2017-06-15: Hierarchical Calculus
- Log: Hierarchical Calculus
- Cast: Kent Hauch, Loren Voss
- Where: Gentleman's Aisle
- Date: June 15th 2017
- Summary: Dropping into one of the dens of the Black Ties, Loren pays Kent a visit and requests assistance with an intelligence-gathering venture. Loren meets the Todds.
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
The Black Ties are operating semi-openly in the wake of the Metal Demon invasion. As far as most ordinary citizens know, the external attack woke a sense of community responsibility in the gang, who have decided to make reparations for their general havoc and presence on the local random encounter tables by contributing an organized workforce to the reconstruction of Adlehyde.
Gebler operatives are more informed as to Kent Hauch's plans - when the invasion came, the gang leader saw pure opportunity, lending his left hand Fargo Foobach to the Gebler unit as a representative while completely pulling the gang in to defend the Gentleman's Aisle. As a result, the former carnival alleyway was relatively untouched by the havoc, and Kent's apparent charity is instead a ploy to further wedge the gang into the operation of the city, becoming a symbiotic parasite hanging off of Adlehyde's infrastructure.
The Aisle itself currently operates a combination soup kitchen/bar at its mouth for people left significantly disenfranchised by the attack, and teams move in and out as they go onto their work shifts. It's fairly easy for someone to slip in, indicate their credentials to the huge beastman Ribaldy overseeing the outside of the hideout, and move on into the chaotically furnished Black Ties hideout.
Things are busy inside, Ties on break making a raucous lot of noise telling almost entirely untrue stories about running into Metal Demon stragglers. Kent Hauch himself is in the middle of a large sofa which a bottle of rye in his hand, feet propped up on the tank of his ARM, two women in dark vests at his sides. An Adlehyde local recently promoting himself to the rank of Jacket is sitting across from him with a small knot of Shirts, and he and Kent seem to be trying to top each other with outlandish stories about life on the wrong side of the tracks. He is currently cracking wise about starting a barfight between two yolked-up Geohounds with a couple well-placed matchsticks. Kent is pounding one hand on a big thigh, lovin' it.
<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.
The last time Loren had been in Adlehyde, it had been while escaping the downed ship and the city proper. There have been some changes since then.
For one, Adlehyde isn't on fire anymore.
It would have been easy enough, probably, to continue to tail the mage who attacked the golem Diablo. From what Loren had observed after the expedition into the 'singing ruins', he seemed to stay close to potential ruin sites and didn't venture near towns often. However, that was 1) an incredibly inefficient use of his time when he could instead sift around for information on the mage/mage's past behavior/interests elsewhere while also investigating the situation in Adlehyde post-invasion 2) definitely not going to work out long-term since he didn't have the supplies for it.
Based on the Captain's recommendations and Loren's own talents, that left one immediate option.
Which is approximately the logic that's led to the medical officer stepping into the noisy and definitely very chaotic back den of the Black Ties. Almost unconsciously, Loren rolls his shoulders, as if he could shake off the vague sense of agitation he suddenly feels -- slipping in and discretely slipping Ribaldy a note had been the easy part. It's loud back here, in a way that grates on his nerves. Nevertheless, for all that the young officer likely looks highly out of place -- too clean, far too proper, like some academy student wandered too far from the safety of his lecture hall -- he still glances about the business of the back room with the exact precision of someone seeking something. Or someone.
There. Not keen to stay here long, Loren doesn't beat around the bush. He approaches Kent, stopping all of a few feet away from man and his interviewee. Briefly, his gaze dips to the tank Kent has his feet propped up on and he squints upon recognizing it for what it is. ...Emperor. His attention turns the man he's here to see -- without any advance warning, at that. "Kent," he says, quite possibly (definitely) interrupting the conversation here. "I need to speak to you."
Well, he does seem bold. Or at least, unconcerned, as if he thinks nothing in here can really touch him. However, a good eye will note that his gaze has returned to the tank.
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
The Black Ties are on low alert. Anyone in the building assumes anyone who manages to walk in belongs there, and the usual guards have started to figure out how to spot people from Kent's mysterious benefactors. A sturdily built women in black pants rolled to her knees, a sleeveless white shirt, a black vest with fancy scrollwork, and a bolo tie looks Loren up and down when he enters with frank appraisal, winking at him with a grin before going back to polishing the barrel of her scavenged Gebler rifle (rightfully scavenged, at that - the Ties' possession of the weapon is noted down in their files). That's the extent of the confrontation he gets.
A team of Ties thumps up the stairs in the back of the hideout as Loren approaches, boiling around him on their way out the door - one Vest, five Shirts, and two people with black bowties awkwardly worn with lower-class clothing. Laundry. By the time they clear away, Kent is looking up at Loren, the humor drifting out of his face but lingering in his eyes. He's in a legitimately good mood.
