Chapter Text
Sleep came to Lorenzo in precious snatches.
One moment would be filled with darkness. An unending, monumental darkness. The kind that encroached on him slowly, crawling up his pale legs and swallowing his cold, shaking hands until it seemed as if all warmth had been sucked from the world by some sepulchral parasite.
Then the darkness would be torn apart by a barrage of flashes and bangs. Lorenzo would hack violently as handfuls of sand were thrown in his face before levelling his eyes at the murky scenery.
Visibility would be low. Artillery strikes and dry desert wind would have thrown up a sand haze, leaving Lorenzo stumbling forward. The rough scarf on his face would keep most of the sand out, but his eyes would sting
Lorenzo would stumble behind a rock formation, its rough surface scratching at his blue coat. He would collapse behind it and startle back into standing position by cannons thundering in the gloom, drowning out the shouts and screams of his allies and enemies alike.
He would then brace his arm on the pine, gloved hands fumbling awkwardly with his musket. There would be a fiery burst as he squeezed the trigger, and grey smoke would billow from the breech, fogging his vision up.
There would be a moment of panic when Lorenzo realised through the smoke of the muzzle that he hadn’t hit anything, and had left himself vulnerable. Rolling back behind the rocks, he would lay the musket along his lap and thrust a trembling hand into his pouch to withdraw a fresh cartridge.
The battle would rage on, musket fire dying amidst screeches of steel on wood as his comrades ripped their sabers free.
His pity for them would be transient. Their main advantage stripped from them, they would be forced to fight their savage enemies on equal ground. No, not equal ground. Their enemies had powers, powers beyond reckoning even in this world of the supernatural. Only a squad of soldiers could hope to match a single Eremite spiritcaller, and there were many of them casting their foul magic on the battlefield.
At last Lorenzo would produce a paper packet from his pouch, and pull his scarf down, coughing, before biting the top off. His face would scrunch up as the familiar astringent flavour of gunpowder assaulted his tongue, and he would spit it out with revulsion along with the top half of the paper pack. Returning to the gun, his hand would shake as he held the pack over the breech, spilling more gunpowder on the flash pan and too much on the sand beneath.
Stop that! Cursing, he would flip the pan closed and plunge the stock into the sand, pouring the rest into the muzzle.
Fear. That was all he knew, all he would know as the clangs of blades meeting rang through the air. There would be no respite. No closure. Only the eternal torture of a thousand dying screams, the lives of his comrades and drinking buddies fed into the sandy jaws of death.
Lorenzo would reach for the ramrod, preparing to ram the bullet and gunpowder home, when he would hear a sharp crack, followed by a muffled thump.
A groan of pain. Somebody’s back there!
Dropping his gun, Lorenzo would round the rock formation and dash towards the downed soldier, a piece of cloth in his hands to stop the blood.
He would shout ‘medic! medic!’, and when none came, he would wrap a tourniquet around the soldier’s leg, even knowing it was useless.
“Don’t…mind…me,” the soldier would choke out, the life slowly leaving his eyes. “I’ve just been…betrayed.”
Who? Lorenzo would try to ask, glancing at the Fontainian saber sticking out of his chest. But his throat would close up, blocked by a heavy weight on his chest. Who did this?
Then the soldier would look up, his features obscured by his tattered blue cap and the sand but still recognisable. Wavy blond hair styled with ruffled curls. A cracked monocle resting over one eye. Cesar.
The eye behind it would focus on Lorenzo, widening in some unknown emotion.
“You.”
Then Lorenzo would wake, pistol in hand as his eyes darted over the room for any sign of intruders. But all that would greet him would be the darkness of his sealed room.
He groaned, and slid the pistol back under his pillow before throwing the covers off and burying his head in his hands. Not again.
As he got ready for the day, Lorenzo opened his record book, eyes scanning over the numbers. He’d looked at it last night. And the morning before. And yet he kept looking as if it would magically rearrange the figures, magically change them by some invisible accountant’s hand. There was not nearly enough to leave Fontaine.
20 minutes later, Lorenzo opened the door, engaging the chain and peeking out. When he was sure that no one was watching him, he stepped out and locked his door tightly. It was cold outside, not enough to snow but enough to make all those who couldn’t afford warmer clothes miserable. Lorenzo was among them.
