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Lightning

Chapter 3 - Not Exactly College Material

By H. A. Kirsch

--

A week after accepting the offer, Trevor received a date and location to meet Dr. Brasseri at the new "transportation depot" in Castleton. He packed his necessities into a carrying suitcase: several pairs of breeches and linens, several collared shirts, a spare cloak, a notebook and pen. He cleaned up his high field boots with fresh laces, got a full shake and trim from the town barber, and scowled to himself when he discovered a small glass bottle of cologne sneaked into his luggage with a note in Helena's handwriting: "remember your ancestry".

He used some cash he had earned from a few summer odd jobs to pay for the coach trip - in spite of Helena's offering - and as such, it was not at all a private coach. He was packed into the stuffy saloon with a motley crew of strangers, and considering how some of them smelled for whatever reasons, he silently thanked Helena for her aromatic suggestion. Maned wolves were famous for smelling 'uniquely', which was the polite word for 'leaving bathrooms reeking of dullweed'. It's pee, Helena, it's the pee that smells, there's always a little pee down there and that's enough, do you want me to put cologne on my cock? Nonetheless, the cologne left him smelling quite acceptably masculine, if slightly overpowering.

The ride to Castleton took three hours thanks to the low hills and valleys between the farmland of Potterston out east, and the coastal city proper. For the last third along some dense outer-city farms, the coach's horse team clopped loudly along a very sturdy stone road alongside a terrific mess in the countryside. Something was being built along the road using scores of men, horses, and even some fearsome machinery that he was unfamiliar with. The metallic hulks reminded him of one of the demonstrations from the fair, the small steam drive that puttered and smoked and hissed and sawed log after log. These machines were ten times the size and dug into the ground with toothed metal scoops. Slowly, and with a small team of men operating each, they nonetheless chewed gaping bites out of the earth like no earthwork he'd ever seen done by hand.

When they arrived within the relatively ancient outer walls that formed the true city limit, the construction work there had been completed. The result of the earthwork were two gravel berms side by side, overlaid with wooden cross slats, topped with gleaming metal beams that were polished at the top side. Their destination was a fantastic large building. Inside, it featured a stable house, private carriage stalls, and a coach omnibus terminal. The two metal berms formed a confusing pattern just outside, and then ran to one side inside the building. At the absolute end of the rails sat an enormous steam drive on metal wheels, tank and piping and a thick chimney stack, with several large omnibus-style carriages behind it.

"Aye, look at that fuss," one of the other passengers said, and rapped on the window next to the half-drawn shade. "You know wot that be?"

Trevor shook his head.

She was a skunk in an olive dress. "Calling it an omni-train, they is. Like a bunch of omnibus coaches together behind one of those naffy things that belches out smoke."

"It's called a steam drive," the lady's male companion said, in a much more measured Eastern Common accent. "They had one at the fair. They're all over the place, now. I think they have some ridiculous contraption set up for piping water around Castleton-"

"I don't like the lot of it, I left me pot on the stove fer jarring the garden haul once, fell asleep and the jars all exploded, took weeks to get cucumbers out of me kitchen paint. That's one really big jar, it is, what happens when it explodes?"

"Come off it, you never like anything different," the man said, and then put his hat on as the carriage stopped with a jerk from the wooden brake.

Trevor just nodded along, and silently thanked his luck in being seated next to two animals who were well known for stinking much more than he ever could. He got off the coach and began looking around for who he was to meet. The transportation depot was so large that it gave him a haunting panic inside, as if he was a small ant marching along a garden trail. There was little in the way of traffic control inside - just a few stone and concrete stands topped with flag men - and he had to dodge at least one small carriage while stepping out of the way of a single rider on horseback. The commotion was all to direct things to the outside rim, where a wooden boardwalk extended like boat docks every few yards for people to mount/embark without standing in filth.

Thankfully, Dr. Brasseri stood out as one of only a small handful of Caroyans present, and the best-dressed one. He had a tall top-hat with a lavish black silk barrel and green embroidered band, a dark purple tail-coat, white leather fingerless gloves, dull red riding breeches, and tall black riding spats. Instead of enclosed feet like most of the furred denizens, he had unusual strap sandals, surely due to the fact that he had long talons instead of trimmable claw-nails as well as a reverse heel claw like a wild bird. Further indicating him as the right person was his companion, the furless cat from the fair, who wore a much more dowdy equivalent outfit of brown leather pants, a beige linen shirt he didn't collar up, green brocade vest he didn't bother to button, and simple over-calf dress boots that he didn't bother to polish beyond scuffing dust free.

