furo
learn and let die
One-on-one roleplay between TheCreator and FloatingAroundSpace.
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All Aboard The Wayfarer
- Thread starter furo
- Start date
furo
learn and let die
Between a two-story house the color of butter, right by the corner of Wellstone Street and Holt Grove Alley, and the abandoned warehouse that by some means used to be a bakery, was crammed a small, humble workshop, numbered 215b. In 215b there happened a lot of makings and endings and mendings, all by the bitty hands of one very engaged engineer, Florence Harlow. Now, she might’ve been taken for an inept, solely for her womanhood and nothing more, and her respect may be attributed only to her mentor and professor who long ago demanded due regard from their peers in the field, but Florence Harlow had been born to look at things from a wholly different perspective. This is what most people fail to understand.
Because, of course, when one stumbles upon a problem, and the two possible solutions are A and B, one will not contemplate C. Florence Harlow builds C.
The brunette leaned against the edge of the table in the middle of the room, where there were scattered around tools and small gadgets of all sorts, all placed but misplaced for whenever she needed use of them. Her hands were occupied; in her left hand was grasped a wooden piece that appeared to be the mixture of a firearm stock and the crooked handle of an umbrella, while her right hand carefully twirled an allen screwdriver into the previous item. The tip of Florence’s tongue was poking out towards her upper lip; much like it perpetually is whenever she is deeply immersed in her handy work. An unruly strand of hair droops down to dangle right in front of her left eye, which she urgently blows at to push aside from her very fixated line of vision.
Once she deemed her work finally done, she put down the tool and straightened her position away from the table, her new innovative device in hand. From the tabletop she took the leather sheath disguised as a canopy and cased the piece inside of it. After long weeks of scheming and assembling, the new gear had been accomplished. Once again, her vision materialized. She stared it down. It could’ve used some wiping; the sheath had been blemished, but she could not wait for trivialities.
Standing away from the table, and with a few feigned pivots, Florence curled the handle like a sheepish damsel of the aristocracy would an umbrella, in an attempt to covertly beguile a young man—it did look like an umbrella. She then also clasped both hands atop the end of the handle and the opposite end onto the floor, emulating the demeanor of a nobleman entering premises and marking his presence.
This is where her favorite and most expected part was to come. Reverting to her former impersonation, and with one swift swipe of the hand, the device was unsheathed, and firmly drawn into a position parallel to the ground, with only a dexterous right hand. A strong, single-shot firearm—a 12.ga shotgun. The engineer tilted her head, locking her one open eye ahead at an imaginary target. Her finger that hovered above the trigger curled, feinting a pull, and from her tongue coiled at the back of her mouth came the hushing sound of what could be interpreted as an echoed gunshot.
Her lips pulled up into a smirk, and she chuckled it off.
Because, of course, when one stumbles upon a problem, and the two possible solutions are A and B, one will not contemplate C. Florence Harlow builds C.
The brunette leaned against the edge of the table in the middle of the room, where there were scattered around tools and small gadgets of all sorts, all placed but misplaced for whenever she needed use of them. Her hands were occupied; in her left hand was grasped a wooden piece that appeared to be the mixture of a firearm stock and the crooked handle of an umbrella, while her right hand carefully twirled an allen screwdriver into the previous item. The tip of Florence’s tongue was poking out towards her upper lip; much like it perpetually is whenever she is deeply immersed in her handy work. An unruly strand of hair droops down to dangle right in front of her left eye, which she urgently blows at to push aside from her very fixated line of vision.
Once she deemed her work finally done, she put down the tool and straightened her position away from the table, her new innovative device in hand. From the tabletop she took the leather sheath disguised as a canopy and cased the piece inside of it. After long weeks of scheming and assembling, the new gear had been accomplished. Once again, her vision materialized. She stared it down. It could’ve used some wiping; the sheath had been blemished, but she could not wait for trivialities.
Standing away from the table, and with a few feigned pivots, Florence curled the handle like a sheepish damsel of the aristocracy would an umbrella, in an attempt to covertly beguile a young man—it did look like an umbrella. She then also clasped both hands atop the end of the handle and the opposite end onto the floor, emulating the demeanor of a nobleman entering premises and marking his presence.
