[Closed] The Ignition Point

[Gale]

Saunder's Forge| Approximately 14 O'Clock

14 Loshis 2720

It was the first clear day for a while, or at least far from the storms and downpour that had previously submerged the city. A light mist dwelled on the air, a stillness that allowed the smog to accumulate within the soot district. A thick smoke that tasted almost sulphuric lingered, unmoving with the lacking wind and growing thicker as the factories continued to belch ash. Saunder's Forge was no different, the furnace was ablaze, the rear doors to the courtyard and the gate to street swung open. It was outside that Gale worked, buckets of sand neatly lined up against the forge wall, the bicycle frame raised so the wheels were left inches above the ground. Around it the various tools and parts necessary for today's experimentation, pipes shaped and sealed, the washers and bolts carefully positioned over where they should be going - each piece was carefully refined to maintain strength yet make it as light as possible. Every scrap was reused, every spare lump was reworked, this was a project Gale would not give up on; even when it caused them to lay there each night and refused to grant them any decent sleep.

They had birthed this idea fuelled by alcohol hangovers and nicotine addiction; they refused to give up now.

Already covered in grease, heavy leather gloves on and the shirt rolled up past their elbows, Gale began fitting the parts of the motor they had created to the bicycle. Everything was delicately balanced, they started from the rear, attaching the drive crank and bearings, followed by the connecting rods. They were flipped out the way before the main body of the engine was lifted, a heavy piece of steel that was firstly strapped into place and then, once the position was confirmed, bolted in place. Out the top Gale pressed down the two-piston heads, her ears pricking to the sound of the crankshaft going around within its belly, turning a full circle and inevitably rising again. The pistons were different than before, Gale had replaced them with brass tubes six inches in length, lubricated it with grease and a rubber seal, before sliding a metal bore down it. Gale manually turned the engine again, faster this time as they listened for the muffled sound a dying hiss of a spark. Each time the engine clunked, the arm rising and falling, powering on the next rotation until it hissed and sparked again. 

Rocking back onto their heels, the smith took up next lot of piping, fitted them, and moved up to the next stage; the fuel tank itself was nestled to the front of the bicycle and had been modified to feature its own slot for its own igniter of sorts. The butterfly valve was fitted between the engine and the fuel tank, the wires were clipped into the handlebar and the internal panel twisted when Gale rolled the handlebars forward. It was at this point Gale took a pause to gather their thoughts, their fingers followed the journey from the back to the front, the mouth moving as if to recite the physics each part would be placed under.

"Connectin' rods is connected to t' crankshaft. When under pressure from t' fumes it pushes t' pistons up, which allow t' fumes out t' exhaust."

The smith tapped the shaft of the pistons,

"Same time, t' intake comes in, 'nd when t' piston comes back down, makes a spark, 'nd then repeat."

Gale winced then, rubbed their brow - leaving a smear of grease across it - and erred.

"Nay, wait. It uh. Fuck." It was difficult to articulate, the finger tapped harder against the engine, before they withdrew it, "Vapour comes in, gets hot, expands, pushes t' piston up..."

It was more difficult to explain due to Gale's lack of formal education, let alone lack of exposure to the sciences that the Gollies so hungrily guarded. Puffing their cheeks, they focused on the journey up the rest of the bicycle. The valve was easy, it determined how much gas was released into the engine, which in turn determined how quickly it worked; more gas, more pressure, and therefore faster turning. The smith took the next part of the remaining tools and pieces available; it was much like one of the pistons from the engine, but this time smaller - another fire piston, this time fitted with a spring that compressed as it rose and snapped back when released. The top of this was attached to another wire that was fed down back to the engine pistons. The wire was hooked over the top of one of them, neatly tied off and rolled up tightly.

Lifting the tied piston manually, Gale followed the wire up to the upper piston and watched it extend out an inch and a half before easing back down into the fuel tank with the easing wire. Gale exhaled, leaned back one last time to inspect everything was in place and retreated back into the forge proper. After a few moments of clattering about, Gale returned with a cigarette between their lips and a flask of lamp oil in hand - the distinct scent of kerosene permeating the air as they returned to the bicycle. Straddling it, they unscrewed the cap in the fuel tank, poured the lamp oil into the belly and sealed it up. The smith straightened, leaned back on the saddle and pulled the fire piston in the top of the tank back.

Here goes nothing.

Gale released it.

The spring-loaded piston shot forward, hissed and grew silent.

Nothing.

