He picked his way through the rubble and refuse, trying his damnedest, which was not his hardest but was surely damn enough to be considered pride-worthy, not to kick at anything. The vast majority of detritus to be found in the former grounds of an Artificer Mainhouse bore at least five times the density of the top of a human skull, reportedly said to be the hardest part on the human body. He did not need a limp to go along with his shredded dignity.
The Merchant's Audit had come and gone like some force of nature.
Alesandro Botanya, Chief Availer and Ledgerman to the Constables of Taxation for the Alchemical Society, had paid him a rather prompt visit not long after the brief and rather spontaneous collapse of their rigging systems and the Titan's chassis, which had miraculously not punctured through the two meagre feet of wooden planking and into the Canal beneath. He had been stumped at trying to explain how to the three apprentices who hadn't run screaming off into the morning dawn during their frantic and futile attempts at 'repairs and maintenance'. The Chief Availer, nicknamed 'l'Orchidea', had been prompt, no nonsense and baring the vaguest hint of amusement at the entire spectacle that had greeted him not long after dawn. He hadn't even said anything to him, simply turned to regard the remaining apprentices and spoken several brief phrases in that poetic language of theirs. He had felt the smugness in the Ledgerman's voice however and had seen the rather deflating dreams and desires of the apprentices, soon to be re-fitted to a new career and life within the Accountancy.
The Ledgerman had then sniffed at the wreckage, given him a brief glance and made a sweeping motion at it all with one gloved hand, before, his stately robes plucked up by a pair of ring clad pinched fingers, sauntered his way onto the next ruination that demanded his attention. He had spat in the man's wake, removing the sourness from his pallet for a moment. It hadn't lasted long and since then, he'd reached into the boundaries of his private stock and dug free one of the remaining single malt's he had left from his journey's here. Some of the others had been smashed by the calamity, including his prized Dublin Quashling Griulsh, which was the pride of some of the Hillfolk on the Isles, who about trusted foreign humanity as they did one another, which was to say, not at all.
He found one of the stabilizer gears, half buried in the floorboards of the broad Hanger that once served as the Mainhouse smithy, no doubt sprung loose during the Titan Chassis' fall and, powered by inertia and spite, embedded itself there against removal by any and all means, short of total disintegration. He took it upon himself to pluck the single malt bottle from one of the now many empty hovels in his spotted apron, the cork plucked out between the bite of his molars and settle himself down with a grunt and no few creaks of no few inferior human joints onto the stabilizer to enjoy his last meal as Artificer.
"Better to have a noble dream then a shite empire." He lifted the bottle to the horizon, which remained hazy and mugged by the still brewing chug of steam from off the submerged Drive in the bay. The Ledgerman hadn't a clue as to what to do about it and he harboured a secret mirth born out of revenge at the thought of the Minutemen in their stuffy rooms, puffing cigars and trying to figure out how much money they were going to waste just being able to fish it out of there, nevermind contain it properly. He allowed himself a chuckle and a second swig at that, wincing as the fire settled in his chest and then dulled everything in it's wake just a little bit at a time.
By the time he was on his fifth quick swig and third chuckle, he was numbed through to his fingertips. Enough that he didn't notice the shadow attached to the figure of a man until he was standing directly in the high glow of the noon-day sun, just outside the Hangar doors.
"Are you Edward Macahue?"
He felt an brand new urge to spit. No one called him Edward, let alone Macahue unless they were with some sort of outfit and he had quite had enough of outfits for a time and a spell, perhaps even a permanent one at that. Rather than spit, however, he grunted and took another swig, not bothering to lift his eyes at the outline, which drew slightly closer, encouraged perhaps by his non-committal noise.
"Mr. Macahue I represent the interest of an individual who would prefer to remain guarded about her privacy-"
"You aren't one of the Olives."
The outline stilled, frozen almost under the glare of the sun at it's back, by now, distanced with the Hangar roof overhead. Still, he didn't raise his eyes past the fellows boots (A nice stained leather, browns threatening deeper reds, almost arterial, with the supportive shine of silver buckles. Expensive sort. Definitely an Outfitter.) and offered a slight sneer.
"I beg your pardon-"
"The olives. Eye-ties. Meat-sops. Italians."
"Right, yes-"
"-Which means you're part of the Import number, 'cause your boots are way too shiny to be part of the Rabble out of Europe Proper." Europe Proper, was of course, no place to be these days. Or any day, really.The war effort to the North, deep into the mainland had sent no few people flocking into the quiet respects of the Southern countries, where peace whispered comforts to all ears and the borders resounded with proper defences to keep those ears and those attached, safe.
"Which means whatever business you have here with me today, must involve some sort of work or shipment or degree of Engineering feat that I am, alas, incapable of providing due to my stunning lack of funds, freedoms, shop, tools, workers or...well..." He hefted the bottle with a snicker "Sobriety" And took another swig, this one somewhat long to drown out the sudden onrush of facts that had seemed a lot funnier only a moment ago.
"Mmmm, as much as I would find comfort in assuaging your obvious descent into an oblivion of your choosing, I must admit a grievous error in your logic." the note of deadpan whimsy finally brought his attention up toward the features of a well dressed man. His hat was doffed in a gloved hand, clutched at the brim with a comfortable air of patience and calm, his attire an almost stately decoration of long coat and stiff vest. The collar was high, nearly to his ears as if he could shrink into it like some hermiting turtle. It served a purpose, though. The man, once bereft of his hat, was bald of all hair, brows or cheek, his features carved up by some insidious blade and long since scarred over and his skin was near the colour of charcoal. It made the whites of his eyes, slim as they were, of a brilliance he didn't care to compare to anything.
