Has he been asleep for long? He doesn’t quite recall falling asleep in the meadow either, come to think of it. A yawn passes his lips before he stretches across the rug. Rug. Where had that word come from? While he knows the word, knows that it means a material, soft, sprawling across the floor, he doesn’t know how he knows that word.
While Kult is not an idiot, he is not often perceived as an intelligent creature either. He is few in words, even less in displays of acknowledgement, his eyes bid nothing in reaction. Perhaps that is why many thought him slow, simple minded. Many would judge his book by its cover, many would falsely interpret him, it made no difference to Kult. He is not one to pine for acceptance, he simply was who he was, take it or leave it. A palm touches his shoulder, eliciting a feral reaction in return. He grabs the arm of whomever it is that is touching him, twisting the appendage, his fingers clasped tightly against the flesh. Fingers. He had been slow to rouse, now his dark eyes flicked open taking in the surroundings so unfamiliar.
The first thing that requires attention is the body to which he clings, turning the arm in an unsightly way. The protests are now filling his ears from the man which the part belonged to. Everything was slowly phasing into perspective now that he was conscious, waking. Somewhere out of focus a fire crackles in a hearth, giving light and warmth to whatever place this was. The edges of his sight unblur, followed by the clarity of his hearing humming into intelligible words. ”Kult..Kult, Kult. Can you hear me, gir’off me.” An impatient snapping of fingers, accentuated by uncomfortable groans, a man whom he did not know was trying for his attention. Perhaps man is an overstatement, a male, not a day over twenty stared at him through milky blue eyes. Uniform blue like a cloudless sky, they are perhaps the loveliest thing about him. His hair stuck out in uneven tufts from beneath his worn tan cap, as if he elected to cut his own hair with dull shears, rather than pay a barber.
His clothes are unkempt. A sleeved, dingy- white colored shirt with a button collar, and plain brown trousers an inch too short. He kept his slacks held up unnecessarily with suspenders, beneath a heavy oversized coat. Most of what he wore appeared to be hand me down, completing his homely look. Though he is perhaps considered a man of his time, he was still very boyish, with a round face, and nervous posture. His hands are rough from work, callused on the fingers and palms, and he was dirty. Peter, Peter Miller. The name came to his mind as if he knew this boy, had known him for a while now. It is while he is thinking on this fact, that his dark eyes trail up the arm, his arm, to his still clasped palm. He releases the boy’s wrist, staring down at his five fingers, flexing them as he turns the new extremity over and over.
Another body approaches in the firelight, this one is smaller, female. She is slight in stature, no more than 5 feet tall, shapely, with dark brown hair. The curls are pulled up and pinned to the back of her elegant head, with stray spirals falling about her face, pulling attention to her gentle hazel eyes. She smells of sweat, too much perfume and stale lager. When she smiles, her painted lips bring an uncommon whiteness to her even teeth. A delicate hand reaches for his cheek but he pulls away looking at her coldly. Her smile fades, the corners of her mouth pulling tightly to match the furrowed concern in the lines of her forehead. “Are you alright Kult? We need to pick a door, grab your coat.” She herself wears a plain, thistle-colored dress, belted at the waist, topped with a long coat that runs the length of her gown.
“Coat?” He questions looking at her flatly as she responds by pointing to a rack on the far wall. Catherine, Kate, that is what she is called. Kate. The woman takes a sidelong glance at Peter, who returns her concerned gaze with a shrug. Somehow they all knew each other, they sure seemed to know him, but not well enough. If they had really known him, they would have known not to touch him, would not have made any attempt to. He makes to cross the room, to retrieve this shock of fabric she called a ‘coat’, stumbling with his first step. What was wrong with his legs? Of course he finds that like the two others, he travels on his two hind legs, really the only legs he has now. Carefully he takes another step, feeling the adjustment, the placement of the weight he carries so awkwardly. His shoes are leather, worn but sound with life still in them. They are not pretty by any means, but they were a lot better than the slipper-like ones that Kate wore, or the too-tight loafers Peter shoved his own feet into.
Reaching the coat rack he lifts the only covering left. This one is deep brown and frayed at the seams but warm. He looks at it a moment, considering the wrapping before holding it aloft to place his arm inside the hole. Turning in a circle of a dance as he tries to put his coat on, he catches his reflection in a mirror on the wall. A pale face looks back at him through sunken dark eyes, rimmed with hard circles as if he had not slept in ages. His mane, no his hair fell to his shoulders in long greasy tendrils, something about him that could use a good washing. Grey hair was brushed across both his temples, adding age to his young, unlined face, which was sporting a five o’clock shadow. From the corner Kate clears her throat before speaking, “Kult, you need to choose a door.”
Choose a door Kult, choose a door, a door Did she ever shut up? He thought frowning in the mirror before knocking it to the floor, pieces shattering against the wood slats. Deftly fixing the buttons of his jacket, he turned stormily and grasped the red door, swinging it wide with force. He discovered that if he did not think to hard on how alien this body was, it was much easier to operate. “Choose” He smirked crookedly, gesturing with his free hand to the girl, ladies first. She gathers her purple dress in a now gloved hand, walking pointedly out the door, Peter follows tipping his head to Kult as he passes the frame. Rolling his vapid eyes, Kult follows, pulling the door shut behind them as they emerge onto a lamp-lit street.