"Ahh! Ahh! Mister de-en-Seince! You finally arrived! I was a little worried. I never know the timin' with these country coaches." The lizard rushed over to Trevor.

"Yeah, well, I'm here," he shrugged into his cloak. "Do you have a carriage in all this mess? This place is immense. I'm, I don't know, really," Trevor mumbled, compelled to speak yet without anything to say.

"You remember Lane, boy, I think your fluffy lil' cousin was enamored with him," Dr. Brasseri said, and clapped his hand on the cat's shoulder. "It ain't that intelligent for me to go around here as a singular Caroyan. Besides, I think he needs a little fresh air." He then gave Lane a whack to the side of the upper arm that earned him only a small wince from the feline.

"I don't have that skin thing anymore," Lane said curtly, and frowned harder as only a cat could.

"And I don't want you to," the lizard said, and tipped his muzzle upwards. Whenever he didn't make some emotive face, he looked fearsome, like a beast from a fantastical painting; that look dissolved as soon as he made a more humanid smile, which he did gregariously and often. "Now, I suppose we ought to hire a carriage, for you have luggage. Lane, get that for our bewildered guest. I believe they are over there... you are right, this new place is large."

"It's not heavy," Trevor protested.

"And I'm not a porter," Lane hissed, though he also took Trevor's luggage from him and held the handle with both hands in front of him. The trio wandered about in the doctor's directions, until they had wandered entirely outside of the depot. Out on the curb of the dirt street there were lines of two and four-person carriages waiting.

"Lane, go hire one up," he said, and dismissed the cat. "Oh don't gimme that look, you know-"

"Honestly, what are you even doing somewhere that no one will listen to or pay attention to you?" Lane complained over his shoulder, and went over to one of the drivers.

"Hmf," Dr. Brasseri hissed. "He ain't wrong. Pay close attention, you won't see a single Caroyan alone." Trevor looked about, spotted two more, and indeed they were with at least one furred citizen each.

Trevor had only been to Castleton once and he had not been to this part. He had also been a child, and everything seemed to have become bigger, louder, and simply more. He continued to be bewildered as they climbed into a roofed carriage and then headed off around the city, and had barely any time to get a word in edgewise as Dr. Brasseri and Lane seemed to have differing opinions as to the best route.

Finally, they passed something that Trevor recognized: Hopsmoth University's oldest main hall. They did not stop. "Oh, I thought we were..."

"My boy..." the lizard said, and now clapped the maned wolf the same way he had Lane, "Ahh, I suppose I shall call you somethin' more professional. Do you prefer Trevor, or perhaps a nickname of sorts?"

"His letter said 'Lightning'," Lane murmured.

"Uhh, please don't, I just... call me Trevor, that's fine, my family name is a mouthful," the maned wolf said, fidgeting his bony black hands in his cloak-draped lap. As soon as he finished talking, he resumed looking out at the city and the people in it, clothed both familiarly and entirely foreign in a disconcerting mishmash. Even people who had the look of dirt on them had the common rider-style of pull-on boots and fitted pants. Laced rough field boots were few and far between. I suppose this is a city and everything here is well, then.

"Right then, Trevor, due to the nature of our line of work, it requires... compatible location. Experimentation can be messy and frankly dangerous." The lizard gestured with a taloned finger; Lane kept a dour face and yet his eyes tracked the finger exactly in a moment of natural distraction. "As such, we are located a short bit away from most of Hopsmoth in a much more industrious neighborhood." The lizard elocuted carefully, though the tone of his country accent was still very strong.

