London

4,406 years since initial death
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A crime scene.

That's what they found.

A pool of blood underneath the bed that held the butchered corpse of a woman. Her face was entirely unidentifiable, as most of it was lost. The body lay torn open, some organs spilled and others were missing. It was a disturbing scene, one that nobody could have ever stomached to witness. Officially, this had been the worst and most vicious murder yet.

Who could have done such a thing? An act of brutality beyond anything the locals had ever seen. It was inhuman, a cruelty worse than death. To be slowly ripped apart and have your innards removed while still being alive to experience the pain. It seemed as if a reaper was haunting the cold streets of London at night, that's the only explanation to the murder. However in this case, a more fitting title would be a ripper.

The evidence was all there, the mangled corpse told the detectives everything they needed to know. One of the only leads they had on the case was a letter that was received several weeks prior to this incident. However, it still remained a mystery to the police and detectives. The letter read:

'Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won't fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits.'

Examining the body once more, nothing else could be identified from it. But an identity had come through, the woman was a prostitute. Although at first glance, nobody could have determined that. There was nothing left of her, she remained an empty shell.

'I am down on whores and I shan't quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now?'

The woman was named Mary Jane Kelly, and by now everyone knew exactly who the culprit was. But nobody knew his real identity, nor his whereabouts. All they know is the name of an urban myth, an unidentifiable man.

'I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can't use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope, ha ha.'

Police stumbled around in their offices, deciphering clues and checking the morgues. At the time they had first received this letter, there had only been two murders linked to this case.

'The next job I do I shall clip the lady's ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you? Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight.'

The hunt was already on, all of London was on high alert for over a month now. Murders continued, all of them women. There was only one man to take the blame for it all, the one man nobody knew.

'My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.'

'Yours truly...'

'Jack the Ripper.'

'Don't mind me giving the trade name.'

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London had always been a grand, vast city.

However the introduction of automobiles brought forth a new change in the world, as the industrial revolution started. Locomotive trains, railway systems, horse-driven carriages and even automobiles were introduced to the world. Factories lay in the horizon, smoke polluted the skies and the sounds of machines plagued the city.

The city was filled with life and traffic, carriages were driven through the streets and civilians walked down the busy roads in orderly fashions. The newly invented light bulb had brightened up some parts of the city, while others remained with traditional candles and torches.

It offered a change never before seen, a new way of life. Photography had started, and the first pictures of humanity's peak in evolution and technology were taken. It opened up a new world of unlimited possibilities.

Michael Smith, still using his colonial name, took this new evolution in machinery quite differently. He knew time always moves on, and so do the people. Technology advances, so does evolution. Nothing ever remains the same. Cultures, architecture, religions, weaponry, and technology always change.

It was saddening, and quite nostalgic for him. He held on to so many traditions throughout the ages and found it hard to move on into a world that was entirely different. From the Old Kingdom of Egypt to the industrial and lively streets of London, England; it was hard to take it all in even after all these years.

Still, he tried to fit in. Becoming a banker, he managed to receive a decent salary, enough to afford a fairly nice apartment right in the heart of Whitechapel. He wasn't an upper class citizen, making his location not entirely comfortable, but he was still able to make the most of it. It was a usual aspect of his life he became accustomed to.

Everyday offered new and exciting opportunities, and he overcame his nostalgia quickly afterwards. Visiting the recently built Big Ben clock tower was always his favorite pastime, simply just to listen to the bells. Queen Victoria often made public appearances and the city of London bloomed as its economy rose to new limits.

Fortunately, most of the politics regarding the Revolutionary War in America had faded, hence Michael's return to the British country. It was a chance to indulge himself in the heart of the industrial world, a change he was soon eager to adapt to once he had tasted a portion of it.

Romance was another aspect of his life he wanted to get a hold of again. But it never felt right, no matter where he went or where he searched. Maybe it wasn't romance he lacked, but simply the idea of holding someone's hand while living in the moment. Alas, it wasn't that easy. Friends often come and go, he's had thousands of them, but none of them lasted long.

He was living the life, completely alone. It felt like Ireland all over again, living in isolation away from humanity. Except this time, he was surrounded by thousands of strangers. He needed someone in his life, but couldn't find the perfect one for him. While he did eventually make friends here, none of them cared enough to stay with him.

Alone, but always surrounded by people. He felt it was his destiny, but he still tried to fight against it. His emotions were wild, often conflicting with one another until he only gave himself a headache. But he knows that he's losing it.

