For some time now, I have been tossing around the idea of a series of steampunk adventures starring Alison (wimpdork) and myself. I came up with some characters over IRC/IM one evening and as we both think steampunk is silly fun, we were both delighted with the concept. There were two rules, as I recall it. She would have a jetpack, and I would have an airship (the finest dirigible airship this side of the 20th Century, in fact). I’ve wanted for awhile to have a Doc Savage/Allan Quartermain-style 1920’s pulp story I could work on without investing my whole heart and soul in. That is to say, if it’s not perfect (or even great) I won’t be heartbroken (unlike Roman à Clef). Just something to have fun with.
Enjoy Doctor Anachronos and the Girl from out of the Sun
Chapter the First
The sun was bright that day, and high in the London sky as it was nearly midsummer. The street was full of the hustle and bustle of city life, all about their business until the hum was pierced by a shriek.
A shoddy, disheveled man parted the astonished crowd, rushing away from the woman who had raised the alarm and who, even now, was hurling imprecations at the heels of her assailant.
“Such audacity, and in the broad of day-light!” Amidst the shocked faces of the stilled crowd, there was the flutter of a long, heavy coat of black and suddenly the footfalls of the villain were joined by another’s. “Halt, varlet!” A man with cape, top hat, and cane seemed to fly from the startled crowd and the chase was joined.
Through streets and alleys they dodged, the gap between them closing but never disappearing entirely. Finally, the thief reached a fork down a back alley. He feinted right, hurling the stolen purse to throw of his pursuer, before running to the left. At this point, the gentleman in black drew up his gait and slowed, for he knew the passage to be a dead end. He retrieved the purse and then slowly made for the perpetrator, folding the bag under his arm. He drew his cane apart, revealing two halves; one of which was a blade. “Now, wretched scum, how shall you be dealt with?” Far from cowering as he should, the dog pulled forth a tarnished service revolver and brandished it directly at the would-be vigilante. Both men’s attention was drawn, however, by a great whistling noise from the sky. And the villain’s hand did tremble as there appeared a spot upon the sun. The spot grew until it blotted out all light within the alleyway. Looking to seize upon his foe’s distraction, the swordsman raised his arm as if to strike. But the cur steadied his hand and began to squeeze the trigger.
The man clad in black narrowed his eyes, and looked for all the world as if ready to parry the shot though it were fired from almost no range at all. And there was a great crack and a crash as though the world were rent in twain, and a great cloud of dust rose all about. Gradually, as the dust began to settle, the passers-by who had fled from the alley and who had retreated into their windows over-head one by one began to search the grey for signs of life. All were astonished to see the daring gentleman still standing, but not so astonished as to see what had become of the pick-pocket. He was unconscious, in a heap, beneath a suit of armor that seemed to be made of burnished brass and gold. And though he was unconscious, the armor began to move, and then to speak.
“Where am I? Who are you? Who am I?”