Steampunk Shenanigans with Nakki and Ruka

[conceptofzero]

Jack backstory

hell yeeessss. I love his little vendetta itinerary, there can never be enough hit-lists. And having the anniversry of the contract run out on that day is such a lovely symbolic touch since he's finally starting his brand new life after a seven-year delay. I can't wait to see the MC interact for the first time!

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

I'd say the cuteness actually makes him more creepy! Even when he's being adorable and derpish, he's still looking at people as things, not people, and pairing that delicious creepy nougart with the otherwise "aww he's so excited/distractable" adorable choclate coating makes for a good unsettling charcter.

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

I really hope you do these for the rest, because they are very nice. I like how concise they are, and of course, the little bits on the ends where their last real wish is what English grants them is fantastic!

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.

Urchins would make useful messangers and spies, espeically since adults won't notice them except to tell them to go away. It could start as a more one-sided sort of thing where Jack pays them to do errands/gather info for him and eventually moving to a point when Jack tolerates cG's presence (and cG is all too excited to tag after Jack, even though he always seems to end up turning into a fountain of blood sooner or later when Jack forgets and stabs cG)

[HelloMoto]

/delurk
Yeah my last post didn't male much sense. That's what I get for writing it early in the morning and half asleep.
So I'll put it here in a more sensible and understandable way.

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hide spoiler

Basically, Bartholomew and the WK counterpart (possibly brother or something, I'll leave it up to you guys) each own a special steampunk colossus, courtesy of the eccentric Lord English (why? He's a ditz who knows) now as a measure to make sure no random idiot can steal such a weapon of war, each of the "kings" has a special sceptre that acts as a key to the colossii. Bartholomew's is of course a deep ebony, whereas the other is a bright ivory. I blame coming up with this on reading conceptofzero's amazing fic and seeing the BK mentioned and then immediately seeing Ruka's colossus.

And now I shall resume lurking this amazing thread unless otherwise brought out. /lurk

[Rina]

Just dropping in with the unimportant news that I just killed the last 2 hours reading through everything here- and I am seriously enjoying it! The worldbuilding, character development and warped historical fiction (along with the wonderful cast whom we all know and love) really make this almost addictive. If I may say, you're all doing a fantastic job and I can't wait to see what else you churn out :>

[conceptofzero]

hey, have some more fic!

A Letter Regarding The State Of Affairs From Mrs. Kingscote to Mr. Kingscote

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Dearest Bartholomew,

Your letter was a welcome change of news. As of late, all the news has been unfortunate, and I had rather begun to dread the sound of knocking upon my door. It was quite a relief to see sailors at my doorstep rather than the usual swarm of constables.

Thank you for your kind gifts. As I write these words, I am wearing the pearl necklace. I have never seen such beautiful teardrop pearls, and I am certain that I shall be the talk of the society ladies when they see my necklace. I have placed your newest possession in your study, though I would once again like to register my distaste with your insatiable need to taxidermy one of every creature you kill. We will shortly run out of room in your study and I refuse to let those things flow over into other rooms, or god forbid, our chambers. I shall never sleep again if I must share my room with any of those glass-eyed monsters.

I am certain you are aware of our latest tragedy by now. Mr. Carter and Mr. Carter shall be difficult to replace, but I remain hopeful. Noir is nothing more than a low thug. He does not have the wits or resources to continue this war. I have consulted with the constables and given them all the information I could without harming ourselves or our remaining colleagues. I am certain they will find him soon enough.

A knock at the study door draws her attention away from her letter. Beatrice sets the quill back into the inkwell and then carefully places her hands in her lap, wrapping one around the revolver lying there, “Enter.”

Woodford enters, carrying the tea tray in his hands. The sweet smell of tea fills the room as he approaches, “Madam, your tea.”

“Thank you Woodford,” She relaxes her grip on her gun, settling her hands on her desk again. While Woodford pours her a cup of tea, her eyes return to her correspondence. She isn’t sure what to tell Bartholomew. If she tells him the truth, he’ll return at once and make himself into a target. But the other choice is to lie to her husband, and in fifteen years of marriage, she has never had any reason to lie to him. She will not let Noir be responsible for such a change.