This is where her favorite and most expected part was to come. Reverting to her former impersonation, and with one swift swipe of the hand, the device was unsheathed, and firmly drawn into a position parallel to the ground, with only a dexterous right hand. A strong, single-shot firearm—a 12.ga shotgun. The engineer tilted her head, locking her one open eye ahead at an imaginary target. Her finger that hovered above the trigger curled, feinting a pull, and from her tongue coiled at the back of her mouth came the hushing sound of what could be interpreted as an echoed gunshot.
Her lips pulled up into a smirk, and she chuckled it off.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
If anyone chanced a glance at the figure walking down the street, they would assume that they were simply another respectable person, perhaps someone with a simple job fiddling with gears or sitting at a desk, typing up reports. The figure was dressed in dark clothing and had a brown satchel thrown over their right shoulder that rattled on occasion as something inside of it rolled from side to side. They kept their head held high and their eyes clear and wore a standard cabbie hat that was a dark brown plaid color. They had on a jacket with dulled brass color buttons and slacks that were relatively clear from dirt. It was only their shoes that stood out from their outfit.
They were boots and old ones at that, with fabric peeling from the toe portion. However, few glanced down at the feet of the individual and so they slid on by, their cover safe from scrutiny due to the massive apathy that such a figure garnered.
While tall and towering might have alerted some to their presence, most were in a hurry and found their height nothing more than a mild factor in avoiding them, often shuffling close before sliding by with a muttered false apology. The figure, on the other hand, did not appear inclined to move out of the way, keeping a straight trajectory down the left hand side of the road, their right hand covering their satchel and their free left one swinging from side to side. To the untrained eye, their arm never moved more than a few inches from their body. To all those that the figure might call their peers, their fingers and hand danced into coat pockets and flapping bags, darting in and out as they continued on their route, forcing others to veer to avoid colliding into them, resulting in a few slowing down or turning at an uncomfortable position, giving the figure an opportunity.
One such person walking down the street kept their head down and their shoulders hunched, as if hiding their face. The other figure did not smile at what appeared to be an easy target; there was no need to alert anyone else of the sight. Any other thief might seize the opportunity before they did or a passerby might frown and pause for a second to watch if they felt like the figure was acting particularly strangely.
The other person seemed to be drifting closer and closer to the farthest side of the road, near the houses that lined the block as if trying to stay away from the crowd. The figure made no clear movements, instead keeping their eyes straight ahead and walking at the pace they had set when they awoke that morning. The figure's carelessness would be only an advantage to them or a missed opportunity. There was no need to fret about it, when so many others would be just as uncaring.
The figure bumped into the other person this time, their shoulders knocking together. "My apologizes," the figure muttered quickly while the other person glanced up for a moment, frowning sharply and eyes pinched.
"Watch where you're going," the other snapped in an irritated voice, with the air of great importance.
The figure simply nodded, their fingers finding an opening in a pocket and entering and leaving swiftly, the item that they grasped smooth in their palm. They slipped their hand into their own satchel and gave the other a terse smile before setting off again, not bothering to glance over their wares just yet.
They were boots and old ones at that, with fabric peeling from the toe portion. However, few glanced down at the feet of the individual and so they slid on by, their cover safe from scrutiny due to the massive apathy that such a figure garnered.
While tall and towering might have alerted some to their presence, most were in a hurry and found their height nothing more than a mild factor in avoiding them, often shuffling close before sliding by with a muttered false apology. The figure, on the other hand, did not appear inclined to move out of the way, keeping a straight trajectory down the left hand side of the road, their right hand covering their satchel and their free left one swinging from side to side. To the untrained eye, their arm never moved more than a few inches from their body. To all those that the figure might call their peers, their fingers and hand danced into coat pockets and flapping bags, darting in and out as they continued on their route, forcing others to veer to avoid colliding into them, resulting in a few slowing down or turning at an uncomfortable position, giving the figure an opportunity.
One such person walking down the street kept their head down and their shoulders hunched, as if hiding their face. The other figure did not smile at what appeared to be an easy target; there was no need to alert anyone else of the sight. Any other thief might seize the opportunity before they did or a passerby might frown and pause for a second to watch if they felt like the figure was acting particularly strangely.