Over a year had passed since that terrible flood. Smashed buildings had long since been hastily rebuilt and strengthened. The streets were again flooded with throngs of commuters, trying to live their past lives. But normalcy was like an agile mora weasel, elusive and hidden. Even now Lorenzo was on his way to collect his daily food ration, guided along a specific route by quarantine measures designed to contain the disease outbreaks from immediately after the flood. Fatui soldiers still appeared on the sidewalks and buildings every now and then, reinforcements for the decimated Maison Gardiennage.
Lorenzo pulled his hood down, hoping the early morning shadows would hide his face and cloak his lanky figure. Under the early morning sun he stalked past workers, vagrants and aristocrats alike, all forced into a raucous, abrasive mix by the equalising waters of the flood. It was dry tinder, and any flareups between classes were rapidly crushed by the Gardes. Leaving the richer ones unharmed, of course.
And yet, despite the scenes that he had witnessed on the streets of the Court, he knew it was worse down in Fleuve Cendre. He’d only heard bits and pieces, but they alone had constituted enough of a reason not to hide down there like so many fugitives might have. Those and his memories of that place would be too much to bear.
Lost in his thoughts, Lorenzo arrived at his place of work before he knew it.
“Good morning,” Lorenzo greeted, allowing the door to close behind him.
“Ah! Morning, Lorenzo.” In one of the back rooms of a small office, a short, rotund man with a pair of glinting glasses sat behind a desk, pen in hand. “Slept well?”
“Well enough, Mr. Bonnet,” Lorenzo replied, hanging his coat and hat on the hangars nearby.
“Well enough to do what, hmm? Sleep on the job again?” Mr. Bonnet questioned as he leaned in, his faint smile not matching the disapproving nature of his words. “I’ve said it many times, Lorenzo. Sleep! We can’t have our clerk mixing up his ones and sevens, can we?”
He chuckled at his own joke, but Lorenzo sighed. Some would say that his boss’s concern for his employees was sweet, but Lorenzo found it cloying, almost patronising. He fought to keep a wave of annoyance from rising within him, forcing out a chuckle. “Ha. But I’m alright.”
“Well, if you say so,” Mr Bonnet replied with a tone indicating he didn’t believe Lorenzo. “Don’t overwork yourself.”
Lorenzo gave him a quick nod before opening the account book. He stifled a yawn, already feeling like allowing his head to drop on the book. This was going to be a very long day.
As Lorenzo felt the world grow blurry and the edges of his vision grew dim, there came a sharp knock on the door, ringing the glass slightly.
“Yes? Come in!” Mr Bonnet called.
The chimes above the door rang as it swung open, revealing a suited gentleman. He carried books and papers in his hands, and took his hat off as he entered, bowing.
“Welcome, welcome! A customer, I presume?” Mr Bonnet greeted cheerfully. Lorenzo thought it foolish for him to be so welcoming of a stranger, customer or not. “Would you like coffee? Some tea, perhaps?”
“I thank you for your kindness, good sir,” the gentleman smiled, casting a quick glance around the office. “But I won’t be bothering you for long. I’m with the Lady Susannah Idris Foundation for the Poor and Destitute, you see.”
“A charity? You’ve already begun your operations?” Mr Bonnet asked.
“By the grace of Lady Furina, yes.” the gentleman replied. “This is a time of great tribulation, sir. The government is doing all it can to rebuild, but many fear that alone it may not succeed. Restoring Fontaine - our home - is a task of paramount importance, and as Fontainians, it would be remiss of us not to provide whatever assistance we can. We know that many citizens such as yourselves face hardship in many forms, and only ask that you donate a small sum to our charity so that the less fortunate may regain the common comforts that you and I take for granted.”
Mr Bonnet did not hesitate. “Well, when you put it like that, I have no way to refuse!”
The gentleman’s face lit up. “Wonderful! What should I put you down as?”
“‘Rufus Bonnet’, please…”
As the men discussed the details of Mr Bonnet’s donation, Lorenzo turned back to his work, scoffing. He’d been among the poor once, as a young boy, roaming from street to street trying to find his next meal. Where had the charities been then? Resignation reigned in the eyes of many a beggar on the street, as if they had suddenly lost the will to live and sought food only by instinct. They knew no one was coming to help them.
