by Kell Inkston
Waine doesn't wait around. "Yes, sir— good day, sir," Waine bleats before turning about and slamming out the door with a rush.
He starts down the street, heading straight for the library.
"What did you do Clare?" he asks outwardly. He's going to get to the bottom of this. He won't let her down— but first, he'll need some privacy.
Waine weaves into the slightly denser crowds of the middle streets, just as Young-and-Handsome pops his head out the door to the Airineth estate and scans after him.
- Chapter 16 -
"It looks like he’s headed to the center," Cute-and-Blond reports, closing the door back.
"Sounds about right. I'd assume one of those damn coffee shops," Creighton responds with a strategic, muffled tone. "This might be your Evaluation Report's first bullet, Carrington. Think you can trail him?"
Officer Carrington resets his officer's cap confidently. "I can. I'll be on my way with your leave," he says with a speedy, jaunty salute before starting out the door— this time to follow.
Squinting his frosty gaze across the crowds, he makes out the shaggy brown hair of his target, who is leaning a right to the academic section of central. Carrington lowers the brim of his hat as is typical for a government worker on the prowl, and steps into the crowd. He keeps his distance for a while, as Mister Brightmoor is checking his immediate surroundings every fifty meters or so. Of course, Carrington can't blame the lad for not knowing how efficient trailing works; it's not as though being followed by constables is an everyday occurrence for anyone other than suspected Separatists.
The two play a gentle tag game of Brightmoor looking over his shoulder at the end of the block, and Carrington glancing over to see the next street he goes down immediately after. This cat and mouse routine continues on for a few blocks— Waine weary of being followed, but ultimately clueless as to how a trained dog follows a scent. Eventually, Mister Brightmoor reaches the royal library, makes a final shoulder check, and steps in.
Carrington's going to have to close the distance now. This is where it'll get risky.
Readjusting his cap with an official flair, he starts forward just in time to overhear the clicking of crutches down the street.
"Oswald!" a faint, though lively voice calls.
The officer winces and turns to address the young lady— "I'm on business, Pattie," he responds curtly.
The wavy-haired lass snaps up to him and, after a moment of struggling to take one of the fliers clenched between her arm and chest while still maintaining balance on her crutches, hands one to him. "We're having a labor drive for the home. There'll be music and games and some food, too! I would li-"
Officer Oswald Carrington takes the flier gently from her. His face, cold with seriousness, flashes briefly with a good-natured, kind smile.
"Of course I'll come. I always do. But I'm very busy right now," he says, folding the flier and inserting it into one of his many coat pockets. All the while, he keeps glancing back to the library— his eyes focused and deadly, though his smile portraying an entirely different man.
Pattie looks over in the same direction. "Busy, with what?"
"Official business; now, I have to go," he says, stepping back with a nod before turning off, his smile dying out to the cool, almost pouting look. It happens to be his resting face.
She smiles back. "You get 'em, Oswald! Find those no-goods and throw 'em in a box!" she adds with a bemused, though mildly-patriotic facetiousness.
He loves the people from the Infirmary— but life is not all fun and games for his lot; they just don't seem to get that.
Oswald finally crosses the street to the library. He doesn't spend much time here— not after completing academy training, at least; there’s not much of a reason to visit the big library when the constabulary has its own. He steps past a few pedestrians and scholars— everyone glancing to him, and then away just as quickly. He'll have to be incredibly demure about how he cuts this place up. If he attracts too much attention, people will start to leave— and that would likely tip off Mister Brightmoor; that is, assuming he wouldn't notice right away regardless.
The young officer folds between the doors of the library, keeping his profile low and his volume even lower. He hovers along the hardwood floors with an almost eerie silence to his footsteps, only a few people in the main circular taking notice from their books to glance up at the infamous black and white uniform.
Officer Carrington first makes a mental map of the scene— looking for any clear shaggy heads of hair, pasty, coffee-addicted complexion, or that ripe overused cologne smell— all of which he gleaned off of Waine from the scant few minutes they were near.
