking at his watch. He was not dressed in his usual Afghan attire. He was dressed in a linen suit, French cuffs on his shirt and sunglasses that he took off and stretched.

“The real world, making you impatient?” Kim remarked.

Turning around to him, Mahbub’s large smile appeared, “Kim my boy! It’s been too long. It’s good to see you.”

“You as well, Hajji,” Kim embraced Mahbub and they made the customary Afghan greeting of a kiss on the cheeks.

“You look thin,” Mahbub noted. “First order of business should be to get you a proper plate of naan!”

“I have missed the curry of Lahore, I’ll admit,” Kim added. “Yet this place has an atmosphere that really puts my mind at ease. You know how I get with signals and you are covered in them. I do hope this assignment is worth leaving the most tranquil place in the world. Please tell me I’m wrong about where I deduce we’re going.”

“You are rarely wrong,” Mahbub admitted. “What gave it away?”

“Apart from the smell of English cider on your breath or the airplane seat creases on the back of your trousers? How was your flight, by the way?” Kim deduced and revealed a British passport that he had picked from Mahbub’s pocket. Mahbub patted his pockets in momentary confusion but remembered Kim’s talent.

“I’ve taught you too well,” Mahbub complimented. “I guess you weren’t fast enough to pick the rest of it from me.”

Mahbub pulled out the airplane ticket and a pamphlet for London tourism.

Kim’s shoulders fell. “London.”

“London,” Mahbub confirmed and denied Kim returning the passport. “That passport is actually for you.”

Opening it, Kim saw that Mahbub was correct; the picture was from a few years ago before he moved to the temple.

“What’s wrong? I think you’ll like this one.” Mahbub smiled deviously, “This assignment isn’t from MI6 on high, it’s higher.”

“Higher? UN?” Kim asked.

“Higher,” Mahbub corrected, shaking his head.

“Who could be higher? Allah?” Kim joked.

“Perhaps not so high,” Mahbub chuckled, “Are you familiar with the name: Mycroft Holmes?”

“I haven’t heard that name in years. I thought he was a myth. Didn’t he die?” Kim inquired.

“Not quite, but I’ll debrief you on the way to the airport if you accept, of course,” Mahbub answered.

Kim looked at the brochure and plane ticket in one hand and the passport in the other, “What kind of assignment would Mycroft Holmes have for me?”

Mahbub smiled again even more deviously. “You may want to get a haircut.”

“Xury Crusoe,” Mycroft introduced next, “finished the Cambridge four-year coursework for engineering in a year and a half. In fact because of a deal made with the school and Xury’s funding revenue, Cambridge’s engineering program may catch up with MIT in America very soon.”

“Crusoe... as in-,” John started.

“Crusoe Enterprises also known as CrusoeCorp, Crusoe International, Crusoe Innovations, Crusoe Industries, Crusoe Incorporated, etcetera,” Mycroft finished. “Spearheading in technology, medicine, food, etcetera. Xury works as the Executive Manager of a large portion of the company supervising everything especially the Prototype Testing division.”

“Okay, he’s smart, I get it,” John accepts. “What business does he have with crime-solving?”

“Sherlock Holmes utilized modern technology as a minor tool. Young Crusoe has developed a security program that has streamlined face recognition and polygraphing. He is also responsible for the team of IT white hat hackers that defend and protect people from various cases of computer criminals already. Crusoe IT services have even helped governmental systems secure secrets,” Mycroft informed.

“Crusoe Enterprises are defense contractors too?” John asked.

“We offered a substantial bonus for weapon designs, but the CEO declined under the demands of Xury,” Mycroft answered. “Xury Crusoe is a pacifist and his terms were if Crusoe Enterprises designed anything for military use or weaponry, he would leave the company.”

“Very honorable,” John acknowledged.

“His honor is inconsequential,” Mycroft rebuffed. “The fact is the company turned down an exceedingly large sum of money to keep him.”

At Crusoe HQ, a group of scientists and engineers, all wearing special augmented reality glasses and wristbands, were standing around a large table in a white room that was completely empty besides a few tables and chairs. Among them was Xury sitting in one of the chairs, looked at all of them shout and interrupt each other. What he and the other designers were seeing was an array of product designs currently they were working on a prototype design for a deep sea powered exoskeleton.

