The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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TennyoCeres84
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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"There's the understatement of the year," Aislinn scoffed upon looking at the report. "Now that we know that we're dealing with something not human, let's get what we need and head over to Mertown."

***

"It's better if you just tell us, for your own sake," Ciaran said, crossing his arms. While he didn't have Neasa's strength, the male selkie was still powerfully built due to his work history as a dockworker. While he didn't intend to lay a finger on Flynt, his pose told the Drifter he was physically capable.

***

"Yeah, I can do that," Neasa replied, nodding.
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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Katherine wasn't a Special Response operator, but she knew enough about it to realize that if the words came up, whoever was involved had best stop mucking about and start taking it seriously. "Brilliant," she muttered with a sigh. "You guys don't have a Special Response teacher yet, do you." She looked at Three. "We should head back to the compound and get some hardware. Whatever we're dealing with isn't remotely human, or even anthro, and if the police computers recommend Special Response, we all need to be careful. Ideally we should all regroup, but I fear Miss McConmera is right and time is of the essence."

-----------------------

The Harp & Blackthorn Inn, situated at the heart of Jimmy's territory, was largely unchanged since its inception over a century and a half ago. Jimmy's intervention during the Battle of Hope having for the most part spared the parts of the city he could control and protect, entering his territory was almost like stepping back in time; the rebuilding and modernism that had exploded in the rest of Hope was unnecessary here, and many of the oldest examples of architecture within the city itself were found in Renton and Naughton. The Inn itself, two stories of solid oak and ironwood that had weathered time and war intact, was a cozy and intimate place where hospitality and good grace were paramount; no guest ever went without, and friends of Jimmy were almost treated like royalty, barring the inevitable drunken riot during big games or elections.

Of those who broke the laws or disturbed the customs, of course, only stories and urban legends remained.

In any event the phone was answered within two rings, the click and rattle of an old-fashioned rotary phone being heard before the deep and softly reassuring voice of the Inn's daytime bartender Liam could be heard. "Harp & Blackthorn, this is Liam," he said smoothly, the chatter of the lunch hour rumbling in the background.
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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Ever the gentleman, Archie began on a chipper note. "Good day, Liam! Archibald here - how are you, my lad?"

He'd stopped several times before, his first stint at the Harp dating back to his first and initially temporary stay in Hope. That was back when the establishment had still had the word Inn appended to its name, and back when it served as a refuelling station and watering hole for the local prospectors and countryside settlers. Still, he'd kept his presence there a semi-regular thing, being one of the rare celebrated Englishmen who managed to be British to his very core and to still extend all the requisite civilities and forms of respect to the Irishmen in town.

"Er - please forgive this atrocious background noise; I've just left the funny farm, you see. Mason Avenue is utterly horrid at this time of day... You may have to raise your voice, my boy!"

As if on cue, he rolled past a refection team and its pounding jackhammers, which elicited a tsk of annoyance out of him. "Damned road repairs - would you be so kind as to put a bottle of Glenfiddich on my tab and to ask the old bean to deliver it in person to Centennial Park? I've business to discuss and am in need for some greenery. If he complains, remind him that he needs the fresh air more than I do."

Jimmy would've known Archie a little more than in simple passing, but they weren't fast friends, either. Strong professional respect would be an adequate descriptor for what Archie held towards the man - enough so that he was comfortable with twisting Winters' arm just a little, when he really required some assistance. Archie also probably was the only person in the city who'd be able to get away with calling him James, or "old bean'", for that matter.

Objectively, they were both old fogeys in their own way. It made sense for either of them to poke fun at that on occasion.

***

Three stood up. "Well, you know what I've been doing for the past few weeks, Starr. I've been turning a handful of civilians into responsible gun handlers. We're both pretty much the closest thing this team has to a dedicated tactician. I was kind of hoping that your boss would've spared some ordnance from his Operations division, but we're still mostly working with standard police hardware. Mostly Smith & Wesson, HKs, FNs - that route. Karthian hardware is too expensive for a 75% municipal budget and fuck if we're ever going to pass off using Drifter hardware on taxpayer money. Can't forget Archie's set of bolt-action toys, but - yeah."

