everyone's got a combination if you put in the time

[clockwerk]

[For a few strange months Karnaca sees a complete upheaval of its government, its districts, its way of life— and Kirin Jindosh misses all of it. Oh, he's around— puttering around his house tending to shrubs and talking to birds he suddenly wants to keep as pets, confusing and yet endearing himself to the staff he manages to keep on— but the man who shuffles around the Clockwork Mansion in a silk robe and slippers is hardly Kirin Jindosh. The Empress strapped him into his own machine and left him quite literally to his own devices, found moaning and crying on his own shoulder by some maid who crept into the lab after half a day of wondering where the master of the house had gone and why all of the clockworks were in pieces. He spends a week like that before he comes back to himself just enough to be... pleasant. Gentle as a lamb, one of the maids says, and he smiles at her and tells her she's his favorite because he doesn't know any better.

It only lasts a few months. The brain is an amazing organ, the plasticity of it making it so very, very resilient, capable of molding itself into something new when pieces of it are missing. And Jindosh— well, he's hardly missing any at all, so it should come as no surprise to anyone with any lick of sense that the Empress did not leave the lasting damage she must have hoped for. Oh, but it does, and the day Jindosh sits rigidly upright from listening to a hired musician and tells the man quite clearly that the sound has worn through his last nerve and he'd better vacate the premises immediately before Jindosh feeds him to the gears that turn the walls of his house—well. Some of the staff quit on the spot.

Still, it takes another month after that for Jindosh to feel truly himself again, and only then does he deign to pay attention to the outside world. The first thing he wonders is why Duke Abele hasn't come after him for some reason or another yet, why he's been left alone here on his hilltop for so many months, and the answer comes in a newspaper article about something else entirely, but with a different name printed there on the page after the title of Duke.

Paolo?

Who?

Kirin Jindosh cannot abide another idiot in the Grand Palace; he simply can't endure that kind of nonsense again, another idiot drunk on every kind of Tyvian wine and stuffing his own rooms full of orgies at any opportunity— or somehow worse, an idiot simpering after Aramis Stilton, who never has any worthwhile ideas in that head of his, solid as his silver mines and even more so in recent years. So, of course, he has to see for himself; he has to march down to the Grand Palace and, as the Grand Inventor (he is pretty sure no one else showed up to take his title from him, considering), demand an audience.

He'll make an impression, he thinks with only some distaste, trade his faded leather jacket in for one pressed and fresh and white, grease his hair back a little more neatly, play the part of the uppity nobleman the rest of high society would like him to play. It's a good plan that falls apart halfway up the Grand Palace's immaculate front steps, when he passes by a gaggle of young people who look as far from noble as they can be, dirty and- for some ungodly reason- one of them howls, and no Grand Guard are trying to chase them off the property with pistols drawn. Jindosh wrinkles his nose in confusion and continues, somehow unimpeded all the way to the throne room and then, because maybe this new Duke is not a total buffoon, he changes course outside the door and makes his way to the Duke's private offices.

He does not knock, but instead pushes the doors open and takes two long strides inside. Hello. It's him.]

Are you Paolo?

Comments

[howlarious]

I listened to a message, with you in it.

[Paolo speaks so quickly he very nearly interrupts Jindosh, smile faltering. The click is indeed annoying, bringing attention to a headache he'd been trying to fight off all afternoon. Of course, the solution is to pass it on to his visitor—at least, that must be what he's trying to do, with the new subject of conversation.]

Interview for the last Duke, you know, the one I came after because nobody else would right. You were supposed to uh... be working with Sokolov to lower the cost of production by... eighty to ninety percent? And you were talking about... beetles. How are they, Kirin? The shiny green shells? Because it seems to me that there aren't enough shells for you to—

[He leans forward, reaching to knock on the wood of the machine's arm. His expression is flat, mirthless.]

—cover your cost. Is that why you're coming to a man of my station? Or are you just here to take what's yours and get out of my office, because that'd make my day a whole lot easier. Little shits like you only leech, come and here and judge because I don't lace up all pretty to fit in that fat shit's clothes. I don't have time. [He opens the fist, to pat his chest with the back of his hand, then leave the weight there.] Even with your clockworks.