Lorenzo shifted to stare out the window, watching the flurry of clothes, briefcases, and even the occasional motorcar rush by. But in the background there were always those hunched figures crouching by the curb or some wall, covered in rags. Perhaps some of them had no choice. The flood had left many shivering on the street, relying only on the thinning kindness of others to prevent what the primordial water had failed to do.
But others had given up. Lorenzo had come close to becoming one of them, a husk that had given up on the possibility of a better life, and knew that there was no saving those who had fallen into that abyss.
“…a partnership? Certainly!” Mr Bonnet’s jolly voice broke Lorenzo out of his thoughts.
“As I said, it’s only a tentative proposal,” the gentleman explained. “But we wouldn’t want to burden your business. The going’s hard enough as it is!”
“Nonsense!” Mr Bonnet exclaimed. “You said it yourself, good sir! Fontaine is in dire need of help, and I shall not avert my eyes to its plight!”
By the gods, Lorenzo thought, as his boss continued to chat. They have our money. Now we’re giving them the business as well?
He said nothing, of course, for it wasn’t his place as clerk to question his boss’ decision. But he grumbled inaudibly anyway. Given the small size of this business, his paycheck was likely to take a hit.
Mr Bonnet was as cheerful as ever when the man from the charity left. Another thing about him that Lorenzo would never understand.
“Cheer up, Lorenzo. We’ve just done our part to help Fontaine!” Mr Bonnet said as he sat back behind his desk, looking at a scowling Lorenzo.
Lorenzo continued to study his books. “At the expense of our profit,”
“Now, now, I know you might be feeling apprehensive, but just think. That charity is making significant contributions to rebuilding our infrastructure and buildings. And where does our money as a real estate firm come from if not that? Can’t very well sell something you know you can’t build. Besides,” he leaned in conspiratorially. “we’ll get a sizable reputation boost if this all goes well.”
Lorenzo nodded, but inside he still disagreed. He turned back to his account books, struggling to stay awake. Will the rest of my life be like this?
A few days later Lorenzo found himself shivering next to Mr Bonnet in front of a red-brick factory. Their first action as partners of Idris, as the charity liked to call itself, was to come to an event in an industrial park near the Court of Fontaine. They stood on a boulevard in front of the factory, along which ran a long meshed gate, stretching for a long distance on either side.
One good afternoon, wasted giving out food to beggars, Lorenzo thought to himself. Already he felt his icy breath scraping the tip of his nose and his joints acting up. A sizable, motley crowd had already gathered around the park, granting the usually drab, desolate area new life. It was a ways away from the city, and so the smog and filth of human society had not fully claimed the nature here yet.
“Welcome! I assume you’re Mr Rufus Bonnet?” A man about Lorenzo’s height with a round face and thin eyebrows emerged from the crowd and came up to the two, a friendly smile fixed on his expression.
“Why, yes I am. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
“A. B. Beaumont, director of Idris,” The two shook hands. “But please, call me Alaric. You’re our new collaborator, aren’t you? I’ve come here to thank you for your contribution to this charity, and to Fontainian society as a whole.”
Mr Bonnet waved his hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. But director, you say? With your charity coordinating all those relief efforts on top of your personal duties as a businessman, you must be busy!”
“I’ve decided to focus my energy on this charity for now. Many of my investments went ‘poof!’ after the flood.” he chuckled, seemingly unbothered. “And yes, running Idris has led to many an all-nighter. But I give credit to the compassionate workers on the ground for making it possible. Without them,” he gestured to the crowd. “There would be no initiatives, no work being done. And now, you can count yourselves among that number. But I’ve kept you waiting long enough. We’ll begin shortly.”
Lorenzo waited as Alaric climbed up onto a small platform, tapping the microphone, a cumbersome device with a ring surrounding the receiver, to make sure the PA system was working. “Testing, testing.” The feedback caused a screech to rip through the crowd. Lorenzo cringed, covering his ears.
“Apologies. Seems like some of you have already begun to hate the sound of my voice. I’ll try to cut down on the speeches from now on.” A few chuckles. “Now I’d like to begin with a story. When I was a boy, I used to live in a small town by the seaside. Riesling, in Northern Belleau, if you know where that is.”
North of Poisson, Lorenzo remembered. If there was ever a steampunk hell, Poisson would be it.