“What are we going to do about the battery failure? And the water pressure in a suit this tight isn’t going to clear safety code legalities,” one engineer argued.

“It’s not a matter of pressure, the structure is strong enough to repel the water no matter how deep,” another engineer countered.

“Human bodies would never support that many fathoms, no matter what they’re wearing,” a third corrected. “The energy pack would weigh them down and use up more energy than can be carried.”

The engineers continued to bicker and argue, each with their own qualm about the design or how it should work. Xury made a few swift movements with his hands and opened a new holographic file. He stood up, holding the augmented file, walked over and waved the prototype design away. The engineers still didn’t seem to notice.

“Ahem,” Xury cleared his throat timidly. “Excuse me.”

The quarreling continued.

“Oye! I have...” Xury shouted and lowered his voice as the arguing dissipated, “... something cool.”

“Cool,” the first engineer echoed.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on this on the side for a while.” Xury tapped on his augmented file and expanded it to reveal a newer model of the same exoskeleton.

“Uh okay, but where’s the energy source?” the first engineer questioned.

“I’m glad you asked, Ernest.” Xury grinned warmly. “I put together this energy generator using technology that picks up where Nikola Tesla’s World Wireless System leaves off and a theorized new element that I was able to duplicate,” Xury snapped his fingers twice at a floating augmented window and the specifications for it all came up. “I have a prototype built in the Applied Sciences Division, but if we work out the kinks it should be able to power the suit from the submarine indefinitely.”

“A new renewable energy source?” one of the engineers gasped. “Where does this element come from?”

“The ionosphere.” Xury shrugged. “So could we make this work?”

“If Xury designed it, it’s practically a guarantee,” an intense, but jovial voice announced from behind the circle of engineers.

Xury’s mentor and foster father entered the room with his set of augmented reality glasses and wristbands. All of the engineers went silent as the CEO and Head approached examining Xury’s new designs and specifications. After stroking his mustache beard, Crusoe nodded and grinned.

“I still need to get the generator fully operational, but with everyone’s support, it should be done in a matter of weeks,” Xury informed.

“Xury, you’ve done it again.” Crusoe clapped a hand on Xury’s shoulder and shook it in encouragement. “This is very good.”

“Thank you, sir,” Xury uttered humbly.

“So, I'll let you lot get to it. Step to it!” Crusoe clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I’ll need to borrow Xury for a moment. Xury?”

“Yes, sir,” Xury obeyed and followed Crusoe out of the room, setting their augmented reality glasses and wristbands on the table by the door.

Outside, Xury could see the large open architecture reminiscent of large white waves of the Bedfordshire Crusoe HQ. The large skylight lit up the large opening where most of the offices were exposed by glass walls and the light colored bamboo flooring. The bottom floor courtyard had bright green plants that was a fantastic garden on its own and made for natural air freshener. Everything about the building made it a model example of international cooperation, green architecture, and clean energy. With pleasing esthetics and calming atmosphere, employees always came to work with smiles. It was much better than the place Crusoe had taken Xury from; he tried to forget about it.

“Xury, I’m glad to hear about your progress in the Imagination Room. You’ve been instrumental in making this company do so well,” Crusoe complimented. “Remember when we were offered that defense contract? We turned them down because of you.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, I just,” Xury apologized.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, Xury. I apologize for not making the call myself quicker,” Crusoe retorted, “I may be a good businessman and I talk a good game, I even have a little mechanical skills, but you’ve taken what I taught you and surpassed me on all counts.”

“Well, it’s whatever.” Xury shrugged. “It all still feels like once in a lifetime.”

“Well, if you think this is once in a lifetime,” Crusoe chortled. “You’re going to love this next project.”

“Project?” Xury echoed.

“There’s a young woman here representing a government office that’s asked for you specifically,” Crusoe excitedly raised his eyebrows. “She’s cute, too.”

“Sir.” Xury rolled his eyes.

“I digress. She has something of a proposal for you; something to do with a project in London,” Crusoe informed. “This job here, being my right hand, will always be here for you. I firmly advise that you seriously consider this offer.”

As he spoke, a beautiful young woman approached them both from behind Crusoe. Xury could only assume it was the representative Crusoe was talking about.

“Xury, this here is Ms. Montrose,” Crusoe introduced. “Ms. Montrose, Xury.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ms. Montrose nodded and held out a hand for a handshake, which Xury received. “To save time, perhaps I can debrief you on the lift ride down as you walk me out. By the time we reach my car, you can give me your answer.”

