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Hello anyone who might care about this page!


    I am revamping this entire site. Well, my blogger. Going to try and build it up. I'll be reworking the layout and, hopefully, the content. Maybe even making it multi-purpose. I'm going to try and make it more dynamic and useful, and display what I care about more accurately.

    With my recent step-down from Steampunk events and event planning, and my new job, I hope I can rework my image and the Scorpios' image to make this work.

Saint Anna's Emerald: Asserting Dominance

            Flint was standing outside above the bridge, the cool breeze wiping at the sweat. He refused to take off his leather coat. His hat had to be firmly pulled down and the brim tucked lower over his eyes so it would not be lost in the wind. Looking through his Goggles he could see that they were getting closer to Saint Anna, Mexico. The Mexican landscape was beginning to give way to forests and jungles.

            The Scorpios chugged on, its massive legs thundering into the landscape with every step, the reverberations being felt through the ship. At these speeds it was tough to dampen the steps. The Scorpios was able to go pretty quickly, and Flint didn’t have much call or opportunity to open her up sometimes.

            The observatory door opened behind him, and Flint turned to see who was climbing up. First was Flint’s current Quartermaster, an Irishman who spoke several languages and was elected by the crew a few months earlier. The person who he helped up the ladder, though, was that woman. Amelia Turnbuckle.

            “Don’t you and your cohorts have some scheming to do?” Asked Flint.

            “Actually, I need to talk with you,” she said, refusing help from the Quartermaster and pulling herself up onto the deck.

            He skirts and hair immediately picked up the wind. She reached for the small hat she wore but it had already blown off in the breeze. The Quartermaster had dived after it, and chased it down the ship. Flint chuckled, knowing he’d never catch it.

            Amelia, however, ignored it and walked to flint.

            “Your hat?” she asked, first.

            “Is used to it, and will be fine,” answered Flint.

            “Lieutenant Flint, we need to talk. Discuss the… particulars of the plan,” she said.

            “Go for it,” said Flint.

            “Now, the Emerald has been held in a plot of holy ground for some time,” She began, “Said to be buried with Saint Anna, even though we know Saint Anna was moved a few years later to prevent the mix with the local culture.”

            “Weird,” said Flint, shrugging, “Didn’t work.”

            “No, it did not,” said Turnbuckle, “She was buried in a local temple. The temple is more of a crypt now. The newer temples and churches have been built closer to the town, but this old temple is still referred to as ‘the temple’ and it is still a highly guarded landmark to the people.”

            “A Crypt, huh?”

            “It is customary to burry those around or near the temple. Very important figures get the honor of being buried within the temple itself,” Turnbuckle took out a cigarette and attempted to light it, “The Europeans were so distracted with trying to remove her body with their lives they left behind a majority of her artifacts, including the emerald.”

            “So what’s so important about this Emerald?” asked Flint, stroking his chin, “You said it had special properties.”

            “Saint Anna had the wonderful ability to arouse a crowd,” said Turnbuckle, “The Ministry believes that she also used it to gain power. She performed amazing miracles, mostly in uniting the local tribes and settlers against the invading armies of the North. Rumor has it that Emerald she used early in her life to either persuade people into believing her words or allowing her to know what was going on in other’s minds.”

            “What? That sounds ridiculous,” Flint looked into her eyes for the first time, “What is that, some sort of magic or something? Lunacy.”

            “We don’t think so,” Turnbuckle smiled, “And if you’ve seen what I have seen you’d know that there is more to our world then science and religion, and there’s more to magic then waving a wand and a few magic words.”

            Flint cocked an eyebrow, and leaned against one of the metal railings that lined the uppermost deck, “So, dear lady, who are ‘we’? What is this ministry?”

            Her eyes glinted and the corner of one mouth almost bent upwards, “You wish I could tell you. The Ministry isn’t in the business of telling everyone everything. Just know we get interested in specialized phenomenon and we investigate and react accordingly.”

            “Under whose authority?” asked Flint.

            “You will find, Lieutenant, that there are many who work outside of authority,” said Turnbuckle, “Ministries, Societies, Organizations, and Brotherhoods line our world.”

            “Right, got it, whatever,” Flint rolled his eyes and looked in the distance, “Is that it, there?”

            Turnbuckle took out a small box from her belt and opening it revealed tiny binoculars. Looking through them, she smiled.

            “We’re early,” she said, “Way to go, Lieutenant.”

            “The Scorpios surprises like that,” smiled Flint, “That dense jungle is out target?”

            “Yes, hidden in the trees is the old temple,” said Turnbuckle, “You can see the town over there. Just make your ship look menacing or something and we’ll get into the jungle, get into the temple, and get out.”

            “I’ll alert my men in case of a fight,” said Flint, turning to the hatch where a defeated Quartermaster stood waiting, no hat in hand.

            “Don’t go looking for trouble,” Turnbuckle called out, “You’re doing your part already.”

            The Scorpios had come upon the jungle next to the small town and turned to display its array of cannons and weapons towards the town. With the legs extended, the Scorpios loomed above the tree canopy and had a clear line of sight on the town.

            Using pulleys and ladders, the Scorpios’ crew descended onto the uneven field and lightly wooded area below and began clearing away brush and setting up supplies. Some of the Scorpios’ crew headed into the jungle, weapons raised, and some spread out to create a safe perimeter around the Landship.

The Ministry wasted no time getting their boots on the ground. A Band of seven; none looking like fighters yet all brandishing weapons of various degrees, were made up of five males and two females. They were dressed fancy in expensive looking garb and wore elaborate machines on their backs. The ‘leader’, if you could say that, appeared to give Amelia Turnbuckle the pleasure of being the ambassador for them to the Lieutenant. All of the others kept to themselves in their rooms or on the bridge.

The only other one the Lieutenant had met and spoken to was the leader, Doctor William Lorsdale from New York. Lorsdale was a very proper man, but kept to himself. He was interested in conversing in facts. He was a tall, skinny gentlemen with a large Walrus mustache that was black. His clothing was very fine, and he wore a tall top hat.

It was he who was readying the Ministry for the trek into the jungle when a convoy of motorized carriages, horse drawn carriages, and horse riders pulled up. The perimeter guards tensed, and everyone who could see them from their position tensed as well. A Mexican man got out of one of the Carriages and raised his hands. He pointed to the Ministry. He began talking in the broken Spanish the Mexicans had adopted. One of the Ministry began talking back, sounding rather harsh to Flint’s ears. A lot of pointing and shouting led them to gesturing to an empty carriage.

“They want us to meet with him,” said Turnbuckle, smiling and patting Flint on the back, “The ship is doing its part. Stay here and be intimidating and a small party of ours shall head into town with them and see what they want.”

“You know what? I think I should go,” smiled Flint, “You guys are my paycheck, aren’t you? I would hate for anything to happen.”

“The Ministry can handle its self, Lieutenant,” said Turnbuckle, “But your concern is noted and touching.”

“No, I’m honest,” said Flint, “I’m going. I really think I should go.”

“Lieutenant Flint, do you really-”

“I really, Miss Turnbuckle,” said Flint, “I insist.”

Turnbuckle rolled her eyes, and shot a glance at Doctor Lorsdale, who was shaking his head no just as Flint looked, where he cocked it awkwardly. Flint smiled, and it was he who patted Turnbuckle’s shoulder.

“Insisted,” smiled Flint, “This is happening.”

“I am highly against this, Lieutenant.”

“Noted,” said Flint, “Get your small team together and let’s go.”

Flint was sure to walk past Lorsdale and tip his hat. Turnbuckle gave a loud, audible sigh before taking off her equipment and leaving it with the others.

