Fic - "An Unpredictable Life"

[colonel_bastard]

Title: An Unpredictable Life
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan, OCs. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 10,790
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes you have to hit rock bottom before you can push back towards the surface. Sometimes you have to fall from grace before you can rise again.
Warnings: Violence, masturbation, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: The triumphant tenth entry in the Basil/Ratigan series! That word count is not a typo--- this one is more or less a novella. Prompter at disney_kink wanted to know how Basil became "The Great Mouse Detective," and as they say, it's a long story. For everyone who's been wanting to meet Mama Hume in person, well, I hope she doesn't disappoint. This fic picks up right at the end of History and closes right at the beginning of Smoke and Mirrors, meaning that this will be the last of the prequel stories (I hope!). I thought about breaking it up into chapters but I think you guys can handle it! Have fun.

UPDATE: Now with an illustration by the extremely talented eve_n_furter! Have a look at Mama Hume In Her Chamber.



When Basil enters the station house, an abrupt silence falls. Officers stand in place as though frozen by some spell, their eyes glued to the young constable at the door. Although he had been prepared for a chilly reception, he is not prepared for the sudden surge of shame and self-loathing that claws at his throat, and he scrambles through the lobby and into Walsh’s office as fast as he can manage. The door sounds too loud when it slams behind him, and he leans back against it, finding comfort in the sturdy wooden paneling pressed along the length of his spine.

Walsh glances up from his desk and says, “What’s wrong with you Hume, you look as if the Devil himself is on your tail.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Basil pushes away from the door, doffs his helmet respectfully. “It’s nothing, Sir.”

“How’s the head, then?”

The fingers of Basil’s right hand twitch reflexively, but he has the presence of mind to restrain himself from reaching back to feel the often-felt patch on the back of his skull. He knows what he’ll find there, just as it was only an hour ago when last he checked--- the swollen, jagged line that marks where Ratigan ripped open his scalp on the cobblestone pavement. He’s had a headache ever since, and although the surgeon assured him that the pain will eventually fade, he’s finding it increasingly difficult to believe such a thing possible. Then again he’s been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep, so that might be interfering with his judgment.

“Nearly mended, Sir,” he says, withholding the messy details.

“That’s good to hear,” Walsh mutters unconvincingly.

The injury was a perfect excuse to send Basil away for a while, and everyone, including Hume himself, knows that it was a convenient lie. After the incident at the jeweler’s, Walsh had no desire to have his new least favorite constable dogging at his heels, begging for forgiveness and a chance to redeem himself. He did enough of that on the night of the incident itself, blood rolling down his neck, his speech slurring from the concussion, his frantic hands clasping at the sergeant’s sleeve in both an effort to appease him and to maintain his own precarious balance. When Walsh smacked him away and Basil thudded gracelessly to the floor, a clipped decree of bed rest was issued and the problem was, for the moment, swept under the rug.

Now the problem is standing at the sergeant’s office door, and all too aware of his status as something to be Dealt With Accordingly. Basil stares at the floor, finds patterns worn into the ancient rug, tries to ignore the pain throbbing at the nape of his neck.

“Constable Hume,” Walsh finally announces. “After careful consideration, I have decided not to have you stripped of your rank.”

Basil releases a shaky exhale but maintains his rigid posture.

“Although you engaged in conduct unbecoming an officer of the Metropolitan Police Service,” Walsh continues, undoubtedly taking note of the constable’s audible sigh of relief. “You have always shown a great deal of potential. Weighing that against your recent indiscretion has now reduced you in my opinion to mediocrity, and mediocrity is no cause for dismissal. You will return to your solitary patrol with this piece of advice.”

At this point, the sergeant finally makes eye contact with Basil, leaning across the desk to emphasize the importance of the following words.

“I would recommend a strict adherence to protocol, do you understand?” At Basil’s meek nod of agreement, he persists, “By the book, Hume.”

“Yes, Sir. Will that be all, Sir?”

“That will be all, Constable.”

Basil replaces his helmet and turns crisply for the door. It’s Walsh’s drawling murmur that delivers the parting shot, a casual sigh of, “And if you feel the urge to engage in fisticuffs with any rats, please try to restrain yourself.”

His ears burning, Basil mumbles, “Yes, Sir,” and bolts out just as quickly as he bolted in.

- - -

The mundane criminality of the ice-slicked streets no longer holds his attention. Basil walks in a daze, trusting his uniform to break up the worst of the trouble he encounters while his mind wanders elsewhere. Most lowlifes see an approaching constable and scatter like dandelion seeds in the wind. In truth, anyone who can wear a jacket and helmet would be fit for this job, leaving Basil with the increasingly discomforting suspicion that this might not be the path he was meant to take. It’s a suspicion that until lately was plaguing his every thought.

Now he’s got something else on his mind.

He studies the confrontation again and again. Ratigan slipped right past his defenses, effortlessly, elegantly, knew exactly what to say and do to get him to lower his guard. In the hours after the incident, Basil tried to tell himself that it was chance, that it was simply his own error to leave an opening that Ratigan was able to spontaneously use to his advantage. Once the hours bled into days, however, he was forced to conclude that he had been a chosen target, that the Professor had singled him out and lured him into complacency like a snake charmer.

Basil doesn’t want to know why he was chosen. He just wants to know how he can set things right. Mother would be so proud of him.

He steps gingerly over the body of a fallen drunkard, his hands jammed in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the frozen ground. It’s going to be a painful winter.

- - -

The Professor pulls three more heists before the New Year. Basil visits the crime scene of each, noting with unease the discrepancies. On one occasion he picks the lock, on another he kicks down the door. The choice wasn’t dictated by the locks themselves, either--- he picked the more complicated model and kicked in the one that the police have referred to as “the lockpicker’s playground” due to its simplicity. There’s a point to this. Three more heists and Basil can’t shake the feeling that Ratigan is trying to make a larger statement beyond mere mayhem.

There have been seven jobs in all, the news clippings spreading like wildfire across the wall of Basil’s study, key details circled in pencil and connected by lines drawn straight onto the wallpaper. In the whispering hours before dawn, as sleep continues to evade his grasp, he sits cross-legged on the carpet, his eyes darting from headline to headline, his hands scratching compulsively at his knees. There has to be a trick to it, but the only pattern seems to be that there is no pattern. Each job has a different tactic, from the stolen constable’s uniform to the discreet midnight infiltration of a silver shop to the daylight murder of a messenger carrying a diamond necklace as a gift. The only pattern is that there is no pattern. There is no pattern. There isn’t---

“Of course,” he whispers.