He steps up to the main desk, where an older lady has been watching him the entire time.
"I certainly hope you're here for a book, officer," she starts, her fingers fixing through her soft silvery bun of hair.
"Yes, actually," he says with a faint smirk. "Could you direct me to your reading rooms?"
Wearing an expression of relief, she lifts one of her fingers out from her hair and points up the stairs. "Second floor and to the left. Take a right down the hall, then your second door to the left. Enjoy, officer."
"Thank you for your help," he says with a shining, wonderful smile of the sort that makes old ladies proud of young men.
"Of course," she says with a look of equal courtesy.
With that, he starts off and follows her directions to a T. He soon finds himself in a beautiful library room, holding government records— which is also the reason why it doubles as the reading room: seeing it barely has any traffic. Cutting his vision across one section of the room after another from the doorway, he finally spots him; in one of the nooks is a figure— an elbow sticking out and wearing precisely what Waine had on. Got him.
Oswald rounds the corner slowly, so as to confirm that it is in fact Waine, rather than someone else— and locks in on him in victory. He's leaning on the desk like an improper prude, jolting a chat-stone with his finger over and over. His eyes are empty with worry.
"Clare...please," his whispers before looking over his shoulder conscientiously. Waine sees, in the rim of his vision, a blurred someone pass by through the hall- but nothing more. Before he can even turn to look, the figure is gone. Wayne shakes his head with a nervous sigh before turning back to continues his attempts to contact Clare.
Of course, that figure "passing through the hall" is actually Oswald leaning into the door frame— and he pops out again after a few seconds. He's going to need auditory data for this one; the more information he can get, the better.
While Waine occupies himself with his chat stone, Oswald creeps in. If one wishes to traverse creaky wooden floors without being noticed, one crawls. In a most un-official-looking display, Oswald manages his weight distribution by creeping along the floor, all the way over to the side of the first set of booths and into the connecting room with its own booths. He creeps up to the one opposite of Waine's, separated by only a thin wooden divider, and then he takes a seat.
Drawing his pencil and notepad, he readies himself to transcribe. He'll be spending the next twenty minutes waiting for a conversation— but it will be worth it to him.
- Chapter 17 -
Slowly, painfully, Clare pulls herself to consciousness. It's more of a half-awake flicker, slowly realizing she still exists, and drawing breath of some kind. She doesn't know much about the afterlife— but for a moment, she muses if she's there. It's so nice and dry here in truth, she wouldn't be too surprised.
A couple cloudy, almost comfortable seconds tick by— and then her memory snaps back.
She rises up with a start, straining her crushed leg, which is uncomfortably limp. She looks down and pauses a moment, as if she's not seeing correctly.
In the blue glow of her personnel light, which lies aside on the floor, she gazes at her leg— treated, splinted and tied. She stares dumbly for another long moment, trying to piece together how in the world it could have happe
ned.
"A person," she mutters to herself finally— and at once, the rest of her head clicks into action. This gives her room to think of all the other necessary thoughts one must ask when waking up in a strange new place.
Glancing around her, she sees that whatever place she's in, it is very dark— indoors, and dry. She feels unbelievably slimy, but also warm— and, strangest of all, comfortable. She scoffs, realizing how desperate her body must be for familiar comforts, if sleeping on a floor covered in a thin, filmy grease would somehow make it feel better.
Even so, the weight of her situation hasn't left her. Clare feels something creeping, something nearby— and, perhaps worst of all, something that is unknown. It's a truly haunted feeling: that perhaps she has been rescued from her fatal distress, only to be taken deeper into the abyss. Perhaps she has simply become the plaything of the dark, arcane consciousness that calls this pit of hell its home.
Clare's mind churns through the philosophical and theological implications of it for a moment, just laying back and appreciating the solace. She doesn't want to move and ruin it.
Is it possible, the entire world as humanity knows it really is Everhold? Could Her Lord, King Victor, really be the center of light and heat that a dark, cold world wants so badly to extinguish? Did she really give up heaven for hell?
