He had found himself quit bored. That was the thing. The inhibitors on the island made "hunting" far too easy and so the only change in the outcome happened to be on his end if he had varied things up or offered deals to accomplish his ends. Once or twice he had been harmed by electrical discharges though even then the outcome was never in question.

A being such as he could easily command the minds of individuals or generate things that weren't actually there. Thus today he had factored in this. He wanted to do something different and had access to the minds that he consumed in the distant past, access memories until he had come across the memories of one scholar in particular that studied something rather gruesome.

1888 was more then a century removed though there were events that still sparked the imagination. He pondered his findings for a moment from the lofty heights of a tree, his flesh more of a brown coloration to blend in better as he became aware of minds moving through the forest.

Students he assumed, some of the professors took their classes on nature hikes and this was no different now as he saw a class below him making reasonable progress along the hiking trail. He had ambushed his fair share of students here in the past and the spot was one of his favorites.

It was shady from the harsh rays of the sun and popular enough among the students to attract enough attention. He was dwelling on his recent encounter with Diana not far from this spot when he noticed that there were a pair of girls lagging behind the main group.

He scanned their minds with ease, then with access to their memories he pondered, reflecting on who to choose. He could take on both of them, he had no problems in doing so but decided that he needed just the one. He focused on the pair and brought his attention to the prettier of the two, the smarter of the pair as well.

She was the one he would focus his attention one and first he pressed through the defenses of her mind, a simple illusion rather so that she could not feel, see or hear the other girl. He doubted that he had to do this, they were not walking together and he did generate a rustling in the nearby brush to attract the attention of the one in the rear in order to focus her attention elsewhere and to loose sight of the other student when she looked away.

-shuffle shuffle shuffle- Her shoes made soft scuffing noises as she trailed along with her class in the wake of their Environmental Sciences professor. The aging woman was still going on about greenhouse gasses and ozone depletion, as she had been for nearly half an hour now. Anne sighed and focused on her feet as she drifted to the back of the group, far more comfortable as more space separated her and the other girls. They hadn't said anything to her yet, but she had caught most of them looking at one time or another in the week since she'd arrived, even caught a few overloud whispers from a few as she passed them in the hall.

"...how is she not hot dressed like that?....what is up with that hair style?..."

I can't really blame them... she thought, plucking at the bottom of her winter uniform jacket, worn despite the heat to cover her arms from both the blazing sun, and the curious eyes of her classmates. The jacket, combined with the flesh-tone hose she wore under her uniform skirt did indeed make her quite hot in the autumn daylight, but the sweat running down her neck and back was a small price to pay for not having to explain her burns again, at least not yet. Absently, she brushed her left hand through her long faintly lavender bangs, making sure her blinded eye and scarred side of her face were fully covered. An awkward style, but better than the alternatives.

Her healthy eye drifted to the other student at the back of the group, a slight, short-haired blond girl. Her eyes reminded Anne of Leslie, her former roommate, the memory giving her a pang of loneliness. She looked away, back down to her feet and the well trod dirt path beneath them. She really should make new friends, but it was just...too soon.

With her gaze on the ground, and her mind turned inward, Anne was certainly easy prey as her unseen watcher's illusion insinuated itself into her troubled ruminations. She didn't notice at all as the rest of her class faded from sight, didn't stir as the incessant droning of her professor faded into nothing. Lost in both her own thoughts, and those of another, she shuffled on.

Flames ...

He hit upon her past memory, the whole ordeal of fire licking upon her and he would not have noticed a thing had he not dug up that passed memory. Her attire, while ill suited for this rash weather, concealed her scars quit well and he studied her as if he could witness any of them.

His eyes were accustom to seeing through the murky depths and were more sensitive then most but even he did not see anything amiss. His earlier thoughts about her being comely were judged against the memory of her own image and while he sensed the negativity that she viewed herself with Aegir was use to seeing monsterous beings so he had not been put off by it in the least.

There were no thoughts about reevaluating matters or selecting the other student while there was still time though he simply accepted her scars as "exotic" besides they were hardly relevant for what he wished to accomplish here.

So he focused on her, his mind accessing her memories then, after digesting them, injecting his own talents into her head, warping what had been around her. There was a second there where things were not quiet right, walls shifting in place around her, then solidify in place.

Gone was the heavier winter jacket replaced by a long tan trench coat. She was sitting now rather than standing with a light rain clattering upon the window.

Across from here sat a blond haired, blue eyed comely young man sitting behind a heavy oak desk. A fork in his hand he was eating out of a cartoon of noodles. Scattered on the desk were files and even a small box, on top of it sat a letter sealed away in an envelop.

"Earth to Annie," the man exclaimed as he gazed at her. "You alright? You zoned out there."

