The Paninaro of Angry Weasels Named Flibble: Part One

by Ana Lyssie Cotton

'News in this city
Breaks without pity
Long after the war has ended
We're still in fatigues'
-- Up Against It, by the Pet Shop Boys

The British Museum rose stolid and dark against the night sky. Stars sparkled behind a veil of fog, adding eerie luminescence to the street lights. The streets were damp, having survived mid-afternoon showers, reflected light from streetlamps gleamed from them, sending eye-piercing lances into unwary eyes.

Inside the stately building, Rupert Giles worked. His head bowed over the paperwork on his desk, pen scratching occasionally. He hated paperwork, but then, that was because only *he* seemed to be able to do it right.

A mumble came from him once in a while, then would still away. The cup of tea to his right had long since grown stone cold, but he still sipped from it.

Staying late at the museum was a usual occupation for the bespectacled Englishman. Olivia was off on business jaunts, so he wasn't seeing her anymore. And the Watcher's Council had let him know that they would contact him when the time came. If the time ever came. They weren't all that impressed with him, so far. The Watcher's Council was the supposedly super-secret organisation which discovered and trained the Slayers. Slayers being the one girl in all the world Chosen to fight the demons of the night. Mainly, vampires.

Rupert had always known he was supposed to be a Watcher. His father had been one, and his mother before him, And so on down the line of Giles'. But for the moment, he wasn't one. Besides, he was happy being a curator.

Outside the wind whipped between the buildings, chilling those walking the streets, even those wrapped in mufflers and trenches.

Pete Wisdom flicked a cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it. His trenchcoat collar was pulled up as high as it would go, and he huddled into it, cursing the wind. An unlit cig was hanging from his lips as he studied the museum.

A figure sauntered towards him, the glowing tip of a French-cut cigarette in his mouth.

"Well?"

"Are you prepared?"

Wisdom snorted, "Lead on."

--

Before Remy LeBeau could lead his charge into the museum, a footstep sounded nearby. And a tall man with silvered hair stepped out to meet them.

"Wisdom, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sod off."

"Make me."

"....Useless wanker."

"Not at the moment, no. You remember Dom, right?"

"She still insane?"

"Must be."

Gambit leaned against the light post, and watched the two fence. It didn't matter to him if they went on all night. Wisdom would still pay him his money. He wasn't quite sure who the man was, but Wisdom seemed to know him. Remy finished his French cut, then sighed wistfully. It had been the last of a pack he'd picked from some stockbroker's pocket several weeks back.

Smoking them sparingly, he'd managed to make them last. And now they were gone.

Continuing to studiously ignore the other two combatants, Remy wondered if Pete's boss-lady would be pleased with his tardiness if they didn't fetch the item that night. From what he'd heard of Scicluna, second-in-command of Black Air, the super-secret black ops crew of Britain, she wasn't one to cross.

The streetlight fizzed the lightbulb flickering. It reflected off the man's hand, catching Gambit's eye. It was as if he were plated in armour. Remy frowned and looked closer. It wasn't armour. It was as if the man's arm was actually metallic. He blinked, tuning back into the conversation.

"I owe you nothin'." Wisdom snapped, reaching up to light his cigarette. For a brief moment, the flare of the lighter illuminated his face, then it was gone. Even then, it was still easy to see the inscrutable look he wore.

"Are you trying to ruin your nightsight, Wisdom?" demanded the tall, burly man.

"I told you Dayspring, sod off."

"Not until you tell me why you're skulking outside the British Museum in the middle of the night."

"For my health."

"It's cold and drizzling."

"I like rain."

Remy decided it was time to step in. This was becoming tedious. Besides, he wanted to get back to bed. Where it was warm. "Excuse me, gentleman."

Wisdom glared at him, "Stuff it."

"I don't have to stand in the rain and take abuse from you, Wisdom. I can quite easily leave you here, the money is still going to be in my account in the morning." Remy straightened and turned to go.

"Ah, wait. Bloody thief."

Dayspring looked amused, "I thought he was leaving because you were insulting him."

"Shut up, Nate."