About three blocks, if Trevor had kept count without being distracted by his odd-couple carriage companions. Three blocks, and a river-way. On the university side there was a pleasant park, and on the other side, merely a concrete embankment. Four blocks, actually, and then they turned into a neighborhood that abruptly looked quite rotten. Only a few people looked remotely as fancy even Trevor did, and he did not dress fancy; none were Caroyan lizards. After yet another block of intermittently vacant residences, there were even fewer people, and only business warehouses, towering buildings of up to four stories high with scores of windows and some with chimneys on them. The air smelled rank in the late summer heat of coal smoke, wood smoke, and more foul scents that wafted up from somewhere - the sewers or river perhaps. Everyone on the street was either loading or unloading something or yelling at those who were.

They finally stopped, got out in front of one of the warehouses, and quickly hurried inside. After a small coat room foyer and a couple rooms that looked like offices and smelled like paper and ink and correction fluid, they walked through a large metal door. Dr. Brasseri backed through it and expanded his arms. "Welcome to my laboratory!" he said, as dramatically as possible.

He did not need to exaggerate. The building was three stories tall, and the center third of the floors had been cut out to accommodate an enormous piece of equipment that looked similar to the one Trevor had seen at the fair. The other floors either had partial or complete walls, or just handrails overlooking the central device. Gas lamps flickered about the place, and the air hung with innumerable chemical and metallic smells and the surprising zing of after-storm freshness.

Trevor closed his eyes and could see vagaries of the room in blue ghostly images, with the central device fainly scintillating with the color, though nothing as strong as what he'd seen at the demonstration booth. It seemed idle.

"Are you alright?" He opened his eyes to see Dr. Brasseri waving a hand in front of his face.

"Oh, I just, well, I guess I'm a little overwhelmed. And the smell... it's familiar..." He sniffed strongly a few times, as if he was just taking in scents and not bewildered by whatever mysterious things he saw with his eyes closed.

"You will have to excuse the smells. This industrial part of town is foul outside, and inside, we make a lot of things ourselves. Chemicals, protective gear, and of course, all of this equipment. Only th' largest metallic pieces are commissioned elsewhere." Dr. Brasseri gestured about. "Ahh! A tour! That will surely overwhelm you further," he said, then started walking about. His sandals slapped at the floor, and occasionally his rear talon clacked against the hard wood. "Lane, leave his luggage there. Trevor, you'll see your accommodations later, they're just around th' end of the block with the others. By the way, you don't have to bother callin' me Doctor anything although you can if you want. Altius is jus' fine." The lizard himself pronounced it Alch-uss, while Lane pronounced it Awl-tee-uss in his loose Eastern Common, and Trevor was unsure which to use.

Trevor kept his arms inside of his cloak and walked with his shoulders slightly up and ears canted. The ceilings were high, so his six feet and eight inches were no issue; he was merely overwhelmed by the new surroundings. He could recognize almost none of the items in any of the spaces they looked at, not unless they were books, vials, hand tools, or simple furniture.

The lizard gestured to three rooms all fully walled off from the walkway that rimmed the central chamber. "Here, we have the chemical repository and chemical foundry and chemical laboratory for our Mister Lane Burroughs. Lane is an expert in practical alchemy, to use that unrepentant bureaucratic phrase."

"Wanna see something fun?" Lane said, and for the first time since Trevor had gotten off the coach, the cat looked energized.

"I suppose, sure," Trevor said.

Lane opened the door to one of the rooms and ushered them in. One portion of the room had a large table against the wall with a granite top and a strange metal canopy over it. The cat rushed over and looked at a device on the wall. "This isn't the fun thing. It's a wind gauge. Aha," he said, and then grunted as he turned a hand crank while staring at the gauge. "This is for ventilation. There's a scoop up on the roof that catches the wind, directs it into that vent over there-" He pointed across the room to a grate in the ceiling, "Which then blows up here and carries away anything foul." He waved up at the canopy, then finished cranking and pulled a large lever with a grunt. Two clunks happened, and the sewage-burning outside smell wafted in, while a faint rushing happened above their heads in the canopy. "Thank Anara that Castleton is a harbor city, there's always wind off the water."

The hairless cat took off his coat and put on an odd garment that looked like a shining black butcher's apron. He then donned immense black gloves that glistened fingertip to bicep. Trevor stared at the protective gear, having never seen anything like it before, eyes fixated on the gloves.