The other person seemed to be drifting closer and closer to the farthest side of the road, near the houses that lined the block as if trying to stay away from the crowd. The figure made no clear movements, instead keeping their eyes straight ahead and walking at the pace they had set when they awoke that morning. The figure's carelessness would be only an advantage to them or a missed opportunity. There was no need to fret about it, when so many others would be just as uncaring.
The figure bumped into the other person this time, their shoulders knocking together. "My apologizes," the figure muttered quickly while the other person glanced up for a moment, frowning sharply and eyes pinched.
"Watch where you're going," the other snapped in an irritated voice, with the air of great importance.
The figure simply nodded, their fingers finding an opening in a pocket and entering and leaving swiftly, the item that they grasped smooth in their palm. They slipped their hand into their own satchel and gave the other a terse smile before setting off again, not bothering to glance over their wares just yet.
furo
learn and let die
Three knocks were tapped on the front door, before there came a chirpy, youthful voice with an announcement. “Telegram!”
Lowering the long firearm poised on her right forearm, Florence glanced over at the wooden rectangle, as if doing so would notify the postman that she had heard him and that she was meaning to go open. After a brief beat, she deposited the gadget upon the tabletop and shuffled briskly over to the door, wiping her hands of any dirt onto the rag fastened to the left side of her belt. She revealed a boy only about an inch or two shorter than her, whose face was petite and immaculately pale, and worn an unmistakable dark green hat with a white gold insignia in the shape of a bird of prey carrying and envelope.
“Telegram for Florence Harlow!” he chimed once more, having drawn the paper envelope from his big messenger bag. The engineer took the message from his hand, dedicating him a small smile.
“Thank you very much, Elliot,” Florence acknowledged, briefly relishing in the toothy smile he returned. Young Elliot wasn’t older than twelve or thirteen, and was endeared by most in the nearby blocks. The engineer wasn’t one to receive a lot of correspondence—being usually from her reckoner, the Professor, or an authority in need of her hand, when she did—but she was every time charmed by how a boy of such young age was already taking it upon himself to serve responsibilities.
“Have a good day, Miss!” the boy called out, waving her off as he skipped off onto the cobblestone path with that speedy sprint of his. The door to the workshop was closed with the postman’s sleeve, and the brunette reached for an old gold-plated letter opener she kept near the entrance for correspondence. The red wax seal that shut the envelope told her that this was no letter from some Jack Doe.
Having always been a fast reader, Florence skimmed swiftly over the few paragraphs, and found that she was being summoned to the War Ministry Hall to be offered a position related to an upcoming offense against a rivaling nation.
Florence’s forest eyes perched steadily upon the signature at the conclusion of the telegram.
Yours Heartily,
Queen Amelia Dennedy of Vandenyas
It wasn’t the first time the Queen herself had written to Florence Harlow, but it sure had been a while. Most of the times, she had lesser authorities contact her to call upon her to visit the castle, and there would be discussions about improvements on significant devices the country depended on; such were, for instance, upgrades on steambikes or weaponry, and sometimes, just sometimes, the meetings involved repairs on their little secret project.
This time around, the Queen apologized for the short notice, but Florence would have to be present at the War Ministry the day after tomorrow.
Lowering the long firearm poised on her right forearm, Florence glanced over at the wooden rectangle, as if doing so would notify the postman that she had heard him and that she was meaning to go open. After a brief beat, she deposited the gadget upon the tabletop and shuffled briskly over to the door, wiping her hands of any dirt onto the rag fastened to the left side of her belt. She revealed a boy only about an inch or two shorter than her, whose face was petite and immaculately pale, and worn an unmistakable dark green hat with a white gold insignia in the shape of a bird of prey carrying and envelope.
“Telegram for Florence Harlow!” he chimed once more, having drawn the paper envelope from his big messenger bag. The engineer took the message from his hand, dedicating him a small smile.
