Project Steampunk

[WJChesek ((Evern))]

Preface: This is either the first or second part of Chapter 1. I haven't quite decided if I want to just lead with this, or lead with the hint at the larger plot.

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To work on this was bliss. Pure unrefined pleasure of seeing a project done well. Annabelle Mason watched the gears turning for a moment, listening to the whistle of steam hurtling through the pipes. Everything was working once more. She grinned, and slid free from beneath the contraption. With a clap and a whoop, the engineer pulled her goggles up to her forehead, before wiping her hands on a well used washcloth sticking out of her pocket.

"You're all set, Mister DeHaven." She called out of the small room, rolling down her long white sleeves. She was replacing her tie and vest when the overweight master of the inn walked into the room, eyes lighting up when he saw that the machine was once more working.

"Thank you, Annie. I was starting to think that my guests would never get hot water again." He laughed, and shook his head, "What do I owe you?"

She buttoned up her vest once more, stuffing the soiled rag in a pocket, while she pulled the chain for her pocket watch to check the time, "Four hours of work, on a Victoran Industries boiler..." She trailed off, brushing a bit of her dirty blonde hair back into place behind her ears, then nodded. "That'll be four hundred boons?" She looked up at the larger man, sticking her gloved hands in her pockets. It wasn't that DeHaven was tall, it was that she was short, barely breaking five feet to his six and a half. And the innkeeper was huge, outweighing her by at least a hundred or so pounds.

He laughed, then nodded, and smacked Mason's back hard enough to cause her to take a half step forward. "You know, I know some men who would pay twice that just to see your pretty face come in their door." A wry grin. "Done. And can I interest you in a drink, maybe? Some Sarsaparilla to drink before you get back to your shop? It's on the house. Least I could do for my favorite engineer."

Annabelle had been cleaning up her tools while the overweight man talked, Michael DeHaven was a man known best for his ability to outtalk a babbling brook, and still have enough breath to go on for an hour more. And those who interrupted him often found themselves on the wrong end of a lecture about letting a man finish speaking. She gave him a nod, acquiescing to his offer of a drink, and let him lead her out to his bar, toolbox in hand.

While DeHaven poured her a tall glass of alcohol, Mason took in the new patrons at the bar. Most of which were locals who came here because it was known as the best bar in this corner of Victar City. A few were from out of town, though, probably travelling traders or something. And all were talking up a storm this late in the evening. Except for one or two.

One such man caught her bright green eye. She couldn't be sure of his height, sitting down, but he wore a wide brimmed hat, and a faded duster, buttoned up halfway down the front. He sat hunched over a mug, with seven others upturned neatly to one side of his table. He looked up as if he'd noticed her stare, causing her to turn back to face the bar. Her heart was racing with some measure of fear. Knowledge itching at the back of her mind to be released.

When DeHaven returned with her glass, she took a sip to steel herself, and then spoke up. "Hey, who's the guy in the corner? He looks kinda familiar." She glanced again, feeling his steely stare on her back, and shivered involuntarily.

Michael DeHaven glanced over to the corner, and his bright easy smile turned into a frown, matching the shape of his mustache. "Don't rightly know, honestly. They say he's that legendary outlaw, Theo Vance." His smile returned then, and he shrugged. "Doesn't matter so long as he pays his tab, I say." The fat man gave an easy laugh, and patted Mason's shoulder a little too hard again, leaving to tend to another needy customer.

She turned to take another glance at the man, brows knitting together as she thought, before shaking her head quickly, and laughing at herself for her fear. No way this man was any sort of legend. Theo Vance was supposed to be tall, and big, and so evil he could kill twenty men with a mean look. She laughed again, and shook her head, taking another sip of her drink. No way. No how. Maybe when pigs flew.

[WJChesek ((Evern))]

The Victoran Industries warehouse on this side of the city was no longer used for storing machines and the parts required to make them. No employees or engineers wandered into this particular building anymore. None had for a good five years or so, before the company took control of Brassington and gained the infrastructure required to handle the day to day minutiae of selling their products to a larger audience. Over time, this portion of the city, not five blocks from the pub known as Haven's Harp, had become a den of scum and villainy. The city itself seemed to believe it, and so it did what all cities do when such occurs.

It turned the other cheek. Enforcement walkers, four legged machines with spotlights shining down towards the sidewalks, manned by one or two policemen riding atop with net-guns and sirens passed by once a night. Always at the same time. Nobody cared what happened down here. Nobody wanted to know what these people did. Nobody except a single investigator.

Investigator Mack Everdeen sat in his personal vehicle. A Victoran Industries Lowrider, the side of the midnight blue painted automobile proclaimed. The entire assembly to run the machine was turned off, and the boilers were well cold by now, night having fallen many hours ago. And yet, Everdeen kept his vigil. He had pulled his hat from his head, and leaned back in his seat to settle down for a long night of watching this specific warehouse. He pulled a cigar from his vest pocket, and lit it with a match that was soon discarded out the open window.

At the beginning of the night, Everdeen had watched five people walk into the warehouse, three male, two female, all of them fair skinned and rather average looking. Two hours later, three more men entered, after looking up and down the street for potential interference. They hadn't bothered to check his car, though. And for that, he was thankful. All that, the investigator had recorded on his pad. And then, nothing. Nothing since eleven o'clock. Not a soul had entered the building, or left it.

On a whim, he pulled a monocular from where he'd stashed it on the passenger's seat, and peered through it at the building. The lights were still on inside, so presumably they were still there. Damn the architect of that building for not putting windows lower in the side. As it was, he had a nice view of the ceiling five feet in. And nothing showed to give- A shadow passed across the top of his view. Scowling, he turned to follow it, hand poised to scribble down another note. A tall looking man, maybe six feet? Six and a half? It was hard to tell from this angle. He crouched over what had to be a sky light, but he was too far away to make out anything more than the style of clothing. A wide brimmed hat, and a long coat... The flash of something metal in his hand, and he jumped down. Into the building.

Mack Everdeen cursed loudly, scrambling out of his car and for his own small weapon. The short stocky man sprinted across the cobbled street and to the door of the warehouse, just in time to hear shots ring out. He didn't bother to count. He cursed again. And spun to kick in the door.

"STOP! POLICE!" he shouted into the room, gun leveled in front of him, on the first target he saw, one of the first men that entered. He was old, a grey scraggly beard, and well defined muscles. He had the look of a man that earned his living mining metals for one of the large corporations. And he held a machine gun in his hand, the drum magazine loaded in. Luckily, it wasn't aimed at the door, but instead towards the roof.

At Everdeen's shout, he turned around, and had the look of a man about to fire, only for a single loud shot to ring out from the rafters. Blood exploded out of the older man's chest, and he crumpled to the ground. There were shouts from the other side, and the investigator rushed forward, sticking to cover as he ventured into the maze of boxes, mentally cataloguing the evidence of what had been going on within the warehouse.