Steampunk Shenanigans with Nakki and Ruka

[okniwy]

Like I said, need to keep track of the art bible.

With that being said... I'd like to tell you a story.

Second Home

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The bell at the front door of the bakery chimed as a young lady walked through the threshold. Mr. Tailor didn't need to look up from the ball of dough he was kneading to see who it was.
"Hello Cassandra, How have you been lately?"
The girl took off her forest green top hat and jacket, hung them on the rack, and replied.
"Fine. Is Gulliver here?"
As she said this she took the feather from the band in the hat and placed it in her hair.
"Yes, he is in his room. By the by, does your father know that you are here?"
Casey hesitated.
"Yes he does."
A long silence. The elder Tailor broke it.
"Would you like me to make up the guest room?"
"If it wouldn't be a bother..."
"Of course not, you may talk to Gulliver while I finish up here. Then we can get you settled for the night."

Casey proceeded to pass though the kitchen to the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. As she climbed, she thought back. She had found her father, but it was... wrong. He was dead but not dead; still the man who loved his daughter with all his heart, but now his heart was clockwork, artificial. She briefly epiphanized that the metaphorical heart and the physical heart were not the same thing, but realized that the latter of the two still took precedent over the former in this case.

When English first found out about her, her father defended her. English quickly backed down, although in retrospect she couldn't begin to fathom why, and offered her food, clothing, and shelter. She was at first skeptical about the top hat with the moving gear in it, but Mister Dorian said that it was purely decorative, and he has not seemed to lie once since she has known him, except for maybe... No, that is a silly idea, and immoral on so many levels.

Although that entire mansion seem immoral, not to any mortal rule, but to reality as a whole. It was this, coupled with the heavily unwanted suitors, that drove her to seek refuge every so often with the man and son that brought her to this town. Her father was indeed aware of this, and in fact could not blame her. He even encouraged it during the more hectic times at the mansion.

Casey was brought out of her thoughts when the door to Gulliver's room opened, and the boy himself jumped back in surprise to see her standing there, which she had to be doing for minutes now.

"oh, hey casey! i was not told you were to be joining us today!"
"Hello Gulliver. I was not entirely aware myself, but something came up at the mansion and father told me to stay away for at least a night."
"that's fine! it's pretty cool that you live there, i mean, almost everyone there is part clockwork, right?"
"Silly boy, we've gone through this before. That is correct, my father included."
"well, here's something i never asked, are you part clockwork?"

For a moment Casey wanted to be offended, but decided against it. Gulliver was a good five years younger than her, and most likely unaware that the Felt were all, what was the word? Not-dead.

"Of course I'm not, the only gear that is visible on my person at any time is the one on my hat, and I'm not wearing my hat right now, see?" She gestured to her hair, which only had her trademark feather in it.

"i only bring this up because some of the friends i made in town are part clock...work. heh."

This surprised and worried her. This came twofold, once from the prospect of English doing experiments on children, and again from the way Gulliver paused and let out a small laugh. It was apparent that he was setting her up for a prank.

Another thing was apparent too... a sort of ticking that wasn't there before, coming from... behind her. She turned and...

"B00"

Her head was clearly three feet higher with that jump. She looked at the perpetrator, who was laughing along with Gulliver. It looked like one of those highly illegal automarionets she had hear about, built to be a girl close to Gulliver's age. But something was off, the hair seemed too real, the laughter coming from it was too sincere, and behind the eye lenses, she could swear there were real eyes...

Gulliver caught his breath and proceeded. "let me introduce you two. amelia, this is an old friend of mine, casey. casey, this is one of the friends i was talking about, Amelia." "Oh my, did English do this to you?" Amelia stop laughing, just a bit too abruptly for Casey's liking. "that man? n0, he has n0thing t0 d0 with my current f0rm. furtherm0re, unlike 0ne 0f his subjects, i am neither in pain n0r am i dead. my b0dy is simply pr0tected and aided by this cl0ckmail" The mention of death caused Casey to glance toward the boy in the room, he seemed unfazed by it.

Casey asked solemnly, "Were you aware? Of my father I mean." Realization quickly dawned on Gulliver's face. "i never really put it all together, but yeah, i guess i was."
The Not-robot in the room interjected almost impatiently, "this is all very well and g00d, but gulliver, carter requests y0ur presence at 0nce, and we b0th kn0w it is better to n0t let him wait"

"oh, your right." the boy answered, his hand to his chin. "hey! casey, would you like to come?" Amelia spoke up before the older girl could respond. "that is a p00r idea, carter w0uld n0t be pleased by y0u bringing guests at this time, 0r ever really" Gulliver just moaned in defeat.

Casey reassured him, "It is fine. I need to set myself up for the night anyway." Gulliver gave a nod of trust to Casey, and a nod of urgency to Amelia, and started down the stairs with the latter.

Casey though the sound of the front door chime came too soon for the speed they were going, but decided that it would be a question for another day. She closed the door to the young boy's room behind her and started toward the guest room.

This whole town was strange, she gathered. But at least this second home of her's was normal enough.

[Nakkirz]

awwwww. Poor freaked out Casey.
It's sweet that Mr. Tailor lets her stay there, though. C: (Though the prank was kind of a dick move.... xD)

also, a doodle!

I don't know why my sleep-deprived brain decided to equate Die to Bernard Marx from Brave New World, but it did. YAY DRUGS (or rather not-yay.)

[Bloddyredcommie]

Hey, remember when I actually finished stuff, rather than just posting bits and pieces.

yeah me neither.

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The Railyards also opened up a new world to Harland, the world of machines. He held tools for Greasekey and watched him work. He watched the old man use his tools and bring life to the massive engines. He watched him tame steam and steel into a force capable of sending unimaginable amounts all across the nation.

By this point Harland towered over Greasekey, working in the railyards had made him even stronger than he was before, and he could probably have snapped the old man’s bones like a twig. And yet, he was always awed by Greasekey, he felt like those hands had a power he could never match. So he learned and studied. They never used terms like “Mentor”, “Protégé” or “Apprentice”, it was nothing official. Just more and more Harland found himself called to help Greasekey. More and more he understood the way the forces churned inside the massive engines, how to apply pressure here, to make this spin, or that press, or something heat up or cool down.

It wasn’t a Job, working at the Railyard, it was a life. By day they fixed trains, by night they told tall tales, wrestled by lamplight, and filled the yards with music. When the Gangs tried to muscle in, the Railyard Crews stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting with fists, wrenches, and hammers to hold their own. When convoys came in from the colonies and the yards were full, they worked through the night. When they had no engines to fix, they honed their skills on spare parts.

This was their life. They stressed about it, they cursed it, they spat at it, they hated it.

They hoped it would never change.
__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ ____
It was a warm summer day when the Trouble first appeared, Switchback was reading out the days task list.
“Ninetoes, Mokey, The Green Monster is rolling out at three. I need you two to double check the boiler vents and make sure the new running lamps are working.”

“Sure thing.”

“What the hell, we spent two hours on those vents last night!”

“And now you’re double checking them, get to it.”

“cmon Mokes, it will be fun. I know you like appreciating your own work.”

Mokey grumbled and sat back down on a seat looted years ago from a passenger car on it’s way to the scrapyard. Switchback grunted and
went back to the list

“Three Eyes, Sixty Seven-”

“Had loose wheelguards, I noticed it when it was coming in. I fixed that last night”

“Alright, then I want you to give the engine a full check. She came down from the mountains, and the idiots in that yard don’t know how to
treat her engine, Boxcars, what do you know about Sixty Seven’s brake system.”