Lane set a small piece of wood in a glass jar, and then picked up a bottle and unscrewed a glass stopper. The contents were clear and looked like thick water. "This is the fun thing. What do you know of chemistry? Are you familiar with corrosives?"

Trevor squinted, then his heart pattered. "I, well, I know there are acidic corrosives and defatting alkaline corrosives..." This is the one thing that I'm modestly interested in and I can't think of anything, ahh!

"My latest work is involving acidics. And there is nothing more acidic than this stuff." The cat then poured a small amount of the liquid onto the block of wood. It instantaneously turned black and began to smoke and sizzle, then popped into flame for a second before continuing to spatter and smoke in the jar. The sour breeze carried the smoke up into the canopy and then into another vent, which was notably rusted compared to the first. "It's too strong to use for anything practical without dilution, and then it becomes magic. I'd show you, but we tore down yesterday's test already."

"Lane is correct. Our latest work is going far beyond anything you may have ever heard about scratch-bolts, storm lightning, or even shocking sea creatures." Altius rapped on the counter and then turned for the door. Lane stayed behind, presumably to clean up the mess he'd created in the jar.

They walked around to the other side of the facility still on the first floor, and Altius rapped on another closed door. This one had a view slat in it, which quickly snapped aside and two golden cat eyes appeared in it. "Stop bothering me," the eyes' owner said. Then they disappeared upwards, replaced by a large black nose-pad whose nostrils sniffed. "Who's out there? They stink."

"My dear Fitch, please put aside your terrible attitude for jus' one moment and welcome our newest assistant. Also, how can you smell anything over the neighborhood and Lane's creations?"

The view slat snapped shut again, then four locks unlocked in sequence and the door pushed outwards, nearly smacking Trevor in his long nose. Inside the space were tables and counters and racks and shelves. There was so much in the room that Trevor could hardly make out what any of it was, and yet it was terrifyingly orderly. Another door at the far side of the room read "Foundry" and it was shut with more locks.

The occupant of the room was a large black panther in tall buckled black leather boots that disappeared up underneath a black leather butcher apron, black fingerless gloves that ran up his entire arms and buckled around the bicep, and a pair of goggles perched on his forehead. His tail was currently peeking out over part of his back to the side; he turned and paced around, and the thick appendage was held to his side and back by several leather cuffs to keep it out of harm's way. He was far too thick to be a black leopard, and had to be a jaguar instead.

"This is Fitch Pearson, who-"

"I make everything that the other cat doesn't," Fitch blurted in. "And I make everything that keeps this scaly weirdo from frying himself well-done with his shit out there."

Altius cleared his throat, or made a sound similar to that with a higher rumble to it. "As I was about to say, Fitch is our fabricator. Metal, wood, leather, glass, and even clothing, although he has particulars about that last one. He is also-"

"Mean. Nasty. Vicious. Dangerous. Illegal. Not for consumption. And interrupted."

"I was gonna say uniquely tempered but as usual, you beat me to it," Altius sighed.

"Get out of my shop. I'm busy."

"Of course, of course," Altius said, as the panther approached both him and Trevor, backed them out of the shop, and slammed the door. "I do want to explain that Fitch is a wonderful and irreplaceable person. It is in your best interest to get along with him, which means not getting in his way, an' understanding that if he actually means bad against you, you won't be hearin' about it from his mouth. He's jus' rough."

"It's okay, I know I smell funny. I look funny, too. I used to talk funny but I saw this lady who coached me for a few years," Trevor shrugged, then adjusted his cloak to waft some fresh air and cologne about himself.

"You are talking to a Caroyan, who is th' ultimate in looking and smelling and talking and everything else funny in this fine land," Altius said, tilted his head up in a poncy way, and made another throat-clearing noise. Trevor wondered if it was actually some native Caroyan utterance he couldn't understand. "Now, let us go upstairs here..." He led Trevor to the back of the building and then up a metal staircase.

"I've never seen so much metal stuff in my life," Trevor gawked, and fingered at some of the support work. The beams were held together by large bolts and nuts; some of the smaller pieces had a strange mottled edge between the two pieces, which he felt at. It was similar to leaden soldering on a copper pot handle, only enormous in scale.

