| Prince-Consort Tesser | 10-22-2003 10:15 PM |
This is Paradigm City ... the City of Amnesia.
Something happened once, twenty-five years ago, and no one knows what. What happened before is a mystery.
My earliest memories are of waking up in a luxurious apartment, but with no memory of who I was. A young woman was in bed beside me. I hoped she could tell me who I was, but her first words to me - the very first words I remember hearing - was her voice asking "Do you know who I am?"
The next few years were years of blood and chaos, of warlords and superstitions, of famine and fire. Perhaps two-thirds of the humans in the city died. But they were also years of rediscovery, of learning, of evolving from partially-literate animals into a technological civilization. At the end of those years, the Paradigm Corporation united the city, stilled dissent with the Military Police, renewed food production, and built the first domes.
That was then.
I live outside the domes, in the place where that luxurious apartment once stood. The upper floors of that building are unoccupied now, and I live in another apartment on the bottom floor.
I know that this was, before the mysterious memory-stealing Event, a neighborhood of wealth and priviledge. Many luxurious apartments were here, as were many sleek and well-maintained machines and stores selling useless luxury items.
Now it is merely one of the Prohibited Residential Zones. It butts up against the East Dome, which stands in a place that, at the time of the Event, had been a huge park in the central part of the city.
This was once a nice neighborood with a green park. Now it's just another place to live. A free market operates here, selling scavenged goods and food from the Dome. The Military Police only make occasional sweeps through here, never stopping unless they actually see a large group of people, then they make them disperse. Citizen patrols (a more courteous word than 'gangs of thugs') keep more order than the instruments of Paradigm City's Law.
Gangs fight for control of this place where people sell things, and people try to protect themselves from gangs. But if they become too violent, the Military Police may decide to come in with assault rifles and tanks and 'restore order' ... the order of the grave.
That's where I come in.
My name is Solomon Brown, and I'm a negotiator.
------
My gray beard, brown cloak, and brown hat are quite distinctive. The hat, I recall, is called a 'bowler', and the coat is an 'oilskin'. My cane with the heavy gold handle is also quite noticable. This is deliberate; a negotiator should stand out from the crowd, so that people know he is impartial, not sympathizing with any one side.
I walk along the street, people nodding politely to me as I pass. None ignore me, nor do they wave to me or call greetings to me as a friend. This is proper, considering that my work requires me to remain aloof from the community, yet a part of it.
A commotion sounds from behind me, at one of the vegetable stands. I turn and notice that a young punk is trying to intimidate Miss Killgrave, the lady who operates it. She seems almost amused by the threatening pose of the young punk.
As well she should be, since the punk in question is about twelve years old. If that old. It is very difficult to be intimidated by someone who's head does not reach your shoulder.
"I'm telling you, lady," the punk was saying, his words becoming clearer as I approached, "If you don't pay the protection money, the East Rangers will bust this place up. Better you pay now, than lose your stupid stall." The boy began to look fearful. "Please, lady, be smart. My old mom wasn't smart, and they ... they ..."
The boy's spontaneous sobs were well done, and completely fake. Nevertheless, they were real enough to move Mrs. Killgrave's heart - a rather hard-hearted woman under most conditions.
"Now, sonny," she told him. "I don't pay protection under any circumstances. But you shouldn't have to front for such cowards, a nice boy like you." She patted him on the head. "Why don't you stay here for the night? I'll give you some fresh clothes, then in the morning you can go someplace safe, like the Youth Club, so you don't have to worry about that nasty gang -"
I interrupted, coming up behind the boy and cutting off his escape. "Not that you would have to worry, since the last member of the East Rangers was shot dead seven years ago." The boy spun around, a shocked look on his face. "Heh. Probably didn't know there ever was a gang called the East Rangers, did you boy?"
He tried to bolt, but my cane cut him off. He looked up at me as if I were about to eat him.
"What was your plan, boy?" I asked in my very best intimidation tone. "Swindle a few shopkeepers out of protection money with a nonexistent gang? Or sucker her into taking you in, get a meal, then rob her blind?"