“It’s a weird one, a colonial model I think. Don’t know why they used it here.”

“Ours is not to wonder why, the engineers say it’s responding sluggishly, can you fix it?”

“No, but Greasekey could”.

And that was it, he had said it. The venerable tinker’s absence had been the elephant in the room. Nobody had dared mention it, or even look at the old crate that had served as Greasekey’s throne since time immemorial. He had never been known to miss these meetings; in fact, usually he was the one directing them.

The silence hung over the shed for a few second before Switchback spoke.

“Alright, where is Greasekey? Has anybody seen him”

“Um”… the eyes in the room turned towards Strawhead. The Crew’s most recent member, no older than ten, he had not yet told them his name. They didn’t mind, the Railyards took you in and made you their own. The boy had come to them with an untamed mop of blond hair; that had been all they needed to name him.

“You got something kid?”

“Yeah, he’s in the toolroom, talking to some people.”

“What people”

“I dunno, I ‘eard them on the way here.”

Switchback flipped through the list “Well, we’ve only got three days with Sixty Six, so we’ve got to work fast. Boxcars, go check up on him, see who these people are.”

Harland stood up and began walking towards what Strawhead had called the “Toolroom”, which is what it was. It was also Greasekey’s office, workshop, bedroom, and audience chamber. It was the palace of the Railyard’s beloved monarch. Greasekey had never turned away anybody who wanted to talk, but Harland nevertheless paused at the threshold. He heard Greasekey’s voice.

“Listen, we’ve been keeping the trains moving since before you were born boy-“

“And we appreciate that. But the Guild has made its decision. Your group of novices may have held things together”

“MY CREW has more skill than your entire-”

“-but the guild has made it’s decision. The Railyards are too important to be left in the hands of a single craftsman. Craftsman Groskey, this is
the warning, the Lord Artificer has made this a personal priority. With your help, we can make this transition smooth and painless.”

Harland heard Greasekey spit. “Take that back to the Guild, for now, get out of my sight!”

The door opened, and two men emerged. They both had the look of well-groomed thugs, they wore identical black cloth trousers, white shirts, and grey vests with the Key and Cogwheel embroidered over their hearts. They started at Harland, Harland stared back until they broke and ran.
Greasekey emerged and looked up at Harland.

“Greasekey.”

“Harland.”

“What’s going on”.

The old man waved his hand “Nothing, just a couple Guild flunkies, it’s okay. Whatcha got for me”

“Number Sixty Seven-”

“The breaks, right, you never did have a head for those colonial systems. Cmon, let me get my tools”

“But what about-”

“Forget about them, we’ve got work to do.”

[Nakkirz]

Ooooohhhhh dear. looks like a storm's a-brewin'!
I love Greasekey more and more~ :3

[GEMPadre036]

Oh no, what will happen to Greasekey?! : (

[conceptofzero]

@Bloddy - HB's backstory is so great, I love the railyards and the other characters. It's a really nice slice of what Hardland's life was like before things went back, and starts to explain exactly why he would do the things he did. I can't wait to see how this all goes down!
@okniwy - Amelia and Gulliver make an excellent pranking team!

[GEMPadre036]

Whoops, totally missed that Punnet story the first time around. There is something about the whole gang-o-streeturchins thing I just love. Nice to see some prankster gambits getting filled!

[Nakkirz]

IT'S ART TIME.


My original drawings of Wilbur. And a shitty doodle of Wilhelmina!
Wilbur and Doze would totally be artbuddies.

I am almost completely sure that Clover is at least half-French. As such, he knows French. He also knows Italian and, oddly enough, Chinese from his studies.
Also, ideas for Matchsticks and Quarters. We need to finalize their designs, guys. (These are more canon-looking versions of them, so we'd of course add victorian clothes/cogs/whatever.)

Die now has a coffin-shaped heartclock. CANON (for... this AU lol).

Just an AU-AU doodle based off of Arcana's idea of Dorian getting hurt/English fixing him up. He's not happy to be a cyborg :c
But then there was an English being cuddly, and all was right with the world. c:

[EDIT] OH ALSO.

I couldn't resist. 8C

Isaac probably pulls the 'cooties' thing on Daniel whenever he tries to be nice to girls. ITCHY, WHY SO IMMATURE.

[Twigwise]

Die pictures and cuddles and fics, I do need to use my computer more often...

Er, I had been doodling some pictures and ideas for Quarters earlier this week, but I don't know if I should upload them now :/

[Nakkirz]

Go ahead and upload them!
I was thinking we could combine elements from all the ideas we come up with.

[okniwy]

I'm legitimately interested in what other people will do with the Punnet.

[conceptofzero]

@nakki - yeeess art times! Wilbur and Bartholomew staring each other down is fantastic, and that coffin-shaped heartclock is great.

okay, I just scoured the thread and saw no mention of Crowbar's name or backstory. SO. Hopefully I'm not about to accidently leap in just before someone finishes their own thing.

Rooftops

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Concord found his way across the rooftops as he usually did, easily moving from building to building. It was the way he had traveled since he had first been old enough to look up and realize how the tightly packed houses and dense rooftops formed another road, high above the street, one not fill with people and horses and waste and muck, one where a boy could run as fast as his legs could take him and not worry about dodging through crowds of adults.

Of course, he was no longer a boy, nor had he been since the day Mr. Fowler decided to walk out for a pouch of tobacco for his pipe and decided not to come back from the store. That was the day when Concord had made his decision to see to his family no matter what the cost.

The shingles under his feet slide and shudder and threaten to give way, but they never do. On the rooftops, he is immortal and free, and he is the master of his own destiny. He easily leaps the few gaps here and there, bounding pelt-melt down the long winding row of houses until he finally reaches his family’s own home, crammed inbetween a pair of nearly identical home. He can hear his sisters fighting as he comes up on his room, and he slides down to the edge of the roof, and slips into his open window.

Concord closes the shutters and latches them tight, and sorts through his bag of ill-gotten gains. There’s plenty to sell tomorrow at the market and to turn into coins to buy food with. He’s carefully chosen things of value, but things that cannot be easily traced back to their owners. After a decade of picking pockets and pinching heirlooms, he’s gotten very good at choosing items that will not betray him to the police.

“CONCORD IF-JESUS-CHRIST-HAD-NOT-DIED-FOR-THEE-THOU-HADST-BEEN-DAMNED FOWLER!” He hears his eldest-youngest sister bellow and he quickly stashes his goods beneath Job-raked-out-of-the-ashes’ bed. Concord straights up, and when Zeal-for-the-Lord enters, he’s lounging against the wall, “You’re making a bloody racket again!”

“I’m making a bloody racket? Have you listened to how loud you are lately?” Concord teases, easily stepping around her and darting down the stairs. He can feel Zeal glaring him down, but he doesn’t turn around. She’s going to go digging around beneath his bed again, and all she’ll find are nothing but odds and ends that he’s been unable or unwilling to sell. She won’t even think to pick under Job’s bed, not when everyone knows that Job is the closest thing this family has to a saint. Hell, she’s down at the nunnery most days, helping the sisters out. If it weren’t for the rest of the family needing her help, Zeal would have traded her bonnet for a wimple an age ago.

Little Unity and Praise-the-Lord are sitting on the floor of the kitchen, playing with their dolls, and they both smile at Concord when the spot him, “Concord!”

