I give you the first chapter! Remember, if you have an idea on who or what this is based off PM me to see if you're right! Enjoy!
Chapter 1, Adventures and Stories
The next day was rainy, not surprising in England. The sky was covered in gray clouds. Not a piece of blue was seen up above. It was surprisingly gloomy for a morning. The cars on the streets splashed in puddles as they drove by. Sidewalks were a little crowded by people with umbrellas. Most of the umbrellas were a dreary black.
One umbrella, a strikingly pure white, stood out in the street. Under it was a smart looking ginger-headed boy, his hair smoothed back. His blue eyes, clear unlike the stormy sky of London, were warm, friendly and sharp. He was wearing a fresh white shirt. His pants were a pair of brown slacks. On his feet he wore very professional looking loafers.
People passing by greeted him, their greetings all different. The man acknowledged them with a nod and a polite smile. He was not unfamiliar to London. After all, he was a well-known journalist for the local newspaper. The one that, honestly, let all of London know of something interesting that has happened. He wouldn't mention it, but the young journalist was also in the business for the thrills. A story wasn't really a story without a good adventure to go with it, after all.
He stopped in front of a restaurant and smiled. Even in the downpour, the brightly painted sign still caught many people's eye. The restaurant itself still looked perky and uplifting despite the weather of the morning. He pushed the doors open, closing his umbrella beforehand.
The air inside the restaurant was cheery, warm and familiar. Umbrellas of all sorts were stacked along the wall, still wet from the rain outside. The young journalist set his down by the collection. He stood up, looking around.
The restaurant was very well known in the town. Almost every day, all the tables were full. People chattered ecstatically to their friends at their table as waitresses flew about the restaurant. Their loads would vary from menus to bills.
One of them, a rusty blonde haired girl, looked up as the door opened. She smiled at the journalist.
"Morning, Tim," she called over to him from the far side of the restaurant.
"Morning." The reply was automatic and slightly distracted, as usual.
The waitress, Sarina was her name, stopped by the counter to grab a jug of fresh coffee. She veered over to a nearby table, which had ordered a refill.
As she poured the coffee, she asked Tim, "Everything alright? You seem thoughtful this morning."
The young journalist had sat down at his usual table, a snug little round table with a deep red tablecloth. On the table waited a copy of the morning newspaper.
"I am thoughtful," he replied. "Today seems for too quiet. Too…" He paused, thinking for a word to describe. "Too normal."
Sarina stopped pouring the coffee; the cup was on the brim of overflowing. She put the jug down firmly on the table. Tim took this moment to look his friend over.
Sarina always had her golden hair tucked away in a long braid down her back. Very agile and flexible, Sarina was an acrobat apart from her job as a waitress. She inherited her father's sturdy hazel eyes. She also inherited his thirst for adventure overseas. Her father's bloodline has had saltwater flowing through their veins for quite a while, and it certainly was not going to stop there.
For a woman of twenty, the same age as Tim, Sarina had the body of a teenager. She didn't mind, though. Despite that, the woman was charming. Not so much as a lady, but charming nonetheless.
Her attitude was shown in the way she dressed. All of the waitresses in the restaurant were originally supposed to wear skirts while on duty. They still were, with the exception of Sarina. She refused to wear a skirt because they were too showy for her taste. The manager decided not to be picky and let her off the hook. It was still quite odd, though, to see Sarina wearing a pure white apron over her dark jeans. A clean crimson blouse was always worn. From the crispness of it everyday, Tim guessed it was washed and ironed daily.
Sarina's delicate hands were firmly planted on her hips. "Tim, it's always too normal for you." Time just shrugged and picked up the newspaper that was on the table.
"Well," he began, his eyes looking down at the paper in his hands. That was all he managed before he read the headliner.
His jaw went slack; his eyes were wide. Sarina, noticing Tim's look of surprise, tilted her head slightly. "Tim?"
The journalist simply handed her the newspaper, closing his mouth and sitting back. Confused, Sarina took it. Her confusion was soon replaced by shock.
They both looked at each other. The Emerald Turtle of the mansion on Myrtle Street has been stolen.
Hours later, Tim knocked on the double doors of the mansion. He panted heavily, since he had run from the restaurant all the way here. Composing himself quickly, he smiled as the door opened. A timid, aged woman peeked out from behind the door.
"Mrs. Goldburg." Tim nodded. The woman's face softened slightly.
"Oh, it's you," she said, and opened the door wider, inviting him in.
Time gratefully stepped into the mansion. He smiled and looked around. The mansion wasn't new to him. It had housed him in his early years, when his father was still alive. It was where he had met Sarina. The place, he noted, hadn't changed much. Except, of course, for the obvious lack of the Emerald Turtle on the shelf above the fireplace. He also observed the tenants were not as perky as before. They seemed slightly more depressed, slightly more dim than usual.
"Mrs. Goldburg," Tim addressed the hostess, turning to her. "Is there anyone I can speak to that has seen the crime?"
"Well, the only person U could show you to would be Ike," she responded. "He's the only one that has any real knowledge of the crime."
Ike. Tim smiled inside. He knew Ike very well. In his early years, Ike had been his partner in crime, despite his age.
"Thank you," Tim said graciously.
A long conversation later, Tim flew down the street. He had a journal full of clues and an evening of thinking. He was going to the library, for research. There was a mystery here. With every mystery, there was a story. And along with that story, an adventure was bound to turn up.
Thank you for reading! Review please.