The Acquisitions Bureau; Mandatory Invitation

Chapter 1 ~ In Which We Meet Mr. Theodore T. Thatch III

I begin my tale, with the introduction of a man and his circumstance. It is fairly impossible to understand why this individual came to keep the company of the bureau without at the same time understanding his particular disposition as well as the specifics of his situation. This man was not evil at heart, nor wicked in intent, and yet he found himself bound to a group with a singularly vicious reputation. An unprincipled crew of murderers, lunatics and Americans wanted across the globe for theft, grift, murder, manslaughter, espionage, fraud, arson, sabotage, and impersonating several members of parliament, all of whom are outraged.

I must urge my reader to avoid bearing sympathy for our dear Mr. Theodore Thaddeus Thatch. For though prodded by circumstance, he is still aberrant in the eyes of the law. I will relate, however, how the events of one Thursday served to make a felon of one no different than you or I.

It was hard, dirty, and unpleasant, working in the matchstick factory. Mr. Thatch had used many such matches without much thought in the years before; striking them off to light a candle, or his pipe, as freely as one would say 'please' and then discarding them as quick as a matching 'thank you'. But it had been a long time since he'd bought a candle to light, or felt well enough to smoke. Indeed, it had been a long while since he had felt well at all. The lower half of London had not been kind to him. The smog from industry hereabouts aggravated his asthma to no end. In fact, his coughing and wheezing became so prevalent that he was beginning to be mistaken for a consumptive. This was not helped by his lanky frame and general air of weariness, which worsened each day he went without a decent meal. It was a pity really, because he used to be quite handsome before life had hollowed him out. He would have been tall if he weren't hunched from exhaustion. He would have been darkly becoming had the cares of his thirty years not laced ten or twelve fine silver strands amongst his forest of dark chestnut brown. He was as a statue marking a grave; grim, grey and crumbling, though charming if placed elsewhere.

The match factory was located on the corner of Wells street and Stauber lane in a redbrick building. Inside were rows upon rows of tables where women, girls, the elderly, and the infirm all worked. The vast old workshop was raucous with the sounds made by packing the match heads onto the little pine sticks, and dipping them in phosphorus, though chatter was minimal. An old man with a bad case of phossy-jaw was stationed to Thatch's left. Thatch had asked his name, but the years of exposure to the niter and phosphorus had left the old man's mouth a terrible, deformed, toothless wreck, and the reply could've been anything from "Hubert" to "I'm Burt" or perhaps even "I work" meaning he didn't want to chat. Repeated attempts were futile, and bordering on embarrassing, so Thatch had long since given up the effort at conversing with him, beyond the basic morning and evening pleasantries, and instead taken to teaching the young girl to his right her letters to pass his time and earn a penny or two in spare match boxes.