"Hey!" he protested. "I don't steal nothin'!"
"If you don't steal nothing, then you must steal something," I corrected him. "So far, you've attempted to steal Miss Killgrave's money and food, and you have succeeded in stealing my good mood and precious time. Now, either apologize to the lady, or we commence the beating." I brought my cane up in a swift motion, making a loud swish as I did. "Your choice."
His apology to Miss Killgrave was quite sincere-sounding, and completely motivated by fear. The lad had a good eye for reading people, as was evident by the way he tailored his performance to Miss Killgrave.
As he prepared to leave, I thought of this boy on the street. The condition of his skin and clothes said that he had not had a bath in some days. I could hear his stomach rumbling from several feet away.
I sighed; compassion is a terrible disease.
"You, boy!" I said sharply. "Come with me, I'll at least put some food in your belly."
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I heard offers like that before, old coot. I got a knife."
I laughed; I knew he had a knife, just as I knew he would have used it. "No fear on that count, lad. Too many people know me around here. Such behavior would have gotten me lynched years ago."
The boy actually hesitated, which impressed me greatly. In the lean years, I had seen grown men go mad after not eating for several days. That this boy - who had plainly skipped several days' worth of meals - was actually strong-willed enough to debate the issue with himself was a great thing indeed.
"Okay. But in public."
I nodded. "Agreed," I said, as I would after any negotiation. "We have come to terms." I held out my hand for him to shake. The boy was uncertain, but took my hand and shook it, sealing the agreement.
I took him to the Speakeasy, a tavern of long acquaitance. I had several matchbooks from this tavern in my apartment on the day of the Event, so I am certain I frequented it in those days before memory. The food is passable, and Dale the bartender is a good friend.
The boy ate greedily enough, but he didn't gulp the food and he used a napkin. He had some basic education then, part of which had been table manners.
As the boy finished, I asked, "So lad, have you a name?"
He paused to think. "You first."
I nodded approvingly; never give up a point. "That is fair. I am Solomon Brown, a private negotiator."
"A what?"
"A negotiator. I act as a go-between for people, to help them get what they want, or to prevent them from losing more than they want to."
He seemed impressed. "Since I never knew two people to agree on anything, you must make a good living."
I laughed at that pearl of youthful wisdom. "Well-spoken, lad! And now, your name?"
"Roger Smith."
I pondered that for a moment. "The only persons I know named 'Smith' are products of the Paradigm Orphan Asylum. Is that your residence?"
"No," he said. "I got a foster family, the .... uh .... can't remember."
I gave a chuckle. "Surely close bonds of trust and family have formed between you."
"Hell no," Roger said. "That old fart of a foster father is why I know a kid's gotta have a knife."
"Did he ...?"
"Hell no!" Roger looked almost proud for a moment. "But he's gonna have a hell of a time explaining how he got stabbed there!"
I nodded, making a note to have my big-eared friend Abraham listen around for a man with an embarassing injury. Certain persons should have accidents, for the general good of society as a whole.
"And you've decided to make your way in the world by extorting money with a gang of phantoms?"
To his credit, the lad did seem embarassed. "Sorry about that, Mr. Brown. But a guy's gotta eat."
"I understand that. But you need a better trade." I pondered briefly. "Perhaps you can help Dale clean up around here. Earn a decent wage while we find a place -"
"Maybe I can be a negotiator!" he piped up.
I almost choked on that. "Well-well! Here I try to do you a good turn, and you try to steal my livlihood!" Even though my words were full of good humor, I noted that this boy had a sharp mind, a persuasive manner, a strong will, a talent for reading people, and a cynical attitude. Had he been a bit older and somewhat more well-spoken, I might have taken him on as a junior partner.
As it was, I got him a job cleaning up at the Speakeasy. Soon, he also had a job waiting tables at the Amadeus. That was no coincidence; I knew that my friend Instro would clean up the lad's speech patterns as well as perhaps give him a bit of culture.
Who knows? An apprentice would be useful, in these my declining years. Perhaps in a few years, Roger Smith might have the makings of a negotiator in him.