A tap on the door breaks his reverie and he notices that it appears to be early afternoon. He realizes belatedly that he’s not sure when he started or how long he’s been sitting here. The moment he rises to his feet, hunger pangs wrench through his abdomen so abruptly and painfully that he drops into a crouch to ease the pressure. After a few deep breaths, he rises more gingerly, and is able to maintain a relatively respectable posture as he answers the door connecting his rooms to Mrs. Judson’s.

“Goodness, Mr. Basil, you look a fright,” she remarks immediately upon seeing him.

“It was a long night,” he says truthfully, then, “You knocked?”

“This letter came for you, sir.”

The handwriting on the envelope is unmistakable--- Basil winces at the treacherous capital H that marks the beginning of his surname. As he scans the contents of the letter, he’s only dimly aware of his landlady slipping past him to do some tidying in the rooms from which she is usually banned. He hisses at the letter at the same moment she gives a squeal of indignation.

“Mr. Basil!” she squawks, jabbing a finger at the study wall, covered with tacks, throwing darts, and pencil trails. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Basil chuckles, as if oblivious to her outraged tone. “And I’ve only just found the answer.”

“You’ve no right to---”

“I’m afraid I’ll be going away for a spell, Mrs. Judson.” Basil indicates the letter, keeps his voice level and professional while his stomach winds in tighter and tighter knots. “It would seem that my mother has taken quite ill and requests my presence.”

As she sucks in a breath to berate him further, he waves away her concerns with an absent promise.

“I shall pay four weeks rent in advance, if that will be all right.”

“Oh,” the fury plummets out of her in a rush. “That’ll be all right, then.”

He gets between her and his wall, driving her back towards the door with the sheer force of his presence, knowing that for every step he takes in her direction, she’ll take two steps away from him. She thinks his hours and habits are unnatural, and even more unnatural still is his refusal to wash the blood-stained shirt from that fateful night. It hangs on the same wall as the clippings, a permanent reminder of what must be avenged, the back facing outwards in order to better display the dried brown stain that starts at the collar and drips down between the shoulder blades. She’s only just beginning to be afraid of him, and he’s only just beginning to use that to his advantage.

She’s nearly out the door when he jerks his head in the direction of the headlines.

“He’s showing off,” he explains. “That’s why he uses a different method for every heist. He wants us to know that he has a hundred different ways to get what he wants.”

“So it’ll be impossible to get ahead of him, then?” she guesses, trying to play along.

“Wrong!” he barks, and she cringes, and he doesn’t regret his intensity. “Nothing is impossible, Mrs. Judson, and no puzzle cannot be solved. I only need time.”

For a moment, it looks as though she might try to respond, but she seems to quickly decide that she doesn’t want to risk working him up till he’s shouting. Instead, she nods politely, then in a flash she’s got the door safely closed between them.

Basil glares down at the letter from home, at his father’s bold, distinctive hand, the sneer hidden behind the ink--- Though you and I both know that your presence may do more harm than good, your mother insists that you return home, claiming that you will be her only comfort. Basil doubts if she is truly ill, but his own sense of guilt and filial loyalty will not allow him to deny her request, and though it pains him to leave the Professor behind in London, the morning finds him on the first northbound train.

- - -

Roderick answers the door and rewards Basil with a mechanical brotherly embrace. Basil cringes and notes that he smells like tobacco and paper. Although he would begrudge no one for smelling like a cigarette as he himself does, he knows that Roderick only gets his distinctive scent from walking the factory floor, not from any actual indulgence of his own.

Roderick doesn’t drink, either--- Father would be quick to point out.

“I don’t see what the harm is,” Basil snorts, defiantly lighting a cigarette in the front parlor. “This very cigarette came from your factory, Father.”

“An apothecary does not partake of his own potions,” Father doesn’t even look up from his newspaper. “He leaves that to the sick and the weak.”

Roderick chuckles his agreement. Basil jams out his cigarette in the pages of his brother’s book.

“I do hope your absence from the force won’t be felt too keenly,” Roderick says, making no offer to carry Basil’s suitcase as they climb the long stairway.

“Yes, well, my sergeant was quite reluctant to grant me leave,” Basil lies effortlessly. “But he yielded to the necessity of a family emergency.”

When he reaches the top of the stairs, Roderick turns abruptly and plants his hands on either side of the passage, trapping Basil two steps below him, forcing the younger brother to raise his head and look up at the elder.

“He couldn’t wait to get rid of you, could he?” Roderick smirks.

“If you aren’t going to offer to help with my bags,” Basil deflects. “The least you could do is let me finish carrying them up to my room.”

They’re halfway down the hall when a chillingly familiar voice calls, “Basil? Is that my Basil I hear?”

For the first time in a great while, Basil is grateful to hear his mother’s voice. It gives him a perfect excuse to flash his brother a smug grin and lob the suitcase at him, forcing him to catch it or let it land on his feet--- he catches it, compulsively. It’s one unspoken rule that still holds over from their childhood: if Mother should call while Basil is in the middle of a task, then Roderick is expected to take up that task immediately so that Basil may answer his mother immediately. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and even as a child Basil was canny enough to blame any delays on his brother, whom she already disliked because of his boring nature and tiresome insistence on common sense.

Basil knows the way to her bedroom by heart, could walk the route with his eyes closed, his memory imprinted with every creaking floorboard. She’s in the massive four poster bed, sitting back against a mountain of pillows, looking a little paler than he remembered, a little thinner. She flings out her arms for him and he approaches gingerly, sits on the edge of the bed and allows her to draw him down into her embrace, his head fitting snugly under her chin as though he were still a child.

“My dear sweet boy,” she sighs, stroking his head. “You’ve been away too long.”

“I’ve been busy,” he excuses, and he does feel a bit guilty, but not enough to make him apologize.

Her spidery fingers find the scar almost immediately. She knows every inch of him, knows instantly when something has changed, and when she brushes against the slightly-raised tissue on the back of his skull, she gives a hiss of alarm.

“What is this?” she demands, and before he can stop her, she digs her nails into it.

He yanks himself out of her grasp and sits upright, one hand flying back to administer soothing pressure to the sudden sting.