She stares blankly up to the thin silhouettes of the godless dark, wondering what it all could mean: why this place is so familiar, why she feels like she's being watched, and why she survived— with a splint around her injury to boot. Fumbling over for her light, she picks it up and shines it around the place. She spots, a few meters over, a wet pile of what looks like her clothes.
Clare blinks at it a moment, and then looks down at herself. She finally notices that she's completely buck naked.
With some wavering attempt at both retaining her modesty and looking around for the culprit, she shines her light in one hand while doing her best to regain her dignity with the other. She does a full three-sixty, but fails to spot anyone. It's perfectly silent—with the exception of some weird vibrating sound. She shakes her head. This is the strangest, most horrible set of events she's had the displeasure of experiencing yet—but it’s not as if it’s supernatural. Surely no one would be creepy enough to watch her in perfect silence while she was sleeping- how ridiculous would that be?
She crosses her arms a moment in consideration. Her pile of drenched clothes are a few meters away, but by no means unreachable. Clare gives a few gentle scoots over to her belongings and takes up her pants. She chose the outfit she did for this quest because she thought it’d be easy to about move with; in hindsight, however, she feels as though she should have brought an extra change of clothes The scraps disintegrate into tatters at her touch— the main seam torn all the way down the length. It is was simply torn open without sense. She looks at her mother’s blouse, and then her underwear which have also been torn from the seams. Her mother’s jacket has its buttons all popped off— but is otherwise no worse for wear. Despite that, her socks, shoes, and gas mask all look fine; but that's not particularly relieving, given the circumstances.
Clare checks her surroundings again with a wary gaze. She hates to consider it— but she's starting to find evidence in her mind that she may have fallen from the grasp of a killer automaton, right into the hold of a pervert. She quickly checks her bag. Sure enough, her knife is gone. Her heart rate picks up once more as she considers what horrible, degenerate creature would have found her and stuffed her naked form into this room.
Just as she is finally in the process of working out her thoughts, her head again takes her over the deep end. What would it look like? What kinds of dreadful, slimy, disgusting things would it want from her— or force upon her?
She wraps her arms around herself in dread, like a child awaiting a punishment with grim, heavy anticipation. Clare closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Perhaps taking a pause will calm her down— allow her to get a hold of her head before she goes out and makes it obvious that she's awake. Maybe it's waiting for her on the outside, listening in and waiting for her.
With a few long, relaxing breaths, she becomes aware again of the vibrating sound— and it's very nearby. She looks over to her clothes, where she identifies the peculiar source of the sound with a nervous curiosity. She's shocked she didn't notice it sooner, but such is to be expected when the noise in one's mind overpowers the noise of the world.
Clare files through her destroyed clothes to her now buttonless coat; the vibration emanates sharply from within. With a relieved start, she suddenly remembers what it is. She shoves her hand into the pockets, and fishes out her chat stone— the one connected to Waine.
There it is, rumbling in her hands, asking her to complete the connection and begin the conversation. Her old life is calling back— asking for her— waiting for her. All she needs to do is answer, and she could make the first step to getting out of here. At least she'd be safe in prison with all the Separatists. She stares intently at its soft, cool glow, and hangs its chain around her neck. She can't, she tells herself firmly; they'd arrest her. They probably know by now, anyway. They're probably looking for her. Her dad probably spilled the beans, and they'll be down in this shit hole in just a few hours.
She feels the gentle rumble of the chat stone in her hands a moment longer, wishing just for the slightest, thinnest second that she hadn’t gone down here. She tightens her grip into herself and squeezes in a pathetic self-comfort. Confused, crestfallen, and scared beyond thought, she lets out a bitter, sputtering sob.
"Why?" she asks herself aloud, her eyes set straight to her feet.
She was too loud this time— because seconds after she says it, she hears it. Footsteps. They're heavy, steady, and terrible.
