Torrin sat at the end of his bed, coat unbuttoned and hair hung down his fringe.
The room was lit by a small lamp on his writing desk; the faint glow always seemed more comforting than the domineering roof lights. The desk itself had gained a large pile of papers; notes on the northmen, letters from the capital. None of them said much, either Arron was getting paranoid or something was wrong.
The letters from Markus were as usual. They talked of simple things, his goings on and such. He did mention meeting Gaias Went though, that definitely made Torrin think something was happening.
Talking to the press is far too low of a task for a man like Went. He thought. Usually at least. The man always had an inflated ego. Would never speak to a man lower than an officer.
He'd probably be sickened by a man like me. Torrin thought, glancing at his arm.
In his replies to Arron he told of his experiences on the front. As much as the job was to get rid of him he may as well still do it right. He expressed concern.
In the week since his arrival he'd seen cruelty and violence on a level he'd once never dare to exist. Mountains of burning corpses and weapons that did almost as much damage to their own men as it did the enemy.
This conflict had more in common with a slaughterhouse than any Torrin had already seen.
He spoke of Joyce and Russel, of their abstinence in terms of strategy and their mistreatment of their men. He found that even the men on the rear guard had been given smaller and smaller amounts of munitions for nearly a year consistently. That they were lowered again once some deal to do with cobalt went through.
Never took Chrey for a miser.
Torrin huffed, breaking himself from his thoughts. He pushed himself up on his clockwork arm. Crossing the room he sat on the floor. Began sifting through his luggage.
The Northman, that was something he could focus on.
Notes and recordings to do with the Northmen going back five years.
Details on the clubs and axes, attack patterns. Naturally attack patterns were just different ways to send men to their deaths. Torrin wasn't truly a military man but it all seemed rather self explanatory.
The weapons intrigued him more. By this point he had already seen a few of them. Still, useful; even if he'd read it twice already.
Laus really has rubbed off on me. He thought with a small smile as he pulled out a few photographs of armor plates made with hardened skin, weapons of bone and teeth. The ivory hafts carved in bizarre patterns that seemed nearly endless. Like flowers in the abstract.
From an unfortunate experience a couple years earlier, with Markus, he recognised it as the sort of pattern you would see whilst high.
Some are hallucinogenic like mushrooms or flowers. It would explain how they had access to it.
"It would also explain why they're all mental." He mumbled to himself and he looked closer at the photos. It was harder to see in the darkness of the skin but that too bore the stranger patterns.
He noted it down and as he did so the thought came. Laurence. He missed the old sod. It was nice having someone to work with for a change, if not humbling. And while Torrin would never admit it, it was nice having someone there to pull him from his thoughts.
He'd almost gotten both of them killed at the factory.
Hubris indeed. He thought as he tossed the papers on the pile, pressed palms into his eyes.
He'd picked up the habit from Arron. It didn't help much but at least if he was blind nothing could irritate him.
It had been years since he'd been sent with another agent. He crossed his legs, leaned his head back thoughtfully.
Penninse must have been the last time. He thought, still bitter. Arron had put most of the blame for that catastrophe on him. He set off the bombs, he killed the target prematurely. And what did Arron do? Nothing, only sat in the palace and waited for a report.
So brave of him. But no, this trail of thought was useless. Done is done.
He tried to think up details for a new report. He ended up in yet another internal rant. They drove him mad, with their hubris and lack of blame. Or guilt.
And those men would be remembered, Arron would be remembered by some too. Where was Torrin's place in history? Would he even have one?
Maybe I could write his biography. He thought, making himself grin. That would really piss him off. At least that way he'd be remembered for something.
He hadn't cared for notoriety or acknowledgement as a younger man, he was an orphan.
Torrin lit himself a cigarette, smoke danced in Pirouettes making a show for him. Then, like him, once the show was done they vanished.
Like Rebekah. He thought. At least she wouldn't mind, she actually hated the idea of being remembered.
'Why would I want to be remembered for this?' She had said. Why would Torrin for that matter?
How many people had he killed?
Torrin thought back to the trenchers. He had come up with the name thinking, dregg didn't represent them properly. It sounded more fun.
He had visited the men a couple times now, he hadn't seen that Bowman fellow.
Maybe that's a good thing. He thought, remembering the boy's friend. He looked familiar somehow. He shook his head in pity. In some ways he could relate to them, grasping for an end that they will never really find.
He looked again at his arm, lifted it. Watched the infinite cogs working instead of muscles.
The mission was his duty, and his debt. To fight for a sun he wouldn't see rise. To bleed for a world that hated him.
But do we have to fight like this? Do we have a choice?
He included Arron in that thought. As much resentment as he had for the man that sat alone above most. He was trapped too. Torrin had seen the top of the tower. He had met the wanting god.