Bab 3: From Scholarship To Shovel
Whitechapel, London, 1898.
Flynn jolted up, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and poverty. Crumbling brick buildings ahead, their windows like empty eyes. Narrow alleys, lined with trash and debris, stretched out. And yet, the crowd and voices filled the air.
He found himself in a dimly lit courtyard, surrounded by dilapidated tenements. Washing lines crisscrossed overhead, bearing tattered clothes. The ground beneath him was uneven, covered in dirt and cobblestones.
Flynn dusted off his body, when his eyes fixed on the dust coating his hands. His mind, struggling to recall how he got there. The last memories were of...his friends, Reggie and Alex, and then...
A searing pain shot through his head, making him wince. It felt like a sharp object had struck him twice, leaving a throbbing ache. Flynn gingerly touched the back of his head, finding a tender spot.
"Bimpky, ya alright?" The gruff voice asked.
Flynn turned to face the speaker, a burly man with a thick beard and worn clothes.
"Wh-where am I?" Flynn stammered, trying to sit up.
"Whitechapel, lad," the man replied with a raised brow, while offering a calloused hand. "Ya got a nasty knock on the 'ead. Been layin' there fer hours."
Flynn took the hand, his mind racing.
'How did I get here? Who was Bimpky? What happened to my life, my friends? My parents?..'
As he stood, the world spun, and Flynn stumbled.
"Easy, lad," the man said, steadying him. "Ya need a doc, but we can't afford one, and Sorry, but ya gotta get back to work."
Flynn's gaze fell upon his hands, noticing the worn, calloused skin. These weren't his hands. This wasn't his life.
"Whitechapel? What's that? Why..." Flynn's coarse voice trailed off as he examined his tattered clothes, hopeless for repair. His stomach growled with hunger, and his voice grated like sandpaper.
He looked around, disoriented. "Where am I—"
Memories flooded his mind, but they weren't all his. Two sets of recollections merged: his own and another, he recognized as Bimpky.
Bimpky, a twenty-one-year-old digger boy, had been thrown onto the streets without a family, zero memory of his parents, No fixed home, just a pub where he slept, surviving on meager earnings. Skinny, weak, and shy, Bimpky endured constant bullying.
Flynn's eyes widened as he relived Bimpky's final moments: accused of stealing bread, beaten, and desperate. The shocking truth hit him – Bimpky died by jumping onto a shovel.
"Suicide?" Flynn whispered, reeling from the revelation.
Before him stood Mr. Baggins, overseer of the digger boys and owner of the pub where Bimpky slept. One would be called a well-to-do man in impoverished Whitechapel, London's East End.
"Looks like ya good to go, lad!" Mr. Baggins inspected Flynn with a critical eye. His worn top hat, faded waistcoat, and rugged boots spoke of a man accustomed to hard labor.
"Good to Go?" Flynn asked, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the man's intent.
Mr. Baggins chuckled, his thick Cockney accent as he said. "Ain't ya heard? Ya got the sewer construction job on Roadwork Lane! Ya won't be lookin' like those poor sods, beggin' for scraps."
Flynn forced a laugh, still confused. But as he searched Bimpky's memories, his eyes became narrowed.
He, no, Bimpky had begged Mr. Baggins for a harder job, desperate to earn five shillings for good bread after the stealing incident.
"Ah, yeah...the sewer job," Flynn said, trying to sound convincing.
Mr. Baggins eyed him shrewdly. "Ya better not be thinkin' of slackin' off, Bimpky! I need ya to earn that five shillings with ya sweat. Ya hear?"
Flynn nodded, then called out, "Mr. Baggins?"
He received a nod accompanied by a stern glare, "Yes?"
"Please, sir, I'd like to stay in the pub for a bit. My head hurts, and I need some rest, if you don't mind."
Baggins' eyes narrowed, his voice with amusement. "Why ya soundin' so civilized, eh? Lost ya East End twang?"