Woodford places the tea by her hand and she picks her cup up, cradling it in her hands. Things have all gone sour since the night she ordered Jack’s death. He wasn’t the first man whose was killed on her orders, nor even the first that she had a direct hand in doing away with. But he is the first to survive, and the worst to have done so. Like a bad penny, he turns up wherever she looks, and nothing seems to be able to stop his self-righteous rampage.

She opens her desk drawer, seeking her ledger. Beatrice knows the figures by heart, but she feels like she must see them one more time before she makes her decision. As she pulls the ledger form the drawer, her eyes briefly fall on the chess pieces lying inside, tucked against one another in their little box.


It is a cold and rainy day when she places the bishop on the edge of her desk, “For you.”

Noir picks it up, “The piece I took off the first guy you had me kill?”

“That’s not his piece, though they are a matching pair,” She folds her hands, “Think of chess, Jack. Where do the bishops sit?”

He takes a moment to think. Other men would grasp that the bishops were on either side of the Queen and King and would need further explanation to understand their true meaning, but not Noir. He is clever, and he grasps it easily enough, “Is this because I’m your bodyguard?”

“In part. You have done well. But you have a great deal of potential within you Jack. What do you have planned when your contract expires?” She probes, though she already suspects his answer.

“I’m getting the hell out of this place anyway I can,” That’s Jack in a nutshell, all thought and no precise action. He simply needs some guidance and he could become something great, something noteworthy.

“I would like to offer you something better, something with a future. Weapons will always be profitable Jack, and they will always provide. So shall I,” Beatrice folds her hands on her desk as she speaks to him, almost smiling a little, “You can have whatever you wish. A home of your own with a family, or an estate in the countryside, perhaps just money to spend as you see fit. All of this, and in return, I simply ask that you continue to serve me. If you wish, you can rise in the ranks, perhaps take over part of our business, or if you do not wish for such responsibility, you can simply spend your days by my side, and I shall ensure that your nights are full of whatever you wish for most.”

She waits to hear his answer. Beatrice expects him to bargain with her for more freedom, or perhaps money up front. What she does not expect is for Jack to put the bishop back on her desk, “Nah. I’ll take my chances on my own.”

Beatrice looks at him. A subtle sort of shock settles over her, her mind refusing to comprehend his answer, “Excuse me? Was my offer not clear?”

“I heard you the first time,” Jack looks at her, those flinty eyes of his nearly boring through her, “Right-hand man, anything I want. ‘cept that’s not true, because you can’t give me what I want. Bishops sit beside the King and Queen, but they ain’t the King. I don’t plan on spending my life being your inferior. I plan on getting the hell out of here, and when I finally get what I deserve, it’ll be you saying ‘yes sir’ to me.”

She stands. Beatrice cannot remember a time when anyone has ever spoken to her like this. Her blood is running hot through her veins, “It will be a cold day in hell before anyone ever says ‘yes sir’ to you, Noir-“

“It’s Hawk!” Jack slams his hand on her desk, “I’ve told you a million times, my name I Jack Hawk-“

“You are Jack Noir, and you shall always be Jack Noir, no matter how hard you insist otherwise,” Beatrice fights to keep control, refusing to be baited into acting as Jack does, “And you will come to regret this moment.”

“What are you going to do? Threaten me? Blackmail me, like your other ‘friends’?” Jack laughs at her, spreading his arms wide, “You can’t do anything to me.”

Beatrice clamps down on her anger. She sits down, feeling all the blood in her veins turn cold in an instant, frosting her over. When she speaks, the temperature in the room drops, and even Jack can feel it, “You are correct. What can I do to you? With other men, I would have something to threaten. Family perhaps. Friends. But what does Jack Noir have? He has nothing. Nothing at all. No family. No friends. Not even close acquaintances. There is no one that you love, not even yourself.”

“Don’t speak about what you don’t understand-” He says, or tries to say, but Beatrice simply speaks overtop of him, the methodical sound of her voice destroying his attempts to interrupt.

