80 Days

[Cutlerine]

80 DAYS​

Evidently two ongoing fics is not enough for me. Here's something else as well – a nice text-based adventure game, in the style of A Leash of Foxes. If you've read that, you know how this works; if not, here's the deal: I write a thing, you reply with a command, the protagonist reacts accordingly, and as a result of all this the story inches forward, bit by bit. If you have any questions about how that works, feel free to ask away.

Updates will be at least every Friday, assuming readerly interest (please don't be shy of participating; this story will die without you!) and sufficient time to spare on my part. If I get them done sooner, I'll post them as they are complete.

I don't have any warnings to put on this so far, owing to the reader-dictated way this story will play out; I do intend for this to be fairly light-hearted, but if there's anything I need to warn for I will both do so before the update in question and come back to edit in a warning here at the start.

Without further ado, then, let's get started!



DAY 1: London, Tuesday 1st October, 1872

Today, London is restless. The trains come in and out at Victoria, spitting steam and sparks, stray magnemite trailing in their wake; the rapidash-cabs trot briskly through the streets, flanks steaming in the cold morning air. Pedestrians come and go, go and come, cross the road, enter buildings and leave them, loiter with and without intent. Meowth and pidgey negotiate a maze of moving legs and wheels with arcane grace in the pursuit of scraps and leftovers. Children are walked, socialites are visited, doctors consulted, magnates petitioned; the smoke of a thousand cheery drawing-room fires puffs out into the sky from a thousand brick chimneys; there are curious smells and unseemly noises, and laughter and haggling and more voices than can be crammed into even the most capacious ear; today London is restless, as it is every day, rain or shine, and as you walk up to the polished black door of a secluded address near (but alas, not in) St John's Wood, you find yourself knocking a little more rhythmically than you intended, some of the city's liveliness working its way under your skin.

Then the door opens, revealing a not-quite-young woman with tired eyes and immense quantities of hair, and you remember your comportment. You only get one first impression, and frankly you could use the job.

“Who the devil are you?” she asks, which is not what you had expected. You are almost startled into giving your first name, but of course that would be quite out of the question, given your station. How fortunate you are to have remembered yourself.

Instead, you reply that you are Passepartout, the new servant. And she, you continue in your head, is Philomena Fogg, the lady into whose service you are currently entering.

“New servant,” she repeats. “Oh. Yes. I remember.” She scratches her head. The Hair (it is, you feel, a capital-letter piece of work) wobbles. “Well, the first thing you can serve me is a drink,” she says. “Come in. I am just in the process of ruining my life.”

You do not hesitate. As long as you're getting paid, it isn't really any of your business what your employers choose to do with their lives. You step into the hall, close the door on London, and follow your new mistress down the hall into the well-appointed drawing-room where you were interviewed the previous week. Here, Miss Fogg reclines with unladylike vigour on a sofa, shoving an equally unladylike trubbish out of the way, and waves vaguely in the direction of the drinks cabinet.

“I will have a gin and gin,” she announces. “It is somewhat like a gin and tonic, but with subtle variations.”

You are still staring at the trubbish, which is currently smoothing the folds of its burlap body back into shape with sticky-looking limbs, directing occasional glares up at its mistress. It isn't the sort of pokémon one expects to find in the house of anyone of quality – or indeed, of anyone at all. Trubbish are not generally thought of as partners or pets, but rather as refuse with ideas above its station.

“Sometime today, thank you,” says Miss Fogg sharply, and you start from your trance. Quietly depositing your bag at your feet, you begin mixing her a drink, although 'mixing' is perhaps something of a generous description, given the nature of the drink in question. You had hoped to at least be shown to your quarters, perhaps given some time to acquaint yourself with the house and your duties, but let it never be said that you stood by in a moment of crisis. Clearly something terrible has just occurred, and at such a time duty dictates that one must rise to the occasion. Even if it is only eleven o'clock in the morning.

“Thank you,” says Miss Fogg, relieving you of the glass and drinking a remarkable quantity of it off in one go. “Aah. We shall get along, I see.” She rubs her brow distractedly. “Passepartout, you arrive on an interesting morning. I have made – in the heat, I admit, of a somewhat lively debate – something of a difficult commitment.”

She pauses. You wait. The trubbish rustles its way into a corner of the sofa and leaves horrifying grey footprints on the expensive fabric.

“There was an article in the Telegraph,” continues Miss Fogg, looking as though each word causes her physical pain, “that suggested that with the linking of the thundertrain lines in India, it was now possible to circumnavigate the world in no more than eighty days. Mr Feathermont at the club objected – he is a most pernicious contrarian – and I began to talk the matter through with him. Rather loudly, as it happens. And – well, and the upshot of it all is, I have now wagered £20,000 that I can make the trip in the time specified.”

Another pause. You venture a diplomatic I see.

“Do you?” Miss Fogg sits up suddenly. Her gin and gin wobbles, but does not spill. “Passepartout, excuse my directness, but I do not have £20,000. Nor do I have a detailed understanding of how one would actually circle the globe within that span of time.” She gives you a frank look. “Do you see now?”

It is a very good question. There are a great many potential ways to answer it. The usual 'yes' or 'no' will suffice, of course, but you could also simply offer to pack a bag, or to make enquiries about passage to the Continent, or indeed to clear your throat and suggest that this was not at all what you had in mind when you applied for this job.

Indeed, you could say almost anything. But you had better say it quickly. Miss Fogg is looking at you rather expectantly.

