Civitas Chapter 9 The Legitimate Other
Civitas: How to Die Together with Your Scholar Colleagues
By Tristan Norman
Ed. Aran Meredith & Northern Mittler Solomon
Chapter 9
The Legitimate Other
There was still half of the tea left, Norman would think he could commit further. It was actually coffee and tea, which was developed by himself in a strenuous end term, later he retroactively discovered this suicide mix was already developed by port authority on the other edge of the world, another world’s workers.
The screen light in the upper right corner displayed his arranged time had elapsed more than half, yet this scene was still in present tense, Ashley was bypassing the airport-train station portal and encountered something quite normal in Albion: someone had committed suicide near the portal after using up his time. However, this one looked creative: he looked like an engineer, who directed a mechanical puppet to open fire on him, a dozen of fires, then he fell died, the mechanical puppet was out of work.
Passengers, travellers and passersby seemed quite aloof, they’ve seen it, and it didn’t seem unusual. A little shocked, Ashley called the ER, because this is a polite state without police, whoever came was in turn people from the body farms, they recycled the dead, the mechanical puppet was tossed there, awaiting the good-willed folks to upcycle and recycle.
Originally Norman wanted a chapter on the soul-seller merchants and doctors from the body farm collaborating together, and bringing Ashley to visit the horrendous recycling machineries. However he felt in this city whoever writes against Scorpio would go to a particular layer of hell, so he gently self-censored himself.
After writing about death he immediately started writing about life, at the turn of the scene Norman brings people into a fantastic wedding, they are exchanging vows and expectations, the groom is an old gentleman, the bride an exquisite clockwork puppet (it does not want the others to realize who it was), they wore old fashioned gowns, one spoke French another German, however they weren’t talking to themselves.
For obvious reasons he emphasized the French language part: Beau temps, mauvais temps, haut ou bas, je serai avec vous dans votre monde, cela signifie simplement, à vos côtés.
And then the despicable clockwork puppet only smiled slightly and said Oui.
The guests didn’t seem to mind, as they were minding the wax and wane of their own businesses. Ashley was here as his client’s little plaything, at this moment he had helped the Marquis to design and manufacture a customization-friendly non-main residence, which Marquis in particular, he didn’t know, with people he just followed suit.
Proceeding to this point Norman looked at this drinking glass, he was out of bullets and hearts. So to extract some residual reserve he went on to briefly sketch out future developments. 1. Ashley and Lin were invited to the mechanical puppets’ industrial complex for a commission. 2. Several portraitures and architectural models regarding the mechanical puppets’ conceptual park. 3. Ashley was having a glitch, because his design ought to blend in into the surrounding part of the city, and has to maintain a non-progressive avant-garde stylistic commitment. Ashley went to gallery hopping, he met a young man on the third floor of Spear Gallery, he said he was a designer, but went to dabble in architecture. It was only later Ashley realized he was part of the board of trustees. 4. A failed rebellion of mechanical puppets, most were recycled in the furnace and reprogrammed with better algorithms (A touch of detail: the head of usurpers RS485 is placed in a mechanical puppet showroom to attract customers, it can only move in a side hall, and every day is the same day).
At this point Norman washed his glass cups, hugged his skincare and cosmetics utilities to the washroom and took a shower. Originally he wished to use this opportunity to think something through, but his classmate on the other side of the room was using his music player to broadcast some passionate Caribbean tunes, he was good he didn’t sing along, but he thought the child was Spanish? Pity the child.
So Norman washed himself amidst loud music along the lines of “Sé que lo quieres, lo quieres, lo tienes,” then he rolled himself into his bath towel and spent half an hour in front of the mirror to redo his hair. After committing himself to some class materials back in his room, at 2:30 pm sharp in the afternoon he arrived at Cafe Adorée, his caramel macchiato and his special seating.
After pulling out two pcs of books of technical jargons as desk pets and pulling out his lunch pear, the windchime winged lightly, and Civitas’ favourite zombie angel entered the scene. He ordered a cup of pitch-black coffee with no sugar and no milk in his typical nice demeanour, paid extra for several sheets of Mittelland newspaper, and went on to sit at the window seat.
This was probably Northern’s office hour >_<, so Norman took hold of his coffee and satchel, and sat at the opposite seat after Northern nodded for the chance. “Terrence Norman is it? Nice to meet you.”
Does he know everyone in the institute? “Good afternoon, Mister Solomon.” He chose one particularly pencil-licking title to address, because Northern likes likes others acknowledging his relative position with Lady Solomon.
“Speak your mind, what kind of wind blows you here?” He was not taking yada yada as an answer.
“I’m here seeking free legal consults.” Norman shamelessly said.
“Ohm? Although Heavenly Laws is what I studied, please continue.”
“Recently I was in Lange’s database for archival materials, I found a music commentary of New Albion signed as Gabriel, after comparing notes I found the style is mismatched. Hence I wish to sue Zillah Laetoria for fraud in article authorization.”
