Moar rambling on punk and steam.
Aug. 18th, 2008 12:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
momebieFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theemdash's perusal. Tom? (I borrowed Gee, I hope he doesn't complain too loudly for how I handled him.)
You gotta sink gotta sink gotta sink to swim
impersonate greater persons
cause we all know art is hard
when we don't know who we are
Tom never actually agreed to any of this. It's a moral gray area he's comfortable holding onto. As if at any given point he could say he was done. He could throw his hands into the air and shout and cut down every logical imperative Jon would fling at him and just walk away, leaving the whole mess behind him. It's a day dream he doesn't often allow himself to have.
The machinist's shop is cramped and dark. A few gas lamps are perched precariously on piles of cogs or the corners of shelves otherwise heaped with wire and tools and fairings. It's cold too, which Tom hadn't prepared for. Life in the outer portions of the main city was much, much different from life here in the lower city, where the only sun was hungrily soaked up by apartments and business near the center, leaving he outer flanks to shiver and stagnate. The dark areas of the under city reminded him of truffles in the forest. By all odds, nothing should be able to grow in the dark, dank ground, littered with leaves and detriment, hidden from attention until they were plucked. But fungus had a strong biological stock and so, apparently, did people.
He shoves his fisted hands into the pockets of his trousers and clears his throat loudly, hoping he won't have to venture too far into the depths of the building to find the man he came looking for. After what feels like half a year in Tom's discomfort, a man appears from around a corner toward the back. He's wiping his hands on a red rag and it stands out violently against his black clothing and hair and his pale skin. Tom doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't a delicate toreador.
They stare across the space at each other, the sound of ticking clocks and winding gears filling in the deafening absence of words. Tom thinks about polite banter, idle chit chat. He opens his mouth to toss the man a lie about how good the shop looks, but closes it again tightly remembering Jon's directions. Tom was not here to make friends, he was here to conduct business, and it had to be understood that no part of his business was a request.
“I have something I need for you to do. It's,” Tom makes a show of pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket and checking it, reminding the man that he's not important enough to be remembered. “Mr. Price, isn't it?”
“To some it is,” the machinist replies, and looks away. He picks his way through the shelves and tables, careful not to bump anything hanging off an edge, and then sits down at a desk and sets to removing spare parts off a large sheet of paper. “You came for these, I imagine?”
Tom only has a vague idea of what he did come for, so he moves closer to the desk and looks down his nose at the paper. It's blocked off in a light grid of squares, each about a centimeter across, and there are darker, sweeping lines laid over that. The finished product looks almost like an urn with wires stretching out of the neck like minimalist petals. The wires disappear off the edge of the paper and Tom wants to know where they lead. “Are those the finished plans?”
“They're a part of it. I'm afraid it's going to take some serious labour and upkeep to maintain a production like this.” He speaks to the page, not to Tom. His voice is low, almost reverent, as if he's in awe of the idea of the machinery itself. Tom thinks that's slightly absurd, considering what the man does for a living. He doesn't believe a person's function should be that ingrained into who they are. It's one of the few things he and Jon have agreed about from the start. When you're in love with what you do, you become sloppy, take risks for the sake of the outcome. It's easier to just be in love with yourself and recognize your function for what it is. The only upside to fools who were in love with what they did was that they were much easier to control.
From somewhere in the back of the shop there's a crash and string of curses. The machinist's eyes snap up to Tom's face and he turns in his chair. “Damnit Palmer, I told you not to touch anything while I was out here!”
“It touched me first!” the voice calls back, and it's punctuated by another person's high, nervous giggle.
“Palmer!” There's silence in response. When the machinist turns back to Tom he keeps his vision somewhere over Tom's left shoulder and doesn't look him in the eye.
Tom doesn't get the idea that the man is afraid of him, so he wonders if it's deference or insolence. Asking would make him seem more interested than is appropriate though, so he settles for “and the smaller pieces?”
At this the machinist's eyes light up and Tom is startled by how different his face looks with that wide, bright grin. The teeth are straight and white, which makes Tom think that the man hasn't lived down here his whole life. There must have been something to hide, some leverage for Jon to work, or else Tom would be standing in a different shop right now.
