Thoughts [Transnistria\Public]

The homemade bathtub gin at the carnival was okay, but... Cosim knew he needed something better. He wasn't a man of many vices (the way he counted vices, at least) but it seemed the drink was as much of a necessity as water to the large man. So, naturally, he sought out a bar wherever he could.

This one wasn't the best he'd come across, but it would do. There was a time for quiet, introspective drinking, and then there was tovarisch-creating drinking. This was supposed to be the former. The loudness of the bar had indicated the latter, but a few shots had dulled that noise at the start. He had alot to think about. Strange dreams, shared dreams... And then he began thinking about his promise to himself as he joined the carnival that he wouldn't stay for long. And Sonya would be safer with the carnies than in whatever town he'd be jailed in next. The thought of leaving her there tore at him more than it should have. He wasn't used to having any connections. Of course, he could always stay. But what kind of life was that, really? (a sane person would ask what kind of life he was leading prior). He wasn't blind like her, he wouldn't be an outcast in normal society, like some of his friends.

Come to think of it... What DID he want with his life? Somewhere in him he knew there was potential for something great, something riteous. So why wasn't he getting there? Could it have been his alleged criminality? No, he immediately dismissed the idea. That was working towards his goal. Ridding society of it's dregs. He downed another shot of the bar's strongest and added it to the growing glass pyramid. He got an odd satisfaction from seeing the finished pyramid (until another would join it). It was nice, to build something up from nothing. Even if it symbolized eventual cirhossis.

He tapped the table. Another. He was beginning to think more. He'd need some help.

"Mister?"

"..."

"Mister." The barkeep repeated.

"...hn?"

"How're you gonna be payin' for... All this?"

...He hadn't gotten to that thinking yet.

Piter did not drink often. And certainly not in places like these. In fact, he wouldn't have set foot in the dilapidated, noisy Cantina, if not for a purpose.

He had a hunch--if there was one place where Franze could have gone to and actually stood a chance at surviving in, it would be the other carnival. It would be beneficial, therefore, to find one of the Ragtags and discern from them whether or not she had joined their ranks. If so, he'd find a way to contact her--if for nothing else, than at least to inform her that the harpsichord would be taken care of (this was important to him, you see...and probably to her, as well). And if she wasn't with them...he'd presume her dead or dying and would make revenge on Bourbon all the worse for it.

For the occasion, he'd dressed down a bit. Not that he was particularly fashion-conscientious, but he did prefer to dress sharply; suit jacket and turtleneck and whatnot. But not today. Today he wore an outfit that...well, to be honest, he wasn't sure where it'd come from or why he had it. But he did. It was old and a bit shabby, though he couldn't recall having ever worn it. It fit him perfectly, though, so he had to assume it belonged to him.

((Because I'm too lazy to describe a bunch of clothes, when I could just outright say so: it's his February Revolution clothes. aka the outfit based on Lenin XD))

He left the jacket behind--it wasn't necessary in this weather--but the rest he donned as his pseudo-disguise. It wasn't like he needed to hide his identity, per say, but he was willing to bet that interacting with any potential Ragtags would be much easier if he didn't look the part of a Mistique employee.

Having sat down at the bar, he ordered a shot of vodka (he was admittedly getting just a little tired of all the wine Bourbon served--it was fine stuff, but he was used to a different drink) while glancing around at his surroundings. It was difficult to say who was who. It was possible, even, that there weren't any Ragtags here at all. Which would be disappointing. Quietly observing as inconspicuously as possible, he took a sip and frowned just slightly. It tasted like poison. It probably was. Thankfully, he had insides made of iron when it came to food and drink.

...Not as much as the fellow next to him, though, it seemed. Unless the introspective man was actually close to death from all the glasses stacked up in front of him, and just wasn't showing it.

Was the man a Ragtag? It was difficult to tell. He didn't seem particularly out of the ordinary--other than that he was quite large, to put it lightly. But then again, Piter wasn't feeling too keen on talking to any of the other people surrounding him. The rowdy, noisily drunk people. He would probably have a headache after this little adventure. The gray-haired man seemed to be the only other quiet one in the entire place.

