Steampunk Shenanigans with Nakki and Ruka

[Nakkirz]

So, shitty Sawbuck concept is go:

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Sawbuck was found dead by English, as with the rest of the Felt. Sawbuck, however, was dead a fair while. He had bloated a bit due to the gas being produced - quite unsightly. English, however, decided this was the perfect place to stick something.

In Sawbuck's stomach, he mounted some sort of... Steampunk-y thing that was intended as a protective measure for him - a prototype. Unfortunately, what was intended to warp incoming weaponry in to separate timelines instead warped Sawbuck. He usually comes back shortly, but English has probably managed to develop some sort of "anchor" to bring him back by force.

Not sure how that anchor thing would work or if it's even a good idea.

I like this idea! It's gross but awesome. The anchor could probably be something akin to a temporal magnet, that would pull him back by attracting the device inside him to it.
And, I can provide a vaguely fleshed-out back story for Fin! It's linked into Trace's back story, of course. :B

Fin and Trace (Francois and Thomas?) were brothers who both worked as mechanics, repairing machinery and the like. Neither of them had very good luck, however, and one day Trace disappeared- he'd accidentally crossed the wrong man, a man in a gang, and he'd gathered up a few friends and killed Trace. Of course, shortly after his death his body was apprehended by Lord English, and he was made into an early-styled prototype.
For a while, then, Trace lived on the edge of society trying to stay undercover- and watch over his little brother at the same time. Fin had been devastated by Trace's death, and while he tried to carry on he was simply consumed with curiosity and sadness, and eventually went to look for his brother. Trace, suddenly afraid, tried to stop him via temporal shenanigans- he didn't want his brother to end up with the same fate as him- but Fin was unfortunately murdered by the same group of men that had killed Trace. Trace begged English to save Fin, and English complied, fitting Fin with the more advanced prototype style.

A-at least Fin got his brother back, right?

[Bloddyredcommie]

You might want to switch the order in which Fin and Trace were killed, to better link into their abilities (Maybe the abilities they receive are in some way linked to something they want).
Fin is killed first, he wants, more than anything, to keep his brother safe, so he gets the ability to see the future so he can know if his brother is going to get into trouble.
Trace wanted to figure out how his brother was killed, which translates into being able to see the past.
Maybe Sawbuck's dying thought was that he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Itchy wished he had been faster, Doze wished he had had more time. Clover wished he had been a little bit luckier, Eggs wished he hadn't been outnumbered, ect

[Stinkosar]

So, shitty Sawbuck concept is go:

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Sawbuck was found dead by English, as with the rest of the Felt. Sawbuck, however, was dead a fair while. He had bloated a bit due to the gas being produced - quite unsightly. English, however, decided this was the perfect place to stick something.

In Sawbuck's stomach, he mounted some sort of... Steampunk-y thing that was intended as a protective measure for him - a prototype. Unfortunately, what was intended to warp incoming weaponry in to separate timelines instead warped Sawbuck. He usually comes back shortly, but English has probably managed to develop some sort of "anchor" to bring him back by force.

Not sure how that anchor thing would work or if it's even a good idea.

I like this idea! It's gross but awesome. The anchor could probably be something akin to a temporal magnet, that would pull him back by attracting the device inside him to it.
And, I can provide a vaguely fleshed-out back story for Fin! It's linked into Trace's back story, of course. :B

Fin and Trace (Francois and Thomas?) were brothers who both worked as mechanics, repairing machinery and the like. Neither of them had very good luck, however, and one day Trace disappeared- he'd accidentally crossed the wrong man, a man in a gang, and he'd gathered up a few friends and killed Trace. Of course, shortly after his death his body was apprehended by Lord English, and he was made into an early-styled prototype.
For a while, then, Trace lived on the edge of society trying to stay undercover- and watch over his little brother at the same time. Fin had been devastated by Trace's death, and while he tried to carry on he was simply consumed with curiosity and sadness, and eventually went to look for his brother. Trace, suddenly afraid, tried to stop him via temporal shenanigans- he didn't want his brother to end up with the same fate as him- but Fin was unfortunately murdered by the same group of men that had killed Trace. Trace begged English to save Fin, and English complied, fitting Fin with the more advanced prototype style.

A-at least Fin got his brother back, right?

I'm so happy. Yet so sad.

[Nakkirz]

You might want to switch the order in which Fin and Trace were killed, to better link into their abilities (Maybe the abilities they receive are in some way linked to something they want).
Fin is killed first, he wants, more than anything, to keep his brother safe, so he gets the ability to see the future so he can know if his brother is going to get into trouble.
Trace wanted to figure out how his brother was killed, which translates into being able to see the past.
Maybe Sawbuck's dying thought was that he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Itchy wished he had been faster, Doze wished he had had more time. Clover wished he had been a little bit luckier, Eggs wished he hadn't been outnumbered, ect

Ooooh, that's an interesting concept, there. O:

also, Stinkosaur -

[Stinkosar]

Ooooh, that's an interesting concept, there. O:

also, Stinkosaur -

[KilroyWasHere]

I realize that making Biscuits will probably be annoying... And will Matchsticks and Quarters ever actually be made, or are they dead, too?

