The Trouble with Steampunk ch1

Fire. It was all he could see. The flames licked the elegant wallpaper of his beloved home, burning, burning. Tears streamed relentlessly down the cheeks of the young boy as he frantically yelled for his mother, his father, for anyone. He gasped as the thick smoke began to blur his vision, choking him with its poisonous breath.  Everything was hazy, his room, the grand hallways, everything but the blaze that consumed greedily. His eyes stung, his lungs burned, but he ran. He ran deeper  into the inferno, until he was at the heart of it. There, in the grand midst of the fiery pit, he saw it. It stood elegantly, proudly against the stark flames. It continued to tick, the rich mahogany un charred by the dancing flames, its appearance more majestic in the core of the mayhem.  Gasping what may have been his last breath, he stumbled across the smoldering room and towards the royal grandfather clock, clutching only his father's pendant.  Only feet from his desired destination, the roof above him gave in, and all went black.

His eyes sprang open.  He was gasping heavily, his golden hair plastered onto his forehead.  Blinking repeatedly, he sat up and wiped away the sweat from his brow, grimacing at the sheer amount of it. He looked about his cabin, his jade eyes searching his richly furnished lodgings to the Grandfather clock ticking familiarly in the far corner.

"You had a nightmare" it chimed.

England shook his head before swinging into a sitting position on the edge of his bed.

"It was about the fire, wasn't it?" It was more of a statement than an inquiry.

"Hardly." He lied. England winced at the sound of his hoarse voice. He must have been screaming. Sighing, he hastily got out of his bed and threw on a shirt over his lean body. He gave a sparing glance at the mirror, comparing himself from the boy of his previous nightmare. England had much matured since then; his cheeks were no longer round with the pleasant signs of youth, but had thinned out over the years. His body as well went through the marvelous changes that time brought; his short limbs having stretched out to its full length, his chest now broadened, bearing the signs of complete manhood and his stubble fingers where now long and nimble. His form in total gave him the appearance of about a man in his early twenties, though he was hardly older than seventeen. He had Grandfather to thank for that, he thought unrepentantly, before searching his wardrobe to get properly dresses.

"Tch," grandfather clucked, "It's hardly good to lie to your grandfather, England."

"Yeah, yeah, says the Cuckoo clock that taught me how to be a thief and a liar" he taunted, pulling out a fresh pair of pants from his wardrobe.  

"I am not a Cuckoo clock," Grandfather said indignantly, "Those things are far more annoying than you paint me to be. Plus, they are hardly conversational" he added. England scoffed out a breathy laugh. If grandfather had a face (well, he technically did), he was sure he would be smirking right now.

"Not many unanimated objects are conversational, my dear care taker." England said, turning from his wardrobe, robes in hand.                          

"Oh, now you're just mocking me." Grandfather fumed. "Since when do you ever give me an endearment?"

"Maybe it's because every time I do, you react as if the pope himself had flicked off the Grand king Baaryon" England said, walking past the anthropomorphic Clock and picking up his goggles from the crystal stand.  

"Really, England, that was hardly appropriate." he mused. England made a quiet tch sound before unlocking the door to his cabin. "I'm going to take a shower, I won't be long." He said casually over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

"Don't forget to scrub behind your ears! Lord knows that you have years of rubbish behind them."

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England closed his eyes as the icy water splashed his back. He had really, really needed this, especially after last night's reminiscence.  It's not as if he hadn't dreamt (well, that was hardly the word for It. It was really much more of a sick sense of nostalgia ) of It before, but every time he had, he couldn't help but to get a ailing feeling of forgetfulness, like something was missing from the memory. Maybe it was the fact that he was the only survivor, or that he had mysteriously wound up inside the case of the Grandfather Clock, his face hidden by the pendulum bob. Or it even could have been that despite everything having been burnt down to ashes, the grandfather clock had stayed perfectly intact. There was no doubt in England's mind that Grandfather was magical, there were not many (if any) mechanical pieces of woodsmen work that could talk, nor any that somehow manage to move an entire human being from a pile of burning rubble and into its case. The whole notion of it was simply absurd. But if that was the case, his very existence now was more than absurd, much more the things he was doing.