“It’s nothing!” he yelps, then continues in a calmer tone. “I had an accident.”

“I’m not surprised,” she mutters suspiciously. “Your letters have been so brief and base that I could only assume you were ill.”

“My letters are brief because my work requires my undivided attention. I will not divide it, not even for you.”

“You won’t even try to answer my riddles.” She gives a disappointed sigh. “So young and you’re already losing your wits.”

“I am not losing my wits!” he snaps. “I don’t answer your riddles because I couldn’t be bothered to write it down. I solved them all.”

“I am not convinced.”

“The answers have been, in order: a teacup, a ring, a ladder, and a cigarette.” He pats her knee with a hint of fondness. “That last one was a nice touch.”

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she does look pale, and Basil almost wants to ask her how she’s feeling and if she really believes him to be her only comfort.

Instead, he mumbles something about how he would like to be unpacked before supper, and makes a swift retreat to the guest bedroom that he no longer recognizes as his own.

- - -

Supper is as silent as he expected it to be. Mother takes her meal upstairs, leaving the three men of the house to sit awkwardly around the table, the words dying altogether after Roderick and Father make a half-hearted attempt at small talk about the factory and receive a stare of undiluted boredom from their guest.

After requesting an after-dinner drink and being sternly reminded that they do not keep alcohol in the house, Basil asks in exasperation, “How ill is she?”

But neither will answer, which does little to quell his terror that he has been lured out here only to be trapped in an endless vigil, waiting for a death that might come tomorrow or six months from now.

- - -

While it is in the technical sense a house in the country, it is hardly what could be classified as a “country house.” Their staff is limited--- a groundskeeper, a cook, and a maid--- and their furnishings are modest and mostly inherited. With Roderick and Father spending their days at the factory and Mother spending much of her time napping, Basil prowls the frosty grounds, restless, counting the days.

He scours the newspaper every morning, knows it’s only a matter of time before he sees the inevitable headline detailing Ratigan’s latest heist, fumes over the fact that he will not be there to investigate the crime scene in person. Those fools at the station house will probably make a mess of everything. The only thing of interest in the paper is the murder of a young lady, a fairly unremarkable death by stabbing, made notable only by the diamond ring found in her closed mouth.

- - -

One Sunday morning Basil feigns a minor illness of his own and doesn’t come out of his room until he hears the carriage departing for church. Father insists that every member of the household attend, so Basil has free reign of the place until tea time. He strides cockily down the hall in his pajamas and dressing gown, almost forgetting she’s here until she calls, “Basil, is that you?”

He nudges open the bedroom door with his bare foot and slouches against the door frame, hands in his pockets. She wags a finger at him.

“You aren’t really ill, are you?” She phrases it as a question when they both know it to be fact.

Emboldened by his state of undress (it makes him feel roguish and carefree), he quips, “Sometimes I believe I could say the same of you.”

But her smile fades, and he regrets the joke at once, lowering his gaze and saying softly, “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“What’s troubling you, boy?” she demands.

He hesitates, lingers in the doorway--- and she gives her bedside one authoritative slap, an unspoken command to approach that he is powerless to disobey, not even now that he’s grown. He scrambles to her side, drops to his knees beside her like he used to, takes her hand and presses his lips to the back of it. With her other hand she pets his head, her smile at once proud and possessive.

“There’s been some trouble,” Basil explains, trying to be vague. “A criminal who has proven to be a, ah, particular thorn in the side of the police force. A tricky thorn to catch, as it were.”

“You mean you haven’t captured him yet?” she wonders incredulously.

“Ah, not yet, no. He’s a slippery fellow.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s half-Irish, which already lends him a degree of tenacity unknown to the common London bully---”

“No. Tell me why you haven’t already caught him.”

He winces and rambles, “Well, his gang calls him the Professor, so that should already inform you that his greatest strength is his knowledge--- his education, as it were---”

“What else?” Her hand has snuck down from his crown and slipped under his chin, and her fingers begin to curl around his jaw. “What aren’t you telling me, Basil?”

“The details are tedious---” he squirms. “Methods of entry--- patterns--- locations---”

“Don’t try to bluff me, boy, I know when you’re hiding something.” She’s got him now, her nails digging into the hollows of his cheeks, her eyes like the sun through a magnifying glass. “What else is it about this criminal? Hmm?”

Although he had hoped to keep this much at least a secret, he finds himself compelled to blurt out the truth: “He’s a rat.”

She stares at him.

“A rather clever rat, I’m afraid,” he says weakly.

“A rat?” she sneers, shoving him away with such force that he has to catch his balance with one hand against the carpet. “You’ve been outsmarted by an Irish rat? My Basil?”

“Not outwitted entirely,” he splutters defensively. “I just need more time.”

“And what of the years I spent in your education?” she demands harshly. “Was that not time enough for you? The hours I devoted, bent over your desk--- the lifetime of puzzles and study--- was that still not time enough?”

“Mother, I---”

“You broke my heart when you went away,” she says, and her voice has a strange edge to it. “I know you know that already. My one consolation was the thought that you would finally be able to put your mind to good use. Now, the first time you’ve been home, and you come crawling to my bedside to tell me that you’ve already been outwitted? Already?” It sounds as if she is fighting to speak. “Was it all a waste, then? Has all my time and effort been abused so utterly? Are you just another common---”

The edge in her voice reveals itself to be an oncoming coughing fit and she doubles over, her hand pressed against her mouth, which produces a horrible wet barking sound. Basil rushes to be near her, crowds his arms around her, pulls her upright and urges her to draw breath after breath.

It has begun to subside but has not yet passed when she clutches his sleeve and insists desperately, “You were always meant for more than the factory, Basil---” Another set of damp, deep coughs. “That’s why God sent your brother ahead of you, so that I would have you all to myself.”

He holds her until she stops shaking, and when he lays her back against the pillows, he wants to ask her if she meant that. The moment his mouth opens, however, she presses a hand over it and says, “I need my rest. Leave me.”

He obeys and exits to the hall, leaning back against the closed bedroom door and trying to find comfort in the sturdy wooden paneling pressed against the length of his spine.

- - -

He has the presence of mind to get dressed, and a good thing, too--- Father has brought home company for tea.

Descending from the second floor while checking his watch, Basil glances up and comes to a dead halt when he sees Catherine Taylor at the foot of the stairs, almost as if she is waiting for him. His stop is so sudden that it becomes conspicuous, and she turns sharply, sees him before he can retreat.

