Some Kind of Nightmare

for Monica Delacore

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Dec 23, 2018 11:46 pm

16 Vortas ♦ Evening ♦ The Clockwork Stag

Easy breaths: in, out. In, out. That’s the theory, anyway, but life never really works out according to theory – at least, it hadn’t for Tom. Once, when he was just a boch, Marleigh told him always to grab the bull by the horns, whatever that meant; if you had something to do, you just had to do it, plain and simple, and worry about the consequences later. Tom had never been a thinking man, and he’d been proud of it. He’d never had time to think, so he’d been damn sure of everything he did.

Now he had lots of time to think, and he wasn’t damn sure of anything, and he reckoned it was fair affecting his health. Or Anatole’s health, such as it was. The headaches and the chest pains and the shakes were getting worse all the time, and if he didn’t get used to living like this, he’d die. He tried to push it to the back of his head like he’d always done – easy as pie, it used to be, when he’d had to have a little chat with one dobber or another – but this was a whole other world of vodundun. This was shit that they studied at Brunnhold and still hadn’t figured out. This was a bad dream, except he was living it, and there was no waking up.

They left him alone at the Clockwork Stag, mostly. He’d gotten a few looks the first time he’d ducked in; most people in the Soot District didn’t give him a second thought, and he figured near everybody else took him for a wick, but up close, most people could tell there was something off. You didn’t see gollies at the Stag, near ever. But he had a field like a mung Brunnhold dropout and never made any jibber, so the looks were short-lived, and he’d even gotten a couple of quick, sympathetic smiles. (He guessed he looked the worse for wear, all sick and overworked and past his prime.)

Tonight the Stag wasn’t so busy. He was sitting slumped over a rickety little table, nursing a drink from a clay mug that looked more like a deformed animal than a drinking vessel. Thump, thump, thump went the pulse in his head – he pressed his fingers to his temples, massaged. Easy. With his other hand, he took another drag on his cigarette; he peered through the smoke at the Stag’s other clientele. It was something he used to do in Old Rose, trying to guess who’d be an easy lift, even after he’d gotten done being a petty thief. Something to focus on, even now. For a little bit he might’ve even forgotten who he was – he could’ve been himself again, slumped at the Black Dove after a long day, determined to get guttered while the night was young. Except these were different people, and he’d never again be himself, not ever.

Tom knew the lady sitting alone by the stairs, one of Burns’ better mugs cupped in her swollen hands. She was pale, face pinched and strained, a couple wisps of gray hair escaping her headband. Her threadbare dress hung loose and baggy around her skinny limbs, and she had the tell-tale stoop of somebody who spent all day bent over machinery. She had a kid who’d just started working. He still remembered how she’d fumbled the other day and nearly lost a finger, when one of the machines had stopped working. He’d offered to take over for her, but she wouldn’t speak to him, nor let her boch around him, neither. She acted sheepish around him, like if she breathed on him wrong, he might call the Seventen. She looked up, and he glanced away quickly.

He didn’t know the couple who’d just come in. Tall woman, black hair just barely staying in a braid. Great, dark-skinned man with a lined face and kind eyes. Both in working clothes. Wait, he did know the man – he’d seen him at docks. That’s where he knew another man, a big rough-looking man at the bar who’d just busted his mug. The serving girl was saying something smart to him –

Great fuckin’ Lady, look who just walked in.

Tom swallowed thickly and scratched his head, trying to cover up his face with his arm. He hadn’t had long to look, but he’d seen it: that tell-tale wobble in the air. That was the real deal. He wheezed and hacked, taking a shuddering breath through his lungs; all of the sudden his shoulders were hunched around his ears and he couldn’t breathe for the smoke, for his nerves, for the walls closing in on him. Was that a clocking auntie? Here? Why?

He took a quick drink, thinking it might steady him, but his hands were all jelly now and he couldn’t move right and he fumbled –

Crack!

“Shit!” he snarled, then jumped, still not used to the sound of his voice. “Sack it!” There was ale all over the table, soaking into the wood, busted-up clay in puddles of it like islands. He tried to shuffle them together with his shaky hands, muttering rapidly under his breath, unable to calm down. The pounding in his head spiked; it felt like his brain had come dislodged and was clattering around in there.