--

The paperwork was finally too much. With a muttered curse, Giles shoved the stack to the side, removed his glasses, and began rubbing his eyes.

It was definitely time to go home. A cup of tea--he grimaced at the sludge in his mug--warm tea, sounded lovely. And then bed.

He stood and began collecting papers and books into stacks. A few would be locked into the safe above his filing cabinet. The rest would end up left in neat piles on his desk.

The office itself wasn't very large, a desk, a chair, a two-drawer filing cabinet, and a long table currently stacked with small artefacts made up his workspace. They'd wanted to install a computer a few months back and he'd told them in no uncertain terms to sod off.

It wasn't that Giles didn't like computers. In point of fact, he hated them.

They were small and compact, and could do gods-knew-what to his filing system. Besides, he didn't know how to use one.

With a tired mutter, he shut the safe door and spun the dial.

Turning, he pondered the likelihood of finding a cab this late at night. There really wasn't any, and besides, it wasn't that far a walk to his flat.

He picked up his umbrella and bag, then paused to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. His jacket waved balefully at him from the coatrack. It was a nice black leather piece, left over from his days as a belligerant, rebellious youth. Giles only kept it because it was warm. Besides, it was kind of sexy. At least, Olivia thought so.

Grabbing his bag with the umbrella hand, he scooped up the jacket on the way to his door.

The hall he stepped out into was half-lit, thanks to the non-existance of good lighting. The overhead lights were supposed to have two of the long thin bulbs, but only had one.

It made for some interesting shadows as he strolled down the back stairs. As if there were spiderwebs everywhere, when there weren't. Sometimes they looked like constellations and planets. For now, they looked suddenly like three men creeping across the lower hallway.

He froze for a moment and studied them. In the lead was a dark-haired man in a brown trenchcoat. Immediately following him, just as stealthily, was a slightly shorter man. He was also dark-haired and clad in a trenchcoat. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips as he studied the back of the leader. Bringing up the rear was a tall, hulking man, silvered hair covering his head. A black trenchcoat was wrapped around him.

While he was studying them, they slipped into the hallway further and were lost to sight. Giles thought for an instant, then decided the best course of action would be to attempt to apprehend them. After all, he'd recently been training strenuously in case he ended up with a Slayer, hadn't he?

The logical course of action would have been to go back and call the police. Giles was tired, irritated, and ready for a fight. He chose not to think of logic.

Anyway, it wasn't as if he couldn't take them. Right? They were just three scruffy kids, probably. Right.

--

Nathan Dayspring cursed under his breath in Askani. Deciding to help Wisdom with his little heist had probably not been the wisest course of action. Even if it meant Wisdom would owe him one. The hallway they were creeping through was dark, thanks to the crappy illumination some accountant had probably decided was cost-cutting.

Of course, he only had himself to blame. After all, he could have followed Wisdom's advice and sodded off. But the chance to gain another favour from the enigmatic Englishman, and work alongside this LeBeau had been too good to pass up.

And then he heard it. An almost silent sound, a momentary intake of breath. So light as to be missed, if you were breathing yourself. But Nathan hadn't lived as long as he had without being able to hear things most others didn't.

Someone was following them. Wisdom had heard it, too. A moment later, LeBeau stiffened slightly, then continued on as if nothing had happened.

Reassured that the other two knew of their pursuer, Nathan reached back telepathically and lightly touched the man's mind.

::...bloody kids...prank...teach 'em a lesson or two...damned late night....::

Nathan almost laughed at what he picked up. Apparently the man thought they were teenagers on a prank. He was going to be in for quite a surprise.

LeBeau opened one of the many doors along the hall and slipped through. Pete glanced in, looked back at Nathan, then followed LeBeau. Nathan stepped inside the room, turned and closed the door softly. He kept an eye peering through a slight crack between jamb and door.

A moment later the man slipped into the room across the hall from them. He came out about a minute later, a large broadsword held calmly and assuredly in his hands. With a glance at Nathan's door, he slipped back down the hall.