Alaric continued. “I was playing in the streets one day when someone rushed past, face red, breathing heavily. He dropped something from his bag, and I tried to pick it up and return it to him, but he was running too fast. I dropped it off at the town hall instead. The next day, that man showed up at my house, asking to see the boy who had picked up his bag. He then thanked me, explaining that the bag he dropped contained medicine that his son badly needed, and that if I hadn’t returned the bag his son likely would have died. That man’s son grew up to be a successful businessman. No matter how small, our actions can have a huge impact on others, whether we are aware of it or not. So chin up, volunteers. No matter what you are doing, you are contributing to a worthy cause: restoring our beautiful home for future generations to come.”
A round of applause followed as he stepped off the platform. The event had begun.
The volunteers immediately split up into groups, working with speed and efficiency to get the food to the mistreated factory workers. Lorenzo followed along with Mr Bonnet, thinking to himself that only idiots would work so hard for no pay.
A wave of mustiness washed over Lorenzo as he pried one crate open with a crowbar. Lumps of stale bread were piled up within, packed tightly like invasive fungal growths. Discoloured blue-grey patches ripped through them like some disease. Of course, there was also a healthy dose of marine stink.
Lorenzo scrunched his nose. “Is this…what we’re giving them?”
“Yeah,” a volunteer said, prying another crate open. “We did our best to revive it, but there’s only so much we can do when it’s already days old.” Then he saw the bread inside. “Oh, wow. No, bread like that goes in the disposal bin over there. Can’t be poisoning the workers.”
Lorenzo grunted, tipping the crate over the bin and spotting the first of the factory workers trickling out of a back entrance. He spotted the bread in the other crate, and while not moldy, it certainly didn’t look appetising.
“I know,” the volunteer said as if reading Lorenzo’s mind. “But it’s the best we’ve got. Probably the freshest too. We’re just doing our best at a time when even non-fresh food is at a premium.” He turned towards another group of volunteers, who were reeling away from the cans in a box in disgust. “Ha! The canned anchovies. Gets the newcomers every time.”
That Lorenzo could understand. If there was one thing he agreed with, it was that nothing must go to waste, especially now. But this food could go to other people. No sense wasting it on himself.
By contrast to Lorenzo’s disdain for the food, the workers clambered for it. A wall of arms remained suspended over the crates, grasping at air at the sight of moldy bread even as it went into the disposal bin. Their ashen and sooty faces, forever fixed in a pained grimace, seemed to amalgamate into a great, morphing mass of desperation. Lorenzo watched one rip her brittle grey smock as she tried to leap over and grab food from the crate. The rest waited with strained patience.
Lorenzo had been a fairly large investor in these factories, even visited them on a few occasions, but those had been on days when the whir of machinery had fallen silent and the workers were made to leave for the visiting board of directors. Lorenzo realised now why they had done so.
Though his annoyance hadn’t dissipated, Lorenzo found himself in a reasonably comfortable rhythm of jamming his hand into a crate and tossing whatever was in there at the workers, who scrambled like fish to snatch them up. The others looked at him disapprovingly, but did they really expect handing them out to be any more efficient? Besides, it lit up what was going to be a relatively dull day.
Lorenzo grabbed another loaf of bread and prepared to toss it when he looked down and saw a little boy.
He was a scraggy young creature of no more than twelve. Soot and dirt covered his fragile frame, and in place of the carefree smile he saw in most people of his age was a warped expression, something that had tried to become a grimace but was too desensitised to be even a slight frown. Even as a forest of arms scrabbled above him, he reached his own out as if patiently waiting his turn.
Lorenzo lowered the loaf, staring not at the boy’s stumpy, bruised legs or dirty roughspun tunic but his hands.
Where there were meant to be ten fingers, only seven remained.
Lorenzo froze, surprise and growing horror seizing his body. He was no stranger to lost fingers and limbs. He’d seen plenty of those lost on the battlefield and had come close to losing his own on many occasions.
But this is a boy! A boy!
The stumps were wrinkled and uneven, all the youthful energy and colour long sucked out from them. His hands were husks, and yet he held them out as if proudly presenting what Lorenzo’s comrades had hidden in shame for years. There was an unmistakable nakedness that unsettled him.
A door slammed open, and a posse of men in brown shirts strolled out of a nearby factory. “Alright, that’s enough!” one of them yelled, waving a baton in the air. “The rats have had enough to eat. Round them all up!”
Apprehension rippled amongst the volunteers as the guards surrounded the despairing workers and attempted to herd them back in like livestock. Lorenzo realised the stale bread had been crushed in his hand, reduced to crumbly flakes.