Well, sometimes one couldn't accomplish anything without taking a risk. It was time to dare a little.

"Put half of it on my tab," he interjected into the conversation calmly in English, with only the slightest of accents. Without much reservation, he studied the other man directly, unblinkingly, and explained in his usual flat tone (which didn't much fit the gesture being made), "I just received a pay raise. It's good to share the wealth, no?" Of course it was. Poor people liked hearing things like that, so of course it was.

If he really wanted to ask about Franze... Cosim was probably the last person he wanted to ask. But, he was the only one there.

He didn't notice the man until his offer to pay half the tab (why not all of it?), and with his fuzzy vision it was hard to see. But when he did, he immediately straightened up. He wasn't sure why, but he was having trouble finding something to say. What if what he said was wrong? No-- he didn't even know this person, he had to remind himself.

"...Thanks... Alot." He muttered. Something was off about the man in front of him. He didn't seem to excited about the pay raise. But maybe he was already drunk. "You speak Russian?" The accent was a giveaway. "Why don't you have better things to spend your money on than a stranger?"

He was still searching his mind. Who was this person? There had to be something he remembered. But if there was a memory there, he couldn't find it.

He observed the other man carefully, taking note of his body language--he didn't know exactly why he straightened up like that. It could have been any number of reasons, really. Piter always tended to sit straight, as a result of his upbringing (though admittedly, when he was younger, he could have cared less), so he thought it was proper etiquette, anyways.

...Not that one should really expect to see anything proper in such a place.

Although, this total stranger somehow reminded him of something. A time when he was angry, indescribably so--a hollow, empty anger that felt very out of control, that made him feel like doing something insane. When he was a teenager? A few years ago? Or was it simply another nightmare that he was beginning to confuse with reality. It did not feel good, either way. But at the same time, when he looked at this man, he also saw someone persuadable. Usable. ...Then again, he thought that about a lot of people.

"Yes, I am Russian--from Piter," he answered in said language. It was always important to establish that he was not from the capital city, full of barbarians (not unlike the rest of the country...), but from a place that bred real Russians. "And you? Are you Russian, as well?" It was casually asked, but if he said 'yes, and from Moscow', then he very well might get up and walk away. It would be unacceptable to pay for a Muscovite's drink.

And why would he pay for said drink? Well, that was none of his business. But he supposed he could offer an answer, anyways. "There's not much I'm looking for that can be obtained with money," he gave as a flat response, albeit cryptically, "'Better' is subjective, anyways." Investing was sometimes the best strategy. And because he couldn't help himself, he added, gesturing to the stacked glasses, "Why don't you have better things to spend your money on than a pyramid that won't last?"

He nodded to the query. "Russian..." It was only right to say where from, wasn't it? But what was he supposed to say? Well, at this point, he was too drunk to care. "White Russia. So... Somewhere far back, I guess... I was from Russia." White Russia gave away more than his nationality. "I'm here with the... Carnival."

There was no way he couldn't let out a drunken chuckle at the other man's answer. "Not much in this world that hasn't had it's weight calculated in money. So, what are you looking for?" Well, he was in here, with no desire to use money. So that cut out whores. Which was all that was there, really.

"Why don't you have better things to spend your money on than a pyramid that won't last?"

It took a while for his saturated mind to think of an answer worthy of the question. Why was some man he met in a bar asking such deep queries? "It's not the finished product that counts," he downed another shot with bitter sarcasm. "It's the... It's the work that proves the man. The... Perseverance, if you will. Haha, shit... Why are you even asking like that...?"

Not a Muscovite. Good. Not exactly a 'real' Russian by Piter's definition, either, though. However, he would reserve judgment. He'd found too often that people (read: 'non-Muscovites') could prove to be interesting or of use, regardless of ethnicity. It was unfortunately a thing that some refused to accept, and therefore missed out on a lot of opportunities. Figure out the person first, he'd say, then decide if it's worth it to be prejudiced. Make no mistake, sometimes it was.

But seeing how this man had just revealed that he was, indeed, with the Ragtags, Piter was willing to overlook many things.