Her feet froze for a brief moment as her mind turned unbidden to a memory from the fire, a faint scent of smoke filling her nostrils, a flash of unbearable heat playing over her skin. Her breath caught, preparing to whimper or scream, when as quickly as it came, the memory fled, leaving her shaken and still on the dirt path.

Breathe...breathe... Anne repeated in her mind as she slowly inhaled, closing her eye and trying to calm her hammering heart. She hadn't had a flashback to the fire in months, and now this...she didn't feel well at all now. Maybe it was just the shock from the brief recollection, but everything felt out of place, distorted. She furrowed her brow and forced herself to return to a measured pace of breath, and rubbed unshed tears from her eye with the back of her hand. Her....gloved hand?

Anne blinked her eye open and looked curiously at the cream colored leather glove sheathing her hand, her gaze then bemusedly following the sleeve of the tan trench coat covering her arm.



Her head jerked up just as she was wondering how her clothing had changed, and how she had come to be seated. She stared uncomprehendingly at the man sitting across an unfamiliar desk from her. Bewildered her gaze shifted to the myriad things atop the desk, from the noodles, to the files, to the letter in turn, before jerking back to the stranger.



Unable to comprehend what was happening, she nodded slowly, reaching up to check her hair reflexively, taking a small measure of comfort that it seemed to still be concealing half her face. What is going on here? she thought to herself, glancing to the room around her, trying to piece things together.

"Good, thought the late hours were catching up with you at last," he said as he speared the noodles with his fork then let go of it as he gazed at her again. A look over his cluttered desk revealed a name plate, George Lusk.

He looked at her for a moment as if considering what sort of state she was in then plodded on as if there were nothing amiss. "Jordan wants that story ASAP on the murders. What a shame," he shook his head as he considered matters for a second.

"Tragic ... I don't know what I would do if it were you, of course it wouldn't be given the classes the guy seems to be going after but the point is the same. So have you talk with those near the scene? The baker said he thought he saw someone in the alley, didn't he?"

George Lusk? Why does that name seem familiar? she pondered, looking at the man evenly, deciding it was better to play along with...whatever this was, for now at least.

As he continued speaking, she frowned slightly, processing his words. Something about a story? Murders? The wheels in her mind turned slowly, the beginnings of an idea forming. This man seemed to think she was...what? A writer, a reporter?



Given the classes? Scene? She thought frantically, trying to figure out who she was supposed to be in this odd, dreamlike world.

"Ah, y-yes. I s-suppose I would be r-rather outside the apparent r-range. And n-no, I've not s-spoken to anyone as of y-yet. I s-seem to have f-forgotten which s-street the baker is on." she stammered out hesitantly, her nervousness causing her stutter to flair up. However, despite the uncanny situation and the unease it brought her, Anne felt a deep curiosity building, an interest piqued by the sense of familiarity the whole experience had. But why? This was clearly not one of her visions. It was far, far too clear.

George seemed quit patient with her as she spoke. He steepled his fingers together as if thinking about something then went about shuffling around some papers. He had seemed to be disorganized and to top matters off there were diagrams here and there depicting the restoration of music halls. At last he found a pad of paper buried beneath some of the files and newspapers on his desk, newspapers dated ... no that couldn't be right ... October 16th, 1888.

"Lark Street, mere Sullivan's in the lower district," he said after taking a moment to read his sloppy handwriting. He glanced at her though, frowned then ran a hand over his mustache as he thought about something then retracted his hand which rummaged around the interior of his vest pulling out a cigarette that he plopped into his mouth.

He got out a match and had been ready to strike it then paused as if he had remembered something only plucking the butt out of his mouth and tossing it unlit in the waist basket. "Minus well quiet now, I keep saying that I'm going too."

Now meanwhile while this had been playing out in her mind Aegir crept even closer as he oozed off of brances plopping onto others beneath him. He maintained the illusion with no effort as he directed things within her mind.

"Will you hand me my mail, Annie, been hectic today with the discovery of that body and all that I never had a chance to sit down and read it. I was expecting correspondence from my sister but didn't see her name on anything. Wonder who sent the package too, probably another music lover thanking me for restoring one of their halls ..."

His eyes flickered in the direction of the mail that had been cluttered up on his desk. His chair creaked as he shifted then he twirled a forkful of noodles about it and took another bit of his cooling food.

Anne breathed a soft sigh of relief as it seemed she was playing along well enough for now. Her eye drifted back to the mess on his desk (Does he ever tidy up?) as the man rummaged around in it. She blinked a few times as she caught the date of the newspaper, frowning slightly.

1888? That isn't possible...is it? she dubiously considered. Had her visions somehow reversed, showing her the past rather than the future? And if so, why in such great detail? Even stranger (if that was possible) what if this wasn't a vision at all? She glanced back up at him as he spoke, the street name unfamiliar, but again giving her that little twinge of odd familiarity.