“Oh! Basil!” she exclaims. “I hadn’t expected to see you. Your father said you were ill.”

He has no choice but to finish his descent, reaching the foyer and nodding his greeting to the rest of the Taylor family. Father catches sight of him and says coldly, “I see you’ve made a full recovery.”

“I prayed for a miracle,” Basil snaps, and puts himself between Roderick and Catherine, his back to his brother. “Miss Taylor, it’s been too long.”

He kisses her hand and she smiles.

- - -

They walk the chill January garden together, her hands hidden in fine white gloves. He has one hand wedged in his pocket for warmth but the other will just have to freeze, as he refuses to walk with a lady and not escort her on his arm.

“The grounds look so sad this time of year,” she observes, as they pass yet another frostbitten patch that once held flowers.

“Just think of the spring,” he smiles. “How lovely they will be. It’s worth the sadness for the glory that lies ahead.”

“Always a poet, Mr. Hume.”

“Old habits,” he shrugs.

A heavy silence falls, the air crisp with the promise of approaching snow. He wants to make further conversation, but most topics for small talk are not an option for him now--- he would only embarrass himself by revealing how little he knows about the goings-on in his hometown. Nor does he want to tell her about life in London--- there’s the common belief that it must be quite thrilling and modern, and he would hate to disappoint her with the tedious truth.

Quite unexpectedly, she announces, “I’m engaged.”

“Oh?” He gives her a look more relieved than surprised. “And who is the lucky fellow?”

“Arthur Eldridge, the butcher.”

“I know Arthur. He’s a decent chap.”

“Not quite so glamorous as a factory heir,” she sighs, and tweaks his elbow.

“How fortunate, then, that we didn’t marry,” he sighs in return. “For I am no factory heir, either.”

Her playful tone vanishes, softens into sympathy. “He left it all to Roderick, then?”

“Every last rolling paper.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I shouldn’t have teased you.”

“It’s quite all right, my dear,” he pats her hand to assure her that no harm has been done. “It was always something meant for Roderick.”

“It suits him,” she nods. “After all, it’s a rather boring life, is it not? Predictable, I mean.”

“I suppose.”

“I always knew you were meant for better things. An unpredictable life.”

They’ve reached a lawn that slopes away from them on a gradual decline. The frost-kissed grass has a silver shine, and rolling away down the hill it looks for all the world like an ocean wave, frozen at the moment after climax, the splash still curling the air in pale, glistening strands.

“When I was a boy, I was always jealous of my brother.” He speaks in the soft tone of a confession. “His purpose in life was set from the moment of birth. He may have been terribly dull and ordinary, but he knew where he was going, what he was meant to be. I never did. And I never felt---”

He stops. It’s foolish and private and besides, it won’t matter to her. But she gives his arm a persistent shake, urging him to continue, and it’s just such a relief to say it out loud.

“I never felt as if I belonged to my father,” he says quickly, almost hastily, before he can stop himself again. “I was just--- the spare son, kept in storage in case of an emergency.”

“Hush, now, that’s a dreadful thing to say.”

“Hardly. It is the truth.”

“Hush, I said,” and she squeezes his arm protectively.

It’s a comforting thing to know that she still cares about him. The winter garden around him blossoms green and glorious before his hazy eyes as he remembers the time they spent together. Their courtship was brief but lovely, spread over a summer that seemed to be especially fair, every picnic blessed with bright and sunny skies. She didn’t wear gloves then, and when he rolled up his sleeves against the warmth, she would dance her beautiful fingertips along his forearms, stroking him until the fur rose up in gooseflesh and he shivered with laughter. It was easy enough to allow himself to be touched, but the poor girl waited in vain for him to make any gesture grander than a kiss pressed chastely to the back of her hand.

“When you stopped calling, Mother was worried sick,” she says, jolting Basil from his summer reverie. “She assumed that I had surrendered my virtue and you had subsequently lost interest.”

“Miss Taylor,” he says meekly. “I do apologize for any implications that my departure may have---”

“I assured her that you had never so much as kissed me good night, let alone taken advantage of my virtue. And do you know what she said to that?” Here she fixes Basil with an unreadable look, something shaded with pity and maybe a touch of ancient disappointment. “That Mr. Hume is a true gentleman.”

He coughs nervously and says, “Your mother is too kind.”

The truth is a bit more complex than mere chivalry, but it is a truth that would be difficult to explain without wounding her deeply. The fact of the matter is that he simply felt no attraction to Catherine. He was fond of her as a friend, and reason dictated that she would be a logical candidate for the role of the wife that he was expected to have, but it simply wasn’t enough. He was too proud and stubborn to submit to a contract that would have been a lie, so as their golden summer drew to a close and whispers of an autumn engagement reached his ears, he said goodbye to his mother and caught the train for London, never looking back.

“It’s a pity things didn’t work out between us,” she rests her head against his shoulder. “I should have liked to be a constable’s wife.”

“I thought you wanted to marry the heir to a factory,” he reminds her.

“It was just the one that I wanted.”

He allows his hand to rest over hers, allows her to twine their fingers together, and tries to believe that he once loved her.

- - -

The visit from Catherine, unexpected and unprepared for, has left him more shaken than he would care to admit. He barely says two words over dinner, not when Roderick needles him about Miss Taylor’s engagement, not even when Father makes some disparaging remark about Basil’s inability to accomplish something so simple as a marriage. The spare son leaves his meal largely uneaten and retreats to his room for an early bedtime.

What he wouldn’t give for a glass of brandy, something strong to soothe his rattled nerves and coax him into sleep. He lies awake, staring at the canopy of his bed, his forehead beaded with sweat. Catherine--- the beautiful reminder of his every failure. Failure to get married, to start a home, to have a respectable life. He couldn’t even succeed in the course of his own choosing, haunted by his ongoing failure to catch a criminal.

Ratigan--- the prince of failures, the demon that winks at him and slips deep below the surface, corrosive, poisonous. He grits his teeth against the memory of the rat’s mocking laughter, the weight of him sitting low and heavy on Basil’s belly as he pinned him against the earth. When he closes his eyes he can see the wall of his study back in London--- back in his true home--- and each headline burns like a flame, the words jumping and jumbling before his frustrated mind, his prolonged exposure rendering them almost unrecognizable from repetition.