Nathan closed the door the rest of the way and turned to Wisdom. "He's gone to lay an ambush. Any other way out of here?" Wisdom was holding a small penlight over a case, where LeBeau was picking the lock.

"None that are unguarded." LeBeau replied sotto voce as he finished picking the lock on the case. He stepped back and bowed to Wisdom with a flourish.

Without answering him, Wisdom carefully pulled the top up, wincing as the hinges creaked softly. He shone the penlight in for a moment, studying what was there.

Too far away to see more than a slight glitter from what was within the case, Dayspring turned back to the door and opened it. With just the one man as an opponent, they'd get out quickly. He was tempted to just knock the man out now, but Wisdom would probably prefer a more direct confrontation.

LeBeau tapped him on the shoulder, and he eased the door open. The corridor was empty. He slipped out, eyeing the passageway further down, then turned back the way they'd come.

Searching ahead mentally, Nathan found the man again.

::...yawn....stay awake, Rupert....::

A moment later, they were back in the stairwell. The man swung the sword downwards, in a clean arc. It made almost no sound, but Nathan had been listening for it. Telekinesis wrapped around the sword, sending it clattering to the floor.

--

For a second, Rupert was startled, then he dropped into a judo stance in front of Nathan, and waited. The sword glittered on the floor nearby, and he tried to figure out why it was there, and not in his hands.

And at that moment, the scrawnier of the men stepped forward, and levelled a gun at him. "On the floor."

Giles took a good look at the men and winced inwardly. Logic was beginning to make fun of him as he realised they were certainly not children. And there was no way he could take all three. One of them. Maybe. But the scrawny one looked wiry, the burly one could fold him in half, and the other one was probably just as dangerous.

The gun was still being pointed at him, too. "Look, you bloody plonker, on the floor!"

"I--" Giles looked at the barrel of the gun, as it seemed to get bigger and bigger, it was so close. He could almost-- with a lightning fast movement (one he would pay for later with sore muscles) he lashed out, slamming the man's arm away. The gun and hand hit the wall, the man reflexively letting it go off.

Giles followed the hit up with a kick to the gut which sent the wiry one sprawling to the floor. His cohorts were already stepping forwards, the burly one reaching languidly out and placing a hand on Giles' forehead. "You will sleep." He intoned softly.

A wave of exhaustion slammed into Giles, sending him reeling. He never recovered from it, as the other man took advantage, and slammed doubled fists into the back of his neck.

With a groan, Giles slid towards the floor, stars and black surrounding him. And then something slammed into the back of his head, and everything went dark.

--

Giles woke up to find dirt in his mouth, and pain pounding his temples. He groaned as he opened one eye and found himself nose to tile with the lower hall of the Museum's backrooms.

For a moment, this puzzled him, and then the events of--the night before? The last few minutes? How long HAD he been unconscious?--flooded back to him. Three men. They'd gone into one of the rooms where the more esoteric things were stored, and stolen... what?

In all the hot impulsiveness he'd had to fight them, he'd forgotten they might have actually taken something. He groaned again and slowly pushed up to his hands and knees.

Several muscles protested this misuse, and he nearly laid down again. Only the need to find out what had been stolen spurred him onwards. Dimly, he thought he'd have to call the police.

It took a few minutes, but Giles was soon on his feet. He swayed unsteadily as he slowly made his way down the hall. Halfway to the door, he suddenly remembered his own appropriation of the fifteebth-century berzerker sword.

"Bloody hell." He couldn't find it, so he searched harder, wincing as his vision tilted.

A moment later, he decided to leave it wherever it had fallen, and continued to the room.

There were no signs above any of the doors in this hall, and less information inside, save a few hastily scratched notes. And, of course, the book. He finally reached the one the three had entered, and slipped in.

None of the cases were open, but that meant nothing. Giles flipped the light on, and looked around. There were eight cases, each set on a table. The glass on all was untouched. With a muttered curse, he began systematically looking in and viewing the contents, searching for what was missing.

