theo. (escutcheon) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-07-19 15:33:00 |
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Anger rattled his teeth. The insult pricked along his nerves and down his spine, a rush of red-hot adrenaline that sent him surging forward. Theodore Finch, knight who aspired to swear his life to keeping the peace, grabbed the man now blocking his way by the collar and dared him to keep talking. A bold appearance by one who had only come to the EKP offices to request the exam forms. He might’ve looked young and lost, enough so to earn him taunts from his senior guildmates, but he was also tall and formidable, even not so long beyond his squire years. Theo’s grip tightened, his gauntleted fists creaking under the strain. It had been a long while since he’d been disciplined for fighting, but that respite from violent manners seemed entirely threatened now. “Come on,” he spat, frowning as the attention of the man in front of him shifted to something over Theo’s shoulder. The other man’s eyes widened, and he almost seemed to go limp like a kitten in its mother’s grasp, the fight fleeing out of him as quickly as it had arrived. Behind them loomed an officer equal to Finch’s height: in his early forties, brown hair greying, wearing the unmistakable epaulettes and two pips which marked him as an inspector. And a fighter’s guild councilor besides. “What’s all this, then?” Bram asked, and his rookie officer’s combative expression melted away, giving way to bland complacency, as if Murray could scour himself of his involvement in this altercation. (The inspector’s eyes had already picked out the tell-tale signs of provocation, however: rumpled collar, flushed face, the exultant light of challenge in the constable’s eyes. He knew it well.) Theo’s entire posture was already rigid with anger and the interruption seemed to do much less in his regard than for his would-be foe—but a moment of hesitation was all it took to shake that quickly budding rage apart, enough for him to release his hold on his almost-opponent. Faram’s divine intervention, perhaps, but now the young knight turned to face who had intervened. The former was shoved away, discarded. “Nothing,” he said, terse, straightforward, his mouth turned down stubbornly. Released from the knight’s grip, Murray dusted himself off with an air of indignance, mouth open to argue, but then quickly took the opportunity to slink away instead. Theo frowned and gazed at the markings denoting the older man’s station. Another item to give him pause it appeared, but he held himself angrily just the same (somewhere at his feet, now momentarily forgotten, were his collection of forms, scattered around the floor along with the remnants of his facade of dignity). “Who are you, aye?” “Councilor Thornton. Bram Thornton.” He delivered the introduction not like a show of arrogance and pulling rank, but rather a flat statement of fact. The man’s eyes drifted to the floor, catching the pile of loose-leaf papers, a chaotic assemblage that had once been an application packet. He stooped, sweeping up a few of the papers, catching sight of the name printed neatly on the front: “Finch,” he said, recognising it. Bram looked back up, meeting the young man’s eye with a furrow of his brow. “Looking to join?” “Aye,” Theo said, the syllable wrought with fumbling aggravation now that he’d made a fool of himself in front of a guild councilor. Reality sunk in like a heavy plank to the skull, and the young knight moved a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. Any possible apologies were slow in coming, however, and he reached out with his other hand for the papers instead. “Wasn’t looking to socialize,” he said, which was a clumsy, stumbling attempt in the vague direction of regret, perhaps. He paused before managing to grind out the man’s title—”Councilor,” he said, the embers of his previous anger still snapping bitterly against his skin. Theo made some effort to try and act proper (after all, he thought dourly, who knew how much importance the man before him would have in his future). “Constable Murray is an arsehole. Don’t mind him.” It was an attempt at mending that awkward tension laced into the young knight’s spine—not comfort, but the inspector’s hand waved in a gesture that was part conciliatory, part dismissive. “If he doesn’t get a rise out of you, you’re not hume. C’mon. Let’s get you settled. We’re low on men, can always do with more able bodies in the force.” If Thornton was surprised at seeing this Finch going into the peacekeepers rather than politics or law, he gave no indication of it beyond one slow blink, a long intake of breath as he examined Theodore Finch and weighed the man’s potential. The nobleman was already tall and broad, and looked like he would no doubt become broader—he’d