Grief is out of it. Lethargic, dazed, shivering.
Saburov frowns. It really is too cold in here for people to be living- especially in the winter time.
He’s reluctant to give up his coat because of it- but the way Grief’s shivering has him concerned that he may just… drop while they’re working. So, he unbuttons the heavy woolen overcoat, and passes it over to Grief, so the man could at least use it as a blanket.
“Here. Cover up, I’ll get the wood up. Do you have a radiator?”
Kneeling down, he takes the rug in hand, and carefully begins to roll it up. It’s large- large enough to cover the entire room. Crimson with woven gold roses and florets, a round emblem flanked by intricate designs in the center… the threads are all silk, wool, and metal- the quality of which is expertly made. It’s a fair bit of luxury that Saburov is certain that even the allowances from the Bull Enterprise his family received would not be enough to afford such a piece.
It’s an imported work of art from the East, far above either Saburov or Grief’s station- but the Station was Grief’s. All the rail lines led to him eventually. Someone was out of a very nice rug, but Saburov couldn’t find it in himself to care about the people that could afford such extravagance.
The rug is heavy, but he manages to stand it upright, and walk with it leaning on his shoulder out of the immediate work area. Huffing as he places it down, he adjusts his shoulders and walks back to get the hammer.
As he reaches for it, he catches a glimpse of old brown, nearly black stains in the rotted wood, and with the sight of it, the memories of those same stains when they were still red come rushing back.
Three years ago, this was a crime scene.
The woman who birthed Grief had ended her life here, in this room.
The nature of self-inflicted gunshot wounds is… horrific, to say the least. Even for someone that doesn’t encounter the feeling of horror often.
Grief had to be called in as the next-of-kin. Confirm the identity (it was his mother), confirm if the firearm was hers (no, not that he knew of), state the last contact he had with her (before the first outbreak), state who else would have been in close contact (likely the housemates).
It never felt right, the way it happened. Like something important was missing… and he very much lamented that they did not have the access to the investigators in the Capitol. People that were trained to dedicate their time to the unusual.
It’s too much for the common patrols to handle. It was too much for him to try to handle by himself. Much to the agitation of the general populace.
Too much time. Wasting time. That was the attitude to the general investigations held. It was cut and dry to everyone else. Just another suicide. Just another one lost to the machine.
He had to admit, it very much looked that way. It was a textbook case, and that is what threw him off.
The case’s files and illustrations were still in Town Hall. Trophies to dedication, even if it remained unsolved.
Now the last bit of tangible evidence remained here.
He lifted the sledgehammer and tapped along to find the support beams, and avoiding them, brought the hammer over his shoulder, and down through the rotted wood and blood straight to earth with a thunderous sound.
"Ain't you a gentleman full o' pity," he chirrups, tossing Saburov's coat atop the rest of his layers to keep some of the cold in. There's two nice long pockets it would be a pinch to, well, pinch from. Saburov's a simpler outer sort with complex innards. There's crumpled reminders, a single bullet case, and pennies in his pockets. The coat's warm and despite it, the warmth hardly creeps to the surface of his hide.
"None of that luxury we call comfort here. Nothin' to fear. We ain't got warmth we'll just find n' take it, Jaws."
Saburov rolls his millions on millions of a rug up and Grief takes a penny for his own pleasure because the sight of ancient brains and blood in the wood rot gives him a feeling deep in his gut like it's infested with worms. Roiling.
His mother was too young to have children, and from what he could parse between the neuroticism and brutality, she was plenty like him from all these angles she never showed him. She'd been good with machines, and exceptional with tools. She made tools, storage, and necessities for people and her craftsmanship had been spectacular.
It didn't matter though. Too young. He ruined her life. There wasn't an exaggeration there. That spray's from a Trench Gun, a Winchester 1897 shotgun. He had no idea how she got it, what with his precise notes and careful inventory taking. Something like that doesn't walk away without a price tag.
He didn't need to look in his books. He knew it came from him.
Grief had thrown the rug over the stains too keep them out of sight. Saburov has the decency to clear the space and find his footing, swinging down and smashing through the poorly aged wood. It's enough that he does hear the distant "what the hells" upstairs, and he hears Andrey stop to come questioning about it.
It starts a rhythm of heavy demolition, and not finding comfortable seating on the stool, he instead takes a perch on his counter to watch. Eventually, the rest of his nest creep out too, some passing by without really questioning it, and some stopping to actually ask questions. Half of the questions are wondering when Grief put his fingers in those fancy pockets and why he's wearing that coat like a mark. They'll talk him in circles about it later, he's sure.
Andrey whistles too. If he wasn't occupied, moving and meandering about with hardly enough appropriate clothes on, he'd be fawning for a fight.
Jester hops up on his counter despite the cacophony, and she makes herself as round and weighed as she can in his lap, purring like a motor. She's trying to help how foul he feels. It's only going to get worse.
"Done it before, ain't you? You're a right-" crash, "devil with that nasty hammer over your shoulder. Check his heels for burnin', Jester."
She simply keeps purring.
“N’ if you ain’t burnt out when this crock’s shilled out, you can slither on down to Yelena’s with all these pennies n’ buy yourself a mouth. Ha, ha. Ain’t got her finest workin’ tonight though. No, they’re all here n’ dear.”
It’s mild, halfhearted. He’s not serious.
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