“Thank you very much, Elliot,” Florence acknowledged, briefly relishing in the toothy smile he returned. Young Elliot wasn’t older than twelve or thirteen, and was endeared by most in the nearby blocks. The engineer wasn’t one to receive a lot of correspondence—being usually from her reckoner, the Professor, or an authority in need of her hand, when she did—but she was every time charmed by how a boy of such young age was already taking it upon himself to serve responsibilities.
“Have a good day, Miss!” the boy called out, waving her off as he skipped off onto the cobblestone path with that speedy sprint of his. The door to the workshop was closed with the postman’s sleeve, and the brunette reached for an old gold-plated letter opener she kept near the entrance for correspondence. The red wax seal that shut the envelope told her that this was no letter from some Jack Doe.
Having always been a fast reader, Florence skimmed swiftly over the few paragraphs, and found that she was being summoned to the War Ministry Hall to be offered a position related to an upcoming offense against a rivaling nation.
Florence’s forest eyes perched steadily upon the signature at the conclusion of the telegram.
Yours Heartily,
Queen Amelia Dennedy of Vandenyas
It wasn’t the first time the Queen herself had written to Florence Harlow, but it sure had been a while. Most of the times, she had lesser authorities contact her to call upon her to visit the castle, and there would be discussions about improvements on significant devices the country depended on; such were, for instance, upgrades on steambikes or weaponry, and sometimes, just sometimes, the meetings involved repairs on their little secret project.
This time around, the Queen apologized for the short notice, but Florence would have to be present at the War Ministry the day after tomorrow.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
The figure had turned out a slightly less crowded street with signs hanging above shops spouting declarations of sales and polished items that people could buy. They glanced up at the various signs, as if looking for a specific one before walking forward and disappearing into a door with a sign that declared that there were various gadgets that could be found inside.
The shop was fairly dark, with a lone figure sitting behind a wooden table with a cash register. The person looked up and a slow smile snaked its way across his face.
"Dust," he grumbled low, using the code name the figure went by when selling their wares. "I was wondering when you'd get back to me."
The figure said nothing, approaching the wooden table and opening up their satchel, placing various bits and bobs before the man.
There were rusting and shiny gears along with small bits and bobs, like ends of screwdrivers and a few chunks of crystal of various colors. The man examined them all with a scrutinizing eye, though the figure couldn't tell if he was being genuine or faking it.
"Looks like a nice haul," the man said, smiling at the figure. His lips curled slowly and surely and the figure nearly recoiled at the sight of yellow and rotting teeth. "You did good, Dust."
The man frowned at the last item that the figure took out, the glowing crystal that they had snatched up from their last victim. The man picked it up slowly, turning it over in his palm and lifting it up towards some imaginary light.
"Holy shit," he muttered as he tilted his head from side to side, as if trying to discern what it was made of. "Holy shit," he said again. He lowered his head slowly to stare at the figure.
"Dust," he said slowly and cautiously and the figure realized that something was wrong when the man's free hand disappeared from view.
They turned heel and ran as something was drawn behind them and they could hear the whirl of gears turning, as if something was being activated.
They burst out onto the street and took off towards an alley as other pedestrians took note of their strange exit. They needed to get to a more secluded area, and fast. They disappeared down a sliver of cement between two buildings and slid behind a pile of abandoned mortar, breathing heavily and watching the light beyond, trying to discern what had just happened.
The shop was fairly dark, with a lone figure sitting behind a wooden table with a cash register. The person looked up and a slow smile snaked its way across his face.
"Dust," he grumbled low, using the code name the figure went by when selling their wares. "I was wondering when you'd get back to me."
The figure said nothing, approaching the wooden table and opening up their satchel, placing various bits and bobs before the man.
There were rusting and shiny gears along with small bits and bobs, like ends of screwdrivers and a few chunks of crystal of various colors. The man examined them all with a scrutinizing eye, though the figure couldn't tell if he was being genuine or faking it.
"Looks like a nice haul," the man said, smiling at the figure. His lips curled slowly and surely and the figure nearly recoiled at the sight of yellow and rotting teeth. "You did good, Dust."
The man frowned at the last item that the figure took out, the glowing crystal that they had snatched up from their last victim. The man picked it up slowly, turning it over in his palm and lifting it up towards some imaginary light.