His thoughts blur faster and faster. He lays his fingers against his throat and finds that his pulse is racing, his chest aching from the speed of it, his breathing shaky and shallow. He’s had fits like this before, when he simply cannot think anymore without risking his health. His mother used to find him clutching his head in the morning after a night without sleep, his mind too crowded to allow such a waste of time as unconsciousness. It comes and goes. Sometimes he’ll go months without a hint of trouble. Sometimes he’ll spend a week without sleep. He’s been having difficulty ever since Ratigan struck his skull against the pavement, but the ghost of the life he could have had--- the wife he could have had--- has pushed his unrest beyond the point of endurance.

The best cure for this condition is as forbidden in this house as cigarettes and alcohol. Since Basil freely admits his participation in those two sins, he shouldn’t feel ashamed of this one, but he is still plagued with adolescent guilt as he reaches under the blankets and into his pajamas to take himself in hand.

He is capable of remaining quiet, has trained himself to be quiet. It’s a simple question of mind over matter, and that’s what this is about--- the mind. It’s something akin to a particular style of Japanese water fountain, a vessel suspended and designed to fill to the point of bursting, only to tip and release its burden in one great rush, emptying itself in order to be filled again. Basil privately believes that his own mind functions in a similar fashion. When it swells to the point of overflowing, something must be done to release the tension.

He coaxes himself into hardness and allows his thoughts to burn out, to surrender to the sensation of self touching self. It’s an exercise in letting go, in forgetting, in allowing himself to be silent within as well as without. His breathing finds a rhythm in counterpoint to the swift, practiced strokes of his hand.

Heat starts to thread out through his veins. His mouth opens, soundless, his eyes wrenched shut, his hips beginning to move involuntarily, thrusting up into his hand as though rising to meet a lover. The echoes of his worries flit through the corner of his mind--- Catherine--- her fingers skating along his bare forearms--- her eyes wide and naked, aching with want--- she wanted him--- if only--- if only he could have wanted her in return---

Then, all at once, his mind reaches for Ratigan. He’s right there, like a blur in his peripheral vision--- his laughter--- his quick and clever fingers wrapped around Basil’s head--- sitting back so that his weight landed square on Basil’s hips, his heavy tail twitching down between Basil’s legs--- and Basil jerks himself harder, his back arching, his teeth clamping down on a tongue that suddenly threatens to cry out.

They fought. They made contact. Ratigan was a wall of sheer muscle, hard and heated. Basil drove against him, every sensory point in their bodies crushed together so roughly that sparks might have flown between them. Now he chews his tongue, filling his mouth with blood to better remember that night, how the rat struck him in the mouth until he spat red. He pulls roughly on his cock, tries to imagine how Ratigan would handle him.

Ratigan would not be gentle. He would not skate his fingertips along the surface. He would hold Basil so fiercely that there would be bruises in the morning. The weight of him--- the power behind every punch that landed--- he would drive Basil into the bed without mercy. Basil gasps and writhes, his belly and groin pulling tight with approaching climax, his free hand slammed over his mouth to ensure his silence.

“Basil?”

Mother is standing just outside the door.

A wild flurry of movement ensues, in which several things are thrown. First, he throws himself back against the headboard, sitting upright. Second, he throws a pillow over his lap to hide the unmistakeable bulge in the blanket. Finally, he throws a book onto the pillow and whips it open to give the illusion that he has been reading.

“Come in, Mother,” he calls weakly, realizing a moment too late that he’s apparently been reading in the dark.

Illumination pours in from the hallway and renders her a spindly silhouette. He blurts too quickly, “I’ve only just put out the light.” Then, to draw attention away from himself, he immediately accuses, “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I should,” she agrees. “But I was worried about you.”

“Oh?” He tries not to wince when she sits down on the edge of bed. “Whatever for?”

“I’m sure that the visit from Miss Taylor did nothing to set your mind at ease.”

She pats his knee and this time he does flinch, and they both notice it. That hallway is a labyrinth of creaking floorboards. There’s no way she could have approached his room without him hearing her--- unless she was sneaking up on him. If she crept slowly and carefully, she would have been able to make the trip without a sound. Basil, sweat pouring down his back, arousal still pounding in his brain, has a terrible thought.

How long has she been standing out there?

“I know the two of you had quite a summer together,” she continues. “Seeing her must have brought back some fond memories.”

And then he knows that she knows.

“Mother,” he says, his voice trembling. “I would like you to leave my room, please.”

“But my dear boy---”

Surprising both of them, he suddenly roars, “Get out!”

By the time she’s gone, although his balls are throbbing and his cock is twitching with anticipation, he has quite lost the train of thought he would need to complete the act. He feels weak and unfocused, and humiliated besides. Although the logical side of him knows that she has no way of knowing what --- or who--- he was thinking of, the illogical side of him dreads the possibility that she might have somehow sensed it. After all, he felt it radiating from him in hateful waves--- it must be obvious to everyone who looks at him.

He rolls onto his side, closes his eyes, and begins to count. He will keep counting until he falls asleep. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. He won’t allow himself to think of anything else.

- - -

In the morning, she’s waiting for him at the dining table. He gives her a tight smile and inquires, “Feeling better, Mother?”

“Well enough to join my family for breakfast,” she concedes.

Roderick and Father are already at their seats. Lingering in the doorway, Basil wonders how many other unfortunate souls have shared this terrible feeling of dread, to look at a family table and feel no love for one’s company, only fear and discomfort. He slinks to his seat and busies himself rearranging the cutlery. A rustle catches his sharp ear and he glances up in time to see his father discarding the morning paper on the end table.

“If you’re finished,” Basil speaks up. “I’d like to see that, please.”

The front page reads: Another Murder, Another Jewel.

The words leap up from the page and he devours them. Another girl killed by a knife, her mouth concealing a piece of jewelry--- this time, an emerald earring.

That makes a pattern.

He turns the page so abruptly that the middle seam pulls open at the top with a loud tearing sound.

“Here, now,” Father notices him at last. “What’s the matter?”

“He’s killed another one,” Basil mutters, drinking up the scant details in the paper--- it’s not enough. “Another girl, another gemstone, a different one. Something is beginning.”

“Here he goes,” Roderick mutters, and returns his attention to his meal.