He left the station and headed for their vehicle. "I vote pistols. Easily concealable. That way, if it's a false alarm, we won't attract attention."

***

Ramos Clothiers didn't exactly look like a den of occult depravity. Then again, if Ernest Ramos was involved, that'd be the point of it all. It was a small, squat building that was rested almost flush against the sidewalk, with nary more than a parking meter to serve as a convenient way to stop your car in front of it. It had the looks of the kind of Mom-and-Pop haberdashery outfit that was largely fit for those with very specific tastes. A quick look in the baywindow revealed a suit demonstrator that had probably been bold somewhere in the twenties, and another one held up the classic tweed three-piece suit. The odds of Neasa honestly finding anything to fit her alibi were rather low but worse things had happened before. In the worst of cases she'd end up passing for a simple undecided browser.

Once inside, things turned out to be a little more encouraging. The cuts and fabrics available weren't exactly cutting-edge, but they were classic. The presence of a female dummy in the back, partially clad in a power suit in the process of being assembled, was somewhat reassuring. Soft rock music played in the background, barely loud enough to be noticeable, and the place was generally decked out in generic grey carpeting and equally generic white walls. Posters from suit manufacturers added a splash of colour, along with the occasional potted plant.

The only person that seemed to be tending the store was an old man, his skin covered in commonly seen dark blotches you'd find on people who'd spent most of their life with a stubborn tan. His skin was leathery, and despite the weather, his simple white shirt was supplemented by a green wool vest. Of particular interest, however, was his right hand. It, and perhaps the rest of his right arm, was a prosthesis the likes of which the tail end of the classic mechanical augmentation industry had produced in the sixties. The back of the hand was embossed with an unmistakable seal, declaring the implement to be the work of Naughton Prosthetics, a long-since defunct branch of the classic Clank manufacturer.

"Can I help you, miss?" the tailor asked, his weathered eyes giving her a quick and kindly twinkle as he tottered towards her.

***

Flynt swallowed hard.

"Okay. Okay, alright... I, uh, I take special orders, sometimes. I order things for my clients - never for myself. H-Hardcore porn, the kind of BDSM that wouldn't make it up the darkest bloody bunghole the Internet could offer - I even get CDs burnt from Gore Galore's database. It's a shortcut for the enthusiasts who don't feel like paying the yearly premium for one specific scene. When Clanks come and ask the right questions, I let them know I can hook them up with people. Places, sometimes, or things. They give me a down payment, I use it to pay for ordered items; they pick it up.

I never see the bloody things, mate! I've seen some sick shit in my time, but I still have no idea how tugs get it on, I swear!"
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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Aislinn nodded. "That works for me."

***

"Yes, I'm looking for a power suit and wanted to hear your prices, sir," Neasa answered. "Selection of colors, that sort of thing. It's for my job." She acted casually, but did pick up on the vintage prosthetic arm. It was of interest, but nothing that was really a need to call in the cavalry just yet. The roane would keep her eyes and ears open for anything suspicious.

***

"Okay, we got it. You've never seen the stuff you ordered, but you still haven't told who's got you so scared. If things are so impersonal with your clients, you wouldn't have any issue shrugging us off. There's something you're not telling us. So, who is it?" Ciaran asked, a light rumble coming from his chest.
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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"Good idea," Katherine agreed as she followed Three outside. "I've got this old Mauser pistol, real vintage piece; it probably belongs in a museum, but I'm fond of it and it still works just fine, so."