“You have no possessions that you cherish, not one single item imbued with sentimentality. If I were to kill you where you stand, there would be not one person or thing alive to mourn your passing. The closest things you have to friends are your enemies, and I very much doubt they would give you more than a passing thought if you died this very moment. Jack Noir, you are not defined by what you have, but what you lack. There is nothing I can take from you simply because you have nothing to take, not even dignity.” She pauses, letting the words settle in, and then slips the final knife in, “Except… you have your music. How well will you play piano with only one hand?”

Beatrice leans back in her chair, savouring the look on Jack’s face as her threat finally sinks in. His face pulls into a caricature of hatred, his eyes burning in his skull, “You bitch.”

“You will refrain from using such language in my presence from this moment on,” She leans forward momentarily, taking back the bishop and turning it in her hands, “You may let yourself out. I shall call on you when I am ready.”

He leaves, slamming the door behind him. Alone in her study, Beatrice studies the bishop and then sets it into the desk drawer, placing it beside her Queen. She will need to humble him, but in time, he will be part of her set, even if only as a pawn.



Beatrice closes the drawer and sets the ledger before her, opening it up to the latest pages. Where there was once nothing but black, there is now red. They have always flirted with the brink of disaster, a great empire of weapons held together with loans and luck, and now it seems that both have begun to run out. The loans can be held off a little longer, but the wages of the men she directly employs cannot. If she does not pay them, they will leave, and she will be as alone as Noir. The only advantage she has over that madman is that of numbers.

Money must be made. Beatrice sips at her tea and muses. There is a way she knows, one that shall get her enough money to pay the men for at least another few months time. By then, Noir will have worn himself out with his little fit, and the trade of weapons can begin again.

“Woodford? What was the name of the gentleman who visited a few weeks ago? The man with the goggles,” She asks, knowing that Woodford will remember, “He inquired about the revolver.”


She does not accept strange visitors, but somehow this gentleman has managed to bypass her entire staff in order to accost her in her parlour. He is a tall, strange man with goggles on his face that he seems in no rush to remove. His suit is ill-fitting and he moves strangely, as if he is far more used to wearing something different or as if he is still growing used to his height.

“Mrs. Kingscote!” He takes her hand and shakes it enthusiastically, “What excellent bone structure you have! How tall would you say that you are? Does your family have any medical problems?”

She politely ignores his more probing questions, “My apologies, but I don’t believe I know you.”

“Of course not, not yet anyway,” He smiles, and there is something… off in his smile. The man is clearly mad, though it remains to be seen if he is an important madman, or simply someone escaped from the asylum, “I’m here to inquire about a certain weapon you have, a six-chamber revolver. I would like to make you an offer!”

Ah, a collector. He is mad then, but a sort of mad that she understands. They always so pushy when they discover there is a new weapon to be held and had. She lets him down gently, “I must apologize, but you have been misinformed. The revolver is not for sale.”

“Really? Are you certain? It would be the perfect gift for a friend of mine,” The man grasps her hands, bringing them up and admiring them, “My goodness, a musician as well. What instrument do you play?”

“Piano,” She withdraws her hands, “As I said, the revolver is not for sale.”

“You should play the violin with hands like that. You must be so lifeless on the piano,” He sighs, glancing around the house, then produces a card, sliding it into her hands. There’s a name and an address on there, as well as a sum of money, all in erratic handwriting, “When you change your mind about the revolver, send your man to meet with mine and I’ll arrange to have you paid within the day. Now you must excuse me, I do have places to be. Goodbye Mrs. Kingscote! Until we meet again!”

Woodford rounds the corner, flustered and out of sorts, “Madam? Madam, are you fine?”

“Yes,” She stares after the retreating figure. There is something strange about him, strange even for a weapon collector. Beatrice would have sworn she saw something strange flash beneath the goggles on his face- She shakes this thought away, extended the card to Woodford, “File this with the others.”


“Lord English,” Woodford recites. His memory is impeccable.

“Arrange a meeting with Lord English’s man,” She sets her tea cup down and places her hands on the revolver. Beatrice loves this weapon. But it will not keep her safe. Better it sold and cash in hand than dead and this gun in Noir’s grip, “Tell him I will accept his offer on the revolver. I shall have it boxed and ready in a few hours time.”

