[Open] Actions and Consequences

[Agatha Maplethorne]

26 Vortas 2718
Evening

Agatha followed Rhys silently, her brain processing the fact that Gale had a half-sibling. Aggie wasn't really surprised, to be honest, knowing that Yelenn had a life before she ended up with Beckett. But the woman had never spoken of it and Aggie had never pushed.

Some things were meant to kept in the past.

But Aggie would definitely have to try to get more information out of Rhys. She didn't expect she would be successful, but it was clear that this man was going to be part of her life, at least peripherally. She hadn't abandoned Gale over all these years, and she'd be damned if she was going to abandon the child now that they suddenly had a new family member.

Once Rhys reached the apartment, Aggie nodded seriously to each of the people in the apartment. "Of course, sonny. Here," she said simply to Allen's question, before bending down and tearing off the bottom tier of her skirt, revealing the petticoat underneath. "Wouldn't want to have to cut up your blankets or towels, would we? If you have a spare pot and can boil this, it'd work for bandaging. 5 minutes should be enough, since it's icy out rather than muddy," she said.

While Odette and Allen took care of gathering supplies, occasionally handing her something, Aggie dug in her purse and pulled out some supplies. She hoped the... Galdor? Wick?... She hoped Rhys had enough skill to stop the bleeding, but she didn't assume anything. Her stitching supplies came out, along with styptic powder and a small vial of morphine. It would be enough to ease Gale's pain, but not nearly enough to knock them unconscious, much less cause an overdose.

As Rhys described Gale's injuries, Aggie pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, small stress lines revealing themselves. "If you're going to disinfect, I won't worry about cleaning them until I'm stitching," Aggie said, murmured. "Don't want to disturb the wound more than necessary."

Then, she fell silent while Rhys started his magic.

She frowned at the feeling of his magic. Rhys had to be at least a Wick if he was related to Gale, but this... this wasn't Wick magic. She had been around Wicks and had felt their magic and this was different.

"What is he? What's his story?" Aggie wondered as the seconds and minutes ticked away, moving as slow as molasses. She didn't ask herself if she could trust Rhys. At this point, it was a moot question.

Once Rhys collapsed into the cot, Aggie stepped forward, picking up the vial of morphine. She opened the vial and held it up to Gale's lips, pouring it in slowly as she stroked her nephew's throat lightly to encourage them to swallow. Then she started carefully cleaning the wounds and stitching them with a steady hand, her stitches neat, tiny, and precise.

"If you have broth, Allen, I suspect that Rhys would appreciate it right about now," she suggested as she stitched. She had seen someone push themselves too far magically before and, even if Rhys didn't want the broth right this second, he would probably want it soon.

[Gale]

Somewhere | Evening

26 Vortas 2718

“No. No. No,” they were afraid. Gale’s adrenal spiked. That rush that burst through the veins, that moment of sluggishness and fear manifested into something a lot purer. The blood began to pump, the foreign touch causing them to want to thrash despite the refusal of the rest of the body to do so. Frustrated, the lips peeled back into a snarl before the true pain began.

A single deep inhale, the screaming came as the burning past through. Intense, it consumed – brain wracked with unwanted sensation, other parts shutting down in an attempt to manage the situation. Vision sparked, sound cut in and out, disappearing behind a loud whine. Nerves burst into life, racing down the pathways, igniting as they became realised; they were quickly smothered by the blinding sensation. Lungs laboured, the overstimulated body barely able to keep up for the first few minutes before the buzzing fell away.

Nausea came next, a horrid dry after taste that clung to the back of their throat. Panting, the tunnelled view of the world began to close in. Disorientated, blots of time jumped as the screams broken down into whimpers. The rest shivered, skin pimpled to the touch, the grating sound escaping their lungs. Moisture brushed against the lips of the smith, pouring down their throat into a forced swallow. They coughed, choking on it as the foreign liquid drained away. Their breathing quickened for a moment, lips twitching.

The minutes drained by, a sensation of numbness beginning to creep in. Something brushed against them, different this time – picking and pulling at the layers. Part of them stirred, eyes blinking as the felt the world slow. The ceiling shifted in their vision, tilting as the swaddled layers were pushed aside for easier access. They flinched to the pressing, hand snaking out as it attempted to grasp onto something or someone. The gurgle of noise came back, the crunch of noise followed by the want to dry heave.