--------------------------

"Of course, m'lord, of course," Liam replied smoothly, all too accustomed to strange requests and stranger callers. "You'll take a glass or two, I assume?" Someone else called out on his end, and he spoke to whoever it was briefly. "You're in luck, m'lord; the man himself just walked up. Apparently he expected you'd call about now. Here he is."

A moment later came Jimmy's low and hearty tones. "Archibald!" he declared happily. "Checking up on those cult slayings, are you?" Asking him where he got his info was an exercise in futility, as was well known; he had an annoying habit of winking impishly and tapping the side of his nose in reply, and leaving it pointedly at that.
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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They made their way back to Holden Hall, Three immediately heading for the armoury. It was a secluded area of the recently renovated basement, and had been made as secure as possible. A solid metal door with magnetic locks had been set in a recently erected concrete wall, an RFID tag scanner picking up Drake's presence as soon as he walked close. Past that door waited a few low-frequency lasers that remained invisible to the naked eye, and served largely as tripwires. Another scanner deactivated the grid. The last hurdle to cross was a sectioned-off area of the room, blocked off with reinforced glass panes and a solid piece of tempered glass laced with a wire frame, as a door. A regular key removed that last obstacle.

Aidan recovered a light jacket from a nearby coat hanger, along with a set of holsters. It didn't take him too long to pick a single Walther PPK that seemed to please him, as he largely intended to avoid having to call on his enchanted Five-Sevens. He could still feel their ethereal presence against his inner wrists and wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of depending wholly on conjured firearms. Not yet, at the very least.

"Knock yourselves out," he told the two girls. "I cleaned them last week. I'd do it a lot more often, but seeing as we were stuck with simulations and textbooks up to this point, I didn't bother. Most of these pieces haven't even been fired once.

After this, I figure I'll have to start going through whatever favourites pop up on a daily basis."

That thought made him raise his eyebrows a bit. "So, uh, don't be surprised if you come in here around 7 in the morning and find out I've been here since 5 o'clock... I'd rather take care of the drudge work before calls come in. Otherwise I'll never get basic maintenance done in time."

***

"As astute as ever, Jim," briefly complimented Archie. "That is correct, I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to lend me your personal experiences for a bit of brainstorming on that subject. Our dear dryad is the only being in town whose presence predates yours, hence the whisky and my request to join me in the Park. I must confess I know little of Lady Sophia's drinking habits, but it is my understanding that few minds enjoy ruminating on parched throats."

He hesitated for a moment. "Er - as I have you now, let me at least start with something of a priming query... You'll think on it whilst making your way out, I suppose."

The Clank cleared his throat. "When did you first become aware of this city's private clubs, if I may?"

***

"Alright," replied the man. "I'll assume you're looking for something that's a little less bold than what you'll find elsewhere, correct? Straight and professional is what I can deliver, bold and provocative cuts aren't really my forte."

As he spoke, he made his way to a set of nesting tables that held up a small cascade of rolled fabric bolts. "As you can see, we have several varieties of cotton, some kashmere - I think that's corduroy over there..."

He went on like this for a few moments longer, detailing the tones and cuts he could pair together, along with what specific alterations to a basic model he could perform.

***

Flynt's eyes darted from the entrance - as Bucky had retreated back outside - to Ciaran's eyes, his tongue's tip nervously poking out from between his lips as he tried to keep them moist. After a few seconds, he let out a ragged sigh.

"If I speak, what kind of guarantee do I have that you'll at least try and have a patrol car parked out my door? This isn't just a secret I'm about to spill, mate; it's my life. What I mean by that is someone paid me to stay quiet. Told me I'd have trouble if I blabbed. Like, serious trouble. Probably of the dying in abject agony kind, savvy?."
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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"Yes, we understand how much time and care these guns take. They're like children," Aislinn joked, looking at the shelf and then selecting a couple pistols from the rack.

***

"I figure cotton will be best, since we're heading toward summer. I was thinking something classically vintage would be good. My boss has complimented me when I have worn vintage fashion. Maybe something in a shade of blue," Neasa continued, still keeping her her eyes and ears open for anything that would catch her attention.