He shrugs in a way that conveys to the women to either side to go find something else to do, and he fires a wink at the Jacket. "Issa great story, Vale. Wish we could get it finished-like but Mr. Pressed-and-Starched 'ere wants a word. Go get us a couple glasses." There is a very brief bristle toward Loren on Vale's part, but he ducks his head after a moment, doffing his flat cap to Kent before rummaging in a nearby box, putting two mismatched glasses on the low table in front of the sofa, vacating his soft-looking overstuffed chair.
Kent shifts his boots off Red River and leans forward, pouring measures of rye in each glass, nudging the smaller one forward before suddenly bringing the bottle down with a loud thump. The rye in the glass jumps, some of it splattering onto the table. The gang leader fixes Loren with one stern eye. "I don't think you rightly know me well enough to be so familiar-like." His mouth quirks on one side. "Mr. Voss." He then nods his bald head toward the vacated chair.
<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.
The woman gets a curious look, followed by a slight lift of an eyebrow at the rifle. He hopes they're keeping those out of sight.
'Pressed-and-Starched'? An outside observer would see Loren visibly hesitate for a moment, as if turning the phrase over mentally, and then almost immediately beetle his brow. He's not entirely sure how this is an insult, but he still knows the sound of an insult when he hears it. Blue eyes briefly land on Vale, looking the man over. He also does know muted hostility when he sees it -- that, he also has experience with.
...That's alcohol. Of course. All the surface-dwellers seem to drink the stuff.
There's already a good deal of noise in here of the type that sets Loren's teeth on edge. When Kent slams the bottle down, the medic stiffens a touch, reflexively. Still, when Kent stares him straight in the eye, he doesn't look away. This is an attempt to intimidate, isn't it...
...The sort of thing that doesn't sit right at all with the young medic. However he might look, he has his pride as a man, and as a high-born member of the Glorious Empire of Solaris not to let that pass without comment. "Is that 'familiar-like'?" he asks, and only the relatively flat nature to his tone might keep it from being mistaken for an idiot's question. It's hierarchical calculus -- necessary to survive, and occasionally to attempt to needle (however slight). "...Mr. Hauch," Loren does eventually acquiesce. However he feels, the LtC had said it, more or less -- the man has an important role to play. For now, anyway.
It's also not the hill he particularly wants to die on. He takes a seat, resting his hands on his knees.
He turns a level look at Kent across the table. "...How is the situation in the city? I heard from the Captain that you and your group were managing things here." He has yet to reach for his glass.
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
When Loren fires back, the volume level in the hideout drops a few notches.
It might be worse than when it was noisy.
...but then the moment passes. "Hauch," Kent corrects, tone whip-swinging back to amicable. Bit of a softer 'h' and more emphasis in the middle. He takes a sip on the rye in his glass, settling back on his sofa and hooking one boot on Red River, pushing the bulky ARM to the side with a grumbling of metal against carpet against stone.
Vale has melted into the crowd to sulk. As he hasn't had any direct spoken lines yet, he hasn't revealed whether or not he has a dialogue portrait.
Kent notes Loren not drinking, one lip curling up at the corner slightly, sorting the man. He's heard about him from Fargo, but Fargo gets a certain way with people he fights with - overly positive, typically glossing over their flaws as long as he doesn't feel any oncoming betrayals. He scans over the hideout. "Yeah, summat. Workin' the lower classes. Makin' 'em feel like they can trust my people more'n the government. Ribaldy read a banned book once about this kind of thing. If you can, wossit, supplant the local law enforcement, government ain't too far off."
He grins. "Iss like a pyramid. There's always more lower class'n upper. You get them on your side, get weight'a numbers, work on up. If yer just askin' about the reconstruction, well that's tough, innit. I don't keep those numbers, you'll have to ask Parbody."
Kent hooks a thumb over his shoulder. A tall woman in a severe suit and a gas mask is at a desk in the far corner facing out with pen, paper, chalk, and slate, taking reports and keeping track of Holy Mother knows what.
<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.
If there's one thing that's worse than all the chaotic noise in the background--
It's the way that the entire hideout quiets down. Externally, Loren doesn't so much as twitch. But the hair on the back of his neck feels as if it's standing on end. There's another thing the rather paranoid medical officer has learned to distrust, and it's when other people quiet down or go silent altogether.
But the moment passes, all the same. Gaze dipping downwards as Kent pushes the ARM aside with his boot, Loren once again privately wonders just how sturdy Red River is, if it's possible for an excavated ARM to spontaneously detonate, and just how much of the city it would take out.
Iiiiit's not a line of thought he particularly enjoys, and one that he attempts to metaphorically set off to one side.
He sits stiffly, too. Not so stiff as to seem uncomfortable, just... 'starched' might be a very good term for the young medic, as a matter of fact. "I see. It isn't a bad idea, under the circumstances. There have been reports of members of that cult making inroads around here. ...I understand the princess has vanished? If that's true, then there would be no members of the ruling family remaining, and thus no one that the citizens implicitly trust." Which is then the best time to replace it with something else. This region is unstable, and the sooner they can regain that stability...
He readjusts his glasses. "...I can see why the book was banned. I'm sure the ruling family particularly enjoyed someone spelling it out for anyone to read."
