(OOC: Hey sorry for writing so much back story bullshit. The important stuff is at the bottom, I wrote it realized what I had done and damn well didn't want to delete it all so, yeah you can skip to "---That lead us to this moment---" The main bullet point is Miss Olive Culpepper is the leader of the Mothers gang)
People slagged Edgar
'Grimes' Grimheld Jr all the time - behind his back mostly – some were little voices at the back of his mind, others more visceral whispers, like the lady who was banging on his damn door. Like his conscience he ignored it even when it built to a dull roar. He slept well at night, he knew his environment and he'd raised him-damn-self since his step-father left – I mean his mother was there but she never even raised herself, prostitution, story-telling and a opium tolerance was all she held as talents. Look what he had now it was just a small couple room shack to call his own, the corrugated steel walls didn't keep out the noise, the heat, the water, or the damn vermin but it did keep out the people – which in turn kept
IN his stuff, mostly repossessed from people who didn't do that job quite as well – this persistent broad was probably one. Sure it wasn't much, but it was more then a bottle addiction, a rucksack and a mat between some pipes in the industrial blocks of the Truian sector that most of the other orphans had. If he was honest, those were the lucky ones, the unlucky caught a sentence - death or prison – not much of a choice and really wasn't much different... them jobs they had them doing in the click. He shuddered and got up off his mite infested cot, avoiding the sharp springs that had burst through in places.
They called him all sorts of things –
'villainous vagabond', '
hooligan', '
yellow-bellied rapscallion' were just a few he'd heard in the past minute. You know what he called himself – smart - God damn smart! Cheating was the difference between you and your meal, if you weren't cheating you well weren't trying hard enough. People respected a good fighter, but you wanna know the ugly truth? You know who a crew relied upon – a good sucker puncher, if you can end a fight before it starts no one has a chance to draw on you, good fighters bled out in the gutters knives in there backs. Being a hard worker was praised aswell, god-damned overrated too, sure he respected the effort in the grind, but only place that got you was tired and broken in a early urn. You know who got recognized by Mistress Olive Culpepper, the bully baroness herself - Edgar '
Grimes' that's who.
He entered the latrine, separated by naught more then a curtain and splashed some stagnant water on his face. He looked in the mirror through a set of blue eyes, his mother had always said they were his real fathers eyes... Royal blue she'd call them and he was her little prince – she was obsessed with these fairy-tales, this one in particular though – he hated her for it. He drew his attention back to the mirror, he'd acquired it during a burglary just a few levels below the surface, it'd been cracked when it was lowered off a balcony with a bit to much vigor but was still a damn fine piece... He wasn't bad looking either, if he did say so himself, his reflection looked back at him with a smile whist he flicked open a straight blade razor.
'Sgt. Cornwallis' it read, engraved along the blade, he'd taken one of them military fools that came through on a bender. I guess Cornwallis ended up loosing his friends and wandering down the wrong alley, in the tussle that proceeded - before the good Sergeant lost his consciousness and his wallet, bastard slashed him.
His tongue traced the scar tissue on the inside of his mouth while he contemplating it with his gaze. He'd caught the blade in his mouth and it had tore through his cheek almost to the end of his jaw before it had broken free of his face. He decided he liked, the man in the mirror grinned as if he had the choice. It was the same single-minded nature that kept his conscience at bay; plus the lady's dug scars. After he'd gotten rid of all the stubble on his cheeks what was left were short clean lines of hair from his thin side burns along his chin to his goatee as well as a medium length mustache. Dipping his fingers in a slight bit of wax he curled said 'stache in the latest fashion before folding the knife and tossing it in his pocket, grabbing his bladed iron ring from the counter under the mirror. His bowler came next as he exited the washroom, it was hung with a pin stripped jacket on a wire beside the front door currently doubling as the lady's gong - he like the jacket but it was to hot in the underbelly.
As he made the way toward the door the woman stopped screaming and banging. What a relief, he hated coming out his door and having to threaten or lie to women first thing in the morning, usually it was a mix of both.
