[The scenery looks a little like the 1700 or 1800's, but the building style is the light-coloured stuccoed clay and brick type material you often see in warmer climates.
The streets are uneven cobblestone travelled by a blend of pedestrians, horses, and primitive vehicles. Smoke from the coal-burning furnaces chokes the city and leaves a layer of grime on most things, and the part of town it's set in is a little rougher, signs of poverty everywhere. There's the odd side-of-the-road shanty selling what looks like meat skewers, and the people wear waistcoats, suspenders, paperboy hats and slacks.
Most notable are the machines -- strange, complicated things that move almost as if they have a life of their own, breathing smoke and glowing red with the coals at their core. There aren't a lot, and the ones here are smaller, maybe one or two shining shoes, one that looks startlingly like a real dog, one that's handing out papers in the place of a paperboy. The people move about them like they're a natural part of the scenery.
The focus is on a small group of children, ranging in age from 8 or 9 years old to the oldest being 18 or 19. Among them is Moxie, herself probably 11 or 12 (hard to tell with how tiny she is), and though she's younger and one of the few girls, she's taking the lead, hands on her hips and bellowing at the boys. They're all a little grubby, their clothes patched and worn, but they've got meat on their bones and their spirits are high.
Moxie pipes up and says, "Okay, Bran, you gathered up the goods for today?"
Bran, a pale, gangly mouse-haired boy gestures to his side where there's a stack of wood, some from factory pallets or thin broken branches or refuse.
"I gots it, ████, Totie an' me was running last night."
"Good. Here's our dealins for the day –– Bran'll huck the firewood, 2 cens exceptin' the littler ones, Marley can pitch in. Totie'll take the Bywater Corners, them busyfolk like to pay out 'round now, and me'n––"
She doesn't finish, because at that point two more boys approach, the oldest of the lot.
"Yo, ████, you getting bossy again?" the taller of the two asks, sounding good-natured, but Moxie puffs out her chest and glowers at him.
"I gots it, Olu, and you're late!"
It doesn't phase the boy, he marches right up, gives her a rough noogie and shoves her hard enough she stumbles in the process.
"Alright, here's what's up," he takes over, ignoring her indignant glower and foot stomp. "Bran'n Tess on firewood, Totie begging the Corners, Marley, you go see if you can't run old man Barnabas's papers again today, he likes ya. Take Finny with ya. The rest of ya, relieve the fine young gentlefolk what grace our end of town with their presence of any excess weight, yeah? Tess's got herself a healthy set 'o lungs, she's make for a nice distraction. ████, quit makin' that face."
He claps once, starting some of the kids, and they all start to disperse to their appointed tasks. Moxie is disgruntled, but she offers to run messages for a few folks, using the excuse of travelling the street to pick a few pockets on the way, and she makes a point of frequenting the Corners to keep an eye on the girl begging.
It's not until quite a bit later that the boy who took charge comes to find her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing, friendly.
"I meant it, ████, don't pull such a face. You'll be squawking at the lead in no time. There ain't a lot I'd trust at my back in a scrap but you're one. Just don't tell your brother I said it, y'hear?"
She puffs up at the praise, proud, and promises him she won't tell. She knows her brother doesn't like what she gets up to anyway, the less he knows, the better.
Their haul at the end of the day isn't bad. They've got enough for food, for coal, and something little to bring back to their families. Moxie heads down the darkening streets for home, mostly empty now except the scuttling robotic creatures that are winding down for the night before someone refuels them the next morning. Though she says she's fine, the boy from before insists on walking her.
There's been bodies turning up lately, after all. The streets aren't safe, especially when the shadows grow long.
It's another scene set in a Victorian-esque looking town. It's early morning, the streets relatively quiet, just the odd pedestrian and the automata (intricate and almost life-like mechanical creatures that sometimes serve a purpose like shoe-shining, sometimes just mimic animals like dogs and cats). Moxie, at her current age, is walking, hands folded behind her head and wearing baggy trousers held up with suspenders. She's with a boy around the same age, with vivid green eyes, reddish-brown hair, and freckles spread across his nose and cheeks. She seems to be complaining about something.
"––Matty says I ain't "marriage material" with a greased nose'n chipped nails, he says a respectable lady oughta know her salad fork from her main and how t'serve the tea proper-like."
The boy frowns a little, but is clearly the meeker of the two as he puts in, "But he's right, ain't he? Squeakers don't go nowhere but in a ditch or up the ladder."
Moxie frowns, dropping her hands and kicking at a stone that goes skittering down the cobblestones.
"I don't care. I don't like the schoolin. So, what, I can hunch my back over the line down at the factory?" Her tone is vehement, a touch bitter, and the boy takes a moment to compose an answer.
". . .No. I know, ████. I know."
Whatever she might've said in reply is lost, however, when they turn the corner and both falter to a stop. Ahead, there's a flurry of activity, an unusual break in the otherwise calm of the morning. Men in uniform, dark black and blue, are crowded around the entrance to an alleyway. A couple have some sort of sheet that they're trying to pin up, aiming to block the view, while a couple more are unloading a rudimentary stretcher from a horse-drawn wagon. The sheet and the wagon and the people are not nearly enough to block the scene, though. There's blood, splattered up the walls and across the stones, shredded fabric and the curled fingers of a cold, stiff hand lying right at the corner of a building before one of the officers comes to fetch it carefully in a kerchief –– it's not attached to anything.
It's a murder scene, and the victim was literally torn apart.
"It's another one. . . you think––" the boy starts, but Moxie nudges him hard.