Gale did not, but it was a combination of the crash of adrenal and morphine that began to send them slipping. A wheeze of noise, they felt their breaths growing shallow, the prickling heat numbing as sensation left. The mouth opened a few times, a dampness beginning to take hold – a sweat that clung to the palms. Pupils began to grow narrow.

“Where’s the parcel?”

The smith spoke, barely, in a tone that suggested they were not truly all there. It was one of the last proper things they had any true focus on, mind stuck on the loop of having it pressed into their hands. The eyes winced, not in pain or the prickling sensation, but to the halos that formed around the lights – it stung at their eyes. They could barely hold onto anything else, mind skipping the thought on where they were for a moment. Blots of blanks fluttered, feeling the memory begin to crumble. The hand moved again, head slightly turning to try and find something else to focus on. The digits found a surface or resistance of some form – and they curled around it. Gale swallowed, unable to turn their head any more less the sickening feeling returned to their already light headed state, “Is this it?”

A pause, something crackled that made them wince. Their tongue lolled as they attempted to find some better purchase on the reality they were in, “No…? What’s happening? I don’t… Rhys? Whoever you are, you better... leave him alone-” the words slurred, but the threat was there regardless. The head shook from side to side, “I can’t. It’s not-”

Not what?

Gale blinked, slowly, the words of the others difficult to follow. A frustrated moan as the disorientation truly set in. The voice cracked, “I… don’t know where I am… Rhys? Rhys? Where are...? Are you...? I want to go home.”

[Rhys Valentin]

26th of Vortas, 2718
SOOT DISTRICT | AFTER HOURS

Rhys couldn't apologize while he cast, couldn't say he was sorry for causing more pain, couldn't even tell Gale to calm down or be quiet. He could only say the words, regurgitating established phrases in Monite that he'd practiced over the years since his graduation, desperate tone reaching in his strange state of mind toward the particles that had obeyed him for over a decade and a half without complaint despite his half-bred heritage. He didn't have the luxury to dwell on such monic theory, feeling instead the reverberations of a human in magically-induced suffering beneath the weight of his dirty palms.

Once he was done casting, however, he summoned the coordination to string some syllables together: "I'm sorry," and, "I think I've helped a little." before he looked away from the blonde smith and crawled off to put some space between himself and everyone else. Even for a few minutes. Living magic could feel so much more over-stimulating to the senses when one was used to the subtleties of Perceptive conversation.

He could really only pretend he was comfortable around so much blood for so long, and in his near-delirious state of magical exhaustion and nausea, the very sight of Agatha and Odette tending to whatever was left of Gale's wounds was far more than he needed to see, having absolutely no interest in watching stitches or seeing more skin than necessary. His lanky, tall body now made of so much gelatin would just get in the way. He was acutely aware of how far he'd extended his magical reach, temples pounding with pain to the rhythm of his pulse and every joint aching as if he was feverish and ill.

"I don't want anything to eat, but fine—" He blurted helplessly, glancing at Allen with the understanding that he'd totally crossed some boundary of professionalism, that he'd broken down walls between his informant and his life as a Seventen, and that he wasn't sure how he could ever put them back together again.

It was Odette who disappeared into the kitchen after picking up the grime-covered, soggy, bloodied parcel she was aware was for her. It was full of dresses that would need cleaning and papers that she hoped she could still sign, papers against that horrible galdor Captain.

"—thank you—"

The young Valentin groaned and hugged his knees tighter to his chest to stay steady, cheek trapped against a bicep, chin against dirty fabric, focusing on some spot on the floor that might have been burned there by lamp oil or it might have been blood, attempting to stay awake and regather his wits after so much casting. Galdori were conquerers, lording their magic over the lower races as if it was their ultimate strength, but the wick had learned over the years that magical use wasn't a sustainable thing, that it was exhausting, that the mona had no qualms about leaving permanent reminders of too much of its presence in the bodies of those who communed with it.

Gale stirred.

"Parcel's delivered. That's my coat." Rhys smirked wryly, lightheaded and talking as if he was dreaming instead of awake, tip of his tongue numb along with his fingers and toes, watching the smith decide what was worth curling around without fully understanding what their arms had discovered.

"That's Agatha. She said she knew you and was very, very, very adamant about that with me. Her stitches are clocking straighter than mine would have been."

It took Rhys a moment of concentration to lift a hand from around his knee and waggle his fingers at the probably no less delirious, now very drugged young human on the floor at his feet as he leaned against the cot. He wasn't out of reach, but he hardly had it in him to make a connection and place the same hand on the confused smith,

"Here. I'm here. We're here. Here is ... Well. See. Uh. This is ... a friend's house, but I'm sure Allen doesn't want us to stay for long lest we attract unwanted attention. You sure as a clock face is round can't go home, Mister Saunders."

