Participants:
| Scene Title | Clockwork |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Gabriel finds the wrong villain and is given an impromptu audition. |
| Date | May 27, 2009 |
Staten Island: Abandoned Clock Shop
Staten Island is full of abandoned things, and even in the evening, random thugs don't dare just walk into the abandoned clock factory, knowing that people usually don't come out. There's all sorts of clocks, mostly large grandfather clocks, but there's some smaller ones, even watches laying around, the property abandoned and never cleaned out. Anyone who knows anything about clocks will notice that quite a few of these are competely emptied of their gears, emptier the deeper one walks into the factory. Then, there's a small clearing, a large six foot pile of all sorts of gears just thrown on top of eachother.
Mortimer is there, chainsaw on his left arm, no jacket today. His arm's cap is completely covering the nub, held up with straps and a skillfully created holster. Then there's two SMGs strapped to his back, and a sword, not to mention the various grenades… he's in full gear. Hunched over, the tip of the chainsaw idly pressed against the floor, his fingers are wading through the gears, eyes completely silver, just thinking, observing.
There's reason enough for him to be here. Reasons apart from the strange silences he shares with Gillian and his own avoidance of certain topics, and reasons that don't have to do with the cuts and bruises littering Gabriel's face and hands. The reason he would give is a legitimate one, but no one is asking.
Curiousity. It's a good one too.
He's dressed in as much black as can be expected, if anyone was. The fact that the place has already been broken into, from what a fleeting inspection could tell him, was why Gabriel entered the place with a grating of wood against wood and the sounds of footsteps. His gaze tracks across the gutted corpses of clocks, going a little still when he finds himself in what could be considered a graveyard, before he's looking towards the pile of gears.
The geek in him cringes. Everything else in him has him staring down the hunched over figure of the stranger. Far less armed, Gabriel's hand nevertheless drifts towards the gun in his coat pocket.
"People still come in here? Damn." Mortimer says with a casually annoyed sigh, holding a pile of tiny gears in his free hand, then lets them trickle down on to the floor. "You people, how many of you have to die before you realize that coming in here is bad?" He reaches behind, grabbing an SMG, but he doesn't aim it at Gabriel, instead he just stands there staring, silvery eyes gazing into the other man's.
"You're not a thug, you don't have that fresh thug smell. But you can't be a business man, no one's dumb enough to come in here. I'd peel your skin back, but there's this girl I like, and I really have to hold back those sudden urges, y'know?" he asks before laughing quite maniacally, rambling on to himself before finally giving Gabriel a chance to say something, eyeing the man up and down as he waits. "So, what kind of person are you?" Alright, now he waits.
And now the pistol is extracted, but pointed at the ground at the very least, and as Mortimer speaks, Gabriel's gaze wanders over him, going twice over the chainsaw at his arm and again at the weaponry— the other weaponry— on his person, and he takes a few cautious steps forward. A spring goes rolling when his boot nudges it, making him glance down, back towards the pile, and back to this stranger who's now asking him—
"No kind in particular," he says, after a moment. His gaze, much darker than Mortimer's, breaks away to observe what he considers to be damage. "You've gutted them." Most parts observation, some parts disgust.
"Clocks can't do anything with gears, I'm giving them purpose, just like people." Mortimer holds his chainsaw up, randomly turning it on. It's not just normal buzzing, it's an extremely rapid grinding of gears inside. If one can tell from sound alone, he's done very extensive work.
"Suicide! That's it, you're here to commit suicide, right? You heard that people don't come out of here alive, so you're tired of your meaningless life of business and finances, and now you're here to commit suicide!" Mortimer explains, quite sure of himself as he walks closer, completely silvery eyeballs maybe focused on him, it's very hard to say, no pupils or anything. "Now you've got a noose around your neck, a gun pointed at your head, and there's a bottle of peels near your feet. Let's fix this image of yours, and you'll leave feeling more alive! Tell me about yourself, Mister…?"
The metal and plastic of his gun creaks just a little in something like impatience. The bid for his name goes ignored, Gabriel taking a step forward, voice coming out smooth but edged with a rougher kind of anger, of affront. "I'm not here to commit suicide. I've heard nothing about this place."
He could tell him his name in an impulsive gesture of my legacy is bigger than yours, but even Gabriel isn't that proud. "Gray," he instead states. His name, that is. At this range, Gabriel is studying the strangeness of silver eyes, but not as much as the glances to the chainsaw distract him. Not due to the unspoken promise of shifting razors tearing skin, but—
"You build things." A pause, then, "I fix things. That's the kind of person I am."
"Oh? So, you just like fixing stuff, or are you one of those Evolved?" Mortimer asks as he begins to walk in a slow circle around Gabriel, stopping in front of him again, making his own little analysis. "I can't find your true form, you need to talk more. You see, I don't just give gears purpose…" He points the chainsaw at Gabriel's face with a slight grin. "I give people purpose too, I'll find your true form, then I'll know who you really are, and I'll give you freedom and a reason to live. I'm your savior, and innovating is far more valuable than repairing."
That has Gabriel stepping back, the gun in his hand coming up but without deadly aim. Should a bullet go off, it'd fire around Mortimer's legs at this angle; it's a warning, not a deadly aim. The other man has bigger guns than he does. "I used to think I could fix people too. It's not like that at all. And yes, I'm one of them Evolved." His other hand comes to grip onto the pistol too, in case he needs a steadier aim. A brown-eyed gaze shifts past Mortimer as if the shadows beyond him would yield answers. "Do you come here alone?"