"Holy shit," he muttered as he tilted his head from side to side, as if trying to discern what it was made of. "Holy shit," he said again. He lowered his head slowly to stare at the figure.
"Dust," he said slowly and cautiously and the figure realized that something was wrong when the man's free hand disappeared from view.
They turned heel and ran as something was drawn behind them and they could hear the whirl of gears turning, as if something was being activated.
They burst out onto the street and took off towards an alley as other pedestrians took note of their strange exit. They needed to get to a more secluded area, and fast. They disappeared down a sliver of cement between two buildings and slid behind a pile of abandoned mortar, breathing heavily and watching the light beyond, trying to discern what had just happened.
furo
learn and let die
The small engineer, seated atop the table, let her eyes skim the format of the telegram, outlining the aligning of the text and scrutinizing over minuscule flaws on the punch-written ink. She lets her hands drop to her lap, with the dainty grasp of three fingers of each hand on the edges of the letter still, her legs lightly dangling from the border of the table. Florence’s thoughts were sinking into the depths of wonder, but she caught herself before she strayed too far from the shallow waters. And she floated there. Suspended; still.
There decidedly wasn’t much to think about. The War Ministry was drafting staff, and they’d summoned her for a job offer. She wasn’t even certain she was capable of accepting the position, although it wasn’t specified, for her modesty for her knowledge often led her into the genuine belief that she lacked a helpless amount of expertise. The Professor was thankfully always there to reassure her and remind her of how competent she truly was.
Her thoughts contoured him. His thoughts on war—on the science of applying power to use, and of employing it in warfare. She wasn’t pained, but ambivalent.
Florence’s stream of blank emotions was cut short by the door unhinging to allow the entry of someone who didn’t exactly reside the premises, but entered with the confidence as though he in fact did. The brunette’s attention shot up and followed the gait of the man who so boldly walked past her without even a greeting or flick of the gaze; the image would’ve been finished with the little detail of doing something as homely as tossing a rolled newspaper onto the table or kicking off his shoes.
“O—oh, sure, come in…” Florence uttered in disbelief, almost sarcastically. Sawyer Tate Jackman’s eyes were instead engrossed into the manual he clutched in his right hand as he walked around the table and dragged a tall stool to sit amidst the room. The ever-present furrow creasing his brow pointed down at the letters lining the page. “Good… morning?” She wasn’t one to stress over any form of formalities, but it baffled her how he usually at least said something to her upon arrival, ranging from patronizing scolds to a grumbled greeting.
“This is a single shot; why would you need so much gunpowder?” Sawyer lifted his head locked eyes with the engineer for the first time since he’d come, upgrading the countenance of his confusion and discomfiture by narrowing his eyes.
Florence folded her knees upon the tabletop and turned her body towards his direction, hugging one of her knees to her chest. She organized her thoughts with a slight twist of her expression before answering.
“Why not? I didn’t want to use too little,” the engineer hadn’t come up with a precise reply, so she stuck to the safe side of having him just explain whatever point he had.
“The recoil is the most felt already, that amount will send the wielder back to last Wednesday, Harlow,” he argued. “Plus, it’d be the worst nuisance to clean all the soot afterwards.”
“Well, i—”
“You also designed a thinner barrel so it’d fit the sheath and dissemble an umbrella. It’ll snap in half in the third shot.”
Florence Harlow knew better than to dispute with the reckoner when he was so firm in his stance. She paused and examined his features intently, centering her gaze on the center of his scowl.
“Alright, then… how much do you suggest?”
The man quickly eyed the last paragraph he’d read, turning back to her after.
“Cut it down to an ounce and twenty,” he crossed his arms and sat back, peering at her defiantly as if he were bargaining with Florence.
“And twenty?” she jolted, disconcerted, “What do you want, to poke the target?” she barked with a frown.
Sawyer sighed, his eyes rolling with surrender. “Fine; an ounce and forty. That should be fine,” he ceded.
Florence nodded with a brief noise of satisfaction, as she hopped off the edge of the table and walked over to Sawyer’s side, and took her newly manufactured piece, lifting the muzzle closer to her face to peek one open eye into the barrel.