She tensed as he put the cigarette in his mouth, inching back in her seat to put more distance between herself and any match or lighter he may be about to use. Her sigh of relief was audible as he threw the unlit cylinder into the trash, her hands smoothing the material of the coat over her knees as she gives him an approving nod.

"A g-good choice Mr. Lusk. S-smoking is a terrible h-habit," she spoke mildy, falling into this bizarre role she had stumbled into. At his request she picked up the letter and leaned across to offer it to him, a small frisson of dread shivering through her as she caught a glimpse of the flowing cursive writing on the outside.

Something is wrong, but what? Why do I feel like I should know this scene? she mused worriedly, her eye locked on the letter as Mr. Lusk took it from her gloved hand. Pieces, whirling in her mind's eye, her clothes, the date, George Lusk, that address, the letter. Something was very, very wrong here.

"Thank you," his finger slid across the envelop and he worked out the folded piece of paper within. He read it rather quickly at first then a second time slower then the last then snorted. "A joke in bad taste ..."

He handed the letter to her to read while he took up the pack in his hands, opened it and with light blue eyes he pierced inside it, frowned then shook his head. "Well, whoever sent it with to every expense to make it seem real as possible, I suppose."

He set the package down before him with a little shake of his head then looked towards Ann. "See what I have to but up with? I bet it's Spencer, this all reeks of him after all." He opened up a desk draw in which he placed the package and letter when she had finished reading it, shut the draw then placed it out of his mind.

"Lark Street. Baker. McCellan. Lewis." He repeated all of which had been jotted down before him on the pad that he retrieved. "Now, he'll know about the second murder, not the first so keep that in mind when speaking to him. And Annie, don't forget it's my arse here. You know that they were all grumbling about a female reporter so don't let me down on this whatever you do. Now's your chance to show them that a woman can do the same work as a man. Of course if you quote me on that I'll deny it." He grinned though her attention was probably still on the letter.


"From hell
Mr Lusk,
Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer
signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk"

The sense of dread grew as she watched Mr. Lusk read the letter, the fingers of her right hand slowly tightening on her coat tail. She reached for the letter when prompted, her hand shaking mildly as she carefully held the paper up to the light, her violet eye widening as she read the crimson inked words.

"F-from h-hell...oh my G-god..." she whispered in disbelief, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly slamming into place. She barely heard Lusk continue speaking, her mind reeling with the revelation. London, 1888, the office of George Lusk, president of the Whitechapel Vigilance, and this letter....she was somehow involved in the search for Jack the Ripper. A fresh bolt of terror jolted her, her face paling further as she stared at Lusk. What had he called her? Annie? Surely she wasn't supposed to be-but no...Annie Chapman had already been murdered by October, if she recalled correctly. She wasn't in the place of a victim then, at least. But why was she here at all?

"W-what? Oh y-yes, of course. That...uhm...p-poor Chapman w-woman, yes?" she stammered as he continued to speak, handing him the letter back with a now violently shaking hand. She was a reporter then, investigating the Whitechapel murders. Her eye followed the box as he put it away, her stomach roiling at the thought of what it contained. "..and I w-won't Mr. Lusk, you h-have my word." Oddly, she found it somewhat easier to play the part, now that she knew what the setting seemed to be. However macabre the vision, dream, or whatever this was turning into, she couldn't help but be a bit....curious. After all, even today...her today that is...they still had no real answer as to the perpetrator of the Ripper murders. Maybe she'd learn something...

As he took the letter out of her hand he saw her reaction to it and grinned. He shook his head slightly as if dismissing matters entirely. Of course she had been aware of the truth. Things did not quiet add up though seeing that George was here, talking to her about a possible story so had his role in matters changed a little? Or perhaps entirely.

"I wouldn't think too much on it, a hoax perpertrated by some kids no doubt seeing how tasteless it is."

He paused for a moment as thinks made a sembelance of sense to her now. Though he regarded her again he smiled softly, the corners of his mouth turning upward so that his mustache seemed to rise. Then normality stole over the features of his face as he reflected on the name she just passed out of her lips.

"What a tragic waste ..." he confirmed her belief that she wasn't Anne Chapman anyway seeing how she was already dead, at least in this reality. But turning his blue eyes towards her he continued without missing a beat. "Annie, do be careful. The guy's struck twice already and seems to be targeting woman of ill repute. Asking questions in the shadier districts might get you mistaken for the type ... I doubt it of course but you never can be too careful."

She nodded her head dubiously as he dismissed the import of the package and letter, unsure if saying anything would make any sort of difference. A curious thought though. Could she change things? If this was a dream, then likely it wouldn't matter either way. If it wasn't...well, perhaps she'd better just play along as things seemed to be going.