Swallowing again – nearly choking – he looked up, terrified of whose attention he might’ve caught.
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Tue Jan 01, 2019 6:38 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Monica Delacore
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 12:51 am

Clockwork Stag | Vortas 16, 2718 | Evening
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It was with the smallest of hopes that Monica prayed to the gods for a better month than last. She had never been the religious type--in fact, she found most religious traditions and beliefs to be rather dull and useless; a weak attempt at seeking meaning from the skies when their purposes were already all around them. He supposed that was why so many of the humans she crossed found favor in religion--they couldn't reach out and interact with the invisible yet tangible purpose that was the mona.

Still, now and then the Constable found herself reaching out to the Circle, particularly after difficult times in her life. The entirety of Dentis had been one mess after another; the riots of Yaris descending into hangings early Dentis, resulting in... a less than enjoyable day for her, and mid-Dentis a visit back to Brunnhold had only renewed the woman's hatred for her family. A few years of no contact had only made her younger sister's existence that much more shocking, and her father's constant nagging about her career choice had driven her up the wall. Couldn't he just be proud that his daughter was Seventen? Was that not an accomplishment?

Gods, that old rickety man would get what he deserved one day. She just hoped he would someday find himself in the midst of scandals and she'd get the chance to show him just what this career entailed.

Perhaps her recent strain was why she found herself in such a lowly place. Typically the woman retreated back home immediately after work, but she'd dealt with her fellow officers a bit too much today and needed a place she knew they wouldn't follow.

The Clockwork Stag wasn't exactly a frequented place for Monica. Not for many galdor, actually, save for the poor few that found themselves depending upon their hands for a living. Anyone that knew her was aware of Monica's rather strong distaste for the lower races, but today she couldn't be clocked to care. She needed a strong drink and some worthless souls to watch.

Still donning her Seventen greens, the blonde kept her hands in her pockets as she walked the cobblestone streets of Vienda. It was a sunny day for Vortas, which the woman quite honestly disliked (but then, she disliked most things), but the woman chilled easily and found herself stiff in posture as she continued on into the Dives.

A dirty, lowly place. That was what she needed right now.

The Clockwork Stag was no stranger to her, although this was the first time she came in uniform, her field dampened yet still unmistakably strong with Clairvoyant mona and a twinge of stress. Monica was ever-well-presented, blonde hair pulled in waves just above her shoulders, green uniform ironed and crisp, a delicate, smooth hand leaving her pocket to bring a cigarette to her red lips.

She could feel the energy shift as she walked into the bar, eyebrows arched in suspicion at the sudden noise of something being knocked over and spilled. A whispered command brought a flame to light her cigarette, the blonde taking a short drag before taking it between her fingers.

A light blue gaze swept across the bar, over the various patrons, a curious note to her expression. This was certainly a different welcome than if she had been in casual attire, with a field pulled close to her sides in desire of not speaking with anyone. She was very aware of the barkeep's dislike for her kind--almost everyone in there was human, and surely shared the same sentiment.

At first the woman didn't notice the other galdor in the room. His field was nothing but a glamour in comparison to hers; something that escaped her notice entirely until after she had grabbed a drink from the frustrated bartender.

Once it caught her attention, however, there was no stopping the woman from striding over, confidence in her every step even as she was surrounded with enemies.

They wouldn't dare touch her. Not with those filthy rat hands.

"Why aren't you bold, visiting a place full of plowfoots," began the Seventen, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, and she sat directly across from the strange galdori man. She had been prepared to say more, had the words perched upon her lips even, but something about the man stopped her when she got a closer look.

He looked... familiar, somehow. Far too old to have been one of her peers in Brunnhold; perhaps he had been a professor or other faculty member... but that didn't feel right. Monica's slight confusion was apparent; light eyes inspecting the galdor as she brought the cigarette back to her mouth for another drag.

Blowing out smoke, she squinted, "do I know you?" she inquired, "you look awfully familiar."

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 1:40 am


Tom knew how this conversation would’ve gone back in Old Rose, if he’d been himself. One minute he’d been clocking terrified, scrambling around with his cigarette and his pounding fucking headache and the remains of Burns’ gods-awful mug he’d just broken, but the next – oh, the next minute, he’d heard the word “plowfoot”, and somebody’d lit a fire underneath his erse. Who the fuck, he heard himself say, shoving himself to his feet, looming at just under six foot five, are you callin’ a clockin’ plowfoot? Maybe he’d have gotten blown to bits, but he’d have liked to think he’d give whatever galdor said that a run for their money. He’d have liked to think they’d hesitate for just a moment before they said that gods-damned word again.

