Stubborn Logic (Monty)

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

24th Day of Summer, 512 AV It had been some time since Tock had last spoken to Monty. She was pissed at him, and had progressed well beyond the point of needing a reason to stay angry. It was no longer about what he had done or whether her anger was even justified. She was a woman scorned, and her anger justified itself. Thus as far as she was concerned, she was right, he was wrong, and it would go on until he admitted it and apologized. He had tried to sidestep the apology by sending the little girl, Lissa, to speak for him. Maybe he thought the girl's cute face would soften the blow, or that Tock wouldn't shout and curse at a child. If so, he was wrong. "Oy, if'n he ain't come down 'ere an 'pologize 'isself," Tock had yelled at the girl, "'en 'e's nothin' but a selfish bastard what ain't knows a good friend what when she's right in fronna 'im!" Then Lissa had protested, wringing her hands. Unbeknownst to Tock, Monty hadn't come himself because he was bed bound. "But, he can't come down," she had said. "He's ill, Miss. But he's very worr--" Tock had cut the girl off and said, "Oy, 'en I done were right, an' 'e ain't no good 'nough as is, an' I ain't takin' no 'poligy from 'im what til 'e done gets fixed up like 'e done shoulda already, an' walks 'is skinny arse down 'ere what fer ta 'poligize in person!" She had then shooed the child off, sending her back to tell Monty that Tock wouldn't take any apology from him unless it was in person, and when he was well enough to be back on his own two feet. Meanwhile, Tock had spent a good part of the week making repairs to the very same tailor's shop that she had visited with Monty a few weeks ago. She had left a bit of an impression on the shopkeepers, and thus they had requested she make the needed repairs (though the fact that they could only afford to pay her in cheap clothing instead of cold hard mizas had a lot to do with why they hired her instead of an expert). She had been stopping by after school and work each day, replacing the broken sign post out front, and working on the stone carving needed to replace a busted pillar out front. It had been a somewhat frustrating week, considering most of the people who frequented West Street looked down on a working girl like Tock. She was just finishing up for the day, packing up her tools, and gathering her babies to head home. She didn't have any reason to think Monty would find her here. She hadn't been at home much lately, between her day job, classes, and all the extra work load she had taken on at The Saville. If he had tried her at home, she hadn't been there. And she sure as hell wasn't about to go seek him out. After all, he was the one who had gone and gotten sick on her, so it should be his responsibility to come apologize for it.

[Montaine]