At his confirmation of the second victim's name, Anne breathed a small, guilty sigh of relief. Better her than me she thought with a small twinge of conscience for the long dead (by her reckoning at any rate) woman. She nodded once more, intently now, as he warned her against the dangers of pursuing her apparent investigation. She wracked her brain for details on how these "women of ill repute" had dressed or carried themselves, but sadly the few books she'd read about the Ripper case had glossed over such things as being unimportant. She'd just have to wing it then.

"Oh, believe me I w-will be careful Mr. L-lusk. And any m-man who mistakes me for s-such a poor soul will be q-quickly disabused of the n-notion," she spoke more calmly now, falling into the same style of speech as Lusk as her nerves settled somewhat. Rising, she glanced down to see if she had a bag or anything that was with this "reporter" she was supposed to be. Regardless, she offered a polite nod and extended her hand to the man across the desk from her.

"T-thank you Mr. Lusk, but I h-had best find this Mr. McCellan before t-the day wears any f-further."

"Indeed," George said with a small nod. As she glanced down though she was aware of a large brown hand bad containing pens and a few pads one enough obtaining notes on the prior murders in her own handwriting!

But all that were for future discoveries right now as she traveled to Lark Street a heavy fog settled in, not too unusual, though her vision had been heavily obscured as she traveled down cobblestone pavement, her footfalls eechoing out in the fog making it hard to determine where there sound originated from.

It was late evening by her best guess and as she traveled about facts of this particular case, or rather cases, floated through her mind. It occurred to her that she did not know where to go but following the scent of baked bread in the air wouldn't go wrong, would it?

Before long though she found herself on Lark Street. The buildings seemed run down, obviously of poorer quality here. One though had been spouting smoke from a brick chimney though as she neared there had been a sign on the door saying that they were open.

Opening the door there came a soft little jingle of a bell attached to it, which gathered the attention of a swarty individual behind a counter busy kneading dough.

He stopped, sported a brief grin on his face then approached the counter. "Can I help you?"

She walked hurriedly through the foggy streets, attempting to give off the air of a woman on urgent business, rather than a woman looking for..."business". As she'd never actually seen a prostitute before, Anne was uncertain of her success but given the circumstances, it was rather a moot point anyway.

At least now I know those jokes about London fog are accurate she mused as she dug through her handbag, mind churning away at the information she had so far. A pity the fog was so thick, or she'd have a chance to read over this "her"'s notes, perhaps figure out where she was on the case...and for that matter which paper she worked for, if any. Given Mr. Lusk's earlier entreaty to not let him down, she rather thought she was still an independent journalist trying to use this case as a means to find more gainful employment.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely noted her passage into the seedier districts of the city, her body somehow knowing which way to go (perhaps this other "her" was somewhere inside her still?). As the scent of baking bread caught her attention, she snapped out of her mild fugue, focusing on the task at hand and how she was going to tackle it.

-ching ching ching- A hand to her face to ensure her hair hadn't become disarrayed in her travels, and she was inside, the chiming of the bell chasing her into the warm, delicious smelling building.



She put on the best smile she could manage and raised a notepad and pencil in a small wave to the smiling baker.

"Why y-yes sir I do believe you can. My name is An-..Annie Rhipsime, reporter with t-the Central N-news Agency. Am I c-correct in thinking t-that I address one Mr. McCellan?" she tried to quash the stammer as best she could, and make up for what she couldn't with all the charm she could summon...admittedly not very much given her lack of contact with people, but at least she was earnest.

Digging through her bag had her discover that there were pens in it but not the sort that she had been use to since these had been rather old fashioned and needed to be dipped into ink rather then the simple stylus that she had been use to. Perhaps the alien nature of that had her selecting a pencil instead.

There were several on hand and while they were not like the traditional pencils of her era she at least could use the items with little fuss. But as she assumed that the man before her had been McCellum he gave her a toothy smile, forearms resting against the counter displaying a jagged scar along his left forearm.

He studied her for a moment and seemed to pause as he looked her over, starting with the features of her face then flowing down her covered body then back up to her face where he smiled at her again, possibly appreciating what he saw. He made little effort in concealing the fact that he had just been checking her out in that moment but said nothing to point that out.

"Please, call me Lewis, Mr. McCellum is too formal," he entoned as he rounded the counter and walked to the door where he flipped the sign on it over from open to closed. His hand lingered over the lock, thought better of it at this stage, the girl sounded terrified after all, and left it unlocked for the time.

"Just about ready to lock up, was getting ready to toss that loaf in the oven and do a little cleaning while it bakes so I got plenty of time before I leave here."

While he talked he had been in the process of moving. He went back to the dough he was kneading, placing it into a pan then sticking it into a oven to bake. That done he wiped his meaty hands off on a rag then turned to her.

"Newspaper, eh? Central, haven't heard of that one but not surprising seeing how I don't read well. So if your from the paper your probably want to know about that girl ... tragic loss."