Loren nods, once. "No, I understand." Those are the basics of his own society as well. And then, he shakes his head. "That's not it." Though he does still look, all the same. A woman in a gas mask...? Didn't van Houten...
His attention returns to Kent. "...No, what I want from you is assistance with my work." He pauses, giving that time to sink in. He leans forward, a touch. "I'm investigating some Drifters, and I think some of the survivors may know a thing or two. The Captain had said that you would be the best person to ask about gaining access to some of the camps. I am a medic; it's as good a cover story as anything."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Kent shows his teeth when Loren mentions the Guard and the Princess. "Workin' on that. Underminin' their influence with some local voices, settin' up the odd fake conversation. Keeping ears to the ground for the Lady Cecilia too, aren't I?" He knocks back the last of his rye, refills his glass, and makes a show of moving to refill Loren's to find he hasn't drank any. He puts on a sarcastically disappointed look.
He thuds the bottle back down and then grows more serious when the conversation turns to missions. Kent will not hesitate to play power games and half-threat and posture with Gebler agents, especially ones he doesn't know personally, but he understands his position.
He works for them. He has not been told there are any ranks he doesn't have to listen to - and as such he should expect to listen to all of them (though one admits one would like to see a groundpounder private try to order Kent around). While Loren explains his problem, Kent produces a handrolled cigar from the inside of his coat along with a metal arc lighter, using the crackling cross of electricity to spark his smoke.
He makes a thoughtful rumbling noise, exhaling two long jets of dark grey from his nose. "Camps're bloody full of irritatin' Drifters, thass where they like to hang out an' have their little sandwiches an' things. They're right suspicious, too. Travellin' medic without guards'd be suspicious."
Kent suddenly leans back and shouts, "TODD! You lot in here?"
"Boss?"
"Boss!"
"What's up, boss?"
"Are we bouncing the strango, boss?"
"I hope we're not bouncing the strango, I just got these sausages."
"Why didn't I get sausages?"
"You're allergic to the gluten."
"What's gluten?"
"Ribaldy said you're allergic to gluten. I think they make guns out of it. You've got Cello disease."
"Stupid big guitars. I shoulda not kissed that big guitar lady. She made me allergic to gluten."
Two sandy-haired men composed primarily of square shapes stacked about six and a half feet tall stand up from a table and wade their way over. They are wearing canvas pants that appear to be made of two pairs put together, the heaviest boots in the world, and vests a few sizes too small with no shirts. Kent gestures at them. "These're the Todds, Todd an' TODD!!!. Total morons, like. Got an almost supernatural ability to seem totally 'armless even while pullin' someone's arms off."
The Todds beam at Loren. Their noses are busted in different directions. Kent has not indicated which one is which. The one not holding sausages says, "Sorry about the strango thing. I think I had some gluten, sir, and it's making me rude."
<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.
"Have you heard anything about the princess? She would be useful, if we could find her." Among other things that Loren knows well: sarcasm. He levels a look at Kent that's only mildly withering. Lambs had some attachment to sharing drinks, according to Cultural; it would probably help things if he did. Yet, he knows from experience: it tastes terrible.
For Loren, it's the principle of the thing -- as someone from a ruined family, somewhere at the bottom of the pecking order of the elites and thus well in range of those unsatisfied with their lot beneath to boot, and not to mention a young and fresh-out-of-Jugend officer -- the opportunities to asset what should be his right by birth come far and few between.
The medical officer nods. "Exactly. Captain Yugh felt that you would be able to smooth the matter over and make it less... obvious."
He'd been expecting something like 'use of influence'. Perhaps some paperwork. What Loren didn't expect was the Todds.
They stampede in.
Loren, in silence, stares at the Todds. His gaze tracks them from head to toe, all six and a half feet of them. Both of them.
Loren, in silence, opens his mouth.
Then, turning his full attention towards Kent. If ever a look in someone's eyes said something, this one does! And what it says is, 'are you kidding me?' But oh no. Oh, no, this is not a joke.
"...And that's 'celiac disease', not-- oh, forget it," Loren utters, realizing that he's going to fight a losing battle here. Slipping off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose as if he's getting a headache already. Quite probably they don't even make the double-digits between them.
A moment later he slides his glasses back on. Leaning back a touch in his seat, he gives the two Todds -- you know, he's just not going to try to figure out which one is which -- a reappraisal. "...I suppose if it's dumb muscle you need, it would be hard to do worse," he says at last, looking over at Kent.
He stands, facing the Todds. --Emperor, they've got almost a foot of height on him too. "Forget about that. The name is Thomas Blackwell," he says after a moment, deciding that he's not going to even risk giving these two morons his real name. He's also not offering them a hand either. He doesn't trust them not to break it.
"It seems," and here he looks at Kent -- if looks could kill, this... wouldn't be that, but it would still be a glancing blow -- as he addresses the two enormous men, "you two will be my guards. I'm going to the refugee camps to see to some of the survivors." Again: he doesn't actually trust these two to not let his mission slip.