35 – Mortimer Glass

The streets of Steelwatch pulse with a desperate energy as we leave the tavern behind, the weight of Solomon’s hunt for me settling like iron dust in my lungs. Through the press of bodies and the acrid smoke that perpetually haunts this settlement, we make our way toward the scrapyard.

Isaiah breaks away briefly, heading back to the airship while we wait in the shadow of a weathered storefront. When he returns, the leather satchel swings casually from his shoulder, worn smooth by years of similar errands. He catches my questioning look and pats the bag with a conspirator’s wink. “Rare and valuable cargo,” he declares with that particular gleam in his eye – the one that always appears when he’s about to share something special with friends. I can’t help but smile. The gentle clinking of kiju bottles in his satchel is as distinct as the sound of my proths on cobblestone – some sounds you just know in your soul.

The scrapyard sprawls across the outer reaches of Steelwatch like a mechanical graveyard, its boundaries marked by towering piles of discarded dreams and broken machinery. What strikes me first isn’t the size – though it’s impressive enough – but the choreographed chaos of bodies in motion. Workers move with the precision of well-oiled gears, their skin burnished to leather by years under the relentless sun. Their faces carry the same weathered quality as the metal they salvage, etched with lines that speak of hard lives and harder choices. They remind me of Papa’s hands – marked by their craft, wearing their scars like medals.

The cacophony of the yard wraps around us like a living thing – dull thuds of metal on metal, the whine of grinding wheels, the deep-throated hum of automated tow-carts trudging their endless paths. The sounds layer over each other in a symphony of survival, drowning out any attempt at conversation.

We approach a building that seems to have grown organically from the industrial chaos around it, its walls pieced together from the very materials that litter the ground. Metal sheets overlap like tarnished scales, telling stories of countless salvage operations in their dents and welds. It’s the kind of place that makes you wonder if it was built by design or simply emerged from years of necessity and resourcefulness, each addition a response to some long-forgotten need.

Inside, we meet Penelope Vale – though most know her simply as Miss Penelope. She’s a study in contrasts, much like Steelwatch itself. Her tall, lanky stature draws the eye first, followed by the lean grace of her movements as she positions herself in the doorway. Her skin carries the deep, rich tone of oxidized steel, and her dark eyes hold centuries of stories. The gaps in her smile where front teeth should be don’t diminish its power – if anything, they add character, like battle scars earned in a life lived fully.

“Back again, fancy pants?” Her voice carries the rough edge of Steelwatch’s industrial grit, but there’s music in it too – the kind you might hear in a smoky tavern just before dawn. When she props her leg against the wall, blocking our path with practiced ease, I catch the flash of smooth skin through her split skirt. Her legs tell a different story than her face – they belong to a dancer, perhaps, or someone who once moved through grander spaces than this metal maze.

Isaiah’s response carries the easy charm of someone who has played this game before. “Miss Penelope. Lovely to see you as always.” The words flow like well-aged kiju, smooth and familiar.

“Did you bring any more of that fancy drink?” The question hangs in the air like smoke, heavy with anticipation.

“Ahh, come on, Miss Penelope. You know I wouldn’t show up here without bringing you a lovely gift.” Isaiah’s voice carries that particular tone – the one that surfaces whenever he’s about to share something he’s especially proud of. It’s the same warmth that colors his words when he speaks of his prized raspberry vines or a perfectly aged bottle of kiju.

Her entire demeanor shifts at the promise of a gift, leg dropping from the wall as she beckons us deeper into her domain. “Just how lovely do you mean?”

The bottle Isaiah produces glows like captured sunset, its red-tinted glass a stark contrast to the industrial greys and browns surrounding us. “It’s infused with raspberries from my personal garden. You’ll find it has a delicate, sweet flavor.”

Miss Penelope cradles the bottle like a newborn, her weathered hands gentle against the glass. “Oh my!” The transformation in her is immediate and complete – the hardened gatekeeper dissolving into something softer, more genuine. She hurries to her desk, producing a glass that she cleans with touching ceremony, her dingy blouse pressed into service as a polishing cloth.

The corridor beyond leads us up several flights of metal stairs, our footsteps echoing against worn treads that have carried countless others before us. At the top, a different world awaits – one that oversees the chaos below rather than living within it. Large windows stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a commanding view of the scrapyard’s organized madness. From this height, the workers below move like pieces on a game board, their motions precise and purposeful. The constant symphony of industry reaches us as a muted song rather than an overwhelming chorus, the thick glass transforming harsh metallic screams into something almost musical.

The office itself feels like a bridge between two worlds. Polished wooden furniture and elaborate tapestries soften the industrial setting, while blueprints and technical drawings cover nearly every available surface. The late afternoon sun streams through the western windows, catching motes of dust that dance like tiny stars in its rays. The light paints everything in amber and gold, warming the metal walls and transforming them into a more welcoming space.