“Wait!” someone shouted. The crowd parted for Alaric as he strode forward.
“What?” the guard who had spoken earlier sneered.
“Look at your workers! They’ve not had nearly enough food, and you’re just going to force them back to work?”
The guard walked over. “Listen, we already gave you time to feed ‘em. You think we’d usually allow for an interruption like this? You’ve done your job. Now go.”
“But how can you expect them to work without proper sustenance? These workers are the backbone of Fontaine’s industrial complex and the heart of its revival, and if they are–”
“Yeah, yeah. But if they’re not working then nothing gets revived, does it? These rats work for us, and when we say it’s time to start working, that’s what they do.” He turned away, addressing his subordinates. “What are you waiting for? Get them all inside!”
The guards fanned out, and the gates began to close even as volunteers attempted to block the way.
Lorenzo looked back down, but the boy was gone. Swallowed up by the throng of destitution and misery. Looking back up, he saw that most of the volunteers had backed down, but a staunch few remained.
“Open the gates, you bastards!” “Get the workers back out here!”
The gates stopped, blocked by volunteers hanging from them. Lorenzo looked around, waiting for Alaric to step in and get the charity workers off the gates. But he was nowhere to be found.
“Get off!” one guard shouted, prodding a volunteer with a baton. When that didn’t work, he swung it right into the man’s torso instead.
That was when the chaos began.
Like some switch had been flipped, the rest of the guards surged forward, picking volunteers off the gates like mosquitoes on a net. The first screams pierced Lorenzo’s ears, and he froze as he watched the scene before him unfold.
Most of the crowd reeled back, but a few darted forward in a foolish attempt to save their fellow volunteers from the beating. Flies into a pitcher plant.
“Lorenzo? Lorenzo! We’ve got to go!” Mr Bonnet grabbed Lorenzo’s arm and pulled, but he was met with a statue. A cold, unyielding statue born of the rocks and dunes of those years on the battlefield. He stood amongst the roiling mess of bodies and screams, remembering the smell of brine and sweat and fear in the Fortress as his fellow prisoners had stampeded ahead to escape. Nothing had changed. Not during the Eremite War fifteen years ago, not during the Great Flood, not now.
Nothing had changed in Fontaine.
“AH!” Something snapping at Lorenzo’s feet caught his attention, and he looked down in horror to see his boss crumpled on the floor.
“Mr Bonnet!” Lorenzo dropped down. Mr Bonnet must have fallen, pushed over by the crowd in their attempt to get away. And he had broken something on the curb.
Mr Bonnet’s eyes darted around wildly as strangled cries came from behind his throat. His limbs were locked in place. Paralysis, Lorenzo thought, familiar with the sight.
The crowd had mostly cleared out by now, and the road in front of the factory was empty. Only a few unconscious and injured by the gate. Lorenzo had to get help.
“Help! Somebody help!” He waved his arms around, but there was nobody to see them. Even the guards that had beaten the volunteers earlier had disappeared. These people were going to die.
“Lorenzo!” a voice came from beside him. It was Alaric, drenched in sweat. His coat was soaked and his hat was dripping with sweat. “I got caught up in the stampede, had no idea where I was going…” he looked down at Mr Bonnet, something dawning on him. “He’s paralysed.”
“We can’t move him. We need to get help.”
“I know,” Alaric wiped the sweat off his brow. For a moment as Alaric stared at the factory, Lorenzo caught a glimpse of something in his eye. Anger. Frustration. Hatred.
But it disappeared as fast as it appeared. “I think I saw a Garde patrol when we came here earlier. I’m going to find them and get help. In the meantime, stay here and make sure Mr Bonnet–” Alaric turned to the rest of the injured volunteers. “–and the rest of the injured ones are okay. Understand?”
Lorenzo nodded, and Alaric muttered his thanks as he took off.
Lorenzo sat on the ground, shock still running through him. He’d never heard of something like this happening. If there was violence or anything like it in those factories and other places of industry, it was a rumour floating among the shareholders, something that loomed in the background as all did their best to ignore it.
But Lorenzo had seen it now. He’d seen all of it.
As heavy footsteps and shouts of Gardes filled the air, not for the first time since his escape from the Fortress of Meropede, Lorenzo felt the darkness that had always loomed over him slowly surrounding him.