Flynn stuttered, unsure how to respond, but Baggins' face creased into a wide grin. "Bimpky! Ya never fail to surprise me, lad!" He let out a hearty laugh.
Flynn joined in, still confused.
"Ya shovel lad," Baggins said, handing him the tool. "Keep it by the fireplace, near the taproom door."
Flynn took the shovel, nodding in appreciation he however spotted the blood stain at the edge of the tool
"No wonder my head hurts.. Well Bimpky's head." He sensed Mr. Baggins' watchful eyes upon him for a moment before the man turned away.
Finally alone, Flynn surveyed his surroundings. The yellowish fog swirled, obscuring the already cramped streets. Train old tracks lay nearby, the distant rumble of locomotives resounding through the air. To him, the environment seemed more like an apocalypse.
Flynn stepped carefully, avoiding puddles of murky liquid which seemed to hide unknown depths. The stench of human waste, rotting food, and coal smoke hung heavy, making his stomach churn.
"... Whitechapel? Or deathchapel" he whispered.
While passing by the winding alleys, he stumbled upon a street lined with women in tattered, revealing attire. Their gazes met his, dismissive and calculating, searching for potential clients. They were prostitutes, by the brothel. Each with a face filled with makeup products he didn't want to know the contents. Soon, Flynn's thoughts drifted to his past life.
"How did I end up here?" he wondered in whispers, frustration on his face. "I had a scholarship, a future. I was supposed to make a difference."
He rubbed his dusty hands across his forehead, as if trying to erase the reality.
"I could've walked home straight. Now I'm trapped in this body, in a place I know nothing about."
His eyes scanned the crowded street, men in worn top hats, waistcoats, and trousers hurrying past, each lost in their own struggles.
Flynn's thoughts turned to his mother.
"Mom...how would she feel knowing her only son died because of his own stupidity?" A pang of regret and struck his chest.
As Flynn walked through the familiar streets, his eyes met an old woman selling stale, wilted vegetables from a rusty cart. Her wares looked barely edible, and she scoffed at his interest.
The woman's attire, was that of a tattered, black shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a faded apron covering her worn dress.
"Ya get ya dirty eyes away from 'ere, Bimpky!" she yelled, brandishing a gnarled wooden spoon. "Those thievin' hands ain't goin' to touch anythin' 'ere, or else I'll cut 'em off!"
Flynn hesitated, "Oh, sorry..."
The woman's expression changed from anger to surprise. "Sorry? Bimpky never says sorry!" Her voice softened, eyes narrowing. "What's gotten into ya, lad?"
Flynn offered a nervous laughter before quickly turning away, escaping the old woman's scrutinizing gaze.
Mrs. Grimstone, a name came up in Bimpky's memories, had been a frequent target of his thievery. Cabbages, carrots, and occasional scraps of bread – Bimpky would snatch at least one item a week from her humble street cart.
Mrs. Grimstone's hatred for Bimpky ran deep, now extending to Flynn, who unknowingly now has the weight of Bimpky's misdeeds.
Mrs. Grimstone's mumbled, "That Bimpky's got no shame, stealin' from me every week. Thinkin' I wouldn't notice. Now, he's got the nerve to apologize?"
As Flynn disappeared into the crowd, Mrs. Grimstone's eyes narrowed, "Something's different about him, though..."
...
Flynn stood before a weathered, wooden house, its timbers cracked and worn, caused from that of termite damage visible beneath the peeling paint. He stepped cautiously inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior of the pub.
The air was thick with, Stale beer and an Acrid smoke, a mix of Musky sweat and the stench of disease. Candles, almost burnt out, cast flickering shadows on the walls. The lack of ventilation made the atmosphere oppressive, and Flynn's stomach churned with nausea.
The pub's interior resembled a dingy, cramped cave as well, with, Wooden beams, blackened by smoke. There were Tattered curtains, filtering the faint light. A fire pit, emitting a meager warmth, and Patrons about eleven huddled in corners, shrouded in shadows.