Peter and Kate seem unphased by the fact that they have walked out into the night from a door inside a mansion. He knew that possibility was slim and none, some sort of something was going on here, and why he was the one that was not oblivious was pinching his temper. “Best walk Ms. Eddowes back to the lodging-house.” Peter suggested, taking Kate’s arm as they strolled down the cobbled streets. Kult followed, somehow he was associated with this party, and he was determined to find out why, and how.
Ms. Eddowes he called her, was far too cheery of a woman, laughing sweetly as they walked down the path. She sang time to time, still holding Peter’s arm, patting his shoulder with her free hand. They whispered to one another as well, smiling back at him , as if he too was in on their secrets. He didn’t like their smiles, either of them, they filled him with an uncertainty. Did he have amnesia? How long had he been here? Was this some sort of dream? All questions, all needing answers, and all while the two idiots sang songs and smiled. He isn’t sure why he would ever fall into the company of such imbeciles, honestly he isn’t sure he has. This is someone’s trick or better, someone’s game he convinces himself, as they all stop at the sound of footsteps. He finds nothing as he turns on the spot, squinting into the distance against the yellow lamp light. Peter and Kate begin whispering, Did you hear that? What was that? Mostly it is Kate’s broken voice excitedly asking hushed questions as she pulls at Peter’s sleeve. Grasping the rough cloth as if it will save her from the potential danger.
Kult only only smiles, he finds he likes the way she trembles much more than her singing voice. Shrugging off what they have just heard, he gestures forward once more, they might as well carry on. Peter’s milky eyes find his, he can tell the boy is afraid. He knows for sure he is afraid as he takes Kate’s arm, shushing her and leading her forward again. The set pace is much quicker now. So much so, that Kate has to use her free hand to hold her skirts, balling her first with fabric. The two pause, they need to turn right onto Church Passage, only thing is the street is sparsely lit and his companions cower at the dark. Kult grabs Peter’s elbow pulling him forward on to the unlit path, they were both being ridiculous and stalling. He was ready to be rid of the woman, one way or another, and if they could take her back to where they had found her- all the better.
It is not long before they hear the footsteps striking the stones behind them once more. This time Kate screams, filling Kult with unreasonable rage. Did the bitch not know how to be quiet? He wanted to know who was following them, wanted to know why. Did he want to play a game? His two companions were ruining his good fun he thought, snatching Kate by the back of her neck. Yanking downward so that the woman is looking up at him, back bent as she whimpered. She only struggled for a moment before he lowered his mouth to her ear. “Quiet.” He commanded before tossing her aside, his head tilting as he listened to their surroundings. A scraping noise interrupted the foot falls, like claws against the brick, or a knife. Knife That was more likely, especially if they were playing a game. He liked games, he liked to win games, and he would be damned if the two he was cursed with would keep him from winning.
He pushed Kate forward again, she threatened to cry out, but it seemed the girl had enough sense to not test his patience. He hurried them along, somehow guiding them across the cobbles, wishing his footwear was lighter. The knock against the stone was undesired, even as he made careful steps to best muffle the sound. The empty streets echoed each movement, magnifying their advancement, making Kate’s fall even louder. Stupid woman. Just as the lamp posts had begun to sprout up again, did their fragile female companion catch her ankle in a pot hole. Her shout was sweet agony against Kult’s eardrum, he stood taking in the beauty of her pain, forgetting for a moment that they were in the middle of a game. Her face contorted into a grimace as hot tears rolled down her rouged cheeks. She sniffled, sucking in snot, as she clasped her dainty gloved hand against her leg. Peter bent to the woman, placing his bare palm against her forehead, “You’re okay. We’re going to help you back, right Kult.” He looked up wide eyed, seeking pity which he nor the girl would receive. Not from him. Kult looked down at them both, his dark eyes lightless, regarding them both as if they were insects. “Goodbye Kate,” he said darkly, grabbing Peter’s arm.
He struggled, they all struggled, but they all fell victim to Kult’s grip in the end. He wound his fingers tightly around the young man’s arm, pulling him away from the sobbing woman. The scratch of their pursuer was growing louder and he would not be caught so easily. Let him have the girl, why not? He didn’t just want him to have the girl though, he wanted to know what happened to her when he caught her. He wanted to see. He marched his companion, his captive maybe, depending how you looked at it, through the darkness. Marched him mercilessly as pleas fell unheard against the starless night. Sweet, sweet sobs accentuated with choked out words, hurried, afraid. Promises, always promises, from the weak. They won’t tell anyone, never mention it again, as if those words held some unknown power over their assaulter. Their friend Kate had developed a stutter in their absence, gaining a croaking laugh from her deserter.
