Origin: Grandfather Figure

            The music was louder once the door was open. The lights shown slightly brighter, and the flute and trumpet danced happily together. Derik Turnerbatch stood immediately and raised his hand with a wave.

            “Over here, ol’ boy,” he bellowed over the commotion in the small town tavern.

            Lieutenant Nathaniel Flint smiled. Turnerbatch had been a family friend since he was a boy, and he never seemed to age. A boisterous white walrus mustache never left his face and only seemed to grow larger. He was bald as could be on top of his head, and only a band of white hair hiding behind both ears and stretching the back of his head. He often wore a bowler hat, and his outfits only varied slightly in color. As a boy, Flint thought he was a robot, designed to woo-away his grandmother and disrupt their lives.

            As he aged, however, Flint’s stories seemed to make more and more sense. As his grandmother aged, Flint realized that Derik Turnerbatch must’ve been at least ten years younger. Even now, however, if the old man was anywhere’s near over thirty Flint’s age then he did not show it. He was a vibrant, and as… English, as he had ever been.

            As Flint approached they shared an embrace and Derik offered Flint a chair. Flint noticed that his green, mountain Ale he favored had already been ordered and the remains of some food had been left for him.

            “So, Dearest Nate,” chuckled the man, “How goes that battle?”

            “Very well,” said Flint, taking a sip, “The jobs are not getting easier.”

            “Not any more legitimate, I’m afraid,” said Derik, cocking and eyebrow up and motioning towards a bruised cheek.

            “As Legitimate as they come, these days,” said Flint, “But it won’t be long now.”

            “So the ship is running?”

            “The ship is… in working condition,” said Flint, “I have designs to try and automate the majority of the processes. I believe I can make it so I won’t need a crew of one hundred or so.”

            “You think you’ll get into some decent work once she’s up,” said Turnerbatch, taking out an old clay pipe and stuffing it with tobacco.

            Flint shrugged, “What’s considered Decent out there?”

            “Transportation,” said Turnerbatch, strongly, “Freight. Cattle. God-damned pony-rides if need be. Hire it out for shade! I don’t care. Try something that won’t cause me to worry sick and won’t send Winnie into her grave if I were to tell her!”

            “She that bad?” asked Flint, lowering his voice.

            Turnerbatch took a deep breath, looking down at his pipe.

            “She’s not well,” he said, fiddling with a match, “For the good lord’s sake, she’s almost Ninety-Seven! She’d lived a damn hundred years before she’s done.”

            “Anyone ever live so long?” asked Flint, smiling, “Maybe you shared with her the secrets of the Fountain of Youth, eh?”

            “Oh, hush. Age is beginning to call on its debts,” said Turnerbatch, “When you get up this far, let’s see how sly you act.”

            “And what age is that?” asked Flint, slightly too eager for his liking.

            “Oh, white-age… I think,” smiled Turnerbatch, sharing in a laugh.

            Flint did his best to not look upset. How does he do it? Avoid it every time? Flint shrugged it off and leaned back in his chair.

            “So, what are your plans, son?” asked Turnerbatch.

            “Well… I was thinking,” said Flint, smiling, “Well… you know… all these airships.”

            “Back in my day,” huffed Turnerbatch, lighting his pipe, “We were more worried about treaty’s and we worried about the mighty seas. Today… air-travel. Pish-Posh!”

            “A Modern marvel, though, ain’t it,” cried a drunk walking passed that heard it, “To AIR TRAVEL!”

            The entire tavern lit up with the cheer and the drunk walked on. Turnerbatch could not conceal his smile.

            “It is rather nice, and has changed everything,” he said, “When I was only a boy who would’ve thought the skies would be full of Airships and Balloons and Areo-planes.”

            “Pirates,” said Flint.

            “The world will always have those,” said Turnerbatch.

            “They destroy legitimate transport,” said Flint, “It’s ridiculous. Trains, Blimps, Wagons, Landships…”

            “They have weaknesses,” winked Turnerbatch, “The day a machine turns a crew into a god I hope I am dead.”

            “But they are a problem!”

            “Agreed. What are you getting at?”

            “Well…” Flint took out a large bit of paper from his satchel, and cleared off a spot on the table.

            Spreading out the paper revealed a series of blueprints and plans. Concept designs and the like. Turnerbatch said nothing as he looked it over. Every so often he would send a smoke ring or two towards the table as he looked it over.