“The smaller pieces are going to be brilliant, and I think I've found a way to solve your partner's problem with location.” He pulls a drawer open and digs around for a few minutes before laying an intricate looking necklace and a thick pocket watch on top of the build plans. “This,” he says, opening the watch, “is the main face and dummy clockwork. It will look like a regular watch, should any outsider want to inspect it. There are two sets of gears there though, one to keep the time and another to maintain a magnetic current.” He holds it up towards Tom briefly before it pulling it away and opening yet another layer. “This is the compass. It will show you what direction any of it's sisters are in from your location.”
Tom reaches out and cups the pocket watch in his hand, studying it's second face. There's a brass inlay over what appears to be a polished silver surface. An ever widening spiral feeds out from the center and there are small balls nestled in the groove of it. “How...”
“I can't show you right now, since I haven't created any of the others, but each one of these will carry a different magnetic signature, it will just hone in on the others.”
Tom nods thoughtfully and places the pocket watch back in the man's open hand. His eyes fall to the necklace. “And that?”
“This is the other half of the feed.” The machinist picks up the necklace and dangles it up at Tom. “Of course, there will have to be something to manipulate, for it to matter at all.”
“What did you have in mind?”
The machinist smiles then in a different way and Tom is reminded instantly of Jon. It's a smile that knows, and isn't willing to tell. “I'll need to have someone else tell you all about that.”
Tom nods and wraps his fingers around the main part of the necklace, it's gears tickling his palm as they move. “Please stop wasting my time then and tell me who and where. I do have other places to be, you know.”
The machinist merely deepens his grin and stands up, moving around the desk to stop next to Tom. The way the candlelight moves in the man's dark eyes reminds him of a canary in a coal mine. Tom can't quite shake the feeling that he's reached a point of no return, that all his gray areas have been colored in. He's afraid his dream may have just slipped into nightmare territory.
OH HEY FLIST. I'm going to start putting this under a tighter lock, I think. For the good of many things, but I know some of you are interested so.
[Poll #1243642]
theemdash's perusal. Tom? (I borrowed Gee, I hope he doesn't complain too loudly for how I handled him.)You gotta sink gotta sink gotta sink to swim
impersonate greater persons
cause we all know art is hard
when we don't know who we are
Tom never actually agreed to any of this. It's a moral gray area he's comfortable holding onto. As if at any given point he could say he was done. He could throw his hands into the air and shout and cut down every logical imperative Jon would fling at him and just walk away, leaving the whole mess behind him. It's a day dream he doesn't often allow himself to have.
The machinist's shop is cramped and dark. A few gas lamps are perched precariously on piles of cogs or the corners of shelves otherwise heaped with wire and tools and fairings. It's cold too, which Tom hadn't prepared for. Life in the outer portions of the main city was much, much different from life here in the lower city, where the only sun was hungrily soaked up by apartments and business near the center, leaving he outer flanks to shiver and stagnate. The dark areas of the under city reminded him of truffles in the forest. By all odds, nothing should be able to grow in the dark, dank ground, littered with leaves and detriment, hidden from attention until they were plucked. But fungus had a strong biological stock and so, apparently, did people.
He shoves his fisted hands into the pockets of his trousers and clears his throat loudly, hoping he won't have to venture too far into the depths of the building to find the man he came looking for. After what feels like half a year in Tom's discomfort, a man appears from around a corner toward the back. He's wiping his hands on a red rag and it stands out violently against his black clothing and hair and his pale skin. Tom doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't a delicate toreador.
They stare across the space at each other, the sound of ticking clocks and winding gears filling in the deafening absence of words. Tom thinks about polite banter, idle chit chat. He opens his mouth to toss the man a lie about how good the shop looks, but closes it again tightly remembering Jon's directions. Tom was not here to make friends, he was here to conduct business, and it had to be understood that no part of his business was a request.
“I have something I need for you to do. It's,” Tom makes a show of pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket and checking it, reminding the man that he's not important enough to be remembered. “Mr. Price, isn't it?”