“Uhh...” Xury looked at Crusoe who just nudged and hinted conspicuously.

“Thank you, sir,” Xury nodded.

“And enough of this 'sir' business. To you, I go by Rob now,” Crusoe ordered.

Xury smiled and followed Ms. Montrose toward the lift.

“Mary Lennox: top of her class at Yorkshire College, accepted to Oxford and all before she was even drinking age,” Mycroft moved on to the next candidate, “She’s certified as both paramedic and ambulance technician. Even more qualifying than her educational record, is her curiosity especially in the field of Herbal remedies and Chemistry. She’s even started a blog: ‘Green Thumb Science, Bitch!’.”

John burst into laughter. “I’m sorry your voice saying that, it’s just...”

Mycroft’s face remained as somber and grey as usual. He continued, “She posts videos of her, cousin Colin, and foster cousin Dickon, with various experiments. Some of these experiments include dangerous rockets and potentially harmful chemicals. While they all participate, Mary is, usually, the one closest to the danger.”

“Sounds psychologically unsafe,” John mused, “I can relate.”

“Although she is currently a student, she has expressed goals to her teachers about traveling abroad for WHO and other like organizations.”

“Adventurous indeed,” John commented.

“You should see her explosive coffee,” Mycroft scoffed.

On the Oxford campus, students started to gather in a large circle around a table with Mary and her cousins around it. Mary rubbed her hands together and swayed back and forth excitedly. Her cousin Dickon held the camcorder connected to a light mobile camera arm and Colin was setting up the paper cups on the fold up table for Mary’s new podcast video experiment.

Looking at the camera, Mary announced loudly, “Hello my beautiful Pentahedrons and welcome back to Green Thumb Science! I’m here in lovely University of Oxford with my boy: Colin.”

Colin saluted to the camera from behind the table. “Oye.”

“We also have a few of the Oxford student body with us today,” Mary turned to the gathered circle and they cheered and clapped in response, “You may remember a few podcasts back, I got knocked on my bum by our Caffeinated bomb and we got so much positive feedback that we decided to try something a little similar. We never repeat an experiment, but today we’ll be using coffee for a foam bomb. Expanding foam! Because I took the fall last time it is Colin’s turn to taste the morning coffee today. We’ll have Dickon’s RealTalk explanation cut in right here.”

Mary trotted over to the table while Dickon reloaded his camcorder. She put on the safety goggles and handed a pair to Dickon. Colin adjusted his safety goggles and mask.

Cupping her hands around her mouth, Mary shouted, “Disclaimer, there will be a large foamy mass that will hypothetically not stop growing until it’s, like, 25 meters in diameter. So unless you want to be covered in the coffee stain of your life: back it up!”

As the students obeyed, Mary picked up the measuring tape and Colin hesitantly held the other end. Dickon brought back the camera and focused on Mary and Colin, “And action.”

“Okay. Now to the good stuff,” Mary said to the camera. “Colin has Chemical X and Y in these two cups. Our good ole’ coffee is in Chemical Z.”

“Why do we use coffee?” Colin said as part of the script.

“Cuz,” Mary answered, “Colin is going to mix X and Z to make the base compound and Y is going to set it of., We don’t really know exactly how big the foam will expand, so we have Colin holding this end of the tape measure while I run from the foam. This tape measure is about 10 meters, here’s hoping the foam doesn’t get any bigger than that. Colin, you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Colin shook his head like he, usually, did during this situation.

“Okay, do it,” Mary readied herself to start running.

Colin mixed the two cups like Mary had said and then stirred them. Finally, he poured the last cup and a foam slowly started to rise and grow. As Mary started to distance herself, Colin braced himself still holding on to the tape measure. In a matter of seconds, Colin was completely enveloped in the foam and it continued to grow. Dickon followed Mary as she distanced herself quickly from the growing foam. The gathered students murmured in awe and then cheered and clapped at the spectacle. Mary laughed as she and Dickon ran 5 meters.

“This is so cool,” Mary giggled and snorted slightly; 15 meters.

The foam growth started to slow down but continued as Mary reached her limit. The foam continued slowly enveloping Mary’s arm. The spectators started to gasp in fear, but Mary squealed as the foam finally stopped at her shoulder.