"Ne, I really don't." The older wick in question appeared with a steaming mug and set it on the floor under the cot next to the tall Sergeant as if making sure he wouldn't knock it over, "Do ye need somewhere else to go? I'm sure I can think of somethin'."

"I need to get back—I need to file paperwork—I need to beat the Patrol. Maybe I can just get to Headquarters first—"

"You can't walk anywhere." His informant and friend snorted, eying the young officer warily, "It's an hour 'til the next house. You have time before another patrol rumbles through."

He leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling, resting against the cot, breathing, exhausted. Gale couldn't go home, and he already had one fugitive in his house, so what was one more? He couldn't be in two places at once, however, and he needed to make it to Lance's body before the chrove-riding patrols filed a report, if only because he knew it would only lead to trouble if he didn't write the story his way instead of the right way.

"Fuck." Rhys managed to groan, fumbling for something in his bloodied vest and failing, "I need a few more minutes—Living magic—I'm just not cut out to be a healer. What are our options?"

[Agatha Maplethorne]

26 Vortas 2718
Late night

Agatha nodded to Rhys. "You did help, m'boy, and I thank you," she said before turning back to Gale. She hummed a lullaby she used to sing to Gale when the child was a wee thing. "Stay calm, little biter," she said gently as she had worked on stitches.

She and Edgar had never been able to have children, but she had always seen Gale as a sort of surrogate child. Edgar had stepped in after Yelenn's death, helping Beckett through his grief, taking him out to bars and meetings when things got too much, while Aggie stayed at home with Gale. She had bartered for milk for the child, stolen chocolate to ensure that Gale had chocolate chip cookies on his birthdays, and tried her best to make sure the child had what he needed.

She didn't agree with Beckett's decision to raise Gale as his son at first, but she had expected him to eventually move on from Yelenn, to have other children. They were human. Their lives sometimes burnt fast and bright. But the living still kept on living and you patched up the holes in your heart and tried to live around them. But she had come to peace with Beckett's decision when it was clear that he wasn't going to be able to move on. A woman would have never been able to even be a blacksmith's apprentice, much less own their own forge. Gale had talent and a mind full of ideas. It would have been a shame to let all that talent go to waste.

Once her Edgar had died, she suddenly understood Beckett's inability to move on. She still rolled over in the night, expecting Edgar's warm body to be next to her and it still broke her heart every time she felt his empty side of the bed.

She supposed it always would.

She didn't want to have another hole in her heart and she knew that losing Gale would leave a hole. Perhaps not as large as the hole that Edgar's death left, but there would be a hole nonetheless. He was family, even if he didn't think of her in that way.

(She had never asked how Gale felt about her. Yes, it would have been awkward. But she didn't have much of a problem with feeling awkward. Some people might say that she enjoyed making things awkward a bit too much. But, really, she had never asked because there was a small part of her that was afraid of the answer, a small part of her that thought that Gale would look at her and say "You're a friend of my father's and nothing else".)

"You're safe, little biter, although I do have some questions about what the clocking hell happened tonight. But that can wait," she said to Gale as she worked.

"I agree with Allen," Agatha piped in when Rhys said he needed to leave, still focusing on Gale's wounds. "You're in no shape to go anywhere, unless you want to clocking collapse right outside the door. I'd really prefer to not have to drag you back in, so just try to rest."

"Gale can come to my place, though we'll probably have to get a clocking litter to move him and I'm fairly certain my back ain't up to helping carry him," she said, glancing up at Allen. "I'm sorry. I know you'd much rather we get him outta here immediately, but I don't think it's possible. It's a good walk to my place and he can't be moved right now. He needs at least a few hours of sleep. But I promise you that we'll get him out of here as soon as we can. And you have my undying gratitude for letting Mr. Rhys in, sonny. I won't forget that."

[Gale]

Somewhere | Evening

26 Vortas 2718

“Oh, Oes,” Gale hummed, mind stuck on the words used. They attempted to filter through them, lips silently moving to repeat what was said. They could hardly feel now, but it was less of a floating sensation and more a blanketing weight that threatened to drag the smith through the floor below, “My coat? I have two…? Naw.” The eyes rolled, dancing back and forth as definition was searched for, “Yer coat.”