Lissa had been highly reluctant to return to Tock after she had delivered the gadgeteer’s message. She offered all the same, but the glassworker had said no. He was well aware of the woman’s terrifying nature when she was upset and couldn’t quite bring himself to sic that upon his father’s young neighbour twice in quick succession. Some eight days previously he had been on the receiving end of his friend’s volatile temper and subsequently found himself bedridden. The two were almost certainly unrelated as his conditioned had been worsening since late spring regardless, however the gadgeteer had a way of exacerbating his illness with her yelling. The two were almost certainly unrelated. Monty’s memories of the first few days were vague and fuzzy and best. He had a few flashes of faces looking down, an uncomfortable straw mattress digging into his bed in all the wrong places, someone forcing water down his throat. It was very unpleasant and he was rather thankful his memory was so sketchy. On the third day he awoke, around mid afternoon, to his tired looking father sitting on the old chair by the bedside, looking for all the world as he did when Monty had been a child. He was perhaps a little older, a little greyer, but the expression, the bags under the eyes. It was almost painful to see the worry returned to those eyes. Apparently Banden and Mory had visited with well wishes from Calbert and Fogle. The youngest novice of the crew had begged to come along, they had said, but had been forbidden from entering such a despicable part of town by his parents. The boy had later turned up, poorly disguised, despite his parents’ demands and blanched at the sight of the glassworker sickly and slumped in bed. Callay sent a valet with flowers on the fourth day, along with a request of his company upon recovery with the not so subtle implication that exercise would do him good. A doctor had been attending to him yet had been stumped as to the cause of his health’s decline. He had no new symptoms, no reason for any worsening of his condition. Unable to advise any further than simply bed rest and patience the medic left him to sleep. On the sixth day he had tried to leave his bed, insisting that he had to make amends with Tock. He made it to the door of his father’s room before collapsing in a wheezing, gasping pile and had to be helped back under the covers by his father. Tiffan berated him for his stubbornness and assured him that the gadgeteer could wait. Monty was not so sure. Finally, on the twenty-fourth he gave it another shot, this time aided by Lissa’s grandfather’s old walking stick. It was a gnarled, wooden thing, but had been kept in a reasonable condition and bore his meagre weight with little complaint. It took him the best part of the day to make his way across town and he had to pause a number of times to catch his breath, cursing his wretched body. It was late afternoon by the time he finally reached Tock’s home and he realised he had no idea what to say. Maybe he’d take a leaf out of her book and be impulsive. He rapped on the door with his cane. No answer. He rapped again, no answer. Maybe she wasn’t home. A third time. No answer. He sighed, sat, and settled down to wait. It would give him some time to think.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock arrived at home, cuddling Bitey in her arms, and Naily trailing at her heels. The little hammer saw the Glassman before she did, and rolled up to nuzzle his leg. He squeaked his wheels for attention, not really programmed to distinguish between Monty and any random stranger, but perhaps giving off the appearance of recognition. At least, that was how Tock's mind saw it, that the puppy was lovingly racing towards his Uncle, regardless of whether it was true or not. She saw her babies as people, and often personified their actions with more depth and emotion than they actually had. She stopped a short distance away, holding Bitey in her arms and petting him. As her fingers graced across the glass eyes Monty had made for the spider, she felt her chest tighten, but she refused to let it show on her face. She looked at the cane, and saw it both as proof that she was right about his level of need, and as an inadequate means of getting him around. She'd have him in her magic crutches before he was allowed to go home, or else he was spending the night in her bed, even if she wasn't speaking to him. She finally met his eyes, raising her chin and setting her jaw tight. She stared him down, petting her spider, refusing to say a damn word, not even to ask him why he was here. As far as she was concerned, there was only one acceptable reason for him to be here, and until she heard it, she had nothing to say.

[Montaine]

Monty startled as Naily bumped against his foot and stared at it in surprise for a tick or two before gently patting it. It moved under his hand and though it didn’t possess the warmth, or the subtle tensing and contracting of musculature, though he couldn’t feel the tell tale signs of life the little creation was undeniably alive. He found himself smiling as the hammer tapped at his foot, almost as though it was seeking attention. ‘Hey there fella, where’s your mam?’ he looked up and spotted her standing a little way off looking for all the world as terrifying a force of nature as any storm, or famine or wrath of the gods. This was the wrath of Tock. But still he smiled. Indeed his smile broadened because despite the terror that she inspired, despite the stoniness of her face, he was glad to see her. Monty leant on his stick and eased himself up to his feet. Though it had been a while since the last it certainly wasn’t anywhere near to his first time being in such a state, or recovering from such an attack, and he fully accepted that it was doubtful to be his last. He had grown stronger, or so he had thought until a few days ago, as he had grown older, but with age he would eventually begin to decline again, as everyone did. He merely feared his decline would come far swifter and sooner than most. The glassworker made no move to step closer to the unusually ungarrulous gadgeteer, his soft wheezing interrupted only by the occasional squeak of Naily’s wheels as he rolled back to his creator and nudged her ankles. The air was cool and the light dimming and he still had no idea what he would say to her. The woman did not cope with sickness well. A stream of complaints, of reasons and excuses and of arguments and retorts rattled through his brain, how it wasn’t his fault if he was sick, how everyone died some time, how he had no plan to kick the proverbial bucket yet or anytime soon. Instead he simply inhaled deeply and said, ‘Hey,’

