“Could sir raise his arms please?”
“We shall just take the waist measurement… I say, have you lost weight since last you were here?”
Gideon responds to the salespeople with friendly chatter, his mind elsewhere. He buys his clothing exclusively at The Imaginary Hunt, but only because his scholarly acquaintance Normal Edgar ‘found’ him a ream of discount coupons. The staff are distasteful at best, and he is entirely sure the place is a front for some sort of illicit clothes-colony trafficking scheme; nonetheless, the bombazine is to die for.
I DON’T LIKE THE WAY THAT ONE’S LOOKING AT US.YOU SHOULD DISCOURAGE SUCH THINGS – YOU’RE A MARRIED MAN, AFTER ALL! WHAT WOULD THE BISHOP SAY? (Undeniably projection. Perhaps London would benefit from everyone having their own internal Southwark?)
He thinks back and quickly realises that the last time he saw his wife for more than a brief conversation and a peck on the cheek was their wedding day. Vela is always so terribly busy, though he cherishes the time they spend together. But lately she has spent all her time at her Baseborn & Fowlingpiece offices, working on some grand legal case that would apparently take far too long to explain. Gideon assumes it must be for a fabulously wealthy client – the poor rarely get due process, let alone representation. He would like to chalk it up to the Bazaar’s baleful influence, but the sickness of inequality has been eating at society for far longer than that.
There are exceptions, of course, such as the day he and Vela met. But that story can wait, for while Gideon has been enduring the attentions of the salespeople in the fitting room, a commotion has been brewing outside. At first he attributed the screaming and gunshots to a particularly vigorous urchin-fight, but it is starting to sound more like a war-zone out there. He has half a mind to complain to the manager.
“That’s enough, thank you,” he says, rising and shrugging off the salesperson wrapping a tape-measure around his wrist. “I very much doubt my wrists have changed size in the last month. I’m sure you have the rest of my measurements on record; send the suit to the usual place once it’s done.” He fishes some change out of his pocket, followed by one of his several hundred remaining coupons. “I believe this should cover the bill.”
And with that, he strides out of the room, rummaging in the inner pockets of his suit until he finds a small and unusually heavy metal ball with Correspondence symbols etched into its surface. If there’s a fight to be had, he would rather end it quickly and from a safe distance. Gideon is far too slight to be effective at close-quarters, and besides, he so dislikes the sight of his own blood. Others’ blood? He’s not so fussy.
Gideon exits the back rooms and beholds a scene of utter chaos through the shop window. Vagrants spew forth from alleyways like a Marxist simile, howling with rage as they swing dirty shivs and dirtier bottles at the bourgeoisie. The air is thick with gun-smoke and confusion.
Crouching behind a collapsed clothes-rack, Gideon holds the metal ball close to his mouth and whispers a word that crackles like flame in his throat. The sigils on its surface glow orange, and the ball unfurls eight spindly limbs. He places it on the ground and it wobbles unsteadily for a moment before scuttling off into the midst of the melee, its metallic legs clicking on the paving stones.
With a shirt from the rack draped over his head as camouflage, Gideon watches the battle from afar. The Scorched Sailor holds the doorway, planted solidly as a great oak and refusing to yield to his screeching assailants. Sergeant Lyndon, Emma and Lady Orosenn are all but surrounded, but well-timed shots from above pick off enough vagabonds to prevent them being overwhelmed. Dirae fights without regard for personal safety, intercepting blows meant for the others and thinning the crowd slowly but surely.
The supply of attackers seems inexhaustible. The fighters are an island of stability in a sea of writhing derelicts. More and more of them dash in from every corner.
Gideon’s device should take care of at least a few in a rather permanent way. He hopes this spiderling is the one etched with the Correspondence symbol for “a battlefield strategy in which one does not irreparably damage one’s allies”.
Just in case, he breathes out another word of the Correspondence, scorching his tongue. The spiderling abruptly changes direction, heading to the avenue where the flow of vagrants is thickest. Once it reaches a sufficient distance from his allies, it explodes.
Much as Gideon is an unconventional man, this is an unconventional explosion. Inspired by leaked designs for the irrigo-cannon of the infamous zub Irrepressible but unable to build such a cannon on his roof without being visited by stern-faced Special Constables (why does nobody appreciate the sciences?), he built an autonomous device capable of producing a hypnomnesic blast of irrigo. Results proved surprisingly effective when testing it on a gang of street thugs looking to liberate Gideon’s valuables. Those at the centre of the blast had their minds entirely wiped, while those at the edges found themselves confused for enough time for him to escape.
This spiderling is far more potent, its explosive core steeped in the radiations of the Nadir for a full week. He’s been saving it for a special occasion, but this will have to do.
The irrigo tide rolls forth from the spider, consuming at least a dozen vagrants in the colour of forgetting. At the epicentre, the unfortunate victims keel over immediately, their skin rapidly growing to cover their eyes and their memories utterly eradicated. The other vagrants within thirty feet suffer a less painful fate, consumed with confusion as they forget entirely what they are meant to be doing and look around at the unfolding battle. A handful of them simply turn and walk off in a daze or sit down on the cobbles to try and orient themselves.
Many of the vagrants near the blast turn to flee at this display of unnatural sorcery, but there are always more. Gideon can only hope that he has stemmed the tide enough to make a difference for the others. For now, he is all out of tricks.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/9/2017