[Nakkirz]

I realize that making Biscuits will probably be annoying... And will Matchsticks and Quarters ever actually be made, or are they dead, too?

Matchsticks and Quarters are probably not going to be in the story itself, but for posterity they actually were chronologically 'created' and WILL have back stories. Because dang it, dead guys need love too.

[Stinkosar]

I realize that making Biscuits will probably be annoying... And will Matchsticks and Quarters ever actually be made, or are they dead, too?

Matchsticks and Quarters are probably not going to be in the story itself, but for posterity they actually were chronologically 'created' and WILL have back stories. Because dang it, dead guys need love too.

Crowbar is a living ex- A dead exam- An example of this.

[Nakkirz]

Exactly.

Also, my Jack fic is now finished! :'D

Alea Iacta Est

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All he can feel is pain, and all he can see is bright flashes of poison green and blood red and blinding, electrifying white. He thrashes and screams in agony, trying to escape and curl into a ball, to wait for it all to stop. Something on his left arm is stinging and sending sharp, stabbing aches up his shoulder and into his body, and he just wants to tear it off, it’s hurting so badly. He’s vaguely cognizant of something wet streaming down his face.

His other senses are returning to him, and he begins to hear something.

Dorian watches the instruments studiously, barely recognizing the cacophony around him as his master works. “He’s achieved stability, and remaining so… blood pressure increasing, breathing rate increasing…” He looks up from the twitching dials for a moment. His Lord is looming over the operating table, watching his subject intensely. The subject- a short, sharp, rough-hewn man with a pointy nose and sharp teeth- is beginning to wake up, and is thrashing in his bonds.

“He’s waking up!” English intones excitedly, his Technicolor eyes glued to the wailing, writhing man before him and his mouth curling upward in an ecstatic grin. “I think we really did it this time, my friend!”

Someone’s speaking, and then another voice chimes in that makes his head hurt. He lets out a strangled wail and writhes- trying to wrench his limbs out of the bonds he feels wrapped around them. He’s not enjoying this, not enjoying this in the least, and he lets out another choked noise, trying to speak.

“What was that?” Dorian cocks an eyebrow as he reluctantly turns from the instruments to watch, with English, as their patient regains consciousness.

“He wants me to let him go,” English replies simply, still watching the man and grinning. To other men, it would be unsettling; but Dorian simply regards it indifferently.

He can still hear them talking, with his brain calming down somewhat- except for the throbbing pain in his- shoulder? Arm? Wasn’t his arm nearly torn off in the… the fight? In any case, it hurts like hell, but despite that he begins to squint open his eyes.

He can barely see anything for the flashing lights, a spastic pair leaning down over his left, but he manages to blink his eyes and keep them open for a few moments longer. He catches a glimpse of a wide grin beneath the flashing lights, and a mop of brown hair over them; to his right, he glances and sees a pale face with striking green eyes regarding him coldly.

He tries to speak again, tries to move, but all of a sudden the pain in his shoulder surges up to high tide. All he lets out is a scream of agony as he goes under again, tears running anew down his face.

“That’s good, that’s very good!” English is pleased. “He’s woken up! Very promising- shows you people can take these operations and live, at least for a short while.” He backs away from the table, turning and trailing his giant coat behind him, as the man on the table gives an agonized, ear-splitting screech, thrashes, and finally succumbs to oblivion again, his shiny dark eyes rolling back in his head. Anticipating English’s commands, Dorian undoes the straps holding him down- carefully handling those around the patient’s left arm- and brings a blanket. He wraps the thin man in it, and with a thought, disappears to another part of the mansion with him.

------

He’s just barely awake, now; he’s fighting to stay asleep (don’t want to go out there yet don’t want to don’t make me you fucker) but his brain isn’t going to let him. Or is it his shoulder? He’s vaguely aware of a dull throb in his shoulder and a strange numbness in his arm. Only it’s not quite numb; it feels… He doesn’t know how to describe it.

Finally, his eyelids lift, and blearily he realizes that he’s somewhere very green. With a muddled curse he squeezes his eyes shut again, and blinks to get himself accustomed to the verdant surroundings. He’s in a bed- a wonderfully soft one, the likes of which he’s never known before; no wonder he wanted to stay asleep- in a softly lit room, with rich decorations. There are also very many clocks- a large grandfather clock on the wall adjacent to the door, and a hanging wall clock on another wall, and another on the mantel of the fireplace- and he wonders why the hell they need all of them. He can hear three different types of ticks emanating from the clocks.

…No, wait. There are four ticks. The deep grandfather clock, the chiming wall clock, the almost carved noise of the mantel clock, and a strangely metallic clicking that seemed to be resonating inside his head. Tic-tock-tic-tock-tic-tock-tic-t-

“Good morning, Mr. Hawk.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin hearing that voice and whirls around, his hands immediately reaching for his hip, for his knife, but all he gets is a handful of nightshirt and a new pressure in his throbbing shoulder, which makes him hiss. Through squinted lids he sees a man with white hair and striking green eyes standing in the doorway, holding a tray. He’s dressed mostly in green, again. God dammit.