He didn't touch anything, and he tried not to breath, either. Memories of bad cop-dramas imported from America, filtered through his mind. Couldn't they do DNA testing, finger-print analyses and the like? Deciding they could, he was distracted from his careful search and almost missed the bare spot in the fifth case.

Item number 456, read the number detailed on the card next to the bare spot. Giles studied it for a moment, then turned and began searching the room for the book. Every room had one, even if it wasn't updated regularly. They contained a listing of all numbers, and what items the numbers represented.

He finally found the large book sitting under one of the cases. The binding was cracked brown leather covered in flaking gold and silver lettering with pen scratches dotting the numerous parchment pages. Propping it on the case, he flipped through the hand-written pages, muttering the number.

"345, 346, 347..." A moment later, he paused to read the description on item 378. It was apparently a bronze stake, found in an Egyptian tomb. "Intriguing..." Then he shoved his glasses back up his nose and began turning the pages again.

Several of the pages had apparently been dropped on a floor, walked on, dipped in mud, then put back. Luckily, the entry on Item number 456 wasn't on those pages.

It wasn't on any of them.

The pages merrily showed him 455, then skipped on to 457. 456 didn't exist. Either the thiefs had removed it (the most likely scenario--except, why leave the card? To tease them?), or it had been removed long before (less likely, but also possible. The book was locked up, after all). He pocketed the card.

Giles cursed in several esoteric languages and set the book down with a thump. How irritating, now he had no idea what had been taken. He grabbed the white card and pocketed it. With another oath he stalked back to the door and headed for his office. The police needed to know of the theft, and he could use a shot of the brandy there.

Even if it was only for medicinal purposes.

--

They called her Ella Mae, had forever and ever. Of course, back in the day it had jokingly been Ella Mae West. She'd been gorgeous when she danced. All shapely legs and lovely smile. And her hair all done up with jewels and needles. She didn't look like that now. She was just Ella Mae; none remembered ever knowing her by any other name.

She trundled all along the lower east side, basket in hand. Occassionally dossing on this house-step, in that portico, under that ledge. A sweet old lady everyone knew.

If you wanted something stolen, you went to Ella. If something needed bought, she'd know where to get it. Wonderful font of information on everything, was Ella. And you knew the tax you paid for it. Money. Sometimes beer, usually a hot meal. If you couldn't pay that, you'd promise your service. Maybe she'd send you on an errand. Maybe just use you as a messenger.

All of this was going through Pete's head as he slipped through the shadows of the street. Ella had demanded he give her an audience earlier that week. So he'd sent a time he'd show up.

The day after a heist didn't seem promising, but at least he wasn't going to have a sodden head this morning. And you needed to think clear around Ella Mae. She was sharper than a hotknife.

The street turned, and Pete turned with it, ignoring the puddles and other pedestrians. Ahead was his destination, The Peacock Lounge, as it called itself. In reality, it was just a front for many different underground activities. Rumours abounded that even the skinheads ran couriers out of the Peacock.

Pete sauntered inside. It looked like an ordinary bar. Tables and chairs in semi-formal groupings, a few booths further back, doors to a kitchen, and a walnut-topped counter towards the side. Scars riddled the wood, most of the "Jenny loves Bobby" type, or cigarettes and cigars left burning on it too long. A few were bullet holes, smoothed down and burnished, so it caught the eye.

The clientele were dark-clad boozers, some club kids, and a few suit-types out to slum for lunch. Pete ignored them all and went up to the bar.

"Yeah?" The bartender couldn't have been more than 18, blond hair sticking up untidily like a haystack. His eyes were dark, and a cigar dangled from one limp hand.

"Scotch."

"Oh, yeah, like we've got that, ya bloody toff." The kid rolled his eyes, but turned away and picked up the bar phone. A few whispered sounds, and he turned back to Pete, "She's waitin' fer ya."

Pete nodded and stepped into the kitchen area. Immediately, a man stopped him. Dark hair, chef's hat, muscles. Pete raised his arms and let the large man with the scars and bruises pat him down. Besides, it wasn't like he had anything to hide. Always be prepared for strip searches by huge men was one of Pete's mottos. The man removed Pete's trenchcoat and checked the lining for anything weapon-like. He didn't give it back.