“Yes Madam,” Woodford nods, “Anything else Madam?”

“Nothing for now. Thank you Woodford,” She dismisses him. The study is quiet, unmarked except for the ticking of her clock. Her fingers brush against the grip of the revolver. It has been like a friend these past few months, her constant companion. To sell it is to sell her only true friend, the one thing she can rely on without worry or fear.

Noir would find it funny. Once, she said that he had no friends. Now the same can be said of her. He has killed the few that she viewed as more than simple business partners, and the only man she trusts is two continents away, surrounded by strangers in a strange land. Another woman would give in to fear or would begin to pity herself. But not Beatrice.

Beatrice has no plans of being bested by a thug such as Noir. She simply needs to wait him out. He will be caught eventually, and if not, then he shall be outnumbered ten to one when he attempts to strike against her directly. He isn’t the sort to raise an army of his own, and it isn’t as if he has any friends to call on. Beatrice shall endure.

She returns to her letter, finally having decided upon a compromise between the two choices.

As to your request, I must decline. Though your descriptions of the East are lovely and I do miss your company, someone must see to our business, and that must be me. I trust no one else in this matter. You should remain in the East, as we decided well before this business with Noir began. Do not worry about my well-being. I am surrounded by men at all times and our home is far safer than some strange place I barely know.

Be safe my darling. If I were to lose you, I would lose myself as well. I shall see you as soon as I am able. Until then, if you find that you miss me, turn your eyes upwards to the night sky and seek out the moon. I shall do the same whenever my heart aches for you.

All my love,
Your Beatrice

[Bloddyredcommie]

Goddamnit CoZ,, WHY ARE YOU SO AWESOME!.

Also, I know what their company is called: Dersite Arms.

Also, I now have a Fic Idea brewing, It involves Lucien, Charles, and Barthalomew Kingscotte

[HelloMoto]

You never cease to amaze do you conceptofzero. Your fics simply blow me away!

[GEMPadre036]

This was literally the best thing to wake up to! That was seriously amazing!

[NightingaleRB]

CoZ, I LOVE how you write English. "Hello there! Great skeleton!"

[conceptofzero]

Goddamnit CoZ,, WHY ARE YOU SO AWESOME!.

Also, I know what their company is called: Dersite Arms.

Also, I now have a Fic Idea brewing, It involves Lucien, Charles, and Barthalomew Kingscotte

Because I am ~MAGIC~ (seriously you guys are all so nice, thank you!). Dersite Arms is the perfect name, and yeessss fic idea! I can't wait to see!

CoZ, I LOVE how you write English. "Hello there! Great skeleton!"

Your paraphrasing just made me realize I totally write Lord English like he's the Doctor. Now there's a terrifying crossover.

/delurk
Yeah my last post didn't male much sense. That's what I get for writing it early in the morning and half asleep.
So I'll put it here in a more sensible and understandable way.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Basically, Bartholomew and the WK counterpart (possibly brother or something, I'll leave it up to you guys) each own a special steampunk colossus, courtesy of the eccentric Lord English (why? He's a ditz who knows) now as a measure to make sure no random idiot can steal such a weapon of war, each of the "kings" has a special sceptre that acts as a key to the colossii. Bartholomew's is of course a deep ebony, whereas the other is a bright ivory. I blame coming up with this on reading conceptofzero's amazing fic and seeing the BK mentioned and then immediately seeing Ruka's colossus.

And now I shall resume lurking this amazing thread unless otherwise brought out. /lurk

whoops, totally realized I missed this. I fail to answer this and instead bring up totally different stuff ‘cause I rule like that.

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Here's the big question: does this Victorian world have colonial stuff? Because I have just been throwing it in all willy-nilly. In my head Bartholomew is selling weapons to opposing sides in a colonial battle for the expy version of the Congo, and later relocates to sell arms to colonial forces duking it out over the expy version of China.