Fuck.

Gale pulled it back again, released, heard the hiss and then nothing.

Work. Dammit. Work. I want to sleep.

There was a tut, this time sitting further forward on the seat, leaning right over to curl a hand around the handlebar - they twisted it forward and in turn, the butterfly valve opened a crack. Gale pulled the piston up again and released it.

The clunk was loud, followed by a wheeze of noise. Determined Gale pulled the fire piston back again, and again, and again, each time the wheeze grew louder. It turned into a splutter, belching and spitting. Gale heard the crankshaft move, a begrudged squeak of noise that seemed reluctant to start. Gale pulled the piston again, twisting open the butterfly valve; the engine released a rumble, coughing now as it vibrated into life. The rear pistons rose, loitered at the top, and then slammed down once more.

The motor released a bark, the crankshaft beginning to spin and take possession of its own momentum. With each rotation the machine grew louder, snorting as it grew hot, the tank piston now recoiling back and forth of its own accord. The sound passed through them, arms shaking as it continued to spit, cracking turning into booming that reverberated off the walls of the smithy. 

Wide-eyed Gale felt their lips move, their form trembling as they grinned. 

What a noisy monster they had created.

Beyond the courtyard pedestrians were stopping, the nervous voices of others as the alien sounds roared into life - explosive, much like the sound of the illegal flintlocks - picking up volume. Gale clambered off it, watching the rear wheel go around, their hands clamping around their ears as the beat grew consistent. Black smoke was belching from the back, the burning lamp oil passing through the system, but clearly working and pushing the wheel forward - even if the resulting sound was beginning to grow deafening and the stench was becoming increasingly awful. 

"Fuckin' aye!"

[Nicholas Fogg]

14th of Loshis | Saunders' Forge

Q
uite frankly, this was beyond the pale.



It had been weeks of hard work to get to this point- initially, the work of finishing outstanding orders, and training Billy in basic watch maintenance and repair so that while Nicholas was out of the shop, it was in safe hands. He had meant to have the boy do physical repairs before, but it had always been put off for one reason or another. Still, the youth had a meticulously lettered instruction notebook with reminders of everything within his skill level, and stern instructions to book in more complex repairs for the two days a week that his master would now be returning to the premises.

Then, of course, Nicholas had to find a workspace large enough and well lit enough, and with appropriate freight doors for entry of parts and, he hoped, the eventual exit of the computing engine itself.

That latter part was relatively easy, the loading docks of warehouses around Vienda’s many canals were plenty large enough, but… the location. That had been trickier.

In the end, there was only one place he could find that was close enough to Rouncewell and Fogg. He had left Billy with instructions to come fetch him if there were any issues with Francis. Alioe knew the man was mostly bedbound and somnolent, but there were times…

In any case, the man had expected some level of noise in the neighbourhood, especially with a smithy across the way, but this was frankly unconscionable. He pushed blueprints and scrap paper aside, graphite-smudged fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration and distress. The pounding, rhythmic, invasive noise erupting from said smithy set his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, and Nicholas found himself shaking his head abruptly as if that would somehow just make it stop.

A moment later, and his chair legs screeched across the boards, the lanky watchmaker springing from his seat to clatter down the iron stair, too distressed to even catch up his coat on the way.

---
A wrathful, avenging angel stood silhouetted in the open door of Saunders’ Forge. Waistcoat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up bony forearms to the elbow, his usually pale face burning pink, the gangly man brandished what appeared to be his own spectacles at the young smith.

“NOW SEE HERE-” it was rare that Nicholas raised his voice, but when he did so, it tended to carry, especially in the echoing yard. “-I DON’T KNOW WHAT IN THE SIX KINGDOMS YOU THINK YOU’RE PLAYING AT, BUT KNOCK IT THE CLOCK OFF! I-”
He went to continue, but caught a lungful of the noxious smoke billowing from the thundering contraption, and wheezed to a halt.

Forced to grab the wall for support as he coughed and spluttered, he managed to focus on the youth’s besmirched face and blinked hard.

“Wait...Aren’t you-” he broke off to hack into his hand “-Aren’t you B-Beckett’s boy?”

[Gale]

Saunder's Forge| Approximately 14 O'Clock

14 Loshis 2720

The rattling engine continued to roar, the scent of burning kerosene polluting the air and drifting ever upwards to join the other smokestacks of the city. The vibrations traversed through Gale's ankles, the dull ting as the rear wheel rotated and the arms clipped and bashed against cogs. But it persisted, even with the smith watching the oil spit droplets over the courtyard floor and realising that it was showing no signs of slowing.

