[Shadowrun by Clockwork], An fragment of fiction Options

[Ancient History]

The streets of Seattle were dank with fog, and I found my way only by the gloaming moon overhead. Every bricked building I brushed against and cobbled street I trod was damp and slippery. So were some of the occupants whom I noticed silently making their way down darksome alleys, away from the burning glare of those few street-lamps still lit and in repair.

Harold was dressed in his great coat this evening, and breathed the damp air uneasily. He did not approve of the climate, with the malign vapors so ubiquitous of industry these days, and his great iron-shod cane of polished oak struck sparks from the cobbles as we made our way to the unremarkable and unmarked door that served as the entrance to Dante's.

Once inside the foyer to the somewhat notorius Gentleman's Club, Harold and I faced the two massive brutes that served as bouncers. The one on the right, with carefully capped tusks of brightly polished brass, addressed us cordially.

"Would the Gentlemen please hand to the coatgirl any weaponry on their persons."

It was not a question. I very carefully removed my derby, the rather cumbersome greatcoat and the pair of octagon-barrelled revolvers I kept always on my person, handing them to the slight elfin girl manning the coat room. Harold removed his large Burma knife, still sheathed in it's hand-tooled Cherokee leather case, along with his own great coat and tam o'shantern, and handed them likewise to the girl.

"I must retain my cane for locomotion, I am afraid." came Harold's bass rumble.

Harold carefully rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb, with the pretense of a nervous fidget. The bouncer with the capped tusks raised an eyebrow till it appeared it would impact the horn jutting from his brow. He shot me us both beaming smile, full of teeth.

"Why of course sir. Please go in, and enjoy your stay."

Harold managed to pass a few gold nuyen into the bouncer's magnificent paw as we entered the club proper.

Dante's, while far from the most popular of nighttime establishments in the great port city of Seattle, and at times berated in the local papers for the unsavory characters sometimes found there, was a particular locale I cultivated for the specific esoteric elements that found themselves there, seeking for either service or employment. Harold and I were of the latter.

We descended steps covered in worn carpet of oriental design; the grinding gears of airy dragons picked out in copper thread, arriving at the third level before the Pit, where our compatriots awaited.

Here was Alijah Snowblood, an albino of the Sinsearch tribe who had been ostracized from his clan (I do not know why, though Ihave reason to guess it was for collaborating with certain of his elfin brothers in Tir Tairngire). His hair remained bound tightly into the braid favored by the aboriginal tribes on the continent, with a few precious thunderbird feathers held in the knot at the back. The rest of him was dressed as any Anglo-Saxon gentleman, in a modest black tuxedo and bow tie. His particular mixture of laudanum and taéngelé sat before him in a small glass.

Seated to his left at the table was the Jackal. Her flame-red hair and the bridge of freckles across her nose and cheeks declared her Irish descent as surely as the glass of potato-vodka being held in her slender hand. The Jackal's professed preference for aeronaut pantaloons and calf-high leather aviator boots were attested to tonight, as well as a rather fetching if low-cut blouse of green silk. I looked, but could not detect the dull metal gleam of her datajack fittings; she had decided on a partial wig tonight to cover them. Perhaps a prudent gesture on her part.

James held most of the booth to himself, and was making short work of a pint of beer, along with the plate of liver and onions in front of him. The ogre sucked suds from the prodigious mustache that began above his mouth but ended as sweeping and full-bodied sideburn, leaving his prominent chin exposed. James was considered quite the handsomest of his species by many of the ladies in Seattle, save only for the irregular scar along the bridge of his nose (I have heard that was from the trenches of Crimea during the Ottoman Uprising, but the ardent Austrian would confirm nothing). James had on tonight a sleevless blouse and vest over the drab dress pants of an officer, and finished with steel-shod boots. Normally I dislike such ostentatious dress, but James was keen to show off the clockwork of his mechanical arms, which whirred and clicked very softly as he dined.

Harold took his accustomed place next to Jim, and ordered a glass of gin while waiting for their potential employer to appear. I sat opposite him by the Jackal, and ordered a scotch and soda.

It was not a quarter of an hour later, as Alijah and the Jackal were discussing the parallels between their two respective professions, the Jackal stressing the cerebral aspect as Alijah spoke of comparative symbols and old myth-cycles. He strode up to our table, tall, heavy set and blond, with a thin mustache and grey eyes. A cape graced his shoulders, and a monocle was tucked into the right-breast pocket of his suit.

"Good even to you all. I am Herr Johanneson. Shall we get down to business?"

[SpasticTeapot]

Excellent so far!

[Lady Door]

My compliments, AH. This is fantastic. I hope to read more soon.

[Lenice Hawk]

As a person with an addictive personality, I should have known better than to keep reading AH's fictions posts.
Now I'm hooked.

[GunnerJ]

Wow, everything's all, like, Victorian. Neat.

[Hasaku]

More, rarrrr!

I love steampunk like nothing else, man. You're killing me.

[viggo]

Herr Johanneson? It seems conventions cross cultures.

[Jrayjoker]

Very nice so far. The descriptors are rich, if a bit heavy handed at times, but very appropriate if your intention is to write in a neo-Elizabethan or Victoian style.

Did I detect a touch of influence from the openings to Dickenson's magazine serials?

[Ancient History]

Not intentionally. I'm far from fond of Dickens.

[Jrayjoker]

Well, to each their own. When you consider he was writing for what amounted to Ladies Home Journal at the time, and the novels are major edits of the serial versions then I can see losing your taste for him.

Actually, I am not so sure the Dickens comparison was accurate, but it was what sprang to mind.