“To some it is,” the machinist replies, and looks away. He picks his way through the shelves and tables, careful not to bump anything hanging off an edge, and then sits down at a desk and sets to removing spare parts off a large sheet of paper. “You came for these, I imagine?”
Tom only has a vague idea of what he did come for, so he moves closer to the desk and looks down his nose at the paper. It's blocked off in a light grid of squares, each about a centimeter across, and there are darker, sweeping lines laid over that. The finished product looks almost like an urn with wires stretching out of the neck like minimalist petals. The wires disappear off the edge of the paper and Tom wants to know where they lead. “Are those the finished plans?”
“They're a part of it. I'm afraid it's going to take some serious labour and upkeep to maintain a production like this.” He speaks to the page, not to Tom. His voice is low, almost reverent, as if he's in awe of the idea of the machinery itself. Tom thinks that's slightly absurd, considering what the man does for a living. He doesn't believe a person's function should be that ingrained into who they are. It's one of the few things he and Jon have agreed about from the start. When you're in love with what you do, you become sloppy, take risks for the sake of the outcome. It's easier to just be in love with yourself and recognize your function for what it is. The only upside to fools who were in love with what they did was that they were much easier to control.
From somewhere in the back of the shop there's a crash and string of curses. The machinist's eyes snap up to Tom's face and he turns in his chair. “Damnit Palmer, I told you not to touch anything while I was out here!”
“It touched me first!” the voice calls back, and it's punctuated by another person's high, nervous giggle.
“Palmer!” There's silence in response. When the machinist turns back to Tom he keeps his vision somewhere over Tom's left shoulder and doesn't look him in the eye.
Tom doesn't get the idea that the man is afraid of him, so he wonders if it's deference or insolence. Asking would make him seem more interested than is appropriate though, so he settles for “and the smaller pieces?”
At this the machinist's eyes light up and Tom is startled by how different his face looks with that wide, bright grin. The teeth are straight and white, which makes Tom think that the man hasn't lived down here his whole life. There must have been something to hide, some leverage for Jon to work, or else Tom would be standing in a different shop right now.
“The smaller pieces are going to be brilliant, and I think I've found a way to solve your partner's problem with location.” He pulls a drawer open and digs around for a few minutes before laying an intricate looking necklace and a thick pocket watch on top of the build plans. “This,” he says, opening the watch, “is the main face and dummy clockwork. It will look like a regular watch, should any outsider want to inspect it. There are two sets of gears there though, one to keep the time and another to maintain a magnetic current.” He holds it up towards Tom briefly before it pulling it away and opening yet another layer. “This is the compass. It will show you what direction any of it's sisters are in from your location.”
Tom reaches out and cups the pocket watch in his hand, studying it's second face. There's a brass inlay over what appears to be a polished silver surface. An ever widening spiral feeds out from the center and there are small balls nestled in the groove of it. “How...”
“I can't show you right now, since I haven't created any of the others, but each one of these will carry a different magnetic signature, it will just hone in on the others.”
Tom nods thoughtfully and places the pocket watch back in the man's open hand. His eyes fall to the necklace. “And that?”
“This is the other half of the feed.” The machinist picks up the necklace and dangles it up at Tom. “Of course, there will have to be something to manipulate, for it to matter at all.”
“What did you have in mind?”
The machinist smiles then in a different way and Tom is reminded instantly of Jon. It's a smile that knows, and isn't willing to tell. “I'll need to have someone else tell you all about that.”
Tom nods and wraps his fingers around the main part of the necklace, it's gears tickling his palm as they move. “Please stop wasting my time then and tell me who and where. I do have other places to be, you know.”
The machinist merely deepens his grin and stands up, moving around the desk to stop next to Tom. The way the candlelight moves in the man's dark eyes reminds him of a canary in a coal mine. Tom can't quite shake the feeling that he's reached a point of no return, that all his gray areas have been colored in. He's afraid his dream may have just slipped into nightmare territory.
OH HEY FLIST. I'm going to start putting this under a tighter lock, I think. For the good of many things, but I know some of you are interested so.
[Poll #1243642]