Thick tongue, the orbs managed to turn and rest upon one of the shapes in the room. They were still struggling to focus, lungs expanding and relaxing with every slow breath. They felt something pierce the skin, but it did not hurt – everything was disconnected now. The thumb holding onto the coat, feeling the grooves and dips. Was the fabric rough? Or was it merely ridged in such a way they could feel the individual indents, “Agatha…?”

Jaw slack, the features slowly pinched together lips moving slowly as it tested the word, “Aye, Ag-g-iee. Rii… Right. Ta.”

Puffing their cheeks, the smith closed their eyes. The room was spinning too violently for their liking, making it hard to focus on anything in particular. It was between teeth that a hiss escaped, the smith managed to release a growl, “Can’t go home? Or shouldn’t?” A slurred dare, the smith scowled in what they thought was his general direction. The lip twitched, picking up into a tremble. The shoulders rose, muscles straining as the new sensed of numbness stopped the immediate logic from functioning properly, “Wh… how the fuck are ye gonna… stop me?”

Gravity quickly saw to putting Gale back in their place. Returned once more to the floor, they grunted and groaned not in pain but inability. The thoughts jumbled, they jumped through accusations that were largely nonsensical. The smith wheezed, “Ah-hah, I see ye ‘ave manged to… to… bribe the laws of the world to work against me! How darin’.”

“Sleep? Sleep!” senses knocked off kilter, the smith pouted, “Sleep is for the weak, and I ain't done yet!” A finger once clinging to the coat gave the shape of Rhys a point, “But opt… opt…ions? Ye chen. S’long as there is mind, there is ways.”

Eyes closed, the smith let out a low hum. Off tune, it mimicked the melody back in understanding – something else to focus on through the current turmoil. The sensibilities of danger had left them, bouts of darkness with moments of light. But they had to move, or at least, get themselves out of whatever troubling situation they were in. How did they get here again? What lead up to this point?

“And ye think I got answers?” the voice blurted out, “Ack, maybe. Dunno. cannae ‘member. Not ‘portant. The problem… movin’ somewhere. And not gettin’ noticed. And ye against the clock. Sounds like time for… dog?” Gale inhaled, somewhat aware that they needed to keep still, “Uh, hair of dog. And grub. Food strengthen body, drink strengthen mind, smoke strengthen soul. Oi, fuck. Where’s my case?”

Toes wiggling, Gale became aware their feet were still in boots – the head shook, “Nay, Granny, ain’t safe there. Not for ye and not for me. S’not gonna drag you into… whateffer this is. Why am I here? Think Gale, think. We’re all a wee mess, need to move quick, and unseen… why not under? ‘Course, got to know the way…” With a grunt, the smith bent their knees, finding them sluggish but temporarily behaving, “Gimmie a wall to lean ‘gainst, ‘nd I’ll get ye anywhere.”

Fingers curled up tightly, forming into a fist as the expression turned to one of determination. The eyes cracked open into slits, a slither of white peeking out from behind them. Raw, unhinged stubbornness was what dragged them through the moment, “C’mon, up at it-”

Elbows planted into the floor this time, a deep focused inhale through the sluggish mind that filled them. Fingers released their hold, finding leverage as numbed muscles refused. Relentless, the hand slammed down against the floor, arm shaking as the thin layer of sweat collected across their features. Sighing, the eyes looked, gaining a bearing of where they were.

Door. Exit. Walk. Something.

The eyes looked down then, now upright and hunched over. Green eyes blinked, head turning as the digits of the right gingerly touched the still damp fabric. Stunned, they drunk it in as reality crashed down around them, “Oh fuck. That’s… a lot of blood. I… we should go. Like. Now. While still not feelin'.”

[Rhys Valentin]

26th of Vortas, 2718
SOOT DISTRICT | AFTER HOURS

The Sergeant sighed, curled against himself while his body objected to the extent of his magic use. Blue eyes glanced to Allen at Agatha's words,

"I can't stay here. I'm putting Odette in danger by even having been here this long—"

"I've got places we can go, don't worry. Ent got any eyes on us from your folks, anyway. We'll dust elsewhere in the Dives and pretend this ent ever happened." The older wick offered, his display of loyalty and understanding to an officer of the law one that would have been surprising had anyone in the room known that Rhys was a Seventen and Allen was his informant. Somewhere in the middle, the two had become more than just legal allies but friends, and while the other man didn't know of the tall blond's heritage, the unlikely connection they'd found over the years now held a meaning to Rhys that he couldn't express properly in words.