"You're interesting, I think you could be the new 14." Mortimer idly says, staring at Gabriel's gun, then holstering his own behind him, lowering the chainsaw as his expression becomes even more amused. "A twisted reflection, slowly twisting into its own image." he cryptically says, but doesn't elaborate. "I have men outside, but they know I'll shoot them if they interrupt me. You don't know any better, but I think you'll make a fine 14, once I see your repairing at work."
Slowly walking to a grandfather clock, an untouched one, he slams a foot into it, knocking it over on to the floor. "Fix it."
A few years ago, Gabriel might have flinched, but now his pale, mildly scratched face shows no such emotion, although the look he has fixed on the fallen clock is one of intent, and when it goes up to Mortimer, it's one of accusation. But the gun lowers a little more, grip on it separating into a singular hold with the barrel pointing downwards.
And against his better judgment, if he has such a thing, the pistol is disappeared into his pocket, and Gabriel comes to crouch by the clock, a sharp thud as he turns it on its side. Something inside it rattles, and he opens it up with the precision of a surgeon. It's curiousity over the need to impress a stranger, likely more deranged than he could have ever been— well, more deranged than he is now— that has him studying the insides.
It doesn't make sense the way it used to, but intellectually— "I'd need tools."
Mortimer walks over to his jacket, laying on the other side of the gear pile, then reaches into it and pulls out a small rolled up tool holder, letting it drop open when he walks back over and offers it to Gabriel. It's filled with all sorts of tools, many of them made to work with gears, but it's a very broad set of tools. "Go ahead, this is your audition, let's see what your specialty is. Who knows, you could be the leader one day, if you show real potential."
Impressive. Gabriel says nothing of auditions, simply takes the tools without a word and— gets to work. It's difficult, without his ability, and there is nothing especially fantastic about his actions, relying on education, on practice and determination to wind things into place, eyes squinting in place of glasses. He's not going to be able to make it work perfectly, even in the right circumstances it would take a couple of days to make sure it's running utterly smoothly.
But all he's aiming for is to make it tick. Metal creaks and shifts under his hands and silvery tools he's using, kneeling on the dusty floor of the abandoned factory as he works, head tilted hawkishly.
"Determination, I like that." Mortimer compliments, hunching down to look at Gabriel's face while he works, smiling. "I see you now." he decides, almost reaching over with his good hand, but quickly pulls back. "Clockwork man, all the gears, all over your body, the impressive engineering. Yes, I see you now, you're an individual with purpose. Now…" He doesn't stop Gabriel from working, he just continues talking. "What kind of freedom would you like?"
This is off the beaten path, that's for certain, but Gabriel so often wanders anyway. He angles a look back up at Mortimer, a pause in his work. "Pretty sure there's only one kind of freedom," he says, after a moment, voice quiet and somehow gentler since the last time he spoken. His eyes turn down again, some frustration making his brow tense but it doesn't give him pause, getting to his feet rather suddenly to move towards where Mortimer had piled the clock gears, hands moving to root through it, letting some skitter aside as he goes.
"Quite the contrary, Mister Gray. We live in a society of laws, some of us can't afford to have every freedom, complete freedom is a difficult thing to have, even I have some self-imposed restrictions." Mortimer doesn't touch the clock, but he does watch Gabriel's work with much curiousity. "Some want the freedom to give their freedom to someone else, others want the freedom to wantonly kill, for whatever pleasure that killing may give them. Some want the freedom to be themselves, and even more may want the freedom to indulge in mountains of hookers. I can offer any freedom, because I can see who you are, I have true sight. I can see things you can only imagine, pleasant things, terrifying things. When I look up at the sky, I can sometimes see 'them' looking back at me."
Something small and almost insignificant in appearance is picked out of the pile, and Gabriel stands from his crouch, turns back to look at Mortimer for a few moments before headed back for the clock and its exposed innards, back to work. He's listening, despite himself. Considers the variations of freedom, and— shakes his head. "Amounts to the same thing," Gabriel murmurs. "To act without consequence. That's freedom. Everywhere."
There's a creak a something is wound into place, and all at once, he closes the grandfather clock and casts a glance up. "Unless you can promise me life after death…" Gabriel grips onto the clock and hauls it upwards to stand it precariously back upright, and if the clock face is to be believe, it's either four thirty in the afternoon, or four thirty in the morning. Incidentally, it's neither, but the second hand twitches. Again. Again.
"You're not what I'm looking for," he informs the man, eyes on the clockface, a hand going up to wind it into a semblance of the correct time. "And I'm not what you're looking for."
"I've seen life after death, I've seen ghosts, I've seen demons, unfortunately, I can't show you, that's what these eyes are for." Mortimer looks the clock over, nodding in approval. "I'd love for you to be the new 14, but if you insist. I'd kill you, but I'm not allowed to do that right now, so your life is spared." His chainsaw revs up again, and he begins to casually walk through the forest of clocks, not touching Gabriel's, but cutting, chopping, and sawing away at others, moving in almost dance-like motions.
"Go, enjoy what you believe to be your freedom, but in the end, when everything crumbles, when you're just a shivering mass of flesh, I'll be there to pick up the pieces. You're 14, Mister Gray, take the helmet when you're ready!" he calls out in the midst of more clock slaughter, wanton destruction, and maniacal laughter. "Clockwork Man, Mister Gray, one day he'll choose to stay!" he idly sings through the building.
Wood splits and metal screams in protest, and— better them than him. Fourteen, here to pick up the pieces. Well, Gabriel supposes, everyone needs someone, even madmen. "Nice meeting you," he says, beneath the whine of the saw and the pieces falling apart, and the broken laughter coming from Mortimer, and he's quick to leave, pistol back in his hand before the other numbers outside decide to finish off the stranger their master spared.
Leaving, before anyone can change their minds, whether that be Mortimer's about sparing his life, or Gabriel's on the topic of running with the wolves.