“How are you feeling, Sir?” The white-haired man has crossed to the bed and set the tray down on the bedside table. The bed’s tenant, Mr. Hawk, glowers up at him in confusion. At first glance, he’d thought the white-haired man had been old; but now that he was closer, he could see that he stood straight and tall as a ramrod and that his face would have been the very portrait of the ideal young aristocrat.

“…Bad,” is all Hawk gives in reply. His brain isn’t working well enough to ask anything else, at the moment.

“Hmmm. How would you describe it?” The man looks at him dispassionately. He’s getting really nervous, now, but since he’s still in autopilot he answers.

“…I can’t feel my arm… er, I c- can feel it, but… it’s… I don’t know. An’ my shoulder hurts.”

“Ahhhh.” The white-haired man’s expression changes- recognition. The fellow knows what’s going on, which is more than he could say for himself… “That is a problem, isn’t it.”

“Damn right, it’s a problem,” Hawk hisses, trying to ignore the throbbing. He wants to look at his arm and see what’s wrong but he can’t seem to move- he’s suddenly realized he’s exhausted.

“I’ll go and speak to my master. He’ll want to know about this. Excuse me for a moment.” The man gives a small bow and departs, leaving Mr. Hawk alone yet again. He slumps down into the bed and grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. God, it’s so soft… so strange to him, a street rat born and bred.

He has almost fallen asleep again when he suddenly hears a sharp crack from outside the door, and he jumps again, only one hand leaping to his hip this time. Eyes wide, he keeps them trained on the door as the pale manservant reenters with his aforementioned master.

Hawk recoils at the sight of him. He’s an absolute eyesore. Taller than anyone he’s seen before, the man is wearing the most loudly colored greatcoat in the world, decorated rainbow accents, and it’s so bright that the accents seem to shift against the green background. Other than that he’s dressed pretty decently, and he’s got a mop of mousey-brown hair on top of his head.

Then Hawk tries to look at his eyes, and his expression goes slack with a nameless emotion, possibly disbelief or fear.

The man’s eyes are hidden behind goggles- but the goggles are clear and… and he still can’t see his eyes. He can only see flashing colors like on the coat’s trim. It’s horribly, horribly unsettling.

The man has been speaking for a few moments, now. Hawk catches up on what he was saying- “Greetings, greetings! Good to see you awake. You may call me Lord English, and this is my assistant Mr. Dorian Scratch. He mentioned to me that you were in pain- would you care to elaborate, Mr. Hawk?”

“Huh?... Oh, er. Right.” Hawk shakes himself to get his eyes off of those strange shifting colors. “I… it hurts. My shoulder hurts, an’ so does my arm, but… at the same time I can’t feel my arm… a-and now I can’t move…”

“…Can’t move?” The tall man, Lord English, looks perplexed. He looks over to the white man- Dorian Scratch, he’d said- seemingly expecting an explanation.

“He’s still physically exhausted, sir. He won’t be moving normally for at least a few hours,” Dorian answers, looking cool and calculated. This explanation seems to appease English.

“Oh, I see, now. Well, I suppose we should examine his arm to make sure everything’s in working order. Perhaps there was a malfunction? Dorian, get him ready, I must get some tools.” Abruptly, he turns on his heel and exits the room- but Hawk manages to catch a glimpse of green fire as the door shuts.

Scratch approached, now, rolling his sleeves up as he walked over to Hawk’s bedside. “Hold still.” Hawk doesn’t really have much choice in the matter, but Scratch seems to know that if he was able to he’d be pacing like a caged animal. In any case, Hawk lies still, and Scratch pulls back the sheets. “If you can, please sit up, sir.”

He manages to get into an upright position, and as he does he hears a few faint clicks and clacks. Before he can ask what that was, however, Scratch is unbuttoning the back of his nightshirt and pulling it down off his left shoulder to reveal-

To reveal a metal socket implanted into his body with a large, smooth black ball joint where his shoulder should be. And where his arm should be, a bronze-colored clockwork equivalent is, with leisurely spinning gears sticking out of the underside. The detail on it is immaculate, but all Hawk manages to think- somewhat blankly- is: They took my arm. They took my arm and put a new one on.

He’s still too stunned, staring in shock at his replaced appendage, to protest by the time that English returns, carrying a doctor’s bag with him. Scratch has already begun examining the machinery, opening up small panels and the like to take quick looks at the gears inside. English joins him and begins to unscrew the large panel on his upper arm. “What do you think it could be, Scratch? Some crossed wires again? Perhaps a faulty coil?”

“I did a few preliminary checks, sir, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with the machinery itself. I was limited in view, though, so perhaps you will find the source of the problem.”

Hawk’s raspy voice comes through, now, wavering with emotion. Neither Scratch nor English can tell if it was fear or anger, though.

“I… Wha… what the hell have you… what have you done to me? What is this??”

“We saved your life, Jack Hawk,” English replies, removing the panel and taking out a new instrument to poke around inside of the whirring machinery he’s just uncovered. “Your arm was mangled beyond all hope of proper repair- especially with the remedial level of medical technology these days- and you would have died, had Dorian and I not replaced it. So, really, it’s a win-win situation for all of us.”