 

[Chibi Pika]

[SPOIL]Re: that opening paragraph: damn, Cutlerine, how are you so evocative. Stop it. Stop being so awesome. D:<

Anyway. I’ma make the protagonist focus on money. [/SPOIL]

“I understand. But if there is an opportunity to gain £20,000 from this wager… might it be beneficial to pursue that?”

 

[Cutlerine]

>“I understand. But if there is an opportunity to gain £20,000 from this wager … might it be beneficial to pursue that?”

Admittedly, circumnavigating the world in eighty days seems rather challenging. But you've heard good things about the new commercial drifblim airliners. And there are supposed to be some wonderfully clever things being done with electricity these days. And … well, when you get right down to it, £20,000 is an awful lot of money. Enough, perhaps, for a lifetime. A servant who helps their employer earn a reward like that must surely be able to expect a little of it to come their way.

You clear your throat, and suggest that while you understand her hesitation, perhaps Miss Fogg would like to consider the benefits of victory.

She pauses.

“Well,” she says. “There is that, of course. £20,000 is rather a fabulous sum of money. And I suppose, if the railway line has been closed, and considering the canal at Suez …”

It is a great deal of money, you emphasise. A very great deal indeed.

“It is.” Miss Fogg considers. Her trubbish watches her with the jaundiced eyes of one who has seen this all before. “I suppose … I suppose that I do stand to definitely lose the money if I do not try, and only potentially if I do.”

You do your best to look both encouraging and deferential, and she sighs.

“And £20,000 would not be unwelcome,” she concludes, frustrated. “Good Lord. I suppose I don't really have a choice.” She stands up and sets her drink down on the mantelpiece. “Very well,” she says. “Passepartout, it seems we are to go on a little trip. I trust you have no objection?”

Whatever you actually think, you assure her that you do not. You would like to still be employed by the end of the day, after all.

“Very well, then,” she says. “Go and pack a bag. If we are to travel fast, we will have to travel light – so do not bother overmuch with luxuries, mind. We shall have to resupply as we go. And then start planning a route.” She runs a hand distractedly through her hair. “And I … I suppose I will ready myself to depart. With the assistance of this drink you so kindly made me.”

She takes up her gin and gin again and sits back down. This is, you feel, a less than helpful attitude to take, but the clock is ticking and so you make your way upstairs, where you open doors at random until you find Miss Fogg's bedroom. It is small and relatively austere, although (perhaps unsurprisingly) it has a very well-stocked drinks cabinet. Digging out a battered old suitcase from a corner, you pack a couple of changes of clothes and a small case containing Miss Fogg's cosmetics and toiletries, and then after that decide you had better add a bottle or two of brandy, just to be safe. This done, there isn't much room left, but if you can think of anything else you might need on a trip around the world, you should fetch it now.

While you are musing on this, the trubbish slithers into the room, boneless arms coiled around something grey and filmy with grime. It holds it out to you, evidently requesting that you add it to the items in the suitcase. Trying not to breathe in, you bend down to inspect the offering, and determine that underneath the filth it is some sort of old ivory doll.

Hm. If you packed this, there would be very little space left for anything else. And it looks like the kind of thing that would leave stains.

Avarice +4!
Savoir-faire +2!
Decisiveness +1!

Spoiler: notes

Thank you for getting the ball rolling! Also for your comments re. the opening paragraph. With something like this that comes in small chunks, you want to try and make each chunk vivid in spite of its brevity, you know? And it's nice to know I managed that.

 

[PhalanxSigil]

Perhaps I should keep this ball rolling a little bit, maybe add my own little flair to this (while thinking ahead, of course...)

If I cleaned this, perhaps, if needed, we could sell this at some sort of bazaar for some more pocket change...

Eh, what the hell, let's take this.

 

[Cutlerine]

>If I cleaned this, perhaps, if needed, we could sell this at some sort of bazaar for some more pocket change… Eh, what the hell, let's take this.

An interesting point of social etiquette: as a servant, is one obliged to obey commands given by one's mistress' pokémon? In your experience, the rule tends to vary from household to household. Still, no harm in playing it safe; you really do not know much about Miss Fogg just yet, except that she has a remarkable capacity to hold her liquor, and it is probably best to err on the side of caution. Besides, even if the doll is trash, it might polish up well, and there is very little that cannot be sold to someone sufficiently gullible by someone sufficiently charming. You take it, doing your best not to wince at the thin coating of slime, and the trubbish beams up at you with a mouth full of teeth like broken nutshells. It shuffles away, and as the sound of it ruining the carpet fades you wrap up the doll in your handkerchief – the sacrifices one makes for one's work! – and stow it carefully among the clothes in the suitcase.

At this point, there is really very little room left, and the clock is always ticking. You decide you have made all the preparations that can be expected of someone who doesn't even yet know where the bathroom is, and take the suitcase downstairs, where you find Miss Fogg pacing anxiously around her drawing-room, occasionally telling her trubbish to stop fidgeting. She almost literally jumps at your entrance, although to her credit she does not spill a drop of her remaining gin.

“Ah,” she says, unenthusiastically. “You're done, then?”

You reply that this is indeed the case.

“I suppose we ought to go.” She looks out of the window with an expression that suggests dark things in Mr Feathermont's future. “Have you given much thought as to our destination? I confess, I am not particularly widely travelled. I believe I once went to Caen by ferry, as a girl. And a lady of my acquaintance did mention the other week a recent trip to Belgium, by sea from Ramsgate.”

