So I've never tried steampunk before, and I need some serious help. Much to my chagrin, the due date for this short story was set much earlier than I had expected, and now I need to finish it before tomorrow. This is all i have, and as you can see, I haven't even gotten to the main plot yet. I'm looking for some crit, some suggestions, and especially plot ideas. Anything to drive the story forward. Torrie is likely to be the only main character.
Torrie Burwind stalked down Little street, hands buried deeply in his coat pockets. A newspaper jutted out of his right pocket, the headline prominent: “204 N.R. – THE YEAR OF THE REVOLUTION (?)”. The wind, blowing against him, only served to irritate him further. The street was lined with houses, all packed together, their roofs like giant stairs jutting into the rumbling sky.
Ambros hadn’t shown up, that bastard, and he’d gone and wasted half a day for it. It was nearly three, according to his fob watch, well past the time Ambros ought to have been waiting for him at that stupid little café downtown.
Torrie turned from Little street onto a smaller, unnamed path lined with four or five houses on either side, and crossed the road towards a tall, faded red brick house tucked at the end of the path. The window curtains were all closed. “Bastard,” he muttered, and walked up the steps to the door. He raised a fist and banged on the door, calling “Hello? Is anyone home? It’s me – it’s Torrie –”
There was the sound of footsteps, a few clicks, and then the door opened, revealing an enthusiastic, smiling, aging man. “Burwind! Get in, get in, quick. Hurry.” Torrie stepped in, alarmed, and turned around just as Ambros shut the door behind him.
Ambros’s greying hair was in a knotty, short ponytail thrown rapidly together. His brown eyes were tinted behind dirty small spectacles, and on his dark, worn vest was a sewn-on tag that read ‘Dr. Ambros Deschavel’. The vest was an old one – Ambros had officially lost the right to the title of ‘doctor’ years before.
Ambros turned to Torrie with a large smile. “Burwind! Burwind, it’s good to see you – brush your hair, you look homeless – would you like some tea, I was just making some – ” Ambros grabbed Torrie’s arm in a firm grip and began dragging him to the kitchen.
“No – Doctor – let me go!” Torrie yanked his arm free. “Doctor, where were you today?” He demanded, rubbing his arm. “I was waiting for you. You never showed up, what happened?”
Ambros continued on to the kitchen, appearing perfectly content to ignore him.
“Don’t ignore me, Doctor,” Torrie chastised, a little more calmly now that he knew Ambros hadn’t just disappeared. “What happened? Did you forget?” Ambros disappeared into the kitchen, and answered only with the sound of water sloshing in a tin pot. Torrie let out a deep sigh. Of course he’d forgotten. The man was practically senile.
He turned into the living room, a rather mismatched, eclectic organization of furniture and fabrics. Torrie picked the loveseat furthest from the window and sprawled across it. It was quite comfortable. “Hey, Doctor,” he said from couch, “I’m here now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I’ll explain it in a second – one or two sugars?”
“Four,” responded Torrie.
Ambros let out a “Gah!” from the kitchen.
Torrie chuckled and sunk deeper into the couch. “Hurry up, Doctor, I haven’t got all day.”
Ambros appeared from the kitchen, triumphantly holding two steaming cups in his hand. He handed one to Torrie and sat down on an ottoman beside him. Torrie sat up, grabbed the tea, and took a sip. “Actually, this could use a bit more sugar,” he muttered. He sat up straight, placing his cup on a glass table beside the loveseat, and turned to Ambros, frowning. “Where were you today? I was waiting for you.”
Ambros gave a heavy sigh, slumping down on the ottoman. “An attendant at the café asked me to leave. He knew who I was. He didn’t say it, but he knew. He knew,” Ambros sighed. He took a sip of his tea, and sighed again.
“So? You could’ve hung around anyway. I looked like a fool.”
“They were everywhere,” Ambros muttered. “They were all watching me. They were expecting me, they knew. I couldn’t stay.” He gave yet another sigh.
“Stop that, you’re depressing me,” Torrie snapped. “Why would anyone be watching you? Who’s ‘they’?”
Ambros took a long while to reply. He took his glasses off, rubbed them clean, slipped them back on. He took a sip of tea. He gave another heaving sigh.
