Whiskey's head began to whirl. Always on the lookout for people at risk of rushing ahead of them, Whiskey was happy when Elbow brought them to a halt. She had grown tired of flinging her head everywhere as well as her ultra-vigilance. She breathed some relief and followed Elbow's instructions as she helped maneuver the cart into a secure place away from the bustle.

"If you're going to learn what I do, then I guess the next step is setting up our stage," Elbow said.

"Stage? You're not speaking literally, I hope..."

"No, no. Nothing like that. Despite what my detractors say, I am not insane. Stage, here, is not a literal stage. I am only meaning the portion of street we will be taking over for the sake of our performance. See that streetlamp? See that other streetlamp? From there to there will be my stage."

Elbow then instructed Whiskey on placing the props around the 'stage.'

"No -- not like that!" Elbow quipped. "Like this!"

Although Whiskey had only spent the last hour or more with this man, he was getting on her nerves with his constant demands and specificity. He had a process for laying out the props and a vision for that process. If Whiskey deviated slightly, she was rebuked. Accustomed to being yelled at as she was, the man's demeanor did not bother her, truly. Especially with the knowledge she would be leaving him soon. Yet it did act as a prick in her side.

Despite this, Whiskey did as he asked of her and carefully placed each and every prop.

Looking over the scene, Whiskey had to dwell to herself: I see it, now. Our hypothetical wagon is supposed to crash different ways around the city.

"Is it always this abstract?" Whiskey asked.

Elbow shrugged. "Depends on what you mean."

"Like, does the performance change with the place? Is the wagon's implied destruction supposed to represent something important to the audience?" She asked Elbow.

"Oh. That. You're a thinker, huh? I don't get into it like that. City people love their carts. So, one being destroyed is an easy way to get their attention. The performance doesn't change."

Watching as Elbow made the same performance, again, what Whiskey saw this time was how Elbow made the large crashing-sound she heard earlier. It was through the use of a homemade drum. She should have expected as much. Innovative! Elbow wasn't an abstract thinker. That was fine. He clearly had passion for a cause and could work with his hands. That counted for something in Whiskey's book.

Once the mystery of the loud sound had been resolved, Whiskey's attention plummeted.

She watched Elbow perform but having already seen the enactment once, there was precious little to hold her attention a second time. She watched, tried to ruminate on the performance's meaning, but was otherwise unengaged. As she helped Elbow pick up the props and stash them into their wagon, she asked, "Have you ever thought of changing up the routine?"

"No, someone else gives it to me. I am not a man of words, lass," Elbow said.

Thinking on what he said as the following performance happened, Whiskey wanted to know who the man was who made the routines. If Elbow was only an actor, one of many, and therefore considered worthless by many, then Whiskey wanted to know who and what this 'man of words,' was like.

"Elbow," Whiskey asked. "Could you introduce me to who makes these routines of yours?"

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"Sure could. It will be late. Ye look capable of handling yourself, though. Help me with my performances and I will introduce you two."

"Absolutely," Whiskey said, insisting they shake on it.

As immediate as Whiskey had been to accept Elbow's offer, she inwardly groaned with every motion and utterance she made in agreeing to help the man. Knowing Elbow was passion and muscle, and watching the performance again and again, her mind bade her deeper toward the type of folk who created the routines to begin with. Whiskey wasn't interested in static. She wanted progression, movement.

It wasn't the ideal situation. She wished Elbow would just tell her what she wanted to know and be done with it.

But no.

He needed help.

Whiskey knew it was only a fair trade. She helped and did as she was told for the duration of several more performances. With her hands battered and raw, splintered, mildly bloody, even, she needed to call it. "Elbow," Whiskey said, "The crowds are done. We are done. Please, tell me about this man who writes the routines."

Elbow sighed. "What's fair-is-fair. You're a hard worker, lass. I will bring you to him now. Help me push."

One last time, Whiskey cracked her knuckled after flexing. She took a deep breath in and gripped the iron railing in front of her. Then she pushed. Like manual magic, the cart moved. Through her sweat, her blood, the cart moved. Whiskey knew this -- she had a lot more respect for the toilers of the world who spent their lives pushing and prodding carts for a living; people who woke up every day to do the jobs which kept cities like Hope-Ridge running.

Arriving at a place Elbow called 'the depot,' Whiskey reversed the cart into a corner along with a dozen or more other carts. This depot wasn't anything more than a vacant lot next to a building. They had erected a rickety wooden fence around the lot to secure the zone... but that wasn't saying much since the fence was made of stuff which appeared to be nothing more than ordinary twigs. Whoever made the fence had some crafting skills, but that was all Whiskey could praise about the location.

She saw a few people bumble about. Whiskey wondered which of them wrote the skits.

"Okay. Follow me," Elbow said. "I'll introduce you."

Whiskey nodded and followed.

Approaching a small group, Elbow raised his voice to say, "Hey, guys. Boss. I have a lass here who is interested in our performance. I know she would appreciate a moment of your time to probe your mind if you're up for it."

Turning, each member of the group was dressed in very typical commoner's garb. Greenish, brownish hemp derived clothing personalized with nothing more than some cheap inks they procured from a Sunstar Trading Mobile, no doubt.

A man who wore a white shirt addressed Elbow and Whiskey. "I would love to. Thank you, Elbow."

Nodding. Elbow gave a respectful smile, as was typically expected of subordinates throughout the Kingship, then dripped off. "Whiskey. This is Lean. He is our leader. Lean, Whiskey. I worked all hard day, gentlemen, so I will leave all you be. Have a nice evening."

With Elbow gone, Whiskey gave all her attention to those in front of her: "Nicely met! I met Elbow on the street during one of his performances. I am fascinated by all of this. Please, tell me your intent."

Lean looked tired. He said, "You get right to the point, Whiskey. I like that. Too much hearsay these days in talk... uh, sorry. I get distracted easily. That's a thing about me you should know. Anyway! back to your question: I will be blunt. We're an acting troupe highly political in nature. We stage street performances to raise issue with pressing social causes. Our content is not for everyone, but we believe it has speech-value."

"Speech-value?" Whiskey asked.

"Oh, inside term. Sorry. It means something like... philosophical worth. Ideas worth defending. Concepts which objectively better society. Some people don't believe people like us deserve the right to speak, because of our political views, we mean. Well, that, and our general views on life," Lean said.

"Are you rebels?" Whiskey asked.

Lean gave a diffuse answer. "We are not fans of the king," he said.

Mild as the answer had been, that was all Whiskey needed to invest with them and push the conversation. "I am a rebel. Until recently, I was with a rebel outfit. I'm with a Martial Order now. I sympathize."

Hearing Whiskey was a rebel made Lean happily dance. He moved his feet back and forth like he was antsy. "We should talk more. Come by here again before you depart. For now, we all have had a long day pandering to the crowds."

Whiskey told them she would be by soon and thanked Lean for his willingness to talk. It wasn't as though he was doing her any favors, of course. As the head of an artistic collective, he should be interacting with people and spreading the word at every opportunity. She departed for Marsha's building, a bounce in her step.

Suddenly returning to them, however, Whiskey made herself bold. "Actually... can I stay with one of you gentlemen? I would love to pick your minds at the particulars of your trade if you are willing to stomach a stranger."

Lean turned back and watched Whiskey approach. "You're a sparkle, Whiskey. Come on. What do you want to know?"