Steampunk AU: Clockwork Angels.
Firstly, I would just like to say how much fun I have had writing this. It's kinda rarely that I get a prompt so inspiring, and at over 12.5k words this is officially the longest fic I've written. Also, with the exception of my Yuletide story, it also contains the least porn...weird that.
I want to thank Ladyfoxxx for being the pest control to my infestation of run-on sentances!
I want to thank anon_lovefest , for doing what they do.
So here we have it, the monster that is Clockwork Angels.
Title: Clockwork Angels
Author: bebunny
Description: Steampunk AU. Strunggling inventor Frank is approached for help by Mikey, who's brother, a famous poet, has been taken in the night.
Notes: Some action-based violence and minor OC death, the occasional scene of an adult nature...so NC17. 12600 words.
Quite obviously, I dont own these boys and no profit is being made.
part 2
part 3
part 4
conclusion
Occasional Hélicas clattered on the cobbles well below the raven's perch, their engines coughing, and propellers whirring piercingly as they passed under the stone bridge on Helvetica's Grande Rue de le Roi. Sunset was fast approaching the city, sending spears of crimson and gold light across the harbour into stained glass, bouncing off the copper chimneys of the abandoned rooftops.
Well, not quite abandoned.
The raven; startled by a falling tile behind it flew clumsily and heavily into the air, spiralling down to the market square, cawing angrily. The culprit, unfazed, pulled his hood up tighter and waited for dark.
~~*~~
Well out of view of the harbour, in the densely packed and smoke hazed industrial quarter of the city, another explosion dented the door to a workshop tucked into the second floor above the rickety balustrade. Dirty-faced children in the courtyard below, well used to the regularity with which their surroundings blew up, stopped only to giggle before continuing their game. The door; more battered than its neighbours and a great deal more scorched simply said in hastily scratched script:
“nk Ireo, InventeOr ”
It was only a few moments before a woman bundled in scarves and numerous floral ankle skirts hurried out of a nearby door to bang her fist on the sign.
“Mr Iero! Mr Iero! ‘r you still alive?”
There was rustling and a few crashing thumps behind the door as its inhabitant fought to open the locks. A small goggled face appeared briefly in the crack to hold a frantic and hushed discussion with the woman before the door shut firmly once more, interior now silent.
The woman, blinked once or twice and called out,
“I’ll leave your supper ‘ere then Mr Iero! You jus’ call if there’s sumin’ else you’re needing!”
Hollering at the children below she fetched a cloth covered bowl from her apartment and left it on the doorstep of the workshop. Herding the remaining children inside, she threw a baleful glance at the sky before disappearing indoors.
~~*~~
Frank woke to more pounding on the door than in his head. Above him his familiar glued and taped working prototypes swung and circled from the ceiling beams swimming gradually into focus. He was sure he had breathed far too many fumes this time, having forgotten once again, to open the window before mixing the oils.
Groaning, he rolled off his bead and landed miraculously on his bare feet. Shrugging on a duffled leather short-coat over his worn cotton shirt he sidestepped papers, blueprints, cast off springs and the very suspect sticky patch on the floorboards to answer the door.
Blinking into the morning sunlight he found himself staring at the very intense gaze of a tall wiry gentleman he did not recognise. The stranger was dressed neatly, if conservatively, in a dark grey suit, black tie tucked into a matching waistcoat. He looked very official, which had Frank on a back foot immediately.
“Good morning Mr Iero” the man said, brushing a strand of hair back behind his spectacles, ignoring Frank's silence. “I may have some work for you, if you’re interested?” He paused. “And I may have stepped in your... what is this? Stew?”
Frank raised an eyebrow and opened the door further, allowing the man to pass, sweeping up the bowl and cloth with whatever stew he could scoop back in. An image of rats swam suddenly to his mind and he shuddered, closing the door quickly.