"At the moment, I'm looking to find out the whereabouts of a certain person," he said flatly, picking at a hangnail on one of his fingers, "But it's just part of a much bigger plan." He didn't elaborate, but if the tone of his voice was any indication, he had no doubt that he was capable of bigger and better, and that whatever he was planning was certainly a bigger and better thing.

Inspecting his own glass (as if daring it to magically empty itself), he snorted lightly in the way that another man would if he were smiling at the same time--though Piter did not smile, predictably. "Perhaps I was only asking why you were stacking glasses in a pyramid. That is interesting, though." Off-handidly, he remarked, "'In the face of Modern Industry, the worker is its special and essential product.' --Sorry, I could not help but be reminded of that." Not that he personally subscribed much to the Manifesto that had produced that quote. He certainly had studied it, though, and found it interesting, at it's base. Like many people, it was...usable.

Red flag. "Certain person?" It could be anyone, really. But that's not what his mind thought. It could only be Sonya, and this man could only be trying to take her away. In his inebriation, his answer was, well... Less than it should have been. "I'm sure I don't know this person." He replied definitively. "Go ask someone else."

Yet he was still drunk, and grudges didnt stick for long. Especially not after the man's recitation. He mouthed the words along as if it was an automatic reflex. "First person I met that knows Marx." After downing another drink, he added, "Who are you looking for?"

Very interesting. This man was obviously hiding something--rather, someone. And if he was going to place a bet, he'd say it likely wasn't the same someone he was looking for. Even so, he found himself feeling quite curious as to what exactly was this secret that this drunk man was so bad at...well, keeping a secret.

And it was good that he seemed to change his mind so quickly, because Piter most certainly was not going to go talk to someone else at this point. Not to mention he didn't take orders from drunkards in bars.

Taking another sip of his vodka (didn't taste any better the second time around), he replied flatly, "Of course--any good Russian knows Marx, I would think." He wasn't sure what prompted him to say this--Marx and Engels weren't even Russian, after all. Maybe by good, he just meant 'intelligent' or 'cultured'. It wouldn't be much of a stretch for him, all things considered. He was admittedly a little surprised that this man seemed to know what he was saying, word-by-word, though. Perhaps because the ragtags were like a carnival of peasants; those types would subscribe to that kind of philosophy.

"A young woman," he said evenly, "Well, to be fair, I'm just interested in knowing if she's dead or not." He eyed the giant sideways, waiting to see how this would be taken.

"Any good Russian?" He repeated a little incredulously. "Any good anybody!" it sounded more like an accusation than an exclamation. "It's the way of the future. And we're at the forefront-- you, me, anyone who's ever been kicked in the dirt-- well, metaphorically or whatever--" odd that a man as large as him was talking about being bullied. "it'll be an age of justice. And equality. Humanity won't have to struggle anymore." Finished with his speal, he very somberly took another drink.

Again with the woman. Cosim's emotions were being tossed around like a ragdoll. "I told you I don't know anything about a woman." He was drunk, his guard was down. He had to stay strong. Or so he thought. But he also thought he wouldn't forget about staying strong. He didn't. "Bychance... If I did know this 'woman'," as if the word was alien. Nice work. He'll never guess. "...what would her name be?"

This man just got more and more amusing by the second. Piter found himself feeling satisfied in his pick of drunkards; he'd managed to find one that was not the average bum. What an idealist, though--he'd personally never believed there would come a day when there would be no suffering or inequality. Not while people like himself were around, anyways.

"It's funny that you should say that," he responded after studying him for a moment through his too-large eyes, choosing his words more carefully than ever, "Since I am planning something of a small-scale overthrow against what I suppose you may call an 'upper bourgeois'--it's the reason why I am looking for this woman. Her condition may be a factor in my plans." Of course, he was only looking to bring down Bourbon for his own satisfaction, but let people think it was to free others from his financial tyranny. Not that he was going to say outright who or what he was talking about, specifically. He'd just met this man, and was not about to trust him with such information. But it was worth mentioning, if it would get Piter on his good side.

"Her name is Franziska Schuetzeneur. Ring any bells, perhaps?"

He listened to the vague plans with rapt inebriated attention. Of course, he would do anything to help. Again, that feeling that he might be asking for Sonya was gone. What a good person, he was.