I don't see Bartholomew being involved in steampunk stuff though, at least, not directly. He's the only son of a decaying aristocratic family and he's decided to spend the last of the family fortune on big game safaris and globetrotting adventures. It affects the world around him, but not so much him directly. He’s more interested in killing new and exciting things and mounting them on a wall and showing off his weapons to both the locals and his customers (he’s got this wonderful booming voice, and he’s the kind of dude who shakes your hand and you feel like he’s going to accidentally crush your hand while going on about this lion he shot the other day), or if it’s after Beatrice’s death, he’s a drunken devastated mess.

What about the White King? At this point, you could do all sorts of things with him, either making him one of those colonial powers, or a governor or somewhere, or a missionary or a trader. Personally, I'd suggest making him a naturalist (think Darwin) who is on his own great mission to catalogue the planet and make scientific progress. He and Bartholomew could cross paths and hate one another since they're just enough alike, yet so opposed to each other's methods.

[Bloddyredcommie]

I imagined that Lucien and Charles' military service as taking place somewhere colonial (Which is how Charles got away with just lazing around getting drunk all the time, since their main job was to keep the locals down via heavily armed patrols, Lucien covered for him and got wounded as a result)

[Nakkirz]

CoZ I absolutely love that fic. Soooo wonderful. I love all the elaboration of ideas and the character interaction between Beatrice, Jack, and English (I love how English just knows she's a musician, ahahaha!)

Bloody, I like the idea of that fic already.

And to Rina - YAY! New readers! I'm glad you like our big ol' clusterfuck of crazy clockwork contraptions and the like!

[HelloMoto]

/delurk
Yeah my last post didn't male much sense. That's what I get for writing it early in the morning and half asleep.
So I'll put it here in a more sensible and understandable way.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Basically, Bartholomew and the WK counterpart (possibly brother or something, I'll leave it up to you guys) each own a special steampunk colossus, courtesy of the eccentric Lord English (why? He's a ditz who knows) now as a measure to make sure no random idiot can steal such a weapon of war, each of the "kings" has a special sceptre that acts as a key to the colossii. Bartholomew's is of course a deep ebony, whereas the other is a bright ivory. I blame coming up with this on reading conceptofzero's amazing fic and seeing the BK mentioned and then immediately seeing Ruka's colossus.

And now I shall resume lurking this amazing thread unless otherwise brought out. /lurk

whoops, totally realized I missed this. I fail to answer this and instead bring up totally different stuff ‘cause I rule like that.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Here's the big question: does this Victorian world have colonial stuff? Because I have just been throwing it in all willy-nilly. In my head Bartholomew is selling weapons to opposing sides in a colonial battle for the expy version of the Congo, and later relocates to sell arms to colonial forces duking it out over the expy version of China.

I don't see Bartholomew being involved in steampunk stuff though, at least, not directly. He's the only son of a decaying aristocratic family and he's decided to spend the last of the family fortune on big game safaris and globetrotting adventures. It affects the world around him, but not so much him directly. He’s more interested in killing new and exciting things and mounting them on a wall and showing off his weapons to both the locals and his customers (he’s got this wonderful booming voice, and he’s the kind of dude who shakes your hand and you feel like he’s going to accidentally crush your hand while going on about this lion he shot the other day), or if it’s after Beatrice’s death, he’s a drunken devastated mess.

What about the White King? At this point, you could do all sorts of things with him, either making him one of those colonial powers, or a governor or somewhere, or a missionary or a trader. Personally, I'd suggest making him a naturalist (think Darwin) who is on his own great mission to catalogue the planet and make scientific progress. He and Bartholomew could cross paths and hate one another since they're just enough alike, yet so opposed to each other's methods.

I figure that it was gifted to them by the HIGHLY eccentric English, however Bartholomew to this day has not yet once used the darned thing. The White King may or may not have used it, seeing it as an object to help him sustain rule or eliminate his greater oppositions.

[okniwy]

It seems like the time has come, I now present:

The Punnet 16: line T

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TA: Bipolar and ever the engineer, TA actually sought out membership in the 16 shortly after the recruitment of CT, knowing the mechanic would be his best bet to have his designs realized. Suffice it to say, anything that CT built, TA designed. It could be said that his designs are on par with those of English. He has deep feelings for CC, and she reciprocates, but they both know that it would take a miracle for them to have their feelings validated in the royal court. He also harbors a unwarranted attraction to AA's armor, claiming it to be his best work and the nonliving thing he loves most.