Into the town of Saint Anna went the convoy. It was a hot and mucky ride. Doctor Lorsdale, Miss Turnbuckle, and Lieutenant Flint with two other ministry members rode in one carriage while two of Flint’s crew rode in another Carriage with some of the men who were with them. One or two of the Mexican men had pistols, one having a shotgun and two with rifles. Otherwise, the men appeared to have come unarmed.

The town looked rather normal, almost archaic. Mortar walls surrounded the small village in most places, but huts and tents leaked out and around the walls, and some areas had crumbled with time giving way to new streets and buildings leaking out. Large, old, oak doors parted to allow the convoy in.

Through the streets Flint could see that the wonder of automobiles had made it to this small town. Although they weren’t in the best condition, they still appeared to be prominent in the community. Horses and carriages, like what they were riding in, could be seen, but appeared to be falling out of use. The town didn’t appear to be in poverty, or had been in poverty; however they were definitely falling into hard time. Even though the men who were escorting the party were not considered heavily armed, all of the guards and many of the inhabitants of the town were heavily armed. There even appeared to be a few, old-fashioned, coal powered, armored walkers outfitted with modern day machine guns and shell-based cannons.

Further into Saint Anna the roads began to get blocked out. Large bunkers made of trash and rubble were manned by tough looking men with machine guns. Shops and houses began to be more  boarded up and abandoned, and then it was checkpoint after checkpoint set up.

Their journey ended at a large estate which the caravan pulled into and stopped. The doors to their Carriage were opened and they were asked to disembark. Flint was the last to step out of the Carriage, and he smiled at the group of guards that has gathered around the caravan.

They were herded up the main steps of the estate and onto the large patio, a guard awaiting the ground held out his hand. He cleared his throat and gestured to a table and two other guards sitting there.

“Weapons,” the man said, “Now.”

“We do not carry weapons,” Doctor Lorsdale said with a sneer, “We were assured we would not need them.”

“We are going to need to search you,” said the guard.

“I do not consent,” said Lorsdale, standing up straighter, “You tell your employer that I am not from around here and I am not a common crook. We are here on his request and I will not be subjected to such acts!”

“And while you’re at it,” said Flint, leaning out to be seen, “You can tell him I am armed, and I have one job with this group and I’m not going to fail it by giving up my guns.”

“No entry for you,” said the guard, “Nobody passes without a check. Orders are orders.”

A few of the other guards repositioned themselves. Some even unslung their rifles from their shoulders. Flint stood a little straighter, his arms at his side. Doctor Lorsdale shot Flint an angry look. Turnbuckles rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in upset.

The door behind the main guard opened, and two more, heavily armed and armored, guards stepped out. Between them, a man smoking a cigar strolled out and cleared his throat. The guards tensed, but their stance went more attention rather then attack-ready.

“I think we’ll be alright for a little while,” said the man, “After all, taking a few pistols and shockers away from our guests does nothing about those shiny new cannons pointing this direction.”

Lorsdale put on a smile, half bowing to the man, “I presume our host. We appreciate the invitation.”

“What’s an invitation among friends?” said the man, smiling, “Some old… and some new.”

The man pushed aside the head guard, walking passed him. He walked around Lorsdale and Turnbuckle, not even acknowledging their outstretched hands or quizzical faces. He made his way directly to Flint, who was smiling at him the whole time.

Upon reaching Flint, he made a show of reaching out his hand and smiling.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” said the man, his eyes seeming to glint, “And if we were, I’m afraid I’m just a… washed up old cowboy. I may not be good with names.”

“Lieutenant Nathaniel Flint, of the Landship Scorpios,” smiled Flint, shaking his outstretched hand with an equal amount of show, “And I do believe we have met, yes?”

“Samuel Klintock,” said the man, smiling wide, “A few years older, and eons wiser. I’m the… humble mayor of Saint Anna.”

“Mayor… use it lightly,” said Turnbuckle.

“Come, now,” smiled Klintock, spreading his hands wide, “This little, religious town was nothing. I’m thrusting them into the new age. A new way of thinking.”

“Not what we’re here for,” smiled Flint.

“That’s right,” said Klintock, leaning forward and raising his eyebrows to Flint, “Why are you here?”

“The rights to the burial grounds,” said Lorsdale, stepping up next to the pair with a stern look on his face, “I believe it is time we end negotiations and begin the demanding.”

Klintock’s eyes shifted from Flint to Lorsdale and he sneered, turned to go back into the house.

“They are to follow me, unchecked,” he told the guard, “However, be on alert for funny business.”

He walked into the estate, and the lead guard motioned for them to follow. Lorsdale shot Flint a look before turning to follow the group into the house. Turnbuckle just shook her head.

They were lead inside a large open room. A Grand staircase led up into a balcony which ran the perimeter of the room. Flint could spot doors lining the upper level, one of which shut as his eye spotted it. The room itself was wide and well lit. It appeared to have a marble floor, but where on earth they got it imported from was beyond Flint. The room didn’t appear to have matched the rest of the town, and looked newly renovated.

Klintock led them up the staircase and down a side hallway, heading towards a set of wooden double doors that opened into a large office. The group was led into the room where they could see the ornate fireplace and the large wooden desk.

“So, let’s talk about your demands,” said Klintock.

“This is our final offer,” said Lorsdale, throwing a piece of paper onto the desk, “The Ministry will not accept anything more or less. If you refuse, we WILL make our way into it regardless. I suggest you peacefully take the offer.”

Klintock pulled out the chair behind the desk and sat down, looking over the paperwork. Flint took the opportunity to approach Turnbuckle.

“Madame Turnbuckle,” he whispered, “Time your stopwatch. When I say so, wait two minute. Let me know when we’ve reached it.”

He begun to pace the room, his eyes catching Klintock’s from time to time.

“So… this is the final demand,” said Klintock, nodding, “For the rights onto the burial grounds…”

Lorsdale nodded, “Indeed.”

Klintock put down the paper and smiled, and he pointed at it, “It is very generous. Incredibly so. However… I have an interesting offer for you.”

Before Lorsdale could protest, Klintock took out some paperwork of his own and threw it onto the desk. In the mess of papers, even Flint could catch a glimpse of a picture of a Emerald and some old paperwork. Lorsdale began to look over the paperwork, before he sighed and closed his eyes in defeat. Even Turnbuckle seemed to catch the wave of disappointment.

“So… that’s your offer for the Burial Grounds,” said Klintock, “However, let’s talk about your offer for the Emerald.”

“Damn you, man,” mumbled Lorsdale.

“Because it appears you have a great interest in myths,” said Klintock, “If you would pay that much to go sight seeing how much would you pay something of worth. Of real worth?”

“We will not negotiate,” said Lorsdale, “We want to examine and assess the Emerald. We must do this.”

“Why?”

“Ministry business,” said Lorsdale.

Turnbuckle shot Flint a look. Flint was too busy receiving the one he had been shot by Klintock.

“So… this ministry hires out a ship to arrive at my front door and demand rights to desecrate a religious temple and graveyard in order to steal a priceless artifact.”

“The ministry will pay double,” said Lorsdale, his eyes showing open anger.

“Quick to double so soon? How interesting,” said Klintock, “It sounds negotiations are far from over. I have another bidder who is also interested in this artifact.”

Lorsdale was speechless. He took a visible step backward and shook his head. Turnbuckle turned to Flint again, before glaring at Klintock.

“How dare you, you have no right,” she said, “You don’t scare us.”

“And you don’t scare me,” said Klintock, directed his comment at Flint.

“Who is this bidder?” asked Lorsdale.