“Mangled?...” Jack Hawk repeated, looking confused for a moment. Then it all rushed back to him.

“Alright, into the river with ‘im.”

“Fuckin’- he keeps struggling, Ambrose! Bastard needs to learn when to quit it…”

He struggles and tries to scream insults at the thugs, carrying him unceremoniously by his aching arms and legs, but he’s too worn down to even breathe. His left arm is little more than a bloodied pulp- they must have known about the hand, she must have told them- and it burns with pain.

The larger man shifts uncomfortably as he grasps Hawk’s wrists. “Shit, this is takin’ too long… Look, ‘e’s going to die either way we do this, why not just leave ‘im in the alley?”

“But Mrs. Kingscote-“

“What Mrs. Kingscote don’t know won’t hurt ‘er. So what if someone finds ‘im? It’s not like ‘e’s anyone of consequence.” He wants to tear that shit-eating grin right off of the man’s face.

After a moment’s deliberation, his companion nods. They throw Hawk down abruptly, and a sickening crack is heard as he connects with the cobblestones. Content with their work, the men depart. Hawk doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there, bleeding into the gutters, before he finally starts to drift away into darkness. As everything goes blank, a whispered curse escapes his bloodied lips.

“…Fff… fucking…. Bitch.”

“Hmmm, there isn’t anything wrong with the machinery. Perhaps it’s just a case of phantom pains? I’ve learned quite a bit about those, they often affect amputees…” English has finished inspecting both his upper and lower arm, and is replacing the panel on his lower arm. Dorian is standing to the side, watching his master work. After the panel is replaced, English takes the mechanical arm by its wrist and rotates the whole arm upward, inspecting the underside. At this, Jack gives a harsh yelp of pain and his right hand shoots out to clutch at the metal socket on the left side of his body. English doesn’t even bat an eye at his outburst, and continues to scrutinize the whirling cogs.

“Sir,” Dorian says suddenly. “Sir, it’s the design itself.”

“Hmm? What about the design?”

“The design of the arm itself is what’s causing him pain. It’s completely correctly assembled, but the way it’s integrated into his body is what’s making Mr. Hawk suffer like this,” Dorian explains, a twinkle of pride coming to his green eyes. It’s the first trace of anything human that Jack has seen from him.

“Really?... OH! Now I see it!” English raises Jack’s arm even higher, and Jack hisses as the throbbing, stabbing pain surges through him again. “Ahhh, I can see it all now- dear God, look at all those mistakes… Not lifelike at all… Ugh.” With a melodramatic sigh, he lets go of the metal arm, which Jack quickly pulls in towards his chest and clutches at, trying to fight through the pain. English returns to Dorian’s side, saying to him somewhat sadly, “And it seemed like such a success. I mean, it is a victory in the big scheme of things, but… still… what a spectacular failure. And now I can’t even fix it, without putting the man’s life in jeopardy.”

“You’ll perfect the designs in time, sir,” Dorian replies soothingly, his face remaining calculatedly blank. “You and I are both certain.”

“Yes, yes.” English regards Jack with an air of disappointment. Jack gives him a sneer in return- he’s seen expressions like that far too often than he would have liked before.

“Not to be intrusive, sirs,” he says bitterly, “but what exactly are you gonna do about this? About me?” How very like him- just wanting to know what’s going to happen to him. A street rat, indeed.

“Hmm… I suppose we’ll just keep you here. I mean, it’s not like you’ll really fit into society now, with that awful thing on you… and besides, we always need more test subjects around here,” English answers, absentmindedly going on a tangent. He doesn’t notice when Jack bristles at his words, dark eyes turning hard and severe as flints, hand tightening around the metal arm. Dorian, however, does, and gives his master a warning glance. Jack just silently seethes, eyes locked on that strange, tall man.

“…Hmmm…” English finishes his train of thought, and goes over his answer for a moment. “Well, from what I’ve just worked out, it seems that you simply must stay here. I can assure you, you’ll be quite comfortable here in the mansion- anything you could possibly want can and will be catered to. And you’ll have companionship as well… hopefully we’ll be getting a few more tenants to populate this old place… make it a bit less quiet, you know?” English gives Jack a warm smile, and at that point Jack begins to wonder if he was mad.

“…Right.” Jack puts his flesh-and-blood hand to his forehead with a small grimace. He’s starting to get a headache, though whether from the blood pounding through his brain or the fact that his eyes were being barraged with color he cannot tell.

English nods and smiles widely, and then turns to Dorian. “I believe we should let Mr. Hawk recuperate a little longer, Dorian; let’s go.” Without a word from the manservant, both leave the room.

Jack is alone.

He wants to escape. He wants to get out of that goddamn fluffed-up bed and pace around the room, think of a plot to- to- to what? He couldn’t quite exact revenge, could he? As much as he hated to admit it, the man had saved his life. His head hurts from trying to think about it… but still.

And as far as he can tell, the window is unlocked.

---------

“Shall I go and check on Mr. Hawk, my Lord?”

