Look Closer, Listen Harder
It's not long before everyone notices that Alvin collects things—nuts, bolts, scraps of metal, washers, nails, broken gears and metal twine, doohickeys and doodads and other things they don't know what to call. He wraps them in rags and carries them in an oily shoebox that reeks of rust and metal.
When they arrive in towns, sometimes, there are things that are broken—like a clock or a light or a spirit arte apparatus—and his eyes light up. He sets to work, free of charge, an oddly charitable sentiment from the money-minded mercenary; large hands and clumsy fingers suddenly have no trouble manipulating the tiny, delicate pieces from his box of things, tinkering away until he finds his solution.
Sometimes, there are books, too—heavy, dusty tomes that make even Jude wince in sympathy, filled with microscopic text and complex diagrams and thousands upon thousands of equations and mathematical jargon. Each topic in them seems more ridiculous than the last: there are carts that move without being pulled, ships that sail without wind, and box-like machines that fly like birds, and he regards all of them with a secret half-smile that seems almost sad.
And sometimes, they watch him work, taking his firearm apart with practiced ease. He replaces its parts just as often as he cleans them—he is no master strategist or childhood prodigy, but he is always prepared and rarely shaken—he takes care of his weapons and they take care of him. He keeps the rusted parts in his shoebox of things, tucked away between folds of oily rags just in case; he doesn't like keeping things that have outlived their use, but it's a bad habit of his that has been getting harder and harder to break.
("You're really good at building things, Alvin," Elize says while he shifts through his box of things.
"Not really. There are a lot of people who are better than me." He pushes his bangs out of his eyes and accidentally wipes grease across his forehead. "You know, when I was about your age, that was my dream. To build something that wouldn't break. Sounds crazy, huh?"
If she is surprised by the uncharacteristic show of honesty, she doesn't show it. "I think it sounds… nice. And safe. What changed?"
His hands pause and he is stunned into silence, and she wonders if she said something wrong. "Everything breaks, kid. It was always a pipe dream. Besides, I kind of prefer it this way—as a hobby. It reminds me of home. And," he turns and smirks, "being a handyman isn't exactly a good way to get women, you know. Most prefer the mysterious tall, dark, and handsome type to the Average Working Joe, if you know what I mean."
Elize pouts and glares, forgetting for a moment that Alvin always lies.)