IRONHEART: The Primal Deception

Chapter 10

"Picking a pocket is just like slipping a pretty lass out of her dress. If you know what you're about, there ain't nothing easier in all the world. If you don't, you're like to end up with nothing but bruises to show for your efforts." – Jasker "Flickerfinger" Macomb, Victorian Pickpocket

(Six Years Ago)

Jack peered into the busy street running along the airship wharves. His eyes narrowed to thin slits. Wagons rumbled, dockworkers heaved and cursed, and everyone bustled. Ladies in fine lace petticoats moved delicately through the crowds on the arms of men in fine coats and top hats; dirty, screaming urchins raced through the throngs, ignoring the angry shouts that followed them; laymen bore their loads with heads tilted down and tipped their caps sullenly at the aristocrats; foremen bellowed and pointed importantly, and even a mechanical chevaline trotted past with gears whirring and grinding, steam puffing intermittently from artificial nostrils.

Jack observed all of this, assessing. There was no room for mistakes. He and Morgan hadn't eaten in three days but for a mouthful of stale bread.

Jack had almost forgotten the terrible hunger after so long in the orphanage, but it returned after their nighttime escape. He hated it. But he was older now, and smarter. He was shrewd enough to watch and listen, and he learned many interesting things from careful observation. Such as the value of money. Who had it and who didn't.

The second day after their flight, Jack observed a curious incident. A grubby boy in patched trousers and a soot-covered shirt – perhaps a few years older than he – stumbled into a man wearing a fine black coat and a silver watchfob. The urchin apologized quickly and scampered away, but a suspicious look flashed over the man's face, and he shouted angrily, hurrying after the boy. Jack had been puzzled, but he witnessed similar incidents as the days passed. Eventually, he noticed the well-dressed people checking their pockets afterwards. The boys were rifling through coats in the collisions.

Jack tried his hand several times, to no avail. All he procured were a few panicked flights from furious gentlemen, who waved threateningly after him with dueling canes. One even shot at him with a revolver. Jack had not expected that, and the incident scared him enough that he ceased his efforts for a time.

Those had been tough days. The hunger returned in full strength. Jack and Morgan returned to scrounging in the waste, as they had before the orphanage. They slept in the alleyways in every kind of weather, covered only by a thin, tattered blanket Morgan discovered in the garbage. They stayed well clear of the alleys' other residents. Jack knew the beggars, alcoholics, and addicts would steal food in a heartbeat, if they saw it before he and Morgan crammed it eagerly into their mouths. They might even try to do the things Father Anthony had done. He always kept a broken cobblestone in his coat pocket and a splintered shovel handle looped to his trousers.

Jack had gotten better at picking marks, though, and he grew quicker the more he practiced. He still rarely managed a successful getaway with any more than his skin, but, on occasion, the reward of a trinket or clinking coins could be found in his clenched fists.

But not lately. The last two marks had known what he was up to before he managed to reach them. Jack had only just slipped away. If he didn't score soon, they would be back to scrounging for rotten vegetables in the gutters. His stomach clenched at the thought.

Jack shrank back instinctively when two constables strode past, clubs swinging from their belts next to black revolvers. They wore the blue uniforms, and hard, conical helmets with silver badges of Brutality's police force. Neither paid him any mind, and he shook himself roughly, breathing a sigh of relief. Acting suspicious was sure to draw unwanted attention. You're just another urchin resting in the shade and watching the airships take off.