“What can I do for you Mister...?” Frank began, not really sure how to begin a conversation with a client, having never actually had one before. Not a legitimate one anyway, the children did not really count. He squinted at the stranger in the dusty half-light of his workshop, and fiddled with the strap of the goggles around his neck.
“Michael” The man said. “My name is Michael.” He stooped to examine a half finished contraption, gears exposed, spanner resting on its frame.
“A Sweepalator!” Frank explained proudly, keen to have a solid subject of conversation. “I designed it to sweep floors, or at least, that’s what it started out as, to thank Mrs Toro for her kindness.” His gaze travelled down to Michael’s soaked footwear, “...and stew.” He chewed on his lip. “I’m sorry about that?” He offered.
His visitor shrugged and turned his attention to the hanging wooden models of Hélicas and Flycycles that dotted Frank’s beams. He swallowed.
“I don’t know if you are familiar with the resistance to the Monarchy-” He began, silenced by the clash of Frank dropping the bowl, it smashed into pieces, stew splashing several of the papers littering the floor.
“Oh no you don’t!” Frank exclaimed, “I am not part of that, and I don’t know anything about it!” He shook his head vehemently and pointed to the door. “I won’t be arrested for making you, or any of your friends’ weapons!” He paused, “Or weapon-like domestic appliances!” He added, inserting himself between Michael and the Sweepalator.
The tall stranger pursed his lips and stepped back slightly.
“I don’t want weapons, Mr Iero.” He asserted, hands held in front of his chest in defence. “I heard... they say that you can find things.”
Frank put down the spanner he was gripping and breathed in steadily.
“What kind of things?”
“I’ve lost my only brother, Mr Iero, and I need you to help me.”
Frank felt the familiar sinking feeling in his gut that could only ever mean trouble.
“And your brother is?”
“Gerard Way.”
Frank groaned. “Of course...”
~~*~~
Gerard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, there was not much light, only what was straining in through the dust caked on the bottle-glass in the window near the ceiling. It gave everything a sickly pallor, too washed out and almost timeless. He wished he had a pen.
There was nothing in the room besides his chair, a desk, and the little straw pallet they had provided him to sleep on. He stretched his wrists and rubbed them. At least he wasn’t bound any more, and they’d removed the hood after he’d woken up screaming. The whole thing had felt a little too close to being buried alive.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he had not eaten for hours; he had no idea how long exactly since they had removed his pocket watch along with his jacket and shoes. His waistcoat was warm enough, but he knew there had been some liquorice in his jacket's inside pocket. Probably eaten by his captor by now, he imagined, whoever that was.
~~*~~
Frank had to struggle to keep pace. He found himself running every so often to catch up, breathless and irritated. He tucked his scarves tighter around his neck to keep them from unravelling as he ran.
“Where exactly are we going Michael?” He puffed, gesturing at the carriages. “Why can’t we ride?”
“Because it isn’t far!” Michael called over his shoulder, “On the edge of the harbour.” He shot Frank a wilting glance. “Only my father calls me that, you can call me Mikey, you’re creeping me out.”
Frank nodded, and jumped to avoid a fat white cat as he rounded a corner. “Sure!” He called, “Whatever!”
Finally, just as Frank’s legs were really starting to protest, he very nearly slammed into both Mikey and a street lamp simultaneously. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.
They had reached a smart looking house with a black door, heavy silk brocade curtains in the window. It was almost identical to every other house on the street, smart terraced town-houses. Here and there window boxes perched outside, overflowing with spring flowers, a neighbourhood comfortable in its wealth.
Mikey stood with his hand on the great brass door handle hesitantly, frowning.
“I brought him the morning papers.” He was saying. “I do every morning.”
Frank glanced between the door and his not-very-slightly-eccentric “customer?” He thought. “Client?”
“He wasn’t there...” Mikey continued, “He usually doesn’t leave the house without me.”
“How long has he been missing?” Frank asked.
