why do I get the feeling we just dodged a bullet?

'What a catalyst you turned out to be,
Loaded the guns then you run off home for your tea.'
'Eton Rifles', The Jam.

It's a sombre moment. Getting counted into the Blackbird, the tension of the coming conflict knotting muscles, eating acid-holes in stomach linings. Erik avoids the distraction of thinking about where the hell Charles has got to as much as possible, just makes sure they're all...

Every detail has to be correct. The consequences of any error don't bear thinking of. Erik counts them into the Blackbird and out again. In... and out.

Then he coughs, politely, and eyes the two figures at the end of the line. One shambling and one ear cocked, as if to otherworldly jazz fusion creative trips. The other sharp eyed, snake-hipped and a touch heavy-handed with the kohl.

Hmm. Something wrong there, surely? He clears his throat more aggressively, seeking attention. 'You.' Two interlopers still: then, slowly, turn to get a ganders at him. 'Yes, you two. Gentlemen... would you care to explain your presence here?' Erik raises one perfectly shaped brow, and his mouth thins. Expectant, and a touch imperious. 'Who the hell are you?'

He should know. Well, considering they're wearing the jumpsuit – the same one he fruitlessly battled with Charles over – they are, surely, legitimately part of the mission. How else would they have wheedled their way in here?

Shambler remains oblivious, but after a jab to the ribs from Alex, Snake-hips wakes up, and seems to catch on quick. 'Right! Right! Heh, sorry we're late, the latest issue of Cheekbone got delivered through our train carriage window, got to have a quick scan for the latest, right? Plus the ninja got chatting, turns out we share a barber in Peckham...'

The little brunet sticks a hand out, confident and making eyes, assisted by more kohl than Cleopatra. 'Vince Noir, mate. Your new stylist. Can I just say I'm very on board with the whole superhero look – I haven't decided yet what my own powers should be, but juuuust wavering between 'immaculate hair at all times' and 'can rock the matelot look without sliding over into Cockney Rebel or David Essex.'

He beams at Erik, as if what he's said is in any way comprehensible. Sashays closer, looking Erik up and down appreciatively. 'Mate, you are working it! I knew the blue and gold would slash and kill it. See Howard, mustard and magenta are just not avionically sound!'

The manly, moustachioed, yet somehow bird-like one seems to realise Erik is still waiting for something. He jerks forward and sticks out a hand. 'Howard Moon, sir, at your service. This here,' a visibly diminishing, deprecatory nod, 'is my colleague Vince Noir. May I say I am very privileged, proud and privileged to have been invited along to be part of your project here today, and I would also like-'

But Erik interrupts him, as his beady little button eyes seem to begin to spark with dangerous static, with building enthusiasm. 'Quite. Who invited you?'

There's a slight stirring from Alex behind him. Nothing like Teutonic directness.

That's when Charles turns up, wringing his hands slightly at his lateness. Both intruders brighten at his arrival, and the Moon fellow springs forward to clutch at him.

'Charlie boy! It's been a long time, eh, it has, it really has!' Charles' expression is amused but fond as he is released from a scrawny bear-hug. 'Ah,' Moon sighs. 'Those good old days in the dorm... Midnight feasts, setting the fags to swim the river and bring back Chelsea buns on their noses from the tuck shop, dolled up in monkey suits for our election into Pop-'

'Oh, stow it, Howard,' the epicene youth interrupts, pushing past him and clapping Charles on the shoulder. 'You were a barely tolerated day boy with a scholarship you cheated for anyway, not a ruddy top drawer boarder. And it wasn't even fucking Eton. You've read too much Harry fucking Potter. Charlie, how ya doin'?'