TC: No one is quite sure where TC came from. He just appeared one day in the clubhouse and dodged questioning by producing a few illegal brands of liquor from the satchel he always has on him and telling CG to "LaY dOwN yOuR hArLoTsMaCkInG aRmS, gOoD sIr." It would later become apparent that this eloquent abuser of the spirits is exceptionally well at procuring scarce or illicit materials in ways that even he himself is not entirely aware of. Common items, however, elude him. (It once took him a fortnight to fetch a cup of seawater.)

TG: A newer member, TG is the finest smith his age. He is also the only smith his age... Let's try this again: He is the finest smith in town, after his brother. Joined when he realized that CT and TA had to be building things with the cogs they bought from his brother's shop. As such, he makes parts that TA has designed from scratch. His brother actually runs two businesses, a legitimate smithy and a illicit escort service that specializes in life size marionettes.

TT: This young lady is a genius with medicine, as expected from the daughter of the city's sole pharmacist. This fact is what caused TT to be thrust into the 16, as GA had her anesthetize AT when his legs were cut off. After this, she took over the work of medical treatment of the group, regulating surgery to GA. She is also interested in the zoologically dubious, such as the concept of genealogy. This is what caused her to suggest the current name of the group after noting the Punnet Square the members initials made. Her mother seems to have a good business selling pain killers to the various people in the city...

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If clockwork can make time travel engines in this canon, genealogy can be zoologically dubious!

And that's that. You guys can use these characters however you see fit. Any details not here you can expand upon yourself. Really, I just love this setting and I'm glad that I could be a part of it. Keep up the good work!

[Nakkirz]

Okniwy, nice job! I quite like having all these urchins to scuttle around under the feet of the MC and Felt
Also, I have a feeling I know a few fellows who go to Madame Lalonde for their pharmaceutical needs...

[Rukafais]

>Clover: Terrify everyone.

You proceed to do so.

I am so sorry for this guys 8|

[Nakkirz]

FDKSFDJSKAJFDSGFSSADSFD

CLOVER YOU ARE THE SCARIEST LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER IN THE VICTORIAN WORLD
BRB NIGHTMARES

[Stinkosar]

Someone make a scary freddy-esque "children's" song about clover.

[Nakkirz]

OH MAN I'M ON THIS

Claude
Claude was funny, very funny
When the audience was there,
But when he told his punchline
They all had quite a scare

Claude was bad, very bad
And never liked to lose
So even when the finale came
The people had to choose

Claude was lucky, very lucky
They chose to bring him back,
And so he plays to this very day
And paints his red heart black

Claude was awful, very awful
With tricks of luck and fraud
If you think such jokes are fun
You may end up with Claude.

A cautionary poem.
In case you didn't realize, Claude is Clover's name before becoming a Felt. I wonder if anyone will detect my subtle irony...

[KilroyWasHere]

Ugh bluh, I want to write up Eggs, but writer's block is cockblocking me.

[conceptofzero]

oh hey comments and stuff

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I imagined that Lucien and Charles' military service as taking place somewhere colonial (Which is how Charles got away with just lazing around getting drunk all the time, since their main job was to keep the locals down via heavily armed patrols, Lucien covered for him and got wounded as a result)

Makes sense! They would probably also be involved in clashes between other rival imperial powers (depending on how early/late we are in the Victorian period). And if they were in Africa, Charles would be able to justify his drinking since it was the easiest way to avoid malaria back in the day.

I love how English just knows she's a musician

English strikes me as the kind of guy who just knows things, and regular people don’t think it’s strange until he’s gone and then they sit there and go “… wait how the hell did he know that?”. Like, not only does he know she’s a pianist, he instantly recognizes that she’s a mediocre pianist.

>Clover: Terrify everyone.