Basil aches with the desire to be there, to see the girl for himself, to have seen both of them and deduce if there was a reason they were chosen beyond chance and unlucky circumstances. But more than anything, he wants to see both the diamond ring and the emerald earring so that he can compare them to the inventory of a certain jeweler’s, a jeweler’s that was burgled by a thug in a stolen constable’s uniform. Because if Ratigan is the one behind this...

“What would you like for breakfast, dear?”

If Ratigan is the one behind this--- why would he move from burglary to murder? True, he did strangle the messenger with the diamond necklace, but the ultimate motive was theft. If Ratigan is committing the murders, why would he leave a piece of his treasure behind? Is he showing off again, proving that he now has wealth enough to leave in the gutter?

“Basil, dear? Aren’t you hungry?”

But why the new approach? What’s changed? Was he just waiting for the new year? Or was it the number of heists that needed to be completed? Seven robberies. What is the significance of the number seven? The very first thing that comes to mind is the seven days of Creation. This opens a Biblical floodgate and the Book of Revelation pours into him, the numeral appearing again and again--- seven churches, seven stars, seven seals on the scroll--- No. Focus. Filter. Something less obscure, something within the grasp of the public. Seven Heavenly virtues. No. Wait. There it is--- the seven deadly sins. That’s as likely a candidate as any. Now that there have been seven robberies, will there now be seven murders? Are five more girls in danger?

“Basil!”

His mother’s voice pulls him back from his deepest self. He stares at her blankly, uncomprehending.

“What in the Devil has gotten into you?” she snaps.

He looks back at the paper, realizes that he’s torn it completely in half.

“Another girl has been murdered,” he explains distantly. “It’s the beginning of a pattern.”

“How exciting,” Roderick scoffs.

“How dreadful,” Father corrects.

“I don’t suppose you think it might be that rat of yours,” Mother says shrewdly.

“What rat?” Now Roderick is paying attention. “What do you mean, his rat?”

“It’s nothing,” Basil says quickly.

“Basil’s been having some trouble catching a rat,” Mother announces. “Although he assures me that it is a rather clever rat.”

Father gives a polite snort of distaste, but Roderick unleashes an unpleasant bleat of laughter, his hands slamming down onto the table, thumping it as though he cannot contain the force of his amusement.

“Trouble with a rat, eh, Basil?” he guffaws. “I thought you were supposed to be the brains of the family!”

“I am the brains of this family,” Basil hisses rapidly. “And Father is the eyes and ears and Mother is the heart. Only one place left for you, Roderick, that’s the digestive tract, and you know what that means. You’re the back end of the family and you’re full of---”

“That’s enough!” Father barks.

Basil gets to his feet, the ripped newspaper still clutched in his shaking hands.

“Mother. Father. It’s always a pleasure to see you, but I’m afraid my services are required in London. I’ll be packing my bags at once.”

He turns crisply on his heel and marches up the stairs, ignoring the shouts of protest from all three of them. He’s just about got everything in his suitcase when his mother appears beside him, clutching her chest and wheezing traitorously. He can’t tell if it’s an act or if it’s genuine.

“Basil, I beg you!” She tries to catch his arm but he shakes her off. “Don’t go. I’m ill. You are---”

“Your only comfort?” he guesses, and adds a humorless chuckle.

“You mock me, but it is the truth,” she insists.

When he shakes her off a second time, she sways and sinks onto the bed, one thin hand laid over her heart. He slams the suitcase closed, hefts it and prepares to storm out of the room, to run down the stairs and out the front door and never look back, but at the last moment he throws his suitcase to the floor and falls on his knees at his mother’s feet. He buries his face at her breast, his arms thrown around her, his voice hoarse with love.

“Don’t you see? I have no choice,” he says painfully. “This rat--- Ratigan--- he was meant for me. I’m meant to stop him. I have to go before it’s too late.”

“If you go now,” she whispers, holding his head protectively. “I don’t know if I shall ever see you again.”

“I’ll come back as soon as it’s over.”

“My dear sweet boy.”

She kisses the top of his head and he gently disentangles himself from her arms, draws himself to his full height. She looks so small and frail, so unlike his strongest memories of her. He will always remember her as a titan, a fierce creature without boundaries. He refuses to remember her as a frail old woman.

“You will be so proud of me,” he promises.

- - -

Walsh is less than thrilled to have Hume back underfoot, but he has little choice other than to return him to his usual foot patrol and remind him to maintain protocol. Basil stalks the streets with previously unknown enthusiasm, his bright eyes scanning every shadow, his ears straining for that familiar mocking laughter. He did pester the sergeant about seeing the jewelry from the first two murders, but he was told quite firmly that there was no way in Hell that a constable with a bad reputation would be made privy to the evidence from an important murder investigation, an investigation that has been given top priority.

It has become a priority because of the newspaper coverage it has received. Hysterical headlines predict a killing spree, the journalists taking great delight in inventing increasingly horrific versions of the tale, bodies and gemstones alike littering the streets in great glistening heaps. Wild theories abound. Is it a jilted jeweler, taking his revenge on women who have spurned his advances? Is it a deranged upper-class moralist, making a commentary on how young ladies will sell their virtue for gifts and finery? What does it mean? Why the gemstones?

When will he strike next?

- - -

Snowflakes catch the light like a thousand falling stars. Although the flurries are growing in intensity, the wind is almost nonexistent, allowing the snow to hang on the air in a curtain of lace. When Basil was a child, he once entertained the theory that if he moved fast enough, he could step between snowflakes and remained untouched. Now he’s just glad he had the foresight to grab his regulation wool cloak before he set out on patrol. The snow collects on his helmet and shoulders in comical white mounds that he brushes off when they grow too heavy. His breath freezes on the air and becomes ominous grey clouds.

It’s been a long night. He’s already broken up two fights on his own, in addition to joining a troop of other officers in settling a crowd of concerned citizens who had set up their own patrol to catch the murderer that they all know to be prowling their streets. Reassurances were made and weapons were confiscated. It’s been a week since the last murder--- the same amount of time that passed between the first two. Tensions are high.

Most young women have heeded the urging of the police and stayed off the streets, but the threat of gruesome death is not enough to stop the determined bangtails of Spitalfields. They linger at the mouths of alleys, and when they appear in the corner of Basil’s eye, he is sure that each one will be his quarry. He turns too quickly every time, and when he realizes that it’s just another whore, he orders her to get off the street. They jeer and tease him, telling him they’re not hurting anybody and they’ve got a right to be out if they want to be.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters, turning up his collar and trudging onwards.

