Clockwork Pandora (Heart of Bronze Book 2) by Michael Rigg

Author:Michael Rigg [Rigg, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2018-02-11T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13, Scribbler

I dabbed my lips with a napkin. “My name was Devin J. Wallace. My parents saw my talent for writing and story-telling when I was twelve. They enrolled me at the Virginia State Arts Academy from which I graduated in ‘52. I then moved to Atlanta and entered the Griffith Institute of Property Placement.” I shrugged to put an end to my tale.

“A Gipper, huh?”

I couldn’t help smiling. The G.I.P.P. was one of the most renowned in the country, including the centers in New Yorke and Chicago, for successfully placing the most prestigious Property. “Yes, a Gipper,” I chuckled. I lifted a finger and waved it as I recited part of our fight song, “You have to be bold, and you have to get through, for no talents are truer than the gold and the blue.”

Pandora made a noise in her throat and rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t care for the song either,” I winked.

“So then what? How’d ya get picked?”

“I was purchased and branded at age twenty-two by a couple from Chicago named Robert L. and Isadora Menske. It was Mrs. Menske who gave me the name Scribbler because I preferred to write with a pencil and paper rather than a typing machine.” I shrugged.

Pandora mimicked my shrug. “So, you’re retired now? And ya came here to what? Hide?”

I frowned and shook my head. “If you’re from the east, you know how retired Property is treated. Without the protection of our benefactors—”

“Slave owners.”

“Benefactors,” I corrected with a scolding look. “Our brands are treated rather disdainfully.”

“Can I see it?”

“What?”

“Yer mark. I ain’t never seen one before.”

I took a deep breath and opened my mouth wide, rolling out my tongue so Pandora could squint at the small black feather tattooed on my tongue.

She made a face. “Bet that hurt.”

“Most of us are sedated. The ones who go on to be Property Sportsmen are generally of a tougher stock and get their ball, stick or net tattooed under full awareness.”

“Jeremy Hinskin, with the Cubs, he’s a Prop.”

I nodded. “V.I.P. four years running.”

“MVP,” Pandora corrected. “I betcha the Cards are gonna sign two Props next season, then look out, boy.”

I laughed lightly, then opened my mouth to show how little I truly knew about baseball when Pandora snapped her fingers as if to wake me from a trance.

“Nuh-ah.” She sat back and folded her arms. “Okay, you was sayin’? ‘Bout yer owners?”

I shrugged. “Not much else to tell. I came to New Cali because I thought it would be a private place to spend my retirement, a space where I could write for myself, enjoy my films, maybe take care of a cat.”

She chewed her lip, her expression either bored or pondering. “You ever write anythin’ I might know?”

“Do you read?”

“Funny,” she smirked. Then she frowned and glanced to the side. “No. Well, not much. Some.”

“You’ve seen plays, though? Films?”

She nodded, slowly giving me her suspicious eyes once more.

“I wrote The Wrath of the Magis about the Magis riots in ‘87.”

Her eyes widened.

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