Steam London

From Brass Goggles

Revision as of 20:28, 26 March 2016

Steam London Game Thread (WIP to replace the summary lost due to someone's inadvertent erasure of the original summary; much will be simply copied and pasted until IO can get around to editing and formatting. Also, This may be boiled back down to a summary at some point. I fannoy =t anmd will noyt guarantee any set timeframe for completion - I simply have to many othe rthings going on. Life happens, in other words. Apologies in advance to all authors and players of the game - MWBailey)

Steam London

Bracer had been moving around the city since sunrise. It was now midday and he was getting hungry again. He was using his usual mode of transport: his grapple. He had become very good at slinging it onto poles, bars, ledges etc. and then swinging gracefully from the current rooftop to the wall of the next building and winching himself up. It was not at all a "spider-man" style way of getting around, despite what people may initially think. He knew where he was. He almost always knew where he was in London, on the rooftops at least. He headed a little south and spotted what he was looking for. It was a market place, one he often visited when he wanted food. There was an old building at the edge of the market place, it was helpful because older buildings were smaller buildings and that meant he would be able to attach his grapple to a part of the building, and absale down into the market. Something he was in the act of doing right now. He had two steady hands on the winch at his waist, gently lowering himself down the edge of this building. It took a while to reach the floor, but if he did it too fast he would likely loose his grip on the winch and end up falling a distace that didn't bare thinking about. When he neared the ground he didn't go the final way, he waited. There was a stall just below him, it was a bakery, displaying a particularly delicious looking lump of bread on a table near him. There was a roof over it so he couldn't tell where the owner was, also everyone in the market seemed to have been too busy to have noticed him, so he slowly winched himself down, a rare occasion where his feet connecting with a horizontal surface for a brief few moments of the day. He crawled along next to the stall, popped his head over the table with the bread on. The owner was selling some muffins to a customer on the other side of the stall, fortunately. He sunk back down under the level of the table and moved back to the wall. He stood up and put the loaf of malformed bread in the satchel at the back of his belt. He then went back up, up towards the top of the building, up towards freedom, up towards his paradise. Up towards his home. He had become well acquainted with all the main geographical aspects of London and was on his way to his favourite. It was a tall building from which he would be able to see all of London. If the smog wasn't in the way. But he was cut off part way in his daydream, half way up the wall to this building. A voice was being directed at him.

Demetri Rousselle was still in the University College, down the steps of which poor Professor Agrippa strode two at a time, clutching his meager sized top hat to keep the nipping London wind from knocking it off. He pained to leave the poor boy like he had an appointment more urgent than with his cat and the newspaper, but the alternative was to be stuck in his classroom until nightfall. Demetri always had another take on the lesson to go on after the lecture about, another connection or another theory, and always in rapid French--a mark of his intelligence and dependence on the French speaking professor for someone to truly speak his mind to, but not something Agrippa could sit through on a daily basis. He practically leapt into the first carriage he saw, tracing the word "godspeed..." in his exhale; he had only until his persistent student got out of the bathroom to be out of sight.