“I wouldn’t know,” smiled Klintock, chuckling to himself, “Not for you.”

“Then the offer is revoked,” said Lorsdale, picking up his original piece of paper and ripping it up, “We are sorry to have wasted your time and hours. We should have been inside the jungle this whole time.”

“Oh, what a shame,” said Klintock, shaking his head, “Hey, maybe I can interest you in a tour of the grounds! Why not, right? We have a lovely garden. Come now, Lieutenant Flint, come now!”

Klintock had leapt up, and was making his way back to the door, motioning the guard to open the door. Flint leaned against the fire place and examined the fire inside. Checking over his shoulder, he took out a package from his pocket and he tossed it into the fireplace.

He turned around, nodding at Turnbuckle who had watched the act. She scrambled for her watch and took it out, nodding at Flint.

The group was lead out back into the hallway, but instead of heading back down to the main room, they were lead into a small side room. The room was nothing special besides that it had double glass doors leading outside onto a small balcony. Klintock had them follow him onto the balcony and onto a fire-escape like walkway that lead down into the side of the building.

They reached the bottom and found themselves in a large patio that lead into a massive garden. Flint almost found himself impressed.

“So, how do we go from here,” said Klintock, “Do I just lay down and let you stomp across my jungle and undermine my control? Do I… beat my chest like an animal and go up against your big, bad landship?”

“We will leave, do our work, and never bother you again,” said Lorsdale, “But the Ministry has wasted enough time with you. You are adamant on impeding our progress.”

“Why have I never heard of this ‘Ministry’,” asked Klintock, “What is ‘The Ministry’?”

“None of your concern.”

“No, it is yours,” said Klintock.

They walked into the garden, where Flint could see guards were patrolling a little more heavily, many were watching the group intently.

“I have a great idea,” said Klintock, turning to the group, “How about you just stay here.”

Klintock gestured around him, and began to laugh. Flint looked around, and he took a closer look around the garden. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there were grates underneath many of the plants in the garden. Below them it looked like small cells. Flint took a step towards them.

Below the grate was a cell, and inside was a man, shriveling with hunger and starring, blankly, at the ground. Flint leapt back, looking from the cell to Klintock.

Klintock was still smiling, enjoying the looks of surprise and disgust as the others realized what was happening.

“You monster,” said Turnbuckle.

“You will not succeed,” said Lorsdale, “There is no way you can keep us here for long.”

“I am not afraid of you,” smiled Klintock, “Again, I have another bidder. A more powerful and much higher bidder. He will be here shortly.”

“You just gonna lock us up?” asked Flint.

“NO! I’m going to capture you,” said Klintock, standing up straighter, “Don’t even reach for your flare gun, Lieutenant Flint.”

“Hands,” said one of the guards.

Flint raised his hands. By this point most of the guards in the garden turned their attention on them, rifles at the ready. Turnbuckle and Lorsdale looked at one another, anger spreading between them.

“I’m going to hold you two as ransom,” said Klintock, “Once the big, bad Landship goes away, then I’ll allow you one mule between the two of you and you’ll walk into the land back North where you belong. But you!”

Klintock walked up to Flint, being sure to put his face really close to his, “You. You I’m going to kill. I’m going to beat the snot out of you. I’m going to BOIL you. I’m going to skin you alive. Then I’ll hang you as the ultimate example you are to anyone else.”

“Oh, sounds so tempting,” smiled Flint, “And here we are… getting along so well.”

“Oh, you are a bastard, boy,” said Klintock, “I’ve been waiting for my revenge for a long, long time. And now I will be able to afford every cent of it! And I have you, to boot.”

One of the guards tilted his head, and pointed to the sky. Turnbuckle looked up as well, and she cocked her head with confusion.

“Fire,” said one of the guards, pointing.

Klintock looked up at the house, and Flint did the same. A smile spread on his face and he gleamed at Klintock, who was still looking up at the estate.

Above the estate a massive cloud of red smoke was beginning to form. It drifted off into the sky, chasing after a trail of grey smoke that was turning to white mist.

“That’s not a fire,” spat Klintock, “It’s coming out of the chimney there. It’s just smoke. Thick red smoke!”

Two of the guards left to check it out, but they had barely left the garden when realization came to Klintock, who looked at Flint in surprise.

“You,” he said, pointing.

“Doctor, prepare to run,” said Flint.

“Where to?” asked Lorsdale, still eyeing the red smoke.

“Far away from the house,” said Flint.

In the distance a sound like distant thunder roared. Klintock looked off into the distance, a few of his guards doing the same thing. Over the wall of the estate they could barely see anything, but they could see black smoke trails and streaks as projectiles stormed through the air and began to bend downward. The trails dissipated but Flint could see as the shells rapidly came towards the estate.

“You bastard!”

Klintock reached for his pistol, anger streaming his face. Flint was already ahead of him, however. Pulling out his LeMat, he swung it upwards by the barrel, slamming the handle of the pistol into Klintock’s face and causing him to fall backward.

Flint took the opportunity to slam him once more, knocking him out. He had just enough time to spin his pistol around when the shells began to hit. The estate seemed to alight. The ground shook. Explosions and screams could be heard.

Behind him the house began to shake and wobble as shells slammed into the front of the estate before detonating inside. Turnbuckle grabbed one of the guards’ rifle next to her and pushed him aside. Flint cocked his LeMat and fired, killing a guard. One of the shells landed not far away. The resulting explosion sent some of the guards running, and the rest ducking down.

Flint ran forward and grabbed Turnbuckle and he shouted to Lorsdale to follow. Together they bolted through the garden as more and more shells began to fall from the sky around the estate. At the end of the garden was a guardhouse, and next to it was a large warehouse that Flint assumed was a vehicle garage. Flint ran ahead and flipped a switch on his pistol. Aiming it at the lock, he fired the shotgun and kicked in the door. He flipped the switch back to the bullets and ushered Lorsdale and Turnbuckle inside before ducking in himself.

Saint Anna's Emerald: Spies Among Us

            Pushing aside the large doors, the servants were finally allowed inside. They rushed into the ballroom, and their trays were adorned with snacks and drinks. The guests paid them little attention, however hungry they may be. George Turner smiled and returned to his group of guests.

            “It’s about time the help finally arrived, I say,” he said, a chuckle filling his throat, “I think they worked better in the time of slavery. More motivation if they could be replaced by cheap labor at a moment’s notice.”

            “Not in good sport, though, Slavery,” said Colonel Haddock, crossing his arms.

            Jeremiah Goldwin and Charles Roddenberg were also among the group. Roddenberg was sporting a large beard, and was laughing loudly at ever joke, patting his belly. Goldwin had quieted down, sipping his cocktail and watching over the group.

            “Returning to the conversation at hand,” said Haddock, angrily, “I think the presidency was much better suited in McKinley’s hands.”

            “That’s all fine and great,” waved away Turner, “I grow tired of politics, don’t you, chaps? Why not we take a seat yonder and swap tales. I wish to be thrilled with stories of war!”

            “War, Turner? Come now,” said Goldwin.

            “Why not? My ailments keep me from being too active,” continued Turner, “And how often do we have both a distinguished Colonel and a Master of Disguise Spy within our midst?”

            “Fine, but I grow weary of my stories,” said Haddock, turning to Roddenberg, “However, I do wonder how one makes a living as a… master of disguise, was it?”

            “Indeed, you would be surprised what people would believe if they really want to,” laughed Roddenberg, “Come now, let’s have a seat, and I can delve a few tales!”