"Castleton is a city, my boy. It is The City. You do not understand the ramifications of that, if you come from some small town like Potterston. Every day, something is happening here that has never happened before anywhere on this entire world we live in. I say that as coming from Caroy, which itself has things you have never seen yet, and may not ever see. Some of the less civil of my kind are reluctant to admit anyone else into their purview, and some things are only for our eyes. Mysterious, hmm?" Altius said this as dramatically and patronizingly as possible.

Trevor frowned as he looked at the railing, and as Altius' vocabulary made his head itch somewhere inside of his skull. He followed the lizard up to the second floor and then back around to the front to one of the partially enclosed rooms. This one was full of stacks and stacks of books, multiple geographic globes, huge wall maps, and one very odd canid. He was clearly a dog, although one Trevor had never seen before. The dog was half Trevor's height height, much of that because his limbs were altogether too short for a normal humanid person. His fur was butterscotch on his face and white on his muzzle, with similar colors showing on his handpaws. He wore a black suit jacket and a red embroidered vest along with a puffed cream cravat, cream riding pants, and red-rimmed black dress riding boots. He was portly, though more like a stocky worker and less like someone merely fat, and had an unwavering doggish grin.

"And here is our third assistant - you of course will be the fourth. Petrie, this is Trevor."

"Magnificent! A maned wolf! Such an unexpected and reluctant creature, and the rare dark coat variation! Usually selected out by the family due to the backwards ideologies of the Galean west country chantries."

"Tell me about it," Trevor grunted.

"I, on the other hand, am a corgi dog. Rambunctious and hard-working, and very intelligent. Petrie von'Erhas," he said, and gave Trevor a handshake using both of his hands. "I am confident that Altius-" He also pronounced the name with three syllables in received Eastern Common accent, "-here has introduced you to Lane and his alchemical wizardry, and Fitch and his... Fitch, whereas I am irritatingly fond of maths. Cartographic maths, geometrical maths, physical maths, spiritual maths, astrological maths, there is even as I'm sure you know, alchemical maths, although those are perhaps a subset of physical, there is quite an argument in the upper echelons of schooling. I am not fond of upper echelons of anything. I am here down in the trenches, computing things such as for..."

Petrie scurried past the pair and right out the treble-size doorway up to the railing. "This!"

"Thank you, Petrie, for takin' the wind out of my sails," Altius said, though he grinned. He also patted Petrie between the ears, which the dog seemed to like very much, judging by the ambitious wag of his short tail. "This is not actually some sorta crowning achievement. It is merely a very large device that is capable of very large energies, which require very large space to avoid flashovers. This monstrosity is what I call a Brasseri Energizer, not surprisingly named after myself. Lately, we have been doing much more work with much smaller though no more safe things, such as work with Lane's terrifying liquid dissolvants. And that, for the most part, is our laboratory."

Trevor nodded. "Well, this is all very impressive," he said. Dog and lizard looked at him as if he'd nearly insulted them. "I wasn't, I just, it's very impressive. I guess I'm tired. I packed up this morning and had to spend several hours in a coach sitting next to two skunks who would not stop arguing." Trevor's brain felt like lukewarm soup. He could feel his eyelids starting to sag.

Petrie patted his stomach. "I am quite famished, and honestly with a newcomer here our usual work will be suppressed for the next few days. Trevor here must get settled in his accommodations, and Sharyn's Hutch is right there..."

Altius held up a finger. "Ah, of course. Let us go down and I will round up the others. I will, as expected, stay here, to no offense. My apartment is in the back, over the foundry, as I'm fond of the warmth. And I am also fond of solitude, or rather, I am not fond of the undue attention that a Caroyan gets wandering around the industrial armpit of Castleton."

"Caroyan food is also very odd," Petrie added.

--

Trevor had not thought it was late, although he also did not carry a pocket watch. Their street was already in shade, and the relentless industrial comings and goings had died back, leaving just the oppressive overlook of building after building with none of the soul of a small town like Potterston.

