[Closed] Tick, tick...

[Nicholas Fogg]

50th of Yaris | Rouncewell & Fogg

Nicholas breathed out.

Breathed in.

He turned over the gently ticking timepiece cradled in his spidering hands, running sensitive fingertips along brass and iron, feeling the vibrations, listening for any catches, any anomalies.

It was perfect.

He stilled its motion, set it with the rest of its brethren, and looked at the twelve little mechanical timers ranked on the pitted surface of his workbench. So much potential, so much destruction, all contained within squat, welded cylinders. Each one had a lip at the base, like the brim of a hat, and three holes drilled around its circumference. On the base, the dial for the timer was inset, so that when it was bolted in place, no part of the mechanism could be seen. Each was the size of a pocket watch, with barely the strength of a firecracker contained within- not even that, if the horologist’s calculations were correct. He had undertaken a couple of control explosions, to ensure the theory was sound, but the risk of discovery was too great to attempt more.

He breathed out.

Breathed in.

Gentle fingers settled each little cylinder in its own cradled nest of lambswool, in the base of a sturdy leather satchel, and buckled the bag securely. Nicholas climbed the worn stairs up from his shop to the apartment above, stepping at the edge of each tread to avoid the squeaking of the old stairs. He stopped at the bedroom door, brow pressed against the wood, one hand flat against it, and listened for a moment, only a moment, to the laboured breathing within.

He did not speak.

…Francis…

He did not need to.

…Father…

That one in particular, he would never speak aloud.

…I don’t think I am doing the right thing. But I have to do something…

…and Sir Tick locked the shop, and went to meet Artful.

[Gale]

Vienda's Sewers

50 Yaris 2720

It was beneath an archway into an alleyway that Artful waited. It was in the shade, away from the growing heat of the dry season; the momentary cool soothing against their senses. It halted the momentary erratic patterns of their thoughts, the ones that craved alcohol and cigarettes, and had been forced into banishment if not by probation then by the firm hand of Teeter. It was clogging their soul, he said; it was true, the dependency finally reared its head and a firm stop had to be established. Now through the mind fog, the smith had wandered, dragging their consciousness forward into a harsh and hot light of day.

Breathe. It's the last fresh air you'll get for a while

They let the air pass through their teeth; their hand pressing against the cool brick of the building. It felt the gentle tremors, the rattle of carriage and horse as it passed by an adjacent street, the hum of the soot district machinery pumping its ash and smoke into the atmosphere. This gentle pressure lingered at the edge of their awareness, the quiet call of something else whispering just beyond their senses - if only they could just reach out and grasp it.

The itch at the back of their neck from their overalls put a stop to that thought.

They agreed to meet somewhere away from their homes and businesses; mainly in the name of protecting their identities for as much as possible. Safety just before reality came crashing down on them all. The smith held their own satchel close, this one filled with a spare set of overalls and the necessary tools, the unlit lantern lashed to the side; far from the delicate machinery, the clocksmith would produce. It was all necessary work, the smith convinced themselves; it all had to be done in order to achieve the results they so desired.

When they spied Sir Tick they gave him a half nod in greeting; they peeled out, hands in their pockets as they walked in step with him. What was even the correct thing to say right now? Was there anything correct? "How are you?" was so far from suitable given the current schemes they were enacting.

"Good Day." Artful muttered, eyes fixed forwards. They pulled out their cigarette tin, offering the sad remains of the dying tobacco that had been untouched for weeks. They could taste the tobacco then, the smooth taste itching their tongue as it tried to drag their interest in. They pushed it aside. "Smoke?"

The smith inclined their head for Sir Tick to follow; leading the way off the street, they took a few of the side roads and alleyways before stopping short of the sewer entrance they would be using. It was at this point they pulled a set of overalls out, 'Braze and Co Sewers' written on the back, and offered them over to the resistance member.

"Put these on over your clothes. Be hot, but keep 'em clean. Brought your own mask, right?"

A small pressure gathered in Gale's chest, the brief tightening as they took a moment to gather themselves. Before they had walked in just fine, no one paid attention to people in uniform - all wonderfully hidden in broad daylight. The street had the usual amount of foot traffic for this time of day, the deep uncovered sewage outlets still pouring dark greywater from its tunnel. They could do this again, no one would pay them any mind. They just had to look as if they belonged there and then they would just blend into the background forgotten.

The smith muttered.

"Follow my lead. Sooner we're in, sooner we leave."

Stepping out into the street, the smith cleared their throat pivoting only briefly on the spot to ensure Sir Tick was following.

"As I was sayin', Mister Mannings, right? Boss is yapping on about expanding out and gettin' another flow point put in to feed into this one." Artful was already across the street at this point, halting at the railings to peer down into the sewer outlet. It was at this point they were pulling the mask up over their mouth. "Course, we get the shit end of the work and got to go look. Kind of surprised they trust us to go look - you'd think they'd want one of 'em to go check first."

Gloves pulled on, the smith began the process of descending down into the sewer. It was only once they were at the bottom that they lit the lantern and shuttered it.

"Though, don't blame 'em for not wanting to wade in this mess. Now don't have a delicate stomach now, Mister Manning. We got work to do - should be just a hundred yards in. Follow me and I'll show you."

All neatly wrapped up in careful disguise. with the lantern aloft the smith lead Sir Tick away from Vienda's daylight and into the stinking gloom of the sewer tunnels.