Wall of Disclaimers is up.
AU. I have to tell all you now that this is very different.
THERE ARE NO WESEN. Got that? The time line has been altered along with major plot points.
This is also a steampunk AU. They still have hansom cabs and cravats. The states never won independence from England in this universe. Therefore, there are Americanisms and Britishisms. There is also a pretty interesting difference between the rich and the poor. And, since I never really elaborate on it, I will mention now that there was a epidemic years ago. That caused many people to replace body parts they lost to disease with working prosthetics made of clockworks.
Everyone good to go? Let's go!
Roddy curled into himself as the cannons sounded over head. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the field. This spot was secured and for authorized personnel only. As soon as the cannons let up, he started running. He hopped the fence and kept running to freedom on the other side.
Just a few more feet. Roddy cleared the forest and his feet hit asphalt. His sneakers pounded the ground and his breaths became labored. The adrenaline from the narrow escape barely registered in his blood stream.
A scratching sound came from his pocket. He reached in with a gloved hand to be sure his cargo was safe.
"You better be worth it," he whispered to one in particular.
Roddy ignored the sounds coming from the flat upstairs until it became too much. He grabbed the nearby broom and started banging on the ceiling.
"Oi, Keep it down! We're still open!" There was a growl but the couple upstairs quieted down.
"Freaking loud. Don't seem to realize we have customers." Roddy knew it was a lie but it made him feel better about it. Actually, the little repair shop was not busy. Ever and period.
They specialized in clockwork machinery and parts. Ever since the turn-over, where just about everyone lost an appendage, the number of clockwork parts increased. Some people were willing to amputate body parts to replace them with clockwork pieces. Very rarely was one without it. The rich could afford to have full sections of their bodies remade with gold or crystal. Still others had silver and other precious gems. Parts became part of a fashion trend. However, the poor only got parts when they could afford it. They were never decorated. Working in factories, most people chose iron or steel so it wouldn't be too badly crushed by machinery.
Roddy started tinkering with the little clockwork violin he was making. Since starting at the shop he had learned a lot. It was enough to manage this little feat. He wound up the little machine and let it play. There were a few discordant notes but it sounded passable, definitely better than last time.
The bell at the door sounded, as he pried the top off.
"I'm looking for a Mr. Wolfe?" The person who entered was in his early twenties, about the same age as Roddy. He was something muscular and tough. Posh looking was a given with his red silk cravat and the three piece suit. It made Roddy and his jeans feel like plebeians.
"Mr. Wolfe is busy at the moment." He waved the man off when he tried to protest.
"Thank you, Mr. Wolfe, the calibration was just what I needed." Detective Nick Burkhardt appeared from behind a curtain. Yeah, calibration alright, Roddy thought.
Monroe appeared from behind the same curtain. "Not a problem, Detective. Only the best for Portland's finest."
"Yeah, literally and figuratively," Roddy huffed as he tinkered with his violin. Nick thanked him again as he left.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Rabe, you wanted a repair done?" Monroe grinned as if nothing had been going on a few minutes ago upstairs.
The brown eyed visitor had the gall to smile back. "Yes, though it is minor. If you are busy someone else can handle it."
"If it's minor, Roddy here can take care of it." Roddy yelped at the sound of that, but Monroe fixed him with a glare. The lazy Grinch went into the house and, if he guessed correctly and he was always correct, cleaned up.
Roddy turned into the destroyer of his quiet afternoon. "I'm his assistant. How may I help you?" the man seemed clearly repulsed to have a sewer rat, like Roddy, talking to him.
"Just my leg." The man knocked his can against his leg. Fashion, Roddy guessed.
He was right. When he set the visitor down and started taking notes on the condition and product, he discovered it to be a custom in chrome. He figured it was a European model from the German printed on the heel. It was perfectly shiny in its perfection and definitely worth more than Roddy plus everything he owned, which was to say not much. Rich kids have it all.
The customer removed his shoes in a huff and gave Roddy a look of distaste the whole time.
A flat head removed a panel and started checking out the internal pieces. It was all clean and new. There was a special tube for nerves and all that new fangled junk. Roddy peered past that and into the greater interior workings.
"It's just a loose screw." He reached for his screw driver with gloved hand and started tightening.
"Tell me if it hurts." There was no sound as he worked. After tightening, Roddy ran a check on the man's leg. Everything else was perfectly fine.
"That's it." The man looked at him strangely, well stranger than before.
"Don't you mean 'sir'?"
Roddy turned back from the form he was filling out. "Name?"
"Barry Rabe and didn't you mean to add 'sir' to the end of that? Have you spent so much time in the slums you don't recognize money when you see it?"
Pompous git. This was why he stayed away from toffs and all their polished-silverware kind. Roddy finished filling out the form, trying to stop seething. The chip on his shoulder was turning into a great crack in the sidewalk.
"No." Roddy gave Barry the bill. "Of course not, Barry, I don't mean to say 'sir'."
"Of course not you're all uneducated oafs."
"And you haven't done a thing for yourself in your life.
"Toiler."
"Snob."
"Proletariat."
"Prat."
"Cockney."
"Clotpole." Barry turned a shade of red that put his cravat to shame.
He slammed the money onto the table. "Ugh… Cretins, like you, are what I detest the most."
"And high-baller's, like you, are what make the world die a little faster." Roddy gathered the rest of his steam to call out as Barry walked out the door.
"Au revoir! That's high school French for you!"
He could hear tut- tut's coming from behind. Monroe was leaning against the door frame.
"Oh, shut up. At least hate is legal." Monroe winced.
"Don't tell?"
Roddy winked and said, "That's what you pay me for."
Tada! You reached the end of chapter one. I wanted to upload this all in one chapter but I had it on good word (Io, no idea why I still trust her) that breaking it up would make it easier to read. So I upload as I feel. When it is all up, the post will arrive on Live Journal.
The title is subject to change but comes from a quote:
"The porcupine, whom one must handle gloved, may be respected, but never loved"
- Arthur Guiterman
That was not the inspiration for the story. A journal will be written for the inspiration (since it is rather long) and the phenomena that led to the birth of this fiction.
On an off hand note, we shouldn't have genres. We should have the spectrum of reality.