Clover being a little shit is the best. Also I really love all the neat little poetry in this thread, it's a nice touch!

oh hey fic

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This isn’t the worst place he’s been. It’s not all that bad, if you ignore the part where he can’t fucking leave and he’s at the beck and call of some bitch. Which he can’t ignore because every moment in this house is one where Jack’s stuck thinking I should be out of here, I should be doing something.

At least he isn’t confined to the servant’s quarters. The house is big enough that he can easily avoid her, at least until she sends that fucking butler to hunt him down, and there’s lots to look at. He’s pretty sure she would be pissed to know how much he snoops around and touches her things, but if she didn’t want him to mess around, she wouldn’t stick him in this stupid fucking monkey suit with the too-tight collar.

The house is crammed full of knickknacks and bullshit beyond compare. The absent Bartholomew’s study is overflowing with taxidermy animals, a hundred glass eyes staring blankly out at whoever walks in. There are things in there that Jack didn’t even know you could stuff, and plenty of things that simply should have just been left to rot. One particularly grotesque pieceis a stuffed python that looks like a lumpy sock full of sawdust. There’s gin in the desk drawer and Jack helps himself to a little of it here and there when he’s sure the bitch won’t show up and demand to know what Jack thinks he’s doing.

Her study is off-limits, along with her bedroom chambers. She’s got some sort of sixth sense when it comes to them because the moment he even peeks inside, she’s looming behind Jack, asking him if he needs anything in a tone of voice that suggests that he better make himself scarce quickly. The rest of the house doesn’t trigger the same reaction and he’s free to wander through the crowded rooms, making faces at portraits and lounging on furniture that probably shouldn’t be touched.

Jack’s boredom comes to an unexpected end when he finally wanders into the fainting room and spots the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It is love at first sight as his eyes rake over its glorious black curves and pure white teeth, long solid legs planted in the fainting room carpet. He approaches her slowly – and how could it be anything but a her? – as if he might scare her off. Jack hesitates before putting a hand on her, feeling the smooth polished wood.

She’s a grand piano. Jack’s played plenty of pianos, but never on a grand piano. His life has been full of battered uprights in pubs and servants quarters, pianos that were well-worn or unloved, pianos that refused to be tuned or had missing keys, pianos that were covered in scrapes and scratches. This piano is sleek and gorgeous, pristine white ivory teeth and foot-pedals that he would swear no one has ever stepped on.

He sits on her bench and sets his hands on the keys. Jack knows a lot of songs, but none of them feel right for a piano like this. She needs something classy, not a song about what men from Nantucket were capable of. Jack bites his lower lip as he thinks, and finally settles on a song he’s only ever heard rarely and usually by some sod who doesn’t realize that they’re not in a concert hall.

Kenderszenen sounds nothing like what he remembers. He presses the keys so softly, not needing to drown out the crowd, and finds himself startled by how powerful it sounds, even without hammering on the keys. Jack’s never heard any piano sound this good, and the music just fills the room, blotting out every other thing. His eyes stay on the keys and he feels a strange calmness come over him as he loses himself to the music.

Jack reaches the end of the first movement and lets the notes fade. Before he can start again, the soft sound of clapping startles him and he twists around.

Beatrice is standing there, applauding gently, “Well done,” Jack goes to stand by she motions for him to stay put, walking over to join him. She sits, and he has to slide over to make room for her on the bench. Beatrice presses her own hands to the keys and begins to play.

It takes Jack a moment to place the song, having only ever heard it played once before. Death and the Maiden seems a strange choice for her, but Jack is learning quickly that she is full of surprises. Her playing is not bad, but it’s very wooden and reserved, and the song suffers when she doesn’t simply give into it. Jack tries to keep thinking about her playing, but the way she keeps leaning against him everytime she has to reach for other keys is very distracting.

Beatrice stops partway in with a sigh, letting the song die in the air, “I have never been able to play the way others do. Music sounds so flat when I touch it.”

“You’re just not putting any passion into it,” Jack says, and puts his hands back on the keys playing the last section with emphasis, “You gotta pour yourself into the music. If you hold back, it’s always going to sound dull.”