Almost immediately after Agrippa left, Demetri retraced his steps with his usual stack of textbooks he had bound together with an extra belt, a blissfully unsuspecting lack of expression on his face. He was silently looking forward to taking a roundabout way back to his dingy flat, through a part of town he had never seen before--when he came to a small hill between it and school, he wandered down instead of up. Down--chips and cracks began to appear in the lower stories of buildings; a quaint display of their antiquity, he thought. Surely no vandals who existed who could do the damage. He turned north in a direction he speculated to be in the direction of his flat--further down--the buildings towered and seemed to bow inward like the teeth of a giant. In this part of town, its inhabitants did not merely live in the city--they were swallowed by it and, honestly, all looked in various stages of digestion. Shouts fearful and furious crisscrossed the windows above him; from one, at the top of the tallest and pointiest of teeth, there was a blue flash of light--curtains bloomed into an azure fireball, the window cracked and shards of glass pierced the ground no more than a meter behind innocent Demetri, who took no notice. This place, he observed, had never been addressed in any of his books--a shame. An absolutely spiffing carriage--with no horses at that--thought Demetri, swerved, just missing him; Demetri missed the bottle of absinthe in the hand of the whiskered driver. It collided with one of the horse drawn variety just out of his hearing (and maiming) range; Demetri caled out a friendly "Bonjour--ah, hello...!" to a child scaling one of the buildings as though he were passing him on a safer street. He was walking along one of the countless trails of destruction that slithered through the shadiest corner of London, miraculously staying just ahead of the mayhem as though there was a lucky cricket in his pocket, protecting him as he ventured downward. Eventually, he located a bench in what seemed to be a park (in reality, had used to be a park before it was neglected beyond recognition) and sat down on the only corner not polka dotted with scorch marks and worked out where he was. He had taken no more than two turns to arrive at this...lively...piece of London since he had left the college--three? Maybe just one? Oh, well; he knew that his home was always in the direction of that...that clock tower...what was the name? If he could see it, name aside, he could get home. He stretched his neck skyward and looked all around the skyline--nothing; as tall as it was, here, it was obscured behind the teeth. Directions, then. I'll ask the next helpful looking person--no, the next person who sits down if they know the way. That way, I'll just have more time to sit and watch the people... And what interesting people there were...he crossed his legs and relaxed, feeling as safe as he was in any district--to him, not having lived here a year yet, there was only one, made of all of the city's sprawling roads; east and west, up and down, deep down. A fog blew in from above, softly tinted blue, and he squinted through it, thinking nothing of its noxious pouring from the ruptured window overhead, dragged out by the wind. Blinked it out of his eyes...just blinked and couldn't stop...sleepy...his books passed as a pillow...down, down, down...

When the windswept gasses cleared, Demetri was curled on the bench, fast asleep. Unless it was loud, or painful enough, nothing could wake him, not for a while.

Emerging from the blue smoke filled building with his handkerchief clasped firmly over his face, Horatio cleared the air with a frantic waving of his free hand before collapsing to his knees and coughing violently. He'd heard the manners of your average Londoner were somewhat lacking, but so far the majority of his investigations had been met with outright hostility. He rolled onto his back and watched the swirling gases clear whilst pondering his next move, the bribes, information fee's and high cost of London living had left him with little more than a shilling and it was a long walk back home. The air clear, he sat up and scanned his surroundings, dirt, smoke, cramped houses and someone sleeping on a pile of books. Climbing to his feet he sighed and tried to remember the route back to his lodgings, starting down the street he stopped suddenly and turned around... books... down here...

"Excuse me sir?" Horatio nudged the sleeping Demetri, "Hello?" A few moments passed and with it his patience, having looked round and satisfied that the coast was clear he drove a fist into the Demetri's arm. "Excuse me sir?"

"Sir! Hold on, sir! You haven't even seen the trick wi' the pressure gauge yet, sir!"

The heavy Irish brogue emanating from the rundown public house was soon followed by the hastily exiting figure of a diminutive fellow in a dented bowler and soot-dusted spectacles, babbling incoherent apologies over his shoulder. "Terribly sorry, my dear chap, but I've got a, er, an appointment... with my, erm, ah... I say, good luck, though! Cheerio!"

Without waiting for a reply, the frightened gentleman dove behind a battered crate at the side of the building, just seconds before his pursuer squeezed through the pub door and stumbled out into the bustling road. "Sir, please! I'm beggin' you, hear me out!" The burly man cast about for his hidden quarry, and his face fell. Yet another failed interview with yet another uninterested investor. This one had been going so well, until he'd accidentally singed the man's handlebar mustache.

Ajax Callaghan glumly scuffed his feet in the muck that lined the cobbled street, and retreated back into the gloom indoors (oblivious to the relieved gentleman who snuck into an alley and disappeared), re-emerging with an unwieldy length of pipe connected to an intricate brass tank festooned with knobs and levers. This he hefted onto his broad back, wending his melancholy way down the street towards the next failure. Haywood had been so much better at selling the contraption – not that it had done him any good in the end.

Ajax kept his eyes peeled, appraising each passing pedestrian with an inventor's eye as Haywood had taught him. That one had no money to spare, that one was too sensible to give any thought to the idea, that one probably wrote too much terrible poetry to care one way or the other. He wondered whether he'd have more or less luck in the Underworld – few people had any money, but those who did were crazy enough to give it some serious thought. He found his steps unconsciously drifting down the all-too-familiar roads that led to his old rundown stomping grounds. If worse came to worst, he could always salvage some tools from Haywood's old flat by the park, provided it hadn't been repossessed or broken into yet.