Allen had even agreed to harbor a passive—one of Captain D'Arthe's servants who'd barely escaped death herself and was willing to testify to his abuse. Not that a passive witness even mattered, Rhys knew, but he hoped her words would carry some weight in court. Somehow.

He looked back to Agatha, wanting to apologize for how a few hours of sleep just wasn't realistic, when Gale stirred to overly energetic life, fueled by morphine and magically excited endorphins,

"I'll stop you—you can't go back there. Not now. Not like that. Then again, I can't go back like this." The Sergeant grunted, shifting his aching body in visible slow motion, the movement causing him to hiss in nauseated pain, the ringing in his ears louder all of a sudden. He meant he couldn't go back in plain clothes, Rhys very aware he'd have to go back in uniform in order to deal with the mess they'd left behind.

He remained on the floor in spite of his mind's desire to be standing again, looking up with despondent frustration as his drained body refused just as stubbornly as his sister's to obey his will, "Godsdamnit. Hold on a tick, Mister Saunders." Rolling his head like a petulant child back in the direction of the older human woman, the woman who seemed to have known Gale since childhood, he ignored the chill of fear that crawled up his spine at the understanding that the pair of them probably knew each other as more than family, considering they both carried firearms.

Gods, he couldn't get involved in what that meant right now. He was in no state to consider the consequences of their possible connections to the Resistance or some other criminal organization, not right now.

Allen laughed first, "Aw, ma'am, I didn't just let a stranger in, Rhys and I have—"

He inhaled sharply, head throbbing with too many thoughts, "—have known each other for a long damn time. For various reasons that unfortunately aren't your clocking business. Listen," The Seventen managed to sit up, hands pressing hard against his boney knees as if he meant to stand, the lanky creature not unaware that he was shaking in the wake of all his casting, "you two seem to know each other, yeah? I'll tell you right now that even with a firearm, you're not much match for the ersehats I ran into if they've got more compatriots."

The young Valentin stood, wavering, hands smoothing over his clothes as if he was straightening his uniform, instinctually moving toward a sash that wasn't there. Disappointed, confused fingers curled into his unkempt blond hair instead, digging knuckles into his scalp while he thought of what he wanted to say,

"That's your blood, Gale." He smirked, taunting the young smith once they made it to sitting upright, wincing as if he expected stitches to tear or his healing to have been useless. When everything seemed to hold, he exhaled a slow, ragged breath. His freehand fumbled in his bloodied vest and pulled out a very nice pocket watch, the not-galdor done pretending that he was some other denizen of the Dives. Blearily, he squinted at the clock face, noting the time, and tucked the time piece away with an angry hiss. He had no choice, and while Agatha had revealed herself capable of keeping Gale's identity safe, she owed an officer of the law absolutely nothing.

This would probably bite him in the ass, but he was trapped now, the helpless feeling making his chest burn and the words taste like ash against his tongue while he spoke them, "I can't carry anyone anywhere and I'm already going to have to race against the clock to get to the morgue before dawn now. Gale has to go somewhere—is the Soot District safe for you right now? Are the Dives? Who the fuck attacked you? I can't endanger more citizens, Agatha. I just can't. I've already fucked up tonight, but shit, I don't know the right way to go about this—I can't think—this is so out of my normal procedures."

The hand in his hair, bloodied and aching from beating strangers, dragged down over his face and his thumb and ring finger squeezed his temples until he whined in anguish,

"You can come to Uptown. With me. I'm out of safehouses here. This one is mine, and now it's done. Years of work—"

"I've got friends, Rhys. We can—" Allen began to interrupt, reaching to steady the tall blond who struggled to stay upright.

"No, I need Miss Odette safe for court—ah, fuck."

Rhys' face scrunched into an expression of unfiltered disgust, confusion, and frustration. He'd said too much now. Far too much. His sharp, blue gaze narrowed at Agatha, at the old human woman who wielded a gun and knew more than he could ever forgive himself for, "Ma'am, I'm Seventen. I know that brings up more questions than it answers considering I'm also related to Gale, but trust me, I can't clocking fathom that either at this point. Don't make me regret this level of honesty between us, do you understand?"

That was an official threat, but one poorly delivered considering it was obvious what kind of state he was currently in to make good on anything other than a hard nap,

"Everyone in this room is now in danger from whatever or whoever attacked Mister Saunders and his friend. My suggestion is everyone goes their separate ways and hunkers down for a few days, but Gale, you can't be alone."