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

OOCOkay, "The Wrath of Tock" TOTALLY has to be a lore for this thread! Tock glared at him as he rose shakily, seeing the weakness in him. The weakness he was just accepting, instead of fighting it, trying to change it, trying not to let it consume him. She could see it in his eyes, that he didn't even think there was anything wrong with accepting such weakness. It just made her scowl deepen. Had he even seen a proper, magical healer? It wasn't as if the fool man didn't have the money to throw around. A treatment by one of Rak'keli's people would cost less than that fine silk shirt he had on, thank you very much. And then he just said, 'Hey.' She rolled her eyes and snorted. She didn't even bother to yell, though the fire was shooting from her eyes. She just stalked past him, opened the door to her house, stormed inside, and slammed it shut behind her. A moment later Naily banged his hammer on the door, stuck outside when she'd moved faster than he could keep up. Growling, she opened the door, let him roll inside, and slammed it shut again. Not realizing she'd forgotten to lock the door behind her, she threw herself onto her bed and started to cry.

[Montaine]

Montaine watched as she went inside. She was attempting an air of indifference that would have been humorous had not been for the terrifying prospect of her anger. Her façade of nonchalance was hindered ever so slightly when she was forced to reopen her door to admit her little construction. The glassworker saw such a look on her face then as he had rarely seen. She really was furious. The impact of her slamming meant the door bounced an inch or so ajar as she moved to her bed and Monty could hear her crying through the crack. He was almost angry. What right did she have to be upset? What right did she have to be angry? He was the one who was sick, he was the one who had collapsed, he was the one who would die years before his time. Who was she? Who did she think she was? The one who would be left behind. He sighed and his frustration and annoyance and all the heat of his anger just drifted away into the cool night air. Monty had never known his mother, he’d never watched someone he loved, someone he cared about drift away slowly. The only person he had ever really loved who had died had died suddenly, plucked from his life without warning. He had no body to mourn, no belongings to sift through. He had been left behind but he still had his Da, he still had his friends at the Head and on the crew, he still had Tock. Tock was alone. She was in a city to which she had only come so recently. She had no Da that loved her, no friends forged over a decade of drinking and debauchery. It was sad, really. What had seemed like a horrifying joke to Monty, the prospect of repairing his faltering lungs with golem parts, a grim, nightmarish concept, hadn’t been so to her. She had been desperately trying to save what few connections she had left, what few friends, and people she cared for. Naturally he still wouldn’t let her cut him open and do what she would with his body. But perhaps she required a little delicacy. Perhaps the terror of Tock required a tender hand in instances like these. The night was quiet. He wouldn’t open the door, he wouldn’t be so bold as to assume any right to entrance, not when she was in such a mood. Instead he just talked. ‘I’m sorry Tock, I didn’ get it before. I know you jus’ wanted to help, I know you don’ want me to go dyin’ on you, but you gots to believe me, I ain’t lookin’ for that to happen any time soon either! I’ve got a whole world to explore yet, you know that. I ain’t lettin’ no petchin’ gods take me off until I done what I set out to do, believe you me. An’ if any o’ ‘em try I’ll give ‘em what for an’ you can too, ain’t no shykestain on the Ukalas can stand up to