"I'm thinking on the scenic route today, Marley," Moxie says, the pair turning aside to cut down another alley. A couple of the men glance at them, but Moxie keeps her hands shoved deep into her pockets and her shoulders hunched, refusing to make eye contact. They don't speak again until they're clear of the scene.
"You think it's them?" the boy, Marley, says.
"That ain't no human carve-job," she answers, tersely, and he just nods.
". . .They'll say it is. They don't believe in the Hunt."
"I know. We'll tell Olu –– no one after dark, no one going oneselfsy. No exceptions."
The boy nods in reply. The lapse into silence after that, there's not really much else to say about it.
- Watching her brother work in the shop. He's fulfilling an order for gears and parts for the railroad, but when he's done that he switches over to automata, and he's truly skilled. As it's a personal project, he lets Moxie (only around 10) help, showing her how some of the parts come together and how to measure and cut the pieces.
(She learns to read schematics and numbers this way, even if she's otherwise illiterate.)
Her brother is making a rabbit. It's not quite done, yet.
When the representatives from the railroad come the next morning, they are rude and disdainful, telling her brother that he should be honoured to contribute to His Majesty's railroad, and begrudgingly noting the work as "well done" –– at least, for a savage.
[It's a crash that wakes her up. She's young, maybe only around 7 years old, and she's in bed -- a lumpy mattress stuffed with straw and covered in threadbare sheets. It's dark, still night, and she can't see anything amiss (though it'd be hard to tell if there was, it's a rundown one-room space cluttered with boxes and what looks like metal parts, doubling as a home and some sort of machine shop).
She looks across to where the other mattress is -- a boy, older than her, with the same almost platinum blond hair is asleep, his soft breathing the only audible sound this time of night.
"Matty. . .?" she whispers, and then tries again –– "Matty!"
The boy doesn't stir, and there's a crash again, sounding like it came from somewhere just outside. She deliberates a moment, then decides that she's old enough to be tough and crawls out from under her sheets, pausing to get a metal pipe that she wields as if it's a bat before continuing. She opens the rickety door out onto the street, wincing as it squeaks on its hinges -- first looking around the road to make sure no one out there heard, then glancing back at the boy in the bed.
He mumbles and rolls over, but doesn't wake. So she heads out -- it's some sort of shantytown area, cobblestone streets that are a little less than clean and lined with buildings in various states of disrepair. There's an alleyway just to her left, and that's where she heads, pipe hefted over her shoulder.
She pauses at the corner of the building, takes a big breath, and then steps into the alley. It's hard to make anything out with the piles of refuse and the movements might be rats, but she doesn't let that stop her -- she points her pipe and in the biggest voice she can muster, says, "I know you're there! Come out, burglar, n'I'll pummel ya!"
Only, you know, her voice wavers and she sounds more like a scared little girl. But maybe the pipe will make up for that?
There’s silence, and she thinks maybe whoever it was is gone, or it was her imagination — but then there’s another scuffing sound, and puffing her cheeks and steeling her courage she proceeds into the alley towards where she thought she heard the sound. She creeps forward, tense, and reaches forward to move aside a piece of debris––
Then there’s a flash of something white, a snap of teeth, and Moxie stumbles back with a startled and pained yelp, clutching at her arm. There’s a spot of blood, not too bad, but she’s little and scared and still tears up, retreating further up the alley.
It’s when she sees what snapped at her — a little white fox, with two tails and a wisp of faerie fire curling about its small body. She’s so startled, she forgets her fright and the sting of the bite for a moment to blurt:
“––A Huli jing?!”
She stares, shocked — she’s always known that there was another world that existed alongside hers, it’s common knowledge, after all. But it was incredibly rare to see one… and this one was small. A baby, really. And her curiosity starts to overcome her nerves, and she feels a little bad, because –– where is its mother?
After a moment of debate, she sets aside the pipe, and creeps a little closer, holding out her hand.
“. . .Hey. I ain’t gonna hurtcha.”
He hisses at her, but she’s undeterred, and kneels where she is, exhibiting a patience that’s frankly unusual for her.
“Yer hungry, yeah? We got some vits inside, I think. Lots ‘o Nan’s stew tonight, I was gonna save it for snack tomorrow, but ya can have it.”
With her persistence, and the mention of food, the boy shifts from aggression to wary curiosity, sniffing at her. He eventually cautiously comes out and takes her offered hand.
Moxie leads him inside to get him some of the strew — cold, unfortunately, but still hearty. She’ll have to figure out how to explain this to Matter in the morning.
- Moxie is together with the gang again. They've snuck up to the midtown -- an area where the locals are permitted only during the day in order to perform labour and errands, and then are expected to leave it to the Pretons at night.
They're employing a tried and true tactic, today -- one of the boys goes to peddle some "precious gemstones" that were procured from a "distance mine" at great risk. Only one of those things is true -- the risk. It's actually a byproduct from one of the factories producing building materials, but the factories are horrifically unsafe. The boy is loud, showy, and uses a lot of large-sounding words to sound smart and flashy (maybe familiar to Moxie's own speech patterns).
He wants to sell some, sure. But it's also a distraction for the rest of his crew, lifting wallets from the wealthy townsfolk that have stopped to watch.
Sitting and listening to one of Nan's stories. She talks about how when she was a younger woman, she lives in a village that bordered on the wild grasslands. At night, the Chirbatti would rise over the hills, frolicking blinking in and out. The villagers all knew not to follow them, but the invaders did not. One night, there was a Preton regiment pass through. They made camp on the outskirts, laughing and drinking into the night, and brushing off the villagers' warnings of respecting the spirits, as they did not believe in such things.
