RE: The Gravity Escapement (TWS)
05-15-2016, 03:52 PM
It's another beautiful, perfect day outside when the porters open the Tremont House doors for you. You give a friendly wave to Eugene as he descends the steps from the servant's area; he waves back. In Albion you would have been snubbed for such familiarity, if you hadn't already been snubbed for being a southerner. Elitist bastards.
The sun is already shining high when you make your way down to the East Side Machine Hall. A curious, repetitive clacking fills the air, an undertone to the usual groans and squeaks that mark the use of heavy machinery. Every so often a loud hissing marks the quenching of casted parts.
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps come up behind you, along with an unsettling whirring. You step aside just in time; a tichman, carrying a heavy-looking crate in its four metal-clad arms, comes stomping past. The automaton neatly stacks its load on a pile of identical crates, lining up the square edges exactly, before stomping away for more. Before long, two workers trudge up to the crates and crowbar one open, arguing the whole time. You sidle closer to listen:
"...unnatural, Richard, unnatural and wrong." The first of them has his head in the cratel; his words come out a bit muffled. "We should put them back in with Gloriana where they belong."
"You're not goin' to be marryin' one," says the one called Richard, "and metal doesn't move itself. They don't bother you, why bother them?"
"But they do move themselves, great hulking monsters walking on our streets..." He catches sight of you mid-complaint. "Oh hello there, miss. I wouldn't stand there if I were you, we've a shipment coming in, lots of going to and fro. Someone could get hurt by one of those things, get trampled on someday, then we'll all see..."
Richard mercifully interjects. "Anythin' we can do for you, miss?"
"I'm looking for a Henry who works here."
The one in the crate cocks his head. "Lot of Henries around here."
What had Lleu said? "Mad about alcohol engines?"
The crate worker beams with recognition, and Richard visibly rolls his eyes. "That's me, miss. Henry Ford, at your service."
"I'm a writer. Rachel Hsobel. Would you care to have a chat, and perhaps a walk down to the Hall this fine morning?"
Henry tosses a pleading glance at Richard, who sighs.
"Oh, all right. I have a package goin' that way anyway, you can take it along."
---
A few dead leaves go skittering along the road. A cool breeze has picked up, flicking strands of your long hair into Henry's face; you're forced to employ a complex series of hairpins to keep it all held back.
The effusive young man seems ready to plow into a conversation about power sources and alternative energy and internal combustion engines. You're sure that if you want to ask anything important not related to those topics, you're going to need to open with it.
The sun is already shining high when you make your way down to the East Side Machine Hall. A curious, repetitive clacking fills the air, an undertone to the usual groans and squeaks that mark the use of heavy machinery. Every so often a loud hissing marks the quenching of casted parts.
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps come up behind you, along with an unsettling whirring. You step aside just in time; a tichman, carrying a heavy-looking crate in its four metal-clad arms, comes stomping past. The automaton neatly stacks its load on a pile of identical crates, lining up the square edges exactly, before stomping away for more. Before long, two workers trudge up to the crates and crowbar one open, arguing the whole time. You sidle closer to listen:
"...unnatural, Richard, unnatural and wrong." The first of them has his head in the cratel; his words come out a bit muffled. "We should put them back in with Gloriana where they belong."
"You're not goin' to be marryin' one," says the one called Richard, "and metal doesn't move itself. They don't bother you, why bother them?"
"But they do move themselves, great hulking monsters walking on our streets..." He catches sight of you mid-complaint. "Oh hello there, miss. I wouldn't stand there if I were you, we've a shipment coming in, lots of going to and fro. Someone could get hurt by one of those things, get trampled on someday, then we'll all see..."
Richard mercifully interjects. "Anythin' we can do for you, miss?"
"I'm looking for a Henry who works here."
The one in the crate cocks his head. "Lot of Henries around here."
What had Lleu said? "Mad about alcohol engines?"
The crate worker beams with recognition, and Richard visibly rolls his eyes. "That's me, miss. Henry Ford, at your service."
"I'm a writer. Rachel Hsobel. Would you care to have a chat, and perhaps a walk down to the Hall this fine morning?"
Henry tosses a pleading glance at Richard, who sighs.
"Oh, all right. I have a package goin' that way anyway, you can take it along."
---
A few dead leaves go skittering along the road. A cool breeze has picked up, flicking strands of your long hair into Henry's face; you're forced to employ a complex series of hairpins to keep it all held back.
The effusive young man seems ready to plow into a conversation about power sources and alternative energy and internal combustion engines. You're sure that if you want to ask anything important not related to those topics, you're going to need to open with it.
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime