Sometimes, when you endure abject horrors personalized to you— the way an elderly relative might knit you an ugly sweater with your name on it— you just have to go commission a massive bludgeoning tool to feel better.
She'll need a smith. And they had better be a good one. No cutting corners on this thing. This is a tool that requires blood, sweat and tears in its actualization, and she's got the Brass to shell out for it.
And what d'you know— this face is familiar.
"Oh. Birthday boy. Listen, I need a hammer. A big one." Carolina drops a hefty, tink-ing pouch onto the counter. "You in?"
Break her? Never. (Did the Fears get close? Maybe. Maybe, but no one needs to know that.)
She gets right to it. "Big enough to crush someone like a can. Five feet for the handle. Leather grip, not wood. Sharp end to cover all my bases. I don't really care what it looks like, but if you try to put flowers on it, you're dead."
"Well you're in luck, we're fresh out of floral print warhammers," Stefan said, pulling out a smudged notebook to scribble down a couple notes. "With how strong you are, you're going to be bending any handle out of shape after serious use."
He knew that from personal experience. She was as strong as him, maybe more than him right now. He was still healing from the wounds he'd accumulated in the hell they'd just crawled out of, new scar tissue from bullets, burns, and shrapnel slowly fading on his skin. He wasn't about to sit around and wait for it to finish, though. He'd go stir crazy. "Maybe not if I can talk somebody into coughing up some magic for it. That'd cost extra."
She narrows her eyes into slits. "I don't do magic." Said with the unwarranted contempt of a sports fanatic bashing a rival team. "...But, if it keeps it together, fine. I'll pay whatever you want, just make sure it doesn't fall apart."
She watches him scribble in his notebook. Half expects the pencil to snap.
"So. Were you in the safe zone, or were you in it?"
"Good, because I can't stand it," Stefan replied. "It's all con artistry and mystical nonsense until somebody can come up with a real theory for how it works. But I'll use any tool, so long as it gives me real results that stand up to real scrutiny." Stefan believed in a world that fit within the framework laid out by Newton, Maxwell, Einstein, and Bohr. The only things that didn't were just loose ends, waiting for someone to tie them in. A rational, explainable world.
Coming to Marrow Isle hadn't broken Stefan from that certainty. But the events of last month had certainly tried. "In the thick of it," he said, pointing to a lingering scar on his forehead, the ghost of a fatal gunshot. It still gave him headaches, seeming to radiate out from the scar. His hand too had fresh scars from the phosphorus shells that had thrown him into the stinking hell of an overcrowded field hospital. Both scars had been acquired early in his struggle through the madness. "Took me on another deployment through the Great War along the way. Sounds like you had your own war to deal with?"
He assumed Carolina was a soldier. Whether she started out as a male impersonator like some Stefan had known, or ended up serving openly like the Serbian legend Milunka Savic or the British Flora Sandes, she had the personality for it. She certainly had the strength.
Carolina's face lights up a little. Not so much like joy, but like the spark before a radioactive explosion. "That's exactly what I said!" To who? No one, really. To herself, on her angrier days, pacing tracks in her front yard while feeling insignificant. "I get it. It's common and it's helpful or whatever, but it just—" A nasty grimace. "—feels like a disaster waiting to happen. That's why I got catchers gloves. You never know what trick someone might pull."
She follows his finger to the scar, like a starburst at his forehead. Another soldier. Another sack of flesh and muscle to do someone else's dirty work.
"Yeah, I did. Like old times." Utterly unaffectionate. Different on account of the fucking dog's head. Following whatever order was given to her wasn't anything new. "Funny. We called ours 'The Great War' too. The Human-Covenant war. Yours is like ancient history. People barely remember what it is."
Finally, somebody who saw sense. "It's a crutch, if technology can't back it up," Stefan agreed. With a higher grade steel from some great industrial furnace, it would be trivial to make metal that could stand up to their enhanced strength. But without that, his options were limited. "I'll do what I can to avoid the stuff, but hard work costs the same as a miracle."
That acid tone settled any doubt, Carolina knew combat. "Did you see any of the trenches in Northwest Hollow?" Stefan asked. "All the artillery and gas? That was us." Or an amalgam of every worst part of it. "H.G. Wells called our one The War That Will End War," he continued bitterly, underlining something in his notebook. A minute slip in his control, and the lead broke, cracking the wood as well. "You've seen how well that went."
Stefan didn't know the details about the decades following 1930, but he'd been a volatile blend of cynicism and utopian belief since the end of the war, and the collapse of the banks over the past year had only cemented that. The current systems of world power and commerce were failures, and needed to be replaced. Would that solve all conflict? He doubted it, but a better system would give people something actually worth fighting for.
