Closed.

Clara could not move from the ground, her hands and feet were bound, she was too weak to make her limbs listen to her. But a memory came to her. Of Finch and his touch.

The gas lamp shone bright in her eyes, so she kept them half closed. But she could still see Finch turning for his box of paints, then reaching to smear something thick and cool and repulsive smelling along the line of Clara's jaw.

"Hold still." He murmured, but his mouth twitched in amusement at her instinctive flinch. His fingers were deft as always, surprisingly gentle for all their strength. His eyes were shadowed, with the light behind them, but she knew they were narrowed and intent. He turned for the box again and she watched the gaslight fall upon the line of his jaw. Then he turned back and Clara couldn't help starting a little again at the renewed touch. "Hold still." He repeated, less in amusement and more in annoyance. "Do you want to go walking through the East End in an unevenly applied disguise?"

Right, they were assuming a disguise to... to do something... A mission, together again, doing something important, finally...

The next memory Clara conjured was of...

- A briefing with Woodsworth, his voice sharp and urgent.
- Finch, sitting on the carpet, surrounded with newspaper cut outs, deep in thought.
 
Finch, sitting on the carpet, surrounded with newspaper cut outs, deep in thought.​
Clara continued to pull against her bonds, despite the little strength she had and how much her muscles ached. It was relatively pointless, however, memories began coming back to her. She remembered her own annoyed reaction to Finch, how else was she supposed to react but flinch? But that was irrelevant now... she just had to keep thinking, and she decided to continue to focus on Finch. He was her partner and flatmate, after all. Surely there was more they'd done that could tell her how they'd ended up here. Her eyebrows knitted together and teeth clenched as she forced her throbbing head to concentrate.
 
Finch sat in the glow of the firelight, shadows playing across his cheekbones and the line of his jaw, flickering flames reflected in his intent eyes. With his deft fingers flicking through the pages of the scrapbook in which he had compiled newspaper articles that seemed to prove the existence of a spider in the web of the East End.

"A master criminal controlling and organizing crime." He murmured. "Something completely new. Once you start looking, you can see the hand everywhere. The theft of the painting Lost Sailor, which would certainly bring enough from a private collector to justify the risk of stealing it. The resignation of a particularly industry-minded Member of Parliament, under circumstances that smell of blackmail. These aren't Vlaski plots - this spider is home-grown, as you have said. Someone has taken charge of, if not all the crime in the East End, certainly a large percentage of it. And is using his control to further the ends of the rebels who call themselves Free Mercia."

For a brief moment he stopped speaking, eyes raising to look at Clara as she entered the room. There was a flicker of something in there, emotion perhaps and his words faltered for a brief moment.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Whitley. How are you really?" He sat cross legged on the carpet, not moving, but the concern in his voice was genuine, even though Clara had not given him any real reason to think her unwell. But their walls were thin and Clara's nightmare's were not stopping.

- You told him about the tormenting memories.
- You told him that everything is fine.
- You told him you don't want to talk about it.
 
You told him you don't want to talk about it.​
Clara watched Finch intently, and absentmindedly listened to him talk, until he made eye contact with her. His question sent the thoughts she tried to hide spinning in her head, and sitting on the ground across from him seemed to ease the heaviness of them. "It's safe to say my memories are a burden..." she let a sad smile play on her lips, if he didn't know she was unwell before, he would certainly know she was hurting now. "I'm afraid if I tried to talk about it, I might break indefinitely."

A part of her wished she just told him. Just let every word, every memory, every bit of pain she felt spill out. How she felt she could drown, despite being able to breathe. However, regret was something she had no time to think about, she still had to remember why and how she got here. And on the thought of Finch, where was he? She just had to remember and get out.
 
In her memories, Finch scooted over to her on the carpet, over the cutouts and crumpled papers, extending one hand and softly touching her shoulder. It was a small gesture of comfort and she could see it in his eyes that he was genuine. He did not speak anything, he never knew what to say in those situations.

She could now remember the briefing with Woodsworth and the man agreeing that the two of them assume disguises and prowl East End. And then...

Nothing.

The last image she could summon was that of her and Finch walking side by side through the most dangerous part of the city.

Next door, the screaming trailed off into a gurgle.

Clara could hear nothing over her beating heart.

Then behind her, the door clanged open.

A bit of light filtered into the blackness, and her eyes teared. Loud footsteps crossed the stone with an unhurried tread, bringing more light with them - a candle, set on a table behind her. A boot nudged itself under her ribcage and flipping her over.