be an intimidating addition to their lineup, certainly. Theo grumbled his assent and followed along behind, head-bowed and dutiful into the depths of the EKP offices, the exam papers kept tight under his arm. Perhaps the sudden intervention wasn’t so bad of an omen after all. It was a familiar sort of dull weariness, fighting off the instinctive urge to let one’s head nod and eyelids flutter shut. “Regretting becoming a Knight of the Peace yet?” Bram asked dryly. They were hunkered down in a dusty and disused room, its windows missing glass; they were using some machinist-made binoculars to keep an eye on the apartment building across the street, waiting for their mark to leave. Long, slow hours of nothing: that was what they never put into the recruitment brochures. But the rookie had taken to it with stubborn hard work, the knight growing in the lee of the older inspector—he pressed his nose to the grindstone in a way that reminded Bram of himself, his own ancient reflection stirring in the eyes of this youth. Theo sighed heavily from his nostrils, denoting a stubborn and familiar reply in the negative. The younger man had propped his own massive frame against the wall near the windows, gazing out with a bleary-eyed sort of agitation—aggravated by every mark of the candle that went by without a change in the activity outside. Regardless of this, he had already made firm pact with himself not to appear to doze off around the Detective Inspector. His time spent thus far under that particular title, a man who had sworn himself to uphold the honorable standard of the law, had not been idealistic. At least not in the eyes of Sir Theodore Finch—he struggled as much with himself as with his new duties and protocols, but the determination to succeed, perhaps, in spite of all these challenges had kept the young knight propelled forward. “Nothing yet?” He said, proving once again that he was not Evander, and his skills with easy conversation had not advanced with time. The tired aggravation he felt was hinted in his voice, even as Theo tried to maintain something of a professional air. Arms crossed over his massive chest, he sniffed and turned his eyes to Thornton on the other end of the room. In that moment, the detective inspector seemed to mirror the younger man instead, giving one identical negative huff. No, nothing yet. But when Bram turned his eyes back to the apartment building, he finally caught a glimpse of movement and leaned in closer, jamming the goggles to his face. “Taking that back. We’ve got activity,” he said curtly, sinking lower in the window. There was a brief glimmer of light in the distance, a figure in a long coat scurrying down the steps and starting to head down the street. “Time to go,” and it was nothing more than a barked order, Thornton immediately dropping his non-essential equipment and surging to his feet as if they hadn’t spent the last six hours waiting and atrophying. He made a beeline for the door and crashed down the stairwell, taking a back exit out onto the alley, trusting that the newly-fledged constable behind him was following suit. Theo came barreling through behind him, surging down the stairs with a stoked burst of energy and already thanking Faram for the break. By the time he came stomping along behind the Detective Inspector at the building’s exit, however, the prayer was quickly rescinded—Theo shoved the older man away, working on pure adrenalized instinct as a hail of gunfire surged out from the darkness of the street to greet them. An ambush? He hardly had time to think as Theo dove behind a parked and soon-to-be ruined hovercar, bullets ricocheting off the giant flat of the blade at his back. He grit his teeth and ducked his head low, looking to Thornton for a signal. “Fuck’s sake, what now?” He growled out, unsheathing his sword. There was hardly time for surprise (or gratitude) as deep booming impacts tore up the metal door where the two men had found shelter. Thornton’s hand rested lightly on the set of angon strapped to his back, before realising the futility of the situation. Guns. He bloody well hated them—the thieves’ technology had started to outpace the officers’ weapons, much to his bitterness. The man assessed the situation (it was a bad one), immediately racking up the variables and coming to one inescapable conclusion: he couldn’t put the rookie at risk. “We need to get the weapon away. Keep them distracted,” Thornton said, waiting just long enough for the nod of acknowledgment before he gathered his energy and leapt into the air, springing himself up with his halberd. A trail of gunfire followed him into the sky, but then he was gone. The criminals assailing them didn’t have another moment to spare him their attention however. Theo took the order without question, grit his teeth and went charging in. Bullets