Under the Soot District | Onwards of 15 O'Clock
04 Roalis 2720
There was something oddly reassuring about lingering within the tunnels beneath the city; a maze of roots and passages that opened up into larger chambers that spun off from each other. It was easy to loose a sense of direction in them, with the darkness that dwelled within being and oppressive and smothering. The damp was suffocating against the senses, a slick film that subdued other scents but amplified others; rot and decay were the ones that came to mind first, followed by the off stale scent of urine and stale alcohol that had slipped through the gaps of the city above. It was where they belonged, Gunner reasoned, far from the eyes of the Uncles and Aunts, the down trodden and the ones who had become passive in their views - the silent supporters of the enemy because they did nothing.
It was here the Freedom Fighters could be themselves, even if they did all hide behind masks and masquerade their identities.
Gale never understood why their father chose the nickname 'Gunner'. It was slang, it already had meaning among the underworld; specifically being an individual involved and trained in heavy warfare. Beckett may have been such on occasion - Gale was never certain and was never brought along on missions with their father - but to lift an already defined word caused some level of confusion within the Gunsmith's mind. Perhaps 'The' Gunner was more accurate, yet that lead to even more questions as to why their father embraced it so willingly.
Did he consider himself to be nothing more than a man of war? A man who killed and stirred his way through the city fuelled by violence? A being that all gunners and dragoons should all aspire to? Was it because he was an enabler of their efforts, or that he embraced all of the above?
Gale carefully pushed the thought aside; it did not matter anymore. Beckett was long dead and they had stepped into his identity; a third life for them to balance between being Mister Saunders and 'Artful'.
People still called them Gunner, but was it because the fired a gun and were seemingly throwing themselves at violence, or was it because they knew the truth and their identity had been compromised?
They needed a smoke.
Sighing, Gunner turned to their work.
Gunner with the aid of a few others had secured this chamber deep beneath the steam mills, a long half barrel of ancient brickwork with rough flooring. The sound above - faint as it was beneath all the stone - would mask the presence of their gathering and allow them to be as loud as they damn well pleased. Numerous lanterns were lit, a temporary workshop set up within its bowls. The sand filled sack targets were lined up against the furthest wall ready to be fired upon in the variety of tests that would be hosted today. The gunsmith needed second opinions on their efforts and advances, and as they were to be far from the only potential candidate to use them they widened the testing pool to the rest of the Resistance.
Experimentation and expansion was necessary if they were going to win.
Gunner wore their metal facemask with its defined cheekbones, the faint slither of condensation accumulated along the inside while eyes peered from the shadow of the steel sockets. Heavily dressed, the hood was raised, layers on layers blotting out frame to be truly nothing distinctive, all in muted browns and greys, the shape hunched over one of the tables. To hide their true identity was necessary for everyone; people knowing who a, if not the, gunsmith of the resistance would only result in too many chances of more people learning. The exposure was too risky.
Neatly formed up in rows was a collection of firearms; all flintlocks with the usual rifling turning within the inside of their barrel. Yet beyond the single shot pistols was three longer pieces, firearms easily forty inches in length and far from the polished form of finished pieces. A long pipe barrel, backed with a triangular steel stock at the end wrapped in heavy leather; bare, raw, but workable, the mechanics of it was identical to the flintlock pistols. They required a longer ramrod to load, but the shot and gunpowder was carefully measured out into tiny, individual paper sachets.
On the side Gunner was perched on several tools were laid out; including a pedestal of dampened down gunpowder the gunsmith was currently refining.
Gunner needed to ensure there was some consistencies with the experimentation today.
Quietly tightening the screws of the stock and frame tighter, the Masked Gunner glanced upwards when one of the Cadets spoke up.
"Gunner, uh, Sir?"
Gunner turned their head sideways, slightly exaggerated as they paused mid-screw. Their left hand asked 'What?'.
They did not bother to learn the Cadet's name, nor did they have an inclination to - not after what happened to Dancer.
"They're here."
Gunner tightened the last screw, with it came the slipping in of the hard, iron mask of personality - cold, unfeeling, neutral, nothing. They wrapped their knuckles against the table.
The Cadet nodded.
"I'll... let them in."
The Cadet slipped off to one of the tunnel entrances, a quiet mumbling of voices lingering beyond gradually growing louder. Gunner paid them no mind, instead giving the final cursory inspection of the firearms. They all worked in principle, but repetitive thorough testing was needed. They lifted one of the larger firearms, lined up the screw head sight at the end with either eye, carefully checking the measurements before running the ram rod down it to feel out the snags and bumps within. With a careful silence, the gloved hands lowered the long-gun to the table, brought their hands to the middle of their torso, before they spoke wordlessly with them.