And he was, for once in his career, terrified of the decsions he was making.

[Agatha Maplethorne]

26 Vortas 2718
Evening

Aggie sighed at Gale's actions. "Gale, child, you're not thinking straight because of the morphine. We're not going anywhere right this second," she said, her tone of voice one that would brook no argument. She rarely took out that tone of voice, but she knew Gale would be familiar with it. They had always been a stubborn child and that stubborn child grew into a stubborn adult. "Quite frankly, even if we had a place to go, I'm not sure how we'd clocking get you there, even if you do 'lean 'gainst a wall'. The morphine won't last for long and I'm quite certain Mr. Rhys here isn't in any shape to help you get to safety. And I don't think it'd be wise for our hosts to know where we take you," she said, with an apologetic look at Allen and Odette. "It's not that I think you're untrustworthy. I just don't want you to put yourselves in danger."

She glared at Gale when they said they didn't want her dragged into the situation. "I'm already clocking in this situation!" she exclaimed, shaking a finger at Gale. "If you think I'm going to fucking ignore the fact that someone attacked you and clearly wants you to die, you have another thing coming. I made a godsdamned promise to your father to keep you safe and I'll clocking keep it until the day I die, whether you like it or not."

She smiled at Rhys when he asked her if she and Gale knew each other. "Yes. You could say we know each other. I was friends with Gale's father. Me and my Edgar never could manage to have children. Gale is the closest thing I have to a child," she said with a fond smile. "I taught Beckett how to change Gale's diapers and feed him, how to help him when he was colicky or had a stomach bug, how to make him eat his vegetables. The stories I could tell you about Gale as a child," she laughed.

Aggie arched her eyebrow at Rhys' talk about the morgue, procedures, safehouses, and court. She wasn't surprised when he declared he was a Seventen. She wanted to ask how the clocking hell a Wick managed to end up as a Seventen, but she was smart enough not to ask that question here and now. She doubted that Rhys wanted to share his life story during such a stressful situation.

"I'm old, Mr. Rhys, not senile. I had figured as much, just by what you said just now," she said with a half-shrug. "As long as you don't turn on Gale, I have no issue with you. But don't think that being a Seventen won't stop me from coming after you if you do turn on my Gale. I ain't got anything else to lose at this point." It wasn't clear whether Aggie's threat was a legitimate one or just a bluff, but it hung in the air between the two of them.

"I'll trust you with Gale for now. You have better resources than I do and, anyways, the clocking brat would probably leave as soon as he could walk if he stayed at my place. He has this ridiculous notion in his fucking head that I'm so old that I need to be protected from the world," she said, letting out a derisive laugh. "As if I'm some fragile little doll."

[Gale]

Somewhere | Evening

26 Vortas 2718

A sense of vertigo was what Gale first felt. The room swayed, lids fluttering as they felt the tiny wood buttons slick beneath their digits. The lips broke into a slither, the brief stunned state sliding away as the adults of the room spoke among themselves. The smith snorted at that irony – they really were just a child in their eyes, some kid who listened to the ribald coming from Agatha. Gale turned, scowling at the woman as she shouted. The lip twitched, an annoyed sigh that growled out, “Shaddap.”

They did not really consider that they themselves were being rude; but the noise that peaked and troughed, grew and swelled, was starting to grate against their senses. The rest was an annoyance, unimportant anecdotes for another time or place – and information Gale did not exactly appreciate being spilled out so easily.

“Right here, right now, there are a bunch of things I’ve got to ignore. Bein’ attacked-” the smith paused then, the blots over events causing them to hesitate. Blood, injuries, hurt; it all rushed together into an unwelcome and unpleasant sensation. They were attacked? Where? Why? What? Gale slowly shook their head. Inhaling they continued, “Being attacked... is one of ‘em. And right now, I need all of us to do the same.”

Finger pointed to Rhys, who seemingly stood relatively swiftly. A feat Gale was considering on matching, “The Chuckle’s right, no more gettin’ involved now. And if you damned thinkin’ I’m doin’ this because you’re old then you are sorely mistaken. This is my mess, so I’m gonna fix it. Alone. Y’hear?”

Fighting words. Cold hard reality and time would actually determine if the addled smith would stick to them.

“I don’t want people wipin’ up after me,” the smith grunted. Bringing their feet beneath them, the better hand braced against a surface, they were not really paying too attention to what it was exactly. It was a slow process, feet moving as they attempted to find balance, the floor tilting on its axis as they levelled. For a moment they thought they were going to go over again, the floorboards daring to drop away beneath them. They did not and the effects of the morphine continued to rattle through their veins, sinking and seeping deeper.