All he did was flinch. That was all. He swallowed again, swallowed glass, looked at the table, looked at his hands. Delicate, long-fingered hands. Ugly reminder. Then he looked back up – back at the auntie, who’d just sat down. What was she trying to do? Make friends? He glanced over at the bar; nobody was in a hurry to get him another mug. Nobody was looking over at them at all, except for a couple of glares. No more smiles, no more gently ignoring the down-on-his-luck galdor. He looked back at the auntie again, tried to meet her chilly blue eyes.

“Bold,” he repeated. He tried to push the accent out of his voice; he tried to sound as nondescript as possible. As much like another galdor as he could. “You could say that.”

Great Lady, but she was perfect. That coiffed clocking hair. Some kind of sorceress, he thought, with the makeup. He knew cosmetics; his mother’d been a whore, and he’d grown up in and out of a tumble hut on the west side of Old Rose, watching the ladies get ready, rouging themselves in front of their dusty mirrors. Sometimes you made yourself up because you wanted people to know you were wearing paint on your face, for sure, but sometimes you made yourself up because you wanted people to think you were just perfect from the moment you woke up. This chip was like an angel. She knew how to do it so you thought she popped out of the womb flawless.

He scratched his head, took another drag on his cigarette. Blew out smoke. Looked at the galdor through the smoke. He didn’t know any of the fancy words they used for their fields, but he knew she had an impressive one. Felt like knowing things a person shouldn’t. “Familiar?” he repeated, biting his lip as if he were thinking hard. “I don’t know. You’re, uh…”

He thought for a moment, squinting.

“I’m a little, uh, older’n you,” he muttered, “to say the least.” Gods, barely. If I was me, we’d be about the same age. “Don’t think we were at Brunnhold together, and I never, uh, taught.” Do they teach shit there? Of course they do. They got students; they got to have teachers. You got to have teachers where you got students, right? “I’d swear,” he said, quirking an eyebrow, “I’d seen you somewhere, too. What’s your name? Maybe it’ll ring a bell.”

He glanced around, taking a deep breath. He felt rather silly, sitting there in his poor clothing, broken mug all over the table, ale everywhere. He felt strange, like he was two people all at once. What would Anatole do? he kept thinking, and he didn’t know the answer, but he still felt the pressure, like somebody was standing over his shoulder, expecting him to do something respectable. Something smooth and authoritative. Something to impress this auntie chip – to get her off his back, if nothing else, even if it ruined his reputation in the Stag.

He suppressed a sigh, then snapped a finger. He’d spent a great deal of his childhood making fun of galdori with Clark, doing mung toffin voices. He never thought it’d pay off like this.

“Another drink. ‘New’ this time, please. If you’ve got something decent to drink out of.”

Tom just barely kept himself from jumping that time; his voice rang out like a gods-damned bell. Fuckin’ vroo knew how to speak. The bartender made a face – he could see it, even all the way across the Stag – and the serving girl got down one of Burns’ better mugs. The look of disgust on her face made Tom want to crawl into a hole and die. But she brought the drink – slammed it down and nearly spilled it in the process.

Trying to ignore it, Tom leaned forward, propping his chin on a hand. “More to the point, what are you doing here? You’d have to be fair bold, too.”

Maintaining eye contact with this chip was like nothing he’d ever done before.
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Monica Delacore
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 2:30 am

The Clockwork Stag | Vortas 16, 2718 | Evening
Something about this galdor was... off. Monica couldn't quite place it. She had noticed his glamour of a field before and hadn't thought twice about it, but faced with the man now, it felt wrong. She spent a fair amount of time around other galdori with weak fields--Valentin was a testament to that--but this one was different entirely. It was dissimilar from a wick's in that it was properly trained, but it felt as if it had been neglected, as if the mona was separating itself from the man's form in protest.

It was curious.

The Seventen observed the other galdor as he spoke, offering reasons why they wouldn't have met just as Monica had expected, but it didn't help that feeling of familiarity in his face. She would've wondered if he was a peer of her father's in Brunnhold, the two appearing close in age, but didn't care to inquire on that matter. He hadn't taught her and he certainly hadn't attended classes with her, so how did she know him?