"I am Attul. Personal servant to the Madam Kerrigan."
There was a brief pause in which neither man spoke. Attul cleared his throat gently, lifting a gloved hand to cover his mouth in the process.
"Pardon, I had thought perhaps the name might endear some recognition. I see I was mistaken."
"Obviously."
"Mrs. Kerrigan is a Lady of-"
"-some reputation that does not extend to the wharf side. I recommend you skip the formalities, as they won't mean anything to me and you'll just be wasting all that articulation you seem to have made a hobby."
"Of course, Sir." That word came off his tongue much too easily. Attul was obviously a man very used to being given orders and carrying them out. Either a pride that had been surgically removed or a creature so secure that no other word but 'Dangerous' could well describe him. The more he thought about it, the more he seemed to err in the direction of the latter. Attul stared at him expectantly and he cleared his throat in response, leaning out one elbow to rest on one knee.
"So I've never heard of this Mrs. Kerrigan, but she's heard of me I take it?"
"Yes, she has expressed an interest."
"And that interest would be?"
"A job."
He stared at Attul with something like blank hostility, forgetting his previous mental mandate on respecting the threat of the man before him in favour of sudden unguarded irritation. He swung the bottle about himself, careful to keep it looking hostile without spilling a single drop. Years of practice, that.
"You taken a look around lately? This isn't exactly up to snuff, par or whatever word you might be fond of calling 'utter disaster zone'! I don't have a business to do you whatever job you're wanting done, Mate."
Attul seemed to rear back slightly, though the motion carried no malice in it. He felt himself flinch anyway, even as the, now that he noticed it, rather tall fellow lifted his gaze to travel the Hangar's ruined innards, a slow and methodical inspection that eventually led back down to him, sitting there on the Stabilizer.
"I think you misunderstand the Madam's intentions. She does not want to hire your creations. She wishes to hire you."
He stared again. Blankly this time, minus the hostility. As if comprehension had been made difficult by some foul potion or other. Couldn't have been the whiskey, perish that.
"Recently, the Madam has had the off luck to terminate her most recent Engineer. An unfortunate affair that saw them part ways without a chance for future reconciliation. This opening will not do as the Madam is currently under-going several key, important and must-complete projects of which she is now shy one Engineer. I trust, this is still making sense?"
"Yeah? Why wouldn't it?"
"You're swaying. Rather dangerously-...and are now on the floor."
"Hmmm...yes I can see how that might be a touch worrisome to you."
"Shouldn't it be?"
"No no. I do a lot of my best work from here."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"I take it your recent career hitch then was not indicative of that workload, else I might draw that your best is found at the bottom of a bottle and revolves around vacated lunches and oddly...steaming...dockside anomalies-...is that going to be dangerous at all?"
"Hardly. Don't have anything to put it in."
"So you threw it in the Canal?"
"Seemed like the best option. Doubt it'll eat up the entire river."
"You doubt?"
"Never really was one for guarantees."
"How charmingly reassuring coming from a man responsible for large parts of the structural integrity of the city we live in."
He blinked, struggling to climb back atop the Stabilizer, the journey fraught with several flailing hands and loose grips. He felt an insistent tug on his apron, grunting as whatever he had caught held him fast, half-way back onto his seat and half on the floor. Attul had the patience and courtesy to allow him his dignified attempt to perform this feat alone. He thought about putting the bottle down to free up his other hand, but something in the back of his head giggled, rather girlishly and he stubborn clung to it's thin neck.
"Why does she want me?"
"For the same reason most wanted you, up until a few years ago. You are possibly one of the most talented Engineers within the borders of Italy at this time and despite your...colourful history, the Madam is probably one of the last to recognize that fact."
"Huh."
He was quasi-successful in regaining his perch, laid out across the curved metal part, belly flatted in the grooves along it's cylindrical side. He tried to take a sip from this position, only to have the liquid dribble out over his lip as he swallowed against gravity. His hands rose and a whimper escaped him, trying to save the precious drops that didn't make it past his exhale.
"I'm beginning to belief the Madam might have been wrong about you."
"Oh really now?"
"Yes and I do not say that lightly. Questioning the Madam's rights and wrongs often ends in a Queen of Hearts sort of way for most."
"What?" He slurred his way through the 'T' that time and for some reason has having trouble remembering if he had legs or not. He did a mental check and found himself somewhat detached. That was probably not the best of signs.
"Nevermind. I'm fairly sure anything I say to you right now would probably end in some insult or other about my Mother or your undying profession of love for some nostalgic piece of toolery."
That reminded him. He had yet to locate his lucky 3/4 wrench. He loved that wrench.
"I believe we've reached that point in the conversation where I assure you of your manhood, despite having lost everything and promise that when you wake up on the 'morrow Mr. Macahue, that the pain in your head will be second only to the harm you will most likely suffer should you say No to the Madam's offer."
He felt a sudden dislocation about his entire frame, as, jostled to and fro, the Man Servant Attul, plucked up Mr. Edward Macahue with one gloved hand, hoisted him over one shoulder and turned to move with stunning alacrity down the wharf and toward the innards of Venice. Pick-up complete. Delivery in progress.
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