Just Like Clockwork: Scene II/VI -- Rose, Ilkin, Erin, Caelan, Rakesh
11:02 PM, Monday, November 10th, 2003
A cold, autumn wind blew through the streets of London. The Museum of the Industrial Revolution, the old sign said, a faded and dismal sign on a faded and dismal brick building. There was a smell of age around it, but not the kind of age that a museum should have had. It smelled desperate and lost, trying very hard to maintain relevancy in a modern world that cared little for it. A smaller sign said Closed for Filming
This ought to be fun, don't you think? The whisper spoke in the back of Rose's mind as the bus rolled to a stop. A sound like the rattle of bones, or perhaps the rattle of dice, echoed in her ear. I always wanted to be in the movies.
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In Rose's apartment, a small cooking journal was laid out on a table, turned to an inside page. It was not a very important magazine, nothing like the Daily Telegraph or the Times. A small, mom-and-pop newsletter, really, which came out once a week, regular as clockwork, and was read by only a few thousand devoted afficianados of food and wine. It was open to an inside page, buried deeply, where a special article nestled between an ad for a grill and a report on the 29th Steakhouse Festival. It was an obituary, though the journal used the more modern euphemistic word 'Appreciation' for it. Some words had been underlined in pencil.
something stirring hostile
Latitude: 51N 31' 36.84''
Longitude: 0W 11' 2.47''
A search of an atlas revealed that standing at those coordinates was an old, 19th century factory, which now housed the privately-owned Museum of the Industrial Revolution.
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The entry hall of the museum was deserted when Rose entered, not a soul in sight. It was rather messy, on the whole, with various pieces of film equipment lying on the floor. Spare cameras, bipods, duffel bags full of other things, a wide range of stranger equipment of lights and microphones and miscellanea. Bits of early industrial history likewise lined the walls of the entry hall. An old steam engine, with a mechanical thresher next to it, in front of large-scale designs which showed elaborate machinery in exacting detail.
It had sounded so reasonable earlier. See what the disturbance was. Find out what was going on. Assuage the geist's oversized curiosity, and maybe find something interesting in the process. The Gambling Gigolo wouldn't let it rest, as only the dead knew how to pressure. It was an adventure. It would be exciting. It would be an experience.
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Highgate Cemetery was quiet this time of night, but it didn't take Rose long to find the tombstone in question. The name had long since faded away to the elements, if anyone had ever been buried there in the first place, but the marks on the stone were still visible, touched up and kept up to date by person or persons unknown.
A series of dots along three bars, the opening notes from Mozart's Requiem, to signify this as a Twilight Network message. A double-spiral, like a whirlpool in chalk and dust, which meant that there was something wrong, an anomaly or bizarrity. A crude cogwheel, surrounded by a set of lines that drew together an old greek temple, the stereotypical museum, for the Museum of the Industrial Revolution. And finally a death's head skull, with a vertical line through it like a knife, to signify danger.
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Echoes sounded through the museum, conversations and footsteps oddly distorted by the corridors and tall walls of the old, converted factory. Rose heard the sounds of shuffling cards as well, though this spectral sound came from inside her own head and not from anywhere in the museum. Let's cut the cards and see what we have... aces and eights, the dead man's hand. Go on, take a look around, live a little, let's see if we draw a king or a joker.
A cold, autumn wind blew through the streets of London. The Museum of the Industrial Revolution, the old sign said, a faded and dismal sign on a faded and dismal brick building. There was a smell of age around it, but not the kind of age that a museum should have had. It smelled desperate and lost, trying very hard to maintain relevancy in a modern world that cared little for it. A smaller sign said Closed for Filming
This ought to be fun, don't you think? The whisper spoke in the back of Rose's mind as the bus rolled to a stop. A sound like the rattle of bones, or perhaps the rattle of dice, echoed in her ear. I always wanted to be in the movies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In Rose's apartment, a small cooking journal was laid out on a table, turned to an inside page. It was not a very important magazine, nothing like the Daily Telegraph or the Times. A small, mom-and-pop newsletter, really, which came out once a week, regular as clockwork, and was read by only a few thousand devoted afficianados of food and wine. It was open to an inside page, buried deeply, where a special article nestled between an ad for a grill and a report on the 29th Steakhouse Festival. It was an obituary, though the journal used the more modern euphemistic word 'Appreciation' for it. Some words had been underlined in pencil.
"Samantha I. Nourgatten was one of London's most refined gourmands, an eater of fine food and a drinker of good wine, a person to be remembered, and who's death people will take note of. With something always stirring near at hand, Nourgatten was was ever able to quiet even the most hostile critics....SIN eater take note
...Her famous 1951 cooking of a full, triple layer chocolate cake in only 31 minutes and 36.84 seconds... Nourgatten's "Under 11 Minutes" recipe with just 2.47 seconds to go...
something stirring hostile
Latitude: 51N 31' 36.84''
Longitude: 0W 11' 2.47''
A search of an atlas revealed that standing at those coordinates was an old, 19th century factory, which now housed the privately-owned Museum of the Industrial Revolution.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The entry hall of the museum was deserted when Rose entered, not a soul in sight. It was rather messy, on the whole, with various pieces of film equipment lying on the floor. Spare cameras, bipods, duffel bags full of other things, a wide range of stranger equipment of lights and microphones and miscellanea. Bits of early industrial history likewise lined the walls of the entry hall. An old steam engine, with a mechanical thresher next to it, in front of large-scale designs which showed elaborate machinery in exacting detail.
It had sounded so reasonable earlier. See what the disturbance was. Find out what was going on. Assuage the geist's oversized curiosity, and maybe find something interesting in the process. The Gambling Gigolo wouldn't let it rest, as only the dead knew how to pressure. It was an adventure. It would be exciting. It would be an experience.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Highgate Cemetery was quiet this time of night, but it didn't take Rose long to find the tombstone in question. The name had long since faded away to the elements, if anyone had ever been buried there in the first place, but the marks on the stone were still visible, touched up and kept up to date by person or persons unknown.
A series of dots along three bars, the opening notes from Mozart's Requiem, to signify this as a Twilight Network message. A double-spiral, like a whirlpool in chalk and dust, which meant that there was something wrong, an anomaly or bizarrity. A crude cogwheel, surrounded by a set of lines that drew together an old greek temple, the stereotypical museum, for the Museum of the Industrial Revolution. And finally a death's head skull, with a vertical line through it like a knife, to signify danger.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Echoes sounded through the museum, conversations and footsteps oddly distorted by the corridors and tall walls of the old, converted factory. Rose heard the sounds of shuffling cards as well, though this spectral sound came from inside her own head and not from anywhere in the museum. Let's cut the cards and see what we have... aces and eights, the dead man's hand. Go on, take a look around, live a little, let's see if we draw a king or a joker.