“I tell you, this is a moronic idea. It won’t sell,” Sawyer predicated, folding his arms more tightly across his chest with a snobbish purse on his lips.
The engineer did not cease the task of peering into the muzzle to speak. She was too humble to disagree. “Well, perhaps the bladed rendition will make the cut.”
After a short beat, a cheeky grin stretched her lips before she lowered the barrel and turned to look at him. Sawyer stifled a chortle with a huff and shook his head at her unintended pun.
There decidedly wasn’t much to think about. The War Ministry was drafting staff, and they’d summoned her for a job offer. She wasn’t even certain she was capable of accepting the position, although it wasn’t specified, for her modesty for her knowledge often led her into the genuine belief that she lacked a helpless amount of expertise. The Professor was thankfully always there to reassure her and remind her of how competent she truly was.
Her thoughts contoured him. His thoughts on war—on the science of applying power to use, and of employing it in warfare. She wasn’t pained, but ambivalent.
Florence’s stream of blank emotions was cut short by the door unhinging to allow the entry of someone who didn’t exactly reside the premises, but entered with the confidence as though he in fact did. The brunette’s attention shot up and followed the gait of the man who so boldly walked past her without even a greeting or flick of the gaze; the image would’ve been finished with the little detail of doing something as homely as tossing a rolled newspaper onto the table or kicking off his shoes.
“O—oh, sure, come in…” Florence uttered in disbelief, almost sarcastically. Sawyer Tate Jackman’s eyes were instead engrossed into the manual he clutched in his right hand as he walked around the table and dragged a tall stool to sit amidst the room. The ever-present furrow creasing his brow pointed down at the letters lining the page. “Good… morning?” She wasn’t one to stress over any form of formalities, but it baffled her how he usually at least said something to her upon arrival, ranging from patronizing scolds to a grumbled greeting.
“This is a single shot; why would you need so much gunpowder?” Sawyer lifted his head locked eyes with the engineer for the first time since he’d come, upgrading the countenance of his confusion and discomfiture by narrowing his eyes.
Florence folded her knees upon the tabletop and turned her body towards his direction, hugging one of her knees to her chest. She organized her thoughts with a slight twist of her expression before answering.
“Why not? I didn’t want to use too little,” the engineer hadn’t come up with a precise reply, so she stuck to the safe side of having him just explain whatever point he had.
“The recoil is the most felt already, that amount will send the wielder back to last Wednesday, Harlow,” he argued. “Plus, it’d be the worst nuisance to clean all the soot afterwards.”
“Well, i—”
“You also designed a thinner barrel so it’d fit the sheath and dissemble an umbrella. It’ll snap in half in the third shot.”
Florence Harlow knew better than to dispute with the reckoner when he was so firm in his stance. She paused and examined his features intently, centering her gaze on the center of his scowl.
“Alright, then… how much do you suggest?”
The man quickly eyed the last paragraph he’d read, turning back to her after.
“Cut it down to an ounce and twenty,” he crossed his arms and sat back, peering at her defiantly as if he were bargaining with Florence.
“And twenty?” she jolted, disconcerted, “What do you want, to poke the target?” she barked with a frown.
Sawyer sighed, his eyes rolling with surrender. “Fine; an ounce and forty. That should be fine,” he ceded.
Florence nodded with a brief noise of satisfaction, as she hopped off the edge of the table and walked over to Sawyer’s side, and took her newly manufactured piece, lifting the muzzle closer to her face to peek one open eye into the barrel.
“I tell you, this is a moronic idea. It won’t sell,” Sawyer predicated, folding his arms more tightly across his chest with a snobbish purse on his lips.
The engineer did not cease the task of peering into the muzzle to speak. She was too humble to disagree. “Well, perhaps the bladed rendition will make the cut.”
After a short beat, a cheeky grin stretched her lips before she lowered the barrel and turned to look at him. Sawyer stifled a chortle with a huff and shook his head at her unintended pun.
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Aaron stood on a rooftop, pulling the hood of a jacket he managed to steal over his head and peering down at the scurrying figure below.
