Like Clockwork
Posted: Sat Jun 29, 2019 4:18 pm
Midday - 11th of Hamis, 2719
The air had been thick with mist when Oisin had left the comfort of his apartment this morning, and it had not abated since, merely transformed into a new form as he'd meandered his way towards the smoke-choked skies of the Soot District. Oisin's finer clothes - relatively speaking - had been left behind, in favour of a more worn and practical ensemble, a tired but servicable long coat providing rudimentary protection against the layer of dust and ash that seemed to coat every surface in sight, including, or so it felt, the inside of Oisin's lungs.
When he had left the Painted Ladies, he had done so with purpose: a mission of sorts, a hunt through Vienda's shade and shadow for a quarry that made a concerted effort to avoid notice. It was an effort and desire that Oisin could empathise with, but circumstances did not permit him to sympathise. It was a separation that Oisin had once found a struggle, but one that he had grudgingly established a capacity for over his decade as a mercenary. Sympathy doesn't yield results: those were the words of wisdom from his old Sergeant, carved into his psyche by verbal knifepoint again and again, until the words became a permanent scar. Back then, it had been a requirement of survival: for Oisin's mercenary peers, there was often less to separate them from the enemy than from their employers, and even a momentary hesitation born out of sympathy could cost a life, or lives, or concords from their company. Sympathy, empathy, morality: that was the work of a politician, not a mercenary, and they had no more business engaging in it than they did farming or midwifery.
Today, the rationalisation was different, but the need for separation was the same. Don't let the people get in the way of the story, that was the new lesson he was tasked with learning. These weren't people, these were rich people, and the backlash from the secrets and scandals that the Kingsway Post would publish and reveal was merely a matter of social economics, the offset for their power and privilege that helped keep the social order in balance. Oisin wished that he believed that with more conviction, and hoped that the intended lesson would not take as many years to learn as the last.
Oisin peered down at the pocket watch balanced upon his fingers, a flick of a thumb releasing the latch and letting the faceplate swing upwards to reveal the time. The hands slowly ticked their way towards noon - or at least, close enough to make no difference. His quarry had been here for some time, but Oisin had patiently waited for a moment that he had selected in advance: if a man chose to spend his morning drinking, that was his business, and it would frankly have been uncivilized to confront him any sooner and make it clear that such things were known. Besides, there were benefits to patience, especially in situations like this: the longer Oisin's potential source marinaded in his beverage of choice, the looser his tongue would hopefully be.
With a bump of a shoulder that propelled him away from the shaded doorway where he'd idly leaned, Oisin set off across the street in measured strides. The pocket watch in his fingers clicked closed, and with a flourish it was swung by the chain, a pendulum looping over itself in a clockwise arc, once, then twice, before plummeting into a waistcoat pocket with practised precision. He halted for a brief moment as a beast-drawn wagon crossed his path, doffing the brim of a non-existent hat in greeting to the driver, whose lingering gaze paid Oisin more heed than he might have liked. Undeterred, the reporter resumed his course, his eyes deviating from the doorway ahead for just long enough to reaffirm the words painted on the painted sign swinging above: The Clockwork Stag.
The doorway was like a portal to another world, the dreary drabness of the Soot District chased away by the warmth and vibrance that was cultivated within. The Stag's welcoming embrace did not distract Oisin, however: he'd seen it before, and while his visits weren't enough for him to consider the establishment familiar, it at least wasn't unknown. That was important for a multitude of reasons, not least of which was the obvious benefit of a journalist being well-acquainted with the city's various bars.
A familiar face caught his eye, a soot-faced boy in his mid-teens, loitering on the periphery of the establishment that his youth would not allow him to engage with more fully. Oisin returned the nod of recognition that the boy offered with one of his own, and a few more strides brought them within arm's reach. Limbs extended, a handshake briefly shared, a single coin discreetly passed from one palm to the other without a word. The silence persisted, the boy's eyes indicating towards a distant corner, and then the boy was gone, scampering off through the doorway, the faintest breeze of cold air rushing in before the Stag sealed itself once more.
A few brief and transactional words were exchanged between Oisin and the barkeep, and before long there was a glass in Oisin's hand, and he was weaving his way through the mismatched chairs and tables to the corner that his contact had directed him towards. Without salutation, query, or hesitation, Oisin dragged a creaking chair out from the otherwise vacant table and deposited himself into it, lounging as comfortably as the rickety furniture would allow, his attention turned outwards to room, eyes perusing the sparse noontime patronage of the Stag.