The next morning, one of the soldiers had gone missing. A search party was only able to find his boots and jacket. Determining that foul play must have occurred, they searched the village, furious. They pulled aside one poor boy and hung him from a tree, declaring he was the cuplrit. Satsified, they left.
The villagers knew the boy had done nothing, however. They thought he had gotten lost chasing the chirbatti, or perhaps claimed by some angry vengeful spirit, upset at their disrespect for the lands.
As the years passed and the invaders changed the land, clearing trees, laying their railroad, and building their strange concrete and metal buildings, the chirbatti began to fade, appearing less and less often.
Moxie (near her current age) is walking through the winding cobblestone streets of Lowtown with Marley, a boy with startling green eyes and reddish hair. Not many are around, just the street-sweeping automata left, their gears whirring and clanking as they clear the rubbish from the streets. She's chattering endlessly about the day, the latest heist, the stupid hat she saw that stuck-up guy wearing, etc. It actually takes her a moment to realize Marley has stopped walking.
"Marl. . .?" she starts, but he shushes her. She knows to trust him and his instincts, so she stops, and she listens. He's staring intently into the darkened shelter of some sort of shop –– blacksmith, it looks like. It takes her a moment to see it, but when she does, she gasps.
There's a little creature there. It's small and brown, with wrinkled skin and quite ugly –– and there's something wrong. It only moves in fits and jerks, a brief flurry of motion and life before it creaks to a halt again. When it does, it's not just still, it's devoid of vigour, nothing more than stone and dirt. It seems to be trying to sweep the place.
"A Brownie. . ." she says, awed, and almost takes a step closer before Marley stops her.
"You'll scare it off, dodo," he says, shaking his head. She, however, grows increasingly disturbed by the way it seems to teeter between living and inanimate.
"It ain't altogether right, though, Marl? What's wrong with it. . .?"
Marley looks a little sad and shakes his head.
"You know it, Wren. The magic's going from the world. It's flickerin' out, ain't gonna be around long, even when them folk call for it," his eyes flick briefly to the little offering of bread and milk laid out. Moxie has nothing to say to that. She knows, she knew before she asked, even Marley, after all––
Well. It had been a very, very long time since he'd been able to take his true form.
". . .I get em. Why they're so mad. Sometimes, I feel that rage, and why they rip the human world apart," he says, at length, sad and trembling with something a little dark.
"Marl," she says, admonishing, but he's already shaking his head.
"I know. M'sorry. I said I get it. I ain't about to nip at the heels of the Hunt or nothin'.
. . .But I get it."
She watches the little creature with him a moment longer as it stutters and jerks, trying to set aside its broom before making for the offering. Then she turns away.
She's younger in this one, maybe only ten or eleven. She's practically grinding her teeth. Beside her, her brother digs his hand into her shoulder, keeping her still. He's tall and broad-shouldered, but he looks remarkably like her, even with the noticeable age gap between them.
They're in Midtown. It's a bustling centre for merchants and tailors, the buildings still crooked and shambling but they're cleaner, better cared for than in Lowtown. The crowds are more a blend of the working class, the locals, and the "high society" gentleman and ladies in their waistcoats and dresses. There's more automata here, too, shoe shiners and sweepers, and little scuttling things that carry packages and purses for delicate ladies, their intricate gears and motors adding to the background din. Her brother had just delivered a shipment of locomotive parts and brought her along, to "keep her out of trouble" (as if it ever worked) and for an extra pair of hands. It was on their way back that they stumbled across the scene.
She knew the man -- old Jobe. He was one of her people, an old factory worker who had lost his leg in an accident and turned to begging because he couldn't work. The problem, apparently, was he chose to beg where some fine gentleman had seen fit to walk past that day.
"Savages," one spits, clacking his cane irritably. "Planting your filth wherever you choose, this is a respectable thoroughfare,"
"One can't expect them to understand civilized society. Come, we're expected on the hour, we shall be late," one of his company replies with a scoff, trying to urge him on. The man with the cane only scowls deeper. He delivers a sharp jab into the old man's side with the can, and Moxie's brother's grip turns bruising.
"Go on, cur, you're an eyesore to the poor ladies that have to tread past you. Not to mention I could smell you from down the lane."
He's sneering, but the old man doesn't react, instead he keeps his eyes down and cringes inward defensively and apart from a passing glance the people in the area don't seem to really care.
"I said get you, filthy savage!" the gentleman hisses when the old man doesn't move -- never mind that Jobe's not terribly mobile.
"Matty!" Moxie breathes, furious, but her brother shifts to seize her by the arm, dragging her away as he stoops low.
"Do not make a scene!" he shakes her for emphasis, and she glares at him, tears in her eyes.
Later, they're home, in Matty's workshop with all its metal and oil and clutter. She crashes and throws things and stomps, and makes sure to tell him how angry she is, and ashamed, and he's a coward and a jerk and how could he just stand by?
He cuts off her tantrum by pulling down a large rolled up paper, dropping it onto the workbench and unrolling it. Curious despite herself, she comes to look –– it's a schematic, and as she looks it over, she realizes how incredibly complex it is.
"It's. . . a leg? Matty, is it a leg?" she asks, awed, and forgetting she was in the middle of disowning him a few seconds before. His eyes are shining, and he gives a crooked smile.
"Ya listen here, little Wren. Huffin' and puffin' at them selpenny bastards won't get ya none but bruised and beaten. I ain't gonna do no one no good sitting in one of their blighted lockups.
But there are things I can do, yeah?"
When he says the last, it's almost imploring. Asking her, please, don't be angry, please forgive him, please don't think less of him.
". . .It's for ole Jobe, ain't it? This leg? Yer gonna make him a new leg?" she asks.
"I'm gonna make him a new leg, if'n I can manage." Matty says.