It took a great deal of self-restraint not to shake him.
Finally, he spoke. “Torrie, I’m asking you to do something you won’t want to do.”
“Doctor,” Torrie said, “there is absolutely nothing in the world that I actively want to do. I can assure you, this will likely be no different.”
Ambros shook his head fiercely, whipping his hair around, and gave a groan. “You don’t understand, Torrie – there are people who would kill you before they let you do this!” he said, burying his face in his hands.
“There are – what?” Torrie said, bewildered. “Christ, Doctor, what is it you want?”
Ambros spoke from behind his hands. “I need you to get me an engine."
“….right.” Torrie stood up, straightening his coat. “Well, I’ll be off to perform this most difficult of tasks – I might not return – wish me luck, Doctor – good day.” He made towards the door, when Ambros shot a hand out, grabbing him by the coattail.
“Idiot!” he hissed. “Not a steam engine!” His eyes dropped to Torrie’s pocket. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Torrie faltered. “Not a steam – um, a newspaper. Here…” He pulled it out of his pockets, and Ambros snatched it from his hands, opening to the front page.
“Revolution.” He looked up at Torrie. “Torrie – Torrie – this is what this is all about!” He slapped the front page vigorously. “This is why I need the engine!”
“But – how do you mean, not a steam engine? There isn’t any other kind. What are you trying to do? And for gods’ sake, what does it have to do with the revolutionaries?”
Ambros scanned the page for a minute. “Torrie, come with me.”
He stood up, and made for the hallway. Torrie followed him. Ambros opened a door at the end, revealing a set of stairs leading down to an unlit basement. He grabbed an oil lamp resting on a table opposite the door and started climbing down rather slowly. Torrie tried to peer into the basement, gave up, and followed the old man down the stairs.
At the foot, Ambros turned around. “Torrie, you’re going to see something no one’s ever seen before. You need to keep it completely quiet - that is, you can’t tell anyone. No matter what. Do you understand?” Torrie nodded, confused. “Good. Come with me.”
Ambros turned around and walked towards another lamp at the other end of the room and lit it.
The room was illuminated now. Torrie looked around. The room was full of materials – a very large box full of cogs, nuts, and bolts sat in a cluttered mess in a corner of the room. A bookshelf filled with canisters was pushed against one wall; another filled with manuals was pushed against another. The workbench the lamp rested on was cluttered with drawings, measurements, and outlines. “Doctor,” Torrie asked curiously, “what exactly is supposed to be here?”
“Hold on,” he said. He fiddled with something at the workbench, blocking it from Torrie’s view. Suddenly there was a deep rumbling from one of the walls, and a section of the wall disappeared into the ground. “Come on,” Ambros said, motioning as he walked into the room revealed in the opening.
“What?” Torrie gasped. “What? What – what? I mean – what?” Torrie staggered after Ambros, dumbfounded. “What the hell, Doctor, what have you been doing?” Ambros had already lit a lamp in this room, which was much smaller and emptier than the previous room.
Torrie noticed something bright in the corner of his eye, turned around, and suppressed another cry. “What –”
A large – something – stared back at him from the corner of the room. A great big, hulking metal figure, it almost resembled a person – almost. It towered over him easily, nearly scraping the ceiling, and its enormous chest jutted out proudly. “Doctor,” Torrie breathed, backing up quickly towards the other room, “That’s a metal man – there’s a metal man in your basement – Doctor, what have you been doing?”
Ambros gave a fierce smile. “Torrie,” he said, “I have been working on this ‘metal man’ for years – years, Torrie. And he’s almost done. Almost.”
Torrie swallowed. “I’m guessing you’re missing the engine?”
Ambros walked over to the monstrous hunk of metal and slapped it affectionately. “It has to run somehow.”
----------
Torrie emerged from the basement in a sort of daze. Ambros appeared behind him, turned, and locked the door to the basement. He placed the oil lamp back on the table, turned to Torrie, and raise his hands in gesture, rather as though seeking his approval. “Back of the house, Torrie, can’t be too careful. We need to talk.”