By the looks of things, it hadn't. Instead, it was probably in the throes of burning down, judging by the foul blue vapour that billowed from the windows. There were five or six flats in the building – he fervently hoped the smoke wasn't in Haywood's. Not yet, at any rate. Ajax sped up, sweating under the weight of the apparatus at his back. He wouldn't be able to get in, though, not with a full tank of flammable coal gas... There were two figures visible in the clearing smoke (arsonists, perhaps?), and he made towards them instead. One appeared to have passed out from the fumes – probably while tossing around matches inside.

"Oy! Which one o' you louts set the bleedin' flat on fire, then?"

The cards went down. Hiram looked at his, and calmly said "banco". The other gentlemen looked at their hands and glumly matched the stake. The cards came down again. Hiram turned his over at looked at Sir James Rowan, who this night was acting as croupier.

"My word" said Sir James. "Nine to the Colonel, seven to the bank, I fear, Colonel, that you have broken us."
"Indeed, gentlemen," said Hiram, looking at the other players seated with him in the cardroom of the Bagatelle club. "Indeed, my luck seems to be running tonight" There was a soft chiming. Hiram withdrew a pocketwatch from his waistcoat pocket. It was a Breguet hour repeater, elegantly crafted in gold, on a gold double Albert chain. The charm that dangled from the chain where it passed through the button hole was the tooth of a tiger, set in fine gold. Hiram raised his arm and snapped his fingers, once... Immediately a club butler appeared at his side.
"A magnum of the house champagne for these gentleman, on my account" Hiram said. The butler silently slid away. 

"Indeed, gentlemen, my luck does me well. Allow me to at least offer you a nightcap by way of thanks for a most pleasant evening's sport" Hiram looked at his companions, nobility, highly placed government officials, and well-heeled gentlemen all. They would never suspect that his "luck" was augmented by some rather fancy sleight-of-hand. No, a gentleman such as Hiram would never be suspected by another gentleman. Even so, if he was called out on a point of honour, he could settle that score easily enough on the dueling-field, few would risk that, standing and exchanging fire with the Colonel was not a thing that would extend life.

"I bid you them, good evening" said Hiram, rising. He walked from the cardroom, into the members lounge and took up his customary wing chair by the fireplace. He sat, and snapped his fingers once again. This time, Jenkins, the clubs senior butler answered his call...
 "The Colonel's wishes?" he asked?

" A bottle of claret from my private stock, Jenkins, and a cigar or two as well. And the late edition of the Times, and any messages that might have arrived"

 "At once, Colonel" Jenkins turned and left.

Within a minute or two, club servants delivered the claret, placing it in the mahogany sidetable, along with a crystal glass, and the Times. A young boy in club livery approached, bearing a sliver tray with two small envelopes on it.. "Messages, Sir" said the boy..

"Good lad" said Hiram, reaching into his pocket and tossing the boy a half-crown.. The lad caught the coin deftly.. Hiram smiled, it was well worth tipping the lad, young boys like that were useful for certain errands, being almost invisible in the city crowds.
  Hiram reached for the tray. He picked up the first envelope, and checked the seals, making sure they were intact. He took a small pocketknife from his waistcoat pocket. A touch and the slim blade of watered steel sprung forth. Hiram opened the envelope and read....
 "Our mutual friend, the oriental gentleman, agrees to meet with you tomorrow evening, at the appointed place" It was signed "Chen-yu"

Hiram touched the end of his cigar to the note, there was the faintest of flashes, and a soft "poof". Nothing remained..

  Hiram took up and opened the second envelope.. The note read:

"The work progresses and the test was successful, the plan moves ahead well " It was simply signed "D." Again the cigar did its work, and again no trace of the note was to be found.