They're in the workshop. It's more cluttered, more chaotic, somehow, and it's dark out. Moxie is older, Marley sits across from her, pale and drawn, his arm clutched against his chest and his eyes haunted. Moxie herself doesn't look that great, a little roughed up, and uncharacteristically serious.
". . .Are ya sure, pally?" she asks, trying to keep her tone steady, but it wavers a little. Somehow, it only strengthens the boy's resolve. He replies almost gently, "I'm sure, Wren. Ya got Matty's specs still, yah? The ones what ya pulled fer Jan?"
Her expression twists at the mention of the name, pained and guilty and angry, but she shakes her head as if shaking those thoughts off. Now's not the time.
"I do. His notes and my notes –– all of it. But Marl. . ."
"I ain't no good like this, yanno? But –– but if I do this, maybe I can hunt again. Maybe I can keep up with 'em. Maybe I can fight."
She watches him a moment, still somber, still unlike her –– and then she nods.
"Okay, Marl. Okay. If yer set on this, I'll help ya. I'll do what best I can."
He musteres a smile for her, and she turns to rummage, pulling down a schematic of her own -- wildly complex and detailed, but clearly meant to be an arm.
It's a memory of a younger Moxie sitting with the red-haired boy, who she calls "Marl". They're a little scruffy, sat together on some crates piled in the shade on the corner of the street, taking a break. They're in Midtown, so they don't exactly fit in, but there's enough of her people out on errands and moving about that the Preton merchants don't pay them much mind.
She's recounting to him about her parents -- she tells him that she can't even see their faces any more, but she thinks that her mother had long, platinum blonde hair like she did, and her father had broad hands and a warm smile. She says that they died in one of the factory fires, like the one that happened a couple days ago -- poor folk cooped up for hours in a dilapidated building stacked with chemicals and combustibles and few to no exits. Something caught and that was that: the people couldn't get out.
She tells him she doesn't feel sad, because she can't remember them properly, but she remembers her brother's face when he told her. He'd been crying, so she feels sad for him, because he obviously misses them, and then got saddled with raising her when he was still a kid himself.
Marley tells her that his family had more and more trouble shifting to their True Form, until one day they couldn't. His father left, was just gone one day, and then his mother got sick, and that was it. He misses them, and he misses his True Form, the hunt and running through the trees at dusk and the scent of fresh air.
Moxie tells him that he's got her, now, and the crew and her brother, and they won't go running off on him.
Moxie, fingers and face smudged with grease and bouncing around in coveralls, chatters animatedly at her older brother, the family resemblance obvious. She's a few years younger in this memory. It's night, they're in the shop, a cluttered place with bits and pieces of pipes and machinery lying about -- it's lit dimly by candlelight and oil lamps. He's carefully gathering up something wrapped in canvas, she snatches his hat off a hook and drops it on his head before she heads for the door, pausing to scowl at a pile of parts (it's not clear what they're for, only that it's probably a larger machine of some kind).
"Ugh. . . they ain't even gonna dirty their slippers to come get it 'emselves, I'm bettin'."
"'Course not, Wren, fine folk ain't gonna sully their fine reputations by undertakin' manual labour," he returns mildly, following after her. She gives the shipment a kick.
"Selpenny bastards."
"Briana!"
Her brother's admonishment is sharp and instant, and she chirps an apology, though she clearly doesn't mean it at all. They head out into the night, careful to stick to only the main streets, heading into areas that are poorer and poorer, the houses little more than ramshackle huts help up more with luck than solid workmanship.
They knock on a door, and a family lets them in: a man, a woman, and three younger children. The man is missing a leg, and the lot of them have seen better days, their clothes threadbare and bodies thin.
Matty gently lays his bundle before the man and unrolls it -- it's an artificial leg. A real steampunkish one, with gears and tubes and little steam vents and leather straps to help attach it.
He tells them it's something of a prototype, but it should work, and he'll come by for tweaks and adjustments. The man stammers that he'll pay them back, he swears, once he starts earning money again -- Matty waves him off. It's free of charge, besides, the man's helping him, this is really a prototype.
Moxie whispers stage-loud to the woman that that's her brother. It's already obvious what their relation is, but she doesn't care, because she's proud of him and loves him fiercely.
[Moxie is around 10 years old in this one. It's night, at her brother's shop/their home, and he's bent over a mechanical rabbit: filled with gears and small, intricate moving parts, it's automata, incredibly complicated and versatile. He ushers Moxie over, and together they strike a match, lighting the little packed tinder powder so it catches and glows red, flaring a gout of fire up into the machine.
The rabbit flicks an ear, twitches, and then it's moving, the embers breathing warmth into its articulated plates and gears. It looks alive, almost, and Moxie gasps in awe.
"See that, little Wren? Sometimes I think it's a magic all its own -- a new magic, maybe, as the old magic is dying."
"Can I have it, Matty? Is it mine? S'gonna be named Roger!" she replies, apparently deciding that the rabbit is hers whether he agrees or not. Matty just laughs, though, watching the little creature hop around the room -- and catching Moxie (Wren?) as she tumbles after it, guiding her away from the heated furnace and sharp implements and other things a little girl probably shouldn't run into.]
[She was fuming. Another argument with Matty over how a "proper lady" should be and how she needed to stop running with the gang and start having some care for her upbringing, her presentation, her future -- she'd stayed away for 2 days this time, and she was still red in the face about it.
As she rounded the corner up the street to the shop, she realized the inspector was about -- the black and dread steam-powered wagon they used was always obvious, in both sight and sound. The far less fancy (and expensive) wagon belonging to the undertaker was there, too.