“Aw c’mere,” He throws open his arms, and his sisters run to him, embracing him tightly. They’re both getting so large, eight and seven respectively, and it won’t be long until they begin acting like the rest of his sisters, acting as if they’re too good to hug their older brother, “Have you been good and helping mother with her chores?”

The girls except looks and Concord feels his heart sink. He knows that look. It’s Praise-the-Lord who speaks up, “Mother had to lie down again.”

“We thought she had seen Mr. Francis in the streets, but it wasn’t him,” Unity hugs her doll close, “Concord... is mother sick?”

“She’s a bit sick, but it won’t last long,” He assures the girls, hugging the pair of them, “Where’s Weep-not?”

“Her boy came over and asked her to go with him for a walk,” Praise-the-Lord tattles on her older sister, as she always does. Weep-not’s boy is a low-life thug, but he’s a well-meaning low-life thug, and Concord knows where he lives. It’s certainly better than having her fall for some rich man who’ll simply discard her when he’s finished with her. His mind turns to Mr. Francis again and he feels a cold anger building in his heart, “Mirth and Job are hanging laundry in the alley.”

“Why don’t you go help Mirth and Job then? I’ll go take care of mother,” Concord sets down his youngest sisters, and they grin up at him before heading out to the alley behind their home. He waits until they’ve left the house before venturing into his mother’s room.

She is lying on the bed, and when he pushes the door open, he hears her quietly say, “Go play girls.”

“It’s me, mother,” Concord greets her and goes around the side of the bed to get a look at her. She’s been looking ill of late, though thankfully not the sort of ill he sees on the girls in the streets with their bloody handkerchiefs. Mother is sweating heavily, and Concord sits beside her, laying the back of his hand against her forehead. She’s warm, but not worryingly so, “You look like shit.”

“Watch that tongue of yours,” She says, but there’s no the usual fond smile on her face, “Where are you sisters?”

“Zeal’s rummaging around beneath my bed, and the others are all hanging laundry in the alley,” He doesn’t tell her about Weep-not. The poor girl deserves at least a few happy hours with her boy, “Unity thought you had seen Mr. Francis.”

“I do not believe I shall ever see him again,” And his heart breaks for her when she says that. Concord did not like Mr. Francis, but he had hoped that perhaps he would be the sort of man his mother desperately needed. It was not easy for a woman to get by on her own, particularly not one with seven children and a husband who did not even have the decency to die and leave her widowed. She had been so lonely for so long, and though Concord had not liked Mr. Francis, he had at least made mother smile.

But it seems the bastard had gotten what he wished out of her and no longer saw a reason to behave like a gentleman. Mother had done her best to pretend she wasn’t affected, but Concord knew the truth. It was like father leaving all over again, only a bit worse, since father had at least never forced mother to choose between him and the children.

“It will be fine,” Concord assures her, stroking her hair, “I’ll take care of us. We’ll be eight again.”

“Nine,” She whispers, and Concord’s hand stills for just a moment. He wouldn’t. That utter bastard couldn’t- oh but of course he had. Of course he had.

“Nine,” Concord repeats, and he pulls his mother upright and hugs her. She has not yet begun to gain weight, and he cannot feel any difference when he holds her and she weeps. But there is a difference and he knows it. He strokes his mother’s hair, and he quietly resolves himself, “It will be fine mother. We don’t need Mr. Francis.”

No, they don’t need Mr. Francis. And tonight, when Concord ventures across rooftops towards the other side of town, life will no longer need Mr. Francis either. Concord will make sure of that.

--

His feet find a path in the dark, just as they always have, moving easily across the city rooftops. No one hears him move any more, and he slips through the night like a spectre, the ghost of a dead man.

Crowbar stops and creeps near the edge of the roof, and simply watches the home across the street.

The house is lit up at night, and he can hear the sound of his sisters. Zeal and Weep-not are no longer there, but Job-raked-out-of-the-ashes is there with her fellow, and he can see his other sisters moving through the house, busying themselves as they prepare for dinner. He cannot see Salvation, but he can hear his youngest brother, his voice echoing through the empty streets as he sings a song of his own invention to their mother.

He misses them more than he can say. Crowbar would give anything to walk through the door once more, to sit down and listen to Unity and Praise-the-Lord tell him about their friends and the boys down on the corner, to play with Salvation and assure him that his darker hair and blue eyes mean nothing at all and that he is still their brother through and through, to ask if his mother is well and if she is happy.

But he cannot. He knows better.

Crowbar crosses the street and creeps down the rooftops to the house that was once his own. He hangs over the edge of the roof and slips into the open shutters of his old room, the shutters that they have never closed since the day he failed to come home. His bed has become Salvation’s bed, and Crowbar draws the billfold out of his jacket and slips it beneath the pillow. That will keep his family afloat another few months, until he repeats it again.

There is nothing he wouldn’t give to have one more day with them. But he’s made a promise to Lord English, and he will not break it. Concord Fowler fell to his death and died on the cobblestones, and he left his family with no one to care for them. It was English who raised Crowbar from the dead, English who gave him life and breath, another chance to live and see things right. Without English, his family would be in the workhouse, and there would be no one to blame but himself. Eternal servitude is a small price to pay if it means his family shall be safe.

Before he can be discovered, Crowbar slips out of his old room, leaving behind the money. He stands on the roof for a moment, feeling old familiar shingles beneath his feet, and listens to the sound of his sisters teasing one another. And when he knows he cannot risk it any longer, he finally runs, letting his feet find their way and trusting that this time they will not betray him.

notes

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- I cannot imagine any version of Crowbar not having a million sisters. It's why he's so good at dealing with the Felt! 13 other guys are nothing compared to six teenaged girls.
- Puritan names! I have a bit of a fondness for them and how delightfully ridiculous they are, so all of the Fowlers get them.
- the first bit is set when Concord is about nineteen or so, and the last bit is after his death, so when he's in his late twenties (twenty-seven, twenty-eight). There's almost a decade seperating the two. His life inbetween is mostly the same, Concord trying to get ahead and keep his family afloat, and constantly having things go wrong and spiral out of control.
- Concord starts out as a pickpocket and moves his way up to burglary. Mr. Francis is the first time he kills someone, but hardly the last, especially once he figures out that people will pay good money to have other people 'kill' themselves by jumping out of windows, or 'accidentally' fall to their death while out on the terrace. Of course, the police eventually catch on, and that's what leads to Concord falling to his death when he goes running across rooftops to escape them into an area he's not familiar with, on a wet and rainy day. One slip later, and his body's off to the morgue (and to English).

[Thatoneguy]

@nakki - yeeess art times! Wilbur and Bartholomew staring each other down is fantastic, and that coffin-shaped heartclock is great.

okay, I just scoured the thread and saw no mention of Crowbar's name or backstory. SO. Hopefully I'm not about to accidently leap in just before someone finishes their own thing.

Rooftops

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Concord found his way across the rooftops as he usually did, easily moving from building to building. It was the way he had traveled since he had first been old enough to look up and realize how the tightly packed houses and dense rooftops formed another road, high above the street, one not fill with people and horses and waste and muck, one where a boy could run as fast as his legs could take him and not worry about dodging through crowds of adults.

Of course, he was no longer a boy, nor had he been since the day Mr. Fowler decided to walk out for a pouch of tobacco for his pipe and decided not to come back from the store. That was the day when Concord had made his decision to see to his family no matter what the cost.