The city is never entirely silent. It’s something that Basil has always found to be a comfort. He has always equated silence with solitude and solitude with unhappiness, so he cherishes the fact that every moment the city reassures him that he is alive and surrounded by the living. Every muffled curse, every broken bottle--- as soothing as a song.

Then---

His senses have always been a bit sharper than most, so perhaps it would have gone unheard by anyone else. But Basil hears it, his ear flicking instinctively to catch it--- a soft, high whimper, like a scream caught under a gloved hand.

He bolts.

He’s running too fast to disguise the sound of his approach, the pounding of his feet reverberating around the narrow passageway as he moves inwards, away from the public street and back into a secluded little yard. When he breaks into the open, he turns rapidly--- no sign of the fiend. But he finds the girl huddled in a corner, her filthy dress spread around her on the pavement like a pool.

“Help!” she gasps, barely managing to form the word through her tears.

Fumbling with the clasp on his officer’s cloak, he sweeps it from his own shoulders and draws it around hers as he kneels beside her. Another bangtail, a very young one, her dress cut low at the bosom to place emphasis on breasts that have barely begun to swell. Her breathing is unnatural, strangled by her own terror, and he lays a hand on her back to calm her.

“Easy, easy now,” he counsels. “You must breathe. Calm yourself. Breathe.”

“He was--- he had a knife---” she sobs.

He’s barely paying attention to her, his head jerking back again and again to scan the yard. Two exits, not counting the way he came in. Only two ways the criminal could have gone. The snow blurs his vision and threatens to cover up any footprints within moments.

Protocol, Walsh’s voice reminds him. Protocol dictates that he stay with the victim, escort her back to the station house to take a statement about what she saw, any clues she might be able to give that would identify her attacker.

But instinct tells him to give chase.

“Tell me,” he asks quickly. “Was he a rat?”

“He had a knife,” she repeats helplessly, her eyes and muzzle streaked with tears.

“Was he a rat?” he demands, shaking her, desperate to get this much out of her. “Answer me, girl!”

“Y-yes,” she whimpers, pulling the cloak tight around herself as though it can protect her. “He was--- he was a rat.”

By the book, Hume. Stay. You are bound to stay.

“Confound it!” he hisses, then says to the girl, “Stay here. I won’t go far.”

“No!” she yelps. “Don’t--- don’t leave me!”

“The villain may still be near,” he explains, prying her fingers off his arm. “I’m only going to look.”

He pulls up to his feet, spares her one last glance, and runs for the nearest of the two exits, his keen eyes scanning the filthy snow for footprints. One set leads out that way. The next alleyway unfortunately reveals the same predicament. He wavers, looks anxiously between the two choices. The tracks are rapidly filling with snow. He’ll have one shot at this. Left. Right. The seven deadly sins. Ratigan’s mocking laughter trails back to him on the first gust of wind that he’s felt all night.

He picks one and charges. Behind him, the girl musters up the breath for one real scream, a shriek of “No!” that haunts him down his chosen path.

Eyes down. Follow the tracks. Eyes up. Look for the target. He hadn’t intended to go far but the thrill of the hunt creeps up on him and his pace quickens. The thought that Ratigan might have been right there--- that he could be just up ahead--- that Basil might be moments away from catching him at last--- before he knows it he’s running at full speed down the twisting passages, his nostrils flaring, his eyes starting out of his skull with the desire to catch sight of his enemy. He skids on the frozen pavement, slamming into sharp corners and pushing himself off again, his palms scraped raw.

The alley vomits him out into a crowded square.

No.

He turns desperately, rises on his toes to scan the faces and bodies, looking for one that will loom above the rest. He sees no such thing.

The trail has gone cold. The rat has eluded him again.

As he trudges back through the labyrinthine passages, he suddenly hears something that causes the bottom to drop out of his stomach--- police rattles, calling for aid. For the second time that night he’s running, sliding through the icy alleys until he stumbles back into the yard that he left behind.

Blood.

It looks almost purple in the dim light, painted across the far wall in an arc that Basil dimly identifies as an arterial spray. He slit her throat first. Looking down at the gaping wound, Basil recognizes the tissue of the trachea and the pharyngeal muscles, before his gaze is drawn up to her staring eyes, still shining with tears. The backs of her hands are speckled with cuts--- she was trying to defend herself. Several deep slashes across her breasts serve as a counterpoint to the constellation of penetrative stabs in her abdomen. She was ripped to pieces.

Her body is sprawled on top of a regulation wool cloak.

When they open her mouth, they find a ruby necklace.

- - -

Neither one of them knows what to say. Walsh just stares at Basil while Basil stares at the floor. Thank God there’s a desk between them or the sergeant might just have struck Hume across the face the moment he entered his office.

Finally, he mutters, “Hume---”

“Sergeant Walsh,” Basil says instantly. “That won’t be necessary.”

As he raises his eyes, he refuses to let his anguish show in his expression. He can already see too much in Walsh’s face--- the anger, the frustration, and worst of all, the disappointment. It strikes Basil as monumentally unfair that he should end up as a disappointment to two separate fathers, but never mind that. It won’t do him any good to feel sorry for himself.

“I feel it would be in the best interest of, well, everyone,” he says calmly. “If I were to surrender my rank.”

Walsh nods and agrees, “Yes, I think that would be best.”

Basil unholsters his truncheon and lays it down on the desk. He removes his helmet and places it alongside. Walsh doesn’t say a word as Basil removes his badge last--- it makes an unpleasant knocking sound when he abandons it beside the rest. The whole heap of it looks so much like a sacrifice laid on an altar, and when Basil looks across the way at Walsh, he wishes he wasn’t too proud to apologize.

But he is proud, so he offers the last salute of his life, turns, and walks away.

As he goes back through the lobby, the officers are once again frozen in place, dozens of eyes all fixed on him. Shame surges up through his throat. In another lifetime, he would have bolted for the door. He would have run away rather than be stared at. But he has an epiphany as they try to chase him away with their eyes--- shame is a condition without merit. What can be gained from it? What can be learned? He opens his mouth and releases the surge in a wave of defiant laughter.

He runs, then, but not out the door. No, he just needs enough momentum to allow him to jump up on the nearest desk, where he throws his arms out and turns in a slow circle.