my mate Tock, I’ll say an’ you’ll send ‘em runnin’, I know. ‘Cause I can’t die, not yet, I won’t an’ I can’t ‘cause I’ve still got things to do, so believe you me, I’ll still be around for plenty o’ time to come. ‘An’ when my time does come, an’ it will, ‘cause all things end, when my time does come I don’ want you angry at me, ‘cause then everythin’ I’ve done’d be a waste. I want you to remember me, an’ all the good times we’ve had and are goin’ to have, drinkin’ in the Head and singin’ an’ sailin’ round the world. An’ we’ve still got all that to do yet, an’ I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til it’s done!’ he nodded to himself. He had wanted to reassure her that he had no plans on dying, that he wasn’t going to die for years yet, that he wouldn’t die until his plans had come to fruition. He smiled as he realised quite how much he meant it.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock just laid in the bed, glaring at her pillow. The 'I'm sorry' wasn't good enough. He was acting like he understood her... no one understood her. He hadn't lived her life, he didn't know what it was like. She was certain he'd never been beaten as a child, hit so hard he couldn't sit down for a week. She was sure he hadn't had to fend off rapists and more since puberty, as she had without anyone to so much as look out for her and protect her. Sent out in the middle of the night by a drunk dad who cared more about getting another bottle of hooch than he did about her safety and well-being. He hadn't slept for three months, and awoken to find the only meaningful thing in his life gone. She clutched at the pillow, trying not to let it all overwhelm her. Her eyes burned and her lips trembled, and it just wasn't fair. Bitey crawled up beside her and nestled nest to her face, his sharp fangs brushing her tear-stained cheek, and she started to shake. Her babies wouldn't age. They wouldn't get sick, or die. And they wouldn't leave her. Maybe she could knock Monty out, shove him in the Animation circle, and copy his mind and soul into a more durable body, whether he liked it or not. Except she couldn't build one with the soft, artistic hands needed to shape glass. He'd be miserable... She still gave it real, serious consideration. As she lay there, Handy detached himself from her belt and climbed down to the floor. The little wooden Automaton wasn't very smart. He was just barely smart enough to know the voice outside meant 'someone was there,' but that was it. He couldn't understand the emotions going on right now, nor could he comprehend that his mother might not want the door opened. He just knew someone was there, and part of his purpose as a hand included turning door handles. So he carefully climbed up the frame on the side of the door, slipped his leather tail around the handle, and started hopping up and down until his momentum twisted the handle down, letting the door drift open. Handy clutched to the side of the door, the glass eyes installed on the back of his hand staring at Monty. Tock looked up at the ajar door and huffed an irritated sigh. She had to teach him not to open the door for people without permission. She could use Grippy to shut the door without even getting out of bed. But... she didn't want to. She scowled at the door, grinding her teeth, until finally she pushed herself off the bed with a grunt of frustration. She stalked over to the door, opened it, and grabbed Monty by the front of his shirt, pulling him forward. "Yer goin' ta the infirmary," she told him, steering him over to her crutches. "Dun even try fer ta talk back ta me." She glared at him, quite far beyond being reasoned with. "Yer takin' a goddamn magic 'eals, an' I dun care what if'n I gots ta knock ya out ta git ya 'ere. Jus' be one more thing what fer 'em ta 'eal if'n I leave a lump on yer damn fool 'ead..."