The man's speech was slightly off-putting for the blonde, finding his lapses in speech far too similar to a nervous wick or human. She dealt with too many of those on a daily basis--or perhaps not enough, depending on her mood. Some days she just delighted in the arrest of a struggling resistance rat.

"Monica," she offered first, still eyeing the older galdor curiously, "Constable Inspector Monica Delacore."

What might've been a strenuous and shameful task for the strange galdor came off as perfectly normal for the woman, Monica watching without reaction as he snapped for attention and requested a new drink. For her, it was normal, it was expected. Any sign of respect towards the human staff would've been met with a disgusted glare from the Seventen, who only seemed to visibly react when the serving woman slammed the drink onto the table.

Monica's eyes followed her like a hawk, glaring blue gaze like daggers and a note of irritation pulsing from her field. This man was clearly down on his luck by the looks of things, but even the lowest of galdori weren't to be disrespected that way. Not by a dirty clocking human, that was for sure.

She seemed to contemplate her next actions, biting her lip and refraining from acting on her annoyances this time. That was mighty bold to slam a galdor's drink in front of a Seventen, she had to give her that. Perhaps she would have to beat that rebellious streak out of her once the sun descended. It would certainly be a productive method of getting out the pent-up frustration from the past month's events... she turned her eyes back to the older man, her greeting suddenly turned on her.

"I suppose you could call it that," Monica offered, shifting in her seat to get more comfortable, "believe it or not, I tend to visit this place now and then. Not exactly my taste..." she trailed off for a moment, eyes flicking back to the man and woman behind the bar, "but even I could use a strong drink some days. We galdori tend to soften things around the edges, I've found, and sometimes that doesn't quite do the trick."

Another drag of her cigarette, another glance swept over the older man's form, another cloud of smoke blown from her painted lips. In an instant the embers were suffocated, another whispered command from her tongue, and the cigarette was ignored in favor of taking a long drink of the Gioran whiskey she'd ordered. Their kind might make an excellent drink, but Monica wouldn't be caught dead drinking anything but fine wine in a galdori bar. It was the principle of it.

"You've got my name, ringing any bells?" questioned the blonde, arching an eyebrow, "and what's yours? I swear I've seen you before--you live here in Vienda, yes?"
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 5:21 pm


Constable fuckin’ Inspector, was that right?

Tom took a drink of his ale, watching Delacore’s face intently. (Such as it was. Not really much of a ‘face’ in Tom’s book; more of a mask that just happened to move when it needed to.) At some point, he felt sure, a look of total recognition would light it up, and then that’d be it for Cooke – or at least, he’d be headed back to that smothering wife of Anatole’s, and then eventually Lady Alto. It was up to him to delay that, though he hadn’t the faintest clue how. But when you had to do something, you just did it and got it over with. Thinking overmuch never helped anybody. That was what Tom Cooke always said.

All of the sudden he gave a bark of laughter, shifting in his seat as if he’d just found something to be fair excited about. “Monica Delacore,” he said, “Delacore, Delacore – you’re the, uh – you’re the –” He tapped the table with his finger, scattering ash, nodding. Like it was on the tip of his tongue. “You’re the daughter of that--”

Gollies had mothers and fathers, right? Had to. Wasn’t like they got grown in clocking greenhouses (although this one might’ve sprung from somebody else’s head fully-formed). He reckoned Anatole was just about old enough to be her father, assuming her father hadn’t died when she was a boch. If he had, then Tom could just act all surprised, like he’d made a mistake, put the wrong face to the wrong name. Simple, then. He was just somebody who faintly knew somebody else. He’d done that a lot when he was younger, pretending to have connections to get into places he shouldn’t have been.

He was still smiling. He took a quick drag, filled the air between them with smoke like he could use it to cast some kind of poetry. “Help me out here. You look like somebody I knew at Brunnhold, but a damn sight prettier. I didn’t know old Delacore had a daughter. Haven’t seen him in years, barely knew him, but – my, my. My, my, my.” A deep sigh; he extended his hand for a shake, hoping that this was something gollies did. “Don’t know if you know a Bernard… Éclair, but that’s me. Well met. Constable, eh? What an accomplishment. I suspect your old man’s proud of you.”