Wren grimaced to herself -- it was the early grey light of morning, which meant the Hunt had probably struck again last night, torn some poor bloke to shreds in an alley and painted the walls with their blood.
But as she drew closer, she realized -- the inspector, the workers, they were right by her home. A neighbour...? Missus Dreyfuss? Or--
She broke into a sprint. Her home, Matty's shop, it couldn't be--
"Ho there, lass! Scene's closed!" One of the inspectors calls, a Preton, his clothes clean and pressed and his hair carefully trimmed. She ignored him, ignored the twist in his mouth as her clothes brushed against him, the disgust at her proximity.
"What're you on about? This's my house, where's Matty?" She cried, and he let her go. She thought she heard someone query 'next of kin' and another call out to her not to go in, but she ignored it, barged into the shop--
It was torn apart. Machinery broken, drawers open, parts strewn about--
A body strewn about. The undertaker had barely gotten started, or maybe he'd been at it a while, but the mess was too big -- the Hunt's work, for sure, but not their usual target, they'd never gone into homes before.
Most of the inspectors were standing about, complaining about Lowtown, the smell, the dirty wretches, they weren't even bothering with the scene -- some dirty Naz was dead, so what? Probably stole from the wrong bloke, got his comeuppance, a robbery gone wrong. Someone screaming.
Oh. Maybe she was screaming? Later, she wouldn't be sure -- she just remembered the blood, a twisted blanched hand, fingers frozen in a crooked gesture (rigor mortis), hey, come over here, peeking under a small sheet -- was some of the arm hidden under there? Maybe? Where was the rest? She knows Marley was there, at some point, pulled her away, made excuses, spoke to the Inspectors, just a hysterical girl, many apologies, your lordships. She knows they got to Olu's place, somehow, but she doesn't remember the walk--
She just can't stop thinking about that hand, you know?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Hustle
The streets are uneven cobblestone travelled by a blend of pedestrians, horses, and primitive vehicles. Smoke from the coal-burning furnaces chokes the city and leaves a layer of grime on most things, and the part of town it's set in is a little rougher, signs of poverty everywhere. There's the odd side-of-the-road shanty selling what looks like meat skewers, and the people wear waistcoats, suspenders, paperboy hats and slacks.
Most notable are the machines -- strange, complicated things that move almost as if they have a life of their own, breathing smoke and glowing red with the coals at their core. There aren't a lot, and the ones here are smaller, maybe one or two shining shoes, one that looks startlingly like a real dog, one that's handing out papers in the place of a paperboy. The people move about them like they're a natural part of the scenery.
The focus is on a small group of children, ranging in age from 8 or 9 years old to the oldest being 18 or 19. Among them is Moxie, herself probably 11 or 12 (hard to tell with how tiny she is), and though she's younger and one of the few girls, she's taking the lead, hands on her hips and bellowing at the boys. They're all a little grubby, their clothes patched and worn, but they've got meat on their bones and their spirits are high.
Moxie pipes up and says, "Okay, Bran, you gathered up the goods for today?"
Bran, a pale, gangly mouse-haired boy gestures to his side where there's a stack of wood, some from factory pallets or thin broken branches or refuse.
"I gots it, ████, Totie an' me was running last night."
"Good. Here's our dealins for the day –– Bran'll huck the firewood, 2 cens exceptin' the littler ones, Marley can pitch in. Totie'll take the Bywater Corners, them busyfolk like to pay out 'round now, and me'n––"
She doesn't finish, because at that point two more boys approach, the oldest of the lot.
"Yo, ████, you getting bossy again?" the taller of the two asks, sounding good-natured, but Moxie puffs out her chest and glowers at him.
"I gots it, Olu, and you're late!"
It doesn't phase the boy, he marches right up, gives her a rough noogie and shoves her hard enough she stumbles in the process.
"Alright, here's what's up," he takes over, ignoring her indignant glower and foot stomp. "Bran'n Tess on firewood, Totie begging the Corners, Marley, you go see if you can't run old man Barnabas's papers again today, he likes ya. Take Finny with ya. The rest of ya, relieve the fine young gentlefolk what grace our end of town with their presence of any excess weight, yeah? Tess's got herself a healthy set 'o lungs, she's make for a nice distraction. ████, quit makin' that face."
He claps once, starting some of the kids, and they all start to disperse to their appointed tasks. Moxie is disgruntled, but she offers to run messages for a few folks, using the excuse of travelling the street to pick a few pockets on the way, and she makes a point of frequenting the Corners to keep an eye on the girl begging.
It's not until quite a bit later that the boy who took charge comes to find her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing, friendly.
"I meant it, ████, don't pull such a face. You'll be squawking at the lead in no time. There ain't a lot I'd trust at my back in a scrap but you're one. Just don't tell your brother I said it, y'hear?"
She puffs up at the praise, proud, and promises him she won't tell. She knows her brother doesn't like what she gets up to anyway, the less he knows, the better.
Their haul at the end of the day isn't bad. They've got enough for food, for coal, and something little to bring back to their families. Moxie heads down the darkening streets for home, mostly empty now except the scuttling robotic creatures that are winding down for the night before someone refuels them the next morning. Though she says she's fine, the boy from before insists on walking her.
There's been bodies turning up lately, after all. The streets aren't safe, especially when the shadows grow long.
Memory 2
"––Matty says I ain't "marriage material" with a greased nose'n chipped nails, he says a respectable lady oughta know her salad fork from her main and how t'serve the tea proper-like."
The boy frowns a little, but is clearly the meeker of the two as he puts in, "But he's right, ain't he? Squeakers don't go nowhere but in a ditch or up the ladder."