"Finally awake? That took long enough. They must be recruiting weaklings for the Army these days." The man looming over her was tall and burly, side whiskers on his face. He was older than Clara, but strongly built and fit, and he paced with the barely restrained energy of a prowling tiger.

Was that the spider they've been hunting? Had he hunted down and captured them instead?

He reached down and ripped the gag out of Clara's mouth and she caught a glimpse of the pistol holstered at his belt. He stood over her, menacing. "Now then. Let us have a conversation. Who do you work for?"

- Refuse to answer and keep your face blank.
- Pretend to confess everything, but fabricate a story.
- Try confusing him with questions of your own.
 
Try confusing him with questions of your own.​
The disguises were supposed to allow Finch and herself investigate the East End, yet it seemed something had gone awry. Yet she didn't know what, and she still couldn't remember how exactly she'd ended up here. The screaming nearby cut off, causing Clara's heart to beat louder and faster, but before she could try to find a way to help, a door slammed open. It seemed her chance to think was over.

She let out a cough as the gag was pulled out, narrowing her eyes at the man standing above her. He seemed to be well built, and she presumed it he was likely a henchman rather than the spider. A spider with such a wide reach as the one they were dealing with surely wouldn't do dirty work himself. "A conversation! How delightful." Clara responded sarcastically with a raspy voice, "Since I'm the guest, why don't you tell me who you work for?"
 
Not showing any weakness, it was what Woodsworth would want, it was what Finch would do. And where was Finch anyway? Was that him screaming in the other room?

Clara's question did not please her captor at all. He drew back his foot and kicked her hard in the ribs. "I'm asking the questions here!"

The boot connected with her ear and she saw stars. The pounding in her head redoubled. "Who do you work for? A rival organization?"

- Continue your strategy.
- Fabricate a story to match your disguise.
- Keep silent.
 
Continue your strategy.​
Clara could only hope Finch wasn't the one screaming, but she would have no idea who else it could possibly be. The kick in the ribs? Expected, painful, but expected. It also winded her slightly, but the kick in her head made her breathe in sharply in pain, though she knew she had to conceal her discomfort. Through gritted teeth, Clara kept talking, "Possibly. Are you telling me you have a rival organisation?"
 
Her captor scowled, having failed to read anything off of her expression. Her questions were throwing him off track, but were about to make him more violent.

"I told you to answer them questions, not to ask them!" The kick to her belly left her gasping. "Our affairs are no concern of yours, weakling, you are simply a pawn on someone else's chess board."

The man with the whiskers circled Clara, menacing. "Were there only the two of you?"

She knew why he was asking. He wanted to know if he should expect reinforcements to come and attempt their rescue.

Unfortunately, as far as she could remember, her and Finch were indeed the only ones out in the streets for information on the master criminal. They were watching each other's backs, there was no third man to run and advise Woodsworth of their capture.

Obviously Clara could not wish that man to know that.

- Stay quiet.
- Fabricate a story to match your disguise, if you can remember it.
- Ask further questions.
 
Ask further questions.​
It felt like Clara would be left permanently wheezing to breathe after this encounter. She clenched her eyes shut for a moment, willing away the spots in her vision and submerging the pain. "Two?" Clara scoffed, "Tell me, are you naively stupid?" At this point, she was really mocking them, rather than asking proper questions. But if she could feign the confidence of having an army behind her, perhaps her captor would let both Finch and herself go.
 
Her captor ran his hand through his hair.

The movement revealed a tattoo on his wrist, previously hidden beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve - an arrow done in blue ink.

Clara had seen that tattoo before. They were sported by the Riflemen, an elite corps of sharpshooters in the Mercian Imperial Army. So her captor was once a respected soldier.

The satisfaction of securing that knowledge almost made the next kick bearable.

"That's enough for now." The man concluded. "I'll go visit your friend now, he seems to be willing to do almost anything if it keeps me away from you." He grinned, noting her expression. "Thought that would get your attention."

With a smile he turned on his heel. He took the candle with him, leaving her in utter blackness after the door slammed.

And from the next room, Finch's screams resumed.

- Panic, you should have kept him in the room with you.
- Be confused, but grateful by Finch's actions.
- Use Finch's torture to act quickly and try to get out.
- Let Finch get tortured and prepare thoroughly to ambush the captor once he returns.
 
