Peter stands his ground in front of Marianne even with the barrel of a flintlock pointed directly at his head. Corbeld furrows his brow. His finger rests on the trigger guard, tapping lightly. Marianne stays behind him. Their eyes narrow on Corbeld’s.

  “You’re a well-respected member of the Institute, sir Corbeld. To think you’ve been dabbling in such a heinous scheme such as this. And at a time like this when our city’s very foundation has been rocked by the Crow’s Plague. Despicable…” Peter scowls.

  Corbeld shakes his head. His finger hesitates to move down towards the trigger.

  “As if I’d expect either of you to understand. This operation was years in the making. We wanted to bring about change to our wonderful city. Prior to the outbreak, were you not blind to the blight of the poor?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ever since the war ended… Our society has been slowly recovering from the vast resources spent fueling that conflict and the damages that had been done to us. Families torn apart. Veterans hooked onto foreign substances that spread amongst the poverty-stricken. So many people chose not to integrate back into society but instead to take advantage of our fragile state. To reap off of our own government and live secluded lives. A crisis beneath our own eyes that none took care to attend to. That’s where we came in…” Corbeld explains. “… We did not execute this operation in means of harming society but instead to heal it. Rid the filth and human waste from our streets so that we may completely recover. Return to the golden age. When all we have to offer is advancements in technology… It shows of another vital piece we’re missing. Stability.”

  Marianne was growing frustrated. She walked around to stand next to her husband with clenched fists. Corbeld raised an eyebrow.

  “I understand where you’re coming from, Corbeld. But this… A mass execution of the poorest of society by underhanded methods to avoid direct murder. That’s just inhumane. If it were not for the Americans ordered here by Her Majesty, how long would this have persevered?” Marianne hissed.

  Corbeld sighs. He continues aiming his flintlock at them with no falter.

  “I expected the Institute to work this out once the plague had begun to suffice… What I did not expect was the assistance of foreign allies. A fatal flaw in our operation I’ll admit. Regardless, significant progress has been made and nothing will change that. Once the rest of the infected are treated we can once again return to flourishing.”

  “You’re a sick man. Those poor folk did not deserve to be culled by the spreading of vermin disease. All you’ve done is added to the immense body count these past several days have accumulated.” Peter chimed in.

  Corbeld steps forward slightly. His finger lowers onto the trigger. Hands shaking.

  “I do not care what you think of me or our grand operation. You’ve seen too much. I should dispose of both of you. As hurtful as it may seem with you two being the best in our business. You should not have gone prodding around my private quarters.” Corbeld mutters.

  As Corbeld pulls the trigger, Marianne rushes out of the way. A lead ball pierces through Peter’s gut.

  “Peter!” Marianne cries out.

  Marianne stares daggers at Corbeld and lunges for the gun. She grabs a hold of it. Corbeld tries to push her away but she persists. Peter has a hand on the wound. He takes the steel bin, turns it over to empty out all the pens and pencils then rushes over to the glass display case. He slams the bin down to break the glass then tosses it. He grabs the sword inside and turns to Corbeld who musters enough strength to break from Marianne’s grasp and smacks her across the face with the flintlock.

  He takes a few seconds to reload. Right as he’s about to fire a shot, Peter runs over and jabs the sword into his side. Corbeld cries out and drops the gun. He looks to Peter. Blood seeps from the wound as he pulls it out. He tries to swing at Peter but stumbles. Peter backs away and takes this opportunity to smack Corbeld with the pommel. He slams against the wall. Marianne crawls over to the flintlock and picks it up.

  Peter falls to one knee. He looks at his hand, stained with blood. He continues covering the wound. Marianne looks at him with worry. She places a hand on his shoulder.

  “Darling! You’re wounded! Please rest, I-I’ll find a first aid kit!” She says.

  Corbeld slides down to the floor. He coughs up blood onto his shirt. Marianne walks over to the door next to where Corbeld is. She looks down at him with a menacing glare.

  “Go the hell to sleep.” She growls.

  Marianne kicks Corbeld in the face. He’s knocked down with force. Blood spits out as he lays on the floor breathing heavily. Peter sits down in the nearby chair. Marianne returns in less than a minute with a first aid kit. She goes over to Peter and kneels in front of him.

  “Please… be gentle, love.” He murmurs.

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  Marianne takes out tweezers. She examines the wound. With careful precision, she inches the tweezers inside of the wound to grab the lead ball and extracts it. Peter shutters in pain. She drops the ball and tweezers to grab a cloth and bandages to patch the wound up.

  “It’s okay dear. It’ll be okay. Been some time since I last treated a wound.” Marianne says.

  “Aye. Been so focused on the plague lately, haven’t we? Can’t let our other skills get rusty.”

  Peter lets out a chuckle. Marianne smiles as she finishes applying the bandages. She stands up and offers a hand to Peter. He takes it then stands up with a grunt.

  “There we go, love. Just be careful, okay? It’s going to take time to heal.” Marianne speaks softly.

  “Thanks, Marianne. Hm. Now… what do we do with him?”