Another swig of ale, another puff of smoke. Wasn’t easing his nerves. His hands were still shaking, and he ran one through his hair, scratching his head again. “As for this place, I know what you mean. Sometimes you don’t want to tick with all that – excuse my tongue. Sometimes you just want something a little simpler.” He squinted at the table between them, grinding his teeth for a moment. “I live in Vienda, yes, but here in the Dives, I’m afraid. Ever since the, ah – accident.”

He gestured vaguely at himself. Wasn’t technically a lie. He shot her a little smile, sheepish, and acted like he was ashamed to meet her eye.

“Rather not talk about it, if that’s all right. Though I miss – a lot of things. Great Lady, in my Brunnhold days, I was something.”
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Monica Delacore
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 5:52 pm

The Clockwork Stag | Vortas 16, 2718 | Evening
A smile graced the Seventen's face, brightening her delicate features but not quite reaching her eyes. It was somewhat of an expectant look, the woman listening to the galdor search for his words and her father's name but finding no success. She took another sip from her drink, downing the remainder of it before setting it back onto the table.

She crossed her legs, leaning forward slightly to shake the man's hand when it was offered. Nodding at the mention of her father being proud of her career, Monica spoke again, the smile never leaving her face, manicured hand coming back to rest on her knee.

"Oh yes, I've heard of you, Bernard. My father--Professor Terrence Idranis--mentioned you quite often. He has always been one for politics."

Her words dripped with a cold hostility that hadn't been there before; an almost threatening nature when combined with the lifeless red smile. Monica leaned back in her seat, glancing over to the other patrons of the bar with an uninterested expression.

"Your accident, yes? That must have been terrible," even her sympathies were bleak and clearly not meant, the blonde not even looking back to the other galdor for another few moments.

"I wasn't aware that you fraternized with humans while your family weeps for your loss."

The officer tilted her head, light gaze squinted as she seemed to inspect the older man again. It was no real fault of anyone's that she could pick up on his identity; it wouldn't reflect very well on her status as Constable if she couldn't recognize a missing politician. It was true that it had alluded her at first, the man's appearance quite different as compared to when he had been living the high life. It begged the question--why had he left his family? Or had he been kidnapped?

No, he wouldn't be lying to the Seventen and staying away from home if he had been kidnapped.

"You've got me curious now, Incumbent Vauquelin. Why have I found you with your hands dirty here?" something about her demeanor made it clear that she wasn't about to run back to the office and turn him in, but the motive behind it wasn't as obvious. Perhaps it was merely curiousity that kept her voice low as she spoke his name, or perhaps it was something else, but either way the blonde's attitude had shifted.

She was more irritated that he had tried to lie than anything. She didn't doubt that he had met her father before, but Professor Idranis was not a memorable man, certainly not in the mind of any Incumbent she'd met before. He was a few years older than Vauquelin, but not many, and even in his younger days had never been anything impressive.

Her mother, on the other hand, well Alana Delacore had been a beauty--still was. But she was far too young to have known the Incumbent for any considerable amount of time.

"Don't try running, by the way. I am not in the mood and I can tell you haven't used your magic in ages. I don't intend on turning you in--not yet, anyway."
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Tom Cooke
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 10:07 pm


And this was when you were supposed to wake up from the nightmare, of course. He shot a few distressed glances around the Stag, but nobody was looking in their direction; the humans were all studiedly ignoring the pair of galdori, and if they’d noticed the tension between them, they’d decided it was none of their business. Cooke reckoned it was unlikely that anybody here would – or could – stand up for him against an auntie, especially not after that stunt he pulled with the serving girl. It was dawning on him with some chagrin that he’d pulled it for no reason, too: judging by the look the constable gave her, he’d put her in danger, and all so he could make a harebrained attempt at fitting in with this loony, tsuter chip.

It felt like somebody was trying to crack his skull open with a pickaxe. He would’ve given a dozen concords just to lie down for a little while, just to have this golly off his back – or to wake up on the floor of the Black Dove with the dawning realization that he’d just had the most bizarre dream of his life.

Staring at the constable from under furrowed brows, he searched for words. He bit his lip hard, tasted blood, wiped blood away from his mouth. Then he scooted back in his chair, drew his shoulders up, and crossed his arms – defensive. There wasn’t a trace of a smile left on his face; it was a sour twist, a knot of discomfort and irritation. His cigarette dangled from fingers that were trembling like leaves in a windstorm.