She watches him, and when Jack stops, she attempts to imitate him. It’s a bit better than last time, but she’s still holding back. Jack just puts his hands overtop of her hands and starts to play, forcing her to feel how his hands are moving. It’s not the first time he’s done this with a girl, though it is the first time he’s done this to a woman he’s supposed to be working for. Her hands are so soft to the touch, the product of a lifetime of luxury.

“You feel that?” He asks, making sure to put some real fire into the song, “If you can feel it going through you, then you’re doing it right.”

Jack glances up at her, and she gives him the slightest of smiles, “To be honest, I don’t feel it.”

“You need to try harder. Here-” Jack knows it’s a bad idea to flirt with her, but it’s second nature when he’s sitting at the piano. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. She’s all alone, her husband is a continent away, maybe he could get some nice perks out of this. He scoots closer until their sides are pressing up against each other, and his hands guide hers across the keyboard, “Don’t think about it. Just give into the sound. It’ll steer you right.”

“I have yet to encounter any situation in life where not-thinking was sound advice,” There’s a teasing tone in her voice as she leans down a little, her face close to his.

“Then you haven’t really been living,” Jack tilts his head up and she doesn’t move away, letting him draw in close. Just a little more-

“Madam?” Jack and Beatrice look away from one another and back to the fucking butler standing in the doorway, “There’s a gentleman waiting downstairs.”

“Thank you Woodford,” Beatrice pulls her hands out from beneath Jack’s and stands, and just like that, the spell’s broken. She crosses the room and slips out, and for a moment before he leaves, Jack would swear that Woodford looks pleased.

Jack growls and slams a fist on the keyboard, the discordant sound filling the room. His good mood at finding the piano has completely evaporated. Jack decides then that no matter how long it takes, no matter how many years he has to wait, he is going to kill that fucking butler.

[Phantom Gamer]

yay a concept fic

I love what you do but I hate my inability to review fics. ;.;

[Nakkirz]

Oh man CoZ, nice one!
I love how Jack sees the piano and the piano is described like some sort of alluring woman, hehe~

Also, pickshurs! 8U

My interpretation of Mrs. Kingscote nee Quattlebaum and Jack. As well as a Stitch!... with no shirt on, and a Fin and a Trace.
And a little bit of backstory for Stitch, too.


"My Name" from Oliver! the Musical is such a Jack number, holy shit. It's perfect. Go look it up, now. In any case, I'm totally gonna do a finished pic of Jack doing that song. There's also my take on how Jack's introduction to the group of fellows in the cell is going to go. OH HARLAND AND CLARENCE, WHY SUCH MACHINERY GEEKS.


More MC stuff. I like how that Lucien turned out.
Also, Patrick Sharp with his steampunk wings! (I need to practice drawing them, because I want to incorporate them into something for this thread... >u>)

And finally, a picture for...
An AU of this AU.

..../SOB I SUCK
Spoilered for blood.

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In this AU idea, Jack does NOT go after the Felt or Lord English. Why, though?????

...BECAUSE HE'S DEAD, STUPID.

EDIT: Explanation time!
In this timeline, Jack did not get saved by Lord English, and subsequently died- and became a ghost, since he still has unfinished business (revenge on Beatrice) and... frankly, he's not good enough to get into heaven, where ever it may be. 8I In any case, as a specter he's missing an eye and an arm, covered in blood, is shackled (symbolic of his binding contract to Beatrice/etc.), and likes to flip tables and cause trouble for Bea.
Oh, by the way, his ghostly shackle is connected to her ankle, so he follows her around. And sadly for her, she can see him. 8I
The only one able to interact with him, however, is Lord English.

[Karhs12]

I love steampunk settings, and I love The Felt. So for me, this entire thread is two great things that go great together. Like bacon donuts, only better.

[One]

Idea:
TG's brother is a mildly eccentric smith who also happens to be an expert swordsman. The two have a sibling rivalry that's a bit more violent than normal, but in the end he's TG's guardian in both senses of the term. He would prefer that his younger brother solve his own problems but will always help out if TG gets himself into trouble.

[NightingaleRB]

God damn it Nakki, is there anything you or anyone can do that will result in me loving Stitch even a tiny bit less? I think the answer is no.