  Peter points over to a nearly-unconscious Corbeld. Marianne looks to the flintlock resting on the floor near the first aid kit then back up to him.

  “Let’s contact Scotland Yard at once. I believe I saw a phone downstairs in the living space.” Marianne suggests.

  A police carriage sits outside Corbeld’s residence. His hands are cuffed behind his back as he’s dragged on his feet into the carriage by two bobbies. They toss him into the carriage and slam the door. Peter and Marianne lean against their own steam carriage. One of the bobbies brandishing a goatee approaches the two of them.

  “Sorry for the trouble you went through. You sure you don’t need a trip to the hospital sir?” He asks.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” Peter replies.

  “If you say so. I’ll need a detailed report of what happened here to send to the chief. My partner is returning inside to investigate the scene. So, if you wouldn’t mind telling me how this played out.”

  “Certainly.”

  Peter and Marianne explain from the beginning. From the moment they arrived at the house to the confrontation with Corbeld. The bobby writes everything down on a notepad. When the report is finished, the bobby asks the two doctors to travel back to the station with them so a report can be made on their account to give to Miss Weston. They agree of course.

  The front door to the house is sealed off with yellow caution tape. Peter and Marianne step into their carriage to follow the police carriage off the property towards the city.

  “-visitors.”

  Vision blurry. Cheeks aching. Nose slightly crooked. Corbeld coughs as his consciousness regains.

  “-sir? Hello?”

  He shakes his head. His eyes begin to open up. In front of him stands four blurry figures behind a set of bars. Corbeld presses a hand to his head. The voice speaking to him comes from the bobby in blue.

  “Get up.”

  A dominant female’s voice calls out. Corbeld gets up from the metal bench he’s been laying on. The blurriness is subsiding. Now the figures are becoming clear to him. Next to the bobby are Peter, Marianne, and Miss Weston. He groans. Looking around, he’s inside of a cell. A rather bleak situation. He sighs as he steps forward. His fingers wrap around the bars separating him from the visitors.

  “M-madame Weston…” Corbeld mutters.

  She shakes her head. In her hand is a notebook filled with writing on the page. She slaps the page. Peter and Marianne remain silent, staring daggers at him.

  “I know everything. Your partner-in-crime, Mister Magrath, is currently wanted and the police are searching for him. Completely overturned his realty office. I’m sure it won’t be long before he’s caught. As for you however…” Weston speaks.

  “How… how long have I been out?”

  “At least a day, sir.” The bobby chimes in.

  Corbeld lets out a groan. He leans his head on the bars, still focused on Weston’s fearsome glare. She gets closer to stare him down.

  “… What you’ve done is unforgivable. How far you’ve fallen getting involved with that damned Magrath. You are a well-respected member of the Institute. Well, ‘were’ anyway. As of today, your position at the Institute is terminated. You’ll be charged for your crimes against the people of London. A trial is already underway as we speak. I hope as you sit here in a cell, you’ll realize the error of your ways.”

  Corbeld feels his heart sink into the bottom of his stomach. He can’t even think of any words to say. Weston turns her back to him.

  “Resorting to such a heinous act all in the name of ‘purifying’ the city. Pah! Pathetic. We’re done here. I have nothing left to say to you. Goodbye… Corbeld. Come, you two. I think you’ve done well in your investigation.”

  Weston walks away with Peter and Marianne. Corbeld lets go of the bars. He sluggishly stumbles towards the bed and flops down onto the mattress. He feels broken. Ashamed. All he can do is wallow in his sorrow. The bobby outside the cell shakes his head and departs.

  The wind howls outside of an old, decrepit house. A steam carriage is parked behind just out of view of the streets. A pair of eyes peek out behind tattered blue curtains on the second floor. Magrath breathes heavily seeing a police carriage drive on by. Looming over the city still, the USS Armitage moves ever so slowly through the skies. He pushes the curtain back.

  The bedroom he’s in shows its age alongside the house. White wallpaper dotted with yellow sunflowers is tearing off. Pieces of the rotting ceiling have crumbled and fallen to the floor. A dresser sits with one drawer left open. An old family portrait of a young couple in formal attire hangs crookedly by a single hook.

  Magrath lights up a cigar. He sits against the bed-frame and takes a puff. A backpack is slumped on the floor near the door. Papers and documents are scattered about the vanity’s surface. To Magrath, all hope seems lost.

  “An unforeseen consequence. Heh. Wasn’t expecting this now were we, chap?” He talks to himself. “Years of planning and orchestrating this grand operation… just to be foiled by foreigners. You’re safe though, right? I hope…”

  Magrath looks around the room. Down at the red sheets on the mattress. He peers out the window once more. The airship still floats. He sighs.

  “… Maybe not. The increased police presence is worrisome. I fear Corbeld’s already been caught. Well, no matter. I’ll simply wait out the remainder of this lock-down then… I’ll flee. Flee this city. Start a new life elsewhere. I-I’m so sorry… my dear friend. This… wasn’t how this was supposed to turn out.”

  Magrath feels an uneasy despair and guilt weighing on his shoulders. He remains silent while he smokes the cigar.