“I think we went a bit too big,” Mary noted to the camera with a smile. “Hey Colin! You dead?”

“Yes,” Colin sarcastically replied through the muffling foam.

“Well, there you have it,” Mary redirected her attention to the camera, “We’ll post the instructions on how you could make your own foam bomb at home. Looks like we’ve got this mess to clean up. Until the next time, Valediction, Peace.”

The spectators clapped at the large mass of foam and the smell of coffee filled the air. Campus security approached the trio and Dickon started to put away the camera.

“Well, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young lady,” one of the officers scolded, turning to Dickon and a foam covered Colin. “And you two. Are you even students here?”

“We’re getting people excited about science,” Mary chimed. “These are just my cousins helping me with my blog. You should check it out.”

“You’ll check yourself into the counselor’s office if you know what’s good for you,” the officer ordered. “And you two are going to get this cleaned up and get off campus after.”

“I can help them,” Mary debated.

“Office,” he hissed.

Mary rolled her eyes and bumped fists with her cousins as she followed one of the officers to the counselor’s office.

Mary thought it would be cool to attend the highest ranking university medical program, but she seemed to be too “disruptive to the education atmosphere.” This was already the third time she was called into the counselor’s office. The last couple times, teachers were complaining about how she keeps “interrupting” them; when in reality she corrects them when they were wrong, refuse to leave when dismissed and debated certain pharmaceutical agendas they seemed to have. The first time was when she “got into a fight” with one of the other students. She actually was defending herself from a girl who thought she was hitting on her boyfriend. Mary had trouble sometimes getting along with people.

“Ms. Lennox, you know I support any students' excitement for any educational subject, but I find it difficult to see how this little prank applies to your studies,” the counselor reprimanded indirectly.

“It’s technically part of a class, more of a hobby, but it's science.” Mary folded her arms and shrugged.

“It’s not just this case. The complaints from your teachers, fighting with another student,” the counselor listed.

“That girl bit me!” Mary countered. “I’m lucky I don’t have Gonor...”

“Ms. Lennox!” the counselor interrupted abruptly.

Before he could berate her anymore the door opened with his secretary peeking in, “There’s a gentleman on the phone, name Craven.”

The counselor held up his index finger to Mary and picked up his phone. “Dr. Christopher Syn speaking.” The counselor’s pointed finger coiled back to him and stroked his chin in thought, “It’s a pleasure to speak with you, sir. I actually was just... Yes... Yes... I see. I’ll notify her post-haste... Yes, sir... Goodbye...”

“My uncle had something to share?” Mary deduced.

“He’s requested that we release you from your courses today. Apparently an alternative program has come up and he wants to take you to London for an orientation trial,” Syn informed.

“London?” Mary raised an eyebrow.

“Azelma Thenardier. There’s little record of her anywhere apart from a few charges of petty theft, trespassing and vandalism,” Mycroft continued, “She has never been caught successfully by any authorities; she mostly operates her small-time crime in Paris. What put her on the map for our system was when one of our field agents was pickpocketed by her and lost very valuable intelligence. She didn’t even know what she had stolen, but once it was retrieved she was put in the Centre pénitentiaire de Rennes-Vezin.”

“Well, not so clever, after all,” John assumed.

“She escaped two days later,” Mycroft added. “The agent’s room was set on fire the day after.”

“That escalated quickly,” John uttered.

“Somehow she was erased from the system. Physical copies missing and digital files lost. We initially thought that she was part of the enemy assignment of the agent; perhaps a hired hitwoman or just a saboteur, yet with the surveillance she seems to have no connection whatsoever,” Mycroft went on. “The agent tailing her is starting to believe she is tailing him.”

