A Series of Unfortunate Events in CITY, part II
Leaving the arduous task of removing Burne's laboratory to another --unsuspecting-- location for later, his motley band of employees and other automata leave in search of a real estate agent. A band of wheezing children watch with sad, indicting eyes from across the street.
"I'll not miss those filthy urchins," remarks Mordecai.
"You surely did that time with the steam-powered grappling hook" says Ritter.
"Bah… their creepy stares threw off my aim".
A frail-looking boy expectorates loudly in Burne's general direction. The resulting expectorate smolders briefly on the cobblestones as the alchemist turns up the street.
Perhaps it was the lingering scent of fulminate of mercury on Burne's person, or the sight of MODOSS with the lemur pilot riding with the top-down, or rather, the visor-up, who’s lately taken to wearing a tiny crash helmet with the words 'Death From Above' painted on it in a substance that bears more than a passing resemblance to nun's blood, or possibly it was the continual bickering of Mordecai, Ritter, and Glum, who came across like a three-person polygamous marriage comprised of disgruntled coworkers who each wielded the firepower of a rum-sodden naval blockade ship, but whatever the reason, finding a realtor is easier said that done.
Burne hears one thing over and over again; aside from "No", "Get out", and "Arrghh, my sleeve is on fire! Try Biraxan, maybe he can help you."
After hours of searching they arrive at the basement office of Biraxan Coil, near the dry canal that runs behind the former Maison Chatons in the Blue Light District of Narayan.
"No, you don't need an appointment, yes, Mr. Coil is in, go down the stairs, his office is at the end of the hallway" says a bored secretary, slightly in advance of the questions.
The stairs seem to go down several floors and the hallway feels endless, making the trek to Biraxan Coil's office seem more like an expedition into a foul monster’s lair beneath the city sewers. Which, coincidentally enough, is exactly what it is.
Burne and company catch him as he opens the door to his office. Mr. Coil is a thin, balding dead man that passed sometime in his middle years. He's eyes glow faintly like coals.
"Hey there, I was just stepping out for a cup of hot blood. Can I interest you in some, or would you prefer a short beer? So you've run out of options. What can I do for you?"
"I need land," Burne says as smoothly as he's able, which is surprisingly so. “Preferably land with several large buildings upon it, with space for several laboratories and an even greater number of classrooms. And dormitories, I suppose -- students *are* customary for a school, are they not? -- along with all the usual amenities."
Burne smiles, absently caressing the Engine as he cradles it in his arms. "There's likely to be a lot of flame, and explosions, and fumes of an exciting yet questionable nature. The neighbors should be tolerant, deaf, or easily cowed."
"HOW. ARE. YOU. GOING. TO. PA..." Abraxis begins, before a well aimed kick sets its head to spinning.
"I can't bear rudeness," Burne says to Coil, in an apologetic tone. "To return to the matter at hand, can you be of assistance in finding such a property?"
"Pardon me, say Coil. He raises a desiccated hand to his face and speaks into a golden ring. "Constance, dear, would you be so kind as to get me a Bloody Mary. If she's tapped out, try Vivienne." He smiles gravely, "Guess I’ll be working through lunch again… no, it’s not a problem, come in. I always make time for live…er… face-to-face meetings."
Biraxan Coil’s office is a comfortingly familiar disarray; crooked filing cabinets, a large wooden desk strewn with stained papers, framed documents on the walls. It goes a long towards humanizing him, though it doesn't make him any less dead.
Next to his Certificate of Citizenship hangs an impressive-looking document from the Courts Absolute declaring that, in the case of any unprovoked turning attempts against Mr. Coil, the god's grace will be considered a deadly weapon and the crime shall be attempted murder, despite the superficial irony of the charge.
Noticing Burne's eyes on the writ, Coil says "Nice, eh. I've got one hell of a lawyer. Here..." A dead hand fumbles in a pocket and produces a business card. "Leaping Shadows, Esq." it reads. The other side sports an unintelligible Ajakhani glyph which resembles a brushstroke stick figure lying at the bottom of the sea . "If you should ever need a lawyer, and by the look of you it's really more a matter of 'when', isn't it? Don't let the mask and throwing stars put you off, he's really a stand-up guy."
He pauses, glancing up at the ceiling. "Constance" Coil says to his ring, "I'm not getting any younger. Now where were we? Ah yes, you need a place to build a school for... well, that's your business, isn't it? Let me check my files."
Biraxan Coil shuffles off for about five minutes, in which time his secretary appears with a large goblet full of coppery-smelling liquid, which Coil finishes in three long swigs. "Damn South Beast Diet" he says, "what I can really go for is... I think I have a few potential properties for you.
Two recently came on the market right here in the Blue Light District. The first is on Cockswallow Dock. It's a former tavern with a great finished lair underneath with terrific access to Gate bearing sewer lines, which means there's unlimited room to expand down there. It's zoned commercial/ecclesiastical. The former owner ran a small-time cult of Dhalberg out of it, until some nasty business involving a band of adventurers and his former lover.
The other is a real fixer-upper near the Red Light District. A brothel built like a small fortress, it’s right up the street, actually. They had a mysterious fire which caused the stones themselves to burn. It's big, the neighborhood's quiet, well, now, and you've got plenty of free building material just lying around. Assuming you can do something with liquefied stone.
Is that an Erisian accent I detect? You're in luck. I've got one more place and it's in an up-and-coming neighborhood right off the Saltbend in Eris. This baby has the works; solid stone construction, extensive fireproofing, dormitories and study alcoves. It's a former temple to Dicastor, the Weeper of Steel. Well, maybe I shouldn't say 'former' because temple is still occupied, but eviction proceedings are underway. The cult owes a fortune in back taxes and can't pay.
Here's the problem. They've hit a little snag. You see the god is still in residence in the basement. He's a very minor deity, but the authorities haven’t successfully evicted Him yet. You know city employees, no work ethic to speak of."
"Shameful, really," Burne agrees, stroking his chin in a thoughtful manner. "Intriguing, though...I've had a certain interest in matters of Applied Practical Theology, but never anticipated an opportunity to put them into practice. The chance to mold a god, however minor, in my own image...."
It is a testament to Burne's skill that Abraxis' face, made of cold and unyielding metal, can show such obvious signs of terror.
"...well, I hardly see how I can be expected to resist. That the property sounds perfect for my needs is merely the shrapnel on the casing. I'd be delighted to see the place, at your earliest convenience. Which, I assume, would be sometime after nightfall?"
There is a soft, yet harsh sound in the background, a strange combination of clicking and grating of metal. When Burne and Coil turn to look at its source, they find the MODOSS unit, quietly chewing on the knifelike fingernails of one hand with the stylized teeth Burne built into it. The lemur-brain, which is visible with the top pushed back, sees that it's been noticed, and stops hurriedly. "SORRY. NERVOUS REFLEX."
He pulls a lever to quickly lower the hand and then pushes another, causing the top of the head to rise and cover it. A second later, there's an infinitely little scratching sound, and a few seconds later, the faint smell of cigar smoke, wisps of which waft out of the ventilation holes in the helmet.