Use Finch's torture to act quickly and try to get out.​
She could only hope she'd done well in avoiding providing intel, whilst gaining some of her own. No wonder this man's only method of interrogation was torture - he was once a military man, and so the extra kick was expected, however, what he said next was not. Clara's mouth fell open in disbelief. Why is he being so idiotic? Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the room once more, yet Clara immediately began wiggling herself towards the door. Hopefully she could use that surface to stand, but as she moved she scanned the room for something that could help her get out. Maybe she could just bash down the door, maybe it was weak.
 
There was nothing in the room to use. It was completely barren, the sole furniture being a small table. The restraints were bound expertly and Clara could not get them off. However, she managed to prop herself up, but it took all of her strength to do it. She was standing across the door however, and would not be able to reach it without falling face-first.

A glance down her outfit brought a memory to her mind. Her disguise was as a Loegrian farmhand, who came to Kingsford to earn something for herself. After all, a bitter Loegrian was exactly the sort of person who would be recruited by an organization like Free Mercia.

And Finch took on the role of a safecracker recently released from prison, sullen at the "injustice" of his sentence.

Clara remembered sipping truly horrid beverages in extremely dubious surroundings, listening to whispers of a powerful new figure in the Kingsford Underground - a charismatic and well-educated Loegrian, known as "the Professor". He was the man running the group that called itself Free Mercia. Clara's captor spoke without an accent, so he could not have been Loergian, not the Professor.

"He says that one day soon, Free Mercia will succeed in its aims." A young Loegrian groom told Clara in the tavern with enthusiasm. "And then the lot of all Loegrians and sun worshippers and everybody who's got a boot on their neck now will be much improved."

Finch's screams cut off and the silence was far worse than the howls of pain. Perhaps the captor had heard her.

He indicated he didn't plan to kill Finch, at least, not right away, so likely her friend was only unconscious.

Likely.

- Bang on the doors to get the man away from Finch and back to you.
- Despite your injuries, try to get yourself free of the restraints.
- Try to get to your feet and set up an ambush for the captor.
 
Bang on the doors to get the man away from Finch and back to you.​
Clara let her head slump against the wall. Why did she have to remember this now, and not earlier when it might have been useful? And it seemed they were no closer to the Professor, who she'd assumed was the spider. What a god damn disaster. When Finch's screams suddenly cut off, her heart raced, she couldn't stand to believe for a second they'd killed him. "Hey, bastard!" Clara slammed her body against the wall to make a loud noise, "Come here! I don't believe our conversation was done!" She grit her teeth from the pain of repeatedly knocking
 
Clara could hear the footsteps on the other side of the door. A moment passed and then the door slammed open.

In the weak light Clara saw her captor walking back into the room.

"You called?" He purred, but there was a dangerous look in his eyes.

He walked in a slow circle around the room in front of her. He was doing it deliberately. It was an interrogation technique, meant to be intimidating. At last he stopped, just out of reach, and drew a long wicked-looking knife from an inner pocket.

"Things were just getting interesting with your friend back there, but it seems you want all the attention for yourself. What an eager pair you both are."

He leaned forward, putting the knife under Clara's chin. His smile was taunting.

"Now..." The captor continued. "You will give me something useful. You will tell me who do you work for."

- Stay silent.
- Pretend to be a Loegrian farmhand and say you know nothing.
- Ask him what's the Professor's real name.
- Try to get the knife from him.
 
Stay silent.​
Clara narrowed her eyes at her captor. "Glad to see you came." She forced her eyes not to widen at the sight of the knife, she didn't want him to believe she was fearful at all. Clara drew in a sharp breath when the cool metal of the knife was pressed against her throat. Mocking wasn't a great choice anymore, she assumed. And in case speaking caused a cut, she stayed silent, pursing her lips tightly shut, but her eyes shot daggers towards her captor.
 
The man snorted.

Then he reached out, took hold of her shoulder and slashed the knife through coat and shirt and skin. "Who do you work for?"

It hurt terribly and Clara's legs weakened with the pain. She could feel the blood running down her arm. But at least, he wasn't in there with Finch.

The captor leaned back. "Your own pain won't move you, will it? But I know whose will." He used the knife to slash the rope that bound her ankles. "Up you get."

Her head spun and her ribs hurt with each rasped breath.

She stumbled as she was towed along, as weak and disoriented as Pierce was after being fed on by Lighteaters. She remembered, with odd clarity, that his skin was as white as death except where their handprints stood out lividly. Bare hands of different sizes, the marks of many torturers. Handprint-marked bodies left in heaps like so much rubbish.