Chin raising, shoulders going square, the smith looked at the both of them. A moment of certainty took them, a definite nod as they accepted whatever slush was going about in their mind, “If I can’t stand on my own, then I shouldn’t stand at all.”

Brow raised, the foot gingerly tapped the floor. Parts were still crumbling, the mind struggling to keep up – names were already lost. They were not important, not really. Even the faces were already starting to fade away, cast into sand that trickled between the gaps.

No, they just had to focus on walking. Keep walking and not stop. A narrow sense of mind but the only logical thought they could grasp on. The smith managed a step, left arm hanging uncomfortable and limp. Even as the adults through their threats back and forth, the grit of determination sent them on. Time was running out, a sense of urgency was what encouraged them onwards. Tone distant, but a more certain edge resided underneath – as if all the drugged and blood loss state allowed other facets to creep forth.

“It’s decided then, come on. Time’s a wastin’. Don’t want wolves at this door, do we now?” The head inclined from Rhys – his outline a dark shadow of what he actually was – to the door, “Uptown, ye lead. Preferably before mind and memory slip out. And don’t make me hold yer 'and now. Be embarrasin’ for ye.”

[Agatha Maplethorne]

26 Vortas 2718
Evening

Agatha understood Gale's desire to fix his problems by himself, but his words still hurt. She stood up and shrugged a bit. She tried to keep her hurt out of her voice when she spoke. "You're an adult, sonny. You do what you want to do. I'm not sure how you propose to ignore being stabbed four times, but I'll leave you alone to clean this mess up. Just don't come running to me if you end up dead," she said stiffly, before pausing. "Well, you wouldn't run to me anyways in that case, but you know what I mean," she said, waving a hand.

"Mr. Rhys, a word?" she said, stepping over to the Seventen. She kept her voice low, so that Gale wouldn't hear her. She didn't know how the boy would react to her giving Rhys information that could lead to him finding out where she lives. "I trust you'll take care of him. If you need any help, don't hesitate to send a messenger to Eloise's Hairdressing shop in the Dives. Have them tell Lottie to go find Granny Aggie. I'll meet them there. I'll also drop off some supplies with Lottie in the morning. Probably not a good idea to have a Seventen going around buying a large amount of bandaging and such. Don't want people asking too many questions."

She turned and nodded to Allen and Odette. "Again, I thank you for your help. Stay safe."

And, with that, she turn and left the apartment.

[Rhys Valentin]

26th of Vortas, 2718
ALL the way to UPTOWN | LONG AFTER HOURS

Vita tilted on its axis, the sickening feeling of vertigo he'd finally managed to get over once again overwhelming his senses, but Rhys remained standing, weak and drained. His expression faltered as the younger human Ol' Theo had indirectly confirmed as his sister snapped at Abigail, blue eyes blearily drifting in the older woman's direction, not at all offended by the offended outburst that followed. When the aged human addressed him, however, he blinked, uncomfortable with the revelation he'd given to the gun-toting spry creature, uncomfortable when the word Seventen rolled off her lips. But, she'd offered her trust and that was, strangely enough, far more than the not-galdor felt he deserved even if the stranger knowing who and what he was didn't make him feel at all safe,

"I will." The tall Sergeant offered, hoping that what he lacked in brevity of words was made up for in the weight of their meaning: he had every intention of looking after Gale and he would most certainly pursue Aggie's assistance if he felt in need of doing so. He almost—almost!—added an I'm sorry to the end of his words out of regret and exhaustion, but, remembering his place in the middle of everything, remembering his duty as well as his willingness to take his sense of duty too far as he had this evening, he refrained, "Probably sooner than you'd like to see my face again, Agatha."

Turning to Gale at their harsh dismissal of the other woman, Rhys couldn't help the flicker of a sneer that washed over his sharp, aquiline features, "No one's wiping up after you. It's called helping. Would you rather be a corpse back there right now? Would you really?" The blond Seventen was not known for possessing much of a filter, even among his own kind, even in front of superior officers. He spoke his mind, and while this meant he had a file of discipline, it was a short one. It certainly didn't include the list of offenses he'd have been probably fired for that had unfolded all in this one evening.