Turns out he didn't even need to think about her. As soon as the new woman's name left his mouth, Cosim choked on and then spit out his drink. Good thing too, it could have really made him sick. His expression hardened, and he swatted the air as of pushing her mental image away. "Take her, we don't want her. She's ruining everything." Surely Sonya would have a hard time with the truth about the woman soon, not to mention Itakshir... Well she was just ruining him. "You want her dead, or alive?"

Excellent. He'd really gotten lucky when he'd picked this guy out from the crowd.

"Trust me, no one wants her," he responded coolly, clicking his tongue, seemingly unbothered by the spewed-out alcohol (thank god the man was not facing him--he did pity the bartender, though). Now was the time to choose his words carefully, though. "Unfortunately, I have to ask that she stays put. We need her alive, and preferably healthy, but taking her back now would ruin the entire plan. I'd like to explain in greater detail, but..." He faked a suspicious glance behind and around him, as though checking to see if anyone was listening, "You understand, I'm under heavy surveillance. There are ears everywhere..."

Not entirely untrue; Bourbon had been keeping a very close eye on him, as of late. But Piter highly doubted anyone in this place merited his worry. Really, he just didn't want to tell his plans to a stranger. Not to mention, it was not really imperative at all to take Franze back or to even keep her alive. But knowing now that she was, in fact, alive and safe, could make revenge all the sweeter if he brought her back once he'd found a way to ruin Bourbon. Not to mention...he really deserved some recognition from her, for all he was doing. He didn't have to get revenge on her behalf, after all, no matter how much he enjoyed it, regardless. At the very least, she owed him a game of chess.

Cosim didn't seem to notice the people that had fallen into the splash zone radius of the brandy. He was too enraptured in the man's words. In response to his conversation partner's subtle privacy check, the Golem practically whipped around to see of anyone was behind him. Angry wet people. He ignored them. But how was he to know who to look for?

"But between you and me," he finally leaned in to whisper-but-not-really-whisper, "She's not gonna last there very long. The place is too tough for her." Then, with a loud laugh, "Even my blind girl is more self-sufficient than that whore!" He looked around to see if anyone else found that funny. They all just looked confused. "Ha... Well, I'll keep an eye out for you, tovarisch." He gave a sloppy salute. "Down with the bourgeosie."

Blind girl? He could only assume he was referring to Sofia (how many other blind girls could there be in the Ragtag carnival?)--so this was the gray-haired man that Eleri had referred to. Interesting how these things came together, eventually. And wasn't her whore sister still stuck back in Mistique's brothels? Surely she would be wondering where the blind girl was, now... Well, this seemingly small morsel of information could turn out to be useful for him, somehow. If anyone could find a way to take advantage of it, it would be Piter.

"Spasiba, your vigilance will be a great assistance to the movement," he returned the salute (He didn't even know if he was doing it quite right--why did the other man salute in the first place? They weren't in the military--), and stood up to leave, "I had better go, I've already spent too much time here, I'm afraid. If it's not too much, though, I must ask one more favor--" Digging a pencil stub from his pocket, he scribbled a note on a spare napkin:

"The harpsichord is safe. Soon, you'll be able to see that photo I spoke about. Everything's under control, I have a plan. ~Piter"

Folding it, he handed it to the giant, "Please pass this message on to Franziska--it's quite important. She'll understand what it means." As if it were in code. Although, in a way, it was; on the off-chance it fell into the wrong hands, he made sure to word it vaguely. He assumed she'd understand that the only way she'd be able to see that photo was if she was able to come back to Mistique, which was, of course, the real point of the sentence.

"Well, good luck, comrade. Hopefully, we'll meet again." And with that, he slipped back into the throngs of drunkards and low-lifes, losing himself in the crowd. For lack of a better phrase, he'd say that was a mission success.

He wondered why, if this man was trying to overthrow some bourgeois order, he needed someone like Franziska. But he seemed to important to question. And he was really too drunk to think anymore into it. He could barely read the words on the card. They didn't say anything about what he was doing. Maybe he read them wrong.

He nodded along to the instructions, watching him leave as if he were someone famous. "Da... Da-- Do Svidaniya...!"

...What just happened?