They're here, in London. I don't know how or why, but they are. I've bloodied three pairs of gloves looking for a lead on where they've set up shop, but they've locked themselves down tight. It's some sort of mixture between a cult and a terror cell. Chemical weapons. Drugs. Mutants, too.
I haven't yet met one who could see me, but I have to keep careful.
Walter idly scribbled these notes into his journal, a small notebook of sorts, worn at the seams and packed full of pictures. Rain fell overhead, puddles forming in the gutters of South London. He was standing in a dimly lit alleyway, rusty ladders hanging overhead. South London wasn't exactly the most picturesque part of the city. Recently, it'd become quite the hangout for mutants in addition to chavs, playing host to figures both gentle and unsavory. He narrowed his eyes as the pen stopped working. Shaking it aggressively, he resumed writing.
Every rumor I hear points to Gothic. A shantytown, they say. They're propagating in America now, or at least what's left of it. But clearly, once the sods've cleared house there, they'll move into England. It's making me nervous. We don't have paramen in the numbers the States do. I might be the only one left operating regularly this side of London. Can't hold them all off on my own. Need more bodies to throw at the Brotherhood once they show. Best I can do is delay their arrival. Maybe recruit some new blood. But this ain't the States, nah. It'll be tricky, that's for sure.
He paused, closing the book but keeping a white-gloved finger on the page. He looked about suspiciously, then continued to write once more.
Or I could do something stupid and visit the sods myself. Maybe with help I could shut down the Brotherhood across the Atlantic before they even make it here. Considering booking a flight.
He put the pen in his mouth, turning the page with one hand while he used his other to send a text. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he added one final footnote. Spitting out the pen, he pulled the bottom half of the crimson mask down over his face. Striding forth from the alley, he turned onto the street, hurrying down the sidewalk. Soon, perhaps against his better judgement, he'd be in Gothic, just like the rest of the crazies and the mutants. But there was a different resolve that came with the mask, his eyes burning as he sprinted for home under the dark clouds.
Wearing the mask, he wasn't Walter Lambert, but the man the underworld had taken to calling Bloody L. And soon the Brahma Brotherhood would be calling him that too.
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