He was led into a small living room in the back, this one filled with furniture that actually looked as though it originally came in a set, all of it plush. He picked a chair in the corner and sat down, rubbing his knees and frowning. Ambros sat down on a chair opposite him. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“I – I don’t know what to think,” said Torrie. “It’s – you built a metal man – what for? What good is he?”
“For the revolution, of course!”
“The revolution – what revolution? The little grassroots pseudo-movement, don’t tell me you’re involved in that,” Torrie admonished. “That’ll be squashed in a week! Jesus, Doctor, you built a metal man for that?”
Ambros looked at him for a minute. “It won’t be grassroots for long, Torrie.”
The old man’s gaze nearly hurt, it was so intense. Torrie tried very hard to avoid eye-contact, instead choosing to focus on a piece of wallpaper peeling near the roof of the opposite wall. After a minute, Torrie said “You told me you needed an engine.”
“Ah,” Ambros said, and the tension eased a bit. “Yes, the engine. Well, it’s not exactly an engine, but I didn’t know how else to phrase it. You see, it does make the metal man work, makes him function, makes him run, if you will. But it’s not quite that. It’s, well… frankly, Torrie, it doesn’t matter what it is. The point is, I need you to get it.”
Torrie shook his head. “Where the hell will I get something that doesn’t exist?”
“No! No, it exists, it exists,” Ambros cried, pulling his chair forward. “Look, boy, it’s not a difficult task in and of itself. I really just need you to deliver it to me, I have a friend down in Piete – beautiful country, you really ought to see it – and he has been working on this extensively. Now, about a month ago I received word that it was done – that he’d finished this engine, if you will.”
“Why can’t you pick it up yourself?” Torrie asked, frowning.
“Ah, well.” Ambros pursed his lips, pulling a small piece of crumpled, yellowed paper from his vest pocket. “They’re expecting me.”
“Who’s expecting you?”
“Some people who would very much like me to fail,” Ambros muttered, unfolding the crumpled paper slowly and perusing it. “Here, look.” He handed the paper to Torrie.
Torrie struggled to read the handwriting, but eventually he made out the few short lines scribbled onto the paper. ‘ambros: it is done, but wait. and find help. m knows about it. yours will know too. –monty’.
Torrie looked up. “Who’s Monty?”
“An old friend,” Ambros sighed, “When I still worked at the University. He was there with me.”
“Has he been stripped as well?” Torrie muttered, looking back at the sheet and missing the dirty look Ambros shot him. “Who’s m?”
“Monarchy,” Ambros said. “Piete has a rather… informed monarchy, so this hardly surprises me.” He shook his head. “Monty’s been through quite a bit to build that piece of machinery.”
It was starting to make sense in Torrie’s head. “You’re making me do something extremely illegal, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” said Ambros simply. “All the best parts of a revolution are.”
“I beg to differ,” Torrie muttered. He made to hand the paper back to Ambros, but the old man recoiled.
“You need to keep that,” he said. “It has directions. To find Monty.”
Torrie looked the paper over, flipping it around. “Where?” he asked. The few sentences scribbled onto the sheet were the only words there.
“Hold it to a fire,” Ambros said. “The words will show up then. They’re coordinates. Young man,” Ambros added, looking over his glasses, “I suggest you get a train ticket to Piete.”
---------------
The next day, Torrie was lined up at the ticket booth, with about $100 in one hand, a trunk in the other. “Next!” called the ticket vendor, and Torrie walked up to the stand.
“One ticket to Piete, please,” he said, placing his money on the table.
“Fill out this form,” said the vendor, suppressing a yawn as she slid a green sheet and a pen across the table to him, and began counting out his bills.
In ‘Reason for Traveling’, he wrote ‘business’. He looked up when he finished the form. She held a ticket in her hand for him and a few bills in change. They exchanged papers. “Next!” she called, and he quickly moved out of the way. He looked at the ticket in his hand, pocketing the change. The little yellow stub read ‘Piete – 5:45/Doris, Aderson to Machielli, Piete/504 Train’.
“Right,” he breathed. “504 train. That should be somewhere at the end…” He looked up, scanning the signs going down the platform. 504 was at the end. “Yay.”
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