“Why don’t you want to take me in?” Quiet words. He didn’t stop looking at her eyes. “If I was you, constable, I’d take me in. Be the Seventen that brought back the missing incumbent. Easy, like you said. I’m no match for you. When’d you even figure it out? You been ticking with me this whole time, pretending you thought I was some jibber professor you had when you was a boch? I’m sitting here in the Stag, flexing my neck, sticking out like a sore clocking thumb. Don’t know why I didn’t figure one of you would catch me anyway. Why the fuck would things start working out now? They never have.”

Thomas looked down – away – at the floorboards. Anywhere but at the auntie or at the rest of the Stag, at the other people who’d gotten all quiet. He studied a stain by his boot, black on the walnut, inky in the light from the hearth and the lanterns. The Stag was full of long shadows, the shadows of chairs and people. He thought he’d like to be one of those shadows, or any of those other people. He’d like to flit out of his flesh and hide in anything, anywhere. But really he wanted to be fog come morning-time, dispersing into the light. He wanted to go home. Wherever you went when you were too tired to hold your soul together.

He put out his cigarette on the tabletop, looking up at the ceiling and swallowing thickly. “Let’s say I don’t know why I’m here,” he said slowly. “I’m – maybe sometimes you want to get your hands dirty. I don’t know. Why do you think an incumbent with everything handed to him on a silver platter would run off? Why do you think he’d be so unhappy?”

The first time he’d ever seen Vauquelin, he’d been puce, his lips pressed together so hard they were white. Vicious angry, surrounded by his family, by the woman that clung to his arm like he hung all the clocks in the house. Tom didn’t know; maybe she’d married him for money, but he didn’t think so. Maybe Anatole didn’t love her. Maybe he hated his qalqa and his daughters and his life. Imagine being a golly with all the power in the world, the kind of man who can change the way his nation works, and being so angry you storm out halfway through a play that cost you more than five months’ worth of rent in the Soot District.

So desperately unhappy that when death comes to strangle the life out of you, you barely even struggle.

He shrugged, looking at Delacore for a moment, but then he leaned forward. Dze. It’s over with now, whatever this is. I’m loony, as you can see. I’ll go back home. But you got to promise me one thing, and I can hold you to it. I’ve got connections. Well-lit and otherwise.” He pursed his lips, darting a glance around the Stag, then gesturing with a flip of one hand toward the bar. “You don’t lay a hand on anybody in here. Not for anything I did, or anything they did to me, or anything. Nor anyone who worked with me, nor –” A tense pause. “Don’t ask why. My heart’s bleeding, maybe. I’m in a merciful mood, or something. If I go with you, and you get to be the auntie who brought back the incumbent, you don’t touch these people.”
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Monica Delacore
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 10:41 pm

The Clockwork Stag | Vortas 16, 2718 | Evening
The older man's shift in demeanor only added more questions to her list. Perhaps she had been dealing with rebellious wicks and resistance members for too long, and now that a man simply gave in and let himself be defeated... it bored her. Where was the fire? Where was the anger and frustration?

She supposed she couldn't expect that out of a fellow galdor, even one down here in the Dives. The Incumbent wasn't one that had struggled through hardships in life or felt the weight of oppression crushing down on his shoulders, and likely didn't hold the same burning will to struggle against her. She didn't like it; didn't like that he was so unsure of himself.

All galdori, even those down on their luck, were supposed to be sure of themselves. They were superior, they were magical, they were... well they were leaders.

And this man had called himself an Incumbent.

"It took a minute to figure it out, I didn't recognize you at first under all that grime. That's why you're here in the Dives, I assume? Not many would expect you to be working here and spending all your time with rats."

Monica didn't offer any answers as to why she didn't want to take him in yet, letting herself fall silent to instead listen to the older galdor speak. She might've been Seventen, but he was an Incumbent--had been, at least, she wasn't entirely sure of his status now. Even the predatory blonde held some respect for one that could eventually rule the kingdoms, and especially so for an older galdor. For all her confidence, she knew the worth of an aged gentleman and the wisdom he possessed.