The room next door had better light. Finch was unconscious, but alive, and lashed down on what looked uncomfortably like a doctor's examining table. On a tray nearby rested a number of blood-stained surgical tools. His shirt was off. Blood and burn marks marred his bare torso. A second man stood guard over him.

The captor held Clara upright while the other man loosened Finch's restraints and shoved him off the table. The ropes that bound Clara's hands were cut.

Between her dizzy head and her cramped leg muscles, She could hardly stand, but if she was ever going to move against them, it had to be now. Once they got her to that table, it would be too late.

- Feign a stumble, grab the captor's gun and fire two quick shots.
- Feign a stumble, grab a scalpel, you know anatomy, you can cut their arteries.
- Pretend to babble some secrets, delaying until Finch wakes up.
 
Feign a stumble, grab the captor's gun and fire two quick shots.​
Pierce. Was she even allowed to compare her suffering to his? It felt wrong to think she had it just as bad as people who were thrown away as though they were trash. She stumbled into the next room, and Clara stared for a few moments at Finch's injuries, before looking away. It hurt her to see him hurt, just like it had with Pierce. As soon as she felt her hands, she knew it was her moment to act, despite her pain and exhaustion.

She forced a cough, bending over to clutch her stomach in pain, and stumbling along with the action. The rough movements were uncomfortable but she managed to reach for her captor's pistol. Even with her spinning vision, Clara pulled up the gun and fired two shots at the men in the room. During her time in the military, she'd had impeccable aim, and she could only hope that carried through to now.
 
She shot the guard, straight in the heart. But due to her injuries, she was not quick enough to turn to the other one. The captor's growl was vicious as he lunged forward with his own knife drawn. And then he stumbled.

Finch was awake on the floor. He grasped the man's leg tugging him away from Clara. This gave her the chance to shoot again, he bullet flying clean through his neck. He swung out with his free hand, giving Clara another nick on the arm as he went to floor, a small pool of blood forming beneath him.

If there was anyone else in the building, they will have heard the commotion.

"We have to get out of here." Finch said, standing up.

His injuries were not immediately life threatening, though they were certainly painful. Clara kept the gun with her, while Finch stopped for a moment to grab the butcher's knife from their captor's dead hands. It would be difficult to say which of them was supporting the other as they staggered for the corridor.

They emerged into what seems to be the cellar of a dockside warehouse. Clara could clearly hear water - in that direction laid the river and probably an exit.

But boots thundered on the floor above her head, and men shouted. They heard the commotion. They were calling to ask their comrades if all was well.

Clara and Finch hastened for the stairs.

But when they reached the echoing empty ground floor of the warehouse, three beefy men stood between them and the nearest exit - a trapdoor through which the warehouse's waste was deposited into the river. They were closing fast.

- Shoot at them.
- Let Finch attack them.
- Run past them.
 
Shoot at them.​
Her heart skipped a beat as the other man lunged, only for her gaze to fall on Finch. Yet again, he's saved me. She grasped the new cut on her arm, clenching her teeth in pain. Though she was sure she was in less pain than Finch, who stood. "I wouldn't have guessed." Clara snapped back to his obvious remark, though she didn't let herself make eye contact with him.

Typically, Clara might've looked around the warehouse, at least survey her surroundings to give something more to her superior, Woodsworth. Yet she worried more about supporting Finch and getting the both of them out of there. Clara cursed at herself, they could've have avoided the well-built men ready to pounce on them, if only she were faster. Instinctively, Clara pulled up the gun, aiming for each man's head, each shot was swift but carefully completed.
 
She aimed the gun and shot. Three expert shots were all she needed. The men fell down to the hard ground.

Clara and Finch scrambled for the trapdoor, hurtling and bouncing into foul-smelling blackness. The water struck them like a club.

It pummelled them both mercilessly as it dragged them downstream and Clara's numb hands nearly lose the grip on Finch more than once. At last, well downriver of the warehouse she escaped, she managed to drag him onto the mud of the opposite bank.

But it took a long, long time before he opened his eyes.

"Pursuit?" Finch asked and tried to rise, falling back with a groan.

- Drag him to Woodsworth.
- Tell him to stay hidden and go to Woodsworth on your own.
- Pretend you need his help so you'll get him to get up.
 
