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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.