The shingles under his feet slide and shudder and threaten to give way, but they never do. On the rooftops, he is immortal and free, and he is the master of his own destiny. He easily leaps the few gaps here and there, bounding pelt-melt down the long winding row of houses until he finally reaches his family’s own home, crammed inbetween a pair of nearly identical home. He can hear his sisters fighting as he comes up on his room, and he slides down to the edge of the roof, and slips into his open window.

Concord closes the shutters and latches them tight, and sorts through his bag of ill-gotten gains. There’s plenty to sell tomorrow at the market and to turn into coins to buy food with. He’s carefully chosen things of value, but things that cannot be easily traced back to their owners. After a decade of picking pockets and pinching heirlooms, he’s gotten very good at choosing items that will not betray him to the police.

“CONCORD IF-JESUS-CHRIST-HAD-NOT-DIED-FOR-THEE-THOU-HADST-BEEN-DAMNED FOWLER!” He hears his eldest-youngest sister bellow and he quickly stashes his goods beneath Job-raked-out-of-the-ashes’ bed. Concord straights up, and when Zeal-for-the-Lord enters, he’s lounging against the wall, “You’re making a bloody racket again!”

“I’m making a bloody racket? Have you listened to how loud you are lately?” Concord teases, easily stepping around her and darting down the stairs. He can feel Zeal glaring him down, but he doesn’t turn around. She’s going to go digging around beneath his bed again, and all she’ll find are nothing but odds and ends that he’s been unable or unwilling to sell. She won’t even think to pick under Job’s bed, not when everyone knows that Job is the closest thing this family has to a saint. Hell, she’s down at the nunnery most days, helping the sisters out. If it weren’t for the rest of the family needing her help, Zeal would have traded her bonnet for a wimple an age ago.

Little Unity and Praise-the-Lord are sitting on the floor of the kitchen, playing with their dolls, and they both smile at Concord when the spot him, “Concord!”

“Aw c’mere,” He throws open his arms, and his sisters run to him, embracing him tightly. They’re both getting so large, eight and seven respectively, and it won’t be long until they begin acting like the rest of his sisters, acting as if they’re too good to hug their older brother, “Have you been good and helping mother with her chores?”

The girls except looks and Concord feels his heart sink. He knows that look. It’s Praise-the-Lord who speaks up, “Mother had to lie down again.”

“We thought she had seen Mr. Francis in the streets, but it wasn’t him,” Unity hugs her doll close, “Concord... is mother sick?”

“She’s a bit sick, but it won’t last long,” He assures the girls, hugging the pair of them, “Where’s Weep-not?”

“Her boy came over and asked her to go with him for a walk,” Praise-the-Lord tattles on her older sister, as she always does. Weep-not’s boy is a low-life thug, but he’s a well-meaning low-life thug, and Concord knows where he lives. It’s certainly better than having her fall for some rich man who’ll simply discard her when he’s finished with her. His mind turns to Mr. Francis again and he feels a cold anger building in his heart, “Mirth and Job are hanging laundry in the alley.”

“Why don’t you go help Mirth and Job then? I’ll go take care of mother,” Concord sets down his youngest sisters, and they grin up at him before heading out to the alley behind their home. He waits until they’ve left the house before venturing into his mother’s room.

She is lying on the bed, and when he pushes the door open, he hears her quietly say, “Go play girls.”

“It’s me, mother,” Concord greets her and goes around the side of the bed to get a look at her. She’s been looking ill of late, though thankfully not the sort of ill he sees on the girls in the streets with their bloody handkerchiefs. Mother is sweating heavily, and Concord sits beside her, laying the back of his hand against her forehead. She’s warm, but not worryingly so, “You look like shit.”

“Watch that tongue of yours,” She says, but there’s no the usual fond smile on her face, “Where are you sisters?”

“Zeal’s rummaging around beneath my bed, and the others are all hanging laundry in the alley,” He doesn’t tell her about Weep-not. The poor girl deserves at least a few happy hours with her boy, “Unity thought you had seen Mr. Francis.”

“I do not believe I shall ever see him again,” And his heart breaks for her when she says that. Concord did not like Mr. Francis, but he had hoped that perhaps he would be the sort of man his mother desperately needed. It was not easy for a woman to get by on her own, particularly not one with seven children and a husband who did not even have the decency to die and leave her widowed. She had been so lonely for so long, and though Concord had not liked Mr. Francis, he had at least made mother smile.

But it seems the bastard had gotten what he wished out of her and no longer saw a reason to behave like a gentleman. Mother had done her best to pretend she wasn’t affected, but Concord knew the truth. It was like father leaving all over again, only a bit worse, since father had at least never forced mother to choose between him and the children.

“It will be fine,” Concord assures her, stroking her hair, “I’ll take care of us. We’ll be eight again.”

“Nine,” She whispers, and Concord’s hand stills for just a moment. He wouldn’t. That utter bastard couldn’t- oh but of course he had. Of course he had.

“Nine,” Concord repeats, and he pulls his mother upright and hugs her. She has not yet begun to gain weight, and he cannot feel any difference when he holds her and she weeps. But there is a difference and he knows it. He strokes his mother’s hair, and he quietly resolves himself, “It will be fine mother. We don’t need Mr. Francis.”

No, they don’t need Mr. Francis. And tonight, when Concord ventures across rooftops towards the other side of town, life will no longer need Mr. Francis either. Concord will make sure of that.

--

His feet find a path in the dark, just as they always have, moving easily across the city rooftops. No one hears him move any more, and he slips through the night like a spectre, the ghost of a dead man.

Crowbar stops and creeps near the edge of the roof, and simply watches the home across the street.

The house is lit up at night, and he can hear the sound of his sisters. Zeal and Weep-not are no longer there, but Job-raked-out-of-the-ashes is there with her fellow, and he can see his other sisters moving through the house, busying themselves as they prepare for dinner. He cannot see Salvation, but he can hear his youngest brother, his voice echoing through the empty streets as he sings a song of his own invention to their mother.

He misses them more than he can say. Crowbar would give anything to walk through the door once more, to sit down and listen to Unity and Praise-the-Lord tell him about their friends and the boys down on the corner, to play with Salvation and assure him that his darker hair and blue eyes mean nothing at all and that he is still their brother through and through, to ask if his mother is well and if she is happy.

But he cannot. He knows better.

Crowbar crosses the street and creeps down the rooftops to the house that was once his own. He hangs over the edge of the roof and slips into the open shutters of his old room, the shutters that they have never closed since the day he failed to come home. His bed has become Salvation’s bed, and Crowbar draws the billfold out of his jacket and slips it beneath the pillow. That will keep his family afloat another few months, until he repeats it again.

There is nothing he wouldn’t give to have one more day with them. But he’s made a promise to Lord English, and he will not break it. Concord Fowler fell to his death and died on the cobblestones, and he left his family with no one to care for them. It was English who raised Crowbar from the dead, English who gave him life and breath, another chance to live and see things right. Without English, his family would be in the workhouse, and there would be no one to blame but himself. Eternal servitude is a small price to pay if it means his family shall be safe.