“Since this morning!” Mikey stressed, checking his watch.
Frank shook his head, “Perhaps he just...”
He was alarmed by how quickly Mikey grabbed his shoulder, shaking him lightly. Frank could see the panic rising in his eyes.
“Ok, Ok! He didn’t just... ” Frank rolled his eyes. So now he didn’t just have to deal with his mad-as-a-hatter customer, apparently it ran in the family.
They entered the house together, Frank trying very hard to look as though he belonged there, like he wasn’t just some sweep or something. In this nice neighbourhood he was very aware of his shabby corduroys, faded and patched at the knee from too much wear.
Inside was cluttered and warm, but comfortable; it reminded Frank of his own workshop. He scanned the room through his goggles, checking to see if anything jumped out at him. It did not.
He made his way through each dim room of the house; one room caught his eye, the only one that looked as though it saw regular use. Its walls were plastered with leaves of scribbled handwriting, sketches of trees and flowers and the odd mythical creature. Frank spotted unicorns, a gryphon and some kind of giant ape in the mix, the latter with a man’s head. It made him slightly uneasy.
What he didn’t see was anything that screamed of ‘Resistance!’ There were no anti-monarchical rants in the scribblings as far as he could see. He picked up a loose paper and read:
“If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see
You can find out first-hand what it's like to be me”
“Wow.” Frank murmured. “Cheerful...”
Mikey glared at him. “He never wanted anything to do with the resistance you know!” He said defensively. “He just wanted people to stop fighting.” He took the paper from Frank. “They’ve made him miserable; he didn’t want his poetry screamed at soldiers in the streets.”
Frank hummed in neutral agreement, unconvinced, and bent down to his leather case. “Maybe he ran away then?”
Mikey looked crestfallen. “I’m sure he wouldn’t go without me.” He said, removing his glasses to wipe the lenses. His hands shook a little.
“Look,” Frank patted Mikey’s arm absentmindedly. “If there is a single clue here, we’ll find it!”
He produced a little brass ball from the case with a flourish, obviously very proud. Mikey couldn’t help but turn up a small smile at the look on Frank’s face. Frank grinned and snapped a small catch on the ball.
The thing whirred and clicked, unfolding like a hedgehog, until there was a little clockwork dog sitting in Frank’s hand.
It had wings.
“Wings?”
“Well they are quicker than feet...” Frank hummed, as though he hadn’t actually considered it before. He poked the dog and its wings buzzed.
“Peppers!” He said. “Where’s Gerard gone?”
The little dog flew around Frank’s head for a few moments before zipping to the stacked papers of the office. Hovering for a moment it flew out of the room and up, towards the bedrooms.
Frank was close behind, watching as Peppers checked corners, cracks, bedding and windows before coming to rest slightly under the wrought iron bed frame in the master bedroom.
Frank took the hint, lying down and rummaging under the bed for a few moments with his eyes screwed shut. He turned up two chewed pencils, an apple core, and a bottle cap that he sniffed. He held it out to Peppers, who stuck out a tiny velvet tongue which Frank rubbed the cap on. A few moments later Peppers lay down, and closed its eyes.
“Chloroform!” Frank announced, making Mikey jump. The little clockwork dog sat up and flew to Frank’s scarves, settling down in the folds and closing its eyes again. The tiny purr of its gears winding down was barely audible.
“Your brother’s definitely been taken” Frank sighed. “No other information in here though, and it doesn’t look like there was a struggle...”
Mikey glanced around the room. “Do you think he was arrested?” He asked, eyes flicking to the window, views of the palace in the distance.
Frank shook his head. “I imagine there would have been an official notice on the door, or at least in the living room.” He said, “There weren’t any nail marks on the door, no sign of scratched paint, they probably wouldn't have used chloroform either.”
“How do you do this?” Mikey asked. “You’re an inventor... why not a detective?”
Frank grimaced. “Not important.” He said.
part 2