Birmingham, 1919. Mid March
The Shelbys were legends in the making, their Peaky Blinders a name whispered in fear from Small Heath to the canals, but their fame was a problem for Finn.
His face, young yet unmistakably Shelby, was known to every cutthroat and copper in the city. Tommy, Arthur, and John ruled with razors and grit, but Finn's modern soul, sharpened by modern surveillance tactics, saw their weakness: muscle with little intel, power without precision.
What they lacked was a system.
The Archive, a network of invisible eyes was Finn's answer; a web to guard his kin and build his own power, starting with one thread: Sammy, a slum urchin with nothing but sharp eyes.
Finn's hyperlearning had scouted Sammy for days. A wiry 12-year-old, all elbows and hunger, Sammy haunted the Small Heath market stealing bread and dodging fists.
His eyes, quick as a hawk's, missed nothing; from gang scouts to copper patrols and loose coins.
Finn, crouched in alleys clocked Sammy's moves: he slipped through crowds unseen and untouchable.
Perfect for the Archive, but Birmingham's slums bred distrust, and literacy was a problem.
Schools pushed reading; 90% of kids could scrape by with words, but urchins like Sammy who are scrapping for survival often skipped classes.
Writing was a dream; reading, a half-remembered trick.
Finn's network had to be smarter, built for a boy who couldn't spell his name but could outwit people.
The Shelbys' notoriety meant Finn's face was known.
One glimpse, and Sammy could sell him out to any thug with a shilling.
Finn's hyperlearning crafted a plan: no meetings means no trace.
He'd recruit Sammy using shadows and lies.
A stolen half penny from the day's money was all he needed to begin.
At dusk, Finn slipped to the market's edge with cap low and face smeared with coal dust, it's a dock worker's trick to blur features.
His quick and quiet legs carried him to a crumbling wall by Sammy's corner, a crevice hidden from prying eyes.
No words, no risk.
Finn planted a smooth black pebble plucked from the canal's edge in the crevice, it's a signal smugglers used for drops.
He'd chosen Pip, a 10-year-old urchin unable to speak as his runner.
Pip's voice, lost to a fever years back, made him Finn's perfect tool, silent and unable to spill secrets.
Finn's hyperlearning had vetted Pip: his steady hands and hollow cheeks swore hunger-driven fidelity.
In the twilight, Pip approached Sammy, his hands clear and slow. To teach Sammy his task—watch for armed men near the Cut—Pip held up a red pebble and pointed to his eyes ("watch"), patted his side like carrying a gun (a gesture urchins knew from gangsters), and placed the pebble in the crevice, repeating until Sammy mimicked and nodded.
To instill the "Black Hand" myth, a fearsome gang to shield Finn's identity, Pip handed Sammy a black pebble and shook his head, pointing to his lips—a "don't tell" gesture any street kid would grasp.
Sammy, illiterate but sharp, eyed the pebbles.
Finn, cloaked across the street read Sammy's stance—starved and wary, but hooked.
Hunger trumped doubt.
Sammy pocketed the red pebble while nodding.
Finn's brain worked, calculating Sammy's heart: a boy who'd steal for bread wouldn't snitch for less.
The Archive's security was important.
Sammy's task was one: drop a red pebble in the crevice for armed men near the Cut, knowing only his role and the black pebble's warning, and nothing of Finn or the Shelbys.
To evade coppers and rival gangs, Finn designed the system to be near-invisible: Sammy's crevice buried in market debris looked like natural clutter, and Pip, a ragged urchin, blended with street crowds when checking it hourly.
Instead of Finn visiting drops, Pip whisked pebbles to a rotating drop; a different alley crate or broken barrel daily, signaled by a chalk mark only Finn knew, ensuring no pattern for coppers or anyone to trace.
For instant news, Finn checked the day's drop near the betting shop, getting intel within hours.
As the Archive grew to hundreds—urchins, barmaids, canal workers, coppers—each with one task and hidden crevice, Finn planned siloed runners like Pip who are unaware of each other to check drops hourly and slip tokens into rotating and disguised hubs (e.g., a rusted tin under a canal bridge), and their locations memorized by Finn alone.
His hyperlearning could map thousands of drops and runner routes, and token meanings, turning fragments into real-time power with no trail for rivals to sniff.
For now, Sammy's pebble was the spark.
The next dusk, Finn checked the day's drop; a splintered crate in a shadowed alley with his heart thumping.
Pip had delivered Sammy's report: a red pebble, signaling armed men near the Cut, likely Lee scouts and Finn deduced they are sniffing Shelby turf.
Minor news, but no news is really useless.
Finn had Pip swap the pebble for a half penny in Sammy's crevice, leaving another black pebble to reinforce the "Black Hand" warning.
The visual token is simple, needing no words for an illiterate boy.
Finn's mind raced, plotting the Archive's growth: more runners and more single-task spies, a web only his hyperlearning could master.
Hours bled into night as Finn darted through Birmingham's alleys, his young legs aching from dodging eyes to cover his tracks.
The city's gaslights flickered as he neared Watery Lane, the Shelby stronghold.
Inside, the house was dim, the air thick with whiskey and smoke.
Polly Gray sat at the kitchen table with her ledger open and her eyes sharp as razors.
Finn looked at her catching the glint in her gaze, she for sure knew finn was doing something but she was simply clueless.
"Out late again, Finn," Polly said in a low voice breaking the quiet. "Streets ain't safe for a boy, even a Shelby." Her fingers slowly tapped the ledger.
Polly was a hawk, her instincts honed by years of sniffing lies, but the Archive was Finn's alone.
"Just walking and thinking of new ideas for the shop, Pol," Finn said with his voice steady.
"And got lost near the market." A half-truth, plausible.
Polly's eyes narrowed searching for any lies but she just nodded, letting him pass.
Finn noted her suspicion.
As he climbed the stairs, his mind spun with Sammy's pebble, the "Black Hand," the Archive's first thread.
Birmingham saw a boy, but Finn was weaving a shadow empire.
And he was the Archivist.
The only one who could build it.
The only one who could control it.
Because you can't steal what exists in only one mind.