'Sorry doll, didn't nick your stuff'
'Nope got the wrong bloke. '
'No you can't come inside maddam'
'You'll cop a mouse under your eye if ya' keep accusing an honest gentleman like that'
He played through the conversation in his head mouthin' along and waving his fist encase she lingered. There was a back way out, through a panel under the bed which lead through long forgotten pipeline but yeah had to pretty much crawl through it - not happening. He'd rather not, from the sound of her fists on the door the woman seemed quite dainty. From the jacket he produced a fine gilded pocket-watch, attached with a thin polished bronze chain to the inside of his jacket which he unclipped. It had a nice sheen to it, he fancied it almost looked gold; he'd gotten it from a local fence, Edison Hellyer, or 'Edgy Ed' as he liked to call him. He like the bloke maybe because they were both 'Eds', whatever the matter when you miss a payment you get shook down, Miss Culpepper ain't the forgiving type when it your not one of her 'children'. She'd let him keep it on layaway though, say what you want she took care of her own.
He watched the palm-sized clock for five minutes hypnotized by the whirling gears and spinning arms, strode toward the door and peeped through the shutter. What he saw was no longer a frail lady but her polar opposite. A large man in a black gasmask and goggles was staring back at him, there were others. He couldn't count how many, he didn't take the time, he sure as hell knew what the next step was! – you could fuckin' bet he did he was usually the scumbag in the damn mask. With the short sprint to rival Olympians he dashed from the door toward his tattered bed, flinging up the mattress and the hatch that lay below with alternating hands in quick succession before diving into the corroded pipe and making his escape to the sounds of a battering ram or sledgehammer, striking his front door.
He had a little rainy day package hidden up the tunnel a little ways, some jewelry, a wig and a matchlock pistol for this exact situation. He was part of the Mothers Gang! Damn set of bollocks on those dullards. He grabbed the satchel and crawled through the pipes for quarter mile before popping out a burst in the old copper line and made off to get a wreckin' crew together and find out who the hell had the stones to come knocking his front door down.
---That lead us to this moment.---
He'd already been planning on shaking the old man down for whatever he knew, yet when he looked at the picture of the man in the drawing his mouth dropped. He double took, then did a triple take, the man in the picture could well be his brother, 'cept the mole, the missing tooth and the fact he didn't have no brothers. His left hand darted to grip a handful of the old mans cloak, but the rickety old fool seemed to lose his footing at just the right moment and Edgar ended up grasping at the air
“Don't sell me a dog old man or I swear on my mudda I'll give you a batty fangin', who's the man in the picture and I betta like ya answer.”
*****
Erastus Brattle squinted under his dirty shawl of hair, his brain hurt trying to decipher the young scallywag's slang. He guessed something along 'don't lie to him and he wouldn't get beat up. He easily dodged the young thugs attempt to grab him, experience was half the battle, and experience had taught him long ago – When fighting a group, don't let them grab you and don't go to the ground. He swayed on his cane leg and replanted his feet shoulder width apart. 'Proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance' he alliterated in his head jovially. Yet when the man had tried to grab him a wooden pommel caught his eye, clearly a pistol sometime. When he spoke he spoke calmly and clearly, he looked like a dunce one and they tend to get angry and do things they regret.
“That is Jacob, labor in the forges him looking like you is just complete coincidence, he is one of the missing people. I've been contracted to look into the disappearances I happened to draw Jacob before he vanished.”
“Sounds like some horse-shi--”
"Grimes, leave that one alone, that old geezer isn't even worth your time."
He was cut off by a the thick voice, he smelt the man before he entered his field of vision coal-fire mixed with sweat, the cologne of the working man who's shift had just ended. Finally the hard faced man, entered his view, between him and this 'Grimes' fellow, he fit his voice well, tanned from the furnace fires and chiseled from the shovel he stepped forward. He read Grimes' body language as the man immediately deflated a bit, clearly not wanting to fight the bigger man – and maybe somewhere a veiled hint of respect buried under misguided hate and self-pity. He knew these lost ganger types, most didn't make it past snatching purses and robbing drunkards, but every so often one broke the cycle – this oaf probably wasn't one of them but Mr. Brattle was a dreamer.
“Axl, I don't want to have a problem wif you, but my door got kicked and I'm a bit peeved about it. This geezer 'ere has a picture that looks like it could damn well be my brotha. Now follow my logic, I know it wasn't this guy who kicked my damn door down – ain't got the weight. You on the otha' hand.”
Grimes looked him up and down.
“I ain't accusing nobody, but I'm going to have to insist you both come for a walk wif me and visit Miss Oliver Culpepper.”
