Rosenstone's first hunt (a Rustbelt story)
Posted: February 4th, 2006, 7:33 am
author's note: this piece features and mentions characters and situations established in earlier stories. As the writer of all of them, I can't picture how they come across without that context; it may work without them or not. I tend to think that it can, but I could be wrong.
Some of the stories connected to this piece have been posted to S8:
"Two Bone Bullets" http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtop ... ght=#37148
"General Makes His Move," "Derrick's Funeral," & "Killing General"
http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtop ... highlight=
Three others are related ("A Pound of Flesh," "SHC vs. the Fleshbeast pt.1," and "Young Rosenstone") but I don't think they are necessary. Of course, if someone wants to read them I'll post them.
Any gaps left after reading the connected stories are intentional.
EDIT: Sorry about the colors; the sections were originally differentiated by indentation, but despite my best HTML the boards seem to lack the functionality for it.
~-~
<b>Rosenstone's First Hunt, part one: Mr. Clendre's Ambition</b>
At eighteen years of age, Rosenstone was a bar-fly.
He had nothing else to do with his time.
He had no friends; his last friendship ended when he was fifteen. The kid called him “Rosie,” and Rosenstone promptly broke the kid’s nose.
Broke his nose on the first hit, Rosenstone thinks to himself, staring blankly at his Jack and cola. Ha. I don’t even remember the kid’s name.
If one lives in the Rustbelt and is not a craftsman of any sort, one has four options as far as occupations. The first is a dead-end job; not appealing to Rosenstone. The second
Rosenstone tried a few weeks ago: he enlisted in the militia.
He lasted two days in boot camp.
Drill sergeant, in his demeaning manner (“Let them hate me, it will bring them closer together” and all that mess), erm, implied that Rosenstone’s mother was, to put it more gently than did the drill sergeant, a prostitute.
Three prior people had done that to Rosenstone’s face.
The first was hospitalized overnight.
The second was left dying in the street.
The third put Rosenstone in the hospital with a broken arm, three broken ribs, and a concussion.
He closes and opens his left fist a few times, then clamps it around his drink. The joints creak and do not move as smoothly as they had before the encounter with the drill sergeant, but at least they no longer hurt with every movement. He takes a quick drink. The alcohol is hateful to his tongue and mouth, and he is more than grateful for the cola masking it. It is a few minutes past sundown at this point. Rosenstone has been there since two in the afternoon, and the drink in front of him is only his second.
A party of four men burst loudly through the door. So loudly as to even distract Rosenstone from staring blankly at his drink. One wears a bright red slouch hat and matching coat and trousers, carries a rapier – Talk about foppish, Rosenstone thinks. Two others look exactly alike, as far as can be told beyond the burgundy silk wrapped over their skin – Probably underneath their clothes, too. Weirdos –Although they wear long overcoats, Rosenstone notices that they carry guns. At least four each. When you live in Bone Corner, you learn to recognize such things. The fourth man is enormous. Well over six foot and two-hundred fifty pounds, easy. Encased in ringmail scattered with steel plates, carries a broad two-headed axe strapped to his back.
Adventurers, naturally. Everyone and their dog is an “adventurer” around here. He starts to lose interest, and turns to resume the staredown with his drink.
Youth in the Rustbelt invariably idolize adventurers, particularly those of the Treasure-Seeker Ring, and dream forward of joining the ranks of fame and illustry with those adventurers lucky, canny, and skilled enough to keep themselves alive long enough to actually garner fame and illustry.
When youth in the Rustbelt grow older, they divide into their four options, unless they have already been apprenticed to a craftsman. It was the fourth option they looked to first, but most soon realized they lacked the talent for it and gave it up – or died. After that, it was the mindless labor, the military (which could lead to a cushy police or county guard job), or, the choice which Rosenstone had selected, the common street rogue.
Hmm… but they drew so much attention to themselves, and yet no one hassled them about checking their weapons. That means reputation. That means they’ve been alive long enough to get a reputation. That means they might, just maybe, actually know what they’re doing.
He picks a new seat on the bar, positioning himself so that the adventurers’ table is behind him. Nobody pays him any mind.
A common street rogue, if he is to succeed, must master a few skills.
One of these is the ability to not be noticed, to be a grey, spectral figure that everyone forgets two seconds after seeing.
Another is the ability to handle oneself in a streetfight. How to conceal weapons to appear unarmed. How to properly use a knife as a weapon. How to wrest a weapon, especially a gun, from an opponent’s hands. How to improvise a weapon from your surroundings. Fighting unarmed means losing.