English looks up from the designs he’s revising, a look of subtle surprise on his face. “Hmm? What did you say?”

“I said, shall I go and check on Mr. Hawk, my Lord?” Dorian repeats patiently.

“Oh, don’t bother,” English replies, looking back down at his work. “He’s already gone, in any case.”

“…What?”

“I said, don’t bother. He’s already gone.”

Dorian’s face is suddenly very severe. Hawk is gone? No- no, that couldn’t be right. Instantly, he displaces himself and finds himself outside Hawk’s door.

With a surprising amount of self-control, he enters the room- to find it very nearly ransacked. The drawers of the bureau are all pulled out and jumbled together, the books on the shelves have been pulled out and a few torn-out pages of poetry and the like are scattered on the floor with them, the bedside table is knocked over, the bed a rumpled mess, and each of the three clocks in the room has had its face shattered inward. Instantly, he realizes what had happened when he catches sight of the torn-up, makeshift rope dangling out of the now open window. He’s escaped.

Dorian returns to English in a second, suddenly bristling. “Sir, Hawk is missing- he, he escaped. We need to find him and bring him back-“

“No, no, no, Dorian, you have it all wrong.” English gives his manservant the kind of smile an adult would give a confused child and stands up from his drafting desk. He crosses and puts a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, saying, “We don’t need to look for him. He’ll come back of his own accord.”

“How do you know?” Dorian asks, his mouth dry.

“I know how time works, and how everything will unfold in the end. Trust me, the daring escape of Jack Hawk is only one of a nigh-endless sequence of events that will ensure the success of my final experiment.”

“Why didn’t I know?”

English looks at him perplexedly. “What do you mean, why didn’t you know? There are some things that even you may only know when the time is right.”

“…So you did not make me omniscient?” Dorian asks, suddenly mistrustful.

“No, I told you. You’re almost omniscient. You know enough, but there are still puzzles for you to figure out. And sometimes, the universe needs an upper hand against the likes of us.” Lord English smiles at him, and in that moment Dorian’s almost-omniscient mind realizes: he’s right. It is for the best.

English lets go of his shoulder after giving him an awkward, totally improper half-hug, and Dorian is quiet as his lord returns to the blueprints.

“What will happen now?”

English smiles again as he looks down at his blueprints, this grin full of giddy anticipation. “What happens now? ... My friend…”

“Now, the games will begin.”

I started writing this shortly after the fic by Bloody, wherein they drop off pre-Snowman at the Mansion, and then edited it after CoZ's fic.
Also, I came up with an idea to reconcile the Noir/Hawk thing.

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Jack's father's name was Noir, but Jack never liked him much (mostly because he was always gone). He signed up for his indentured servitude under that name, and eventually changed his name to Hawk to try and get out of it, but it didn't work- and they kept his name as Noir in the ledgers, leading to the 'Jacques' problem.
He only gets it officially changed when he gets the MC up and running, and get some influence in the city.

C: Enjoy!

[Bloddyredcommie]

Woah thats...woah.

Seriously, that is great work Nakkirz! Tonight I plan to write part 3 of Jack's story (Between his escape from the mansion and his ending up in the jail cell).

[Nakkirz]

Woah thats...woah.

Seriously, that is great work Nakkirz! Tonight I plan to write part 3 of Jack's story (Between his escape from the mansion and his ending up in the jail cell).

Yessssssssssssssss
I AM SO EXCITED

[EDIT] OH ALSO.
I request that Harland and Clarence start geeking out over Jack's arm when he gets thrown in the cell with them. Please. ;u; (shut up I want to see it really badly)[/edit]

[conceptofzero]

Jiii that's amazing aaaaaa I love all your stuff conceptofzero, you are an amazing writer

on another note, I bring art! Steampunk colossi are kind of fun to draw.

Thank you! And thanks for letting me stick my feet in your sandbox because it's a lot of fun. Also, that is a seriously cool colossi. Steampunk weapons of war are always so neat looking.

You might want to switch the order in which Fin and Trace were killed, to better link into their abilities (Maybe the abilities they receive are in some way linked to something they want).
Fin is killed first, he wants, more than anything, to keep his brother safe, so he gets the ability to see the future so he can know if his brother is going to get into trouble.
Trace wanted to figure out how his brother was killed, which translates into being able to see the past.
Maybe Sawbuck's dying thought was that he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Itchy wished he had been faster, Doze wished he had had more time. Clover wished he had been a little bit luckier, Eggs wished he hadn't been outnumbered, ect

It's been my headcanon for a while that the Felt got whatever it was that they lacked while they were living, so I am pretty much 100% for this idea. It's got such a nice poetic sort of justice to it.

Also, I am really excited to see the third part! I can't wait!

Exactly.

Also, my Jack fic is now finished! :'D

Alea Iacta Est

C: Enjoy!

hell. fucking. yeeesss. oh Jack, poor broken Jack. and I really love Dorian being disturbed that he isn't omniscient, but rolling with it because if English thinks it's a good idea, then it must be a good idea. (also, I love English. he's wonderfully unnerving)

NAMECHAT IN THIS SPOILER

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ALSO that is an excellent way of using the Noir and Hawk names! and adds a nice little needly bit when Beatrice insists on calling him "Noir" even after Jack explains that he's not Noir anymore, he's Hawk. I figure Jack gets her back for it by calling her Bea when he's really trying to get under her skin.