Moxie frowns, dropping her hands and kicking at a stone that goes skittering down the cobblestones.
"I don't care. I don't like the schoolin. So, what, I can hunch my back over the line down at the factory?" Her tone is vehement, a touch bitter, and the boy takes a moment to compose an answer.
". . .No. I know, ████. I know."
Whatever she might've said in reply is lost, however, when they turn the corner and both falter to a stop. Ahead, there's a flurry of activity, an unusual break in the otherwise calm of the morning. Men in uniform, dark black and blue, are crowded around the entrance to an alleyway. A couple have some sort of sheet that they're trying to pin up, aiming to block the view, while a couple more are unloading a rudimentary stretcher from a horse-drawn wagon. The sheet and the wagon and the people are not nearly enough to block the scene, though. There's blood, splattered up the walls and across the stones, shredded fabric and the curled fingers of a cold, stiff hand lying right at the corner of a building before one of the officers comes to fetch it carefully in a kerchief –– it's not attached to anything.
It's a murder scene, and the victim was literally torn apart.
"It's another one. . . you think––" the boy starts, but Moxie nudges him hard.
"I'm thinking on the scenic route today, Marley," Moxie says, the pair turning aside to cut down another alley. A couple of the men glance at them, but Moxie keeps her hands shoved deep into her pockets and her shoulders hunched, refusing to make eye contact. They don't speak again until they're clear of the scene.
"You think it's them?" the boy, Marley, says.
"That ain't no human carve-job," she answers, tersely, and he just nods.
". . .They'll say it is. They don't believe in the Hunt."
"I know. We'll tell Olu –– no one after dark, no one going oneselfsy. No exceptions."
The boy nods in reply. The lapse into silence after that, there's not really much else to say about it.
Offscreen 1
(She learns to read schematics and numbers this way, even if she's otherwise illiterate.)
Her brother is making a rabbit. It's not quite done, yet.
When the representatives from the railroad come the next morning, they are rude and disdainful, telling her brother that he should be honoured to contribute to His Majesty's railroad, and begrudgingly noting the work as "well done" –– at least, for a savage.
Offscreen 2
She looks across to where the other mattress is -- a boy, older than her, with the same almost platinum blond hair is asleep, his soft breathing the only audible sound this time of night.
"Matty. . .?" she whispers, and then tries again –– "Matty!"
The boy doesn't stir, and there's a crash again, sounding like it came from somewhere just outside. She deliberates a moment, then decides that she's old enough to be tough and crawls out from under her sheets, pausing to get a metal pipe that she wields as if it's a bat before continuing. She opens the rickety door out onto the street, wincing as it squeaks on its hinges -- first looking around the road to make sure no one out there heard, then glancing back at the boy in the bed.
He mumbles and rolls over, but doesn't wake. So she heads out -- it's some sort of shantytown area, cobblestone streets that are a little less than clean and lined with buildings in various states of disrepair. There's an alleyway just to her left, and that's where she heads, pipe hefted over her shoulder.
She pauses at the corner of the building, takes a big breath, and then steps into the alley. It's hard to make anything out with the piles of refuse and the movements might be rats, but she doesn't let that stop her -- she points her pipe and in the biggest voice she can muster, says, "I know you're there! Come out, burglar, n'I'll pummel ya!"
Only, you know, her voice wavers and she sounds more like a scared little girl. But maybe the pipe will make up for that?
There’s silence, and she thinks maybe whoever it was is gone, or it was her imagination — but then there’s another scuffing sound, and puffing her cheeks and steeling her courage she proceeds into the alley towards where she thought she heard the sound. She creeps forward, tense, and reaches forward to move aside a piece of debris––
Then there’s a flash of something white, a snap of teeth, and Moxie stumbles back with a startled and pained yelp, clutching at her arm. There’s a spot of blood, not too bad, but she’s little and scared and still tears up, retreating further up the alley.
It’s when she sees what snapped at her — a little white fox, with two tails and a wisp of faerie fire curling about its small body. She’s so startled, she forgets her fright and the sting of the bite for a moment to blurt:
“––A Huli jing?!”
She stares, shocked — she’s always known that there was another world that existed alongside hers, it’s common knowledge, after all. But it was incredibly rare to see one… and this one was small. A baby, really. And her curiosity starts to overcome her nerves, and she feels a little bad, because –– where is its mother?
After a moment of debate, she sets aside the pipe, and creeps a little closer, holding out her hand.
“. . .Hey. I ain’t gonna hurtcha.”
He hisses at her, but she’s undeterred, and kneels where she is, exhibiting a patience that’s frankly unusual for her.
“Yer hungry, yeah? We got some vits inside, I think. Lots ‘o Nan’s stew tonight, I was gonna save it for snack tomorrow, but ya can have it.”
With her persistence, and the mention of food, the boy shifts from aggression to wary curiosity, sniffing at her. He eventually cautiously comes out and takes her offered hand.
Moxie leads him inside to get him some of the strew — cold, unfortunately, but still hearty. She’ll have to figure out how to explain this to Matter in the morning.
Offscreen 3
They're employing a tried and true tactic, today -- one of the boys goes to peddle some "precious gemstones" that were procured from a "distance mine" at great risk. Only one of those things is true -- the risk. It's actually a byproduct from one of the factories producing building materials, but the factories are horrifically unsafe. The boy is loud, showy, and uses a lot of large-sounding words to sound smart and flashy (maybe familiar to Moxie's own speech patterns).
He wants to sell some, sure. But it's also a distraction for the rest of his crew, lifting wallets from the wealthy townsfolk that have stopped to watch.