"Okay, first important tip. We - including you - live that way," Lane said, and pointed to the left down the sidewalk. His other hand - like on the way to the warehouse - carried Trevor's luggage for him. "If you go that way about four blocks," he pointed to the right, "you will fall into the water because you'll be in the fishing harbor. Don't do that. I mean don't go to the fishing harbor, you can fall in the water if you want, but also don't do that unless you want to wash chum out of your fur. Don't fall into the river, either, because it's full of shit. Anyway, water, bad. Fitch will agree with you. The fishing harbor is full of people you probably don't want to be around. Not the fishermen, they're just rough. I mean the privateers. Anyway, off we go. We're just around the corner."

Lane was very correct; they walked the remainder of the block, rounded the corner, and abruptly they were in a more residential though none nicer area. They crossed part of the river seen earlier on a footbridge, although it seemed to have forked as it was half as wide and just as smelly. The housing was all brick walk-up townhouses, although many of them looked dilapidated. A wide alleyway was filled with dirt, looking like an attempt to make a garden that had mostly failed. On one side of it were five townhouses in the space of about three, looking as if they had been haphazardly altered to be narrow. On the other side was a noisy establishment with a wooden sign that read "Sharyn's Hutch".

"A hutch is a cabinet," Trevor said, rubbing an ear as he regarded the sign.

"Cheese hutch," Lane said.

"Sharyn is a mouse, you see," Petrie added, "And has a sense of humor that is not always shared by... anyone, really. Not in a bad way."

"That explains the cheese in the drawing," Trevor said, glancing up at the boisterous rotund mouse peeking out of a block of aged holey cheese, and followed the others inside. Lane no longer wore his fancy coat, and Fitch had changed from his work protection to a looming and fearful leather wide-lapel coat and full-finger leather gloves, despite the sultry summer temperatures. That left Petrie looking fancy. Despite that, none of them got a second look from any patrons, until they saw Trevor.

"Aye, 'e looks right like a scoundrel, don't 'e," a very scruffy curly terrier dog said in a lowland brogue as he turned around from the bar. The other three ignored him and found seats at a wooden booth. Trevor was unable to continue walking, frozen as he was now terrified. "He do, lookit that eye patch, like a goddamn privateer." He then got up from the bar and approached Trevor. His clothing looked rugged, though it was like nothing Trevor had seen before. Not fancy at all, just a single piece from ankle to collar, buttoned down the front, sleeves rolled up. "You in here with those naffy big-brains?" The dog was over a head shorter than Trevor, and seemed entirely unaffected by his height.

"I... I'm not a pirate, I just can't see out that eye," Trevor said, and hoping to scare the dog away, took his eye patch off.

"Wooo, what got you there, swamp worm, trout rot, back-flash from a powder gun?" The dog leaned in and up.

Trevor looked between the dog, the bartender - who was the aforementioned mouse and was busily unconcerned - and his new companions who had seemingly already abandoned him. "It was..." Trevor realized that he was in a situation that had not happened for many years: No one had any idea who he was or what had happened to him. "Lightning."

"Eh wot?"

"I got hit by lightning. It hit me right here," he tapped his forehead, "And came out my foot on that side. Turned my fur white in a big streak." He gestured down.

The dog looked taken aback. "And you ain't dead yet? Whaa, fuckit eh!" He barked and then guffawed and gave Trevor a whack to the shoulder, then went back to the bar and lifted his beer. "To your fucking shit for taking a skybolt to the face! Aww, get 'im a beer. Get all those naffy fucks one, on me."

Lane stuck his arm up and waved; without missing a beat, the mouse pulled out four steins and filled them, slid one down the bar, and took the other three out over to the booth.

"I don't really..." Trevor said, and intended to say 'drink', and then changed his tune before he spoke. "Take free drinks, but I'll make an exception." He stepped forward, took the stein, and clacked it messily with the dog, before having a swig. He expected to drink the sudsy lager common in the country towns, and instead found it to be thick and citrusy and alarmingly good for the dour neighborhood.

"Roit, now go eat up 'fore I find somethin' else to talk to you about," the dog said, then turned back to his business. He offered one last phrase: "Fuck, you're tall."

Trevor nodded and went over to the booth, then sat down next to Petrie. "Is that... was that normal?"

"That's Blason and yes, he's probably a little inebriated and thus getting in everyone's faces. Scary-seeming pup isn't he? As harmless as a lamb. Very good with carpentry, I have heard, although not when he is soused." Petrie looked about. "Lane, put up your hand again. No sense waiting for food."