Before he can be discovered, Crowbar slips out of his old room, leaving behind the money. He stands on the roof for a moment, feeling old familiar shingles beneath his feet, and listens to the sound of his sisters teasing one another. And when he knows he cannot risk it any longer, he finally runs, letting his feet find their way and trusting that this time they will not betray him.

notes

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- I cannot imagine any version of Crowbar not having a million sisters. It's why he's so good at dealing with the Felt! 13 other guys are nothing compared to six teenaged girls.
- Puritan names! I have a bit of a fondness for them and how delightfully ridiculous they are, so all of the Fowlers get them.
- the first bit is set when Concord is about nineteen or so, and the last bit is after his death, so when he's in his late twenties (twenty-seven, twenty-eight). There's almost a decade seperating the two. His life inbetween is mostly the same, Concord trying to get ahead and keep his family afloat, and constantly having things go wrong and spiral out of control.
- Concord starts out as a pickpocket and moves his way up to burglary. Mr. Francis is the first time he kills someone, but hardly the last, especially once he figures out that people will pay good money to have other people 'kill' themselves by jumping out of windows, or 'accidentally' fall to their death while out on the terrace. Of course, the police eventually catch on, and that's what leads to Concord falling to his death when he goes running across rooftops to escape them into an area he's not familiar with, on a wet and rainy day. One slip later, and his body's off to the morgue (and to English).

Woah.

[NightingaleRB]

Rooftops

YES. There is not a single part of this I do not love.

[Nakkirz]

@CoZ: ...
Oh gooood, Crowbar, why are you such a sweetheart? WHY ARE YOU SO SAD???
;n;
On another note, the Puritan names are absolutely HILARIOUS I love Concord's middle name pfsdjfkdad

[Bloddyredcommie]

Nakk: Love the Arts. Too...Much...Mandorableness!

CoZ: That's awesome. Was Concord's last thought as he fell something about wanting to fix things? Or wanting to make things normal?

[Twigwise]

COZ you are a wonderful person of wonderfulness. Crowbar you sweetie

[GEMPadre036]

CoZ, once again you have written pure awesomeness.

[conceptofzero]

aw you guys I am just glad you all love Crowbar as much as I do. if English is the dad and Dorian is the mom, Crowbar is everybody's older brother.

@nakki - those are all 100% authentic Puritan names. Even Crowbar's (espeically Crowbar's). Wouldn't you like to be called Tribulation? Or Fight-the-good-fight-of-faith? Or Fly-fornication, which would make you real popular with all the boys. I sort of adore how ridiculous they are, espeically the long ones like If-Jesus-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-be-damned, because it makes the best middle name you could ever saddle a kid with.
@bloddy - Concord's last thought was probably some vain wish that he'd had control of things, that for once in his life he would have been acting instead of always reacting. He's the sort of guy who never had any real power over where his life headed until he signed up with English, and suddenly he could do what he wanted without worrying about making sure there was food on the table, and clothes for his sisters. Of course, in typical Crowbar fashion, he worries about that stuff anyway, because he doesn't know how not to take care of everyone else. At least these days he can solve most of his problems by hitting them.

[Rukafais]

Oh jesus Crowbar I just want to hug you forever 8(

...And ffffsdkghsldkf LMAO OH GOD ALL THOSE NAMES that's. That's amazing. TOO LONG, GUYS.

Anywayyy



I actually quite like black and white contrasts because ughghg shading what's that

Most of the time Clover kills people for shits and giggles. Sometimes it's for a vaguely good reason.

This is one of those times.



I think I was planning to add more black over on the right side there, but that would probably be overkill.

Orzzz I feel so sorry for Crowbar it's amazing.

[NightingaleRB]

I KNOW RIGHT ;_;

[Skyrius]

Hello Naki and Ruka.

I'd like to formally congratulate you for creating this thread and building up such a wonderful world, backstory, and cast of characters. I'd also like to give the warmest, loveliest, GOD DAMMIT for the accomplishment of sucking out 5 hours of my school night time.

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IDON'TREALLYCARENEVERSTOPBEINGAWESOME

By the way, there are a bunch of character designs and fiction and overall awesomeness, but I don't think anyone's done any sketches of the city or random machines that would roam around. I almost really, really want to jump on that, but honestly I've just arrived so that's kinda awkward XD

[Rukafais]

HAHA MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

And oh man this is a group project. CONTRIBUTE WHATEVER YOU'D LIKE TO, WE'RE HAPPY TO HAVE YOU.

[conceptofzero]

@ruka - oh man, the contrast works so well in both those peices, but fff oh that last one. shut out of his own life
@NightingaleRB - I just want to make a million hearts at this the simplicity of it just really makes it hit home

and seriously Skyrius, just jump in. that's what I did, and everyone has been really welcoming and awesome

[Bloddyredcommie]

Finished Harland's Backstory. It's HUGE, so I'm going to just post it all.
Four of a Kind: Broken Hearts

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Janice and Robert Bryant had six children, Robert Jr. Eric, and Sandy were three of them, Harland was the other three.

His mother died in childbirth, when he was Six, he was taller than any of his siblings, when he was fourteen he was taller than his father.

When he was eight, the other children on Coalshuttle Street started making fun of him, they called him “Freak” “Ogre” and “Giant”. They would throw rocks at him; they would try to beat him up.

It became a game to them, like bear baiting. No one child could beat him, so two would attack, then three, then four.

When he was twelve, ten other boys attacked him. They started by throwing rocks and cobblestones.

He tried to fight, but there were simply too many. He was able to break free and run. He fled from Coalshuttle street, he ran through the city. He was not wanted at home, where his father saw him as nothing more than a boy who had killed his mother and now needed as much food as his siblings put together. He was not wanted on Coalshuttle street.

And now he was just a freakish twelve year old, running, crying, bruised, and bleeding.
Eventually, he simply could not run any longer, he tripped, stumbled, and fell. He heard boots crunching in the gravel. A gruff voice spoke from above.
“Geeze kid, you okay”.

Harland looked up, an aged man in a faded greatcoat, the Guild see embroidered on the shoulders.

The man extended a calloused hand downwards, Harland grabbed it, it was thin, but he felt a powerful strength in the man’s grip as he was pulled up to his feet.
“Man, you’re a big one.” The man looked over Harland’s bruises “Geeze, who could have done that to a bear like you?”

“Pete and Charlie and Quentin and”

“Hold on kid, how many of them were there?”

“Ten”

“TEN, aw geeze, come on kid. What’s your name”

“Harland”

“Harland. Good name, I knew a Harland once, good man. Nice to meet you Harland, My name’s Edward, but here, everybody calls me Greasekey, cmon kid.”

Greasekey led him through the yard to a large shed, inside several men sat around a coal fire, a hearty smelling stew cooking on the pot. These were men with oil-stained hands and smoke-blackened faces. Men with names like Switchback, Nine Toes, Three Eyes and Mokey.

These men looked at the huge, bruised boy with Greasekey. They did not question his presence, demand explanations, or pass judgement on him. They just poured him a bowl of soup and started talking about the trains.

That night Old Bess was coming in with a load of timber and Livestock, and the latch wheel would need to be tightened. Lighting Lucy was supposed to go out tomorrow, but couldn’t because they needed a Olbermann style gearbox, so Greasekey would either have to convert one, or they’d have to go down to the scrap shop and hope “That French bastard” had one that wasn’t two days from falling apart.
Harland didn’t understand any of it, but he envied those men, they had purpose and place. They respected, trusted, and appreciated each other.

That was Harland’s first night at the Railyards.

A week later, he went back. The next month he stayed for three days.

When he was sixteen, Harland left Coalshuttle street for the last time. It was three months before they realized he wasn’t coming back. Nobody cared.