Northern winked and secretly made a face in faux pain, “I would think you wish to sue for felony in duplication of name, but have there been any repercussions?”
Norman drank a sip of the macchiato from the mini to midi cup, the cup is subpar white porcelain, “I would think in Heaven and Heaven’s territories one cannot use archangel’s name in vain?”
“It was within Heaven and Heavenly territories. You should know, there is no oversight organization alla Civitas.”
“I was under the impression the presiding institution might be interested in this topic?”
“Of course they will.” Northern elegantly rolled his eyes, if he is allowed, he might even spread his old wings (or more precisely, wings bones) to herald the news. “If you wish to sue, sue them both. And say Zillah infringed intellectual property rights.”[1] Northern toyed with his glass a little and finished the first page of the very independent news, “You will fell into a ditch, or become a very rich satirist.”
Looks like everyone in the Archive knows what he was up to. Norman hugged his fingers around the barely touched coffee and took one drink more, “Then I will rest on your good words. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.” Northern made some air wave, and waved the offending boy away. Then he pretended to be really into the news, and at the back of his mind logged in and drew out the problematic journal article, gave it a look, and found puff, Cecil and Gaby are going to entangle into some troubles, the problem is not much, the problem being political problem.
On a very lame Tuesday afternoon, Norman dragged his case portfolio downtown to the most notoriously ugly three-tiered cake-shaped building that constitutes the Rathaus or city hall.
Bare faced notwithstanding a tinted berry lip balm and some sunscreen, Norman approached the information desk on the ground floor and asked “Hello, do you happen to know where I should bring a case related to intellectual property rights?”
The brunette with fake blue eyes raised her head, and replied “You should see to it yourself? Go present your case in the last room on the second floor and file in the forms.”
“Thank you.” So he approached the second floor, the antique elevator was as depressing as interesting, he was having a little bit of a problem because all buttons were addressed in alphabetic forms. After “G” was it “S” as for seconds or “T” as for two? He worked it out via relative positionings.
Inside the little cubicles on the second floor there were a lot of staff and technicians and clockwork puppets who pretended to be technicians. The atmosphere was particularly nice for a ruling bureaucracy. Norman took a sneak peek into what was supposed to be the tearoom, the door was unclosed, tea was well stocked, and several figures were having a smoking party lounging peacefully inside with controlled and uncontrolled substances.
“Pro se yes? The room at the back.” An uncle who was typing got him the direction.
“Sure, thanks.” Norman knocked on the glass door, he was having PTSD about glass doors and the makeshift court.
“Come on in, good afternoon. What’s your business for today?”
“Good afternoon, I’m a student of Archives of the Anarch’s City, I wish to start a case in which Zillah Laetoria and Gabriel performed duplication of names and infringement of intellectual property in an academic journal article…”
The staff member sat straightened and knocked on his desk. Twice in a row. “That’s the case, you can first fill out this form, the complaint can be changed once. Have you come into possession of the litigation fee? Currently it runs 405 common currencies.”
“Em.” Norman counted 420 cash money in great pain, and went to sit at the little bench at the back upon getting the exact change in return, and utilized a borrowed clipboard, one by one filled out who sues whom, what happened, what are the impacts, what laws have been breached. Tut tut.
Northern had already basically told him what happened in the spirit of jurisprudence, using memory he drafted the Sixth Sky’s copyright laws and the section in Lex Laetoria pertaining to authorship and intellectual property right authorizations. It was the first time he forayed into The Law School Library, and found on the second floor seated some notaries and an unfinished game of chess.
He was curious, why did they put a standard game in these unstandard times? Substandard seemed to be the right wrong word, but anything can be child’s play for some more than others.
“I’m ready, also, can the city hall provide free legal consultation at the current stage or at any moment?” Norman asked about the standard operating procedures.
“After you are suing Lady Solomon’s favourite legal consultant?” The uncle at the Pro Se office gave him an eye, both of them knew it didn’t go to law school but picked up a thing or two along the way such and such. “You can submit a query form, but shortly after the lawyers will touch base with you, just be careful which law firm were they from.” The government clerk was kind enough to mention that. A kindness he appreciated.
“If that is the case, I think I should apply.” Norman got another form, at the communication window he wrote with flourish that “I don’t have the relevant funds; I’m in need of legal support.” Legal aids sound suspicious, and people like him don’t like to hear that word.
“That’s it.” The uncle redeveloped the form into a case catalogue. “Whence an attorney wishes to administer your case pro bono-ly we will contact you. After you find someone to amend the complaint you can drop it back here.”
It sounds like a lot of work, Norman hoped he could make do with his usual rate.[2]
“All right, good afternoon.” It was with Norman’s limited understanding he would still have to reimburse his would-be lawyer had they succeeded in extracting funds later on, that’s just a fact of life.
“Good luck to you.” It seemed that people in the city hall shared a dislike of Gabriel or Zillah.