They had triggered something. What it was, they didn't quite know. The merchant they had tried to sell to had tried to kill them and the strange crystal was the clear cause for his sharp change in demeanor. Aaron wondered what the crystal could possibly mean and why the figure they had bumped into that morning had been so careless with it. Wouldn't someone, if they really needed something like that and held it close to their heart, keep it locked away and always have a hand on it? Wouldn't they be sure to always have it on their person?
Perhaps the figure was simply too used to the kindness of the world. Aaron had long assumed that everything was cruel and everything was coming to destroy them, old scars reminding them of old lessons and preventing the formation of new ones.
There was the sound of footsteps behind them and they turned to glance at a trap door that led to the roof they were on. Quickly and quietly, they scampered off to the side, descending the building and hiding on one of the ledges, their body pressed up as tightly as possible to the side. They pulled out a small tooled drill and pressed it against the brick of the wall, cementing at least their hand for leverage.
"So Dust stole one of the aether crystals?" someone asked.
"Yup, appears so." Aaron stiffened, recognizing the voice as the one from earlier that morning.
There was a beat of silence and Aaron could hear the whirling of a gun and shrank as they heard the second man's pleas to be let free.
The please were cut short by the sound of crackling cutting through the air and they knew what had happened before they had even looked.
It seemed that whatever they had stolen, it was highly important and they were now being tracked down. The person that had allowed the mistake to happen was dead and Aaron could only assume that they would come for them next.
As silently as possible, Aaron disentangled themselves and descended towards the ground, pulling their jacket up and heading out. It seemed that their tenure in this part of town was over.
They had triggered something. What it was, they didn't quite know. The merchant they had tried to sell to had tried to kill them and the strange crystal was the clear cause for his sharp change in demeanor. Aaron wondered what the crystal could possibly mean and why the figure they had bumped into that morning had been so careless with it. Wouldn't someone, if they really needed something like that and held it close to their heart, keep it locked away and always have a hand on it? Wouldn't they be sure to always have it on their person?
Perhaps the figure was simply too used to the kindness of the world. Aaron had long assumed that everything was cruel and everything was coming to destroy them, old scars reminding them of old lessons and preventing the formation of new ones.
There was the sound of footsteps behind them and they turned to glance at a trap door that led to the roof they were on. Quickly and quietly, they scampered off to the side, descending the building and hiding on one of the ledges, their body pressed up as tightly as possible to the side. They pulled out a small tooled drill and pressed it against the brick of the wall, cementing at least their hand for leverage.
"So Dust stole one of the aether crystals?" someone asked.
"Yup, appears so." Aaron stiffened, recognizing the voice as the one from earlier that morning.
There was a beat of silence and Aaron could hear the whirling of a gun and shrank as they heard the second man's pleas to be let free.
The please were cut short by the sound of crackling cutting through the air and they knew what had happened before they had even looked.
It seemed that whatever they had stolen, it was highly important and they were now being tracked down. The person that had allowed the mistake to happen was dead and Aaron could only assume that they would come for them next.
As silently as possible, Aaron disentangled themselves and descended towards the ground, pulling their jacket up and heading out. It seemed that their tenure in this part of town was over.
furo
learn and let die
“At least it could save a life, you know,” Florence pointed out as she hopped onto the edge of the table facing Sawyer, and drew the rag from her waistband to wipe at the brass ornaments of the case that concealed the weapon as a mundane device that guards from the rain.
“More like take quite some, mind you,” the reckoner retorted, tilting his chin upwards just a slight inch, with squinted eyes. “If it does sell, it’ll only be contributing to more corruption. Seriously, do you ever think things through?” Sawyer leaned forward for emphasis, raising his voice a decibel, and speaking almost through his teeth.
Harlow doesn’t respond. She never does. Sawyer Jackman’s verbal assaults are always taken into the palm of her hand, and tucked away into her rear pocket. Florence knows how to not take any of it personally, because deep down, she knows that all the exacerbation that lace his words root from his own frustration, at himself, and himself only. Perhaps because he envies her endless creativity, because he would have never thought of an umbrella shotgun or umbrella sword. Or perhaps because he resents having to under the bidding of another—another who probably knows less than him, while this tiny, mediocre, ugh-so-brillaint-and-adorable engineer works freelance, and has in her hands the privilege of giving birth to possibly the most ingenious inventions the world has ever seen; but he’s stuck inside dull shipyards and warehouses, advising, or helping creators like Harlow pave their road towards greatness. And it is likely this reason that impedes him from ever even dream of returning the infatuation Florence Harlow has harbored for him throughout the years, but he has so unabashedly rejected (although she hasn’t explicitly voiced), and much to his dismay—which he will never, for the life of him, admit—is steadily dispersing.