The younger smith was an ornery kenserface and in true exhausted immaturity, Rhys held up both his bloody, dirty palms to face her as she attempted to make her way toward the door, not at all bothering to open it for her unless she proved herself either unsteady or incapable, unwittingly falling into a perfect shadow of any respectable older brother,

"Embarrassing for who now? 'Cause I'm not the one who just bled all the way through the Soot District, carried by an officer of the law. Shut your clocking head." He smirked, turning only briefly to make sure he warned Allen one more time and instructed Odette on the paperwork that was hopefully still salvageable in the sodden package he'd so horribly fucked up delivering. He urged them to leave and promised reassignment in the same breath, desperate to protect what tenuous hold he had on a witness he was afraid wouldn't ever be allowed in court against Captain D'Arthe anyway.

Gritting his teeth and attempting to focus himself, ignoring the ache in every joint and the chill that felt like some out of control fever that raced through his veins, he staggered outside into the dark again, not even needing a moment to get his bearings. Instead, he curled grimed fingers into Gale's bloodied elbow on the smith's uninjured side and tilted his chin in the general direction of Uptown, of Kingsway Market,

"Remember where you were so innocently having some dsoh—" Rhys had no concept of embarrassment or shame in this moment, far beyond blushing over the memory of Charity mistaking his younger, prettier sister for himself while floating through her life on King's Crop. As awkward as that had all been, such strangeness had been washed away by blood and gunpowder and confessions and tears and Monite now, the tall Seventen having clearly decided to move forward into danger in pursuit of a relationship he wasn't even sure could ever be reciprocated in a way that some part of him was curious to explore.

Did the gruff, private, seemingly skittish human who may or may not have had Resistance connections, who had saved his life, even want to be his friend? Why should they? What did they at all have to offer each other but a night like this one had become, forever destined to be on opposite sides of the law? Law Rhys had trampled over by allowing his emotions get in the way of his decision-making.

His entire career was already at risk now that he knew he wasn't a galdor but this—this!—was suicide and he gladly kept walking, dizzy and unsteady, light-headed and sore,

"—my apartment is upstairs. That's why. Well. It doesn't matter now." Rhys exhaled, not taking any main thoroughfare, not keeping them in the dull glow of oil lantern light at all. He dragged them through dirty, dark alleys he knew by heart in the hours of the night he shouldn't be out in, dodging the patrol routs and keeping them from public view. No one needed to see their bloodied, strange selves. No one needed to question whether they were drunk, injured, or committing a crime. Not even sure he could walk all the way home without passing out as it was, especially with someone equally unstable in tow, he could only press on.

It was slow, uncomfortable, and unclean going, the not-galdor aware that he'd have to support the young smith even if they didn't want his help, especially as the mind-altering affects of morphine settled into their system. He wanted the stitches to hold, his own Living Conversation skills not only limited by his lack of focus in the area, but also by his heritage,

"I'm not ignoring any of this, you know, officially or unofficially. You're stuck with me on this investigation now, just like you're going to be stuck on my couch, sister." A tongue-in-cheek promise. A legally binding commitment. A groan. Rhys didn't look at the human when he said what he did, his bleary blue-eyed gaze focused on making sure they had all the right footing as the Soot District gave way to the Dives, pausing for a much-needed breather in some other unlit alley, listening to the sounds of shouting from a tavern down the street and some babe crying in a window above their heads. He had to lean against the wall, hands on his knees, vertigo wrenching his stomach and ache destroying his ability to think clearly.

He'd hardly have a chance to sleep. He'd have to get to the morgue before any other officer claimed the body of whoever was with Gale. That thought alone made him want to sit down and give up, but the tired Sergeant straightened and offered an arm or a hand to the blonde smith again in order to guide them both.

The tall Seventen would lead the sorry-ersed pair all the way to a quiet Kingsway Market, finally unable to avoid two of the wider roads in order to get them into the side street that held the little dsoh shop that was still burning oil, full of a mix of late-shift galdori and a handful of mixed races who worked abnormal hours. Eventually, he'd have to fumble for his keys somewhere in his bloodstained clothes, forced to lean against the stairs that led up behind the restaurant and to the rather humble and far from impressive flat he called home. As an officer of the law, and a Sergeant at that, he probably could have afforded to live anywhere he wanted in Uptown, and yet he'd found the apartment fresh out of Numbrey and never had a reason to leave,

"You're not my only houseguest. This should be interesting. I'm not sure which of you is in deeper shit, though."

Perhaps now he had two reasons. To reasons more than he'd ever bargained for.

And he was, in all honesty, probably the one in the most trouble after all.