“Go on, then!” he challenges. “Take a good look! You’ll want to remember this, I guarantee it!”

Walsh has appeared at the door of his office to see what all the fuss is about. Basil stomps delightedly on the paperwork underfoot, kicks an inkwell and grins when it splatters across the floor.

“You think I need this?” he laughs, scooping up a handful of forms and whipping them into the air. “This was just holding me back!”

The officers are stirring from their stunned silence. Angry murmurs roll up through their ranks, and the nearest ones make a grab for this audacious outcast. From the higher ground he is able to jump clean over their heads, landing roughly and striding jauntily towards the entrance doors, where he pauses for dramatic emphasis.

“You’re going to remember my name!” he crows. “You will all remember my name!”

And he parades down the front steps of the station house, the high ceilings still ringing with his promise.

- - -

Although he considers burning his uniform, he decides that it will be much more useful to keep it for the purposes of disguise. He’ll be needing plenty of disguises, now. He almost starts to construct a list of the other things he might need on his new venture, but most of them he already has: wits, tenacity, and a newfound lack of shame (that last one might just be his favorite).

He makes a new wall for the jewelry murders, already sketching lines between that and the wall of heists. Now that he’s off the force he’s going to have to be particularly clever in order to see the crime scenes, but with the uniform and his knowledge of the jargon he should be able to bluff his way in. He wonders if he might be able to see the jewelry if he presents himself as an inspector. Such outrageous disrespect would never have been tolerated when he was a constable, but now that he’s a vigilante, anything goes.

“Anything goes,” he says aloud, enjoying the freedom of it.

- - -

Eleanor Judson is practical. It’s what her husband Amos loved about her, and after he died, he would have been proud to see that she didn’t wait more than a month before converting his study and spare rooms into a flat that could be rented out. She had to bring in money, after all, and she didn’t mind having a few tenants. In fact, it would probably be a blessing, keep her from becoming too lonely. It would be like having company over all the time. She entertained fantasies of them all sitting down to dinner, becoming friends, becoming a family, united under one roof.

She never expected someone like Mr. Basil, who is strange and aloof and turned down every invitation to supper until she finally stopped asking.

Lately she has grown quite afraid of him and does her best to avoid him, but one day she brings him a letter, a letter addressed with a treacherous capital H, which informs him that his mother has died.

She finds her tenant curled up on the floor, a pillow hugged to his chest, the corner of it stuffed in his mouth to smother the sounds of his grief. He looks so very much like a child, and although she never had any of her own, she still possesses a maternal instinct that compels her to bring him tea and crumpets and promise him that he will be all right. She watches him slowly relax, the rigidity of his muscles uncoiling as she rambles about the weather and prepares his tea the way she knows he likes it, a dash of cream and three spoonfuls of sugar.

“My dear Mrs. Judson,” he says in a voice hoarse from weeping, his hand shaking as he accepts the cup and saucer. “You are a treasure.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she demurs, preparing a cup for herself.

He remains on the floor while she sits on the ottoman. As they drink their tea and he wipes occasionally at his eyes, she realizes that this the closest they’ve ever come to sharing a meal together.

- - -

The murderer is apprehended in late February. He’s a rat named Peter Cole, an East End brawler whose deep-seated misogyny and lust for fame combined into the unhealthy urge to slaughter young ladies in a memorable fashion. The gems were from his wife’s jewelry box and were the only method he could think of to identify each kill as his own, the better to establish his legend.

It’s a legend that is quickly forgotten when Professor Ratigan returns from his holiday with an unthinkably bold raid on a museum, making a clean getaway with a variety of ancient treasures including, most specifically, a crown and scepter. Basil realizes that his first guess was correct. It was the seven days of Creation, after all. That’s why Ratigan stopped his plunder.

On the seventh day, God rested.

- - -

All he needed was time. Now that he’s no longer reporting for twelve-hour shifts, Basil has all the time he needs to learn the backstreets, the secret passages and shady shopkeepers who are willing to turn a blind eye for a price. He builds half a dozen new identities, infiltrates every dive that will have him, becomes friendly with bartenders and whorehouse madams. He’s got an ear to the ground and when he catches word that the Professor is planning a job on Friday the 13th, it’s only a question of finding out where.

By the time Basil does pin down the location, it’s nearly midnight--- he got the tip from a friend of a fellow on the job, which was scheduled to begin at eleven o’clock. It’s too late to stop the heist itself but Basil might have a chance at catching the mastermind in his escape. His investigation has led to the conclusion that Ratigan tends to take a separate route from his gang, leaving him empty-handed and innocent should he be confronted by the law. It’s a nice tactic in theory, but one that will prove useless tonight, for one important reason.

Basil isn’t the law. He doesn’t care if Ratigan just came from confession--- he’s guilty.

With the location of the heist in mind, he sketches out three possible escape routes for the rat, narrowing them down with logic as he runs. He’s already begun to learn Ratigan’s habits, knows that he favors the sewer for getaways, knows that he tends to move towards the river, knows that he avoids any tight squeezes that might be impassable for his broad-shouldered build.

Riddle solved--- Basil has deduced with great certainty the path of his enemy, and to get ahead of him he squeezes through an especially narrow gap in a yard’s wooden fence, granting him access to the very street he requires. After relentlessly studying the maps, he knows this city from above best of all, and he quickly finds his way to the only wide alleyway branching away from the scene of the crime that leads towards the river and ends in a sewer grate. There’s just one more fence in his way and he climbs over it, dropping into the center of the passageway at the same moment Ratigan rounds the corner.

Basil straightens from his crouch, feels his own face stretched wide in some madman’s grin of triumph. Ratigan looks just the same as he remembered, tall and handsome and radiating a profound sense of darkness.

“Hello, Ratigan,” Hume pants, his blood roaring in his ears. “My name is Basil.”

“Good evening, Basil,” the rat nods civilly.

“Remember that name,” Basil warns. “It will be your downfall.”

Ratigan smiles, revealing his sharp white teeth as he purrs, “Consider it memorized.”

There’s a pistol in the rat’s hand, but it wouldn’t matter if he was holding a broadsword or a blunderbuss--- Basil charges, dodges the three wild shots, and slams into his enemy shoulder-first.

Ratigan is a wall of sheer muscle, hard and heated. Basil closes his eyes and wishes for the strength to knock him over. He only succeeds in knocking the gun from his hand.

Well. It’s a start.

______end.