Something happened once, twenty-five years ago, and no one knows what. What happened before is a mystery.
My earliest memories are of waking up in a luxurious apartment, but with no memory of who I was. A young woman was in bed beside me. I hoped she could tell me who I was, but her first words to me - the very first words I remember hearing - was her voice asking "Do you know who I am?"
The next few years were years of blood and chaos, of warlords and superstitions, of famine and fire. Perhaps two-thirds of the humans in the city died. But they were also years of rediscovery, of learning, of evolving from partially-literate animals into a technological civilization. At the end of those years, the Paradigm Corporation united the city, stilled dissent with the Military Police, renewed food production, and built the first domes.
That was then.
I live outside the domes, in the place where that luxurious apartment once stood. The upper floors of that building are unoccupied now, and I live in another apartment on the bottom floor.
I know that this was, before the mysterious memory-stealing Event, a neighborhood of wealth and priviledge. Many luxurious apartments were here, as were many sleek and well-maintained machines and stores selling useless luxury items.
Now it is merely one of the Prohibited Residential Zones. It butts up against the East Dome, which stands in a place that, at the time of the Event, had been a huge park in the central part of the city.
This was once a nice neighborood with a green park. Now it's just another place to live. A free market operates here, selling scavenged goods and food from the Dome. The Military Police only make occasional sweeps through here, never stopping unless they actually see a large group of people, then they make them disperse. Citizen patrols (a more courteous word than 'gangs of thugs') keep more order than the instruments of Paradigm City's Law.
Gangs fight for control of this place where people sell things, and people try to protect themselves from gangs. But if they become too violent, the Military Police may decide to come in with assault rifles and tanks and 'restore order' ... the order of the grave.
That's where I come in.
My name is Solomon Brown, and I'm a negotiator.
------
My gray beard, brown cloak, and brown hat are quite distinctive. The hat, I recall, is called a 'bowler', and the coat is an 'oilskin'. My cane with the heavy gold handle is also quite noticable. This is deliberate; a negotiator should stand out from the crowd, so that people know he is impartial, not sympathizing with any one side.
I walk along the street, people nodding politely to me as I pass. None ignore me, nor do they wave to me or call greetings to me as a friend. This is proper, considering that my work requires me to remain aloof from the community, yet a part of it.
A commotion sounds from behind me, at one of the vegetable stands. I turn and notice that a young punk is trying to intimidate Miss Killgrave, the lady who operates it. She seems almost amused by the threatening pose of the young punk.
As well she should be, since the punk in question is about twelve years old. If that old. It is very difficult to be intimidated by someone who's head does not reach your shoulder.
"I'm telling you, lady," the punk was saying, his words becoming clearer as I approached, "If you don't pay the protection money, the East Rangers will bust this place up. Better you pay now, than lose your stupid stall." The boy began to look fearful. "Please, lady, be smart. My old mom wasn't smart, and they ... they ..."
The boy's spontaneous sobs were well done, and completely fake. Nevertheless, they were real enough to move Mrs. Killgrave's heart - a rather hard-hearted woman under most conditions.
"Now, sonny," she told him. "I don't pay protection under any circumstances. But you shouldn't have to front for such cowards, a nice boy like you." She patted him on the head. "Why don't you stay here for the night? I'll give you some fresh clothes, then in the morning you can go someplace safe, like the Youth Club, so you don't have to worry about that nasty gang -"
I interrupted, coming up behind the boy and cutting off his escape. "Not that you would have to worry, since the last member of the East Rangers was shot dead seven years ago." The boy spun around, a shocked look on his face. "Heh. Probably didn't know there ever was a gang called the East Rangers, did you boy?"
He tried to bolt, but my cane cut him off. He looked up at me as if I were about to eat him.
"What was your plan, boy?" I asked in my very best intimidation tone. "Swindle a few shopkeepers out of protection money with a nonexistent gang? Or sucker her into taking you in, get a meal, then rob her blind?"
"Hey!" he protested. "I don't steal nothin'!"