Lane put his up and snapped. Moments later, the mouse came over again. "Oooh, a new'un, now ye'all fit in there without a spot left over. Poor Fitch, squished up in the back there." She had the distinctive vowels of a West Passage Islander.

Fitch looked angrier and didn't say a word.

"Ah dun know where ye're from, you all-ears man, wot ye're used to, but t'aint much of a menu, today is hash day. Foul or lamb, can't say surely what foul t'is, the kind with feathers wot I got left," the mouse laughed. "Reckon ye'all have slots left on your tab fer t'week." She was portly in the same way that Petrie was, although more normally proportioned, and understandably more breasty. "Aye if ye want scramble or iron cakes or wot, 'tis fine, too. And if ye dun want cheese on any of it ye'can fuck off into the stink out there."

Trevor perked his brow spots. "Uhm. Foul, I suppose-"

"Three foul hash, you want it on hard bread, trust me, and brown sauce, and yes, of course Sharyn, the cheese," Lane said. He was about to open his mouth again when Fitch reached over and covered it shut with his entire leathered hand.

"I know you have bull roast back there. I'm not stupid. Iron cake with bull roast," Fitch said, and made staring eye contact with Sharyn.

She didn't miss a beat. "Of course, one black cat special, three foul hash planked in the mud my way, off I go now," she said, spun on heel, and went back behind the bar to yell the same thing into the kitchen.

Trevor held his beer stein with both hands, forearms on the table. After a few moments that way, Petrie patted his arm. "Now. I know that look. I was first around here, and Lane was second. Speak your mind."

"I suppose I thought that this was... well, a university thing." At that, Lane and Petrie let out a knowing 'ahhh' and Fitch pretended he wasn't sitting with anyone else. "And I thought, what an opportunity, what with me being a dullhead. I don't know if I was always going to be one; after this," the guara gestured to his bepatched eye, "I surely am, though. I can hardly focus on anything, even if I'm fascinated by it, I fall asleep into my supper, and of course, I look rotten. I look rotten twice, I'm already gray darkfur like I'm fire-hearted. And, well, I have the feeling this isn't a university thing." Unh, Trevor, you're repeating yourself, he thought.

"Why would you think a thing like that?" Lane scoffed. "Because we're in the armpit of Castleton? We're not, we're in the asshole of Castleton. No offense meant to this place, Sharyn is a treasure, you'll see about that. I mean this district. Because we're not next to the university? Of course, you're spot on, so I don't see why you think you're a dullhead. Hopsmoth doesn't want anything to do with the stuff Altius is up to. They really do, of course, they just say they don't. They can't officially want it. It's quite a long and embroiled mess, chantry bullshit, however, it also isn't very important. What is important, is that we are doing some very interesting things, and it seems like you get to help out. That egglayer is sharp as a razor. If he goes after someone or something, he's right the first time. Why do you think we have Caroyans around here, anyway? If they were pushovers they'd have been all pushed over so we could get more Elsap or Connite or whatever other fancy gems and minerals and plants people are trying to haul out of Caroy in the name of the gods and chantries." Lane then went to take another swig of his beer, and slurped at just a smidge of foam. He had, in the space of an hour, gone from being curt and irritated to running his mouth.

"Do not call him an egglayer when he can hear you," Fitch said. He still wore his full gloves, and wiggled his fingers.

Petrie nodded. "He has talons."

Trevor had more of his beer. Against his better intentions, it was good and already had his ears feeling warm after only a few swigs. "It was all a bit sudden, I ran into him at the fair-"

"Right, you're from Potterston, we were just up there," the bald cat said.

"And, well, I suppose I was just interested. I think he thought the story about my accident... about me, was interesting. Really, it's just unfortunate. It's not like anything good has come of it. Well, I guess unless you count sitting here with you three. I could be back home, nodding off while I drop one in the outhouse, getting in the way of my aunt while she tries to become a dessert baker. I'm terrible with cooking. Don't ever let me cook."

At that, the murine Sharyn returned with four plates. Three were effectively identical and as ordered: two large slices of bread, smothered in a collection of vegetables, alliums, and meat that was certainly poultry of some kind, smothered in brown tart gravy, and shredded over top with some mildly yellow cheese that was in the process of melting. The fourth plate was exactly as Fitch had ordered it: breakfast-ready iron cakes with a one-inch slab of wet and saucy roasted beef falling apart on top of it.