England picked up the soap and lathered his body absent mindedly, his thoughts now focused on the 'absurdities' of his life, a slight smile gracing his face. Even before the fire, he knew that Grandfather was no ordinary clock. As a child, England had grown up thinking that having a rabbit and clock as his only companions was perfectly normal. Not to mention that the rabbit was actually a shape shifter and the clock was anthropomorphic, but those were only minor details. In any case, the rabbit (admittedly called fluffy) and Grandfather would only show their true nature around him. He recalled Grandfather saying something about the fact that he was 'pure-hearted' but England knew now that that was total and complete bull shit.

After the fire, England and the clock had gone their separate ways; England being adopted and Grandfather resold. He had never forgotten that feeling of complete and utter loneliness as he sat in his new and alien room, Fluffy in hand and the gentle whispering of the local faeries. Yes, faeries. Apparently, England had a strange aurora that drew the supernatural creatures in, which on one hand, was rather useful. Then again, fighting off ghost and demons were no fun either, that and the fact that he was constantly teased by the other children.

Regardless of this, England could never discount the sensation of complete incredulity on that late summer's evening, when he saw the movers carry in none other than the Old Grandfather clock. When he had given his adoptive parents a questioning look, they had just smiled at him, saying something along the lines of "We just want you to feel at home".  Since then, up to the age of twelve, England lived a happy life and normal(ish) life with his adoptive family and uncanny friends. At this point, nothing could have gone wrong.

Chuckling ruefully, England grabbed the cloth from the bottom of the tub and commenced washing his face.

Then came that night in late September. He was sound asleep, he recalled, when Grandfather beckoned him.  Normally, England would have ignored such summoning at the hour it was, but there was something urgent in Grandfather's voice that begged him.  When he had reached his companion, there was a quick blur of movement and before England knew it, he had been whisked away.  When he had come to the next morning, he was on the dock of an unknown port, in an unknown area. He was trapped inside of Grandfathers glass cage once more, which was considerably more cramp since the last time, and he began banging on the walls desperately. He had cried out loud, he had begged, he tried everything to grab his attention and just let him out when he saw something unexpected. Fluffy's face had appeared from one of the brass weights, and while she had said nothing, her eyes had said it all. Suddenly understanding everything, England had then sat quietly in the box of the clock's belly, and wept silently.  

The events that followed afterward were of simpler measures. England was raised by Grandfather, who as being old as he is, taught him to earn his livings through pick pocketing, gambling, conning, and fighting. Though for a while they had lived on the streets, they mainly made their living abroad the various airships that adorned the sky. Because England, as a young lad, had learned the way of the deceitful, he was quite successful amongst the ruthless sky pirates. Right. He had nearly forgotten to mention that he was a bandit, traveling illegally on stolen aircrafts and plundering other richer and grander ships-both sky and sea.  There eventually came a time where England was strong enough (thanks to Grandfathers unmerciful and rigorous training) and respected enough that he grew independent from the group of Pirates he was traveling. So, without saying so much as a word to anyone, he had silently swept away in the night, taking only what he could on his back. And then some. England smirked. He could only imagine the crew's utter dismay when they found that their whole gold hoard and treasure maps went missing with the young lad they had come to know as England Kirkland.  

Since then, England had started up his own "practice" with his personal, hand-picked crew. Seeing that the lot of them were men and women that only England could absolutely trust with his own life, and that they were all very skilled fighters, he had become to be known none other than Kaptain Kirkland-the most feared pirate amongst the skies and seas. He would have much preferred a more humble title, such as 'The Impervious Illicit' but the Military's most wanted list had already decided for him. He sighed. Sometimes being the most wanted man to both the military and navy had its cons. But on the other hand, tricking officers and high-jacking first grade bi-planes was such fun.

England turned off the faucet, shaking his head like a dog. He grabbed his garments and quickly changed into his clothes, the fine cloth and leather pleasantly rubbing against his skin. After tying the laces that withheld his armor, he took a step out of the bathroom and came face to face with a very startled maids woman, who upon seeing the stranger in her master's bathroom, began shrieking aloud for help. England quickly rushed passed the woman, who had dropped the towels she was carrying, and jumped off the high window in which he had broken in. England chuckled to himself as he continues running off the front garden of the mansions house, dodging the bullets that the landlord of the house was firing at him.  

It was so fun not having a shower on the ship.