In the bustling streets of Paris, France, the agent responsible for all secure transactions of information in France sat on a park bench and observed the passerby. Unnoticed by anyone, Azelma was brushing up against various people; swiping glasses, wallets, watches, and other things that people left unguarded. She had so much practice being the perfect thief for so long that she pick-pocketed sometimes without thinking. Seeing the agent on the bench up ahead, Azelma turned away and put up her hood. Stripping the wallets of their Euros, she tossed them on the ground; tossed watches she didn’t want and put on the ones she liked. Azelma put on one of the sunglasses she stole and already noticed that the Agent did see her and was a good distance behind her. She didn’t know who this agent was, but he wasn’t French; at least not Parisian. He spoke well enough from what she’s heard after eavesdropping on a few of his conversations. His knowledge of Paris streets was harrowing. Local police had an easier time chasing her. Fortunately, they don’t know what she looks like so she remains invisible except for this agent. For some reason, he didn’t go to the police. She’s been tailing him tailing her tailing him tailing her for weeks and it started to bore her. She started to regret separating from her father. It would have been profitable to take their business to America. From what she heard on television there were thousands of suckers to run games on. On the other hand, he probably would have just profited from her skills. Even though he taught her everything she knew about theft, he was still a leech. Even after her sister was killed, he hardly shed a tear. She was better off without him. Yet she still had this agent tailing her—if you could call it tailing. She turned around a corner and lost the agent in the human traffic of the city street outside of the park. Once out of his sight, she noticed him start moving faster and caught sight of her again.

“Won’t give up, will you?” Azelma thought to herself.

She started jogging which increased speed to a graceful run. She weaved through people and saw a ledge coming up. She knew the city well enough to know that she could leap off that ledge and roll onto a truck that was parked there every day except weekends. She did and after she was over the ledge she remembered it was Saturday. Instinctively she grabbed the edge of the overpass and dangled over what she estimated to be a six meter drop. She’s fallen from worse, but she was always in motion. Parkour wasn’t as effective if the traceur stopped moving.

“Feces,” Azelma insulted her situation and accepted the fall.

She swung her body the best she could and rolled sloppily on her landing. It sent grit and pain through her whole body, but she still had her head protected so she got up and brushed herself off. Nothing broken and plenty bruised, she backed under the overpass level she leapt from. Unexpectedly, the agent leaped and half slid down the wall adjacent, leading to a roll-landing that she would have done. Azelma was partially impressed and indifferent.

Before she could start running again, the agent called out, “Please, wait!”

He was out of breath clearly, and she was very hurt. The adrenaline had worn off and she was sore everywhere, but she played it off like she was fine.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Azelma huffed and spat unladylike, “You’re old apartment was trash anyway.”

“Just give me a second,” the agent leaned against the wall.

“Even got a better place, didn’t you? What are you British? American?” Azelma questioned. “Could have just asked for your chip back.”

“I did,” the agent managed to wheeze.

“Yeah, well, I returned it, besides,” Azelma crossed her arms.

“It was sensitive information, I’m just glad you didn’t steal my real wallet,” the agent sighed.

“Real wallet?” Azelma furrowed her brows.

“Long story. I just want to talk.” The agent finally sat down.

Although she was still sore, she could shake it off enough to run away and disappear for good. The only real reason why she stuck around Paris was that she was curious.

“You put me in prison,” Azelma argued.

“You stole from me and set my room on fire,” the agent countered.

“You weren’t in it,” Azelma shrugged.

“So we’re square,” the agent concluded. “A few minutes is all I ask.”

“Time is money in my world,” Azelma stated.

“I’m here to talk about both,” the agent replied.

Azelma hesitated; he was sitting down and she could make a clean getaway.

“First, who are you, really?” Azelma demanded.

“Classified, I’ll let you interpret that any way you like,” the agent answered. “I came here to Paris to find the man they call Patron-Minette.”

Azelma scoffed. “The man.”

“What?” the agent looked confused.

“Whoever you work for should fire you,” Azelma insulted. “If you were here as long as I’ve seen you here and you were focusing on only that, you are much dumber than I thought; or you are in the wrong business.”

“Enlighten me,” the agent folded his hands with a challenging expression.

“What’s in it for me?” Azelma responded.

“The deal of a lifetime,” the agent vaguely pitched.

Azelma hesitated again. “Patron-Minette isn’t a man, they are a gang; a crime ring of hitmen and thieves-for-hire. They work as street performers, mainly breakdancing and street magic, but that’s a front. They are among the best in the business, they leave no traces or witnesses.”

Azelma was grateful that France had these big fish criminals and made it a lot easier for smaller fish like her to do what she does.

“How do you know all this?” the agent inquired.

“Family friends,” Azelma shrugged. “One of them was dating my sister, but she ended it because of some stupid movement.”

“Your sister was in the youth protests?” the agent questioned.

Azelma wasn’t even able to say goodbye to her sister when she was shot in the protests. She didn’t even believe in the cause; it was all for some boy.