[Bloddyredcommie]

This isn't done, but I'm about to go do other things, so I figured I might as well post it. Not too happy with it, but What the Hell.

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God damn his arm burned.
Jack trudged through the streets, the blanket from his bed wrapped around him like a cloak. He stared down at his arm, felt the pain shoot through him, watched the fingers curl and uncurl. It was impossible, this arm was impossible. Then he remembered the white haired butler, and the strange Lord with his terrifying eyes who did this to him, then treated him like a baker would a burnt loaf. He would pay, Jack would go get a knife, and he would go back there and…
The White haired butlerFilllerFillerFillerFillerThe TickingFiFillerFillerImpossible
FilllerFillerFillerFillerShould have diedFilllerFillerThe Coat FilllerFillerFillerGreen
FilllerThose terrible eyesFillleerThey knew his nameFilllllerFillerTicking
No, it was too much to take in, the freakish lord would have to wait. He had other business to attend to.
He had stripped the room of everything that looked like it could possibly be valuable, which wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him a set of rags and a knife. That Knife, along with his arm, was enough to get him a much more suitable pair of clothes, several more knives, and the contents of the knife-merchant’s purse. With these things he was able to acquire a warm meal, some paper, a pen, and someplace to stay for the night.
That night, Jack sat up late; his arm would have stopped him from sleeping even if he wanted to. Instead he wrote a list. Everybody Mrs. Kingscote had met with, every name he had heard her say, and everybody who paid her and everybody she paid.
When he had first arrived, she told him he should keep his mouth shut, he supposed he should thank her for that, had he not kept his mouth shut and his ears open this list would have been considerably shorter.
As he wrote the name he started making notes. He drew an eye next to each name that had looked at him like he was some sort of flea-bitten dog, he marked an X next to every name that had given him orders like he was a common servant. He marked which names he just wanted dead, which he wanted to see his face, and which deserved something a little more…creative than a simple knife.
He worked like some sort of fevered poet, his pen scratching away in a furious creshendo, his arm whirring and his shoulder burning, but he didn’t care. Finally, he got to the name he did not need to write down, the name he would never forget.
The Pen snapped in the grip of his impossible arm. As he threw it down he heard churchbells chiming the stroke of midnight.
And then he remembered, with everything that had happened he had almost forgotten what day it was. It was the seventh anniversary of the day he made the biggest mistake of his life, it was the day his contract expired.
Jack sprawled onto the bed and laughed as the churchbells rang. He laughed until he ran out of breath, then he laughed some more.
Jack stared at the name on the list. “Mrs. Kingscote. My contract has expired, my service to you is ended.”
Jack selected a knife. “And now you die”.
__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ __________
The first names on his list were easy, the two thugs she had sent to dump his body. He found them drinking away the money she had paid them to end his life in a dockyard dive bar. He simply stood outside and waited for them to leave. When they staggered into an alley he made his approach.
“Hello Boys, remember me?”
The thugs turned and looked at him. He could smell the cheap booze on their breath from five feet away. Jack would have preferred they been sober, sober and scared, but this would have to do.
The little one got a long fisherman’s knife in his eye; the big one had his throat opened up before his partner hit the ground. It was over in a flash.
Jack left them lying the alley for the dogs. They would not be missed.
__________________________________________________ __________________________________
Three names later Jack got overconfident, Beatrice ran a tight ship, and on the first Friday of each month she met with her powderboys to get a progress report, which meant that on the first Thursday of each month the powderboys would be working overtime. There were five of them, and perhaps that was too many, but Jack got greedy. Before he had been killing flunkies and nobodies, these were the first names on his list that she would miss.
The first one, a Guildsman, fat with spectacles. Jack found him leaning over a workbench and planted a knife in his back. The Second one, thin, with spidery fingers, turned around, his eyes locked onto Jack’s face, then his arm.
“Wha-who-Impossible!“
“Want a closer look?”
He had just enough time to scream, but only just.
Jack surveyed the workshop, there were three more. The big ex-soldier, the spindly little guildsman, and the bald chemist with burnt off eyebrows.
The soldier grabbed a hammer off the bench and rushed towards Jack, swinging in wide arcs, using his superior reach to keep Jack from getting close.
Look at this, Brains and Brawn, you’ve got a keeper here Beatrice.
Jack danced back, ducking under the swings. He grabbed a cleaver from his belt and hurled it overhand, it tumbled through the air, landing with a “thunk” in the soldier’s meaty chest. The big man back, hitting the ground with a sound like a falling tree.
At the other end of the room, the Chemist and the Guildsman cowered. The little man held an unfinished prototype in his wavering hands.“G-G-Go away or I’ll shoot!”.
Jack chucked and stalked towards them. “What, are you trying to be scary? Do you know what I see? I see a runt and an idiot hiding behind a useless piece of garbage, and it ain’t scary”. Jack reached into his coat and selected a particularly long and vicious knife. He pushed the unfinished firearm aside as he pulled it out. “Here, let me show you something scary”.
Jack was pulling his knife out of the chemist’s corpse when he heard the watchmen at the door. He had taken too long, cut it too close. As he ran for the window, the soldier’s hand grabbed for his ankle, almost tripping him. Jack gave the solider a sharp kick and jumped, using his coat to shield his face from the glass.
It was only later, when he was washing the blood out of his clothes that he realized what had happened. The Soldier had grabbed his ankle. The Soldier was still alive.
That was the point when stories began to spread. Stories of a blood-soaked madman with an iron arm. Stories of midnight murders and corpses with slit throats. Stories of a man with gunpowder grey eyes and a messy mop of hair. Stories of a man who was supposed to be dead.
Then, there were the names, spoken with increasing frequency in hushed tones as Jack's list grew shorter and shorter. Jack the Knife, Jack the Ghost, Jack the Machine, Jack the Bloody, Jack the Mad, Jack the Unstoppable, Jack the Widowmaker, Jack the Immortal, Jack the Unkillable.
Jack the Demon.