A smattering of legerdemain is always useful, for a shell game or two or cheating at cards.
Another is swindling a buyer into paying more than an object or bit of information is worth.
Theft, from shoplifting to pickpocketry, is indispensable.
And another, which Rosenstone would be about to employ, is the skill of eavesdropping.
If asked why he decided to eavesdrop, he would not have been able to give a satisfactory answer. For some reason of which he was unaware, he wished to hear what they were talking about. He was not even aware of a desire to hear their conversation. The decision to eavesdrop was made without thought, without internal monologue.
“…It was a good haul,” says the large man, “and well worth celebrating, but—”
“—But we could only bring back half,” the man in the hat cuts him off, clearly frustrated. “We should get the rest.”
“Sil, I don’t think Roe would authorise that.”
“When he tallies what we’ve brought back, he will. If you could count to twenty without taking of your shoes, Mr. Klumber, you would know this.”
“I can count to—”
“Look,” one of the men in wrapping interrupted, “You are neglecting to assess the overall situation. At this point in the game, and in the wake of that whole Derrick thing—”
“—Not to mention the Fleshbeast fiasco,” the other added.
“…Not to mention the Fleshbeast fiasco, splitting up the force like that is too dangerous. Especially for the detached contingent.”
“And I don’t know about you, Sil, but I’m not to keen on getting killed.”
“No, no, I am assessing the overall situation. You overestimate our opponents. Do you know what they did with the late Mr. Magnusson’s car? They burned it. Their only advantage was having two vehicles, and they burned it.”
“Why did they burn it?” asks the large man.
“Overestimate?” One of the men in wrapping almost shouts, “Overestimate? Now, if I’m not mistaken, you were there with Roe, weren’t you? When he found General’s head? In his fuckin’ refrigerator!”
“Brother, calm down,” says the other. “Look, Sil, Houston here may be a bit overheated, but he has a point. Our proclivity for 'overestimation' is what kept the two of us from dying four years ago.”
“Why did they burn it?” the large man repeats.
“Viking funeral, Hordut.”
“Alright,” Sil says, “You two know so much; here’s something you don’t know. Roe has located, for sale, a Reepervagen HR MarkIV.” He pauses to let it sink in.
“What?” Ash gasps.
“So what?” Houston spouts. “If it’s in working condition then the price will be astronomical. I’d wager anything that’s why Roe hasn’t told us. No percentage in it.”
“The price is indeed high,” Sil continues, “But if we can bring in the rest of the lode from that house, we can have the MarkIV in a week. A week.”
“If we can bring in the rest of it,” Ash articulates. “Sure, the potential reward is high – but the probability of actually obtaining the reward is so negligible that it fails in a level-headed weighing of risk and reward.”
“Where did they get the boat?” Hordut asks, confused.
“What?” Sil’s face skews in puzzlement.
“The boat. For the Viking funeral. Where did they get it?”
“For the love of…” Ash puts his face in his hands.
“Shut the fuck up, Hordut, the adults are talking,” Houston snaps.
“Don’t fucking talk to me like that, you scrawny diseased little bastard. I could snap you in half like a… like a toothpick. It’d be easy.”
“Sil, get a yoke on your ox before I have to put him out of his misery.”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Klumber,” Sil admonishes, “We must remember to not take Mr. Marson’s distemper too seriously.”
“But as I was saying,” Ash picks back up, “The odds are against us. It is night impossible to find something in the Expanse twice. Roe will never authorise a return expedition.”
“Suppose I told you that I can increase the probability to nearly ninety-nine percent within the window of the next twenty-four hours?” Sil challenges.
Ash cocks his head to a questioning angle. “What are you talking about?”
“A year ago, we acquired a grimoire by one Allen Gregorius Mittish detailing, among a few other things, the art of geomantic and arithmantic constructs. I studied this tome and recently discovered the means to create a preparation that will allow us to keep a bead on any specific location in an area of uncertain and unknown geography – such as the Expanse – for one day, give or take a few hours.” He produces a folded piece of paper, unfolds it, and lays it upon the table. “It can even, as you see, be constructed in such a way as to be, for all intents and purposes, a map.”
Sil sits back smugly as the other three examine the preparation intently.
“If this can work,” Houston mutters, his tone skeptical, “If this can work, why hasn’t it been done before?”
“Why was it, Mr. Marson, that no one built an electric lamp before Mr. Edison? At any rate, the means for this preparation has probably been discovered, or at least suggested, before now. However, it is a very difficult preparation to construct, requiring a great deal of skill and energy, and the situation where the expenditure would be worth such a tool is rare – although we find ourselves in such a situation now.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” Ash queries.