            A landship was on the paper. Not too big, only three legs. A walker. An outline for engines and cogs and pipeworks. Even Flint’s newest addition, an entire system for maximized automation. Turnerbatch quickly glanced these over. He had seen these all before.

            The newest additions were designs for a large cannon. The cannon would stretch out throughout the length of the ship. The measurements would’ve made this one of the largest cannons Turnerbatch would’ve ever seen. His gaze became very stern as we looked this over. Weapons additions were added to the designs as well, but the addition of this one major cannon was the most prominent.

            “What is this?” asked Turnerbatch calmly.

            “I’ve been studying,” said Flint, “Got too much time in between jobs and while on jobs. Landships and military outposts are vulnerable to airship attack. Do you know why?”

            “They have the high-ground?”

            “Yes and no,” said Flint, “Because they have the same range. Even when they see an airship off into the distance they can never hope to hit it until it is within range. Even rockets and anti-aircraft guns have a very limited range and accuracy. By that point, the airship’s cannons and weapons would also be within range. They could… swoop in. Be in danger for a second before already being right on top of you. Pirates have been using this method for years.”

            “Airships are vulnerable to those seconds,” said Turnerbatch.

            “They have armor and speed on their side,” Flint argued, “and I am not even factoring in stealth and whether or not they creapt up on you.”

            “Your point,” cried Derik, “What is this?”

            “A long-arm,” said Flint, pointing at the designs, “It’s a long-range cannon. Sort of what the military had, only they didn’t have any use. It shot too straight for too long to be used as normal artillery and is too large to be easily moved. However… I… will make it better.”

            “How? You lack the years of training and the flash of genius needed to achieve such a device effective enough to put on a Landship like yours.”

            “I do, yes. However there are… seven? Seven very successful men who do not.”

            “How on earth do you plan on affording such a team?”

            “Oh… I didn’t need to,” smiled Flint, “and… they’ve already done it.”

            Turnerbatch did not say a word. His gaze affixed on Flint and never moved, but asked all the questions in the world.

            “I developed the system,” said Flint, pointing out more blueprints, “And everyone else needed… help. I’ve literally let my reputation build it. A cannon-smith belonging to the US Army, experimental artillery. He designed the longer, lighter, more accurate cannon. A chemist who was having a hard time finding a place in the new west developed a light, armor piercing artillery shell that will be effective against airships. A clockwork engineer trying to run a railroad company needed some favors done. He designed the entire platform and basic support system so that it spins and lowers and raises. He even aided in some of my automation work, and thinks he can make a buck designing such systems for the military.”

            “Unbelievable.”

            “Architect in Florida needed some supplies that were stolen by pirates. He helped design better supports for the legs and platform to withstand the pressure of firing and holding it. Got a mathematician who’s daughter I helped making me an entire system of optics so we can fire it as accurate as humanly possible.”

            “And this… will?”

            “Change the way landships fight airships forever,” smiled Flint, “We’d have greater range then ever before. We can reach out and touch them, those pirates. When we do touch them, we’ll be able to make them feel it, too. Really put a hurt on them! This will change the way anything ever works.”

            “So you’ll become a killer of aircraft?” asked Turnerbatch.

            “Armored Escort, is the idea,” said Flint, “Bank caravans, wagon trails, railroad lines, even minor Landship escorts.”

            “Out west?”

            “Where they need me…”

            “Military?”

            “I hope not,” said Flint.

            Turnerbatch leaned in close, his eyes void of emotion and his voice firm, “Nathaniel, I thought you were going to get out of this… phase.”

            “What phase?”

            “Nathaniel… please. Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Fighting? Theft? Killing?”

            “What do you mean, Derik,” Flint rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.

            “Well, it’s just…”

            “It’s just what?” asked Flint, “You know as well as I this world isn’t built for me.”

            “Why couldn’t you go into theater?” said Turnerbatch, his voice cracking a bit, “Do you remember that? A writer? A Scholar? College? Remember what military school was supposed to do?”

            “Funny thing, how that works out,” said Flint, “And strange how money never roles into a scribes pocket.”

            “No, it’s earned! Cent by cent, boy,” said Turnerbatch, “It’s done honestly, with honor. If it’s money you want, come work with me. I’ll see to it you never starve.”

            “Derik, please.”

            “No, YOU please,” Turnerbatch jabbed his finger towards Flint, “Now, Your Gram was a bloody good woman, and she would’ve never put up with this! What would your father say?”

            “I don’t know, Derik,” spat Flint, his mood souring, “What WOULD my father say? Why don’t you tell me?”

            “I don’t know,” said Derik.

            “Exactly. Doubt he’d even know.”

            “It hurts, boy,” said Turnerbatch, “I care for you like a grandson.”

            “You don’t think I’m doing right by you? By my grandmother, rest her soul.”

            “I think you’re going to lose yourself. I’ve had to stand by and watch as the boy I knew slowly dies and a new man took his place.”

            “Isn’t that what happens in life?” said Flint, taking a sip from his mug, “The boy grows up?”

            “He doesn’t die.”

            Flint sighed, leaning closer to Turnerbatch, “I’m trying not to die. I’m trying to find myself again… I’m trying to be somebody.”

            “And this… aircraft-destroying… Scorpion thing is going to give it to you?”

            “I think it’s my ship and it’ll… let me try.”

            Turnerbatch sighed, and pulled Flint closer.

            “Nathaniel… please.”

            “Derik,” Flint stopped him, “You know you were always like a Grandfather to me. You and Winnie both. You mean the world to me. I… I have to do this.”

            They sat in silence for some time. Flint eating, Turnerbatch smoking. It wasn’t until Flint fetched his own small pipe that Turnerbatch suggested that they move outside into the night. They sat and smoked together, both gazing off.

            “I’m glad you came,” said Turnerbatch, smiling at Flint, “You never visit often. However… you always make time when you are needed.”

            “Thanks for seeing me,” said Flint, “I miss you guys. I miss it up here…”

            “I still see you,” said Turnerbatch, “The boy. Always wanting… more. To blaze a trail. Make sure everyone knew your name. Insuring people remember your accomplishments.”

            “Careful there,” chuckled Flint, “Get any deeper in thought we might lose the train!”

            “Promise me you won’t lose yourself,” said Turnerbatch, resting his hand on Flint’s shoulder, “Promise me you won’t let this… mercenary… outlaw deal overtake you.”

            “I’m going to make a change, Derik,” said Flint, “I’m not trying to lose myself. I’m trying to make a difference.”

            “Are you sure?” Turnerbatch frowned, giving Flint a glance, “You wish to make a mark in the world… but you go about it as all others.”

            “One day,” said Flint, “At the moment, money is the enemy.”

            “Is it? I would say it was your jobs.”

            “That’s what money is!” said Flint, “You earn the money, you build the ship, then… then you succeed.”

            “Is that all it is?” said Turnerbatch, who withdrew from his pocket a large purse, tossing it to Flint, “Then, here!”

            Flint opened the purse and thumbed through the cash, coins, and checks inside.

            “No, oh no,” said Flint, tossing it back, “I have never needed your money or mooched off of you, Derik.”

            “Oh, hush your mouth,” said Turnerbatch harshly, “This is not a mooch, this is an investment. Our investment in YOU!”

            Turnerbatch threw back the money. Flint’s face turned to a scowl, but Turnerbatch did not care.

            “I spent many a decade building up myself, boy. Building businesses and contacts and connections and favors and… investments. I was not rich overnight. However, even though I am very generous and I try to do good now… I missed many an opportunity to help on my climb up because it was… wasn’t profitable. I let down a good many people… all because of this… this money. The need of wealth.”

            Flint said nothing as the conversation took a pause for them to puff on their pipes a little while longer. Flint looked across the way to a broken sign reading “Scores, Big Opinions, and News”, only a few of the letters stayed lit.

            “Accept the investment,” asked Turnerbatch, “And never let money get in the way. Hold your morals high, Flint. Never think twice to stop and help those who really need you. Never overcharge your services. And for God’s sake, Flint, make a change in the world. But not one that makes you a statue or gets put in history books… but one that changes lives, and lively hood.”

            “This is… too much. I could never use it.”

            “You’d be surprised,” said Turnerbatch, puffing, “We’re not looking for a return on anything big. Just… to be very proud.”

            “I am going to try to make you proud,” said Flint, “This… is very generous of you.”

            “No,” said Turnerbatch, “Generous would be to cut away all ties and make you come to work with me.”