At the Railyard, Harland felt at home for the first time in his life. For once, his size was not a subject of ridicule, but at an asset. He was appreciated. They had this unifying sense of purpose. In the Railyards, Harland felt he was part of something. A quest to make sure the next engine rolled out on time. He got to know those powerful engines like they were old friends; he learned their names and their quirks, their flaws and their strengths. Those engines were the lifeblood of nation, and they were never far from breaking down. It was the job of the men at the railyard to get them running. They were given an engine and the date it was supposed to leave. They were in charge of getting it up and running again, and if they had to beg, borrow or steal to make that happen, that’s what they did. Sometimes one could be mistaken for believing that those men at the railyard were singlehandedly responsible for keeping the nation running, that without them everything would grind to a halt.

The Railyards also opened up a new world to Harland, the world of machines. He held tools for Greasekey and watched him work. He watched the old man use his tools and bring life to the massive engines. He watched him tame steam and steel into a force capable of sending unimaginable amounts all across the nation.

By this point Harland towered over Greasekey, working in the railyards had made him even stronger than he was before, and he could probably have snapped the old man’s bones like a twig. And yet, he was always awed by Greasekey, he felt like those hands had a power he could never match. So he learned and studied. They never used terms like “Mentor”, “Protégé” or “Apprentice”, it was nothing official. Just more and more Harland found himself called to help Greasekey. More and more he understood the way the forces churned inside the massive engines, how to apply pressure here, to make this spin, or that press, or something heat up or cool down.

It wasn’t a Job, working at the Railyard, it was a life. By day they fixed trains, by night they told tall tales, wrestled by lamplight, and filled the yards with music. When the Gangs tried to muscle in, the Railyard Crews stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting with fists, wrenches, and hammers to hold their own. When convoys came in from the colonies and the yards were full, they worked through the night. When they had no engines to fix, they honed their skills on spare parts.

This was their life. They stressed about it, they cursed it, they spat at it, they hated it.

They hoped it would never change.

It was a warm summer day when the Trouble first appeared, Switchback was reading out the days task list.

“Ninetoes, Mokey, The Green Monster is rolling out at three. I need you two to double check the boiler vents and make sure the new running lamps are working.”

“Sure thing.”

“What the hell, we spent two hours on those vents last night!”

“And now you’re double checking them, get to it.”

“cmon Mokes, it will be fun. I know you like appreciating your own work.”

Mokey grumbled and sat back down on a seat looted years ago from a passenger car on it’s way to the scrapyard. Switchback grunted and went back to the list”

“Three Eyes, Sixty Seven-”

“Had loose wheelguards, I noticed it when it was coming in. I fixed that last night”

“Alright, then I want you to give the engine a full check. She came down from the
mountains, and the idiots in that yard don’t know how to treat her engine, Boxcars, what do you know about Sixty Seven’s brake system.”

“It’s a weird one, a colonial model I think. Don’t know why they used it here.”

“Ours is not to wonder why, the engineers say it’s responding sluggishly, can you fix it?”

“No, but Greasekey could”.

And that was it, he had said it. The venerable tinker’s absence had been the elephant in the room. Nobody had dared mention it, or even look at the old crate that had served as Greasekey’s throne since time immemorial. He had never been known to miss these meetings; in fact, usually he was the one directing them.

The silence hung over the shed for a few second before Switchback spoke. “Alright, where is Greasekey? Has anybody seen him”

“Um”… the eyes in the room turned towards Strawtop. The Crew’s most recent member, no older than ten, he had not yet told them his name. They didn’t mind, the Railyards took you in and made you their own. The boy had come to them with an untamed mop of blond hair; that had been all they needed to name him.

“You got something kid?”

“Yeah, he’s in the toolroom, talking to some people.”

“What people”

“I dunno, I ‘eard them on the way here.”

Switchback flipped through the list “Well, we’ve only got three days with Sixty Six, so we've got to work fast. Boxcars, go check up on him, see who these people are.”

Harland stood up and began walking towards what Strawtop had called the “Toolroom”, which is what it was. It was also Greasekey’s office, workshop, bedroom, and audience chamber. It was the palace of the Railyard’s beloved monarch. Greasekey had never turned away anybody who wanted to talk, but Harland nevertheless paused at the threshold. He heard Greasekey’s voice.

“Listen, we’ve been keeping the trains moving since before you were born boy-“

“And we appreciate that. But the Guild has made its decision. Your group of novices may have held things together”

“MY CREW has more skill than your entire-”

“-but the guild has made it’s decision. The Railyards are too important to be left in the hands of a single craftsman. Craftsman Groskey, this is the warning, the Lord Artificer has made this a personal priority. With your help, we can make this transition smooth and painless.”

Harland heard Greasekey spit. “Take that back to the Guild, for now, get out of my sight!”

The door opened, and two men emerged. They both had the look of well-groomed thugs, they wore identical black cloth trousers, white shirts, and grey vests with the Key and Cogwheel embroidered over their hearts. They started at Harland, Harland stared back until they broke and ran.

Greasekey emerged and looked up at Harland.

“Greasekey.”

“Harland.”

“What’s going on”.

The old man waved his hand “Nothing, just a couple Guild flunkies, it’s okay. Whatcha got for me”

“Number Sixty Seven-”

“The breaks, right, you never did have a head for those colonial systems. Cmon, let me get my tools”

“But what about-”

“Forget about them, we’ve got work to do.”

That night they sat around the stewfire in silence. The usual banter was gone, something was in the air. This was not the first Trouble the crew had faced. They had weathered fires, storms, parts shortages, and gangs of all flavors.

But this was something new.

Finally, Greasekey sighed and put down his bowl.

“Alright, what is it.”

Switchback spoke first “Boxcars told us about what happened this morning. About those cogheads”.

“Well, what about them?”

“Are they gonna cause us trouble. Besides you, none of us are in the Guild, and, well, the boys at the hardware store have been talking, it’s the new Lord Artificer, Blackmoore. He’s ambitious, not like old Carson.”

Greasekey stood up and cleared his throat. “Listen up you guys. I may not get along with The Guild, but I know their laws, heck, I was practically there when they wrote them. The Guild can make lots of noise, but that’s all they can do.” Greasekey lit a cigarette “They’ll come back and use big words. They may approach you individually, with money or with threats. They want to control the Railyards, but so long as we keep the trains running they can’t move in.”

Ninetoes spoke up “And we always keep the trains running”.

“That’s what we do.”


Two days later the Guild returned to the Railyard. They had a letter signed by an Artificer. Greasekey burned it without reading it, Harland chased the flunkies off.

The next week a pair of anonymous gentlemn approached Mokey with a bag of money if he would make sure Blue Bessie didn’t leave on time. He spit in their eyes.

The next day while Ninetoes was out buying parts he was approached by a very nice gentleman introducing himself as Master Craftsman Welling. Master Craftsman Welling bought him a very nice lunch and they sat down to talk. Welling was of the opinion that while Greasekey had done a fine job of running the Railyards, he was getting old, and that if Ninetoes could help facilitate a transition of control, Welling could help make sure all members of the crew were well compensated.
Ninetoes was polite, and reasonable.

He spent an hour with Master Craftsman Welling discussing the future of the railyards. When they were done Welling was of the opinion that While Greasekey was getting old, he had done a fine job of running the railyards, and should be left to do so.

Two days later Three-eyes was cornered in an alleyway. A pair of goons two times his size told him to leave the Yards or he’d be dust. He kicked one in the crotch and He punched the other in the gut. Three Eye then cracked their jaws with a wrench and left them in the rain.