"Bimpky got earnings?" The bartender who watched him enter, asked, his sagging face like a map of wrinkles. His once-white t-shirt, now a dingy brown, clung to his gaunt frame.
Flynn shook his head, dropping the shovel beside the fireplace. "No."
The bartender, older than Mr. Baggins, had a familiar air. He was one of Bimpky's closest acquaintances, bound by shared struggles.
"Aww, blimey!" The bartender slammed his hands on the creaky counter. "I thought we'd splurge on a pint o' gin down at the Boozing Ken!"
Flynn offered a weak fake apology. "Sorry, tomorrow, tho." (Actually, he didn't understand a single thing said.)
The bartender scowled, his Cockney accent thick. "Oh, sod it, then! Wha's the point o' livin' wi'out a good swig o' liquor?"
Flynn's gaze went around the cramped pub, his lungs struggling to expand in the stale air. He wondered how the patrons endured such conditions.
Scanning Bimpky's memories, Flynn located the spot where he had slept. His heart sank.
Actually, The pub had an upper floor, but it was only reserved for Mr. Baggins' family of twelve, seemed a luxury by comparison.
Flynn approached the shelf-end, where Bimpky's "bed" awaited. The makeshift bed consisted of a tattered, straw-stuffed mattress, with a frayed, woolen blanket. The worse thing yet was there wasn't a single frame, lifting it up from the ground. Rats had been chased away, but the musky color and stench remained.
Flynn gulped, laying down, his stomach churning. The area was slick with both spilled ale and Grease. Sewer water seeping through cracks from the upper floor. He turned his head and his color went pale. Worms wriggled in the puddles, their slimy bodies glistening.
"I can't!" Flynn sprang up, overwhelmed.
He strode towards the door, leaving the bartender bewildered.
"Bim—" the man called out, but Flynn shut the door behind him.
Outside, the foggy air seemed refreshing compared to the pub's noxious atmosphere.
"Is there no place, no way to get a side job that pays more than 5 shillings a week?" Flynn wondered, frustration etched on his face. (5 shillings is equivalent to Approximately $0.75 USD.)
He dug into his pocket and brought out 1 shilling, a small, worn coin with a portrait, probably of the Queen, but, fom Bimpky's memories, Flynn knew 1 shilling could barely afford, either a slice of stale bread, A pint of weak ale and, a handful of coal for the fire.
Then, his thoughts turned bitter. "I've read a lot of mangas and each time the protagonist or whoever arrives in a world different from theirs, they would come with alongside a system!. Why didn't I arrive with a system? 'Ding! You've obtained the Timeless System. Survive the harsh times of Whitechapel, gain experiences, level up, and become a prince, ruling over a kingdom!' No, instead, Become stuck in this body, in this dull, struggling world."
With each complaints, Flynn's legs carried him on autopilot, leading him to The Beggar's Street, just beside the pub. The sight of downtrodden individuals, all wearing, Tattered, threadbare coats, Frayed, mud-stained trousers and Worn-out shoes, held together with twine, lined the pavement.
Their appearance was more wretched than Flynn's own, whose face litted up.
"Ah, Beggar's Street! Jackpot!"
He approached the beggars, hoping to glean valuable information. From Bimpky memory, the Beggars often hear more than they're given credit for, and because they were old ridden souls, none would cross their paths to steal, who would steal from a begger tho. Except to gather certain information.
'Maybe they'll share some useful tidbits. If I understand this old world, I might be able to get away from the place... Use my knowledge in well advanced technology and developed parts. Since I don't have a system or whatsoever, it's better I start from scratch.'
Just as he began to mingle, a mocking tone spoke up.
"Hey, Bimpky!"
Flynn turned, his eyes meeting the scornful faces of fellow Digger boys.
Their leader, a burly youth with a cruel grin, sneered. "What'cha doin' here, Bimpky? Slummin' it with the beggars?."
Flynn frowned, "I forgot I have to clear this old body's reputation."
Hadiah
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