No, if anything it was starting to grow faster; the relentless chuffing was beginning to groan, a distinct rumbling that was making Gale uneasy. The smoke was beginning to soak into the brickwork too, uncontrolled and unfiltered. The smith inhaled a little too deeply and the back of their throat became itchy, gathering an unwelcome and unwanted globule in their mouth. They blinked, eyes wide as the edges began to water, a second bang escaping from the engine.

Oh. Oh no.

It was progress, that much was clear - but even the fumes were beginning to stick to the exposed skin around their face and sink into their pores. Gale reached forward to the device, eyes flickering back and forth between the wheel, the fire pistons and the parts that laid between them. What were they to do? They wiggled the handle that was wired down to the butterfly valve, but the engine continued to spit and hiss while the handle itself had far too much give in it and nowhere near the original tension they placed on it.

"No. No. No. No." The handle was tugged away, with it the wire slipped out from its internal piping. It had snapped part way down. "Shit. Fucking. Bollocks. Bastard."

They did not hear it, nor much else for that matter, but they saw one of the nuts wriggled itself free from its holding in the chassis and fall to the floor with a muted clink. But despite the fact the machine was beginning to shake itself apart it persisted. Their fingers snatched down at the nut, searching for where it had fallen from when they realised the shadow of another was cast across the courtyard.

Male and human was about all they could make about the man in the smoke - hacking loudly and saying something. The actual meaning was lost behind the relentless dirge of the engine, but Gale was very aware he was there. Not that they could do much about him right now.

There was a third bag, this time deep within the machine itself. With it a spurt of oil spat up the wall, the engine letting out a shrill whine of a complaint as it continued to rotate. Gale inhaled another mouthful of smoke, found some of the half-aware courage that came from a deprived brain and lunged at the fire piston. Hands slapping over it, their knuckles bashed against the plunging element. They winced a few times, hand bracing against the fuel tank - only then becoming aware the metal had grown hot and seeping up through their glove. The man was still shouting something or wheezing, it did not matter exactly what was being said right now.

The metal groaned as they kept the pressure on it, muscles straining as the rear wheel screeched, stuttered, the piston shaking against the hold. Gale swore loudly as the digits were shoved aside; air, heat, fuel, the process would continue as long as it had the three core elements that kept a fire going.

Shit. Think.

They grabbed at the fire piston plunger again, this time twisting it. As it was pulled free the engine let out a hiss, lurching as cool air rushed in where the plunger once was. The engine let out a wet squelch, kerosene evacuating from the rear and across the floor, before it promptly stalled out.

Gale's ears rang, the sounds of the city a distant echo behind the smoke that lingered. They stood awkwardly, took a broad step over the dark yellow kerosene to the nearest bucket of sand. Faintly the man was talking, though his voice was a strange high pitched whine that did not really formulate into anything comprehendible - least not while their head felt as if it was full of fog. Their palm pressed against their ear, their balance felt off for a moment their legs momentarily liquified by the sheer noise produced by the engine.

What just happened? It worked in principle, but to that extent?

The bucket of sand was picked up and unceremonially emptied over the pools of kerosene.

What a mess, it was going to be a pain to clean it all up.

In the midst of it, all Gale had forgotten the cigarette that was clenched between their lips. It had burned down to a stub, but they could not taste any of the tobacco or smoke that it brought. No, only the off sweet scent of the lamp oil was all they could taste now. There was a blink, the pink eyes lifting from the cooling remains of the engine to the speaker. Gale coughed, frowned and snubbed the last of their cigarette out against their wall.

With a wheeze, the smith looked to the man as they finally managed to make sense of what exactly he was saying.

Beckett.

Not a name they were expecting to hear. Gale's tongue ran across their teeth in an attempt to scrape the taste away, before tilting their head to one side. They were louder than intended as they spoke, still half-deaf even as they rubbed at their ears.

"Beckett's boy? Aye, that's me." The Smith peeled away from the wall. "Dunnae know you though, Mister."

There was a sniff, a glance up and down that came to rest at his collar bones. Too fine dressed, someone who was here to complain about the noise? Though, this man did seem to know their father on a first name basis.

“You want somethin’?”

They squinted a little harder then, oxygen slowly returning to their brain. They did recognise him, from somewhere - but placing where was the troublesome bit.