A silver-haired man emerges from the shadow of his desk, each step a measured dance between grace and hesitation. Afternoon light catches the polished surface of his mechanical arm – not a crude proth like those found in Coghaven, but something refined, almost elegant in its complexity. His cane catches my attention immediately – not for its function, but for its artistry. Carved birds of various sorts soar across its wooden surface, so detailed I half expect them to take flight. The way he holds it in his flesh hand while his mechanical fingers drum absently against his thigh tells me this man understands the delicate balance between metal and memory, between what we lose and what we create to fill those spaces.

“Mortimer Glass! You old fool! How are you?” Isaiah’s exclamation rings out with genuine joy as the two men embrace, their laughter echoing off the office windows. Years of friendship resonate in their greeting, as familiar as the vineyard songs Isaiah hums while tending his precious kiju berries.

“How goes it back in Graven Pointe?” Mortimer asks, his voice carrying the gentle rasp of someone who’s spent decades shouting over machinery. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he studies his old friend’s face.

“Lydia hasn’t kicked me out yet,” Isaiah chuckles, “so I guess things are good.” Their shared laughter fills the office with warmth, a reminder that even in Steelwatch’s industrial heart, friendship can bloom like Lydia’s prized roses.

After introducing each of us with a firm handshake, his weathered hand clasping ours with surprising strength, Mortimer’s attention fixes on Amari. The change in his demeanor is immediate and profound. He pulls her into a bear hug that seems to hold both welcome and apology, then steps back to take in the sight of her. The tenderness in his expression tells its own story – one of past wounds and present healing.

“I would say I’m sorry to hear about Arcmire, but I’m not,” Mortimer says, “That cesspool needed to burn.”

“It wasn’t all darkness,” Amari replies softly, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her niqab. “Some of us found ways to keep our light burning, even there. Small kindnesses. Quiet rebellions.”

Mortimer’s eyes soften at her words. “That’s why you survived, isn’t it? Because you never let them take that light from you.” He pauses, drumming his fingers against his cane as if weighing his next words. “I’m not sure if what I’m about to show you is a gift or not. Sometimes justice has a strange way of presenting itself.”

He guides us to the massive window overlooking the yard, afternoon light painting everything in shades of rust and gold. “Look up there,” he says, pointing toward the scaffolding that climbs the far wall. “Third level.”

Through the shimmer of heat rising from the metal below, I spot two figures working the grinders. Sparks cascade around them like falling stars, their sweat catching the light as they labor under the merciless sun. Then recognition clicks into place, just as I hear Amari’s sharp intake of breath.

“Is that Hugo?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

“It is indeed.” Mortimer’s satisfaction colors his words, though he keeps his tone gentle for Amari’s sake. “Showed up here days ago, belly leading the way, claiming starvation. Of course, I knew better.” A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Told him he could easily go another six months without food, what with his… considerable reserves.”

I study the scene before us – the Fat Man bent to his task, muscles straining against work he’d never dreamed of doing. There’s a poetry to it that catches in my throat. This man who once ruled his little kingdom in Arcmire, who dealt in flesh and fear, now earns his bread through honest sweat. It’s not revenge, exactly. Something cleaner. Something that tastes more like balance restored.

“I always imagined what I’d feel seeing him brought low,” Amari says after a long moment, her voice thoughtful. “In my darkest hours in Arcmire, I dreamed of his downfall. But watching him work – actually work, seems fitting.”

Mortimer’s cane taps against the floorboards as a mischievous glint lights his eyes. “You know,” he says, turning from the window with a satisfied smile, “Our friend down there could stand to shed a few more pounds. What do you say we let him and Cyrus handle the loading of your ship? No charge, of course.” He winks at Amari. “After all, with those considerable reserves of his, he can work straight through until sunrise if need be. Might even do him some good.”

Isaiah clears his throat and pulls out his coin bag. “Well, since our loading work has been… reassigned,” he says with a slight smirk, “here’s what I was going to pay you anyway.” He presses twenty quill into each of our palms. The coins feel warm, as if they’ve absorbed some of the day’s heat.

“What now?” Amari asks, running her thumb over the ridged edge of a coin. There’s a note of wonder in her voice that makes me smile. “I’ve never had twenty quill before.”

Braam stretches his arms overhead, his joints popping like distant gunfire. “Oh, I’m sure we won’t have a problem finding some trouble to get into.”

As we make our way back toward the shops and taverns, I can feel the pleasant weight of the coins in my pocket, their gentle clinking a promise of evening adventures to come. The air has cooled just enough to make walking pleasant, and even the ever-present industrial smoke seems to have lifted somewhat. Ahead of us, the street lamps are starting to flicker to life, and the sounds of music and laughter spill from open doorways. Twenty quill might not change the world, but it’s enough to make this night in Steelwatch feel full of possibility.