The Scarlet Harlot and The Burberry Beast

Chapter 1: In Which The Harlot Has A Problem

The Scarlet Harlot had a problem.

She didn't like having problems, they made her twitchy. Twitchy made her dangerous. Phoenix had become so annoyed with her pacing about the house that she'd sent her red-haired companion out for a walk with strict instructions not to come back for a few hours. She strode down through the Grand Parade in Bright Helmstone in the gathering dusk, towards Jonny T's newest establishment; maybe a drink and perhaps some company would help, she mused. At the very least, there might be trouble on the seafront later, and cracking a few skulls would certainly help clear her head...

She slid down the bannister of the steps leading towards the front door of Jonny T's Downstairs Affair and almost knocked Bastard Man over as she swung her legs down to the floor. In his normal style, he snarled “Oi, wench! Watchyerself, yeah?” as he glared and stomped up the stairs away from her. The Harlot was too annoyed to care or even try to apologise, but she did make a rude gesture at his back as he disappeared. Her heart sank as she walked through the double doors of the club to see that the place was already quite full, in spite of the early hour. “Gorram Super Convention!” she growled under her breath as she moved through the crowd towards the bar.

Hoisting herself up onto a free barstool, she caught the eye of Bobinho, her favourite barman, his wild hair poking out from under his hat.

“Alright darling?” he asked, “same as usual?”

She nodded. Bobinho always knew what she wanted to drink: Cider with a dash of blackcurrant, and a straw. The straw was very important for keeping her lipstick perfect.

As he poured her drink, she looked around.

The Downstairs Affair was still new to her, really, Jonny T had only bought it in the last 3 months or so, since the defeat of the Who'D-ii Horde, but already it felt like home. Not just for the cider and the excellent bar staff, but for the music and the people. At the moment, a lot of them were sat around, familiar and friendly faces amongst the jubilant tourists. She just wished she felt more like talking to them, and sighed.

“What's the matter?” asked Bobinho as he put her drink down in front of her, “Or can I guess?”

Scarlet stirred the fizzy red drink with the straw and looked up at him. “Probably?” she replied.

“You miss him, don't you?” asked Bobinho.

“No!” exclaimed the Harlot, fiercely. “I don't miss him! I just wish he'd never gone away. How selfish of him! Every Superhero needs a Sidekick, Bobinho, you know this! And he's just not that easy to replace. We matched, you know? Dammit.”

She sighed again, annoyed with herself.

The Scarlet Harlot had been without a sidekick since Bob Beerbong had a tragic accident, resulting in the loss of his jacket, long-board and mohawk. These thing were essentially what made him an official Sidekick, and he'd been banished from the Sidekick Guild without further ado. He'd gone off in a sulk to far flung parts and was only rarely heard from. Which meant that she was a Superhero without a Sidekick. Which meant that she had a problem. Only Superheroes with officially licensed Sidekicks were allowed to fight crime so until she found a new one, she was just one angry girl in a silver latex mask, armed with a baseball bat.

It also posed another problem at this point in time. This week was Inter-Realm Super Convention Week in Bright Helmstone. And only Superheroes and Supervillains with Sidekicks were allowed to take part. There were some exceptions of course, but they were written into life like that; Sadly, the Scarlet Harlot wasn't one of those lucky few.

“Find a new one honey, ask the Guild, you know they have a list of new Sidekicks who'd love to be assigned to you.”

“No”, she said, pouting. “I don't like any of them. They're all rubbish. Except Wi-Fido, but he was assigned to Steve the Viking before I had the chance to pick him” She gestured towards the little long-haired white terrier who was drinking beer from a bowl at the foot of an imposing man clad in armour and leather, reclining regally on a chair with what looked like a flagon of ale in his hand.