The Gentleman's Way

      "The crowded streets of London are particularly breathtaking on fine summer-evenings like these." thought Lancelot while making his way through the countless teenagers, businessmen and couples,clinging to eachother. The light wind was roughing up his black suit, that looked almost too noble, because of the victorian waistcoat underneath the jacket and of course the unusual neckwear- a royal cravat made from red silk, stolen three weeks ago. The young man- not more than 17 - seemed almost like he had stepped out of a painting to take a nice stroll on the streets, but then again he was firmly holding a fairly modern-looking black umbrella.

During peaceful moments like these Lancelot usually kept an inner monologue: catalogueing his thoughts, people on the streets, cars passing by and every possible threat. "Male, 20-25 years of age, a modern baseball-cap- probably one of them hippity-hoppity fellows, slight limp in the left leg..." Ventrue was distracted by another individual, obviously a drug-dealer... and judging by his thin moustache and the length of his jacket probably also a sexual predator of some kind. "People roaming the streets of this city... Some of them earn their money honestly, some dishonorably and some of them are like me."
Lancelot Ventrue noticed a chubby man in an overly-expensive suit (even for the streets of London) and "locked on" to the target. "Male, 50-58 years of age, wealthy, in a bitter mood, distracted- Perfect victim." Ventrue lifted his chin up, thus looking even more posh and bumped into the old man, with a moderate amount of force. "Hey! Watch your step, punk!" shouted the rich elder in an arrogant manner. In a split second the young man's hand had snatched the wallet from the fatcat's jacket. Just one charming smile and humble apology later he had already disappeared into the heavy crowd. "Wallets, watches, phones and jewelry are so easy to misplace, especially in a big city where there's people, who practise my profession." A short man wearing aviator sunglasses stepped in front of the young pickpocket and crouched to tie his shoelaces. Ventrue's eyes widened, time seemed to stop and thoughts started echoeing through his mind.

"Professionals tend to work in trios: The Blocker, who distracts the victim,..."

The black-suited young man dodged the crouching man after which an African-American girl in a purple hoodie tripped into him and grabbed the freshly-stolen wallet.

"...the Cannon, who obtains the item of value..."

Ventrue casted a glance behind him just in time to notice that the wallet was dropped inside the backpack of a bald man with a red goatee and rather unstylish flip-flops.

"...and finally the Shade, who takes the item and disappears... Let's have some fun, shall we?"

 Ventrue reached under his longer than usual blonde hair and tapped on his nearly invisible earpiece: "Thor calling Wolfman, male in his late twenties, brown backpack, red goatee- moving towards the cave."

    200 feet away, in front of an italian café behind one of the restaurant-tables was a man observing his surroundings through two holes cut into a newspaper. "Wolfman to Thor, I see the target. Wolfman's leaving the cave." Behind the newspaper was a tall young man
with a painfully obvious fake moustache and a brown bowlerhat. He paid for his tea, tipped the waiter and started following the thief listening to music from his earplugs. After a few zig-zags between different small empty alleyways, it was clear that the Shade with
the stolen wallet had noticed "Wolfman" tailing him... but then again the slightly overweight man with a bowlerhat wasn't trying to be silent and made sure to smack every metal object on the way with the end of his walking stick. "Back off, chump, this is none of your business! I'll break your legs if you won't stop following me!" The bald bearded man was getting anxious at "Wolfman's" calm and positive look and pulled a switchblade out of the pocket of his yellow jumper. *click* The stainless-steel blade propelled out of the handle.

The well-dressed man ripped off his moustache and put it under his bowlerhat while spinning the wooden stick in his hand. He smiled and cast a wild glance at the opponent: "Tell me, mr. Thief, have you heard of Bartitsu, the gentleman's way of fighting?"

The Ominous World II

     Last night a caucasian male in his early 20s walked inside BRED Banque Populaire, grabbed a stack of 20 euro banknotes, walked out and disappeared in the nightlife of Paris. He didn't pick any locks, he didn't open any doors and yet the security cameras show the skinny man, with a black goatee dressed in a steampunky leather costume complete with a silver cane, move in and out of the bank freely. How?
     Every human has a forcefield around them, an aura as some call them... you might even call it a soul. Individuals, who can see the life-energy around us and predict our moods or even thoughts, are not uncommon, but there is another kind of use for that field- Keeping a person from falling apart. There are some humans with skilled control over their physical body. They can loosen the connections between every particle in them, while still maintaining the connections and staying intact- this allows them to move through seemingly solid surfaces. Although these people are in control of their body, their minds are usually as unstabile as their particles. 


   Victor Grigoriev, 21, short black hair, goatee, severe bipolar disorder. The skinny russian had been kept in  an asylum since he was 11 years old and in there, during a sucide-attempt, he found the amazing gift that allowed him to simply leave the high-security building. Although Victor was mentally unstabile, he wasn'tstupid and managed to keep the police off his tracks easily. He didn't knew what he was looking for, but before he had been locked into the asylum, he had been to Egypt with his mother and that trip had always been his happiest memory, so why not do it again?

If you could go anywhere without being asked any unnecessary questions, where would you go?

The Ominous World I

     Have you heard that your whole life runs past your eyes right before you die? It's true, but it isn't some poetic/pathetic reminder of all the good deeds you've done or every kind word you've said, it is merely a savepoint. Everything you've felt and everything you've seen will be saved as a cluster of memories that represents a person. "Why?" you ask.

    Many mortals have wasted their lives in order to find the cure for death, but they never knew that we all hold the key, we all have the patential to live forever. The human brain was designed for immortality- Although man as a whole ages and fades, the mind is infinite. The reason of this "emergency back-up data" is simple... to cheat death and live once again, but everything good has a bad side.

     The streets of Dublin were clogged with people, running up and down the streets, but he felt that it was peaceful somehow... reminded him of London and the days he spent in his grandfather's house.

Howard Baker, 28 years of age, perfectly shaved head, rough face-lines, menobilist. Three years ago his grandfather had died. Usually mind-movers or menobilists get killed, because people, who have enough money to buy a new life, have dark secrets that need to stay hidden. Howard's grandfather had been cautious enough to live a rich life and also train an apprentice- It took the bald man a year to get the very basics down, but as grandfather had said: "One must never stop learning."

     Howard straightened his old leather jacket and stepped onto a bus. The mind-moving jobs had become rare, since many of the menobilists had been killed by organised crime leaders or rich high-rollers, but he had saved some money from earlier jobs and this kind of work had brought in a decent sum. His last job had been transferring an elderly woman's mind into a young asian girl. There used to be some conflicted feelings about ending someone's life like that, but business is business and the rich people will win most of the time. The man had sat down in a basement and placed one hand on each of the woman's foreheads. Every menobilist had their own way of picturing the minds- Howard imagined a simple holographic interface with two folders, but his grandfather had seen two books on an old writing table. After doing his job he got his money and left... as simple as that. 

     Howard wasn't afraid of death, but living as someone else had crossed his mind several times. Receiving a new life would usually be tricky, because there would be a need for an apprentice, but then again two menobilists could keep a perfect cycle of immortality... 

Howard Baker's phone started playing the theme-song of Doctor Who, on the LCD display was blinking a writing: "Grandfather"- on the man's face appeared a warm smile.