He spent some time studying who studied who, who doesn’t know who. Norman did some touch-ups and changed to another shirt (yuppy) and figure flattering pants and used Professor Anton’s name to be let in into a Vienna Medical School stuff affiliated bar or gentlemen’s club.
“Martini on ice.” This ice being clean ice. Norman sneaked to the bar booth and spent his freely existing changes.
“Martini in the morning?” Fulcher was on the seat beside him wearing casual clothes, which for him, a normal coloured button-up with a loose tie. Beside his hands is a glass of brandy on ice. The morning been endless mornings.
“I thought you do not drink.” That was a first.
“I don’t drink with sillymen with brains.” Fulcher corrected him naturally. Of course he was a natural.
“Then to sillymen without brains.” Norman smiled, raised the cocktail glass and took a sip. He didn’t button up the buttons on his sleeves, rewarding him with a peak of pale and naked wrists.
Fulcher frowned slightly, “what’s making you here?” Apparently English is not his first language, or languages, Norman should know best.
Norman doesn’t seem to mind, “What’s making? I’m here for day drinking.” He narrowed his eyes, which were to be described as almond-doe shaped.
“Whose name did you drop to get in here?” Fulcher was making his point clear.
“I’d like to like it to remain a secret.” Norman smiled.
After them some more depressed and oppressed stressed out men and their girls and boys entered the scene. Some left some exchanged hands as it was the normalcy to expect. The lighting situation remains more or less the same, through the mini cabaret stage entered a lady in jazz, or something bearing the simulacrum of a jazz lady.
She wore synthetic redhead and long red synthetic gloves, and a shiny long dress with too many sequins to impress anyone with a scintilla of taste. Backstage there was a real human playing the piano, although he or she didn’t wish to come out and play. Show and tell. Norman immediately recognized the sultry voice sung Roger Rabbit’s theme song, about the aspirational lives of a gold-digger vocal artist and her professional rich man.
All over the song Norman was holding his glass and trying not to smile, or laugh, for the matter. Fulcher was not drinking the brandy he held, half a glass of ice cubes soon became lukewarm and disappeared in sight, out of sight. In darkness and in lights. He looked at Norman, his cheekbones and his curls, he really looked well, but that’s about it.
“Mother used to sing me this to sleep.” Not exactly a white lie.
“You must have a good mother.” What Fulcher was saying is that please be careful with tense.
“That’s right. She did the best she could, all things considered.” Norman mused.
“All things considered?” Not a question.
“It’s a cheap cliché, maybe one day I will tell.” At this moment Norman decided to keep it a mystery, but really, there is no mystery to tell in the first place.
“Perhaps.” Fulcher concurred. Part of him liked to play stocks for the long line.
“Not today, today is for pure entertainment.” Pure is a nice addition, in some situations more than others.
“Did anyone ever tell you, you can make a living with your own hands?” Fulcher gently berated him.
I am. One way or another. “Did anyone ever tell you, even if both of your parents were surgeons, you don’t have to make a living through surgery? My parents are not doctors, so I can only make a living by myself.” In most of the time Norman would like to be a petulant child, but most of the time he can only think about that.
“What’s this? Patek Philippe?” Fulcher pointed to his watch. He knew it wasn’t. He didn’t make a comment about parenting or original family, that would be both preposterous and cheeky.
“Ladies’ royal oak.” Norman amended. Because there was one client of him who really liked him to wear watches for ladies, among other things, but he shall stop here.
“Hears like you understand what you were doing.” Fulcher added another pinch of salt.
“I know what I wish to do.” Very slowly, Norman got really close, close enough to whisper to his ears. “That is to lock in with you tonight, sipping the strongest of liquors.”
If he could he would lacquer his tongues, but for now that will do.
Upon receiving the gesture Fulcher used a single hand to cup his face, locking in his chin with spidery fingers and enunciated nicely, “I’m sorry, I prefer self-respecting pets.”
I’m sorry to hear that. “You are selling yourself short.” Norman gave him a hesitating eye, and winked. After a few seconds he shook free, “I’m sorry, I’m not here to apply as somebody’s pet (I skipped the application interview). Good night, Doctor Fulcher.” Secretly he wished to pay for another glass of iced brandy and posit it in his place as a temporary desk pet, but at last minute refrained from doing so.
En route to his dorm Norman was debating on whether to give a call to a reserved client and come out and play or to head back endorsing sweet dreams by thinking about Dr Fulcher’s voice and going on a serotonin drive, and deliberated serotonin is better.
Eventually he ended up in his room and languidly browsed his email, and found a young fellow from the Archives was summoning and pleading him to edit the source materials of an essay about love and death, which was precisely how he spent the rest of the night, by doing in-text analyses of Love and Death (and all his friends).
He ended up dosing off at his table, he presumed it was a successful night.
[1] HL: yes and yes, it will be so glad.
[2] cf’. an expensive boy with expensive thoughts.
cf. perhaps expansive sounds better?
cf’. how right you are.