"You're a hard man to find," Oisin announced off-hand, his attention still aimed elsewhere, deftly avoiding any socially mandated engagement in eye contact or any other such pleasantries. It was better that way: less to worry about, less to consider, less to distract. His hand raised the glass to his lips, the amber contents washing across his tongue, a faint grimace following in its wake. The booze was cheap, and awful; thankfully Oisin's time as a mercenary had left his taste buds well acquainted with both. "And you certainly aren't anywhere someone might expect to find you. Are you lost, Mr. Vauquelin, or just hiding?"
When he had left the Painted Ladies, he had done so with purpose: a mission of sorts, a hunt through Vienda's shade and shadow for a quarry that made a concerted effort to avoid notice. It was an effort and desire that Oisin could empathise with, but circumstances did not permit him to sympathise. It was a separation that Oisin had once found a struggle, but one that he had grudgingly established a capacity for over his decade as a mercenary. Sympathy doesn't yield results: those were the words of wisdom from his old Sergeant, carved into his psyche by verbal knifepoint again and again, until the words became a permanent scar. Back then, it had been a requirement of survival: for Oisin's mercenary peers, there was often less to separate them from the enemy than from their employers, and even a momentary hesitation born out of sympathy could cost a life, or lives, or concords from their company. Sympathy, empathy, morality: that was the work of a politician, not a mercenary, and they had no more business engaging in it than they did farming or midwifery.
Today, the rationalisation was different, but the need for separation was the same. Don't let the people get in the way of the story, that was the new lesson he was tasked with learning. These weren't people, these were rich people, and the backlash from the secrets and scandals that the Kingsway Post would publish and reveal was merely a matter of social economics, the offset for their power and privilege that helped keep the social order in balance. Oisin wished that he believed that with more conviction, and hoped that the intended lesson would not take as many years to learn as the last.
Oisin peered down at the pocket watch balanced upon his fingers, a flick of a thumb releasing the latch and letting the faceplate swing upwards to reveal the time. The hands slowly ticked their way towards noon - or at least, close enough to make no difference. His quarry had been here for some time, but Oisin had patiently waited for a moment that he had selected in advance: if a man chose to spend his morning drinking, that was his business, and it would frankly have been uncivilized to confront him any sooner and make it clear that such things were known. Besides, there were benefits to patience, especially in situations like this: the longer Oisin's potential source marinaded in his beverage of choice, the looser his tongue would hopefully be.
With a bump of a shoulder that propelled him away from the shaded doorway where he'd idly leaned, Oisin set off across the street in measured strides. The pocket watch in his fingers clicked closed, and with a flourish it was swung by the chain, a pendulum looping over itself in a clockwise arc, once, then twice, before plummeting into a waistcoat pocket with practised precision. He halted for a brief moment as a beast-drawn wagon crossed his path, doffing the brim of a non-existent hat in greeting to the driver, whose lingering gaze paid Oisin more heed than he might have liked. Undeterred, the reporter resumed his course, his eyes deviating from the doorway ahead for just long enough to reaffirm the words painted on the painted sign swinging above: The Clockwork Stag.
The doorway was like a portal to another world, the dreary drabness of the Soot District chased away by the warmth and vibrance that was cultivated within. The Stag's welcoming embrace did not distract Oisin, however: he'd seen it before, and while his visits weren't enough for him to consider the establishment familiar, it at least wasn't unknown. That was important for a multitude of reasons, not least of which was the obvious benefit of a journalist being well-acquainted with the city's various bars.
A familiar face caught his eye, a soot-faced boy in his mid-teens, loitering on the periphery of the establishment that his youth would not allow him to engage with more fully. Oisin returned the nod of recognition that the boy offered with one of his own, and a few more strides brought them within arm's reach. Limbs extended, a handshake briefly shared, a single coin discreetly passed from one palm to the other without a word. The silence persisted, the boy's eyes indicating towards a distant corner, and then the boy was gone, scampering off through the doorway, the faintest breeze of cold air rushing in before the Stag sealed itself once more.
A few brief and transactional words were exchanged between Oisin and the barkeep, and before long there was a glass in Oisin's hand, and he was weaving his way through the mismatched chairs and tables to the corner that his contact had directed him towards. Without salutation, query, or hesitation, Oisin dragged a creaking chair out from the otherwise vacant table and deposited himself into it, lounging as comfortably as the rickety furniture would allow, his attention turned outwards to room, eyes perusing the sparse noontime patronage of the Stag.
"You're a hard man to find," Oisin announced off-hand, his attention still aimed elsewhere, deftly avoiding any socially mandated engagement in eye contact or any other such pleasantries. It was better that way: less to worry about, less to consider, less to distract. His hand raised the glass to his lips, the amber contents washing across his tongue, a faint grimace following in its wake. The booze was cheap, and awful; thankfully Oisin's time as a mercenary had left his taste buds well acquainted with both. "And you certainly aren't anywhere someone might expect to find you. Are you lost, Mr. Vauquelin, or just hiding?"