Besides, she was genuinely curious about the situation. Vauquelin himself inquired as to why he would be so unhappy, so discontent with his life as a high-ranking politician that he would run away from his home and come to a place like this. Monica couldn't imagine preferring a life among humans and wicks in the factories to a life spent among galdori peers. She would give many things for the power this man held.

However, once the galdor started on his requests, Monica's curiosity turned spiteful. Eyebrows arched and red lips in a pout, the woman glanced across the patrons and workers as Vauquelin mentioned them, her field twinging with irritation in a sudden red-shift.

"Pardon, Mr. Vauquelin, but you seem to be mistaken. See, I'm not particularly fond of those requests, and you're in no position to be making demands," her voice was low, gaze coming to rest on the Incumbent once more. It was impressive how bold the man was, for being so defeated in manner. What made him think that she would do as he wished? Was he promising to go with her willingly so long as she left all the little plowfoots and rats alone? She didn't need a willing subject, and didn't care for the man's sympathies towards the bar's patrons. A minute ago he had just snapped for their attention like a true galdor, and now he was asking for them to be spared.

"I don't care about these people--I'm not going to touch them, not now that I've got you. As I said before, I'm not planning on turning you in. I care not for being the "auntie" that brings you back, I care more about why you're here. Why your field is so dissonant and sparse for such a well-trained man; why you left your family in the first place. Incumbent Vauquelin, I'm not going to do anything you find distasteful unless you piss me off."

The Constable allowed her field to dampen slightly, reining in the irritation that had shot through her veins with this man's mercy for their inferiors. Monica finally reached back for her cigarette, re-lighting it with a quick whisper between her fingers.

"So tell me--and I'll know if you're lying to me again. Unless you want to go home, of course, because in that case I will not be minding those requests of yours."
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Tom Cooke
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Tue Dec 25, 2018 1:27 am


Of course,” muttered Tom. “That’s fair enough. You’re right, in your way. I did come here and start living and working in this shit-hole of a place so nobody’d recognize me. Nobody like you. And hell, I wasn’t wrong. You didn’t recognize me, leastways not at first. I mean” – and here his voice frayed; he gave a cracked laugh, genuine and guttural, and knuckled the beginnings of tears out of his eyes – “look at me, huh? Who’d recognize me? I don’t recognize myself.”

Shuddering breaths again. He thought, Get a grip, Cooke. Get a grip before you let something real slip. He wasn’t even lying anymore, not really; she could interpret it however she liked, but every word out of his mouth was real, and he felt it like an iron ball in his chest. It felt like stopping to think about the situation you were in, and that wasn’t something Tom had ever wanted to do. If you stopped to think, you realized just how bad things were.

What was going on here?

He saw her facial expression change and knew what it meant almost immediately; that ugly flicker, that heat-wave ripple of her field didn’t surprise him at all. She was calling him Incumbent, Mr. Vauquelin, and it gave him a feeling like ice-water running down his spine. He’d thought she was a self-interested, crooked auntie like most of them, or like he’d thought most of them were, but now he wasn’t so sure: he’d been searching those cold eyes for ulterior motives, and he was beginning to think he’d found something more interesting than a love of profit or advancement. She was looking at him, weak-fielded and wrung out like an old dish-cloth, with something like respect. His request had riled her, for sure, but –

She wouldn’t do anything he ‘found distasteful’? Clocking distasteful was brutality? What, like beating a human within an inch of her life – arresting innocents – hanging folks over misunderstandings – like that was using the wrong fork at dinner? In some ways, Tom felt like he was talking to a kid. Sharp enough, but with backwards priorities. She was treating him decently just because he was a galdor, and he realized with a jolt that in her eyes, the worst thing he’d done all night was act like a galdor shouldn’t act. Defying the Seventen didn’t matter to the constable as much as defying her ideas about what a golly should be. She was prepared to punish him for coming quietly, because giving himself up for a bunch of plowfeet wasn’t what she thought he ought to do.

The most clocked-up thing about all this was that the more she treated him like a galdor, the more he felt like one. Nobody’d called him by his real name in ages. He frowned and let silence sprawl between them for a few seconds, then started talking.

“Sorry to disappoint you, constable, but I’m not really myself lately. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d had an accident.” He took a draught of ale, then cupped the mug between his hands and looked down into it. A vague reflection in dark liquid – a couple of glinting eyes, the tip of a nose. Lit ghoulishly in the dim, guttering light of the bar. “I don’t expect you to understand. I reckon your life’s just been – you’ve always known who you were, haven’t you? Constable Inspector Delacore, you’ve never once looked in the mirror and – even if it was just for a second – not known who it was looking back at you?”