A month later, Greasekey was shot.

__________________________________________________ __________
The Crew had just cleared the yard. Four trains, The Green Monster, Number Seventy Three, Blue Lightning and The Dragon had been in the Yard that morning. They had cleared them all on time (With Three-Eyes and Strawtop doing last minute work as the Dragon rolled out of town, jumping into the river as it crossed the bridge). So they were celebrating at the pub.


Strawtop giggled drunkenly. Switchback chuckled “Easy there kid, drink too much and you’ll end up a shrimp like three-eyes over here.”

“ but I like Unkey Three-eyes”.

“See Switch, the kid likes me. Nothing wrong with being a little short.”

Harland set down his glass “What’s this ‘bout Three-Eyes being short? From where I see it, you’re all pint sized”.

It wasn’t exactly comedy gold, but at that time, for those men, it was hilarious. The table roared with laughter. Greasekey finished his drink and pushed back his chair “I think that’s enough for me. You boys have a good time, I’m going to go get some shuteye”.

Ninetoes shrugged “You sure you’re going to be okay boss, want one of us to come back with ya?”

“When I need help to walk three blocks then you can tell me, because I’ll hang up my wrench. Enjoy the night, you guys earned it.”

Greasekey shrugged on his coat and walked out. The door shut behind him, the crew went back to their drinks.

Ninetoes was halfway through a particularly raunchy joke when they heard the gunshot.

Instantly, they bolted up, Harland accidentally knocked the table over as they ran to the door. Nobody cared.


Greasekey lay in the street, four men stood around him, one of them held a doubleshot pistol. Two of them were missing teeth and sporting wrench shaped bruises on their jaws.

The goon pointed the gun at them.

“Just stay back, nobody else needs to get hurt.”

Harland growled “I wouldn’t say that”.

“Now, you’re not stupid men, I know you wouldn’t-”

By this point Strawtop had pried a loose cobblestone off the street and hurled it. The thug clutched his face and dropped the gun.

The crew rushed them.

The thugs never stood a chance.
__________________________________________________ ____________

Harland had just dropped Greasekey off at Doc Steven’s when switchback approached.

“What did you do with them”

“We’ve got them in the shed. Mokey nad Ninetoes are watching them. Mokey thinks we should throw them in the river, but, well…what did the
Doc say?”

“He said ‘Get him onto the table before he get an infection from your unwashed mits’. You know the doc.”

“The point is, no matter what we do with them, we’ve lost. We can’t keep things going while Greasekey recovers, assuming he lives.”

“He’ll live”

“We can’t-”

“HE. WILL. LIVE.”

“Okay, whatever you say Boxcars. The point is, the moment we screw up and one train pulls out late, the Guild will move in. There’s no way to stop them, even killing their flunkies won’t stop them.”

They sat their, looking at the lights of the city for some time until Harland spoke.

“Depends”

“Depends on what.”

“On how you do it.”

“On how you do what?”

Harland stood up. “I’ll be going. Don’t come and find me”.

Harland walked to the shed.

“Switchback says to get some sleep.”

“You sure boxcars”

“Yeah, I’m bigger than both of you put together.”

“Whatever you say Boxey, need us to do anything?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“Lie about me.”

Ninetoes and Mokey looked up, “What?”

“Lie about me. In a few hours the bulls are going to be here asking about me. Tell them about Boxcars the thug, Boxcars the hated. Tell them how I terrified you guys. Tell them how you wished I was gone but were too scared to do anything about it. Above all else, tell them how you had nothing to do with what is about to happen.”

“What are you going on about? What the hell is about to happen?”

“The Guild is about to be scared shitless.”
__________________________________________________ ____________
Journeyman Thomas Carl opened his eyes. It was supposed to be easy, shoot the old geezer, then leave. Thomas certainly hadn’t expected the old guy to keep moving, meaning they had to shoot him again to be sure. He had not expected the geezer’s band of muscle to show up before they could finish the job. He had REALLY not expected that blonde kid with the cobblestone.

And now he was awake, tied up, lying down on some thing hard and uneven, looking into the face of that ogre who had pummeled him back on the street.

The ogre looked down at him, “Don’t try to talk. Your jaw is probably broken, several times. Just listen.”

Thomas was in no position to argue.

“We met before, you came to talk to Greasekey a while back, you were wearing a guild vest. You’re probably a Journeyman right? Doing a couple dirty jobs in order to make Craftsman because you don’t have the brains to get through the old fashioned way, right? Well, mister Journeyman, you’re good with machine. Hopefully you can give me a hand with something.”

The Ogre lit a lamp, and suddenly Thomas could see. He and the other three had been shoved into a massive mechanism, above him he could see some massive gears.

“We call this the Ox, we use it to tow broken locomotives along the tracks. It’s been sluggish lately, maybe you can take a look at it.”
The ogre moved out of Thomas’s sight. Thomas heard a lever being pulled, an engine start. Above him, some of the gears started to turn.

“A really close look.”

Thomas Carl’s life ended with a sickening crunch.

The Constables had asked no questions, and Harland had put up no resistance. Still, four burly officers dragged him to his cell in shackles, with others holding him at gunpoint, like showmen brining a bear through a village.

The warden was fat and smelled of grease and sweat. The keys jangled as he took them out.

“So, killed four fellows with gears. A guy your size, I’m surprised you didn’t just use your hands.”

“They were Guild, it seemed appropriate.”

The Warden was one to appreciate gallows humor, he let out a chuckle.

“Anyway, we’ve got a good cellmate for ya, Lucien Ashford, that blueblood that snapped and killed some other blueblood. It got Bloody Jack off the headlines for a day, of course, I imagine you might do that to.”

“If I’m lucky.”

“Yeah, lucky, go on in, maybe you two psychos will have something to talk about” The Warden opened the cell door. With four rifles pointed at him, Harland was unshackled and herded inside.


A thin man stood with his back to the door, his clothes were well made, and he was staring out a barred window no bigger than Harland’s fist.


Harland grumbled as the door was slammed behind him. “Yeah, something to talk about.”

Edit: and here is just the new part.

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That night they sat around the stewfire in silence. The usual banter was gone, something was in the air. This was not the first Trouble the crew had faced. They had weathered fires, storms, parts shortages, and gangs of all flavors.

But this was something new.

Finally, Greasekey sighed and put down his bowl.

“Alright, what is it.”

Switchback spoke first “Boxcars told us about what happened this morning. About those cogheads”.

“Well, what about them?”

“Are they gonna cause us trouble. Besides you, none of us are in the Guild, and, well, the boys at the hardware store have been talking, it’s the new Lord Artificer, Blackmoore. He’s ambitious, not like old Carson.”

Greasekey stood up and cleared his throat. “Listen up you guys. I may not get along with The Guild, but I know their laws, heck, I was practically there when they wrote them. The Guild can make lots of noise, but that’s all they can do.” Greasekey lit a cigarette “They’ll come back and use big words. They may approach you individually, with money or with threats. They want to control the Railyards, but so long as we keep the trains running they can’t move in.”

Ninetoes spoke up “And we always keep the trains running”.

“That’s what we do.”


Two days later the Guild returned to the Railyard. They had a letter signed by an Artificer. Greasekey burned it without reading it, Harland chased the flunkies off.

The next week a pair of anonymous gentlemn approached Mokey with a bag of money if he would make sure Blue Bessie didn’t leave on time. He spit in their eyes.