            The group sat at a table at the end of the room. Roddenberg scooted his bulk into a chair and got close to the table, but failed to remove his enormous top hat. Haddock was quick to sit across from him, lighting a cigarette with the candle at this table. Turner sat beside them both at the end of the elongated table. Since the table connected to a bar, they all ordered drinks and some snacks, which the bartender expertly slid down the table to each recipient.

            “So, how does one get into another’s head?” asked Turner hungrily.

            “It is easier than you might expect,” smiled Roddenberg, “For it is all in the performance, in the art. It is also in the eyes, ol’ boy. If you do not believe you are this person, then only fools would believe your escapade.”

            “That’s all well and good, but haven’t your biggest exploits been in impersonating another?” asked Haddock.

            “Indeed, sir, and right under some of their closest friends and families noses,” smiled Roddenberg, “In that situation, you must not only believe, but you must know your target. Know him as a wife would know a husband.”

            “A great deal of research, then,” smiled Turner.

            “Yes… but I hope you don’t know become his wife just for the job,” smiled Goldwin, “There are certain things a man just should not do for the sake of a career.”

            The group exchanged a chuckle while Roddenberg just shook his head. Haddock even broke a smile.

            “Some, come now,” said Turner, “Enchant me with a tale. OH! Tell me how you stole the Maharaja’s Diamond Fork. OH, how about the Kaiser’s Toupee! Oh, wait. How about the time you bedded Grover Cleveland’s wife!”

            “No, no, those are all great stories,” said Haddock, “But I believe they were very publicized reputation scandals. No, we demanded a war story. Why not share with us one of those, untold tales?”

            “Aw… fine,” said Roddenberg, “But the Mrs. Cleveland one is quite steamy under the collar.”

            “No, please… dazzle us all,” frowned Goldwin.

            “Alright, alright. So… ok, here’s a pretty decent one,” started Roddenberg, “So… I was once hired to do a little something… well… down south. Louisiana. Ever been?”

            “Oh, never!” commented Turner.

            “Beautiful state,” said Haddock, “If you like the under filth… and the heat.”

            “Ah, but New Orleans is such a gorgeous place,” smiled Roddenberg.

            Turner clapped his hands together in glee.

            “Don’t get too excited now,” said Roddenberg, smiling, “Unfortunately I am not taking you into the glorious city. No, the story happened long ago and up the river a ways. A small town nobody has ever heard of, now a days. Called Riverville.”

            “Riverville… no I have never heard of it,” said Goldwin, now interested, “What on earth could have brought you down that far?”

            “Well, a long time ago I was just starting out my little business of espionage,” said Roddenberg, “And I was eager to make a name for myself. So… what better way to make a name, and a buck, then that little old civil war?”

            “That was some time ago,” said Haddock, “You don’t look nearly old enough to have been alive at that time.”

            “Makeup is a wonderful thing, Colonel,” said Roddenberg, “But I was but a boy during those times.”

            “Well… not a boy,” said Haddock.

            “I was 17. Practically a man but blooming my life,” said Roddenberg, “Anyway, at this town there was a small group of pilgrims. They weren’t very much. However, not a mile away was, at the time, one of the biggest confederate camps that ever did exist.”

            Haddock and Goldwin’s face hardened at the mention of the rebels. Turner didn’t seem fazed.

            “Well, they were moving something… talk says it was pretty secret,” said Roddenberg, “So they wanted to be close to this large band of Grey-Backs. Well, little did they know, a Union scouting band was close by. So, I was paid to get at whatever secret was in those boxes.”

            “Union?” asked Goldwin.

            “No, independent party,” corrected Roddenberg, “Anyway, so I devise a plan, yeah? I go pretend I am working for the Rebs. I tell them the Union knows, and they need to avert the path of the package away from their large army. On the other hand, however, I send a telegram to the Blues myself, insuring an army was on their way to stamp out the rebs.”

            “You… shouldn’t be telling this story,” said Goldwin, “I feel like I would’ve read this in the news.”

            “Perhaps it isn’t for everyone,” nodded Haddock.

            “No, by all means,” said Roddenberg, continuing, “So I lay low in that little town. The Rebs roll in, and decide to stay the night. Well, it doesn’t take long for confusion to run through the crowd. I plant a few guns and pistols, and set up some dynamite. I tell the rebs that there are spies in the town, and they are waiting to ambush. Well, the rebs seize the town. Searching, finding. They find the guns, they find the dynamite. Well… I set off one of the traps, fire a shot into the air and scream… it doesn’t take much to rile up some pissed confederates.”

            “Good lord, you didn’t?” Turner’s smile was beginning to fade.

            “You, sir,” said Haddock, his mustache twitching slightly, “You are good… who… are you?”

            “Well, the rebs open fire, and the explosion and commotion draw the attention of the camp. They all draw to arms and charge. I am free to take the package in the confusion.”

            “There’s no way,” said Goldwin, “There could not have been that much confusion. And they were just fighting… a foe that wasn’t fighting back.”

            “Yet,” smiled Roddenberg, “It wasn’t two minutes that the slaughter was almost over then those Unions came through the trees, and engaged the ‘murderous’ rebels. It was in that confusion, I escaped.”

            “This man,” said Haddock, turning to Turner, “He… he isn’t Roddenberg. This man is lying.”

            “Oh, don’t get offended, ol’ boy,” said Turner, waving him off, “I’m all caught up in the tale. Shush.”

            “So you just… walked out?” asked Goldwin.

            “No, I got some help. Put whatever it was it fit in a trunk, and in return for their help, I aided a family in escaping the massacre. A father, a mother, and a child.”

            “Stop,” said Haddock, “I beg of you. I grow tired of this tale.”

            “Shush, Colonel. Just let him finish,” cried Turner, “I apologize Mr. Roddenberg.”

            “I don’t,” said Haddock, snapping his fingers and looking around the room.

            “So, this family and I escape with our lives,” said Roddenberg, “However, the Man was so… angry at me. He knew my secret, he knew I was to blame. He wasn’t going to give me my prize.”

            “How do you know this… You weren’t there!” snapped Haddock, his fist clenching.

            Turner and Goldwin snapped from their trance like state, turning their attention to Haddock.

            “But you were, weren’t you, Mr. Roddenberg?” smiled Roddenberg, leaning back in his chair.

            “Bravo, sir,” said Haddock, standing in his seat.

A gentlemen approached the group from behind Haddock, and he produced a sawed off, double barreled shotgun from his coat. Turner and Goldwin held their mouths agape. Their heads turned from Haddock to Roddenberg.

“You killed them,” Roddenberg continued, “Shot them in cold blood, Mr Roddenberg. Over… something…”

“Your story is incredibly accurate, mate,” The real Roddenberg dropped his accent. For an older gentlemen his voice now sounded more alive, and his face seemed to not fit his appearance anymore, anger displayed, “They died. Everyone died. The dynamite saw to survivors. It was recorded losses to both sides so early in the war! The city was razzed. The couple murdered. I shot them myself!”

“And the boy,” said the imposter, smiling and flipping over his cup, putting it onto the table, “Shot him right in the shoulder. Cold hard killer. Thought that would never show up in your past?”

“You the boy?” said Roddenberg.

“No, so I assume Colonel Haddock is long dead by now?”

“Who are you?” asked Roddenberg.

“Name’s Flint,” said the imposter, “And the boy… he send his regards. Should have finished the job.”

“Order up!” called the bartender, sliding a C96 Mauser down the long table.