"If you don't steal nothing, then you must steal something," I corrected him. "So far, you've attempted to steal Miss Killgrave's money and food, and you have succeeded in stealing my good mood and precious time. Now, either apologize to the lady, or we commence the beating." I brought my cane up in a swift motion, making a loud swish as I did. "Your choice."
His apology to Miss Killgrave was quite sincere-sounding, and completely motivated by fear. The lad had a good eye for reading people, as was evident by the way he tailored his performance to Miss Killgrave.
As he prepared to leave, I thought of this boy on the street. The condition of his skin and clothes said that he had not had a bath in some days. I could hear his stomach rumbling from several feet away.
I sighed; compassion is a terrible disease.
"You, boy!" I said sharply. "Come with me, I'll at least put some food in your belly."
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I heard offers like that before, old coot. I got a knife."
I laughed; I knew he had a knife, just as I knew he would have used it. "No fear on that count, lad. Too many people know me around here. Such behavior would have gotten me lynched years ago."
The boy actually hesitated, which impressed me greatly. In the lean years, I had seen grown men go mad after not eating for several days. That this boy - who had plainly skipped several days' worth of meals - was actually strong-willed enough to debate the issue with himself was a great thing indeed.
"Okay. But in public."
I nodded. "Agreed," I said, as I would after any negotiation. "We have come to terms." I held out my hand for him to shake. The boy was uncertain, but took my hand and shook it, sealing the agreement.
I took him to the Speakeasy, a tavern of long acquaitance. I had several matchbooks from this tavern in my apartment on the day of the Event, so I am certain I frequented it in those days before memory. The food is passable, and Dale the bartender is a good friend.
The boy ate greedily enough, but he didn't gulp the food and he used a napkin. He had some basic education then, part of which had been table manners.
As the boy finished, I asked, "So lad, have you a name?"
He paused to think. "You first."
I nodded approvingly; never give up a point. "That is fair. I am Solomon Brown, a private negotiator."
"A what?"
"A negotiator. I act as a go-between for people, to help them get what they want, or to prevent them from losing more than they want to."
He seemed impressed. "Since I never knew two people to agree on anything, you must make a good living."
I laughed at that pearl of youthful wisdom. "Well-spoken, lad! And now, your name?"
"Roger Smith."
I pondered that for a moment. "The only persons I know named 'Smith' are products of the Paradigm Orphan Asylum. Is that your residence?"
"No," he said. "I got a foster family, the .... uh .... can't remember."
I gave a chuckle. "Surely close bonds of trust and family have formed between you."
"Hell no," Roger said. "That old fart of a foster father is why I know a kid's gotta have a knife."
"Did he ...?"
"Hell no!" Roger looked almost proud for a moment. "But he's gonna have a hell of a time explaining how he got stabbed there!"
I nodded, making a note to have my big-eared friend Abraham listen around for a man with an embarassing injury. Certain persons should have accidents, for the general good of society as a whole.
"And you've decided to make your way in the world by extorting money with a gang of phantoms?"
To his credit, the lad did seem embarassed. "Sorry about that, Mr. Brown. But a guy's gotta eat."
"I understand that. But you need a better trade." I pondered briefly. "Perhaps you can help Dale clean up around here. Earn a decent wage while we find a place -"
"Maybe I can be a negotiator!" he piped up.
I almost choked on that. "Well-well! Here I try to do you a good turn, and you try to steal my livlihood!" Even though my words were full of good humor, I noted that this boy had a sharp mind, a persuasive manner, a strong will, a talent for reading people, and a cynical attitude. Had he been a bit older and somewhat more well-spoken, I might have taken him on as a junior partner.
As it was, I got him a job cleaning up at the Speakeasy. Soon, he also had a job waiting tables at the Amadeus. That was no coincidence; I knew that my friend Instro would clean up the lad's speech patterns as well as perhaps give him a bit of culture.
Who knows? An apprentice would be useful, in these my declining years. Perhaps in a few years, Roger Smith might have the makings of a negotiator in him.