Once done, the man gestured silently to the walk-in refrigerator. With an equally silent nod, Wisdom stepped into the fridge.

"You rang, Ella?"

She looked up at him and chuckled. Barely four feet and a few inches, Ella Mae was towered over by nearly everyone. Under the masses of skirt, she might have a nice figure, but no one had tried to check, in recent memory. "Yes, dear. Now, how did your night go?"

"Not too bad. Stayed in and got some sleep."

"That's not what I heard from a friend down Museum Way."

"Must have been mistaken."

"Then you won't be interested in knowing the police are looking for you and your two friends." Ella chuckled, "Not that it matters, they won't find the Thief. And Dayspring might as well not exist. But you, my lad, you, they'll find."

Pete studied her, then shrugged, "They'll have a hard time doin' it when I'm on vacation."

"Don't be daft, ye bugger. They'll find ye b'fore ye leave." She snorted, her accent thickening, "Now, I can get them after someone else, who deserves it. And ye can go free. Jus' gimme the word."

A choice, then. Pete's brain raced, trying to think of a way out of this. There was only the one door to the fridge. And Mr. I Bench-press lorries was guarding it. He shrugged nonchalantly, "Don't know wot y'mean, Ella. Now, wot'd you want?"

"Wisdom, too bad you're not as smart as the name says." Ella sidled past him and turned at the door to look at him. "Try not to freeze on us. Bad for business, dead bodies in the meat locker."

"Now, Ella, can't--" Pete began, starting after the ex-dancer.

The beefy guard slammed the door in his face. A set of clicks proved the locks on the other side had been shot home. Pete cursed.

The fan in the room turned on, the air perceptibly getting colder.

Pete cursed again. The bouncer still had his trench.

The stored food around him seemed uncaring of his predicament. The milk going so far as to ignore him completely and slowly go sour. The cheeses continued contentedly moulding while the ground round slowly attained sal monella (Nirvana, for meat).

With another curse he flopped down onto a stack of boxed lettuces. They creaked for a moment, then sagged under him. He ignored it and thought about the situation at hand.

If he used his mutant ability to escape the cell, that bit of cover would be blown. Very few knew that Pete was a master of what he called 'hot knives'--energy, really, at a super-heated frequency. And the fewer that knew, the happier he was. Pete wasn't a big fan of the damned things. They'd helped him kill too many too easily. He'd dealt with that, but they were still too easy to misuse.

And if he didn't, Ella would probably have him beaten, tortured, stripped, sexually molested... Pete paused and contemplated the last idea for a moment.

Not that Pete was one to enjoy abuse. But sex, even kinky, painful sex, had a certain appeal. Maybe it was the fact that he'd be warmer while it was occuring.

The thought apparently caused someone outside the refrigerator to turn the temperature from freezing to cold as hell. Pete found himself suddenly shivering, and glared around the room. The glare served its purpose, since it brought him the sight of a tiny high-tech camera nestled in the corner. He studied it for a moment, trying not to tense.

So, Ella was watching him. If he'd been a cat, Pete would have curled around his feet and tucked his tail over his nose. Since he wasn't, he settled into the lettuces more firmly, drew up his legs and contemplated what Scicluna would do to him for being late at the rendezvous.

If he had a choice between Ella or Scicluna the Ice Bitch, Pete would go with Ella. Ella, at least, would kill him eventually. Scicluna wouldn't.

--

Rupert Giles, supposedly the man in charge of the British Museum, threw another small object off his desk. It bounced off the door and clattered to the floor, joining the other pens, pencils and paper clips. Have lax security? HIM? The nerve of the police, telling him how to run his own building.

And it wasn't like the officers themselves had been any help. Oh, no, they'd taken the descriptions and then claimed that it could be 'months' before anything came of it.

With a snort, Giles pulled open his desk drawer, searching for the file he'd put there that morning. It contained everything he knew about the robbery, except what had been in the case. Frustration crossed his features. No one yet had admitted to knowing what was there. Which was highly suspicious. SOMEONE should know.