"Welcome to the testing." They spoke in sign and gestured down to the firearms before them, "Please take one of choice and inspect it for any issues prior to firing."
It was here the Freedom Fighters could be themselves, even if they did all hide behind masks and masquerade their identities.
Gale never understood why their father chose the nickname 'Gunner'. It was slang, it already had meaning among the underworld; specifically being an individual involved and trained in heavy warfare. Beckett may have been such on occasion - Gale was never certain and was never brought along on missions with their father - but to lift an already defined word caused some level of confusion within the Gunsmith's mind. Perhaps 'The' Gunner was more accurate, yet that lead to even more questions as to why their father embraced it so willingly.
Did he consider himself to be nothing more than a man of war? A man who killed and stirred his way through the city fuelled by violence? A being that all gunners and dragoons should all aspire to? Was it because he was an enabler of their efforts, or that he embraced all of the above?
Gale carefully pushed the thought aside; it did not matter anymore. Beckett was long dead and they had stepped into his identity; a third life for them to balance between being Mister Saunders and 'Artful'.
People still called them Gunner, but was it because the fired a gun and were seemingly throwing themselves at violence, or was it because they knew the truth and their identity had been compromised?
They needed a smoke.
Sighing, Gunner turned to their work.
Gunner with the aid of a few others had secured this chamber deep beneath the steam mills, a long half barrel of ancient brickwork with rough flooring. The sound above - faint as it was beneath all the stone - would mask the presence of their gathering and allow them to be as loud as they damn well pleased. Numerous lanterns were lit, a temporary workshop set up within its bowls. The sand filled sack targets were lined up against the furthest wall ready to be fired upon in the variety of tests that would be hosted today. The gunsmith needed second opinions on their efforts and advances, and as they were to be far from the only potential candidate to use them they widened the testing pool to the rest of the Resistance.
Experimentation and expansion was necessary if they were going to win.
Gunner wore their metal facemask with its defined cheekbones, the faint slither of condensation accumulated along the inside while eyes peered from the shadow of the steel sockets. Heavily dressed, the hood was raised, layers on layers blotting out frame to be truly nothing distinctive, all in muted browns and greys, the shape hunched over one of the tables. To hide their true identity was necessary for everyone; people knowing who a, if not the, gunsmith of the resistance would only result in too many chances of more people learning. The exposure was too risky.
Neatly formed up in rows was a collection of firearms; all flintlocks with the usual rifling turning within the inside of their barrel. Yet beyond the single shot pistols was three longer pieces, firearms easily forty inches in length and far from the polished form of finished pieces. A long pipe barrel, backed with a triangular steel stock at the end wrapped in heavy leather; bare, raw, but workable, the mechanics of it was identical to the flintlock pistols. They required a longer ramrod to load, but the shot and gunpowder was carefully measured out into tiny, individual paper sachets.
On the side Gunner was perched on several tools were laid out; including a pedestal of dampened down gunpowder the gunsmith was currently refining.
Gunner needed to ensure there was some consistencies with the experimentation today.
Quietly tightening the screws of the stock and frame tighter, the Masked Gunner glanced upwards when one of the Cadets spoke up.
"Gunner, uh, Sir?"
Gunner turned their head sideways, slightly exaggerated as they paused mid-screw. Their left hand asked 'What?'.
They did not bother to learn the Cadet's name, nor did they have an inclination to - not after what happened to Dancer.
Hands covered in blood, my blood, his blood - I couldn't save him-
"They're here."
Gunner tightened the last screw, with it came the slipping in of the hard, iron mask of personality - cold, unfeeling, neutral, nothing. They wrapped their knuckles against the table.
The Cadet nodded.
"I'll... let them in."
The Cadet slipped off to one of the tunnel entrances, a quiet mumbling of voices lingering beyond gradually growing louder. Gunner paid them no mind, instead giving the final cursory inspection of the firearms. They all worked in principle, but repetitive thorough testing was needed. They lifted one of the larger firearms, lined up the screw head sight at the end with either eye, carefully checking the measurements before running the ram rod down it to feel out the snags and bumps within. With a careful silence, the gloved hands lowered the long-gun to the table, brought their hands to the middle of their torso, before they spoke wordlessly with them.
"Welcome to the testing." They spoke in sign and gestured down to the firearms before them, "Please take one of choice and inspect it for any issues prior to firing."