Clare looks up to the door with utter shock. She doesn't have a weapon. Frantically, she lifts her light around to look for anything she could use— but all around her is just her belongings and bookshelves. She has nothing to fight back with. Her hand trembles, struggling not to bring the chat stone up to her lips and activate it. She knows they couldn't save her in time— but at least she would get to hear Waine's voice in her final moments. She keeps herself from it, and waits with a raging heartbeat while the footsteps get nearer and nearer.
Finally, the door swings open— and the first thing she sees in the dark hallway, hit only barely by her light, is the dim glint of her knife in someone's hand. It's not a someone, though. The heavy, demonic verdant sheen of an automaton's managraph pierces the shadows. This is it. It doesn't even have to make sense. She's just going to die like an animal, without explanation.
Her stomach drops and her heart picks up as her body, yet again, prepares for instant, cat-like movement. She draws in a deep breath, and then—
"...Inquiry: Status Report for 'Clare' User," the auto says simply.
Clare stares on in complete, aghast stupidity.
The automaton steps forward a bit, the knife firmly in its grip.
"Inquiry: Status Report for 'Clare' User."
"I-..." She takes a deep breath, not quite yet certain if it’s truly okay to be relieved. "I'm okay," she mutters.
Carrie's internal registry clicks quietly for a moment, like a type-writer from far away. "This system is glad that you are safe. Inquiry: Why did you move from your position?"
Clare continues to stare dumbfounded at the machine; her head is swirling with questions— but overall, she's just happy. "I..." She lays back onto the ground. "I... I don't know. Why did you take so long?"
"This system took so long because this system was delayed."
"Delayed with what?"
"Enemy systems. There are many enemy systems in this area."
She squints an eye. "But you handled them, right?"
"Define phrase: 'handled them'."
Clare sighs. It's the same ol' Carrie. "Like, destroyed them."
Carrie's register clicks for another moment. "Negative. There are still many enemy systems in
this area."
"...Okay, but we're safe here, right?"
"Define term in context: 'safe'."
"As in, none of them will be coming here right now."
"That is unlikely. This system has put forward various countermeasures to prevent break-in entry. It is still reasonable to expect hostile systems."
She's not sure how to respond to that. It's vague for certain, but at least it seems like it’s getting a little smarter. Perhaps her mother gave it some kind of ingenious advanced learning managraph— not that she'd know how to tell one from a normal input managraph.
"Well... alright then." Her eyes draw over to her splint. "Who put this on?"
There's a steady clicking noise in Carrie's head. "Who put what on?"
Clare's hair stands on end in disbelief. It's learning her grammatical style, no pre-stated inquiries or prefaces needed.
"...This," she says, pointing to her splint. "The treatment on my leg."
Carrie's head clicks a bit more. "That was this system."
The surprise is less extreme than she would have expected; if an auto can talk almost normally, then of course it could also apply a crude splint to a person. "That's... amazing."
"...Agreed."
There's a sound down below— a loud, crashing snap.
Carrie’s attention immediately shifts. "I’m going," it announces bluntly, turning straight back into the halls.
"W-wait! Idiot! Don't leave me again!" Clare pleads, forcing her body to an uncomfortable sitting position. "–and give me back my knife; it's not yours!"
"It is very useful," Carrie counters brusquely. "Excuse me."
Despite any more of Clare's screaming and protests, Carrie steps off back into the foreboding darkness; its footfalls sound as Carrie-esque as ever— though it’s clear that its mind is in the works of becoming something entirely new.
"Freak," she retorts sulkily as her last word. She lays back down from the sheer exhaustion that her body is feeling— but at least it’s starting to seem safe. Clare is stupidly dirty, greasy, and injured— but at least Carrie got to her in time. She draws in a long sigh, uncertain of her next move, but excruciatingly happy that she's alive. It's such a rush; her body feels tingly with excitement, a kind of weird robustness she usually only feels around Professor Elwood and his huge arms. It's positively euphoric. With a faint, victorious smile, she listens out for anything— but there's no more sound to be heard below.