[Nakkirz]

Hnnnnnghhhhh Bloody that is awesome. /buckets
I'll assume this is a WIP of Jack's chapter? 8>

Also, CoZ- AHHHHH thank you~~~ I'm glad that English was disturbing enough, I was afraid I made him too cute. Also I loved writing broken!Jack, fffffffff
;_; this means a lot to me since you write such awesome fics. Thank you 333

[Rukafais]

hi, my name is ruka and i like to write depressing things

self-imposed challenge: keep it as simple as possible. not sure if it worked

duality

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i.
Running has always been the thing you were best at. Nobody could beat you in a race, ever.
But there was - there was a crash you weren't fast enough and now you're trapped.
You can't feel your legs you're going to die aren't you? but you're alive, at least.
It's so dark, but a hand catches for yours.
You hold on, because for the first time, you're helpless, and everything's going so fast.
You weren't fast enough.
You wish you had been.

ii.
You've always been the quiet one the responsible one. You could never keep up with your brother, but you tried your best.
You had to take care of him. You've always had to take care of him.
You continue to chase after him, from childhood to adolescence to when you're both young adults--
--accidents happen, and you're both trapped in the dark.
You don't know if you screamed or not, you can't remember. Funny when you can remember so many other things.
Your arm was torn off in the accident and there's nothing you can do to stop the bleeding. You are resigned to the fact.
Numbness sets in, and you're so tired...
Someone reaches for your hand, and although you just want to sleep, you reach back.
There is nothing you can do for your brother now. You're not going to last long.
And yet, a hopeless thought:
You need more time.

[Nakkirz]

Aaaaaa oh man it is just an awesome fic party all up in this thread tonight!

Rukaaaaa, that makes me sad. So very very sad.
...And makes me want to start writing that fic of the Felt's origins even more.

[ToreaderTornado]

So, random sort of idea.

Die's daughter (forget her name, sorry) comes to the mansion. Without knowing who she is, Itchy begins hitting on her. Die is standing right behind him the whole time.

Just a silly little idea~

[Nakkirz]

So, random sort of idea.

Die's daughter (forget her name, sorry) comes to the mansion. Without knowing who she is, Itchy begins hitting on her. Die is standing right behind him the whole time.

Just a silly little idea~

Her name is Cassandra, but she usually goes by Casey. The idea of Itchy hitting on her is the most hilarious thing ever.

[okniwy]

Now to introduce more of the urchins...

The Punnet 16: Row G

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GA: The founding member in charge of personnel, GA keeps the orphaned members feed, clothed, healthy and not killing each other. Previously an apprentice to a surgeon, when her master disappeared, she was without a home. It was her idea that the founding members come together to keep themselves from dieing in this dangerous town. Found a kindred spirit in TT as they both have extensive knowledge of medical procedures, but often disagree due to being surgically and pharmaceutically trained.

GC: The final founding member reading the square as we have been, GC is the enforcer of the group, being CG right hand and keeping the members of the 16 from making the biggest of mistakes. As such, she keeps constant tabs on AG. Born with a "perfect" form of Synesthesia, she often looked into the sunset because she liked the feeling on her tongue. This caused her to lose her eyesight, but due to not knowing the difference between the five senses, she never noticed. Her friends do, and insist that she wear some glasses to cover her glazed over eyes.

GG: A very important member of the sixteen, despite only joining prior to GT. She was actually solicited to join since the founding of the group. This is because she tamed a wolf that English had experimented on and gave point to point teleportation to. The Punnet immediately saw this as an asset to be had. Thinks TG is "Soo coool", and joined because he was in. Her grandfather is a merchant that seems to be involved in the dealings of the nobility of the town...

GT: The newest member, and new kid in town, GT is looking to be a quick candidate as field commander of the group, and is being groomed by AG and GC for the job. He himself is still trying to find his place in the world, not aware that he only supports someone else's story. Knows Die's daughter Casey pretty well on account of her getting into town by hitching a ride with him and his father when they moved. His father is a baker of unequaled skill who has managed to make his shop one of the few safe zones in the city.