[clockwerk]

[There are few things in the world that disorient Kirin Jindosh, and somehow, within minutes, Paolo has found one of them. A message, he says, and Jindosh's mind races to try to figure out which throwaway audiograph recording the little Duke might have listened to, and why. He can't recall, and worse than that—he has no idea what Paolo is talking about.

Ordinarily it wouldn't matter, he's a very important man and he can't be expected to remember every single interview he gives, especially those sent along to Luca Abele to appease the fat idiot's demands to see results in a time frame that doesn't make any sense. Luca Abele knew nothing, he was too stupid to understand half the things Jindosh told him at any given time, and Jindosh is entirely certain this Paolo has even less education to show for himself.

But he has audiographs, and Jindosh's brow creases as he stops listening fully to Paolo's speech about what a little shit he is. Beetles? Beetles, having enough shells, why would he—

She let me keep a few of them in a jar, and the room lurches around him for a moment but that isn't, oh, god—]

I pulled off their legs, [he says, a murmur, not paying attention to Paolo any longer at all. Kirin Jindosh, gentle as a lamb, the months upon months he can't remember except through a haze, there is a recording of it somewhere in this office. A sick dread settles in his stomach, and it is not much comfort to realize Paolo believes he's only here to wheedle him for money.

The hand on his chest makes him blink, vacant for a moment before he comes back to himself. Cool, don't, uh, ask about that ever.]

What are you...? Shut up, you annoying little man, I am trying to think. [It's going great. He rubs his temples.] I came here to judge what kind of man you are, Paolo. Why don't you tell me, and save us all a great deal more time?

[howlarious]

[Paolo did not know what he hoped to provoke in this spindly, imposing, headache of a man. Well, no, that wasn’t true—initially he’d hoped to wind him tighter than the screws of his creation, to cause him to throw a fit that would have him thrown into the Palace pavement. Fly home, little bird, he’d say. He would keep his jacket as a prize, and perhaps surprise Mindy with a new addition to her wardrobe with the delicious bonus of describing the look on the former—former, he’d say again, to emphasize—Grand Inventor’s face.

But Jindosh lurches out of reality, and rather than become so shrill Paolo loses the shambles left of his hearing, he mutters about the beetles and pulling them apart. It shouldn’t surprise him—noble women drown their cats, guard men beat their dogs, inventors can pull apart insects. But there is something distinctly different, vulnerable, like a crack in the mechanical soldier’s plate, that tugs at his instinct to take rather than lay waste to something. Narrowed eyes relax, knit brows loft high. Paolo, even as irritable and precise that he is, chooses to forget what he was hoping to achieve.

Paolo raises the hand from his chest to clamp a hand to the man’s shoulder, his other arm outstretching in a gesture out to the right exit. His grip is not of one who is making requests, but his tone, and smile, both pretend that they are warm and welcoming.] A man like you should know that uh, equations, they need time to solve. I’m not a man to just hand out the answers, and you look a little rattled. Let’s go somewhere we both can have a clear head.

[clockwerk]

[Jindosh does not trust warmth and welcome. No, that isn't true; Jindosh does not know warmth and welcome as anything other than papier-mâché facades, brittle and plastering over ugly truths and unpleasant features. Perhaps once he knew warm— his mother, before she feared him and cast him aside to be raised by a grown brother who had no time for him— and perhaps he once knew welcome— but not anymore.

Not to say that it bothers him; it doesn't. But warmth and welcome happen to other people and so to Jindosh he expects, ordinarily, something gnarled and unsightly under hushed tones and open smiles. Ordinarily. In this moment, after his- his episode, or whatever that was, when Paolo looks at him with debatable concern and speaks softly to him, something in Jindosh leans eagerly into it at the same time the rest of him goes stiff, frowning.