"Or at least, you've seen it in your timeline. Mine didn't seem like it was doing any better." Not with what had happened on his final day. The world was worse off for what he'd unknowingly unleashed.
Whatever the cost, she'll pay up, emphasized by a not-so-subtle nudge to her coin satchel across the workbench.
Then, she nods. Easier to nod than explain how unsure she is of anything she saw. Her mind had been muddled and feralized. She had watched the Northwest Hollow pass in blurs of sinuous red and yellow; a dog's vision of what to do and where to go, all obedience. She remembers very little. Then, sometimes, she remembers too much. The stretchy, tacky, gummy feeling of blood in her mouth. The thickness of it, like stock mixed with flour. She remembers tearing things in two— tearing the twos in two— shredding meat to a disgusting, homogenized mush. Swallow the mush. Feel it go nowhere, since she had thoroughly gutted herself in what she now knows to call the Stranger.
And she sure as shit isn't telling any of this to him.
"So he's either an idiot or expected the world to blow up." Her grade school history lessons fail her here. Stefan doesn't need to know that. In fact, she'd rather skin herself alive and jab the exposed flesh with a million splinters soaked in citrus juice than suffer through a man waxing poetic and bitter about history. Or maybe she ought to do that to him, if he dares. She does indulge in some healthy sarcasm, though.
"What did mister H.G. Wells say when the next one came around? Oh, sorry. I meant this war's the last one. Forget what I said. Like a crappy weatherman. The only thing that'll end war is if a giant black hole sucks us up and spits us out as space dust."
"Well, we called the peace conference after it 'the Peace to end Peace', so things haven't been going great," Stefan said. Nobody had seemed all that happy with the treaties that came out of Paris, not even the winners. Ten years after that had come the Wall Street crash and the still-ongoing economic collapse, which had added a new spin on things. "I did mercenary work in a few smaller conflicts after that. I'm not sure if Wells considered those 'wars' or not."
Stefan respected Wells for much of his writing. When the Sleeper Wakes had changed his outlook on the world. But unless the great powers saw a real shake-up in how they did business, things would continue on as they always had.
Maybe they would stay the same. Stefan didn't think Marcus had ever cared about how the world fared. He'd only ever been out for himself.
Stefan shoved those thoughts back down. "It'll be a few weeks." It depended on what kind of steel he could get his hands on. Ordering some up from the mainland wasn't exactly an option. He wandered away from the front of the shop to start looking at their stock. "I'll figure out the numbers once I've got the piece figured out. I don't skimp on this kind of stuff." He patted a long knife on his belt, secured by his hip. After the past month, he wasn't going to risk being caught without it. He'd made it himself, and he didn't doubt he was going to need it more.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2025-11-24 03:31 am (UTC)Sometimes, when you endure abject horrors personalized to you— the way an elderly relative might knit you an ugly sweater with your name on it— you just have to go commission a massive bludgeoning tool to feel better.
She'll need a smith. And they had better be a good one. No cutting corners on this thing. This is a tool that requires blood, sweat and tears in its actualization, and she's got the Brass to shell out for it.
And what d'you know— this face is familiar.
"Oh. Birthday boy. Listen, I need a hammer. A big one." Carolina drops a hefty, tink-ing pouch onto the counter. "You in?"
no subject
on 2025-11-24 03:47 am (UTC)"Good to see they didn't break you," Stefan said, picking up the pouch to estimate the contents. "How big of a skull-crusher are we talking here?"
no subject
on 2025-11-24 04:01 am (UTC)Break her? Never. (Did the Fears get close? Maybe. Maybe, but no one needs to know that.)
She gets right to it. "Big enough to crush someone like a can. Five feet for the handle. Leather grip, not wood. Sharp end to cover all my bases. I don't really care what it looks like, but if you try to put flowers on it, you're dead."
no subject
on 2025-11-24 04:13 am (UTC)He knew that from personal experience. She was as strong as him, maybe more than him right now. He was still healing from the wounds he'd accumulated in the hell they'd just crawled out of, new scar tissue from bullets, burns, and shrapnel slowly fading on his skin. He wasn't about to sit around and wait for it to finish, though. He'd go stir crazy. "Maybe not if I can talk somebody into coughing up some magic for it. That'd cost extra."
no subject
on 2025-11-24 06:03 am (UTC)She narrows her eyes into slits. "I don't do magic." Said with the unwarranted contempt of a sports fanatic bashing a rival team. "...But, if it keeps it together, fine. I'll pay whatever you want, just make sure it doesn't fall apart."
She watches him scribble in his notebook. Half expects the pencil to snap.
