The scene played over in his mind - He'd found himself in one of Whitechapel's less than savory neighborhoods. All dirt and grime, and ill-repaired towers jutting out of the ground at odd angles, their support beams forming a forest of steel and rust. Through which slipped someone he'd been chasing, a boy. A gangly thing that hadn't quite grown into his limbs yet - thirteen at the very oldest. Still, child or not, he was an agent of Winfred Bailey, one of the chief conspirators in the foolish plan to overthrow the Gods of Whitechapel. This boy was a runner, a messenger, and intercepting him was vital - Grandfather Clock wouldn't send Alabaster out on a trivial errand. (Such things were better suited to the Gold Cloaks, anyway. Lesser agents of his God.)
So, at the bidding of Grandfather Clock, Alabaster gave chase. The iron jungle had thinned slightly, and given way to platforms. He remembered the boy clambering up support beams, and hopping from platform to platform in hopes of gaining distance. This had annoyed him. So, he'd drawn the single-shot pistol he usually kept on his person and shot the boy the second he'd landed on an adjacent platform. He didn't kill him, certainly, but incapacitated him enough for Alabaster to make his own way over. The poor urchin would have done well to stay in a crowded area, it would have been less painful for him.
He then scaled a support beam, which inexplicably gave under his weight. Thinking back, it seemed impossible. Those beams were as old as Whitechapel itself, there was no way they would break under weight as insignificant as his own. Nevertheless, the beam had groaned and bowed, and finally broke... depositing him on this city street. He supposed he should be grateful for that much, since, had he remained in Whitechapel, he'd have long since fallen to his doom.
He related all this to the girl in the barest of details - leaving out most of the violence and mayhem, and talk of rebellions. No need to frighten the poor thing, especially if he wished to stay on her good side. The important parts - the faulty beam, the platforms, falling - remained more-or-less in tact. "...And here I am," he finished. As an afterthought, he added, "I suppose 'taken a wrong turn' was a bit of an understatement."
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So, at the bidding of Grandfather Clock, Alabaster gave chase. The iron jungle had thinned slightly, and given way to platforms. He remembered the boy clambering up support beams, and hopping from platform to platform in hopes of gaining distance. This had annoyed him. So, he'd drawn the single-shot pistol he usually kept on his person and shot the boy the second he'd landed on an adjacent platform. He didn't kill him, certainly, but incapacitated him enough for Alabaster to make his own way over. The poor urchin would have done well to stay in a crowded area, it would have been less painful for him.
He then scaled a support beam, which inexplicably gave under his weight. Thinking back, it seemed impossible. Those beams were as old as Whitechapel itself, there was no way they would break under weight as insignificant as his own. Nevertheless, the beam had groaned and bowed, and finally broke... depositing him on this city street. He supposed he should be grateful for that much, since, had he remained in Whitechapel, he'd have long since fallen to his doom.
He related all this to the girl in the barest of details - leaving out most of the violence and mayhem, and talk of rebellions. No need to frighten the poor thing, especially if he wished to stay on her good side. The important parts - the faulty beam, the platforms, falling - remained more-or-less in tact. "...And here I am," he finished. As an afterthought, he added, "I suppose 'taken a wrong turn' was a bit of an understatement."