He circled them around until they came out a side street, one that led them back to where they had just come from. It wasn’t hard, he had merely followed the screams, until he emerged out an an alleyway and the scene lit up with soft lamp light. Kult pulled them against the corner of a building, melding them to the shadows as he observed the stalker. Kate gurgled now, her gentle hazel eyes wide as she shakily grabbed at her neck. Her lined gloves soak up the blood like sponges, the red wetness dripping from the corners of her mouth now too. He could see the meaty tissue inside, pink underneath as her skin peeled away from the edges of the cut. Peter jerks against Kult’s iron grip, only to be clasped tighter. Kult holds the lad’s mouth shut, muffling his sobs, catching the tears that slide down his face. Disgusting creature. he thinks, his other hand firmly against the man’s chest. His head cocks to the side, like a confused dog, their pursuer bends to his knees.
He doesn’t recognize the man, of course he couldn’t be expected to, only having view of his backside. He wore a black top hat, a long cloak that was clasped around his neck. He looked dressed every bit an english gentleman, not at all the type of attire one would expect. It was the perfect disguise, it reminded him fondly of Kirin, that was something he would do. That was how he would play the game. A flash of silver caught the lamp light, before he could distinctly hear the parting of her flesh. The body now collapsed against the stones, but the attacker did not yet flee. He seemed to be working carefully, jostling about her limp form while pulling long wet strands of innards from her stomach. Long lumpy strands of flesh still connected somewhere inside, flopping with splatter noises where they fell.The evening was soon filled with the metallic scent of blood, followed by what could only be fecal matter. The victim had likely defecated on herself during the ordeal, many animals did the same, and the breeze was just now wafting it their way. Shit- there was no way to mistake that smell. Peter retched, a weak stomached fool, ending the show much sooner than Kult would have liked.
The man turned, still crouched, looking back at them as he gnawed a fleshly blob. That helped coax what remained in Peter’s stomach to the surface, spilling chunks of food and bile on both of their shoes. Kult grasped his partner’s jacket pulling at him to leave, just as the killer rose and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. “It’s Jack. Jack the Ripper.” Peter cried as they sprinted away, Kult still pulling at his coat. “Yes.” He replied knowingly, which had made the game much more interesting. Jack was a worthy opponent. Kult would take pride in winning, even if he had to drag along his loser ‘friend’. Turning the corner they collide with a stone wall, Peter helplessly striking his fists against the unyielding blockade. Kult growled, grabbing the boy by his ratty brown hair, causing the other to wince. “Climb” he spat, shoving Peter into the wall face. After several clumsy jumps with no success, he bent weaving his hands together to boost Peter to the top, snarling at the boys shortcomings. He manages to pull himself to the top just as Jack collides into Kult, knife still in hand.
Kult laughs, an out of place reaction, to this horrifying scenario. Scrapping with the murderer was probably the highlight of his evening, as they both tossed over the cobbles. Jack pinned him for a moment, giving Kult a good view of his attacker, an unremarkable middle aged man. He was so plainly ordinary, he could not help but to rattle with laughter. His assailant does not take kindly to his humor, swiping at his face with his blade. The metal dips into his flesh, slicing his earlobe like soft butter, the skin once connected now flopping freely. Blood flows from the cut, running down Kult’s neck, matting into his long greasy hair as he pushes against Jack’s knife hand. Digging into the man’s wrist, he relieves Jack of the knife, the weapon clattering blissfully against the ground. He manages to roll the man on his back, switching their positions, giving him the upper hand. Another sweet song of metal tinkles against the cobbles, a small, brass, skeleton key falling from Jack’s coat. Kult shoves his elbow into the man’s temple when he turns his head to look at his lost possession, knocking him out. He grabs the key before jumping up to climb the wall himself, surprisingly Peter has not deserted him. The boys stands frozen and pale, bottom lip quivering as Kult pulls himself over the top. They both lean over the ledge, staring down at a rousing Jack below, the man’s eyes fluttering open already.
“Run” Kult instructs, pulling back from the rocky ledge, stowing his trophy in his pocket. From below Jack snarls curses, his boots scraping against the wall as he too attempts to ascend the stone obstacle. Kult relishes in the exertion, his lungs huffing as they sprint across the London residential districts. He directs them in a weaving path, skidding around corners, balancing himself from a fall by catching the houses by their brick corners. It’s one particular alley they find themselves sprinting down that proves different from all the rest. The deserted path lit only by flickering lamp light, the all too familiar crashing steps somewhere behind them. At the end is a door, old wooden slats fitted together in fine carpentry. The handle is brass, ancient, with delicate filigree to adorn the backplate. Kult smirks, pulling from his pocket the matching skeleton key, rushing to shove it into the keyhole. It’s deteriorating, rusted inside, and he has to wiggle it vigorously while jiggling the knob. Jack is nearing closing in on them with his weapon of choice glinting at his side. Finally the lock clicks, the door swings open, and he shoves Peter through first- leaping through behind him. They escape through the convenient portal just in time to dodge a knife in the back.