            “What was that place, I used to play at?”

            “What?” asked Turnerbatch.

            “That old building,” said Flint, pointing at the sign across the street.

            The letters ‘S’, ‘c’, ‘o’, ‘r’, , the “B” was lit up but the pottom loop was unlit, the ‘I’, the ‘g’ was lit up but it was missing its tail, and a second ‘s’ was alight.

            “I believe … it was the Alan Timberland’s Warehouse. The place for the Scorpion Syringe… yes?”

            “But all the kids called it the “Scorpios Club”… because of the sign,” said Flint, pointing, again at the sign, “You think it’s a sign?”

            “I think… you’re looking too far into it,” said Turnerbatch.

            Flint took out his plans, mumbling, “A walking… mechanical Scorpion…” then he turned to Turnerbatch, “What ever happened to that old place?”

            “Torn down… for the future of what’s it called…”

            “Interesting,” said Flint, smiling.

Origin: Platinum Chest

            The lamp swung from side to side. Light was thrown around the dimly lit room. It must have been knocked in the commotion. Billy Elliard took a few steps back. He breathed heavily. Blood was flung from his wrist.

            Nathaniel Flint was gasping as he leaned back in the wooden chair. His nose bled only slightly, but he had bitten his lip with the last punch. He cracked open his eyes to view the thugs that surrounded him.

            “So… the code,” spat Elliard.

            Flint’s eyes passed to a large chest sitting not too far away. The Platinum alloy of the chest made it priceless on its own, but what lied within put its casing to shame. Two tumbler knobs were positioned on the front of the chest. The correct two-digit combination the twin tumblers created would release the compressed-air seals.

            Flint’s eyes moved to the two other thugs. One bald, large man with a quirky smile. The other was a lean, long-haired, ex-ranger with a large brimmed hat. The ex-ranger held Flint’s own fedora in his hand, fiddling with it playfully.

            “I already told you, I only know one side,” said Flint, “What’s inside, they do not want getting out.”

            “Damnit, Flint,” Elliard smilled again, “You are a tough nut… they teach you this in the stripes?”

            Flint glared at the ex-ranger, “You… that is my hat.”

            The ranger smiled, showing a brass tooth.

            “Now, I do admit, I am getting tired,” said Elliard, taking out a switchblade knife, “Now, I need that stone.”

            Elliard ran his bloodied fingers through his thinning hair. Someone at the door made a noise, and Elliard turned half-heartedly to look. Flint rolled his eyes, knowing that odds are it was Elliard’s own posy just getting antsy.

            Elliard returned to his spot real close to Flint’s face, brandishing the knife as a warning that past head-butts were to be met with a stab. He smiled, his eyes digging into Flint’s.

            “Thirty-Three,” said Flint, very calmly.

            Elliard froze, his eyes widening. His pupils brushed over Flint’s face. His ears even appeared to twitch.

            “Forty-Nine, Twenty-Three,” said Flint.

            Elliard’s eyes raised to that of his bald companion, then to the ranger before smiling.

            “There we go,” he yelled, leaping away from Flint and to the chest, quickly turning the tumblers.

            The ex-ranger wasted no time turning and watching the tumblers spin, seeing as we was the closest to the chest. The bald thug wandered close, his gaze shifting from Flint.

            Flint’s eyes slowly closed. He had already loosened his rope restraints and had been biding his time for a plan. Now, he was presented with one. His left hand twisted against the rope, and broke free with a soft snap.

            “Seventy-Two,” he said, raising from the chair and discarding the now useless rope to the side on the floor.

            In the same motion, he raised the wooden chair he had been in above his head and rushed forward. He had enough time to say out another number before the bald one turned and saw him.

            The look of horror didn’t have time to register on his face. Flint brought the chair down hard on his bald head. Wood splintered and shattered. Flint was left grasping the back end of the chair as the seat and legs rained down on the floor and the bald one fell to the hard ground.

            Flint grasped the back end as a throwing knife and chucked it towards the ex-ranger.

            “My hat!” yelled Flint as the back end slammed into his cheek as he turned, and the shock caused him to leap backward, over the small table, and fall behind it.

            Elliard spun around, the knife poised to be used. His eyes glared and his teeth barred like an animal as he searched the gloom for Flint. Flint ran at Elliard, and threw up his foot in a punt as Elliard advanced on him as well. The kick landed on Elliard’s already tired hand, which could not grip the knife. The knife soard up and away into the gloom.