“My dad helped them on a few jobs before.” Azelma changed the subject. “I can tell you where they perform, but I get paid first.”

“Okay, you’ll get your payment,” the agent promised.

“So what about this deal of a lifetime?” Azelma nodded.

“Ever been to London?” the agent asked.

“No.” Azelma’s face remained emotionless.

“There’s an opportunity to use those skills you have for something more real,” the agent continued. “You seem like the kind that likes danger, but have you ever played the other side of the crime game?”

“N.,” Azelma’s face didn’t reveal anything.

“They are putting together something for young talent, like you,” the agent pitched. “You help them out and they cover all the expenses even get some new stomping ground. If you’re interested I can’t take you there personally, but I can get someone...”

“Okay,” Azelma shrugged and started walking away.

“Wait, where are you going?” the agent called as he brushed himself off and hurried behind.

“What is the address I need to go to?” Azelma stopped in her tracks.

“221B Baker Street, but...” the agent replied, but Azelma already started running away. He could only assume he would never see her again. If only he had gotten more information about his assignment.

“How much do you have on you?” Azelma scared him that she appeared behind him.

“How did you?” the agent gasped.

“How much?” Azelma held her hand out. “I could have just took it off you. See, I’m being nice. How much?”

“Fifty euros,” he answered.

Sighing Azelma muttered, “Cheapskate. Follow me.”

“He is known by different names depending on who you ask, but after many years of research we were able to find his original legal name,” Mycroft sighed knowing that the little they discovered was an exhausting one. “Erik Rasim.”

“Who is he?” John inquired.

“Unfortunately we cannot even be entirely sure that this is really him, but with luck the myths and legends surrounding the individual we mean to bring in is based on some truth,” Mycroft admitted, “His current alias is Fantôme and does his haunting in the Palais Garnier of Paris. Yet we cannot find any physical evidence apart from hearsay.”

“So how do you know he even exists?” John speculated.

“Apart from every crime ring pointing to him as the top of the real hierarchy and the superstitions of the Palais Garnier cast and crew, there is tell that they have him in a prison already,” Mycroft informed. “I have agents securing the transfer, but the assumed Fantôme is supposed to be transferred from Diyarbakir in Turkey to La Sante in Paris.”

“Diyarbakir?” John stated in shock, “Isn’t that...?”

“One of the most dangerous prisons in the world? Yes. And he’s being transferred to a prison, not that much better. The prisons themselves could be making it up for notoriety’s sake, but if we could get this boy on our side, he would prove most invaluable,” Mycroft explained. “To become so notorious on such a scale around the world, and in such a short time.”

“Wait!” John interrupted, “So far we’ve had teenagers, kids, being brought on, the majority being barely drinking age. Supposedly, the inmate of one of the worst prisons on earth and a criminal myth; you don’t mean to tell me he’s as young?”

“There have been inmates as young as 13 at Diyarbakir, although he supposedly was the youngest inmate that ever was there. According to the Fantôme mythos, he was born among the worst criminals and has been traded around the world ever since. Erik Rasim was born in Rouen, France. If they are the same person, he has traveled far and he is barely 19.”

“Turkey certainly is a great distance,” John agreed, but Mycroft chuckled softly.

“You don’t get it,” Mycroft corrected. “The name: Fantôme, is on the lips of every criminal from Mauritania to Vietnam.”

“Supposedly,” John noted.

“Supposedly,” Mycroft nodded.

In Diyarbakir, the buildings were half covered in dirt and half in rust. Outside, the sun beat down relentlessly and the hundreds of bodies that crowded the courtyard made it that much hotter. The prison was crowded and filthy, feeling much like a maggot infested wound disguised as buildings. The smell was torture enough besides the frequent beatings. Even though it took ten guards just to subdue him, Erik was exempt from the truly lethal torture; the guards were ordered not to kill him. To have an inmate like him was enough to boost their reputation and morale improved greatly. The inmates learned from their first few attempts that they should not try their hand at fighting with him. There was always some new inmate that wanted to be the new big fish, but it always ended the same. It wouldn’t be long until the instructions he sent out to his assistants in France would take effect. If they obeyed his every word, he would be ordered by the Country of France as a citizen and transferred to the La Sante Prison in Paris. He would easily escape from the transfer in between and disappear successfully off the grid. Until then, he had to endure a few more days of beating ambitious inmates and guards to a pulp. The courtyard was nothing more than a space in between the rows of cell halls. Come lucky few found shade from the scorching sun during the early and late part of the day. The rest had to sit in the sandbox pit that separated the cell halls from the processing office and the solitary confinement boxes.