Flint crouched down into his seat, holding out his hand to catch the sliding pistol. The shotgun blared, firing at Flint. Flint’s top hat exploded, red splattering all over the wall behind them and some bits spraying Goldwin and Turner. Flint’s hand shot up, the pistol leveling at the body guard, and firing. Three bullets rapidly entered the shot gunner’s chest, causing him to fall back. Flint’s hand moved to Roddenberg, and he shot, the bullet slamming into his shoulder and Roddenberg dived back, the second shot missing entirely. Flint stood, red goop covering his clothes and face and beard.

Turner reached for a pistol, and Flint turned his gun on his, firing a shot right into his chest. Shots rang out in the ballroom. Screams and shattering glass filled Flint’s ears. Servants and guests alike drew guns, firing into the air and yelling orders. Some of the body guards tried to draw their weapons, but were gunned down. The bartender jumped the bar, and ran up to Flint.

“Lieutenant, are you ok?” he asked.

Flint took off what was left of his top hat. A shambled mess of fabric was all that was left, and red goop filled his fingers and hair. He tossed the hat aside, and examined the floor around him.

“I’m fine, good timing with the pistol,” said Flint, “Nice idea with the tomatoes in the hat. You think that stunned them enough?”

“You still breathe, sir?” asked the bartender.

“Good point,” said Flint, ripping away the false beard, only leaving his mustache and a clean face, “Where did that bastard go? I got him!”

“Flint,” yelled one of the servants, pointing to a window. Roddenberg had opened a tall window at the end and he was leaping from it.

Flint raised the pistol and began pulling the trigger wildly, but his shots fell on an empty space.

“Damnit,” yelled Flint, tossing the Mauser aside, “We need to go after him!”

Flint opened his shirt and removed the padding used to make him larger. The bartender gave out a whistle and ran to the bar.

“What was that?” asked Flint.

“I just figured there was more padding in there,” said the bartender, “I am unsure of your ability to… chase him down.”

“You chink bastard,” smiled Flint, re-buttoning his shirt, “I’ll get him. Give me the Tommy.”

The bartender reached over the bar and produced a Thompson Submachine Gun and threw it to Flint as he ran for the window. Flint caught it and jumped up on a table, the leapt for the window.

“Lieutenant, the hat!” yelled one of the Servants, throwing a black Fedora.

Flint caught it and put it on his head, “Thanks,” he yelled, climbing out the window.

“It wouldn’t feel right without it, would it?” asked the servant.

“Maybe not,” answered the bartender, “Quickly, now, let’s go!”

Flint leapt from the window, hitting the grass harder than he expected. Wiping some of the tomato gook from his tailcoat, which was now only slightly too big for him. He could see knocked over patio furniture and a place in the bushes that had been seriously disrupted. When he ran to it, he could see a blood smear. Flint burst through the bushes.

On the other side was a deserted side street. Commotion could be heard from out front, and guests filled the main street. A garbage can was knocked over further down the side street, and Flint took off in the direction, cocking a round into his Thompson.

He approached the garbage can, and caught Roddenberg’s shadow round a corner of an alley. Running down the alley, he turned the corner and spotted his further down a second alley. Flint raised his gun and held the trigger, bullets shooting down the alley. Roddenberg leapt away from the fire, but Flint could see he had at least caught his leg.

Flint took off running down the alley. As he approached the spot Roddenberg had disappeared down, he could hear Roddenberg pleading to someone fairly loudly. As he rounded the corner, gun raised, he saw a woman standing over a kneeling Roddenberg. She had a gun to his head. She pulled the trigger, and Roddenberg slumped to the ground. Flint’s heart began racing.

“Drop it,” he yelled, aiming his rifle at her, “Drop it!”

“Oh, come now, don’t be upset,” said the woman, “You were going to kill him anyway, right?”

“I said, drop it,” said Flint.

“Calm down, Lieutenant Flint,” said the woman, holstering the pistol, “It will be awfully hard to talk with you so… upset.”

Flint lowered his weapon, a confused look filling his face.

“How… how do you know my name?” he asked, then he shook his head, “Who are you?”

“Amelia. Amelia Turnbuckle. We’ve been looking for you for some time. This job is in the way,” she walked over the body and walked up to Flint, “We need a man of your availability and ‘social skills’, Lieutenant,”

“Is that so…” said Flint, who took a few steps towards Roddenberg and moved the body with his foot.

“Oh, do not fret your charge, Lieutenant,” said Turnbuckle, “The mission was to kill him. It’ll be all over the paper, and you will not be to blame. Roddenberg killed Colonel Haddock and Mr. Turner and was killed trying to escape. I’m sure Mr. Down will pay you handsomely for avenging his family.”

“How… how do you know that?” asked Flint, turning to the woman.

“You ever heard of the Emerald of Saint Anna?” said Turnbuckle.

“Uhm… no.”

“Saint Anna seemed to have prized a very large Emerald in her youth. She said it had… special properties. We believe her,” Turnbuckle said quickly, showing no sign of taking in Flint’s reaction, “We are having troubles with the locals down in Saint Anna, Mexico. It’s bad enough with the heat, wild life, and jungle to deal with. Now we have these bloody locals!”

“So… need some hired muscle?”

“We are very interested in this Emerald, Lieutenant Flint,” stated Turnbuckle, “The visual might of your Landship might help keep the locals at bay, but if they will not sell or let us examine the Emerald then we have no choice but to become barbaric and use superior might to get at it.”

“Sounds rough, but it doesn’t appear to be something I am interested in,” said Flint, “If you paid more attention, you’d notice my resume is on the other side of these sort of things.”

“Of course, that’s why we figured you would be interested in knowing that the locals are controlled by a tyrant you may recognize. Someone by the name of Klintock?”

Flint closed his eyes and sighed. He recognized the name.

“I thought he died.”

“Alive and well, and starting up some mighty fine trouble.”

“So you think him seeing my landship will make him less likely to attack? I don’t buy it, lady. There’ll be blood.”

“No, seeing as you bested him when he was better prepared for it I figure he might be more likely to lie low and be compliant. He’s only using the town so he can lick his wounds and build up the courage and army to make his way back towards the states.”

“I have no beef with him. He survived our encounter? So did I,” said Flint, “I finished my mission there and everyone is better off for it.”

“Look… the properties of this Emerald… it could make him more powerful than anything we have come across yet,” said Turnbuckle, “If he gets ahold of it… he may not need his army. If the stories are true, we must find this emerald first!”

“And who is ‘we’?”

“None of your business.”

“Then it looks like this whole thing is none of my business.”

“Lieutenant Flint, where is your sense of adventure? You must have picked up SOME of your father’s traits.”

Flint scowled, his patience with this woman wearing thin, “It’s hard to pick up those traits when you never knew your father. That man is dead to me, ma’am. And so is your cause. Good day.”

“We can pay handsomely, and we think it is our insistence on it that is drawing attention to it from Klintock!”

“Sounds great,” said Flint, “Let me know how it all turns out…”

“Lieutenant Flint, please,” begged Turnbuckle, following him down the alley, “We really cannot do this without you. We have resources and pull, but to hire a private army to take over a town is just unacceptable. All we need is a little glint. All we need is to look tough. Please, Flint!”

Flint stopped and thought a moment. He sighed, and turned to Turnbuckle.

“Handsomely?”

“Easily more than your last three jobs combined…”

This caught Flint’s attention, but it also worried him.

“You don’t say… and you really don’t mean these locals any harm?”

“Not at all. We wish to protect them. If the emerald is nothing like we think then we don’t even want it. They can have it.”

Flint paused to think it over once more, then he sighed again and pointed his gun at Turnbuckle.

“Listen close, Miss… Turnbuckle? I get to back out whenever I deem fit. You understand? The moment you try to command my ship… the SECOND I think we are being unfair to those poor locals. I will turn that ship around and I will DEAL with you and your friends. Understood?”

