London, 1892.

. . .

[Night, starless night. Only the gas lanterns to lend a light to the foggy scene.]

Dr. Cream hobbles along the left side of the Waterloo Bridge, the tip of his cane thumping heavily with each slow step. Furtively he glances over his shoulder, and nothing, not so much as a patrol man follows, but there is no relief from the deep strain inside his chest.

 

     JUNE ACTION: “Not your night, is it, Doctor?”

 

June Action looks down at Cream from her perch on the bridge rail, her wide-brimmed hat and long coat hiding her features, if not her unmistakeable aura. Dr. Cream tilts his head and stares up, the nervous rage burning hotter in him; he quickly draws the sword from his cane, snarling.

 

     DOCTOR CREAM: “Would a face like yours shine as bright as theirs in those final moments, wretch?”
     JUNE ACTION: “We shall see.”

 

June leaps down at Cream, forcing him to fall back two paces. With a casual flick, Cream’s top hat falls from his head; the gesture is met by the mad stroke of his blade, but is as easily deflected by a knock of his forearm and responded to with a vicious kick to the chest. Another thrust avoided and June jabs at Cream’s underarm, causing him to drop the sword with a pained grunt.

 

     DOCTOR CREAM: “Huh-hu… Orientalism at its worst!”
     JUNE ACTION: “Are we done then?”
     DOCTOR CREAM: “Soon!”

 

With a tug of his sleeve and a low thrust, Cream ejects a white powder into June’s face. She lurches backward, first waving her hands, then quickly trying to wipe it away and blow out her nostrils, always refusing to scream for the monster’s pleasure. Cream leans forward casually, his confidence rising, and picks his sword back up.

 

     DOCTOR CREAM: “A cleansing agent, if you will. I can promise you that the burning shan’t last.”

 

A great punch with his sword-bearing fist sends her reeling back to the rail; a hard kick to her side and she nearly collapses. Cream now raises his sword high, pausing to savour the moment before he performs this killing blow, but is swiftly denied this pleasure (or, indeed, any other) as she kicks him once in the groin before throwing herself over the railing.

There is a splash in the Thames.