sparked against the knight’s blade as Ragnarok cut a menacing arc through the air and the men paused their fire to avoid it. It was a reckless move, to be certain—but also one of faith. Which was ultimately rewarded a minute later (each second felt drawn-out and agonisingly long in the older officer's absence) when the dragoon came plummeting back down, landing on one of the shooters. Thornton's crashing weight sent the man sprawling, near-impaled on the halberd. The gun went clattering onto the ground and he was in the middle of them now, swinging left and right alongside Finch to disarm the rest of them. Pain exploded in his side—one of the bullets had found its mark, not lucky enough to escape an ambush completely unscathed—but he still fell to with Finch by his side, both of them striving to subdue the men with wild blows, scrappy violence. They were under orders to bring them in alive, which made their job considerably harder. But some ten minutes later, they'd finally succeeded in subduing the pair of thieves: handcuffs were fastened tight around wrists, livid bruises blooming on cheeks, Finch's eye swollen shut, Thornton's jaw cracked until his voice sounded gravelly and woolly-mouthed. He was walking with a limp, favouring the side where blood seeped from the bullet wound; Finch instinctively positioned himself at that side, ready to prop up the inspector if his step faltered. Weapons grasped in their other hands, they dragged their shuffling hume prizes back towards the guildhall. Protocol. There was always protocol to be followed. Faram had no mercy for those who were charged with sewer patrols, or so it often seemed. It was well into the evening when Theo finally made his return to the offices, covered bodily in the grisly ooze of whatever disgusting matter composed a Flan’s physiology—whatever it was, the slime seemed to stubbornly adhere to his leather armor, his clothing, and skin. A worthless and humiliating sight, the trials of the day had him in a predictably grim mood at first, one that a long and thorough scrubbing did not seem to be able to wash out. There was some answer to his prayers that day, at the least. The offices seemed near to abandoned, the lights darkened to only a few small magicite lamps, a scatter of glowing torches to light his way over toward his own desk and the peace and solace which it would hopefully provide. He stomped wearily along, sporting fresh clothing now (and still feeling as though he could wipe the ooze from back behind his ears if he tried), taking to his seat like a disgruntled youth. His large boots were propped up on his desk in no time, and Theo leaned back in his chair and began to scratch at his still-damp hair. “Emillion be damned,” he growled, thinking no one was around to hear (or at least, none who would seek to bother him). For a minute, it seemed like it was true—that there was nothing but peace and quiet and privacy in the offices at this late hour. But then the sound of chair wheels rolling over aged wood and then the creak of floorboards betrayed Bram’s arrival, popping his head out of his office with a rueful expression. “The hells is that smell,” he said. Theo whirled around, as a boy might having suddenly been found out by his parents. His boots hit the floor in moments, and already was his usual scowl in place to greet Thornton’s sudden appearance. Holding onto the chair arms with both hands, he fought the impulse to stand (for Faram’s fucking sake). “Sewer,” he ground out defensively, “flan, take your pick.” Theo shook his head and tried to be at ease. Bram’s eyes took in the officer’s appearance, with the smallest hint of amusement (it was the tiniest thing, a slight tug at the corner of the mouth that soon smoothed over into his usual dry deadpan). “Hm,” he said. His head disappeared back into the office. A moment later, however, the inspector re-emerged carrying a folder tucked under one arm and a cup of turgid, terrible coffee. “Hate the sewer patrols,” he said matter-of-factly. “Worst part of the job. Wish we could just flush the whole system out.” Too many criminals tended to use the oversized pipes and tunnels as shortcuts and caches around the city, springing up like rats or mould festering literally beneath their feet. Theo let out a curt snort as an agreement—a sign of amusement, almost. "Ought to request a transfer," he sniffed, "Bazaar patrols maybe. Think merchants ooze less?" Of all those to have caught him upon his return, Theo now supposed to himself, the Detective Inspector seemed now not quite as bad. At least he hadn't, regardless of the stench and the grime and the flans (and other unmentionables), fucked up the work. The patrol went as it ought, even if that worked less in a peacekeeper's favor while so far down below. Taking an oath to serve the city and its people, he had