Turnbuckle smiled, “Completely! You will have forty-six hours to have your crew ready to go and to purchase supplies. We will board your craft three miles south at the Dortenburrow Station. Until we meet again!”

Just like that, Amelia Turnbuckle walked down the path and turned the corner just as abruptly as she shot Roddenberg. Flint stood there, almost dazed. Tilting his hat down and slinging the Thompson on his arm he hurried away from the dead body and made his way to the Landship docks.

Scorp Review: Air City Expedition 2013

Con Review:
Hotel/Entertainment/Vendors/Staff/Biased

The Hotel was GREAT. Fan-tastic! 9/10 (and it really should be a 10).

The Panels were awesome. From stuff we did (Steampunk in the Community) and our Members (Any of Lt Flint's Stuff) there was also panels from the MISFITS and the Citizens of Antiford as well as musical guests. It was awesome! Entertainment/Panels? 10/10. There may not have been any "Heavy Hitters" however I felt the newer, smaller groups really made a more comfortable and down-to-earth environment.  Although I would love to see the more defined groups and bigger groups next year... I would never want to replace the groups or performers who got to share the limelight that weekend.

The Vendor room seemed really small, and even though I did not recognize many of the Shops, they still had Triple A con prices. I felt they really missed their audience with this one. However, getting to talk with many of the vendors and hearing about many of these vendors, they were some of the nicest people ever at a convention. I would really love to see these vendors again and hopefully have money for some of their wares. Again, even though we missed out on some "Heavy Hitters" in this category  I do not feel it destroyed the feel of the convention, and I would by NO MEANS trade out any of the vendors who went for one who didn't go. 8/10

And with that come the Staff. The staff were few and far between. The line between who were volunteers and who were staff was blurred. They often said they considered anyone vending/paneling/performing staff but refused to give out info needed BY Staff. Alot of people were told they were staff, but admitted to not having the power or information to really be helpful. In the end any true staff decisions NEEDED to be filtered to one of three people, with any crisis or true decisions being made by only one. Now, we would LOVE to bash them for this... HOWEVER!!! Please remember that they had FIVE WEEKS to do this and, for the most part, 4-6 real "Staff" members (being generous). The fact that any and all who were even slightly considered staff were incredibly nice and helpful. Staff made sure panelists and vendors alike had what they needed when they needed it quickly and orderly. They had many things IN-PLACE like code of conduct. It is for that reason that I give them a stunning 8/10 for their staffing. However, they will not get similar lee-ways next year. So... heads up guys ;)

____
And now it is time I get to step back and be as biased as I can be. I was weary at first. The staff was tense, information was little, and many groups took a leap of faith backing this event because we KNEW those behind it. Knew? Well... let us use that word lightly. Amy was fresh into Steampunk and we "Knew" very little.

HOWEVER!! My Gosh, if half way through Friday if all those worries and fears just went RIGHT OUT the door. Friendly Staff, great events, good friends. Everyone was just so.... freakin' NICE! I mean... I don't know how to describe it. And it wasn't just me!!! I'm hearing similar things from close friends and some of them (You KNOW who you are) are VERY critical, specially when it comes to con quality.

I... I don't know... I can rego through the review all biased... but.... why should I? They deserve every bit of my Bias ism. And they gave me a good break! I had a good many Panels to run and attend to and they took a leap of faith on alot of vendors, performers, and panelists to do their jobs, be entertaining, and not give them a bad name. So... YEAH! I think it's no surprise they get a stunning 11/11 from ME!!!
____
FINAL TOTAL
46
51
In the end, Air City Expedition 2013 was a hit. At an astounding 90.5%, it hit every major thing it needed to hit to be up there with the big boys of Conventions. Sure, we gave them some major leeway and my bias was positive, but you need to understand that what they did in only Five weeks time was not a five week con that was pretty good. No, it was a REAL Convention, a year convention, that did very well. That says alot for this convention and those running it and all who helped make it happen.

If you invested time, money, raffle items, promises, or even a like or a share on this convention, your investment was not ill-spent. And if you are one of the underdogs who got their chance in the light because of this convention, do not forget it. This was a great con and a great bunch of people who attended it.

---- SECOND THOUGHTS----
You know the rules. Second thoughts is the Devil's advocate of all of this.

The Hotel was fantastically nice and clean, but rumor has it the maids may have been a little too curious in certain rooms and stuff may have been damaged. Still, rumors aside... it was great. 9/10.

The Panels were few and far between in addition to sum cons, many didn't look like they were ready for the one hour time slot (others looking like they needed more). Many of the names on the schedule (HAHAHAHA.... Schedule...) were no-names. And even with some diamonds in the rough they are missing some "uh....duh" guests on their roster. Veterans of other Steampunk Cons may have felt bored or felt like their money would've been better spent hanging out in the rooms rather then at the cons. However, that doesn't mean those panelists without fame were all too bad. The Panels were well rounded and there was something for everyone to be found.   8/10

Vendors was sad. A Tiny vendor room and some familiar faces didn't cover up that some vendors seemed slightly upset. Sometimes the room was empty, and the vendors looked like they would've had a better time in the pool! Expensive doesn't cut it, we all know how bad con prices are. As well as the performers alot of "uh-duh" Vendors were missing from the equation. Better luck next year... unless you spent the time to "get to know them" the vendors were of no interest to you.  3/10

Staff was few and far between. Three people were considered staff, and only one of them had any power. If you barely saw them, you probably assumed they were the damned wizard of OZ! It seemed a few people took it upon themselves to be the go-to people between guests and Staff. 4/10

Biased is the same as above. I cannot bias a devil's advocate approach. To keep it fair, biases are the same. 11/11

35
51 Again, many people of second thoughts would've nit-picked this con down... but in the end the scores would've still been right up there. Even going against the big boys this cons darker sides were few and far between and the score is still something to be proud of. Your personal biased can change this, but I don't think many attendees have much to complain about.

---End Second Thoughts---

All in all, this con gets an average low of 40.1. I think the entire community can be proud of it, and it really shown bright as a star in its very first year. We can expect the SKY out of this con, though. With an entire year to prepare, Air City part TWO will take such cons as Teslacon as well as Dragon con, Comic-Con, and Anime cons to the baker. I can only imagine how awesome it will be. If you missed out on this amazing con then you probably missed out on, BAR NONE, the best first-year con that has ever happened.

And as I keep suggesting for Air City to adopt officially, I suggest you take the Air City Challenge. Think you can do better? We'll be kind. We shall give you Six or Seven Weeks... make a con, right out of your butt!! Do Better. Do better then Air City. Make a friendly environment. Keep face under extreme stress, and try to plan around all the other events that have had a year to more then a year to prepare. ;) And I shall review your event under the same scrutiny.

~Lieutenant Nathaniel Flint of the Landship Scorpios

In Case you missed it:
46 out of 51 Points. SUPER POSITIVE. Air City is a Con not to miss.

Origin: John Thompson

            There it was again. Flint’s hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he scanned the tall buildings. He thought he had seen them. He was sure he had seen movement. Flint turned around, walking up to Elsie Donnahough, who was leaning against the rail, staring stone-faced at the city of Philadelphia.

            “Hey, girl,” said Flint, trying to keep his voice low, “This doesn’t feel right. Where’s all the damn people? Where’s the parade? Ain’t this the city of brotherly love or something?”

            “I felt it, too,” said Elsie, turning to Flint, “Nate, I don’t like this. It’s quite. People are scared. We can’t just… BLAST buildings if something goes wrong.”