***

"I swear on my life that I will make sure someone's here to watch out for you," Ciaran replied, sighing. "I might not agree with everything you do, but I have no reason to see your life ended."
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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Three smirked. "Dangerous and uppity children."

He mused aloud as he finished preparing. "You know, Mertown being something of a focus for this investigation makes perfect sense. Outside of Old Hope alongside Pickman's Sound, there's no other place in town with this concentration of vintage buildings. Elysium never attacked Mertown, so there's not the slightest bit of renovations over there. Bicentennial buildings all around.

Hope wasn't anything like the gin-running hubs in Missouri back in the twenties, but the Prohibition did leave Meer Island with a little network of tunnels. Used to be most of everyone in town knew Mertown was an island-wide speakeasy with a pretty solid cover. The only thing they had to worry about was Seamus Mac Loch pushing for raids or interrogations. It's kinda why the guy doesn't have the biggest sympathy capital out there, despite being a water dragon. Taxpayers love him, the city loves him - his own clan barely tolerates him.

If I wanted to hide a cult somewhere in this town, this is where I'd go. Downtown's been aggressively renovated, and those few tunnels from the Henry Smith era that we preserved weren't much more than thoroughfares for the Freaks. I'd be hard to get anything down down there, especially now that the subway system and the pedway are both taking up space."

***

The old man nodded and went to work again, showing her a large artist's catalogue filled with several charcoal sketches of various cuts. Neasa would have more time to spend offhandedly observing the premises as the collected individual elements into a complete suit.

It'd take a little while and the salesman moving his tailor's dummy out of the way, but she'd notice a faded photograph done in black-and-white, of that very same man as a child, posing with what appeared to be his brother. Ernest Ramos looked relaxed and cheerful enough while smiling for the camera, but the man's face was set in a scowl. One wore a tailor's measuring tape around his neck, the other was decked out in the kind of overalls the Naughton workers had been required to wear while working on armatures.

The tailor noticed her looking and smiled. "1947. I was ten years old. I started my apprenticeship young, after my brother motivated me. The armature factory was already in dire straits, but repairs and maintenance brought in some money to the table. I wasn't even fifteen that he landed me a gig with the factory, to whip up suits and ties for the demo units. Demand had nosedived because of the war and it didn't look like it was going to pick up again. By the time 1960 rolled around, Tesla models were everywhere. Convenient and rechargeable, they said. No need for main springs or perpetual energy!"

He sighed. "Eric didn't take to it too well. He was a passionate, see? He'd grown up hearing of that English Clank we've got around town - Archie, right? - and he was a die-hard fan. All them serials they wrote after his adventures? The, uh, Hiram Tamerlaine series? I have 'em all. First editions, too."

He started draping lengths of fabric over Neasa's arms and chest, gently forcing her into a T-pose, so he could take measurements as he talked. "Then in '67, he invites me over to the factory for the yearly open-house. He'd been drinking, so he starts to show me how one of the hydraulic lathes work. I've never been around heavy machinery before, so I'm a little clumsy and, well..."

Ernest briefly paused, showing her his mechanical forearm. "I don't mind, though. Wasn't his fault, physical therapy went well, docs told me my soul done just rushed into that thing like it was hungry for an outlet!" he said, chuckling. "Turns out it was in the family. Good acceptance rates, practically zero rejection symptoms. Haven't had to take medicine for that thing in decades.

Eric's gone, though. Didn't take to what he did to me too well. Felt guilty, I think, but sometimes it felt like he wanted more for me. He'd go on about how prosthetic legs were getting stronger, the upper limbs were getting more precise... He disappeared by August of that year."

The tailor shook his head in knowing disbelief. "The things he told me, about how the meat was obsolete... Even the lousiest of docs will tell you to go easy with augments and implants, nowadays. That wasn't common knowledge, then. The addiction, I mean."

