Steamhaven
24-09-2005, 04:32
Jakob Gard was torn from his alcohol-induced slumber by the same irritating bell that had awoken him every day for the last twenty-six years. Sometimes, when he was horribly bored, he could still recall how the bell sounded that first day, the day after he turned ten.
"Go on now, stay safe. There's good luck in this family, you know – we've all kept our fingers." His beloved mother had told him.
"Good luck son," his father had boomed as Jakob dashed out the door, "I want to see 'Member of the Merchant Cadre' after your name someday!"
Well, Jakob had kept all his fingers – thanks to the family luck – but he was still J. Gard, Apprentice Ratcheteer to the rest of the world. His parents were long gone, his father euthanized after burning iron dust destroyed his lungs – his mother ended her own life shortly after. The alarm clock in his room was the only thing that remained static, it seemed, always calling him to work at four in the morning. Just like the Merchant Cadre remained static. The same people had always been in charge, for all of his thirty-six years he had always been in the same place, everyone he knew was still in the same place, unless death had decided otherwise. Long ago, Jakob had learned hope would find you disappointed, and ambition would find you in a shallow grave on the outskirts of Foundation, the city his miserable existance was bound to.
---
"Heya Rik, what do we have today?" Jakob inquired with forced optimism.
Rik didn't return the kindness – the circles under his eyes made his exhaustion obvious. "Uh...oh, yeah. Mk III Rescrapper."
"Really?!" Now Jakob was faking incredulity. Their repair hanger worked on Rescrappers all the time. "Mk III...bloody ancient."
"Yeah...you're on the twenty-second wheel. Needs a full interior scan, refit anything that's messed up. And cut out the British junk. It's really, really not funny."
"Uh..." Jakob decided faking emotions wasn't fun anymore, either. "Right. Sorry."
"Just get to work."
---
"Urk." It was the only thing Jakob could muster as he moved one of the heavy cogs into the recesses of the twenty-second wheel.
The main wheels of an industrial steamcrawler were gigantic, for they had to propel the five story monsters about Foundation to continue the expansion and matinence of the city. The interior of a wheel's workings were easily the size of a premier apartment, filled with cogs of all sizes and scrolls of power and mobility. Finally, perfectly centered within each wheel was a crystal attuned to its master's magical signature, so he could operate it with a series of commands, as one might do with a human subordinate. The Crusader Cadre had similar steamcrawlers, but of widely varying designs, weapon loadouts, and sizes. In the world of steamcrawlers, there was no such thing as uniformity, for every one of them had its own idiosyncracies – their own personalities, some might say.
"Alright boys, clear the 'crawler! Let's see what he'll do so far!" Rik hollered, his voice ricocheting about the hanger's steel walls like a rubber ball.
From every niche of the Rescrapper's iron body, men and women coated in grease and oil fled from the monster like ants from a decending boot.
However, it was nothing but a metallic mumble to Jakob, who was busy sealing the twenty-second wheel's new cog with a scroll of speed when Rik gave the command.
With the groan of an awful beast rising from sleep, the mechanisms of the Rescrapper began to move, including the new cog in the twenty-second wheel.
Jakob found his arm pinned, then crushed. He looked to the rusted maze of rotating iron before him, and exhaled slowly as pain filled him. With deep resignation, he realized the pain would only last for a moment more. Luckily for him, his skull was neatly crushed. The Gard family line died with Jakob, though the world was just as uncaring as the cog which killed him, and the steamcrawler to who it belonged.
Yes, in Steamhaven, people never moved up or down. They just died.
"Go on now, stay safe. There's good luck in this family, you know – we've all kept our fingers." His beloved mother had told him.
"Good luck son," his father had boomed as Jakob dashed out the door, "I want to see 'Member of the Merchant Cadre' after your name someday!"
Well, Jakob had kept all his fingers – thanks to the family luck – but he was still J. Gard, Apprentice Ratcheteer to the rest of the world. His parents were long gone, his father euthanized after burning iron dust destroyed his lungs – his mother ended her own life shortly after. The alarm clock in his room was the only thing that remained static, it seemed, always calling him to work at four in the morning. Just like the Merchant Cadre remained static. The same people had always been in charge, for all of his thirty-six years he had always been in the same place, everyone he knew was still in the same place, unless death had decided otherwise. Long ago, Jakob had learned hope would find you disappointed, and ambition would find you in a shallow grave on the outskirts of Foundation, the city his miserable existance was bound to.
---
"Heya Rik, what do we have today?" Jakob inquired with forced optimism.
Rik didn't return the kindness – the circles under his eyes made his exhaustion obvious. "Uh...oh, yeah. Mk III Rescrapper."
"Really?!" Now Jakob was faking incredulity. Their repair hanger worked on Rescrappers all the time. "Mk III...bloody ancient."
"Yeah...you're on the twenty-second wheel. Needs a full interior scan, refit anything that's messed up. And cut out the British junk. It's really, really not funny."
"Uh..." Jakob decided faking emotions wasn't fun anymore, either. "Right. Sorry."
"Just get to work."
---
"Urk." It was the only thing Jakob could muster as he moved one of the heavy cogs into the recesses of the twenty-second wheel.
The main wheels of an industrial steamcrawler were gigantic, for they had to propel the five story monsters about Foundation to continue the expansion and matinence of the city. The interior of a wheel's workings were easily the size of a premier apartment, filled with cogs of all sizes and scrolls of power and mobility. Finally, perfectly centered within each wheel was a crystal attuned to its master's magical signature, so he could operate it with a series of commands, as one might do with a human subordinate. The Crusader Cadre had similar steamcrawlers, but of widely varying designs, weapon loadouts, and sizes. In the world of steamcrawlers, there was no such thing as uniformity, for every one of them had its own idiosyncracies – their own personalities, some might say.
"Alright boys, clear the 'crawler! Let's see what he'll do so far!" Rik hollered, his voice ricocheting about the hanger's steel walls like a rubber ball.
From every niche of the Rescrapper's iron body, men and women coated in grease and oil fled from the monster like ants from a decending boot.
However, it was nothing but a metallic mumble to Jakob, who was busy sealing the twenty-second wheel's new cog with a scroll of speed when Rik gave the command.
With the groan of an awful beast rising from sleep, the mechanisms of the Rescrapper began to move, including the new cog in the twenty-second wheel.
Jakob found his arm pinned, then crushed. He looked to the rusted maze of rotating iron before him, and exhaled slowly as pain filled him. With deep resignation, he realized the pain would only last for a moment more. Luckily for him, his skull was neatly crushed. The Gard family line died with Jakob, though the world was just as uncaring as the cog which killed him, and the steamcrawler to who it belonged.
Yes, in Steamhaven, people never moved up or down. They just died.