This does indeed make sense to you. Portsmouth to Caen would get you quickly to Paris and the wealth of onward railway connections available there – or alternatively, a ferry from Ramsgate across to Ostend would get you moving in the right direction, eastwards towards central Europe. And after that … ah. Well, after that, your knowledge begins to thin out somewhat.

You are beginning to wonder if your initial avarice might have blinded you slightly to certain other considerations. To whit – how are you actually supposed to get your hands on that £20,000? Circumnavigating the globe in eighty days is all very well when one is mixing drinks in a drawing-room, but what of when you stand on the quay at Caen, blinking in the bright French light and wondering which way you are supposed to turn now?

“Well, we shall have to take the train whatever we do,” says Miss Fogg, after a short silence. “If indeed we are going.”

You begin to remind her of the £20,000, but she shakes her head.

“No, not that. I appreciate that I must at least make an attempt at it, but, ah – while you were packing, it occurred to me that this has all been terribly rude of me. You were scarcely through the door when I informed you of that damned wager, and now I am dragging you off on some absurd journey around the world. So … well.” She takes a breath, and downs the rest of her gin in one. “This was most definitely not in the job description,” she says. “I would like to offer you the chance to leave.”

The suggestion is not without merit, you cannot deny. The world is a very large place, whatever articles in the Telegraph might say. And you really had no intention of doing any of this when you set out this morning. Indeed, you did not even know that it was possible.

But, when all's said and done – £20,000 is a lot of money. And the world is as interesting as it is large. And, perhaps most importantly of all, Philomena Fogg is evidently the kind of woman who considers her servants people.

Well. Constantinople is probably lovely at this time of year. And how hard can it be to cross the Pacific Ocean, really?

You shake your head, and politely decline. You will, you tell Miss Fogg, come with her.

She looks almost overcome with relief, but only for a moment: after that, she regains her self-control and nods briskly.

“Very good,” she says. “In which case, I shall get my hat. Get me a cab, would you?”

While she readies herself, you step outside and wander a little in search of a driver. There are not very many of them here; most people who can afford to live in this part of town can easily afford the expense of their own carriages – although to judge by the marvellous chromed contraptions buzzing up and down the street, a few have opted instead for the expensive new magnemite-powered electrical buggies that have recently come out of Germany. (It still surprises you, one year on, to think of it as the German Empire. Of course, there had been talk of unification for years, but still. Times are certainly changing fast.)

Eventually, you locate a cab and flag it down, the driver squinting at you through his flameproof goggles while his rapidash stamps between the shafts, sides smoking with suppressed fire. You give him Miss Fogg's address, and enjoy a brief ride back to the house. Here you load both Fogg and suitcase into the carriage – you hesitate a moment before touching the trubbish, and, with a haughty twitch of its ears, it climbs up on its own – and then follow yourself with your own small bag. It is a cool day, but inside it is pleasantly warm: the metal plating that insulates the carriage from the rapidash's flames also conducts its heat right through to the seats.

Across from you, Miss Fogg smiles unconvincingly.

“Well,” she says, with forced cheer. “What a jolly trip this will be, eh? I suppose … ahem.” She looks around for a moment, and her eye alights on the trubbish, which is currently oozing something unspeakable onto the floorboards. “Ah, I haven't introduced you,” says Miss Fogg. “This is Desastre.”

You nod politely. The trubbish watches you with uncannily appraising eyes.

“She is what is commonly known as a royal pain,” Fogg continues. “But I trust you will take as good care of her as of myself.”

You assure her that you will. Desastre coos quietly and grins to herself, and you find yourself wondering whether or not you will come to regret agreeing to that.

“Do you keep a pokémon yourself?” asks Miss Fogg. You do not. “Ah,” she says. “I see.”

There is a long pause. Salubrious houses pass by on either side, bright and cheerful behind the windows. Someone overtakes noisily in an electrical buggy, laughing uproariously and scattering sparks across the road.

“Have you considered our first move?” asks Miss Fogg, hopefully. “As I say, I have not been much of a traveller.”

Oh yes. Apparently you are the navigator now. Let's hope you start having some ideas about that soon.

Avarice +1!
Loyalty +3!
Confidence -2!

Spoiler: notes

Thanks! Also, just to clarify because I didn't mention this in the first post, don't anyone be shy of like submitting a command when there's already one been submitted; I'll take whichever course of action has the most votes, or else take them all in order, as I did in Foxes.

 

[Conquering Storm]

Well, a rail trip through Paris sounds much nicer than taking a ferry through the North Sea, not to mention faster and less likely to be delayed by storms. From there on out...well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Make a mental note to acquire an atlas before you leave.

 

[Cutlerine]

>Well, a rail trip through Paris sounds much nicer than taking a ferry through the North Sea, not to mention faster and less likely to be delayed by storms. From there on out … well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Neither ferry ought to take long, but a short hop across the Channel followed by a nice rail trip through Paris does sound rather more enticing than a longer trip to Ostend. You have eighty days. That seems like plenty of time, although you suspect it will start to seem like far too little a few weeks from now.

At any rate, Paris is the way to go. You make the case for it to Miss Fogg, who nods her assent, eager to defer to your judgement. It's hard not to notice that she does seem to be rather out of her depth. Perhaps a word or two of friendly reassurance is in order – although no, not friendly; one must observe the proper decorum, after all.

The carriage rattles on, springs creaking as the rapidash tugs you over the uneven stones. Around you, the traffic grows thicker and the city shifts in character, grows dense and noisy. Cabs race back and forth, pull up short, narrowly avoid collisions in a welter of curses and flames and packed muscle; the cries of peripatetic street vendors mingle with the loud clatter of pidgey wings and the chatter of ragged children running errands. Miss Fogg looks out at it all uneasily, and then retreats back into her seat, as if afraid that London might look back.

Desastre hauls herself up onto the seat with arms that stretch like toffee, and nestles herself comfortably against her partner's side. Miss Fogg clutches at her sackcloth body hard enough to make her knuckles show pale through the dark brown of her skin.

You are beginning to get the impression that she does not get out very much.

Suddenly the buildings fall away and the cab glides out over the Thames, above a skein of light boats and a few swanna hardy enough to brave the polluted water; foetid though it may be, the river catches the October light beautifully, and each wave glints like a curve of polished glass.

It is a lovely day, you venture. Miss Fogg nods.

“Yes,” she says, a little breathlessly. “It is.”

Once you are over Blackfriars Bridge, you are mere streets away from Waterloo, where before the vast bulk of the station the driver jumps down to help you unload the carriage while his rapidash stamps between the shafts, eager to get moving again. Once paid, the two of them join the back of the taxi rank and wait for another fare. Judging by the volume of people coming and going, they won't be there long.

You take the bags and follow Miss Fogg into the station itself. The concourse is enormous: look up, and through the steam hissing upwards from the platforms one sees a great web of wrought iron supporting a roof of smoke-stained glass, higher up than seems possible. And yet the place still contrives to be as crowded as a Flowerdene hovel: passengers, alighting and departing, sellers of newspapers and roasted nuts, pidgey fluttering in from the street to fight for scraps, all jostle and vie for space below the sunlit rafters. The air is thick with the smell of food and smoke, the booming of the conductors' voices as they announce departures through their megaphones, and the peculiar tingling taste of the wild magnemite that whirl by overhead, drawn to the huffing, clanking engines that their tame brethren power.

You have one eye on Miss Fogg, to gauge her reaction, but she keeps her eyes on the ground and hurries on across the concourse to the waiting-room.

“Right,” says Miss Fogg, hovering just inside the door. “Go and get us tickets, Passepartout. Desastre and I shall be … um, here, I suppose. Leave the bags with us; we shall manage for ourselves for a few minutes.”

You assure her that you will be back momentarily, and leave her retreating deeper into the waiting-room, pulling back from the roiling chaos of the concourse.

Hm. How on earth did Miss Fogg actually end up making this wager? She really doesn't seem the type.

Curiosity +1!
Decisiveness +1!

>Make a mental note to acquire an atlas before you leave.

Since navigation appears to be your responsibility, you feel it would be best to acquire an atlas of some kind. Preferably one that shows railway lines. There are other means of transport – you are vaguely aware of the possibility of hiring electrical buggies or gogoat coaches, or in warmer climes booking passage on drifblim airliners – but rail is the only one likely to be shown on a map. And it is nothing if not reliable. Mostly. In some countries.

Actually, perhaps the railways won't be so useful after all. Still, it would be nice to have a map. You'd like to be able to see where you're going ahead of time.

Pushing your way through the crowd to the ticket office, you buy three tickets to Portsmouth – the clerk is a little reluctant to issue permission for a trubbish to board, but in the end concedes she is covered by the 'small pokémon' ticket class' – and ask when the next train departs. You are told that it will leave at a quarter past twelve, which gives you a good twenty minutes to find an atlas and get Miss Fogg and the luggage on board. That seems eminently doable, if you are quick about it.

Another brief struggle with the crowd sees you pitch up at a small shop let into the wall of the station, selling newspapers and cheap books to travellers. Here, under the gaze of an overfed meowth lounging in the corner and watching your purse with hungry eyes, you pay the proprietor a few shillings for a copy of THE TRAVELLER'S WORLD ALTAS by one Cat LeReine, a thick, pocket-sized volume whose interior has hopefully been printed with more care than the title. Congratulating yourself on your foresight, you head back out onto the concourse and come to a sudden stop, the back of your neck tingling.

You have the strangest feeling that you are being watched.

Wariness +1!
A Sudden Sense Of Impending Doom +3!

 

[Conquering Storm]

Take a look around for anyone acting suspicious. Be surreptitious about it - if someone is watching you, it'd be unwise to tip them off to the fact that you know you're being watched.

 

[Cutlerine]

>Take a look around for anyone acting suspicious. Be surreptitious about it – if someone is watching you, it'd be unwise to tip them off to the fact that you know you're being watched.

You start walking again, not wanting to give yourself away, but this time you walk warily. Around you, the people come and go, trailing bags and pokémon. A hoppip dances on the warm air wafting from the platforms; a butterfree flaps up to investigate the magnemite above.

Someone in the very corner of your vision lowers their newspaper and gets up from their seat.

Calmly, unhurriedly, you continue, and they follow, as leisurely as yourself. It's hard to make out any details without turning to look at them more directly, but you're almost certain that they really are trying to tail you. A pickpocket, maybe? But this seems very organised, and you've just walked past a couple of young gentlemen (loosely speaking) who look rich and unperceptive in equal measure; if you were going to rob someone, they would be right up at the top of your list. Your pursuer, however, evinces not the slightest bit of interest in either of them.

Perhaps Miss Fogg has enemies. It doesn't seem very likely – but then, you hardly know her. At any rate, if you keep going like this, you'll lead your pursuer right to her, and if that is a bad thing, then that's your shot at a piece of the £20,000 blown, right there.

You are perhaps halfway across the concourse. If you can think of some way to get this person off your tail – if you even want to – then you're going to have to put it into action now.

Stealth +1!

 

[AmericanPi]

›Turn around and attempt to approach your pursuer.

 

[Conquering Storm]

Try that trick that always works in Sherlock Holmes stories: Get in a cab, then get out of the other side of the cab while it's moving.

 

[Cutlerine]

>Turn around and attempt to approach your pursuer.

You need a little time. Perhaps this will work or perhaps they'll just retreat, but maybe …

You stop, make a show of feeling at your pockets as if you have lost something, and then turn around and walk back the way you came. You get a brief glimpse of a broad-brimmed hat and a dark travelling cape, and then whoever it is that is following you disappears as surely as if they had stepped behind a mismagius' illusion. It's quite a trick, however it was done. You can't be sure whether or not they simply stepped into cover, or whether they have the assistance of some pokémon. Either way, they are clearly a past master at shadowing people – and also really do not want to be discovered.

What would someone like that want with someone like you?

Curiosity +2!

>Try that trick that always works in Sherlock Holmes stories: Get in a cab, then get out of the other side of the cab while it's moving.

You haven't lost your pursuer, of that you are certain. Whatever they just did, they are clearly still around, and you'd rather not take any chances where mysterious pursuers are involved. You check the station clock, determine that you still have time, and quickly and quietly make your way across the concourse and out of the station. Walking up to the taxi rank, you hand a driver the first coin that comes to hand – a whole crown, for which you could kick yourself, but you suppose needs must – and ask her to drive as far as the money will permit. She looks surprised, but not unwilling, and you hop in the back while she flicks the reins and gets her rapidash moving. When she slows to pull out onto the Cut, you unobtrusively jump back out and make your way back to the station, heart pounding.

You don't detect anyone following you. You hope this is because nobody actually is, and not because they are being too stealthy for you to detect.

After a minute to compose yourself, you hurry back to the waiting-room, where Miss Fogg is growing impatient.

“Where the devil were you?” she asks, drawing a disdainful look from a bewhiskered gentleman in a dun suit. “How long does it take to get tickets?”

You apologise and claim there was a queue. However, you assure her, your train is now boarding, and so if she would like to follow you …

“Oh. Right.” Miss Fogg fidgets with the sleeve of her dress for a minute, then sighs. “Very well. Lead on, Passepartout.”

You take up the bags while she picks up Desastre – an act that to you seems like one of astounding bravery – and the three of you push your way back across the concourse once more towards the platforms. Here, the magnemite cluster thickly around the trains, forming temporary magneton and breaking apart again, whirling around the sparking pylons and filling the air with the metallic tang of electricity. The huge engines themselves are the latest kind – this is the heart of the Empire, after all, for its sins – and seem to crouch between the platforms like aggron, their surfaces dizzyingly convoluted with prongs and valves and vents that hiss out steam and smoke. One day, you have heard it said, the whole of London will be like this, an engineer's dream in brass and steel; there will be no more fires and no more smog, the whole thing heated and lit by electricity beamed from pylon to household the way the magnemite transfer energy between each other.

You do wonder about this, sometimes. Someone will have to pay for all that. And London is rich now, but imperial banditry cannot last forever.

Still. Politics aside, the train is marvellously convenient. You help Miss Fogg aboard – she is very glad to get inside for some reason, you notice, and cannot help but think of your mysterious pursuer – and install her, along with Desastre and the luggage, in a rather plush compartment with seats of fine red leather. This, you suppose, is the nature of first class. Probably you ought to make the most of it. You have a feeling that the journey is only going to get less comfortable as it goes on.

Shortly after you have boarded, the guard blows his whistle, which causes the train to emit a series of extraordinary noises and then begin to move. Miss Fogg watches as London passes by outside the window, a vast sprawling tangle of brick and smoke and squawking traffic, and then when the buildings at last thin out and give way to the open greenery of the home counties she turns away deliberately and looks out no more.

A silence begins to grow. It gives you altogether too much time to worry about the person following you in the station.

Savoir-faire +2!
Wariness +1!

Spoiler: notes

You guys are really keeping me on my toes with your opposing commands, huh. No matter, it just makes it fun to write. Thanks for your participation!

 

[Chibi Pika]

>Make light conversation with Miss Fogg to distract yourself. Perhaps inquire about how she came to be in possession of a trubbish.

 

[AmericanPi]

>Get up and explore the train a little.

 

[Cutlerine]

>Make light conversation with Miss Fogg to distract yourself. Perhaps inquire about how she came to be in possession of a trubbish.

Enough worrying. This is really not the kind of trip on which you want to be bogged down by anxieties, especially not before you have even started. You summon up your energies and ask Miss Fogg if everything is all right.

“Hm? Oh yes, yes, quite all right.” She fidgets for a moment. “You know, I, er, have not ever actually left London before.”

You see.

“It's rather – well, that is to say …” A pause. She seems to be searching for the right words. “Quite ridiculous, really,” she says. “I simply do not like all this … space.” She gestures towards the window and the fields beyond. “There seems to be rather too much of it. As if one were on the verge of being swallowed up by distance.”

A polite pause. You decide to say that you see again. There aren't that many benefits to being the servant rather than the master, but this is one of them. When your employer says something to which you have difficulty responding, you can hide it beneath your professional deference.

“As I say, quite ridiculous.” Miss Fogg busies herself adjusting her sleeve. “Do not worry yourself, Passepartout. I intend to complete this trip. I can't very well afford not to.”

Another pause. Your eye falls on Desastre, squelching to herself at her mistress' side, and Miss Fogg sees you looking.

“I suppose you are curious,” she says. “Forgive me – I ought to have mentioned her when I interviewed you.” (You insist that it's nothing, but in a particular sort of way that politely implies that perhaps it isn't.) “Most likely you have never had any employers who kept trubbish before.” She pauses for a moment, and then, in a much louder, brasher voice that seems to come from somewhere several notches down the social scale from even you, continues: “Betcher never 'ad an employer what talked like this, either, eh?”

You start, and she smiles at your surprise.

“I had what you might politely call a misspent youth,” Miss Fogg explains, reverting to her usual voice. “There was a time before the money, believe it or not, and before the elocution lessons, too. I met Desastre back then. I have been rather polished up since, but Desastre remains resolutely unrespectable.”

You wait, anticipating more, but it seems this is all she cares to tell you for now. It makes sense; this is rather a shocking admission. Miss Fogg was already in your eyes rather different to any of your previous employers, but you weren't expecting this. Not that you have a problem with serving new money: the thing about money, as you see it, is that it's still money no matter how long a man in a mouldering old house has hung onto it. But yours is not such a widely held view, even now when it seems all Britain is lurching forward into the future on a wave of new wealth.

Well, times are changing. You said so yourself, earlier today. If Miss Fogg can win £20,000, it really won't matter how new the money is. That's the kind of sum that everybody has to respect.

Tact +1!
Miss Fogg's Good Opinion +1!

>Get up and explore the train a little.

Given that the conversation appears to be at an end, you ask Miss Fogg if she requires anything, and when she says she does not, you inform her that you intend to take a look around the train, perhaps to enquire about your onward connections with the guard – London to Portsmouth to Caen must be a fairly common journey, and so you expect the guard might be able to tell you more about it. This is amenable to her, and you go with her blessing.

The train is as trains are: a corridor with aspirations. Here in the first-class carriages, it is divided up into compartments; in second-class, there are simply rows of seats. If anything, it is quite remarkable how unremarkable it all is – given the baroquely mechanical exterior, the inside is dazzlingly mundane. You track down the guard a carriage away towards the front, and ask about onward passage to Caen and from there to Paris. He is able to tell you that there are departures at nine and at four, although he is rather confused as to why you did not go to Dover and then take a ferry onwards to Calais.

You hastily invent an acquaintance to visit in Brittany to cover your ignorance, and resolve not to mention this particular item to Miss Fogg. Hopefully you'll be able to more thoroughly research your potential routes in future; you really can't afford any unnecessary delays.

The rest of the journey passes without incident, except that it takes rather longer than you expected. The train moves, stops, moves again; outside, towns and fields and hillsides come and go, and you check your watch again and again, four o'clock inching closer every time. What if you miss the ferry? You can't imagine a worse start to the trip. Not to have made it out of Britain by the end of the first day honestly smacks of incompetence. And you haven't even bought tickets yet.

You pace, and worry, and then when at last the train pulls into Portsmouth station at three twenty-one you and Miss Fogg bolt for the door trailing bags and Desastre like the reins dangling from a runaway rapidash.

“A fine start this is,” mutters Miss Fogg, clutching at her hat as it makes a bid for freedom on the back of a sudden breeze. “I …”

There's probably more, but she has to spare her breath; running through a crowded railway station demands concentration and no mean exertion. Narrowly avoiding flattening a trio of elderly gentlemen, you manage to escape the station and – thank heavens! – see a single rapidash-cab waiting at the taxi rank.

A second later, you see someone else moving to hail it down for himself. He's much closer than you are, too – and, you notice with some chagrin, appears to be supporting a frail old lady on his arm. Damn. This poses something of a problem.

 

[AmericanPi]

I'm a little confused, if we want to go to Caen we have to go to the harbor right? But aren't we already at the harbor? Unless we're at the Portsmouth Train Station and we have to take a cab to the harbor. Since I'm confused we might as well ask around.

>Well, since that's the last cab gone, you look around for someone who might know about routes out of here - an information desk, perhaps. Once you find said source of information you might as well ask about alternative routes out of England. We don't exactly have to get to Caen; we just need to get out of England.

 

[Cutlerine]

I'm a little confused, if we want to go to Caen we have to go to the harbor right? But aren't we already at the harbor? Unless we're at the Portsmouth Train Station and we have to take a cab to the harbor. Since I'm confused we might as well ask around.

>Well, since that's the last cab gone, you look around for someone who might know about routes out of here - an information desk, perhaps. Once you find said source of information you might as well ask about alternative routes out of England. We don't exactly have to get to Caen; we just need to get out of England.

Just to clear up your confusion: Portsmouth has several train stations, and the one that you've arrived at is Portsmouth Harbour, which services the city's harbour. I'd intended to imply that you weren't quite close enough to your actual destination to get there on foot right away. But you know what, that makes things unclear, so I'll change it so you arrive at the main Portsmouth station itself. The cab is also not quite gone: if you can think of a way to get hold of it before the other guy does, or indeed to get him out of the way (that is ... not meant to sound that sinister) then do feel free to take it. You're on quite an important mission, after all. You can afford to bend a few rules; or, more accurately given the sum you stand to lose, you can't afford not to.

 

[Sike Saner]

[spoil]

She scratches her head. The Hair (it is, you feel, a capital-letter piece of work) wobbles. “Well, the first thing you can serve me is a drink,” she says. “Come in. I am just in the process of ruining my life.”

“I will have a gin and gin,” she announces. “It is somewhat like a gin and tonic, but with subtle variations.”

I am already enjoying tf out of this person.

She pauses. You wait. The trubbish rustles its way into a corner of the sofa and leaves horrifying grey footprints on the expensive fabric.

That's so vile. And you just know it smells even worse than it looks. I love trubbish and garbodor.

the sound of it ruining the carpet

What a great phrase omg. I love trubbish.

you wrap up the doll in your handkerchief – the sacrifices one makes for one's work!

R.I.P. Handkerchief
??? - 1872

Suddenly the buildings fall away and the cab glides out over the Thames, above a skein of light boats and a few swanna hardy enough to brave the polluted water; foetid though it may be, the river catches the October light beautifully, and each wave glints like a curve of polished glass.

If it's anything at all like the bodies of water in my neck of the woods, it's polluted precisely because of the swanna and their... products.

and the peculiar tingling taste of the wild magnemite that whirl by overhead, drawn to the huffing, clanking engines that their tame brethren power

The taste of the magnemite. That would have never occurred to me but of course there's one. I guess I really do need to give electricity more respect, heh.

Pushing your way through the crowd to the ticket office, you buy three tickets to Portsmouth – the clerk is a little reluctant to issue permission for a trubbish to board, but in the end concedes she is covered by the 'small pokémon' ticket class' – and ask when the next train departs.

Naturally I'm inclined to believe there's a "large pokémon" class. What sort of things would that cover; what do they consider large in this context. How large is too large for the train?

Wariness +1!
A Sudden Sense of Impending Doom +3!

God I love the stats.[/spoil]

This is already fun. As for me, I have basically zero irl geographical knowledge of anything outside a 500 mile radius, so there might be some opportunities to throw a nice wrench or two in their/our travel plans?? We'll see!

Anyhoo.

>Perhaps Desastre's, ah, unique odor and tactile properties could be used to drive those two away from the cab somehow?

 

[AmericanPi]

*pouts* but I don't want to drive two innocent people away from a cab using trubbish stink

>Using Desastre's stench to chase away the gentleman and his elderly companion will probably make you look like a dick to everyone present, from Miss Fogg to the cab driver. Instead, ask the gentleman if he and his companion could wait for the next cab, explaining your situation to him if necessary. If absolutely necessary, offer him a small sum of money.

 

[Cutlerine]

>Ask the gentleman if he and his companion could wait for the next cab, explaining your situation to him if necessary.

Dropping the bags, you sprint for the cab and just about manage to insert yourself between it and the gentleman in question. He blinks at you owlishly, surprised and displeased.

“What on earth is the meaning of this?” he demands to know.

It is not, you have to admit, a very good start. You begin to explain that you are in desperate need of a cab – that your mistress is just now approaching and simply must be in time to catch the next ferry – that great sums of money stand to be won or lost – and then eventually trail off in the face of his unwaveringly disapproving stare.

There is an awkward moment of silence. You take a step back, and the gentleman and his companion step forward.

“Excuse me,” he says coldly. “Are you quite done? We have a destination of our own to get to.”

You have failed a savoir-faire roll.
Confidence -1!

>If absolutely necessary, offer him a small sum of money.

You are not to be daunted quite that easily. The gentleman moves to get into the cab, but you stay between it and him and start talking again. Did he not hear? You and your mistress are on a mission unlike any other! Around the world in eighty days – surely he can understand your pressing need for this cab? The slightest delay could be fatal.

“Then I suggest you cease bothering us and find another cab,” says the gentleman. “Out of the way, I say!”

You could make it worth his while, you inform him, but you appear to have misjudged him: his eyes pop and above his flamboyant moustaches his cheeks go red with rage.

“Who the devil do you think you are?” he asks. “I―”

“Charles!” snaps the old lady. “Language!”

“I am dealing with the situation, mother,” says the man, looking, if anything, even angrier. “Can you not see the nerve of this―?”

“There's still no need for―”

“I apologise, but―”

There's not much time. While they are embroiled in their own argument, you glance over the gentleman's shoulder at Miss Fogg, hurrying after you. Your gaze falls on Desastre, resting contentedly in the crook of her partner's arm, and her jaundiced eye catches yours.

>Perhaps Desastre's, ah, unique odor and tactile properties could be used to drive those two away from the cab somehow?

For a second, you consider the potential consequences of this act. What will Miss Fogg think? Indeed, what will everyone think? Those who go around chasing old ladies out of cabs with noxious poison-types are not typically thought well of.

Then again, this is an emergency. There is the £20,000 to think of. And besides, Miss Fogg thinks nothing of taking a trubbish around with her, or of drinking sizeable quantities of neat gin before noon; she doesn't seem to be intent on maintaining an air of respectability, and probably won't object to the use of a little low cunning.

You make suggestive motions with your eyebrows, and Desastre bares her little teeth in a jagged grin. She leaps from Miss Fogg's arm with surprising agility, and disappears into the crowd; a second later, your nostrils are violently assaulted by a truly vile smell, something like the Thames in summer back in the fifties, before the sewage works were built. It is so thick and so pungent that you almost stagger when it hits you, and all around you see people suddenly and decisively heading for elsewhere in the world.

It has the desired effect. The old lady does not quite faint, but it's clearly a close thing, and as the gentleman rushes to attend to her you see a lithe little shape climb up into the cab. People begin pushing and shoving, etiquette forgotten in the rush to try and escape the smell, and as Miss Fogg draws level with you, raising a quizzical eyebrow, you motion for her to follow Desastre into the carriage. A couple of minutes later, the three of you have left the station behind, quite unnoticed in the chaos, and the odour has begun to thin out.

“I suppose I ought to say well done, Passepartout,” says Miss Fogg, breaking the silence. “I can see you are a useful sort of person to have around. Only next time, do try not to drop the suitcase on my foot.”

You apologise. There was, unfortunately, no alternative.

Cunning +3!
Confidence +4!
Miss Fogg's Good Opinion +1!

>And then…

Portsmouth is a busy town, and you do not have enough time to get a full picture of it; the streets pass in a whirl of sound and motion, and what with the rush to get the tickets and the subsequent rush to actually board the ferry before it departs, you find you scarcely have any idea what the place actually looks like. Still, the ferry is novel enough that you have plenty of new experiences to be getting on with. You remember the old lapras-drawn chariot-ships with a nostalgic fondness, but you must admit, this new magnemite-driven vessel has its perks: without living creatures jerking the reins this way and that, the ride is much smoother, and the first-class passenger lounge is spectacular. Even Miss Fogg seems to relax a little now that she is comfortably seated in a red velvet armchair with a gin and tonic in her hand. The only sour note is the sharp looks that Desastre keeps getting, but you suppose it is only to be expected: she has left a long trail of ruined carpet all the way through the room.

“Do you know,” says Miss Fogg, sinking deeper into her chair, “I am starting to see why it is that everyone is so excited about these electrical contraptions. This is marvellous. Just the thing to lift one's spirits. And, speaking of spirits, mine will be gin again, Passepartout.”

You blink. You're quite sure that glass was full a second ago.

“A little stronger than the last one, mind,” she says, pressing it into your hand. “Tell the bartender I'm not that ladylike.”

So passes the evening; Desastre gets into a minor scuffle with another passenger's persian – which ends when she tightens her boneless arms around its neck and gets it in a startlingly vicious chokehold – but other than that, relatively little happens. The sun sets, the lights of Caen become visible through the windows, and at around ten o'clock, the ferry comes in to port at the mouth of the Canal de Caen à la Mer.

You disembark and almost as soon as you do, Miss Fogg's confidence deserts her once again. She looks uneasily at the open space of the street and the canal, and then hurries on silently with you and a crowd of several other passengers to the railway station, a few streets away. Here you are able to catch another train, on which both she and you do your best to get a little sleep, and shortly after midnight you find yourself gliding past the gaslit streets and buildings of Paris.

DAY 2: Paris, Wednesday 2nd October, 1872

The Gare Saint-Lazare is busy even at this hour: gaslights burn in every corner, illuminating a concourse to rival Waterloo's, and in their warm light dozens upon dozens of travellers hurry to and fro. Were it not for the fact that the signs are written and the conductors shouting in French, you could be back in London, beneath the magnemite and steam. It really is quite remarkable. The railways are a world all their own, it seems, a new itinerant nation living in the gaps between the others.

“Right, then,” says Miss Fogg, interrupting your reverie. “What now?”

She sounds – and looks – tense, and you recall her unease at Waterloo. You understand now that part of it is this aversion to open spaces and public arenas, but you can't help but wonder whether or not it has anything to do with your mysterious pursuer, back in London, and you have to fight the urge to look over your shoulder in case they have returned. You threw them off, you are sure of it. Besides, you're in an entirely different country now.

More to the point, you remind yourself, you need to answer Miss Fogg soon – although hers is a difficult question to answer. Stay the night in Paris, or move on right away? But you don't even know where to go yet. You have a hazy notion that cutting through Egypt via the Suez Canal might be a good idea, but then, isn't the Middle East prime drifblim territory? It could be quicker to go via airliner.

Perhaps the best thing to do right now would be to get some sleep. You could always make enquiries about onward travel in the morning. There must be someone around who knows something.

Spoiler: notes

You just don't let up with the contradictory commands, huh? That's not a complaint; this is getting fun. On that note, sorry, AmericanPi -- if it's any consolation, you missed your roll by only one. The stats are a joke, but they're also real -- particularly in situations like this where all you voices in the back of Passepartout's head are clamouring at them to take different courses of action.

And thanks, Sike! I'm glad you're liking the sensory immersion in nineteenth-century poké!Europe; the reason I wanted to do something as ridiculous as turning Around the World in Eighty Days into a pokémon story was because I had this itch to just do something that would force me to constantly come up with new settings and experiences and also push my broad but not deep knowledge base to its limits. The taste of the magnemite and the way trubbish (side note: trubbish are the best thing, team trash bunny forever) ruin everything they touch are all part of that. Plus I've just wanted to write about trubbish for ages and given that this story started in a city so polluted that it suffered in 1858 from an event known as the Great Stink, this seemed like the perfect opportunity.