Offscreen 4
The next morning, one of the soldiers had gone missing. A search party was only able to find his boots and jacket. Determining that foul play must have occurred, they searched the village, furious. They pulled aside one poor boy and hung him from a tree, declaring he was the cuplrit. Satsified, they left.
The villagers knew the boy had done nothing, however. They thought he had gotten lost chasing the chirbatti, or perhaps claimed by some angry vengeful spirit, upset at their disrespect for the lands.
As the years passed and the invaders changed the land, clearing trees, laying their railroad, and building their strange concrete and metal buildings, the chirbatti began to fade, appearing less and less often.
One day, they were gone.
Dying Magic
"Marl. . .?" she starts, but he shushes her. She knows to trust him and his instincts, so she stops, and she listens. He's staring intently into the darkened shelter of some sort of shop –– blacksmith, it looks like. It takes her a moment to see it, but when she does, she gasps.
There's a little creature there. It's small and brown, with wrinkled skin and quite ugly –– and there's something wrong. It only moves in fits and jerks, a brief flurry of motion and life before it creaks to a halt again. When it does, it's not just still, it's devoid of vigour, nothing more than stone and dirt. It seems to be trying to sweep the place.
"A Brownie. . ." she says, awed, and almost takes a step closer before Marley stops her.
"You'll scare it off, dodo," he says, shaking his head. She, however, grows increasingly disturbed by the way it seems to teeter between living and inanimate.
"It ain't altogether right, though, Marl? What's wrong with it. . .?"
Marley looks a little sad and shakes his head.
"You know it, Wren. The magic's going from the world. It's flickerin' out, ain't gonna be around long, even when them folk call for it," his eyes flick briefly to the little offering of bread and milk laid out. Moxie has nothing to say to that. She knows, she knew before she asked, even Marley, after all––
Well. It had been a very, very long time since he'd been able to take his true form.
". . .I get em. Why they're so mad. Sometimes, I feel that rage, and why they rip the human world apart," he says, at length, sad and trembling with something a little dark.
"Marl," she says, admonishing, but he's already shaking his head.
"I know. M'sorry. I said I get it. I ain't about to nip at the heels of the Hunt or nothin'.
. . .But I get it."
She watches the little creature with him a moment longer as it stutters and jerks, trying to set aside its broom before making for the offering. Then she turns away.
They walk the rest of the way in silence.
Help
They're in Midtown. It's a bustling centre for merchants and tailors, the buildings still crooked and shambling but they're cleaner, better cared for than in Lowtown. The crowds are more a blend of the working class, the locals, and the "high society" gentleman and ladies in their waistcoats and dresses. There's more automata here, too, shoe shiners and sweepers, and little scuttling things that carry packages and purses for delicate ladies, their intricate gears and motors adding to the background din. Her brother had just delivered a shipment of locomotive parts and brought her along, to "keep her out of trouble" (as if it ever worked) and for an extra pair of hands. It was on their way back that they stumbled across the scene.
She knew the man -- old Jobe. He was one of her people, an old factory worker who had lost his leg in an accident and turned to begging because he couldn't work. The problem, apparently, was he chose to beg where some fine gentleman had seen fit to walk past that day.
"Savages," one spits, clacking his cane irritably. "Planting your filth wherever you choose, this is a respectable thoroughfare,"
"One can't expect them to understand civilized society. Come, we're expected on the hour, we shall be late," one of his company replies with a scoff, trying to urge him on. The man with the cane only scowls deeper. He delivers a sharp jab into the old man's side with the can, and Moxie's brother's grip turns bruising.
"Go on, cur, you're an eyesore to the poor ladies that have to tread past you. Not to mention I could smell you from down the lane."
He's sneering, but the old man doesn't react, instead he keeps his eyes down and cringes inward defensively and apart from a passing glance the people in the area don't seem to really care.
"I said get you, filthy savage!" the gentleman hisses when the old man doesn't move -- never mind that Jobe's not terribly mobile.
"Matty!" Moxie breathes, furious, but her brother shifts to seize her by the arm, dragging her away as he stoops low.
"Do not make a scene!" he shakes her for emphasis, and she glares at him, tears in her eyes.
Later, they're home, in Matty's workshop with all its metal and oil and clutter. She crashes and throws things and stomps, and makes sure to tell him how angry she is, and ashamed, and he's a coward and a jerk and how could he just stand by?
He cuts off her tantrum by pulling down a large rolled up paper, dropping it onto the workbench and unrolling it. Curious despite herself, she comes to look –– it's a schematic, and as she looks it over, she realizes how incredibly complex it is.
"It's. . . a leg? Matty, is it a leg?" she asks, awed, and forgetting she was in the middle of disowning him a few seconds before. His eyes are shining, and he gives a crooked smile.
"Ya listen here, little Wren. Huffin' and puffin' at them selpenny bastards won't get ya none but bruised and beaten. I ain't gonna do no one no good sitting in one of their blighted lockups.
But there are things I can do, yeah?"
When he says the last, it's almost imploring. Asking her, please, don't be angry, please forgive him, please don't think less of him.
". . .It's for ole Jobe, ain't it? This leg? Yer gonna make him a new leg?" she asks.
"I'm gonna make him a new leg, if'n I can manage." Matty says.
automail
". . .Are ya sure, pally?" she asks, trying to keep her tone steady, but it wavers a little. Somehow, it only strengthens the boy's resolve. He replies almost gently, "I'm sure, Wren. Ya got Matty's specs still, yah? The ones what ya pulled fer Jan?"
Her expression twists at the mention of the name, pained and guilty and angry, but she shakes her head as if shaking those thoughts off. Now's not the time.
"I do. His notes and my notes –– all of it. But Marl. . ."