"So. Were you in the safe zone, or were you in it?"
no subject
on 2025-11-24 01:01 pm (UTC)Coming to Marrow Isle hadn't broken Stefan from that certainty. But the events of last month had certainly tried. "In the thick of it," he said, pointing to a lingering scar on his forehead, the ghost of a fatal gunshot. It still gave him headaches, seeming to radiate out from the scar. His hand too had fresh scars from the phosphorus shells that had thrown him into the stinking hell of an overcrowded field hospital. Both scars had been acquired early in his struggle through the madness. "Took me on another deployment through the Great War along the way. Sounds like you had your own war to deal with?"
He assumed Carolina was a soldier. Whether she started out as a male impersonator like some Stefan had known, or ended up serving openly like the Serbian legend Milunka Savic or the British Flora Sandes, she had the personality for it. She certainly had the strength.
no subject
on 2025-11-24 04:19 pm (UTC)Carolina's face lights up a little. Not so much like joy, but like the spark before a radioactive explosion. "That's exactly what I said!" To who? No one, really. To herself, on her angrier days, pacing tracks in her front yard while feeling insignificant. "I get it. It's common and it's helpful or whatever, but it just—" A nasty grimace. "—feels like a disaster waiting to happen. That's why I got catchers gloves. You never know what trick someone might pull."
She follows his finger to the scar, like a starburst at his forehead. Another soldier. Another sack of flesh and muscle to do someone else's dirty work.
"Yeah, I did. Like old times." Utterly unaffectionate. Different on account of the fucking dog's head. Following whatever order was given to her wasn't anything new. "Funny. We called ours 'The Great War' too. The Human-Covenant war. Yours is like ancient history. People barely remember what it is."
no subject
on 2025-11-24 05:15 pm (UTC)That acid tone settled any doubt, Carolina knew combat. "Did you see any of the trenches in Northwest Hollow?" Stefan asked. "All the artillery and gas? That was us." Or an amalgam of every worst part of it. "H.G. Wells called our one The War That Will End War," he continued bitterly, underlining something in his notebook. A minute slip in his control, and the lead broke, cracking the wood as well. "You've seen how well that went."
Stefan didn't know the details about the decades following 1930, but he'd been a volatile blend of cynicism and utopian belief since the end of the war, and the collapse of the banks over the past year had only cemented that. The current systems of world power and commerce were failures, and needed to be replaced. Would that solve all conflict? He doubted it, but a better system would give people something actually worth fighting for.
"Or at least, you've seen it in your timeline. Mine didn't seem like it was doing any better." Not with what had happened on his final day. The world was worse off for what he'd unknowingly unleashed.
no subject
on 2025-12-03 02:11 am (UTC)Whatever the cost, she'll pay up, emphasized by a not-so-subtle nudge to her coin satchel across the workbench.
Then, she nods. Easier to nod than explain how unsure she is of anything she saw. Her mind had been muddled and feralized. She had watched the Northwest Hollow pass in blurs of sinuous red and yellow; a dog's vision of what to do and where to go, all obedience. She remembers very little. Then, sometimes, she remembers too much. The stretchy, tacky, gummy feeling of blood in her mouth. The thickness of it, like stock mixed with flour. She remembers tearing things in two— tearing the twos in two— shredding meat to a disgusting, homogenized mush. Swallow the mush. Feel it go nowhere, since she had thoroughly gutted herself in what she now knows to call the Stranger.
And she sure as shit isn't telling any of this to him.
"So he's either an idiot or expected the world to blow up." Her grade school history lessons fail her here. Stefan doesn't need to know that. In fact, she'd rather skin herself alive and jab the exposed flesh with a million splinters soaked in citrus juice than suffer through a man waxing poetic and bitter about history. Or maybe she ought to do that to him, if he dares. She does indulge in some healthy sarcasm, though.
"What did mister H.G. Wells say when the next one came around? Oh, sorry. I meant this war's the last one. Forget what I said. Like a crappy weatherman. The only thing that'll end war is if a giant black hole sucks us up and spits us out as space dust."
Carolina jams a finger onto his notepad.
"The hammer. How long's it going to take?"
no subject
on 2025-12-03 04:14 am (UTC)Stefan respected Wells for much of his writing. When the Sleeper Wakes had changed his outlook on the world. But unless the great powers saw a real shake-up in how they did business, things would continue on as they always had.
Maybe they would stay the same. Stefan didn't think Marcus had ever cared about how the world fared. He'd only ever been out for himself.
Stefan shoved those thoughts back down. "It'll be a few weeks." It depended on what kind of steel he could get his hands on. Ordering some up from the mainland wasn't exactly an option. He wandered away from the front of the shop to start looking at their stock. "I'll figure out the numbers once I've got the piece figured out. I don't skimp on this kind of stuff." He patted a long knife on his belt, secured by his hip. After the past month, he wasn't going to risk being caught without it. He'd made it himself, and he didn't doubt he was going to need it more.