Also, I said I'd have a join order... but I just can't think of some of it.

[Bloddyredcommie]

Aaaaand the Rest of Jack's Backstory (Well, barring the bit between CoZ and Nakk's stories).

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On the whole, Jack liked his newfound fame. With Fame brought fear, and with fear brought power, a power he never had before. The power to take a good life and ruin it. He had seen it before, it was the power The Bitch had used every day, the power she had used on him. Now he had it, and it was good. People told him things, sometimes before he even asked. He had no trouble with money, he rarely had to pay for anything, and when he did the money he took off his targets was usually more than enough.
Of course, with Fame came Infamy, and by the time he’d gotten to the fourteenth name on his list there was a citywide manhunt for him. Driven, no doubt, by The Bitch’s network of friends, a network he was working to shrink. #15, Daniel Carson, a lawyer and not half-bad fighter. He knocked the knife out of Jack’s hand, so Jack beat him to death with a bust of some old king. #16, Clarissa Rose, an heiress and investor. She had apparently picked her bodyguard for his looks, Jack killed them both. # 17 and #18, the Carter Brothers, both guild members in good standing, they had complained the workshop Mrs. Kingscote had provided them was too cold, like that was Jack’s fault, or his job to fix. Jack tied them up and burned their workshop down around them.
#19, Arthur Vanti, a Shipowner…
Jack glared across at the street urchin. He’d been forced to change lodgings three times in as many weeks, and his arm was shooting streams of fire throughout his body every time he moved. He was having a bad day, but it could be a very good one. Mister Vanti was one of The Bitch’s most important friends. Without his ships, her guns wouldn’t be going anywhere. He was also one of the most elusive, he spent most of his time at sea or abroad, Jack had almost given up on being able to kill him, until…
“And you’re sure”
The kid nodded “Yeah, I was on the docks, yaknow, and the Harbormaster was talking to this blueblood ‘bout how Captain Vanti had come in on the Silver Lady, so I went to the Fair Wind, where the Crew was drinkin, and they said-”
Jack held up his hand. He’d grown up on the docks, in his mind; the word of a dockside urchin was as good as anything, provided the urchin was getting paid. Jack tossed the kid some coins and swore at him to get out. He grabbed his bag and started sharpening knives. He had been having a bad day; he intended to have a good night.
Captain Vanti had guards around his house, but by this point evading them was practically second nature to him. Jack slipped into the house, a light was on in the study, so he made his way upstairs. Approaching the door he grimaced as his arm twinged again and drew a knife, his favorite all-purpose dagger.
Jack opened the door; Captain Vanti sat at his desk, models of ships lining the walls. “Hello Captain, I hope you’re willing to extend your stay”…
The old man had put up a fight. Jack was nursing a black eye as he cut through the alleys on his way back to the hole-in-the-wall that he was sleeping in, tonight he would-
Apparently, tonight he would turn the corner and come face to face with no less than a dozen constables. He barely had time to get his knife out before they had him, one held each limb while another searched him for knives. He heard one of them say “Somebody send word to Mister Sharp, tell him his hunch was right and my compliments”.
They took him into what seemed like the deepest, darkest cell around. The other prisoners watched silently from behind the bars, they had heard the stories. The Warden was talkative
“Well, we don’t get many Demons down here as a rule, but there’s a first time for everything yaknow.”
Jack snarled.
“Not feeling talkative eh? Well, don’t worry. We’ve got a cell all ready for ya, you’ve got three roommates you’ll get along wonderfully with.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup, they’re all psychotic murders too. And here we are.” The warden opened the door with a creak. “Listen up boys, I brought you a new friend, and he’s a celebrity, say Hi to your new friends Jackie!”
With a shove, the Warden pushed Jack into the cell. He looked around; across from him was some teary-eyed runt whose eyes shot straight to his arm. A tall guy with the pose of a blueblood sat in the corner. On his right, a grease-stained brute leaned against the wall, almost covering it with his bulk.
The Warden locked the door with a click. As if on cue, Jack’s arm throbbed, it took all he had not to double over with pain.
It had been a bad day.

I think the Crew's interaction in the cell/their escape is deserving of it's own fic.

I'll condense the MC backstories at some point...eventually.

Edit: Also, Rukki. Nice work, those are great.

[One]

Idea: Jack and CG striking up a respectfully antagonistic relationship. They love to hate each other, with great passion, but care about the other in a twisted, violent sort of way.
How this would happen i have no idea

[GEMPadre036]

I more imagine Jack as seeing cG as someone to sort of pity, perhaps because he sees a bit of himself in him. They've perhaps even allied from time to time when it was mutually beneficial.

[One]

I see the 16 as being under the protection of the MC, as some of them have skills that have been useful to the Crew in the past.
Maybe they join forces to drive back a Felt incursion?

[GEMPadre036]

Oh, also, just read through all the new fics. YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING!!! Thank God finals are over, now hopefully I'll be able to free up enough time to actually contribute!

[Nakkirz]

Bloody.

That was awesome.
(I love the little reference to Patrick, when they arrest him. )

Who should write the fic of the MC's interactions?? O: