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.
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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.