            “Spread the word,” said Flint, “Quietly. I want the crew ready for action if it comes down to it. Make sure everyone is armed.”

            “Tense, Lieutenant?” asked Thompson, approaching the pair at the rail.

            Flint turned to the man, smiling, “No worries, John. I’m sure your cargo is safe. Not far now.”

            The Johns. That’s what Flint had been calling them. Stuck up guys that were not so bad to talk to, but they were far too nosey in Flint’s affairs. They insisted on joining the group as they carried his shipment cross-country. They were not even sure they would be able to pay the asking price. Flint didn’t like that.

            John Thompson. He was some sort of War veteran and inventor. He knew guns frontways and backways. His Auto-Ordnance Company had paid the Scorpios to insure the shipment of a new weapon to the US Government, who were unsure if they were even interested.

            And John Blish, his younger, and more rat-like partner. He was far too nosey as to the Scorpios and its inner-workings. The pair had proven to be very annoying during the day, but great company at night. Anytime word turned to music, past stories, even military time it was very laid back. However, as soon as anything pertaining to the mission was brought up Flint wondered how he’d get away with shooting them.

            “Philadelphia is one of the most lively cities in the world, yes?” came the voice of Blish, stroking his large mustache.

            “Supposed to be,” smiled Flint, “What’s the matter, not lively enough for you?”

            “We are serious, Lieutenant,” said Thompson, he crossed his arms and his eyebrows furrowed, “We have made a great deal of enemies with our cargo.”

            “Just some guns, yeah?” said Flint, “I hardly believe that anyone would risk an attack on such a glorious landship such as mine.”

            “So full of yourself,” continued Thompson, “These are powerful people, Flint. They scare me, and I turned down quite an offer from them. These weapons do not belong to the ilk of the world.”

            “Outlaws, they are all the same. Don’t worry,” smiled Flint, “I’ve dealt with pirates and bandits.”

            “There are no Pirates or bandits in Chicago, Lieutenant,” Continued Thompson, “No, our demons look more like politicians then film villains. They are powerful and they ARE scary. Oh, and to them… nothing is untouchable.”

            There it was again. Flint turned and shot up at the tall buildings surrounding them. This time, he caught him. A figure, rushing back into the building. Flint gazed up ahead, and noticed that they were about to go through a denser part of the city.

            With the tall buildings so close together, the Scorpios moved along very controlled and slowly. There would be no way for him to use cannons to his advantage in the tight space, and Flint could now see his mistake in going through the city.

            “Good, you saw it too,” said Thompson, “It’s an ambush. All the signs are there.”

            “So it appears,” said Flint.

            “This idiot led us into a trap!” Yelled Blish, “I swear, if we die!”

            “Never asked you to come along, and this is not a trap it is an ambush. Crap happens!”

            Flint raised the communication tube near him and spoke into it, “Attention, all crew. We are in an ambush situation. I want leg crews to keep going steady and controlled, get us out of the city. Guards posted around them. All else, man small cannon crews on the side but grab some rifles and hit the deck and port-holes. We’re in for a shoot-out.”

            Flint rushed to one of the doors going inside the Scorpios and reached the gun rack inside it. Grabbing the Le Enfields inside, he handed two to Thompson and Blish.

            “Johns, you guys used to be Veterans, yeah?”

            “Used to be?” said Blish.

            “You must be joking, sir,” Thompson almost laughed, “You have blot actions? Le Enfields, right? Know them well… good rifles. But they will not do.”

            “We have a few Gatling’s and Spandau’s. Why, what do you expect?”

            “In this day and age, Lieutenant, I would have thought a man in your business would have thought of that by now. There are so many marketable automatic weapons for such an event.”

            Flint was un amused, but didn’t say anything. Thompson took this as a hint and smiled, gesturing inside the ship.

            “Would you like to lead me to my cargo, sir,” said Thompson, “You are carrying just the thing.”

            Flint sighed, and accepted. Another second or so and they had made it all the way to the cargo bay. Thompson wasted no time in walking over to the cargo and getting the closest available crate open. While the Johns worked on that, Flint was hailed on a nearby communication tube.

            “Lieutenant,” cried the voice on the end, “We have not been hampered yet, but there is an obvious ambush ahead. The windows and doors are barricaded and redy for a fight, and they are hailing us, sir.”

            “What are they saying?” asked Flint.

            “They want us to cease our movement and allow them to come aboard. They claim to only want Thompson and the Cargo.”

            Flint shot a glance at the Johns, but if Thompson heard him he was focusing on opening the crate.

            “Can we see any of their men? Maybe a few standing around looking like muscle?”

            “Yes, sir. They are heavily armed.”

            “Good, tell our boys to open fire. Tell them to only shoot at what they see. We must try to leave as much as the structures untouched as possible.”

            Flint walked over to the two Johns, who had just finished prying open the crate.

            “Please tell me you had a bad loan or a street thug encounter?”

            “As I told you, Lieutenant, there’s a lot at stake,” smiled Thompson, “And these were very powerful people. Chicago is an Urban Jungle if there ever was one.”

            “I enjoy being the hunter, John,” said Flint, “So what do they want so badly.”

            Thompson swept aside the hay, and grabbed a short rifle out of the box. It had a beautiful wooden stock and a forward handle on its short barrel. It seemed incredibly thing and light, and it even got thinner then Thompson/s arm at one point.

            “The hell is that?”

            “This will become known as Thompson’s Sub-Machine Gun. It is the third of its kind. It will replace rifles, and do away with bulky guns,” boasted Thompson, “It is compact, to fit in tight places, it is accurate, to close gaps. Let’s not forget it is quite powerful for a gun of its kind.”

            “Looks like a toy,” snarled Flint, “You really about to use that damn thing?”

            Blish handed a second gun to Flint, and reached further into the crate, grabbing two circular metal objects.

            “Slide the drum up like this,” stated Thompson, slapping the metal object to the gun, “Slide this back here, and you are ready to fire.”

            “What?” said Flint, looking at it, “A… Magazine? Round?”

            “Slide it up there and insert a round in the chamber,” stated Thompson again, “It fires forty-fives. I’m sure there’s enough of those lying around. This means it fires bigger rounds then the others of its kind.”

            “The… sub-machine guns, huh?”

            “It means they are automatic weapons that fire pistol rounds,” stated Thompson, “Keep up.”

            “Don’t judge it until you try it,” said Blish, smiling at Flint’s gaze, “Here, have another drum. The Magazine is specially designed. There’s over fifty rounds in there.”

            “Fifty?” Flint’s interest was now going up as Blish grabbed his own rifle and shut the crate.

            “Let’s go test these babies,” said Blish.

            “Test?” Flint’s eyes narrowed.

            “It’s been tested and re-tested,” said Thompson, sighing, “However this weapons has yet to kill a single soul. Time to tarnish its reputation as an idea. Let’s go make it a weapon!”

            Thompson and Blish headed out the way they had come. Flint looked down at the gun he held in his hand. Shaking his head, he decided to give it a try.

            They had made it to one of the bulkheads when they heard the first of the gunfire. Flint jumped to conclusions that the warning shots had finally been ignored, and the battle was beginning. Thompson had nerves of steal, and peered out of the bulkhead, looking for a target. Blish seemed slightly more nervous, and he fiddled with his gun.

            “Well, let’s go send these boys a message,” stated Flint, “ ‘The Scorpios does not take visitors’. Right back to Chicago.”

            “How fitting,” smiled Thompson, “This has been given a terrible nick-name there, as ‘The Typewriter’.”

            “Oh, cow… why would you tell me that.” Whined Flint, “I am not scared of The ‘Chicago Typewriter’ and neither are they.”