"Fitch can't ever do anything anyone else does. If we actually ordered four beers, he'd change one to a whiskey. Four whiskeys, change one to a glass of port. We all plan to wear white for a summer wedding, he shows up looking like the lord of fire himself with spikes and chains and two whole dead cows of hide." Lane laughed.

"Ahh, and he always quite fancies the hides," Petrie nodded along.

"No one remembered any of you from that stupid wedding. Me? They'll never forget me," Fitch said, grabbed his plate, and glowered as he started to eat it. He also started to purr ferociously.

Trevor prodded at his food with a fork. The bread was frightfully stale where the food hadn't sat upon it, while it was pudding-soft underneath the mess. He cut off a segment and ate it, and his ears immediately perked. "Oh fuck, Stellis, this is something else," he quickly said, and tucked in further.

"Sharyn's a naffy rodent, she said she heard all those old stories about cheese and mice as a little girl, and one day just said 'right, show ye'all, make the best cheese wot had'," Lane tried to imitate her roiling West Passage accent, "and honestly, she sells it at a shop uptown at the bottom of Castle Hill, takes the money, plows it right back into buying good food for all the working piles here." He raised his hand, caught Sharyn's eye, and turned the gesture into a thumb-and-pinky rock that got a huge grin and gesture back.

After dinner, Trevor was full and slightly woozy, and resumed his shoulders-rolled-forward posture while walking to try and force himself not to wander on the sidewalk. "So where do we-"

"Right here," Fitch said, and gestured up at the oddly halved townhouses. "I'm next to the alley. That next one would be Altius, but he stays at the lab, so we use it for overflow storage. That's Petrie. Lane's the other end. So you get in between them. Have fun," he said, then walked up the short steps and let himself in a door, closed it, and locked it. It had four locks, just like the shop door at the lab.

"He's not wrong," Lane shrugged, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a small keyring with three keys. "Right, so this one with an L stamped on it is the lab, and this one with an A stamped on it is the apartment. I always get stuck with preparing this kind of stuff," he sighed. "There's a bed with linens and pillows, some furniture, the kitchen's very small but it's alright, and you even get an indoor shithole. Goes right to the sewer. You want to keep the lever pulled towards the seat when you aren't using it, unless you want flies and even more smell. Unfortunately, you're going to have to keep everything clean yourself." He put the keyring into Trevor's outstretched hand.

"Thank you," Trevor said, "You didn't have to carry my luggage around for me, by the way."

Lane shrugged. "I know I seem kind of pissy, but I'm not really. Fitch, on the other hand, is what you see on the tin. I'd say to get up around sunup, you'll probably wake up anyway, it gets loud on the street. Just come out to the street, we'll be by and you can walk back to the lab with us tomorrow, and you can start doing all the crap that the rest of us can't be bothered to do. I mean, that's what the new guy always has to do." He looked ruddy-faced, on account of two and a half beers. "Anyway. Off to knock out." He turned and went to his own door.

Trevor went into his own apartment having no idea what he'd really find after the description. It just seemed too good to be true that he'd have his own place. He found a perfectly serviceable apartment that looked as if it had been cut in half. The entire building was only as wide as a single room: the front was a living room, small kitchen, bathing tub, and the aforementioned interior toilet; the second story was the bedroom and a closet space; and a back staircase led to what a small sign explained was an unlivable storage attic. To his absolute shock, the kitchen had a sink basin with a strange valve and small pipe; he turned the valve and water gushed out, of dubious quality and color. When it turned it off, it mostly turned off, though continued to drip occasionally.

What have I gotten into? Where does that water come from?

The bedroom had a mattress that was generally sleepable and a bed with springs that only squeaked when he moved, and the blankets and pillows smelled like lots of different people and yet nothing particularly bad like blood or death.

He curled up in bed to the rumblings and occasional distant shouts of night industry. He closed his eyes, and looked around the room. He saw only the faintest of strange colors, mostly focused on a speck of blue that wandered around the room, coinciding with a buzz of a fly.