“Hey, King Ghost!” a new inmate shouted.

“Don’t do it, sir, for your sake,” one of the child inmates begged.

“Quiet, boy!” the new inmate growled. “King Ghost I am Wasimbu of the Waziri. I challenge you to a man to man fight.”

Erik sat apart from the rest of the inmates. “You should review your path before it leads you to ruin,” Erik warned. “You are but a boy.”

No one knew Erik’s real age. They all assumed he was older because of his height. The ragged clothes that he wore hid his malnourished form well enough to remain intimidating. As a rule, he referred to everyone as his younger. This new inmate was not much older than he was, but he has come a long way. If Erik remembered correctly, Waziri was a Congolese tribe; slave trade victim most likely. This Wasimbu seemed to only challenge out of pride, perhaps hoping to secure his safety by at least surviving the biggest fish. Erik shook his head at the petty fear that these inmates subjected to. Looking out at the courtyard, Wasimbu stood alone while other inmates distanced themselves from him, but everyone loved to see a good brawl. Wasimbu stood out as a new inmate when compared with the other inmates covered in the prison dirt.

“I have been trained by a warrior that was part-man part-gorilla. I fear no demons of yours,” Wasimbu proclaimed.

Standing erect from his shaded corner, Erik stepped into the sunlight and towered over Wasimbu. Removing his outer garment, he revealed his revolting torso with skin like stained paper that he covered with pen notes in various languages along the form of his bones. He kept his keffiyeh scarf on to cover his face. It had traveled throughout the prison from those who witnessed what happened to the guard who took off his mask.

“No one touches the mask,” they would whisper. Wasimbu didn’t know that, but Erik would do his best to make it so that he wouldn’t have to learn.

Erik approached Wasimbu and they both took their stances. “You were warned.”

Wasimbu charged forward first and Erik effortlessly dodged his blow, and tripped him with a firm stomp on Wasimbu’s strong step. As Wasimbu recovered with a leg swipe, Erik leapt up briefly enough to land on Wasimbu’s leg. Wasimbu gritted in pain, but Erik took his time stepping off.

“I’m feeling merciful today,” Erik announced. “First person to nurse our new brother, Wasimbu, will get an extra ration for the month. Volunteers?”

All remained silent, likely because they were too afraid to respond to Erik. A few of the younger inmates accepted the task and helped Wasimbu up. However, there was a group of older inmates that harbored resentment toward Erik. They didn’t really believe that Erik was so formidable, the guards went easy on him. This example of a challenger seemed to spark something in them today.

“Rations!” an armed guard roared and the inmates filed up. No bowls were passed out today, they would eat what fit in their hands. Everyone rowed up and Erik took his usual place closer to the back.

“Why doesn’t the King Ghost go up and serve himself first?” one of the older inmates spat.

“Perhaps I’m waiting to kill a pig soon; better than the garbage they serve here,” Erik responded.

“Perhaps the new fool has the right idea; how can we be sure you are truly worthy of being the Devil of Diyarbakir?” the inmate challenged.

“Do you wish to be the new Devil, Zigomar?” Erik questioned.

“Perhaps I do,” Zigomar uttered.

“Perhaps we can wait till after rations. It’d be a shame to die on an empty stomach,” Erik threatened.

Zigomar had more men with him than Erik had dealt with in a while, but it was not enough to make him flinch. When the first punch was thrown, Erik dodged and then bit on the wrist of the attacker through the folds of his scarf. Two more attacked Erik’s other side, but he swung around using Zigomar as a shield. With fists like bullets and arms like hammers, Erik spun and kicked and punched his would-be attackers far more viciously than he had the last. Most the inmates spread out and avoided the fray that Erik made of the small mob. The guards fired shots into the air and the inmates not involved in the brawl balled up on the ground. Five guards grabbed Erik by the arms and pulled him away.

“Solitary confinement!” the guard barked.

“I don’t need your help!” Erik growled.

“It is the others that need our help,” the guards noted the wounded men that Erik left behind.