The next day while Ninetoes was out buying parts he was approached by a very nice gentleman introducing himself as Master Craftsman Welling. Master Craftsman Welling bought him a very nice lunch and they sat down to talk. Welling was of the opinion that while Greasekey had done a fine job of running the Railyards, he was getting old, and that if Ninetoes could help facilitate a transition of control, Welling could help make sure all members of the crew were well compensated.
Ninetoes was polite, and reasonable.

He spent an hour with Master Craftsman Welling discussing the future of the railyards. When they were done Welling was of the opinion that While Greasekey was getting old, he had done a fine job of running the railyards, and should be left to do so.

Two days later Three-eyes was cornered in an alleyway. A pair of goons two times his size told him to leave the Yards or he’d be dust. He kicked one in the crotch and He punched the other in the gut. Three Eye then cracked their jaws with a wrench and left them in the rain.


A month later, Greasekey was shot.

__________________________________________________ __________
The Crew had just cleared the yard. Four trains, The Green Monster, Number Seventy Three, Blue Lightning and The Dragon had been in the Yard that morning. They had cleared them all on time (With Three-Eyes and Strawtop doing last minute work as the Dragon rolled out of town, jumping into the river as it crossed the bridge). So they were celebrating at the pub.


Strawtop giggled drunkenly. Switchback chuckled “Easy there kid, drink too much and you’ll end up a shrimp like three-eyes over here.”

“ but I like Unkey Three-eyes”.

“See Switch, the kid likes me. Nothing wrong with being a little short.”

Harland set down his glass “What’s this ‘bout Three-Eyes being short? From where I see it, you’re all pint sized”.

It wasn’t exactly comedy gold, but at that time, for those men, it was hilarious. The table roared with laughter. Greasekey finished his drink and pushed back his chair “I think that’s enough for me. You boys have a good time, I’m going to go get some shuteye”.

Ninetoes shrugged “You sure you’re going to be okay boss, want one of us to come back with ya?”

“When I need help to walk three blocks then you can tell me, because I’ll hang up my wrench. Enjoy the night, you guys earned it.”

Greasekey shrugged on his coat and walked out. The door shut behind him, the crew went back to their drinks.

Ninetoes was halfway through a particularly raunchy joke when they heard the gunshot.

Instantly, they bolted up, Harland accidentally knocked the table over as they ran to the door. Nobody cared.


Greasekey lay in the street, four men stood around him, one of them held a doubleshot pistol. Two of them were missing teeth and sporting wrench shaped bruises on their jaws.

The goon pointed the gun at them.

“Just stay back, nobody else needs to get hurt.”

Harland growled “I wouldn’t say that”.

“Now, you’re not stupid men, I know you wouldn’t-”

By this point Strawtop had pried a loose cobblestone off the street and hurled it. The thug clutched his face and dropped the gun.

The crew rushed them.

The thugs never stood a chance.
__________________________________________________ ____________

Harland had just dropped Greasekey off at Doc Steven’s when switchback approached.

“What did you do with them”

“We’ve got them in the shed. Mokey nad Ninetoes are watching them. Mokey thinks we should throw them in the river, but, well…what did the
Doc say?”

“He said ‘Get him onto the table before he get an infection from your unwashed mits’. You know the doc.”

“The point is, no matter what we do with them, we’ve lost. We can’t keep things going while Greasekey recovers, assuming he lives.”

“He’ll live”

“We can’t-”

“HE. WILL. LIVE.”

“Okay, whatever you say Boxcars. The point is, the moment we screw up and one train pulls out late, the Guild will move in. There’s no way to stop them, even killing their flunkies won’t stop them.”

They sat their, looking at the lights of the city for some time until Harland spoke.

“Depends”

“Depends on what.”

“On how you do it.”

“On how you do what?”

Harland stood up. “I’ll be going. Don’t come and find me”.

Harland walked to the shed.

“Switchback says to get some sleep.”

“You sure boxcars”

“Yeah, I’m bigger than both of you put together.”

“Whatever you say Boxey, need us to do anything?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“Lie about me.”

Ninetoes and Mokey looked up, “What?”

“Lie about me. In a few hours the bulls are going to be here asking about me. Tell them about Boxcars the thug, Boxcars the hated. Tell them how I terrified you guys. Tell them how you wished I was gone but were too scared to do anything about it. Above all else, tell them how you had nothing to do with what is about to happen.”

“What are you going on about? What the hell is about to happen?”

“The Guild is about to be scared shitless.”
__________________________________________________ ____________
Journeyman Thomas Carl opened his eyes. It was supposed to be easy, shoot the old geezer, then leave. Thomas certainly hadn’t expected the old guy to keep moving, meaning they had to shoot him again to be sure. He had not expected the geezer’s band of muscle to show up before they could finish the job. He had REALLY not expected that blonde kid with the cobblestone.

And now he was awake, tied up, lying down on some thing hard and uneven, looking into the face of that ogre who had pummeled him back on the street.

The ogre looked down at him, “Don’t try to talk. Your jaw is probably broken, several times. Just listen.”

Thomas was in no position to argue.

“We met before, you came to talk to Greasekey a while back, you were wearing a guild vest. You’re probably a Journeyman right? Doing a couple dirty jobs in order to make Craftsman because you don’t have the brains to get through the old fashioned way, right? Well, mister Journeyman, you’re good with machine. Hopefully you can give me a hand with something.”

The Ogre lit a lamp, and suddenly Thomas could see. He and the other three had been shoved into a massive mechanism, above him he could see some massive gears.

“We call this the Ox, we use it to tow broken locomotives along the tracks. It’s been sluggish lately, maybe you can take a look at it.”
The ogre moved out of Thomas’s sight. Thomas heard a lever being pulled, an engine start. Above him, some of the gears started to turn.

“A really close look.”

Thomas Carl’s life ended with a sickening crunch.

The Constables had asked no questions, and Harland had put up no resistance. Still, four burly officers dragged him to his cell in shackles, with others holding him at gunpoint, like showmen brining a bear through a village.

The warden was fat and smelled of grease and sweat. The keys jangled as he took them out.

“So, killed four fellows with gears. A guy your size, I’m surprised you didn’t just use your hands.”

“They were Guild, it seemed appropriate.”

The Warden was one to appreciate gallows humor, he let out a chuckle.

“Anyway, we’ve got a good cellmate for ya, Lucien Ashford, that blueblood that snapped and killed some other blueblood. It got Bloody Jack off the headlines for a day, of course, I imagine you might do that to.”

“If I’m lucky.”

“Yeah, lucky, go on in, maybe you two psychos will have something to talk about” The Warden opened the cell door. With four rifles pointed at him, Harland was unshackled and herded inside.


A thin man stood with his back to the door, his clothes were well made, and he was staring out a barred window no bigger than Harland’s fist.


Harland grumbled as the door was slammed behind him. “Yeah, something to talk about.”

Notes:

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I Couldn't bring myself to kill off Greasekey, so I'll leave it to the AU community whether or not he lives.

The idea is that Harland killed the guild stooges in such a graphic, and memorable way that the Guild got scared. They could have moved in to take over, claiming that the Crew lacked the technical expertise to keep the yards working, but they are not exactly full of people who would, knowing what happened to the last Guildsmen to set foot in the Railyard, volunteer to go in there again.
By the time they were able to get over anything, the Railyards were under the protection of the Midnight Crew, and since then have been untouchable.
Edit: In case it wasn't clear, they didn't get a chance to take the second shot and finish him off. Greasekey was only shot once.