The beetle collector and the Grand Inventor are at war within him, but that isn't really any of Paolo's business. Jindosh lifts a hand halfway to his own shoulder to brush Paolo's hand off and then doesn't, letting it fall and turning his head with a scoff.]

Forgive my impatience, but your predecessor was a lazy imbecile with only one useful vice among many. [Hint: it was spending money on robots.] You are so fortunate to come from nothing, instead of a lineage of idiots.

[A beat, and then he gestures and quirks an eyebrow, as if he is the one who decided they're going to get out of here and Paolo is the one loitering. Go, little man.]

[howlarious]

Of all the "fine" folk this city has lead to my doorstep, you just might be the first to say that I'm fortunate not to be a fat pig. [Paolo's tone rings... amused. The hand that Jindosh so graciously allowed to remain settled against him squeezes, squeezes in the way that kind common folk who've been given a reprieve from long hours do, sans the unawareness for the discomfort it might cause. Paolo is aware. His glance towards the man's face, albeit brief, is searching for a reaction.

His motivation, however, is hidden behind the lines of his eyes when he smiles. Paolo looks ahead and walks on, the hand drifting from Jindosh's shoulder to splay against his back as he subtly steers him for the chambers. There is no pressure in the gesture. His palm is raised off of him, leaving only calloused fingertips.] They come here with their high voices and their long words that they think I'm too uneducated to understand their meaning. But meaning is not always found in definition, mm? It's in intent, and that's easy to read when you've never had to lie. They say, your Grace Paolo—

[He clears his throat, and for a moment it is not as gruff on smoke and sand and dust.] You've not the capacity to properly expend your resources. You would be better to hire an accountant, let me recommend that I—[And in the next moment, it drops to something callous, jaded.]—roll in your dough for you. No. You're right—having nothing means I know what rats scrambling for crumbs look like.




[For a space recently raided by Paolo's howling degenerates, the room is, impressively, still nice by some standards. The piano is still in place, despite the corner of the rug under it still turned up with dust swept under it. The harp's strings are in tact, despite having become a hanger for a woman's worn leather jacket. Beyond the wide arch to the left, fire crackles, bringing a pleasant warmth that does not impose, does not draw sweat, combating the cool air ebbing in from the balcony door's seams. There are scrapes along the tile from furniture being moved, and the upholstery of the couch has been coated by a few quilts that obviously weren't professionally knitted, stains and tears all across their patterned squares. There are books littered in stacks below the shelves, and a few lie atop the table alongside a half-full bottle of Orbon Rum.

It is not sleek. It is not immaculate. But it is just fine in Paolo's eyes, as well as his apparent destination. His hand leaves Jindosh's back to stride for the tray of glasses left on the nearby long table. He nudges one of the cabinet doors shut, jars of something obscured before they can be observed. Ahead, in the next room, the former queen's pigments have been replaced ink's of tattoo station, canvases replaced with boards of Mindy's design. Beyond that, the bedroom is dim.] You know, I uh—I think the honesty's refreshing, and—

[He turns, raising a finger around the glass to point at Jindosh.] —very interesting. You have my time and my hospitality, Kirin Jindosh. Do not waste it.

guess what? don't talk to me

[clockwerk]

[Jindosh's eyebrows raise, and his lip curls just so in a distasteful sneer, and he hums his muted displeasure at not only hearing this crass imitation of the Serkonan nobility but being lumped in with them as well, "fine" folk— but he moves, at least, despite Paolo's fingertips pressed into the back of his vest and not because of it. He moves stiffly, a man unaccustomed to anyone having the nerve to approach him this readily, let alone touch him like an old, intimate friend; even Abele, in his honest moments, sober and doing his job for once, had been uncomfortable around Jindosh. It is usually not the Grand Inventor set on edge, with something inexplicable setting the corners of his brain on fire.

He does not like it. He does not like Paolo very much at the moment, either, and yet he remains walking with the man, letting him guide them through the palace to chambers he is much less familiar with than the Duke's office.

Call it self interest; call it an investment, in the cost of repairs to his home after the Empress' romp through it and in that of his reputation, knowing an audiograph lurks somewhere that he wants to find and shred with his bare hands. Something like that, anyway.

If he is honest, he appreciates the open disdain for the upper class more than he appreciated a single thing about Luca Abele, or his father before him. So he stands and watches Paolo pour drinks, less stiff the moment Paolo's hand leaves his back, and after a long moment of looking at him critically he moves to drop himself into an ornate armchair much too fine for someone to slouch as pointedly as Jindosh does. Pretense and respect are for other people, and Jindosh idly wonders how many seconds it would take one of his clockworks to tear Paolo to pieces if he flipped a different switch. He leans his elbow on the arm of the chair and presses fingers to his temples, looking for all the world like Paolo is the one who's barged into his home to interrupt his day.]

Little Duke, you are wasting your time trying to intimidate me. More powerful hands than yours have tried to tie mine and found it challenging.

[And he more or less told Delilah to fuck off in a letter, so expecting him to exercise self-preservation is ridiculous at best. He hums and casts a cursory glance around the room, noting the shabby blankets and scuffs all over the floor. The space is lived in, he supposes, and seemingly scrubbed clean of whatever that witch had strewn about carelessly.

But he learns more from observing the man than his decor, so he flicks his gaze back to Paolo.]

I suppose I could bore us both by inquiring as to whether or not you'll be continuing to use my clockworks in exchange for a stipend for my research, but I'm sure you've already selected which howling peon you want to handle the paperwork. So, no, it isn't business that interests you, is it? Why—don't tell me you've hit a wall, governing our fine city.

[Not to imply that Jindosh would be any help, just an excuse to stop working for an hour. He knows what kind of person he is.]

It is a big chair to fill.

hey. remember me

[howlarious]

Now, now, my little inventor, I wouldn't tie your hands. What use would they be to me then?

[Little inventor, the little Duke says, the respect (or lack thereof) returned with a sharpness to it that indicates Jindosh walks a fine line antagonizing him. Paolo may not be Abele with his stomp of foot and red-faced demands, but there's still a danger that laced in the seams of his beaten suit jacket, be it metaphorical or the razors tucked there. The title of Grand Inventor is an absent, far-away thing here, sent out to the open sea with the bodies of the last administration. The man has to lay bait for the other to go fishing it out.

Paolo carries himself back with an air of amusement that sits funny on his face, though, lines of age and stress more suited to a full-teeth scowl. It gives way to a mild sort of interest, harmonized in a hum as he crosses the room and extends one of two glasses, swirling the amber contents before Jindosh's face as he comes to a halt before him. Dunwall Whiskey, distilled by the bottles of the Bottle-Street gang. Solidarity, perhaps, in a fellow lowbrow's work, or maybe just lack of taste.

There's dirt baked under the nail he taps against the tumbler, and there's a swell in his knuckles yellow with old bruising. Paolo doesn't look very handsome, and the fireplace casts enough light on half his face to rat out his exhaustion on top of his ugly mug. The day's not even over, dinner hasn't been served, and here he is, entertaining a stranger with reliance on drink. He clears his throat, juts out his chin with a... wink? How crass.]

Unless you got me in the right mood, hm? I like a challenge, just like you. [hohoho] No wall I can't climb, no gear I can't grease. No man makes progress sitting in cushy chairs, Kirin Jindosh.

[Whether or not Jindosh accepts the drink, Paolo will retreat a few steps lest he loom over him. The irony of taking a seat after his statement has cursed him to remain standing, so he rolls his neck, loosens his tie, and properly regards his guest's slouch with a slight furrow of brow. Who is this guy?]

You sound pretty certain I'm going to keep your clockwork shit-cans around. Really hasn't passed through that pretty head of yours that the people you sick those things on—[A pull of whiskey, a grimace, a leveled glare oncoming.]—were mine. My Howlers, my miners, my butcher's—so much as any whisper you'll bite the hand that feeds you shit and you're on the cobble, gutted like an animal. Not your investors. We got lucky another killing-machine sailed to town for those, huh?