In the cramped hole of a cell that Erik was thrown in, they managed to drag out the corpse of the last starved solitary inmate to make room. The guards slammed the door behind them and Erik sat in the darkness. The darkness seemed to calm Erik and despite the wretched smell and sore limbs, Erik felt the calm start settling in. Erik learned patience among his many skills and waiting in solitary confinement was the perfect place to plan his next move while he waits for his assistants to come with his transfer documentation.

After what seemed like a few hours, the door opened with a dark man in a light linen shirt and suit pants standing in its light. Shoes were slightly muddied from walking through the filthy prison, but Erik knew who he was, Daroga. Daroga saved his life in Iran, as repayment, Erik arranged that he move to France because of losing favor with the "Shah" as head bodyguard and bagman. Now Daroga worked for Erik, acting as his eyes and ears. Daroga was pretending to be a representative of French immigration, but not according to plan, another man in a suit came.

“King Ghost, ready to go back to Paris?” Daroga inquired.

Once outside and loaded into the Jeep, Turkish soldiers escorted the three of them to the nearest airport. To keep up the appearance, Erik remained in chain cuffs for his hands and feet. Erik switched over to French so that the Turkish wouldn’t understand them.

“Daroga, who is this third man?” Erik inquired.

“Mr. Fantôme, I introduce to you: Agent Demetrius Rackapolo. If it pleases you, he is representing a British man, although he is of the Turkish government himself. He wishes to make an offer,” Daroga introduced.

“Play as my interpreter, I don’t want him understanding everything I say,” Erik commanded.

“Yes sir,” Daroga accepted. Turning to the Agent, Daroga translated into English, “Mr. Fantôme wants to know what it is your represented wants?”

“The man I represent does not dare claim that he knows the thoughts of Mr. Fantôme. However, he does believe in Mr. Fantôme’s legendary skill in a successful escape from the transfer to La Sante Prison,” Agent Rackapolo stated, “The crimes connected to Mr. Fantôme are very numerous. However to lock away a legend of such skill and genius would be a very wasteful course of action. This man has an offer, a contract job in London, that if it pleases Mr. Fantôme will waive all previous crimes and grant diplomatic immunity in ten countries of your choosing.”

Daroga interpreted as Rackapolo explained; Erik remained unaffected. Erik analyzed the situation. If he refused he would run the risk of his plan being interrupted by the agent and his people. Part of the escape plan was the element of discretion. He already thought about an alternative plan if such an occurrence should arise. On the other hand, if he accepted he would have to postpone his arrival to Paris, the renovation designs to the Palais Garnier, being present for the new talent auditions, and updating his computer systems. He trusted Daroga could get it done and remain clandestine about it, but the most fun would be in getting it done personally. Daroga couldn’t build it on his own; he would need at least one other person. And Erik didn’t want to have to hire assassin’s; too many loose ends.

“What do you think, Daroga?” Erik inquired.

“It sounds like a very profitable venture,” Daroga reasoned. “And you can more easily disappear from them when you aren’t in chains.”

Erik paused in thought and then spoke, “Daroga, listen carefully. Have Madame Giry begin organizing auditions for new blood. Start with the Cirque du Romani, pay exactly your weight in gold and the ringmaster will handover anything you want. Exactly your weight, no more no less; don’t ask. In the catacombs, there is a list I dictated to Madame Giry. Begin ordering the materials and store them in the address on the green post-it note. Also, have Giry put together a travel bag from travel itinerary number three.”

“What shall I tell the Agent, sir?” Daroga asked.

“Twenty countries and we have an arrangement.” Erik nodded.

“This is madness.” John shook his head. “These are kids? Each one you’ve mentioned is more crazy and dangerous than the last.”

“So you like them,” Mycroft concluded.

“It’s not going to be easy,” John argued.

“It’ll be a breeze. They are all thoroughly skilled and qualified; all they need is a little direction,” Mycroft rebuffed. “We have plenty of assignments lined up for them.”

“I have a thought.” John scratched his beard and crossed his arms.

“What is it?” Mycroft turned slightly curious.

“Why not put them through a test run?” John considered.

“Test run? A test?” Mycroft repeated. “What would it be?”

“Perhaps not so much a test, more like...” John smiled, really smiled, for the first time in a long time. “... A study.”

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About the Creator

Jonathan Costa

Artist. Poet. Traveller. Witness. Brazilian-American. Story-teller.

@nomadicartsstudio on Instagram

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