soon realized upon his initiation that it often a dirty and thankless job. "No. Just a different kind of slime." It was delivered in a tone dry as dust, but to the canny observer, Bram Thornton's rare jokes were becoming steadily more recognisable. He took another sip from his coffee and tossed an empty report onto Finch's desk (the surface fouled somewhat by his boots). Theo leaned over the desk and took it in hand, inspecting the paper with his usual pasted-on frown and realizing how much work he had yet to do yet that evening. The coffee in Thornton's possession started to suddenly seem more enticing. "Another late night," he grumbled to himself. His gaze wandered around to the near empty expanse of empty desks and chairs around them, the bustling office space now gone quiet. Only bastards with poor luck left to linger, like himself, or those with never-ending tasks to tend to—like Thornton, or so he could only suspect. "Same as always, aye?" “Indeed,” the older man said. But it was strange, alien almost, having someone else melding into this quiet tapestry of abandoned offices and empty tables. “Not going home to the family?” Bram asked, as if it weren’t the height of hypocrisy. They all knew he had a wife and young son at home—but the dogged, tireless hours continued, and Vera Thornton was just as much a fixture of the guildhalls as her husband was. One could almost wonder when they ever found time for their child, between the two of them. “No,” which was the fumbled over truth, simplified without explanation. Theo set his large hands on the desk and tried, it seemed, to make something better of the papers scattered across it. A young man still settling into his place in the world, there were many battlefields yet for him to surmount. “Priorities first,” he explained, attempting to feel a modicum more noble and valiant about his career, now that he wasn’t so covered in ooze and grime. But even looking bedraggled and muddied and reeking, the man had a point. Bram nodded. “Aye. A thing I understand,” he said. Perhaps not the healthiest of approaches, but one that resonated, a sympathetic chord ringing between the two of them. Four years of service had evolved Theodore Finch into a trusted officer, passing time starting to comb out the man’s uneven temper. All of which eventually merited an invitation to this summer garden party, the backyard of the small but well-kept Thornton house now milling with officers. The Knights of the Peace all looked strangely casual out of their uniforms, their sleeves rolled up and badges absent. The smell of charcoal and grilling meat wafted across the garden, men and women standing around and chatting, cans of beer nestling in their hands. It wasn’t a common occurrence for the pair to open up their home like this. Both Bram and Vera were notoriously inhospitable, private and reserved by way of vaults with a hundred-odd padlocks. But having a son had dislodged something in the married couple, making them seem a bit more approachable (even despite the late hours, the overtime): a few children were running around underfoot, Jonah veering past as he chased the son of another officer around a corner of the house. His mother watched him warily, before shaking her head. Bram stood watch by the grill like a sentry, looking more like someone tasked with standing guard at an official fighters’ guild function. He noticed the new arrival after a while—it was Finch’s first time at the home, first time obtaining this crack of insight into his superior’s domestic life. “Welcome,” Thornton said, sounding less stiff than usual. (He wasn’t wearing an apron as he nudged at the meat with a spatula, but he wasn’t very far off from the sight either.) Theo likely looked as awkward as he felt, not adept in social situations as he was typically accustomed to them (balls and galas of high society did him no great favors either) and not at all here, in new territory. He had accepted the invitation with simple, curt nod, possibly from a point of obligation. Or maybe, he considered, stomping around through the unfamiliar house, making the acquaintance of Thornton's wife and nearly bumping his way into, what he was told from the others, the Councilor's young boy, it had been something more than that. Of the years he had spent in the EKP thus far, learning the work and those he called his comrades and superiors, Theo might have admitted (at least to himself) to having gained something near like respect for Thornton. Whatever the fuck it was, at least, that had compelled the younger man enough to endure tides of curious glances and awkward conversations with his coworkers off-duty, Theo strove to make himself appear at least a modicum at ease. Whether or not he was successful—now that was another matter entirely. "Afternoon," Theo grumbled out, his large hand