Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The two stood on the street, and across the street a milkman pushed his cart past, the copper bells jingling, the sound carrying far across the empty stone pavement.

Richard turned to Hans: "What exactly did you come here for? Besides ordering me?"

Hans took out a large pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

"I said the same thing when I came in: I'm here to make friends," he mumbled.

"Then you can simply send someone with a letter. You know where I live; you don't need to come to my door in person and scare a girl."

Hans smiled and lit his cigarette with a match: "This shows I'm more sincere."

I don't believe it.

"I know," Hans said, putting his hands in his pockets and then pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat, handing it over. "Take this, it's free."

Richard took the slip of paper, which had an address in East London written on it.

"What is this?"

"Your foreman got beaten up last night. This is the address of the bald guy who's in charge." Hans exhaled lightly, a full cloud of smoke slowly rising. "Gavin Dawson, lives in the East End, not far from the docks."

Richard clutched the note in his hand, even finding it somewhat amusing: "What do you think I'd do? Take a bunch of guys back and beat him up again? I'm not a criminal."

"I didn't say you were."

"Then why are you giving me this?"

Hans straightened up, his shoes grinding against the cobblestones, as if he were reminiscing or pondering.

Finally, he spoke: "When I was a child, I lived in Frederiksborg. My father was an officer in the army and worked very late every day, but he would always come into my room to check on me."

Richard frowned, not understanding why he was suddenly being sentimental.

“I always pretend to be asleep,” Hans’s tone softened, “because I know that if I pretend to be asleep, he’ll stand at the door a little longer. Sometimes he’ll pull my blanket up a bit, then close the door and leave.”

"What does this have to do with the address you gave me?"

Hans ignored him and continued, "But I don't sleep well every night because there's a dog downstairs that barks all day long, right up until midnight. Then one day, I mustered up the courage to go downstairs and check on it."

He paused for a moment.

"The dog was chained to a post. The chain was so short that it couldn't stand up straight, and there was a deep wound on its neck, with the skin torn open and flies swarming around it."

His eyes flickered.

"I tried to untie the chain, but it bit me." Hans stretched out his right hand, the four faint white spots on the back of his hand almost invisible in the morning light.

"That night, when my father came home, I was squinting as usual," Hans said, his eyes slightly narrowed as if reliving the past. "But in the light of the living room, I saw that he was holding a hammer. He opened my bedroom door, didn't say anything, closed the door, and went downstairs."

Hans put his right hand back into his pocket.

"From that moment on, I knew I would never hear that dog bark again. The next morning, all that was left next to the pillar was the iron chain and a few broken teeth."

Richard swallowed hard. He noticed Hans' fists were clenched, and he could almost picture the taut muscles beneath his sleeves.

"What exactly do you mean?" Richard asked.

"Men like Gavin rot in every city. He has a criminal record—fights, robberies, he's served two years in jail. He works for Greenwood now, bullying people weaker than your foreman." Hans turned to look at the small house behind him.

Richard felt a moment of disorientation. Was there pity in Hans's eyes? He couldn't tell.

"We sweep these people into a corner, bury them under the carpet, and don't bother to clean them up, but then we make a big fuss when the whole house smells bad," he said.

Hans took a step forward, getting closer to Richard.

"So that's it," he patted Richard on the chest, "the decision is yours. I just want to say that this won't just happen once, and it will get worse each time, especially if it happens to someone else you care about..."

He didn't continue speaking, but took the note from Richard, folded it again, and stuffed it into Richard's jacket pocket.

"...I hope you won't regret it." He left those words behind, the hem of his coat flipped up in the wind, and his figure disappeared completely after turning the street corner.

Richard stood at the door, stunned. The note in his pocket felt like a weight, pulling his coat down.

"I hope you won't regret it."

That last sentence stuck in his throat. He knew Hans was influencing him, using the story of the dog and those words. He knew it was a game, but Hans was stepping on his weaknesses with every move: Sean's injury, Catherine's fear, and that phrase, "each time worse than the last."

Richard lowered his head, turned around, and pushed open the door.

The room was warm and cozy, and the fireplace was burning even brighter. Catherine had already taken the fried eggs out of the pan and placed them on a white porcelain plate. The oatmeal porridge was ready, with a tin spoon next to the bowl.

She heard the door open and cautiously raised her head.

"Mr. Brian, that person..."

"Let's go." Richard sat down at the table.

Catherine nodded, pushed the fried eggs and porridge in front of him, then stepped aside, wiped her hands on her apron, and stood by the stove like a bewildered waiter.

Richard picked up a spoon, scooped up a mouthful of porridge. The oats were mixed with honey, and he could smell the sweetness, but he couldn't get the spoon into his mouth.

Catherine was washing the frying pan she used to fry eggs, with her back to him.

"Catherine".

"Yes, sir." She turned around, her hands still dripping wet. "That person... isn't your colleague, is he?"

"Yes, he isn't."

"He doesn't look like a good person."

“He is not,” Richard said, not defending Hans, “but some of what he said… is true.”

Catherine put the pot back on the stove, walked to the dining table, and sat down opposite him. Her fingertips were still trembling, but her expression was incredibly serious.

“Mr. Brian, I don’t know what that man said to you, but you are different from him,” she clenched her fist. “My brother said that you are the most decent person he has ever met in London. He worked for your father for more than ten years and then for you. He said you always make the right choices.”

Richard stirred the porridge with a spoon, and her words also sank into his mind.

"That person," Catherine tilted her head towards the door, "is a bad seed, I could tell at a glance..."

Richard paused for a moment, looking into Catherine's eyes. He knew Catherine trusted him, just as much as her brother did.

“And you’re a good man, Mr. Brian.” Catherine took off her apron and folded it neatly. “Just like my brother.”

The fire in the fireplace crackled and popped, and a low groan came from the bedroom; Sean had probably touched his wound while turning over.

Richard stood up and pushed his chair back under the table.

"Catherine, take good care of your brother. Give him the medicine as I told you, apply cold compresses, and don't let him get out of bed. If anything happens, have someone come to the factory to find me."

"Aren't you going to eat breakfast?" Catherine glanced at the bowl of barely touched oatmeal porridge.

"I'm not eating," Richard shook his head. "Tell your brother I'll come see him again tomorrow."

"I will." Catherine saw him to the door. "Have a safe journey, Mr. Brian."

He pushed open the door and went outside. The morning mist had mostly dissipated, the gas lamps were off, and the alley was much brighter.