“Then we don’t find the house. But as I stated already, it has nearly a ninety-nine percentage chance of guiding us accurately. In this light, I urge you to re-evaluate the risk versus reward inherent in this situation.”
“Roe still won’t authorise it,” Houston says, leaning back in his chair. “Too pig-headed, he is.”
“Then allow me to make a bold suggestion: we do it without Mr. Ironbone’s knowledge.”
“Sil,” Ash says warily, “I don’t think that’s advisable.”
“Don’t you? Two and half weeks remain of the time limit, and although we still outnumber our opponents, they are, however inexplicably, in the lead. What I see here is a chance for a swift, total, and unstoppable victory. It is bold actions, my comrades, not timid ones, that yield accomplishment. Should we wait in inaction and risk defeat when we have the opportunity to secure through action a fail-safe victory? Let us not forget our objective: to destroy the SHC. Anything else is peripheral, or at best subordinate. Yes, Mr. Ironbones will be angry, but I assure you his anger will fade with great rapidity when the SHC lay crushed and shattered beneath the treads of the HR MarkIV. Gentlemen, it is, viewed from any direction, a winning scenario.”
Hordut nods his head enthusiastically. Sil leans forward, waiting for Ash and Houston’s response. They sit pensively.
“What the fuck,” Houston says, hitting his fist on the table, “I’m in. Let’s do it.”
“For the love of…” Ash sighs. “Damn you, Sil Clendre, I’m in. Got to keep my brother out of trouble, after all.”
“All right then,” Sil grins, “Let’s park the truck off at headquarters and procure a new one for the rest.”
They stand and make ready to leave. Sil folds the map back up and places it in his right hip pocket. Rosenstone pays for his drink and observes carefully. Sil Clendre approaches the bar to pay. Rosenstone selects a path towards the exit that intercepts Sil and “accidentally” bumps into him.
“Watch where you are going, guttersnipe!”
“Sorry, sorry, sir. I got this trick knee, like, and it gets out of control sometimes—”
“Alright, alright, I do not require your life story. Just be sure to avoid such missteps in the future, or you will assuredly face consequences of a most undesirable nature.”
“Absolutely, sir, have a good day, sir.”
Rosenstone could barely contain his laughter as he left the bar. He waited until he got home to examine the map.
His first thoughts were, What in the hell are you doing? Why are you doing it?
A dark light lit up in his head and answered. A treasure, a map… Why not?
Some of the stories connected to this piece have been posted to S8:
"Two Bone Bullets" http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtop ... ght=#37148
"General Makes His Move," "Derrick's Funeral," & "Killing General"
http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtop ... highlight=
Three others are related ("A Pound of Flesh," "SHC vs. the Fleshbeast pt.1," and "Young Rosenstone") but I don't think they are necessary. Of course, if someone wants to read them I'll post them.
Any gaps left after reading the connected stories are intentional.
EDIT: Sorry about the colors; the sections were originally differentiated by indentation, but despite my best HTML the boards seem to lack the functionality for it.
~-~
<b>Rosenstone's First Hunt, part one: Mr. Clendre's Ambition</b>
At eighteen years of age, Rosenstone was a bar-fly.
He had nothing else to do with his time.
He had no friends; his last friendship ended when he was fifteen. The kid called him “Rosie,” and Rosenstone promptly broke the kid’s nose.
Broke his nose on the first hit, Rosenstone thinks to himself, staring blankly at his Jack and cola. Ha. I don’t even remember the kid’s name.
If one lives in the Rustbelt and is not a craftsman of any sort, one has four options as far as occupations. The first is a dead-end job; not appealing to Rosenstone. The second
Rosenstone tried a few weeks ago: he enlisted in the militia.
He lasted two days in boot camp.
Drill sergeant, in his demeaning manner (“Let them hate me, it will bring them closer together” and all that mess), erm, implied that Rosenstone’s mother was, to put it more gently than did the drill sergeant, a prostitute.
Three prior people had done that to Rosenstone’s face.
The first was hospitalized overnight.
The second was left dying in the street.
The third put Rosenstone in the hospital with a broken arm, three broken ribs, and a concussion.
He closes and opens his left fist a few times, then clamps it around his drink. The joints creak and do not move as smoothly as they had before the encounter with the drill sergeant, but at least they no longer hurt with every movement. He takes a quick drink. The alcohol is hateful to his tongue and mouth, and he is more than grateful for the cola masking it. It is a few minutes past sundown at this point. Rosenstone has been there since two in the afternoon, and the drink in front of him is only his second.
A party of four men burst loudly through the door. So loudly as to even distract Rosenstone from staring blankly at his drink. One wears a bright red slouch hat and matching coat and trousers, carries a rapier – Talk about foppish, Rosenstone thinks. Two others look exactly alike, as far as can be told beyond the burgundy silk wrapped over their skin – Probably underneath their clothes, too. Weirdos –Although they wear long overcoats, Rosenstone notices that they carry guns. At least four each. When you live in Bone Corner, you learn to recognize such things. The fourth man is enormous. Well over six foot and two-hundred fifty pounds, easy. Encased in ringmail scattered with steel plates, carries a broad two-headed axe strapped to his back.
Adventurers, naturally. Everyone and their dog is an “adventurer” around here. He starts to lose interest, and turns to resume the staredown with his drink.
Youth in the Rustbelt invariably idolize adventurers, particularly those of the Treasure-Seeker Ring, and dream forward of joining the ranks of fame and illustry with those adventurers lucky, canny, and skilled enough to keep themselves alive long enough to actually garner fame and illustry.
When youth in the Rustbelt grow older, they divide into their four options, unless they have already been apprenticed to a craftsman. It was the fourth option they looked to first, but most soon realized they lacked the talent for it and gave it up – or died. After that, it was the mindless labor, the military (which could lead to a cushy police or county guard job), or, the choice which Rosenstone had selected, the common street rogue.
Hmm… but they drew so much attention to themselves, and yet no one hassled them about checking their weapons. That means reputation. That means they’ve been alive long enough to get a reputation. That means they might, just maybe, actually know what they’re doing.
He picks a new seat on the bar, positioning himself so that the adventurers’ table is behind him. Nobody pays him any mind.
A common street rogue, if he is to succeed, must master a few skills.
One of these is the ability to not be noticed, to be a grey, spectral figure that everyone forgets two seconds after seeing.
Another is the ability to handle oneself in a streetfight. How to conceal weapons to appear unarmed. How to properly use a knife as a weapon. How to wrest a weapon, especially a gun, from an opponent’s hands. How to improvise a weapon from your surroundings. Fighting unarmed means losing.
A smattering of legerdemain is always useful, for a shell game or two or cheating at cards.
Another is swindling a buyer into paying more than an object or bit of information is worth.
Theft, from shoplifting to pickpocketry, is indispensable.
And another, which Rosenstone would be about to employ, is the skill of eavesdropping.
If asked why he decided to eavesdrop, he would not have been able to give a satisfactory answer. For some reason of which he was unaware, he wished to hear what they were talking about. He was not even aware of a desire to hear their conversation. The decision to eavesdrop was made without thought, without internal monologue.
“…It was a good haul,” says the large man, “and well worth celebrating, but—”
“—But we could only bring back half,” the man in the hat cuts him off, clearly frustrated. “We should get the rest.”
“Sil, I don’t think Roe would authorise that.”
“When he tallies what we’ve brought back, he will. If you could count to twenty without taking of your shoes, Mr. Klumber, you would know this.”
“I can count to—”
“Look,” one of the men in wrapping interrupted, “You are neglecting to assess the overall situation. At this point in the game, and in the wake of that whole Derrick thing—”
“—Not to mention the Fleshbeast fiasco,” the other added.
“…Not to mention the Fleshbeast fiasco, splitting up the force like that is too dangerous. Especially for the detached contingent.”
“And I don’t know about you, Sil, but I’m not to keen on getting killed.”
“No, no, I am assessing the overall situation. You overestimate our opponents. Do you know what they did with the late Mr. Magnusson’s car? They burned it. Their only advantage was having two vehicles, and they burned it.”
“Why did they burn it?” asks the large man.
“Overestimate?” One of the men in wrapping almost shouts, “Overestimate? Now, if I’m not mistaken, you were there with Roe, weren’t you? When he found General’s head? In his fuckin’ refrigerator!”
“Brother, calm down,” says the other. “Look, Sil, Houston here may be a bit overheated, but he has a point. Our proclivity for 'overestimation' is what kept the two of us from dying four years ago.”
“Why did they burn it?” the large man repeats.
“Viking funeral, Hordut.”
“Alright,” Sil says, “You two know so much; here’s something you don’t know. Roe has located, for sale, a Reepervagen HR MarkIV.” He pauses to let it sink in.
“What?” Ash gasps.
“So what?” Houston spouts. “If it’s in working condition then the price will be astronomical. I’d wager anything that’s why Roe hasn’t told us. No percentage in it.”
“The price is indeed high,” Sil continues, “But if we can bring in the rest of the lode from that house, we can have the MarkIV in a week. A week.”
“If we can bring in the rest of it,” Ash articulates. “Sure, the potential reward is high – but the probability of actually obtaining the reward is so negligible that it fails in a level-headed weighing of risk and reward.”
“Where did they get the boat?” Hordut asks, confused.
“What?” Sil’s face skews in puzzlement.
“The boat. For the Viking funeral. Where did they get it?”
“For the love of…” Ash puts his face in his hands.
“Shut the fuck up, Hordut, the adults are talking,” Houston snaps.
“Don’t fucking talk to me like that, you scrawny diseased little bastard. I could snap you in half like a… like a toothpick. It’d be easy.”
“Sil, get a yoke on your ox before I have to put him out of his misery.”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Klumber,” Sil admonishes, “We must remember to not take Mr. Marson’s distemper too seriously.”
“But as I was saying,” Ash picks back up, “The odds are against us. It is night impossible to find something in the Expanse twice. Roe will never authorise a return expedition.”
“Suppose I told you that I can increase the probability to nearly ninety-nine percent within the window of the next twenty-four hours?” Sil challenges.
Ash cocks his head to a questioning angle. “What are you talking about?”
“A year ago, we acquired a grimoire by one Allen Gregorius Mittish detailing, among a few other things, the art of geomantic and arithmantic constructs. I studied this tome and recently discovered the means to create a preparation that will allow us to keep a bead on any specific location in an area of uncertain and unknown geography – such as the Expanse – for one day, give or take a few hours.” He produces a folded piece of paper, unfolds it, and lays it upon the table. “It can even, as you see, be constructed in such a way as to be, for all intents and purposes, a map.”
Sil sits back smugly as the other three examine the preparation intently.
“If this can work,” Houston mutters, his tone skeptical, “If this can work, why hasn’t it been done before?”
“Why was it, Mr. Marson, that no one built an electric lamp before Mr. Edison? At any rate, the means for this preparation has probably been discovered, or at least suggested, before now. However, it is a very difficult preparation to construct, requiring a great deal of skill and energy, and the situation where the expenditure would be worth such a tool is rare – although we find ourselves in such a situation now.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” Ash queries.
“Then we don’t find the house. But as I stated already, it has nearly a ninety-nine percentage chance of guiding us accurately. In this light, I urge you to re-evaluate the risk versus reward inherent in this situation.”
“Roe still won’t authorise it,” Houston says, leaning back in his chair. “Too pig-headed, he is.”
“Then allow me to make a bold suggestion: we do it without Mr. Ironbone’s knowledge.”
“Sil,” Ash says warily, “I don’t think that’s advisable.”
“Don’t you? Two and half weeks remain of the time limit, and although we still outnumber our opponents, they are, however inexplicably, in the lead. What I see here is a chance for a swift, total, and unstoppable victory. It is bold actions, my comrades, not timid ones, that yield accomplishment. Should we wait in inaction and risk defeat when we have the opportunity to secure through action a fail-safe victory? Let us not forget our objective: to destroy the SHC. Anything else is peripheral, or at best subordinate. Yes, Mr. Ironbones will be angry, but I assure you his anger will fade with great rapidity when the SHC lay crushed and shattered beneath the treads of the HR MarkIV. Gentlemen, it is, viewed from any direction, a winning scenario.”
Hordut nods his head enthusiastically. Sil leans forward, waiting for Ash and Houston’s response. They sit pensively.
“What the fuck,” Houston says, hitting his fist on the table, “I’m in. Let’s do it.”
“For the love of…” Ash sighs. “Damn you, Sil Clendre, I’m in. Got to keep my brother out of trouble, after all.”
“All right then,” Sil grins, “Let’s park the truck off at headquarters and procure a new one for the rest.”
They stand and make ready to leave. Sil folds the map back up and places it in his right hip pocket. Rosenstone pays for his drink and observes carefully. Sil Clendre approaches the bar to pay. Rosenstone selects a path towards the exit that intercepts Sil and “accidentally” bumps into him.
“Watch where you are going, guttersnipe!”
“Sorry, sorry, sir. I got this trick knee, like, and it gets out of control sometimes—”
“Alright, alright, I do not require your life story. Just be sure to avoid such missteps in the future, or you will assuredly face consequences of a most undesirable nature.”
“Absolutely, sir, have a good day, sir.”
Rosenstone could barely contain his laughter as he left the bar. He waited until he got home to examine the map.
His first thoughts were, What in the hell are you doing? Why are you doing it?
A dark light lit up in his head and answered. A treasure, a map… Why not?
