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The sunlight streams in through the window of the Cakestop Cafe, bathing the wooden floored room in its warming caress. Clare, the keeper of the Cafe, lines up jar upon jar of
herbal infusions and teas and inspects a myriad of cakes and pastries. The selection is
enviable, scones with raisins as big as prunes, moist flapjacks, bakewell tarts with icing as
white as new fallen snow.
As well as these delicious comestibles the cafe also stocks a wide selection of beers and
spirits and, after a recent and rather noisy protest by a certain Marmite topped sprinter-type, a shiny new Stella Tap takes pride of place in the centre of the counter.
It is near to lunchtime and soon the first visitors will be arriving. It is difficult to tell
who will normally arrive first, but on any given day one can be assured of bumping into
a number of members of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists, the Intrepid Sorority and any other weary traveller in need of sustenance.
A Giant OCR's tyres an be heard scrunching in the gravel outside alongside those of a
racing machine of purest white. Gunner and Macleach unclip and dismount, then
stride quickly inside. As they removing helmets and shades, Clare can see they are both far
from their usual jocular moods.
"You need to gather every visitor and send them over to our
table, we need to speak to them on a matter of cycling-world changing importance......"
Gunner's face is grave and stern and he is evidently preoccupied as he asks
Claire to have the others come see him when they arrive. Not preoccupied enough,
however, to miss observing Kathy's agitation at the interloper who has stolen her customary
seat by the window. His time in the Special Forces was not wasted, and his eye is drawn to
the empty packet of PowerBar energy gel the creature left on the floor. He picks it up, sniffs
it, tastes it with the very tip of his tongue, wrinkles his nose in displeasure.
"She will not be pleased," he mutters. "Not at all."
It is approaching lunch time and the regulars are trickling in one by one, each arrival
heralded by the sound of crunching gravel and the clicking of locks to confine eager steeds
and prevent them making off on adventures of their own no matter how much they
provoked and encouraged one another. As each cyclist gives his or her order to Clare, she
directs them over to the table in the corner, where Gunner has taken a seat that affords
him a grandstand view of the rest of the room, particularly the window seat, without his
own actions being obvious to anyone else. The riders leave him with shocked, stunned
expressions, some of them so horrified all appetite is gone. On the window seat, the
lobster-haired half-man, half-goat in the USPS kit has a grin on his face that gets wider and
wider every time one of the gang takes his seat with dismay written across his features.
Lunchtime ticks by, and there is a heavy, weighty atmosphere in the Cake Stop. Aeroflash
has arrived, his demeanour stoic and determined. Flying Monkey is distracting himself,
having entered a state of meditative enlightenment that has resulted in him floating in the
lotus position, about a foot above the jukebox. The jukebox is refusing to play anything
other than "The Darkness", although it lapses into sullen silence when threatened with
sudden and violent death by Yenrod and J.L.Seagull.
There is a sudden chill and the light outside fades, only for the abrupt gloom to be pierced
by the white beam of a 32W halogen bulb accompanied by tiny red flashes reminiscent of
the jerking death-throes of faeries that have met a blood-soaked and gory end.
The door swings open with a slam, causing some of the more depressed and contemplative
cyclists present to jump, startled. The woman, silver Specialized removed to save the
cleats, walks in with feet clad only in silver X-Socks, her shoes in one hand. In the crook of
her right arm she is cradling the last two malt loaves in the country, both slightly the worse
for wear but still edible.
"Clare, what are our stocks like?" she asks, setting the comestibles down on the bar with
the care of a mother putting her baby to sleep.
"We have none here. The guy in the USPS kit ate the last early this morning."
Ravenbait momentarily freezes. She removes the Rudy Projects, and Clare can see that her
eyes are two orbs of polished obsidian, and if she looks long enough there appear to be
things writhing in their depths. Clare shudders and turns her gaze down towards the bar.
"Take care of these, Clare," the woman says, gently pushing the malt loaf packets across
the brass-covered bar top. "Guard them with your life." Clare nods, almost faint with relief
as the woman turns her attention towards the half-man, half-goat currently occupying
Kathy and Tim's window seat.
"He was here when I arrived, " Kathy says indignantly. "Cheeky wretch."
"You!" says the woman. "You've got some nerve coming here. And in team kit, too. What
was your mission? Finish off our supplies? Spread dissension in the ranks?"
"I just wanted to see your face when you found out, to be sure," says the satyr. "The Man is
not pleased with you. You and your Goddess," he almost spat the word, "need to be put in
your place. Ullrich couldn't do it, Millar couldn't do it - what makes you think that you can
succeed where they have failed?"
"We already did, didn't we?" the woman says, voice low and ominous. "And we'll do it
again, and again, and again until you either give up or go under. 'The Man', as you call him,
may have won five now, but his sphere of influence is limited. Everyone knows that. Even
him. This is an act of desperation and it doesn't frighten me. Or Her."
"We'll see about that, so we will," says the creature enigmatically, getting to his feet. "I'd
better be getting off. Tell your Goddess that this is just the start, so. There's a lot more
where this came from."
"And we're just supposed to let you walk out of here?" thunders Gunner. He stands there,
arms folded, looking manly, powerful and menacing. He is joined by Steelman, Rigby,
Derall, Aeroflash and Macleach, and finally even by EvilChuffy who appears both determined
and wracked by guilt. "I should skin you alive and use your knackers as a seat pack."
"You could stop me, to be sure," says the Satyr. He cocks his head to one side and grins.
His teeth have become long, white and sharp, and there are far more of them, of far
greater size, than could physically fit into that tiny head with its shock of orange hair. "But
it would be messy."
"Leave it," says Aeroflash. "We've got more important things to worry about than minions."
"Good day to you, sorr!" the satyr cries, and skips gaily out of the door.
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