Chapter 29 - A Simple Morning

Vern sat on his bed, leaning against the wall with a screwdriver in his hands and the wall clock in his lap. A couple of gears were littered around him, waiting for their turn to be put back in the right place. It would be no good to have a defective clock in a fundamentalist's room. That would be worse than a blacksmith keeping broken weapons.

When he dismantled the simple thing, he noticed that more than a few gears were abrased, breaking off contact from their successor, leading to a disrupted gear train.

It was quite peculiar how Instability Inducement had done its job. He didn't explicitly choose these gears or something when creating the flaw. He just had an abstract idea of what could go wrong, then his thoughts—guided by that notion had done the rest.

It was obviously due to the special words which explained Vision in that parchment, incepting this peculiar notion in his mind. But it's a different method than the one I was using back in the library. It was like his mind was steered to perform the necessary tasks by the notion—he wasn't the one in control.

Though it's only a fraction of a second. And he was still the one that had to figure out the flaw in composition and shade his perception with it, so it wasn't exactly brainless either. However, that was to say, it wasn't the same thing he was doing back in the library. Both of them seemed like two different methods of executing visions.

One was guided by foreign insights, while the other was a completely conscious effort on the Observer's part.

But that's the problem. Trying to envision things myself is what led those otherworldly voices to ring in my head, beckoning me to surrender to Lady knows what.

Was it just that one was a 'proper' method, while the other was 'incorrect?' Then why was he able to use it in the library at all? There was something going on here, but he couldn't pinpoint it. It was probably about the underlying principles of how both of them worked, but he didn't have enough to go on.

Hopefully, the Ascendant Council will have something for me.

Finally done putting back all the gears while replacing the chipped ones with some from his own kit, the second hand started revolving in its orbit yet again.

Then in another few minutes, the clocktower chimed eleven times, and Vern quickly set the clock in his hand to start from there. Hanging the clock back to a nail jutting out of the wall, he turned off the heat and made for the shower.

Once the somewhat hot water pelted his body, he had a thought.

Where is all the water, steam, and gas coming from? Miss Cera had said that a major plant that supplied essentials to the city had exploded. Water and steam could be explained by a personal water pump for the hotel that extracts water from the ground, but what about the gas?

Similar random questions whirled around in his mind as he dried himself off before stepping out of the bathroom.

Grabbing some choice clothes from his suitcase underneath the bed, he meticulously donned the maroon striped vest over a white shirt whose narrow collar tapered into pointy ends, perfectly matching the angle of the vest's V-shaped neckline. Pulling up a slate pitch-black narrow pant checkered with thin lines, he hooked on his graphite pocket watch to it. Then over all this, he put on a smoky-black long trench coat—which would make for an easier time out in the city compared to tight formal ones.

Then to complete the ensemble, he combed his unruly, wet hair to one side and put on a top hat with a red satin band matching the hue of his vest.

Fashion was the language of the society. One he had come to enjoy speaking himself.

Checking the chamber of the revolver one more time, he put it in his trench coat's pocket. There were four bullets in it, and he might be able to secure a few more from Beaumont. He had used firearms a few times in his life before, but it was mostly for testing purposes.

So he'd need to find some way to practice his shots because even though instability inducement was a card up his sleeve, it wasn't exactly the offensive kind by its nature. It seemed versatile, but he had felt it last night. Even though he had only used it twice, it drained his mental faculties and made him lethargic.

And this was when he found faults in simple compositions. What would happen if he tried something grander?

Shaking his head, he looked at the room one final time.

He had already hidden the parchment after wasting a quarter hour looking at it to no avail. No new insights came to him, nor did some fuzzy notions. And there wasn't anything else on that parchment. It hinted at more excerpts, but this one ended right after the explanation of the first Vision.

Lumenscope was still sitting in a drawer of its own, waiting to be fixed. Maybe when Vern found some time and a proper schema.

Insight Sphere was back in his suitcase, which had a lock that was far more secure. However, if a thief wanted it anyway, they could just take his whole suitcase.

Ughh. His brain was starting to hurt thinking about all these mundane problems that didn't exist in a civilized society. This is good enough for now.

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Stepping out of the door, he randomly rotated the knobs on four corners of the lock as it clicked shut.

The corridor was still as empty as anything, but sunlight shined in from the window at its end, casting shadows on the iron bars which encased the window. Room 308 looked completely serene. Nothing out of the ordinary. No revolting smells, no screams. Just a normal room in the hotel.

He brushed it off and left it behind, making his way to the grand staircase, which was shining from all the light seeping into the building from its glass roof. A few people stood at the landing of each floor, chatting in groups. Vern descended the flight of stairs gliding his hand across the masterfully carved handrails.

"…grace, I do declare, I'm quite set on attending this spectacle! Those ruffians will at last receive their just desserts."

"If only they had done this sooner. The poor souls outside wouldn't have had to suffer in silence these last three days."

Vern had only joined the conversation in the middle of things, but he was already quite intrigued by whatever they were talking about. So he slowed down his descent and made his way toward the group.

It was two men and a woman. The two on the right looked like a middle-aged couple, while the last man seemed a little too enthusiastic this late in the morning.

They noticed him approaching and turned towards him with an askance gaze. Vern didn't make them wait and tipped his top hat as he spoke, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I couldn't help but overhear what you were talking about. Could you shed some light on this spectacle you were just mentioning a moment ago?"

The man on the right spoke with a chortle, "A late morning to you as well, young man. Well, you see, since you spent the wee hours of the morning in a hearty sleep, you missed the correspondence we had here—"

But the lady next to him waved her hand in front of him and started, "Don't be rude, Benedict. He's such a polite lad." Then, with a smile, the lady in a seaweed-colored high skirt and a khaki long-sleeved bodice faced Vern and replied politely, "It's good news, young man. Duke Neagan has started his quest to reclaim the lost boroughs under the orders of our Emperor. A messenger carriage escorted by a troop of guards from Duke's estate announced that the quest to reclaim Fulham borough will begin in three days."

The third man also jumped in, "Yes. Yes, I tell you. They did that to scare those outlaws into hiding. No one would fight against the might of the weapons of those guards. I work for the Bureau, and I know where they came from. Just last week, Duke's palace applied for funding from the treasury to stock up on an arsenal of weapons from Von Industries."

Von industries, huh? Is it really a coincidence that this Duke Neagan just happened to stock up right before things went downhill?

"They have some of the most advanced weapons known to man. I tell you, when Duke starts his conquest, a mere glance at those formidable weapons will be enough to make those criminals lose control of their bladder. I was telling everyone that the emperor was just biding his time. I was right! We can finally go back to our previous lives."

"Not so fast, Wilfred. Not so fast," interjected the lady once again. "If it was that simple to conquer lost land, Empire wouldn’t be getting its boundaries pushed every other year. On top of that, what makes you think the criminals don't have their own channels for weapons in these new times?"

"Right. Right." complemented Benedict. "There's much more to the city than what your delusional colleagues and bosses tell you. All that red tape has muddled your head. We are not going back to the times before. Who knows how my men that handled the supply line for my tobacco business fared after the purge? We are lucky enough to survive the culling. Expecting any more miracles would be to our folly."

"But such is the way of things, young man. Care to spare two pence for your thoughts on this whole matter?" asked the lady with an interested gaze.

Vern played along with their idea, giving up some information of his own to reciprocate, "I wholeheartedly agree with what madam and sir have to say. Things are not as simple as they seem, and it'd be foolhardy to undermine what lurks in the shadows. That reminds me, there are a few religions out in the city, which you intelligent people would do well to keep your distance from."

"Oh, why is that?" asked the enthusiastic man.

"Followers of goddess Asea are distributing some miracle liquid that supposedly heals any wound."

"Any wound?" asked the man on the left once again while the rest looked back at Vern with astonishment.

"Indeed. I saw it with my own eyes yesterday. Though, personally, I would recommend against considering it until it's proven to be harmless in the long run."

"Oh, what did you see?"

"That can't be right. It must be some product of Fundamentalism."

But this turned into another meandering conversation in no time.

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After responding to a few queries perfunctorily, Vern asked a question of his own, "By the way, would any of you lovely people happen to remember a shout or commotion last night?"

"No. I didn—"

"Oh yes, there was one, wasn't there?" interrupted the lady yet another time. "Do you not remember that guy on the ground floor who started shouting at everyone, acting like he’d drunk twelve of those cheapest Barley Bishops?"

Hmm. So they really don't remember.

"Really a stain on what's left of the society."

"Yes, indeed. I tell you, they wouldn't stop there. Last month, a drunkard came to my office and…"

Then the group began another tangential discussion, and Vern felt like he was fourth-wheeling them. So when an appropriate lull appeared in their discussion, Vern interjected.

"It was a pleasure talking to you lovely folks, but I must head out—for the day is bright, and there are tasks I must attend to."

"Indeed, we shouldn't hold you, young man. Tell us more about that miracle liquid next time. For now, go get your breakfast before the butler packs it away."

Finally free of their winding ramblings, he quickly descended the stairs and walked towards the bar to the right. Beaumont stood there, wiping clean one of the glasses in his immaculate suit with not even a trace of blood that must have spilled on it from the event last night.

Did he clean it? Or he's just wearing a new dress?

"Good Morning, Mr. Vern. Would you like me to serve your breakfast?"

"Yes, please, and thank you for your effort, as always," said Vern making his way to one of the stools in front of the mahogany counter.

With a nod, Beaumont left the bar unattended and entered the door to what seemed like the kitchen.

After a while, he came back out with a plate—three steaming pancakes on it, cooked to golden brown and served alongside a toast with some butter on it. The sight made Vern gulp as he received the plates without any more courtesy. Grabbing the fork and knife, he started.

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Beaumont wiped the counter on the other side when Vern asked, a piece of pancake skewered onto his fork, ready to be devoured, "Beaumont, do you happen to know anything about administrator Yharl Ballin?"

Beaumont paused and stood back up, "Administrator Yharl Ballin? There are a few administrators in the city, but none of them are named Yharl Ballin. Are you sure you haven’t gotten the name wrong?"

Vern knitted his eyebrows as he savored the flavor of the pancake. Stabbing his fork in the heart of the steaming thing once again, he pulled out another chunk and resumed, "I am talking about the leader of the Ascendant Council, Yharl Ballin? Is he, not an administrator?"

"Hmm, you might be confusing things, Mr. Vern. The leader of the Ascendant Council is indeed an administrator, but he isn't named Yharl Ballin. It is the brother-in-law of Duke Armen, Administrator Hoist."

Vern frowned at the implications. That can't be right.