brushing the nonexistent wrinkles from his waistcoat. He glanced from Thornton to the grill. The food was quick to gain his attention, and the younger man hazarded his way nearer for a better look. "Good day for it, aye?" "Luckily so. Vera—my wife," he added by way of explanation, "thought it might rain." Bram gave the meat another dull, perfunctory prod, before he noticed the younger man's interest. "Any preferences: sausage, burger, ribs? There are beers on the other table." He suspected noblemen like Theodore Finch might have more rarified tastes, but there was no sound of insecurity or inadequacy here; all the knights of the peace learned to settle for somewhat lower palates while in the eleventh hour sipping cold coffee or wolfing down leftovers on stakeout, and Thornton knew it. Theo, in contrast to his well known upbringing, looked interested and even curious at the food. The beer was noted and before long, he suspected, the younger man would require his share of it to coast through the rest of the afternoon in something approaching a mild mood, but for now he stood where he was. He gave the grilled meats a discerning eye, an answer held back as he fought some urge to elbow his way into offering to help. The other fighters milled about casually, a stark sight perhaps from the extravagant parties of the nobility, where Theo would often position himself out of the way to indulge in a sour mood. But in continued trend of contrasts, he worked to engage instead (impress, it might even be said). "Aye," he said, scratching at the back of his neck. "Need a hand here?" A pause, and then he added, "Might know a thing or two." “A burgeoning chef, are we?” But Bram held no such stubborn pride for himself: he immediately flipped the handle of the spatula and held it out to the younger man. Like handing a sword to another knight, a ritual passing of the baton. Theo took the offering with all manner of seriousness, his frown of concentration fixed on as he moved nearer to the grill. Set at a firm task and aiming to put himself to some use, the younger man wasted no time and effort in creating what he thought was a proper culinary sight to behold. It might have proved a strange one however, for those not already acquainted with the young man’s peculiar behaviors (especially for noblemen, such as Theo’s brother, who strained to understand the interest), but his experience at the task as plain. Bram watched the process avidly, as if he were evaluating an officer’s field performance—and in some ways, he was. Their other comrades came about in eager and hungry clusters, taking interest in the sight but more so the food offered, and empty plates were exchanged for full, the aroma of spices and grilled meats continuing to waft around the yard. Theo, so invested as he was in the task, looked back to the Detective Inspector with an involuntary start. “Admirable work,” he said, gesturing to the grill and the party, as seriously as if the they were engaged in a case and not something which was close enough to the concept of revelry as dutiful men of oath could afford. “Same goes for you,” the inspector said. (Of course, he wasn’t in uniform today—but the badge never truly left men like them, did it?) After a pause, Bram added, “Thanks for coming, Finch. Important to bond with all the squad, even outside the office.” A shrug of Theo’s massive shoulders followed as a response, but the words sank in deep, a suggestion that the younger man would take to heart. “Glad to have come,” he said in a grumble, and with a few gestures of the spatula in his hand, another plate was filled with food and set aside—an offering for the host, or so it seemed. “Paid your tithe,” Bram said, giving a crooked smile with the barest glimmer of teeth (a rare accomplishment). And then they both inevitably turned back to the party, the Knights of the Peace enjoying the sleepy afternoon as it unfurled around them. They were all one organism, immersed in the camaraderie of the day, from ribald jokes that made the wives roll their eyes to the laughter of children in the air. It was a hot summer day, and nice enough, though one could still see the damage in the city: construction scaffolding wreathing still-damaged buildings, the pavement pockmarked from the earth’s tremors. The councilor had left his house in the commoners district (that shuttered tomb), meandering through the city and feeling its familiar heartbeat around him. He strolled down the streets until he (not-so-accidentally) found himself gravitating towards the nobles district. He didn’t often have reason to come by this part of the city. He’d been to the manors here for Banes, once upon a time. Rozenkatz. Fon Amell. As he stared at the long lane that would eventually lead to the Finch estate, watching and thinking, a decision eventually fell into place. |