***

Flynt sighed once more. "Okay. This guy; I never got his name, calls himself the Teacher, he started out with just plain weird stuff. Fucked-up kinks about cyborgs and Clanks, yeah, but nothing too dangerous. That was, uh, ten years ago. I'd just opened up shop. So he sticks around for a few more years, sometimes even simmers down to normal smut. Then, though, a new production house hits the streets. I start receiving catalogues by mail, so I figure fuck it, why not, right? I order a couple tapes, most of what I see's really exotic porn but it's all harmless. I had two crates going, and for half of each, nothing happens.

Then this Teacher dude gets a hold of one of the last ones from one of the boxes. That was in February, about four years ago. He just - changed, after watching that shit. I never did, myself, seeing as I'd heard from strong-willed types that there was some nightmarish shit on these things. Soon enough, he starts coming in, asking for my Clank hardware catalogues. He orders about a dozen packages in a single week. For a while, that's it.

He starts coming in again, and I notice he's a little more, um, modified, each time he comes over. There's tattoos over those bits of skin he hasn't chopped off, and liver spots and, well, more gold than you can shake a stick at, mate! Golden Clank arms, a whole new right eye, gold tooth in his mouth - a little more each time, right?"

Flynt sighed. "So I get the local yellow rags about five minutes before you two bozos come in, and I see one of the pieces of evidence from your case matches some stuff I bought for him. Then you show up."
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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"Okay, thanks. Can you tell me what the tattoos on his skin looked like?" Ciaran asked, not knowing of the footage Tam had seen.

***

"Yeah, secrets can easily be kept there. McLochs want to keep outsiders out and selkies prefer to keep to themselves. Though, weirdness is linked to us like peanut butter is with jelly. This case has definitely reminded me of the weirdness my parents told me, Neasa and Ciaran about. More of a warning than anything else, hopefully," Aislinn responded.

***

Neasa nodded. "Sort of like when people learned the downsides of cigarettes. They weren't so fashionable then. How did he start thinking prosthetics were better than the real thing? It was a machine that took your arm away. So did he start having prosthetics put in place because he thought they were superior?" she asked, maintaining her posture. Even if the old man wasn't related to this potential cult, it felt like she was getting somewhere.
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Re: The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

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Katherine had stopped by her car on the way in, removing an antique-looking gun case from the trunk and then following the others inside. "Guns need respect, like any weapon," she opined as she set the case down and opened it. Inside was the pistol itself, obviously well-maintained and in good condition, the detachable stock that could also double as a holster, several stripper clips already full of bullets, and the myriad bits and tools of a gun-cleaning kit.

"Maybe you guys weren't around, but about five years ago there was a bit of fuss over in Renton," the lawyer went on, taking the vintage gun up and efficiently checking it over. "Some band of right-wing loonies had taken refuge in the abandoned storm drains, I think they thought they were paramilitaries or something. People started going missing, even a few of Jimmy Winters' men; that was a mistake on their part, believe you me." She smirked. "His boys handled it themselves, and turned the survivors over to the police; from what I heard they didn't really get much from them, they were that far gone. The most lucid just laughed and spat in their faces, raving about how 'Alfie' was gonna bust them all out before he bit his tongue and drowned in his own blood.

"Whoever Alfie is, or was, he never showed up, and the guys who didn't suicide were confined to Iron Arms. I'm surprised they went as long as they did before someone dug them up; their hidey-hole wasn't two blocks from that big cathedral the Gaelic types all go to," she concluded, shrugging out of her jacket to slip a chest holster on. "Winters was awful paranoid for a while after that, and they never did find any Alfie. But like all things, it faded away, and now here we are again!"

------------------------

"Exactly how private are you talking about?" Jimmy inquired, a bit of caution edging into his voice. "Elks' Lodge private, or Brotherhood of the Metal Storm private?"
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