He glanced up at her, quirking an eyebrow.

“I’m here, leastways, because I can’t go home,” he said, thinking of Old Rose Harbor and not Uptown. “I’m – dead. I can’t do anything. No sparklies, no poetry. That pretty little chip living in my house? She’s not my wife. Those aren’t my daughters. They wouldn’t recognize me. I’d be like a stranger in their house.” All true, after a fashion. “But sack it, right? I’m Incumbent Anatole Estienne Vauquelin, and I always know what I’m doing. I never break down. I’m a perfect fuckin’ golly, just like you, Constable. Isn’t that right? You’ve never broken down, have you?

“Well, you wanted an answer. There’s your straight clocking answer. Until I get my life figured out, I plan on doing as I please. Right now, this is what’s pleasing me. Tomorrow, it might be something else.”
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Monica Delacore
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Tue Dec 25, 2018 2:05 am

The Clockwork Stag | Vortas 16, 2718 | 2718
Emotions had always made the Seventen uncomfortable. Such displays she found disturbing, or at the very least, unsettling. The galdor's simple act of brushing away the formation of tears affected her, beginning to tighten the base of her throat in her discontent, the woman biting the inside of her cheek to hold her gaze steady on him. She had always found herself uneasy around cracking voices and sobbed confessions, and she was just thankful that the man didn't turn to all-out sobbing in the bar.

She could handle brushing away the beginning of a mess. She just couldn't handle the mess.

Monica had grown up with a very political-minded father; always aware of the state of the kingdoms and the people leading it currently as well as those that could possibly lead in the future. Incumbent Vauquelin had been one of those respected galdori she had grown up hearing about, and it was strange to watch him confess his confusion; his unhappiness with the state of his life--or at least, the state it had been in before.

Another mention of an accident caught her attention again, the officer crossing her legs again now that she wasn't quite as irritated. She brought the cigarette to her lips, pulling in a long drag as she listened to Vauquelin speak, eyes flicking away for the briefest of moments at the questions of always knowing herself.

Not that the galdor would ever admit it, but she couldn't honestly claim to have always known herself, to always have walked into a room with confidence, to always have looked in the mirror and been happy with who--and what--she was.

Hell, she couldn't even look in a mirror.

Monica didn't breathe a word of this, however, and though she had let her expression falter for a moment, the constable didn't let the questions crack through. This was not the time nor the place for inquiries on her personal life, and she would be taking them all as rhetorical to instead focus on the oddities that spewed from the older gentleman's mouth.

Sparklies, poetry--what did he mean by that? That family was not his own?

There was a slight feeling that she'd stumbled across some long-hidden scandal within the Incumbent's family, but something was still off, even if that was correct. He spoke as if he was a deadman; a ghost walking the streets and occupying the bed of what apparently was not his wife, in the house that he had shared with his not-family. Perhaps she was too caught up in her own notions of what a politician's life should be and simply wasn't following his intentions, but she didn't understand.

"Sparklies and poetry?" started Monica, smoke leaving her mouth as she did, "you're... odd, Mr. Vauquelin, and I admit I've no idea half of what you're saying. Good Lady, you're speaking like the lower-class--chip? I suppose I was expecting...." she trailed off momentarily, "...well, you're the first Brunnhold graduate I've met with such a vocabulary."

A note of consideration passed over her face, expression softening ever-so-slightly as she stared across at the galdor.

"Even so, I like your honesty. That's hard to find in any damn race, even ours, somehow. I'm not going to stop you from doing--whatever it is you're doing, but I'm still curious as to what you mean by all of that. Interesting figure of speech to call yourself dead, after all, and I'd like to hear more."

There could've been a hint of worry in her tone, a nervousness that perhaps she was overstepping, but Monica had never felt more comfortable than when she was intruding on someone's personal life. Especially the life of a runaway Incumbent--she didn't know if it was her interest in politics or simply curiosity, but this man was weird. She wanted to know why.

He provided the most vague of answers and that was far from enough for her.

"If you would care to humor me. I can always, of course, spend the rest of my night on other matters, but I find your position an interesting one."

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