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It’s a good thing you were a patient person. Biding time, passing time. In particular, skilled at killing time. But then practice brings mastery.
And it was a very good thing. Because here, in a cell of New Newgate Prison, patience is perhaps the only true virtue left.
Three days. Not a bad stretch, really. The view of the subterranean city below was incomparable, almost worth the inconvenience. The jail itself was carved into a stalactite of a vast cavern, and New London’s million gaslight flames twinkled brightly at its floor. Though there was no sun or moon, the pulse of artificial and bioluminescent light mimicked a day-night cycle well enough. Three days gave you time for intelligence gathering and risk assessment. Enough time to watch the routes of delivery dirigibles, mark the habits of the guards, and acclimate to the grimy, strange existence of living belowground.
Right on time, the gaoler strode past on his rounds. You’d anticipated it, gave the lumpy-masked being no reason or opportunity for violence. A dribbling newcomer a few cells down begged his innocence and was rewarded with a few broken fingers. Sobs joined the cacophony of jeers, groans, and screams that echoed constantly through the walls.
“That doesn’t bother you one bit, does it? The screams.”
Your cellmate had finally found a hint of insight. He reclined fashionably on his threadbare cot, his yellow eyes glowing with curiosity. He’s a genial sort of bureaucrat, as most devils are. He’s the first of his kind you’ve met, but so far you’re not impressed. From the long, fatuous stories he relates to himself he seems more interested in preening than stealing your soul. Though he boasts big and important of the things he knows, the shabby suit and brimstone sweat say otherwise. It’s been simple to determine that he’s a low-level information broker, sloppy and short-sighted and bemoaning his luck. In your head, he was the Unlucky Devil. But somehow your nonchalant lean on the cell door has pierced his self-pity and gained his attention.
And he’s right. The volatile combination of piss, shit, vomit, and general body odor are not a new experience, and certainly not the screams. On the Surface you were many things in time. A soldier, a doctor. This place held no monopoly on human suffering, and the experiences before had hardened you. Now they allowed enough armor to focus on the mission of escape. Later you can worry that the fact that it’s not bothering you is bothering you.
It may be time to build some rapport. You smiled a little and admitted, “Not as much as it should. But,” with a wider smirk, “I imagine it bothers you not a whit.”
He chuckled like an indulgent grandfather. It was a good joke to someone like him. After all, compared to where he hailed from this little sojourn was the equivalent of a child’s birthday party. “True.” He returned your smile, a glint of white teeth and spark of hunger in his eyes. From a pocket he fished out a cheap cigarette, lit it with a crackle of his fingers, and took a long drag. He arched an eyebrow and languidly offered the cigarette.
It was diplomatic to partake, so you did. The smoke was soothing, even with the sulfur afterburn. Outside, a dirigible began its ascent from the city to make its daily run to the Prison docks.
"What brought you down here?”
You eyed him with suspicion and took a second draw to think. To find some pleasure and comfort after a life of self-denial? To seek knowledge, or wonders, or opportunities found nowhere else? You leaned in close, close enough to tease with the tilt of your chin and a slight pout as you hand back the cigarette.
“Maybe I came here on holiday?” you deadpanned, withdrawing to your own cot.
He hummed. “Fair enough.”
You sighed a little. “Though indeed I was hoping to see the actual city. I should be ready to leave soon. Perhaps you would accompany me?”
That eyebrow shot up and he chuckled again. “By all means!”
You explained your plan in a low voice, and then it was an hour or so of waiting. The gaoler, fool he was, had a stool to rest on right beside your cell. Like clockwork, he began to snore. It was the cue for you to wriggle free of the shoddy manacles and leg irons. Cautiously you slid your arm through the cell bars, and with a featherlight touch lifted away the key ring. A little trial and error later and the door was open.
The prison, as calculated, was poorly manned and poorly lit. You only had to duck into the shadows once to elude a guard. Finally you were out the entry gate and at the edge of the docks. Ahead, under the open greenish light of the False Stars, another guard sitting on a crate. A darting glance to the devil, who only replied with a sly twitch of his lips and gesture of ‘after you’.
No matter. The sack-hoods the guards wore worked against them. You approached like a cat, quiet and swift through his blindside. A massive hit to his chest and a snatching grab at his hood, and the man toppled heavily into the abyss. His hood now in your hand.
Ahead was the dirigible, its few crewmembers busy throwing lines and pulling in to dock. Quickly you donned the hood and gestured at the devil, who played along as the meek prisoner. The base subterfuge passed muster, and you greeted the crew and took your prisoner below.
A sedate descent, and then you finally touched ground in New London. The docks are whirring with life. Shouts and curses and songs, the clatter of carts and ratcheting cranes. A stomach-rumbling waft of hot grease from a fish-and-chips stall, overlaid with the scents of earth, coal-fires, timber, and everything else. All around, a riot of stone and brick shops and tenements and cathedrals.
You parted ways with the Unlucky Devil, who seemed to have a bit of luck after all. With a last smile he said, “Stay awhile in this fair city, I beg of you. Fallen London is place for every taste. Perhaps we’ll meet again?”
You tipped an imaginary hat and strolled up into the depths of the city. After being cramped in the cell, you decided to walk awhile. Find the neighborhood to fit your needs. A slip of the hand and you disposed of the hood in a fire. Another casual slant of a wrist, and you had a few apples from a distracted fruit-seller. It was not much, but it was enough.
As expected, it was a grimy, disreputable, marvelous, mysterious den of lunatics and liars. Perfect for getting lost in. Perfect for finding what you needed. Perhaps it was not the way you’d pictured arriving, but you would endure. With a little wit, persistence, and luck you would thrive. And with a little time, your questions would find answers. If you lived that long, anyway.
You smiled into the dark.