[Montaine]

He had to consciously stop himself from smiling when she opened the door. Outwardly expressing happiness seemed like a questionable idea given the circumstances and despite the fact that his friend was once again speaking to him, if in a somewhat brusque, harsh tone, he managed to keep the grin from forming on his face. She was angry, furious even, and undoubtedly a little more volatile than her usual self. Not that Tock wasn’t always a hot-tempered woman, but in the current situation she seemed to be on a knife edge, a hair’s breadth away from simply bludgeoning him and having done with it. No, best to stay calm, polite, and quiet and do as the lady said. The first time he had been in this house he had been witness to a frankly terrifying display of power. She had explained it as a rather simple procedure, the slight modification of a golem’s internal programming to add functionality of vision. He had glazed over somewhat, but nodded politely and watched as his friend had performed the rites. Like any complicated science or technology, the manipulation of Djed scared people. The products were wondrous and brilliant and most assuredly worthwhile, but ignorance of its workings made it frightening. People didn’t like magic. Maybe someday they would grow accustomed to its use, maybe someday there would be golems running around doing all the labour and people would wonder how they ever got along without them. But now? People were scared. Montaine was scared. Not of magic, though certain aspects certainly worried him, but for his friend. She was so unsubtle as she ran around town, creations in tow. He worried for her safety. One of these days, he feared, her work was going to get her in trouble, and he was hardly in a position to help her. Weak, weedy little Montaine Redsun, with his weak, weedy little lungs and his weak, weedy little heart.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock steered Monty to the crutches, then without bothering to ask his permission, thrust her hands under his armpits and lifted him up. He wasn't very big, his frail, thin body giving her no trouble as she lifted him into the Automaton, settling his arms over the supports. She then started strapping him in, one leather strap pulled across his chest, two others over his shoulders. She remained quiet the whole time, just casting him the occasional angry glare. She was ready for protests, but she wasn't going to accept any. Monty hadn't really seen her in her crutches, so she wasn't sure if he knew how they worked. The device supported him on four straight wooden legs that connected to the arm supports, two on each side. Hidden under the supports were metal joints and springs that helped them support his weight, flexing slightly with each movement he made. Since he was the same height as Tock, his feet would dangle just above the ground, though he could still reach down and touch the ground if he angled his feet and stretched down on his toes. Grumbling under her breath, she reached out to touch the two spring-mounted metal discs that were attached to the front of the arm supports. At her touch, the device started to move, the legs alternating motion like a horse's gait between front-right, back-left, and so forth, though the motion was lurching and somewhat uneven. This had been one of the earliest Automatons Tock made, and the movement was far from smooth. As the crutches took a few steps forward, Tock had to back up, mumbling to herself, "Shoulda added voice controls..." She wasn't sure how to get Monty up to the infirmary on the crutches. They were programmed only to respond to her, and thus wouldn't work for him. But she couldn't walk with him and keep her hands on the discs at the same time, nor could the crutches support both of their weight if she tried to ride with him. She grabbed Handy and held him against the right side. "Attach," she told him. The Automaton slipped his leather tail around Monty's upper arm, buckling in place. "Watch Mommy an' does exactly what I does," she commanded. The hand gave her a wooden thumbs up. Since the hand was not only sculpted based on Tock's own hand, but also powered by a piece of her own soul, she could use him to bypass the crutches' limitations. She had taught Handy how to perform all of her most common hand motions, and controlling her other Automatons, like the crutches and Grippy, were counted among those. Handy knew all the hand motions needed on Grippy's handle, knowing just the right spot to touch to extend or retract the metal arm. He also knew the motions needed to control the crutches. With Tock standing on the other side of Monty, so she could walk alongside him rather than awkwardly trying to backpedal in front of him, she reached up and touched the left control. Handy mimicked her motion, and they pressed the discs in unison, propelling the device forward towards the door.

[Montaine]

Montaine was fairly sure that Tock wasn’t trying to kill him. He was fairly sure that she wasn’t that angry. His absolute almost certainty of the good nature of Tock’s intetions pretty much still intact, he allowed himself to be placed into the harness. He wasn’t quite as familiar with the particular workings of this construction as he was with the others and positively yelped in surprise as the thing lurched forwards, his panic causing his wheezing to start afresh. He trusted the garrulous gadgeteer to know precisely what she was doing, or at least as close as possible. But as much as he loved his dear friend, and though there was only the smallest chance of her making some mistake or error, when dealing in animation and golems the smallest error could be rather devastating. Monty’s eyes flitted briefly over to Cutty. He was fairly sure that Tock wasn’t trying to kill him. He kept a keen grasp on his borrowed cane, not wanting to lose it in Tock’s home. She was busying herself with Grippy and solving problems. Intelligent, logical and quick thinking, that was Tock. If also scary, brash and stubborn. Together they moved out the door and started up the street. It must have looked rather bizarre to an outside observer and as such Montaine sent a silent thanks up to Lhex that the quiet night had stayed just that, quiet. It was bad enough when the magic fearing folk saw little Bitey trailing after the woman, bad enough that Mrs Nolty from the flat below his own knew he was acquainted with a scholar, let alone if the old hag saw him fixed to her contraption. They moved in silence for a while before Monty spoke up, quietly, ‘The Coopers said thanks,’ he paused, ‘Fer their wall, they said they’d try ‘n’ thank you themselves but I don’ know if they-’ He stopped. Why was it so awkward? He couldn’t talk to her. He couldn’t even make eye contact. He resigned himself to moving in silence, mutely praying for her to say something back.