            “Why do you think they want it so badly, Lieutenant?”  pushed Thompson, who tilted his own fedora down over his eyes, “How about a wager? I bet I can kill more then you can.”

            “You are on, sir,” smiled Flint. He pushed past the two gentlemen and into the fray.

Aiming his gun, he pulled the trigger. Nothing. Flint’s eyes bulged, and he gazed at the gun. Turning it to the side, he saw the safety was still left on. Switching it off, he raised the weapon just as Thompson and Blish ran past him, raising their own guns.

Scanning the buildings, Flint saw a group of three guys on a balcony hiding behind a few wooden planks. They brandished shotguns and fired down on the Scorpios recklessly. Raising his new gun, Flint pulled the trigger.

The gun fired very rapidly, and Flint was not ready for the recoil. The gun raised into the air. Only a few bullets slammed into the balcony, and one removed the hat right off one of the thugs. The rest kept rising above the building, hitting a painter’s cart a few stories up. The cart snapped, and the two thugs on the cart fell with it down below, slamming into the balcony, killing all thugs.

Flint was surprised with the gun, and smiled at his luck. Thompson gave him a glare, and mimed holding the weapon tighter. Blish and himself then opened fire on their attackers. Bursts of gunfire rat-tat-tating into the nearby buildings.

Flint raised the gun once more, firing it at the buildings. This time he held the gun tighter, and he followed Thompson’s lead and fired in bursts. As he pumped the trigger, burst after burst of gunfire flew towards attackers. At first, Flint was doubtful of the weapons power, but after realizing a more powerful rifle was useless when he would miss a target, he accepted that this weapon was making him a better killer. Flint’s blood began to boil, and his eyes widened. It wasn’t long before he didn’t even bother pumping the trigger. Holding it down, he fought to keep the gun under control and sprayed the hasty bunkers with lead bullets.

Flint’s heart almost stopped when the Thompson went silent, steam visible from the barrel. He fought with the trigger, but he could not make the weapon fire.

“Out of bullets,” chuckled Flint, wrestling with the gun to remove the magazine.

The Scorpios gave a shudder. Flint was confused. That had been a pretty powerful hit. No grenade or dynamite stick could hit the Scorpios that hard. Flint ran to the side of his ship, and noticed that they had been hit by some sort of shell. Down one of the streets to the side of them, Flint spotted an armored, mechanized walker. The machine was tiny compared to the Scorpios, but it yielded one, large cannon and one machine gun that opened fire on the Scorpios, needlessly pinging against the armor.

“They own a walker?” shouted Flint, turning back to Thompson, “Who the hell has enough pull for one of those? They have a small army!”

“Powerful men, Flint,” said Thompson, firing his own Thompson into a building, “Powerful men.”

Flint opened a communication tube and shouted into it, “Cannon crews, right side, I need three cannons mid-rift to fire upon that walker! Make those shots count.”

A Flint tossed aside the empty drum onto the deck, sliding a second into its place. The Walker fired off a second shot, the round slamming into the side of the ship, but doing very little damage.

“Why bother? They can’t bring us down with one walker…”

“Show of force, Flint,” yelled Blish, “They have no need for power if they can make us think they have power. They might not have expected us to fight back with such vigor.”

Three cannons below Flint opened their ports, and the barrels were pushed out of the ship, aiming down at the loan walker.

“Big mistake,” said Flint, “Hope they hated that crew.”

The cannons fired, their shots not missing as one by one the cannons hit the Walker. The Mechanized walker exploded after the second shot, and it disappeared in a cloud of fire and debris after the third.

Flint’s victory was cut short at the sound of grenades. The crew was ducking from them as they rained down from the buildings. Flint ran to the wall of his ship and pressed against it, cover his eyes as one exploded not far away.

Overhead a vibrating hum became prominent in Flint’s ear. Looking up, Flint saw some kind of flying craft swooping in and hovering overhead. The machine held two persons, one flying it and another tossing grenades from his perch, and firing with a pistol. At the sight of the craft, others from the building started firing back harder, tossing grenades they had stashed.

Flint turned his gun on the machine and pulled the trigger. A hail of bullets sprayed the flying machine, lines bursting and fabric tearing. The one firing the pistol got hit in his hand, and he ducked to cover, shrinking away from the hail. The pilot was not so lucky. Thrashing in his seat, the pilot was shot multiple times, and the machine began to spin out of control. The machine spun more and more wildly, and then it slammed into one of the buildings.

Flint smiled at his kill. Ducking back inside of the Scorpios, he fondled the new weapon as the ship lumbered past the rest of the fighting. After the fall of the flying machine, the gunfire died down and the Landship was passing the last of Philadelphia and clearing the rest of the buildings. As they continued out of the city and through the smaller buildings in the outskirts, Flint looked back at Philadelphia. Some figures could still be seen, watching the Scorpios as it stepped away. Even another Walker could be seen walking to the edge of where the battle had taken place.

“We can open her up,” said a voice of the communication tubes, “We’ll put this city behind us in no time.”

Flint hadn’t heard a thing. He danced around the deck of his ship, swinging the gun back and forth and hooting and hollering. Thompson and Blish  approached him cautiously, their brows furrowed.

“This,” yelled Flint, a grin on his face from ear to ear, “This is seriously… amazing. I could feel it… did you see that? Did you hear it? Rat-tat-tat-tat! WOW! I most definitely see the appeal… A typewriter? I… I love this…”

“Sounds great, Lieutenant,” said Thompson, “You wielded the weapon expertly. I am… impressed…. A bit.”

“Hey, I love this. It’s… it’s amazing. ‘Hello, bad guys. Wanna mess with me? Well, say hello to my… Tommy Gun!’, haha!”

“Please don’t call it that,” sighed Thompson, closing his eyes, “Actually… never…. Ever…. Say that again.”

“I don’t think they were expecting much of a fight,” said Blish, “Doesn’t look like they came prepared for an all-out battle. Maybe they just expected to come aboard and take a few in the surprise of it all?”

“Maybe,” said Flint, smiling, “This is just… wow…”

“Well, I am glad YOU like it, at least,” said Thompson, “Let’s hope this makes a similar show when showing it to the Brass at the U.S. Military, huh?”

“Look, Johns,” said Flint, “I know money is tight.”

“Please stop calling us that,” said Blish.

“And I know this is your big break and all… but there are a lot of guns down there,” continued Flint, “Why not say you give me a few Tommys-”

“Please, ‘Thompson’s Sub-Machine Gun’,” correct Thompson.

“Whatever. Give me a few ‘Thompson’s, some of these ammo cajigers.”

“Magazines, Flint,” corrected Blish, “They are called, Magazines.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” continued Flint, “How about a few of the ammo holders and some boxes of ammo and we call it good. The trip is worth it.”

“Ah…well,” said Thompson, looking at Blish.

“John,” Blish tried to whisper, but failed, “We don’t exactly have Flint’s… fee. We are stretching things thin as is… and the military has other offers at this time… It could save us loads to just give him a case.”

“Boo-yeah! That’s what I am talking about,” said Flint, “Woo-hoo! A case! And some other stuff… but… you know… we can work out the details…”

“WOAH!” Thompson bat away Flint’s gun barrel from his face, “Please… I would like to not get shot with my own gun.”

“Typed… got you. So we are cool?” said Flint.

Thompson shook his head, and smiled.

“So, now we got a new conversation waiting for us inside,” smiled Flint, throwing his arm around Thompson, “Why don’t you tell me about how simple this mission is… and about how you make such powerful friends that they can send a small force after us…”

Thompson gave Blish a worried look, but walked with Flint inside.