 Hiram smiled to himself, it looked as if tomorrow evening could be even MORE profitable than his little game tonight, FAR more profitable indeed, AND his other plan would seem to be unfolding well. That plan had implications of immense gain..
Hiram finished the claret, and rose. He donned his coat at the door, and had the doorman call up his personal Hansom cab.  In a moment, it was there, the driver and the footman looking rather all to large and muscular for their job, odd bulges under their coats. Hiram alighted, and the cab hastend off towards his Mayfair home. There he would spend the rest of the evening reviewing his plans for the upcoming meeting.. 
 All in all, it had been a very good night.

Demetri moaned. Some blurry, human-shaped creature was standing over him, and his arm hurt with a dull throb, but he was too drowsy to care why. "Aidez-moi...s'il vous plait...monsieur...? Je pense que j'ai perdu mes pieds..." (garbled nothings, to those not understanding the language) A chilly breeze began to whisk the dangerous vapor away; a little more of Demetri's consciousness poured back into his head like the clean air into his lungs and fully opened his eyes. He regained the sense to assume that this strange man probably spoke English and to know the importance of usually being able to move more than his eyes and mouth. "Monsieur..." he began, then caught himself. "...help..." He strained at his hands to see if his books were still there, but his muscles seemed as if they had disappeared; nothing more happened than the sensation of pins and needles running down his arm and abandoning it. Oh yes, he definitely needed help. With his face to the sky, he caught a glimpse of the window through the clearing smoke, and reasoned the stuff's origin. What sort of...scientists? No, mad scientists live in this part of London...!? He realized what had happened to him and cringed; he could barely get a twitch out of his feet.

"Oy! Which one o' you louts set the bleedin' flat on fire, then?" Another smoky shape was approaching him--a huge one, and this time he knew right away that it was an angry human. He turned his eyes toward the man and cleared his throat. "I know not what fire you speak of, monsieur," he said bravely, trying not to sound paralyzed. "I had nothing to do with it, and I do not suppose he--" He tried to gesture to his rescuer and failed. "does, either." A little quirk of Demitri's--he had learned his English from Professor Agrippa, and no more formally, pedantically speaking man could likely be found in all of London. He could not help but address the stranger with a wordiness most would reserve for a dinner party with the Queen herself. Something clattered above, and another small explosion could be heard. Spiting his need to stay calm, his limbs tingled to get him off the bench and finding out if there were any people up there, perhaps in danger--perhaps what was worrying this new stranger. "Does either of you know what is amiss up there?" Don't ask me for help...don't ask me for help...don't ask me to get up and help...

Geirulf looked out his window. A distance away, he saw smoke coming off a fire. "Hm, ikkje min sak.." he mumbled lowly on Norwegian to himself, taking note of the, but not doing a effort to alert someone about it. His throat rasped a little, as he hadn't said much that day. Naturally, someone else would have seen the fire. He returned to his workshop desk, flipping down his magnifiers and trying to perfect his spring blades. They now ejected when he pressed his elbows towards his side and bent his wrists downwards.

He couldn't let the situation the other day repeat itself, when they sprung as he was taking up an apple from a basket, accidentally piercing it. Needless to say, he got a strange look from the trader as he paid for three apples, one which was split in three due to the force of the blade.

He had no orders today, but he expected one tomorrow, which of he had been noted by a small boy, entering the shop, giving him a note and leaving, without saying much. Just the way he preferred his customers.

Scott Coolige stumbled out of Bucer's Pub rather tipsy. He rammed his hand into his ragged pocket and jingled the change inside. It might have been the stout, but he could swear that he heard nothing. He prided himself in his good hearing. It’s couldn’t simply be the alcohol! Twirling his head around in a fashion that would have made any sober man dizzy, he peered into his pocket for himself. Seeing nothing, he clumsily pulled it inside-out. Nothing… “Damn!” he managed to slur the curse out loud, which garnered some distasteful looks from the locals. Scott was too drunk and angry to notice. He was so inebriated that he even failed to notice the fire of unknown origin several quarters away from him. Bells started ringing as a horse drawn carriage filled with men armed with buckets full of water headed in the direction of the blaze. The bells made him cover his ears. No, he had definitely not lost his hearing. That was the one thing he hated about London: the noise. It was nothing like home, where you could go a whole day without hearing anything but the wind and the sheep. He finally realized how drunk he was when he lost his balance and fell into the cart of a fruit vender, who assisted Scott on his journey to unconsciousness by beating him over the head with his fist.