"London Bridge is broken down,
Broken down, broken down.
London Bridge is broken down,
My fair lady..."

1. No Rest for the Weary

Mike Schmidt was enjoying a day off.

It was well earned, well-needed and much appreciated, if his sore muscles and weary bones had anything to say about it.

'Shouldn't'a let them talk me into teaching them soccer. Shoulder's bruised and that's what I get for playing with stuff three times my size.' He mused to himself, pushing his spine a little further into the tired second-hand sofa from his parents. He kept his feet propped up on the scuffed coffee table, and abandoned half of his PS1 controller in favor of grabbing some popcorn. Boney hands shoved a fistful of popcorn into his mouth, and he smashed the Start button to unpause his game. It was stale, and his soda had gone flat hours ago, but he didn't mind.

It was his day off.

He had spent the better part of the day whiling away the hours. First he'd wandered to the nearby gas station, got himself a slushie—work only ever had coffee, and that tasted like piss no matter how bad he needed it—and then he just walked for a bit. Been a while since he'd stretched his legs, and his job certainly didn't provide room to stretch. At only one or so he'd found his way home, fought with the shitty lock for only five minutes—new record, score!—and then sat his lazy ass down until the ripe twilight of the evening. It was six, maybe six thirty and he had no inclination to move any time soon. Not until Spyro had saved the Dragon World and collected all the gems, anyway. Besides, one of the perks to Mike's graveyard shift job was he could stay awake for hours now. He let himself get lost in the wonder that was crappy modeling with saturated colors, and simply enjoyed the video game.

And then the phone rang suddenly, causing him to twist to stare at the landline—which was hardly ever used, what a money sucker that was—and he made a mental note to give the guys at work his cell so they could use that instead, and another mental reminder to cancel the landline. It was no good to him. In his moment of hesitation, Spyro's wings gave out, and he flew headfirst off a cliff, and spiraled down to his death.

Mike groaned loudly in protest, letting his head flop back as he tossed the controller onto the cushion next to him, and got up.

He tugged the phone off its receiver, smashed Talk with more force than necessary, and lifted his hand.

"What?"

"Watch that tone of yours, now." Scolded a deep, if friendly, voice. "Answer the phone a little politely, son!"

"Alright, alright—I'm sorry. What's up?"

The voice was thick with pride. "We found 'im."

"You found—" For a second, Mike was drawing a blank. But the speaker on the other end of the line waited in patient silence. No surprise there, Mike knew he was a big fan of watching and waiting. It was one of the things Mike liked about him. That, and he was pretty reliable in almost any situation.

Give or take a few issues here and there.

"Oh, oh!" Realization hit the young man, even as he turned to save his game, fumbling for the controller as he did so. "Wait, like, already? Wow. That didn't take long. How far is it from work?"

"No clue. Just got the address. We found a letter from the people who contacted here a few weeks ago. It was in the Manager's desk. I think they hid there on purpose, but Bo—"

"Hold on—they sent a letter to management?" Mike frowned a little. They were serious then—serious enough to send a fucking letter by snail mail, and the fact they had gone over his head was a little…odd. "Is there a date on the letter?"

"Uh…lee'see here…" Mike heard the distant sound of paper being unfolded. "September the thirteenth, says here. "

"The thirteeneth…" The kid dug through his memory, eyes unfocusing.

"That important? Something on yer mind?"

"It's just. That was…was after they called, wasn't it?" Wondered Mike aloud as he straightened up, wondering where the hell his keys had gotten to this time.

"Sure as sugar. Youda think they'd have taken your no the first time they asked." Oh, for the love. They were in his pocket. Again.

Mike chuckled a little at the previous statement, though. "Humans are a persistent bunch, aren't we big guy?" He joked into the receiver as he tipped the rest of the popcorn into the trash and wandered into the little galley kitchen.

"Mhm. One word for it, kid." Came the dry remark that only made his lopsided grin widen.

"Either way… I'll trace the address, find out where I need to go and then head out tomorrow, Tuesday at the latest. I'm coming over now so I can do it there. I'm still not crazy about you guys using the phone…but, anyway. How's that sound?" It'd be sort of like a vacation for them too, come to think of it.

"Uh…great!" Mike heard the pause, and calmly and mentally counted to three. On three, the voice went "But…"

"Here it comes." During this time, he had pulled his jacket on, shoved on his sneakers that had only one hole, and was standing by the door waiting.

"We were just a thinkin' kid, given the circumstances'n all…"

"You wanna come with me, right?" And the guilty silence over the other end of the line said it all. What said even more was the fact the speaker didn't rush to defend their point. He didn't have to. Mike knew what he wanted.

Sighing heavily, the young man opened his fridge, eyed last week's pizza, bologna and some bread before closing the hopelessly empty fridge. He didn't bother looking into the cabinets, just grabbed a few cookies from a plate that his mom had delivered and stashed two into his pocket. The last he kept out to eat.

"Look." He said around a mouthful of peanut butter, his favorite. "I'll think about it. But if this place is too far away…c'mon, man. You know you can't be outta the restaurant for longer than, say, three days."

Okay, truthfully it was four. That old place was finally getting new tile put down, so the place was closed until Saturday. If they left Monday and got back by Friday, no one would be any the wiser, and corporate would be happy at a job well done.

You know, if everything went according to plan, exactly as Mike was dreaming it would.

"…fair enough. Think about it though, right?" Mike didn't blame him for that. The Night Guard had a penchant for forgetfulness—especially when it involved paintball guns and learning how to use them. He did not need to see his coworkers splattered with anything resembling blood ever-fucking-again, thank you very much.

"Deal." He said, knowing that was the word they kept in storage for when Mike was making a serious promise.

Apparently satisfied with Mike's word—and why shouldn't he be? Mike had never let them down before—they finished the conversation quickly, with Mike promising he was on his way in.

So much for his day off.

'Can't really blame em. Haven't seen their friend in, what did he say? Twenty years or something? No, it couldn't be that long—either way. They've been on edge ever since we found out where the thing was kept. A haunted house…jesus. They even had to nerve to ask if we would…ugh.' Mike shook his head in disgust.

What people won't do for a quick buck.

Mike headed out the door of his shitty apartment, hitting the light plate on the way out.

As he did, the lights, the game system and the tv flickered off. One of his better modifications to his place.

He always had been good with electronics.

"Build it up with wood and clay,
Wood and clay, wood and clay,
Build it up with wood and clay,
My fair lady…"

The shortness is by design. I hope to keep this story relatively to the point. How am I doing so far?