His past happiness after ending the war didn't last as long as he had hoped it would. Heartbreak was one thing he couldn't afford, but he still felt it even when he didn't have a partner. The thoughts of an endless life brought only fear to his mind. He was losing himself in between these walls, so torn and thin. He just wanted to feel like all the others.

He shaved his stubble beard once more. The last time he had allowed it to grow fully was centuries ago. Even he couldn't remember the exact time. But he had a different idea in mind. Shaving his beard, he kept the mustache, allowing it to grow further. Looking back at it in the mirror, he didn't like it. But he'll keep it. Perhaps somebody else could find it attractive.

Alcohol seemed like a reasonable option, something to make him momentarily forget his troubles. Ever since Somerset, he's always attempted to drown out the memories. He had started drinking far too much recently, even falling victim to alcohol poisoning because of it. But he still persisted, often blacking out several times from it.

There was a pub near his apartment, it was small but it was still supplied with more than enough beer for everyone in town. It was a short term solution, but he took whatever he could take. Anything just to help him get through the rest of the day, he'll take it.

Chugging down glasses, one by one, he certainly did forget about his troubles. It reached a point where a few people paid to see him chug several cups down. After earning some pocket money, he left the pub still completely drunk out of his mind as he stumbled down the dark alleyway.

It was around 2:45 in the morning. Two women were walking by, one of which was a prostitute. She was stumbling. A few thoughts rushed through his mind.

Suddenly, the two women separated. The prostitute continued walking towards him while the other woman left the scene, seeming annoyed. 

He walked over and leaned against a wall near the prostitute. "It's nearly the Devil's hour."

"Aye, it is. If I wasn't so bloody drunk, I'd be in bed." She replied casually.

Michael could tell she was intoxicated without her needing to say it. For a second, he tried to think of a response, but he only found himself staring back at her without even blinking.

"Fancy what you see?" She replied, giving him an odd look. "Staring ain't free, you know."

"Apologies miss." Michael tipped his top hat, he wanted to leave but a violent headache prevented him from moving. "It is not my intention to stare. I'm having trouble standing on my own two feet as they are, ha ha." A small chuckle convinced her that he truly was drunk himself.

The woman smirked. She undid the top portion of her dress and revealed her breasts. It was a common gesture in her line of profession and she was comfortable in doing so. "Consider this your preview then."

Michael continued to stare, although he was having trouble focusing on her. Despite wanting to look away out of respect, he noticed that his eyes were examining her from head to toe. It was clear he was far too intoxicated for his own good, he had to leave before he embarrasses himself further. "A fine figure, I must admit. However, I must take my leave. It's been a jolly fun night of booze, but I need rest, as do you. Good day."

"Suit yourself."

He started to walk off. This time, he was stumbling worse than before. Only a few dim lights lit up the area, the rest of the alley was entirely pitch black. Then, the alcohol got to him. His vision faded into darkness, and his mind shut down. He had blacked out completely.

It took him a while to wake up.

At first it was silent, his surroundings were still dark as the moon lightly shined directly over him as he laid on the ground. By the time he came to his senses again, he noticed an odd smell. There was even a terrible taste inside his mouth, but his thoughts were immediately cut short when he heard a call for help. Suddenly, his eyes snapped, his mind returned. The call came from down the alleyway, just by Buck's Road.

Instantly, he stood up, feeling pain resonating from his nose. He placed a hand over it and found blood. Clearly, he had collapsed right over it. He disregarded it, focusing his attention back at the cry for help.

He rushed towards it as fast as he could, exiting the alley and reaching the road. There, he noticed what all the commotion was about.

Lying on the pavement outside of a gate was the body of the very same woman he had spoken to.

She had been mercilessly butchered, as her own blood formed a stream down the alleyway.

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Historical Notes:

Hundreds of letters were sent to the police department claiming to be from the killer himself. A rough estimate states that over a thousand letters were received. Only four of them were ever believed to have been written by Jack the Ripper.

One of which, the 'From Hell' letter, was sent with half of a preserved kidney taken from one of the victims. In the letter, the 'killer' stated he had eaten the other half. However, many believe this was only a prank from a medical student.

2,000 people were interviewed, 300 people were investigated, and 80 people were detained in response to the murders.

Around 1,200 women worked as prostitutes in the district of Whitechapel.

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