His phone rang, distracting him slightly. "Giles."

"Hello, Mr. Giles. I hear you've had a break-in."

The voice was nearly accent-less, as if the caller were attempting to disguise his voice. "Who is this?"

"I'm one of the, how shall I say this? Investors? Of your museum. I would be very interested in knowing about this break-in."

Giles took great pleasure in dashing the anonymous person's hopes, "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"I'm afraid I'll have to contact your supervisor, then."

"I am the head of the museum, my dear sir." Giles smiled and laid the phone in the cradle. "Goodbye."

It rang again immediately, and Giles decided not to answer it. After all, he had a museum to run.

--

With a snort of disgust, Shinobi Shaw threw his cell phone against the wall. It shattered into a bunch of little high-tech gizmos. Not that Shaw cared, he had the cash to buy entire phone companies. One tiny cell phone was a drop in the bucket.

The room around him reflected expensive tastes. Silk-covered pillows in variegated tones of black and grey, a teak-wood desk, specially imported from India in tiny finger-size pieces. Gold accents on the desk, and picture frames. A Degas on one wall, a van Gogh on the other. The carpet was thick enough to swim in, and the draperies were an understated cream shot through with silver and gold.

"Incompetent British fool."

"Something wrong, Shinobi?" The voice slid silkily across his ears.

He turned and smiled at the woman standing in the office doorway. Her black hair was sleekly in a bun, echoing the almost business-like attire she wore. A grey pants suit with strategically placed cutouts was form-fitted to her lithe body. "Not at all, Selene. My dear, you're as ravishing as ever."

"My thanks." She shrugged one black-clad shoulder. "I take it you struck out with the museum?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry, Shaw. I'm sure we'll be able to track the thieves. Remember, Ella said she had a good idea who it was."

"Yes." He hissed between clenched teeth. "But this waiting is interminable."

"Waiting is an artform, child."

Shinobi glared narrowly at the woman standing in front of him. "I am not a child."

"Then stop acting as one." She replied calmly, turning away to flip idly through the papers on his desk. "Besides, I believe there are other things to discuss."

"Like?"

"The matter of Jeremiah Graf."

"I told you, I handled it."

"Not as well as you seem to think. Graf went to the police." She shrugged gracefully, and smiled. "Not that he'll be able to tell them anything, but it will look suspicious if he dies suddenly. Especially after being near-death once already."

"At least he told us what we needed to know. And we have that page he removed from the antiquities book at the museum."

"Yes, but with the amulet stolen, we're back to square one."

"Not yet, my dear, not yet. After all, Scicluna will see fit to turn it over to us. We just have to think of the correct persuasion." He stepped towards her, smiling lazily, "And my wishes?"

Her eyes narrowed, "I don't think she will be that amenable."

"What if I were to tell you she ran this theft at my behest?"

A slight smile crossed Selene's face. "Deliver on your promise, and we'll see."

--

Pete had almost decided to risk it and burn a hole in the wall when the door opened inwards, bringing a blast of warm air with it. Ella stood there, framed. "Pete, old boy, I've decided this is all silly. I'll let ya go."

"Yes. Quite right." He sidled over to her and stepped out into the kitchen. "And let me guess, at some point this evening, I'll be set upon by a bunch of bully boys."

"I would never--" She started, looking shocked.

"You may not, your flunkies, may be. I want a promise, Ella. I've bloody worked my fingers off for y'before. Safe passage for a week."

"Fine." She glared at him, "Now get the hell out of my sight."

He did, almost running out the back door, down the alley, out to pavement and up the street. He half-jogged, half-walked for seven blocks, then slowed, panting and gasping for breath.

Pete had no idea why Ella had let him go. His guess of further assaults was most likely true, though. Even if she gave him a free passage, there were still those who didn't listen to her. And they wouldn't hesitate to come after him. Especially if she let it slip that he'd tricked her into the passage.

With these wonderful, happy thoughts going through his head, Wisdom ducked out into a busier street. And failed to notice the young pickpocket that went by him.

[next part]

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