Drag him to Woodsworth​
Exhaustion felt like the only word in her vocabulary. Every inch of her being ached in some way, and as if it were icing on a cake, she'd been thrashed and drenched by water, making her limbs feel heavier than lead. Somehow, she managed to clamber out of the stream with Finch in tow, and sat beside him on the mud, taking ragged breaths as she waited for him to open his eyes.

She felt Finch's pulse, and despite feeling his heart's constant beat, the long period of time it took him to wake up was unnerving. She jolted up as soon as Finch spoke. "If I didn't know you're usually smarter, I'd think you're insane." Clara sighed, "You're going to need to help me so I can help you." Her adrenaline had more than faded away, it was completely drained, leaving her more tired than she thought possible. The blissful numbness to her pain and fatigue would no longer keep her moving like it did in the warehouse. Despite her muscles screaming in resistance, Clara hooked her own arms under Finch's, and began, slowly dragging him along.
 
Finch groaned again, but not in disagreement. He allowed her to drag his arm over her shoulders and haul him to his feet. Clara was not altogether steady herself, and the two of them stood for a moment, keeping each other balanced.

The walk that followed was a nightmare - slipping on the riverbank mud, stumbling over rocks and refuse and sometimes only their own feet, Finch a dragging weight on her shoulders.

She was exhausted long before she and Finch reached Woodsworth's front door.

--

Woodsworth whirled at once into motion. He had one of the new telephones installed in his home and used it to coordinate a raid on the warehouse without changing out of his bedroom slippers. Then he sent a servant for his own physician and poured both of the Detectives brandy.

"Now." He said, not unkindly. "The rest of the report. Before the doctor gets here. What intelligence did you buy with a night of suffering and courage?"

Clara fought to pull her thoughts together. One more effort, and then the pair of them could collapse. So she did her best to tell everything. Woodsworth seemed impressed with their findings.

--

Clara watched as the physician tended the knife wounds and burn marks on her flatmate's skin. There will be scarring, but if Finch could avoid infection and pneumonia, there would be no graver consequences.

The physician then turned his attention to her injuries, and departed soon afterward, leaving the two of them sitting limp and bandaged in chairs on either side of the hearth. Clara closed her eyes, grateful for the fire's warmth.

It turned from warmth to heat - knife blades of heat that seared her skin as they plunged into her flesh.

She can't breathe. She can't move. She is strapped to the table in the warehouse, and she would answer the questions if she could hear them, but she can't hear above the screaming.

And then the heat turns icy cold. She is floundering through icy water, sinking, weighed down by all the things she could have done, all the words she could have said. Too late now, it's too late, the current has swept her away and she has lost Finch somewhere, she surfaces and dives but she can't see anything, he's gone, she let him slip from her clumsy hands, her fault, it's her fault, and it's too late to seize the chances she could have seized --

"It's all right." Finch said. He was crouched awkwardly beside her, hands lightly encircling her wrists. "You were dreaming. It's all right." Clara was in her armchair by the fire. She must have fallen asleep.

- "I dreamed I lost you."
- "I dreamed of our recent experience."
- "Just fever dreams, let's not talk about it."
- Ask him to move his hands from yours.
 
"I dreamed I lost you."​
In some way, miracles seemed to be everywhere, even though their overarching situation was anything but a miracle. Somehow, both her and Finch had escaped with no obvious long-term consequences, and somehow, she'd managed to summon enough strength to recall all of the intelligence gained and report it to Woodsworth. But by that point, every action or movement took so much energy, and it felt like she was chest-deep in thick mud whilst trying to walk. So, ordinarily, Clara would've been so thankful for falling asleep, finally able to recover from her strenuous night. But if it wasn't her reality that was plagued with nightmares, it was her thoughts and dreams.

She awoke to the sound of Finch's voice, her eyes snapping to him. Clara's first reaction was to scoff lightly, "Dreaming. If only." But she could feel her own body shaking, shaking from being unable to hold it all in. His hands around her own wrists were so calming, and she let a shaky breath out. "God... I dreamed I lost you... that you just slipped from my damn hands and I-" Clara choked back a sob and took deliberate breaths again, "I'm a mess. Sorry..." she trailed off, staring at the flickering tongues of fire, trying to focus on anything but herself.
 
"I'm right here." Finch countered, voice calm and steady, as he looked at her, his face very close to hers. "I'm fine. You got me out of there." He half smiled. "I don't know how much longer I would have lasted, but you got us both out of there."

- Say you had to try.
- Ask why he distracted the torturers from coming to you.
- Pull away.
 
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