"I ain't no good like this, yanno? But –– but if I do this, maybe I can hunt again. Maybe I can keep up with 'em. Maybe I can fight."
She watches him a moment, still somber, still unlike her –– and then she nods.
"Okay, Marl. Okay. If yer set on this, I'll help ya. I'll do what best I can."
He musteres a smile for her, and she turns to rummage, pulling down a schematic of her own -- wildly complex and detailed, but clearly meant to be an arm.
"They ain't coming home"
She's recounting to him about her parents -- she tells him that she can't even see their faces any more, but she thinks that her mother had long, platinum blonde hair like she did, and her father had broad hands and a warm smile. She says that they died in one of the factory fires, like the one that happened a couple days ago -- poor folk cooped up for hours in a dilapidated building stacked with chemicals and combustibles and few to no exits. Something caught and that was that: the people couldn't get out.
She tells him she doesn't feel sad, because she can't remember them properly, but she remembers her brother's face when he told her. He'd been crying, so she feels sad for him, because he obviously misses them, and then got saddled with raising her when he was still a kid himself.
Marley tells her that his family had more and more trouble shifting to their True Form, until one day they couldn't. His father left, was just gone one day, and then his mother got sick, and that was it. He misses them, and he misses his True Form, the hunt and running through the trees at dusk and the scent of fresh air.
Moxie tells him that he's got her, now, and the crew and her brother, and they won't go running off on him.
a leg for Jobe
"Ugh. . . they ain't even gonna dirty their slippers to come get it 'emselves, I'm bettin'."
"'Course not, Wren, fine folk ain't gonna sully their fine reputations by undertakin' manual labour," he returns mildly, following after her. She gives the shipment a kick.
"Selpenny bastards."
"Briana!"
Her brother's admonishment is sharp and instant, and she chirps an apology, though she clearly doesn't mean it at all. They head out into the night, careful to stick to only the main streets, heading into areas that are poorer and poorer, the houses little more than ramshackle huts help up more with luck than solid workmanship.
They knock on a door, and a family lets them in: a man, a woman, and three younger children. The man is missing a leg, and the lot of them have seen better days, their clothes threadbare and bodies thin.
Matty gently lays his bundle before the man and unrolls it -- it's an artificial leg. A real steampunkish one, with gears and tubes and little steam vents and leather straps to help attach it.
He tells them it's something of a prototype, but it should work, and he'll come by for tweaks and adjustments. The man stammers that he'll pay them back, he swears, once he starts earning money again -- Matty waves him off. It's free of charge, besides, the man's helping him, this is really a prototype.
Moxie whispers stage-loud to the woman that that's her brother. It's already obvious what their relation is, but she doesn't care, because she's proud of him and loves him fiercely.
memory: completing the rabbit
The rabbit flicks an ear, twitches, and then it's moving, the embers breathing warmth into its articulated plates and gears. It looks alive, almost, and Moxie gasps in awe.
"See that, little Wren? Sometimes I think it's a magic all its own -- a new magic, maybe, as the old magic is dying."
"Can I have it, Matty? Is it mine? S'gonna be named Roger!" she replies, apparently deciding that the rabbit is hers whether he agrees or not. Matty just laughs, though, watching the little creature hop around the room -- and catching Moxie (Wren?) as she tumbles after it, guiding her away from the heated furnace and sharp implements and other things a little girl probably shouldn't run into.]
memory: XXXXXXXXX
[She was fuming. Another argument with Matty over how a "proper lady" should be and how she needed to stop running with the gang and start having some care for her upbringing, her presentation, her future -- she'd stayed away for 2 days this time, and she was still red in the face about it.
As she rounded the corner up the street to the shop, she realized the inspector was about -- the black and dread steam-powered wagon they used was always obvious, in both sight and sound. The far less fancy (and expensive) wagon belonging to the undertaker was there, too.
Wren grimaced to herself -- it was the early grey light of morning, which meant the Hunt had probably struck again last night, torn some poor bloke to shreds in an alley and painted the walls with their blood.
But as she drew closer, she realized -- the inspector, the workers, they were right by her home. A neighbour...? Missus Dreyfuss? Or--
She broke into a sprint. Her home, Matty's shop, it couldn't be--
"Ho there, lass! Scene's closed!" One of the inspectors calls, a Preton, his clothes clean and pressed and his hair carefully trimmed. She ignored him, ignored the twist in his mouth as her clothes brushed against him, the disgust at her proximity.
"What're you on about? This's my house, where's Matty?" She cried, and he let her go. She thought she heard someone query 'next of kin' and another call out to her not to go in, but she ignored it, barged into the shop--
It was torn apart. Machinery broken, drawers open, parts strewn about--
A body strewn about. The undertaker had barely gotten started, or maybe he'd been at it a while, but the mess was too big -- the Hunt's work, for sure, but not their usual target, they'd never gone into homes before.
Most of the inspectors were standing about, complaining about Lowtown, the smell, the dirty wretches, they weren't even bothering with the scene -- some dirty Naz was dead, so what? Probably stole from the wrong bloke, got his comeuppance, a robbery gone wrong. Someone screaming.
Oh. Maybe she was screaming? Later, she wouldn't be sure -- she just remembered the blood, a twisted blanched hand, fingers frozen in a crooked gesture (rigor mortis), hey, come over here, peeking under a small sheet -- was some of the arm hidden under there? Maybe? Where was the rest? She knows Marley was there, at some point, pulled her away, made excuses, spoke to the Inspectors, just a hysterical girl, many apologies, your lordships. She knows they got to Olu's place, somehow, but she doesn't remember the walk--
She just can't stop thinking about that hand, you know?]