Play@YSDC

University of London - Professor Smith's Office
Saturday, March 11th, 1893 - Around midnight

Michael is stuck late at Professor Smith's office in the history department on campus at the University of London. The pair had been working on grading papers that had been due just before Spring break started. Michael ordinarily helped the professor with his history and archaeological research - though Michael skewed more toward the anthropological aspects of said research, and on a rare occasion the professor had him look into some more esoteric works. Tonight however, the professor convinced Michael to help him grade undergraduate papers and in return the professor promised to consider bringing him on his next research trip out to the Middle East. About a third of the way through the grading session a police officer showed up at the office and requested the professor accompany him in relation to a victim of some crime.
Michael was asked to keep grading, but if it got too late before Professor Smith returned, he'd understand if the assistant left early.
One hum-drum paper after another was read and graded, many of them seemed rushed or simply lackluster, perhaps some students were testing whether the new professor was a stickler for writing or an easy grader.
Michael was about three-quarters of the way through the stack when there was a light knocking at the door.

OOC,Feel free to describe yourself, your surroundings, reactions etc as this is just an introductory post. Welcome to [i]The Blood Red Fez.[/i]

Michael and his new mentor hadn't gotten off on an easy start. The two men were of comparable age and had needed some time to assess each other socially and scientifically, but the dust had settled and they had fallen into their distinctive roles as professor and assistant, stimulating and challenging the other's thoughts and work.


He sighed, pinched his nose and rubbed his eyes as he lent back. Students were really getting dumber, lazier, or both. Michael had taken of his vest and unbuttoned his waist coat, suppressing a yawn as he fished for a cigarette in his desk drawer.

Having lit it, he stood up and walked towards the window, letting out little grunts as he stretched his legs and arms and rolled his neck.
Sure, Smith would understand if he didn't finish the grading, but he couldn't just leave with the work unfinished, it was a matter of personal pride now.

Michael walked toward the hollow globe in the corner of the room and opened it, contemplating his drink. He took the half-empty bottle of Laphroaig and poured a good two fingers. At least the Scots are Gaelic too, he thought as he raised the glass in salute to the globe.
Just as he was savouring the burn of the whisky, a soft knocking pulled him from his reverie.

"Yes? Who's there?!"

"Message for a Mr...Cong...Cong...hayl....Err... Message for a Michael?" a small voice calls from the other side of the office door.

Michael smiled and put down the whisky.

"That's Connolly, little one."

He put on his vest again and walked towards the door as he buttoned up. Michael wondered who'd be sending a message at this time of night, especially using his Irish name. Aoife? Maybe something was wrong back home... He quickly dismissed the thought, it was probably either Smith telling him to go home or some students playing a prank.

Michael opened the door.

"Yes? I'm Michael Connolly."

As the door swung open, a small child jumped back in surprise. He was dressed in a dirty white shirt and loose-fitting shorts held up by suspenders, and a small flat cap adorned his head. He must not have been expecting that someone would answer. "Oh. Right you are sir, Mr. Connolly?" He extends a grubby hand with a small slip of paper in it, "I have a message for you from a Smith. He said it needed to get to you right away."

Michael takes the slip and reads it as he asks the child:
"Why are you out this late? Don't you have any school to go to tomorrow?"

"I don't have no school mister, just work if and when it comes. If thas alright then, I'll be on me way." The child lingers for a moment to make sure you're satisfied with the delivery...and possibly to receive a tip?

As Michael reads the note he recognizes the familiar scrawl of Professor Smith, who must have written it in quite a hurry.

AM AT 5 DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL.
FORGET THE PAPERS AND COME QUICK. BRING YOUR GUN.
JULIUS SMITH.

"That is unfortunate, how will you liberate yourself if you don't develop your mind?"

Michael was about to go into a diatribe on how the child should better himself through study in order to elevate himself and the rest of the oppressed masses, but is stopped by the rushed writing of Smith.
He digs into his pocket and digs out two half crowns, handing them to the lad and dismissing the boy.
"Now off to bed with you."


He closes the door and goes back into the office, quickly putting on his coat and hat, and extinguishing the lights. This was all very unusual and not like Smith at all, who was a rational man of science, Michael worried, he must be in deep trouble.
After having locked up, Michael rushes outside and hails a hansom cab, ordering the driver to stop by Michael's apartment in Bethnal Green (to pick up his pistol) for a moment and then to ride with all haste to 5 Durward Street.

"Wow, really sir? The gang's going to be over the moon. Thank you very much, sir!" The boy runs off after carefully depositing the money in his pocket.

Michael is able to get a cab with relative ease as a small handful of cabs always seem to loiter around the university to catch professors working late. After a quick stop at his apartment, he urges the cab driver onward to Whitechapel.

OOC,Michael's story is put on pause until the rest of the introductions are over, if there is anything else you might like to gather before you arrive at Durward Street let me know. Otherwise I will post again here when we are ready to move on.