Sawyer T. Jackman is so very undeniably jealous of Florence Harlow, and the sole thought of admitting it to himself enrages him to no end.
Florence Harlow, however, thinks the reckoner is the one to keep her in line whenever the passion for her ideas lifts her feet off the ground, but instead, it’s all the way around. She’s the one to keep Sawyer Jackman in line.
After concluding her task, the engineer set the device onto her lap carefully with a light, wistful sigh, settling her eyes abstractedly on a couple of bolts sitting loose on the floor. She then hopped off the table when she’d seemingly remembered something all of a sudden. She walked past the stool Sawyer was seated at and disappeared from his sight for a bit less than half a minute, and in a slow pace he heard come from behind him, and turned slightly over his shoulder to find Florence pacing over as she counted a stack of somewhat crumpled banknotes. Once she certified it was the right amount, she extended the folded stack to the reckoner, as she pushed her goggles further up from her forehead with a spare hand. “Here; for the new planes. Thank you.”
The man stared at the payment with slightly parted lips, as if, for some reason, befuddled. His gray gaze landed next upon her valuable fingers, but he forbid them to linger. His words were slurred with delay. “No…” he gently nudged her hand away. “Save it for another time.”
“More like take quite some, mind you,” the reckoner retorted, tilting his chin upwards just a slight inch, with squinted eyes. “If it does sell, it’ll only be contributing to more corruption. Seriously, do you ever think things through?” Sawyer leaned forward for emphasis, raising his voice a decibel, and speaking almost through his teeth.
Harlow doesn’t respond. She never does. Sawyer Jackman’s verbal assaults are always taken into the palm of her hand, and tucked away into her rear pocket. Florence knows how to not take any of it personally, because deep down, she knows that all the exacerbation that lace his words root from his own frustration, at himself, and himself only. Perhaps because he envies her endless creativity, because he would have never thought of an umbrella shotgun or umbrella sword. Or perhaps because he resents having to under the bidding of another—another who probably knows less than him, while this tiny, mediocre, ugh-so-brillaint-and-adorable engineer works freelance, and has in her hands the privilege of giving birth to possibly the most ingenious inventions the world has ever seen; but he’s stuck inside dull shipyards and warehouses, advising, or helping creators like Harlow pave their road towards greatness. And it is likely this reason that impedes him from ever even dream of returning the infatuation Florence Harlow has harbored for him throughout the years, but he has so unabashedly rejected (although she hasn’t explicitly voiced), and much to his dismay—which he will never, for the life of him, admit—is steadily dispersing.
Sawyer T. Jackman is so very undeniably jealous of Florence Harlow, and the sole thought of admitting it to himself enrages him to no end.
Florence Harlow, however, thinks the reckoner is the one to keep her in line whenever the passion for her ideas lifts her feet off the ground, but instead, it’s all the way around. She’s the one to keep Sawyer Jackman in line.
After concluding her task, the engineer set the device onto her lap carefully with a light, wistful sigh, settling her eyes abstractedly on a couple of bolts sitting loose on the floor. She then hopped off the table when she’d seemingly remembered something all of a sudden. She walked past the stool Sawyer was seated at and disappeared from his sight for a bit less than half a minute, and in a slow pace he heard come from behind him, and turned slightly over his shoulder to find Florence pacing over as she counted a stack of somewhat crumpled banknotes. Once she certified it was the right amount, she extended the folded stack to the reckoner, as she pushed her goggles further up from her forehead with a spare hand. “Here; for the new planes. Thank you.”
The man stared at the payment with slightly parted lips, as if, for some reason, befuddled. His gray gaze landed next upon her valuable fingers, but he forbid them to linger. His words were slurred with delay. “No…” he gently nudged her hand away. “Save it for another time.”