            Elliard threw his full force into Flint. Flint, standing on one leg, fell to the ground with Elliard on top of him. Elliard rose and threw a punch, and reeled back for another punch. Flint threw a punch of his own, catching him underneath the jaw. The unexpected hit allowed Flint to gain the leverage he needed to push off his attacker and roll slightly farther away.

            When Flint stood, Elliard was already rushing him, his hands finding their way around Flint’s throat. Flint used this to throw two quick gut-punches, causing Elliard to kneel over. Flint grabbed his head, and brought his knee up into the man’s face.

            Elliard stood straight, now, backing away from Flint. His nose had burst open, and blood cascaded down over his mouth. Flint took a few quick steps forward, putting all his weight behind a closed, fisted punch on Elliard’s left cheek.

            Elliard’s knees buckled, and he fell back. His eyes closed as he hit the ground, knocked out.

            Flint shook his hand, trying to ignore the seering pain he felt from that punch. The bald thug was still moaning on the floor a little ways away. The ex-ranger stood from behind the table, a pistol swinging the room.

            Flint took a look around him, and dived behind some old crates as the ranger keyed in and begun unloading his revolver into the crate. Flint sat up, back against the crate. His bloodied hand ran across something metal on the floor, and his eyes darted to it.

            It was Elliard’s pocket, knife.

            Five…six… click. The ranger was out of bullets. The room smelled more like gunsmoke and looked slightly foggy. Flint rose from behind the crate and charged towards him. He secretly prayed the ranger didn’t have a second pistol, as most usually carried more fire arms then pirates.

            The Ex-Ranger had been caught off-guard. He had come around the table and started walking to the crate, so he was caught in the opening trying to jam bullets into the chambers. At the sight of Flint, he cast his revolver aside and reached for a secondary pistol strapped to his waist in a cross-holster.

            Flint threw the knife, aiming for the Ranger’s hand. It missed its marked, but managed to dig into his gut, causing his to fumble his pistol as it left his holster.

            Flint tackled him, the pistol flying off. Flint threw a punch or two before getting up, and rushing to his supplies on the table where Elliard had rummaged through them. Behind him, the ex-ranger stood up and cursed, pulling the knife from his gut and tossing it half-heartedly to the side.

            Flint reached his supplies and rummaged through it for his gunbelt. Stealing a glance behind him, he saw the Ranger looked around and spotted his little pistol on the ground not far away. The ranger lunged for it, just as Flint blind-grabbed into his bag and felt cold steel.

            Flint pulled his LeMat and cocked it in one fluid motion, aiming it as the ranger reached his pistol. Flint pulled the trigger. POW. A loud gunshot rang, and Flint’s bullet sunk into the ranger’s back before he could even fully grasp his pistol. POW.

            At the second shot, the ranger went limp, and the breath left his body. Flint let out the breath he had been keeping in, and breathed. The rousing of the bald thug on the floor grabbed Flint’s attention. He had awoken to the sound of gunshots, and lazily attempted to peer across the room.

            Flint turned his pistol on him. One bullet right into his skull silenced him. Flint’s eyes were starting to tear up slightly at the smoke. He heard commotion outside, but since no-one attempted to open the door he let them be for now. Stepping over to the table, he gave the tumblers a free spin and walked behind the table, placing his hat atop his head.

            Flint knelt over the ex-ranger, searching his pockets, grabbing bullets and cash he could find.

            “My… hat,” he mumbled to him, “Bastard.”

            He did the same to the bald one, then he approached Ellaird. Elliard was in bad shape. He lay bleeding on the floor. Flint rand his finger through his pants and pockets, then through his waist coat. A large roll of bills were in one of the pockets. Flint smiled, fingering through it.

            “This, my boy,” said Flint, “Is payback. For the delay… and for severely messing up my clothes.”

            Elliard made a gurgling sound of a sigh, but no audible words.

            “When the ol’ girl’s fixed, rest assured I’ll come back this way and level your little outfit,” said Flint, using this time to grab his thigh-holster and gunbelt and strap it on, “Until that day, I find myself in a strange predicament… your men still outside and all.”

            Flint checked the platinum chest, and smiled when he saw it was untouched. Good, he thought, if all went well they wouldn’t even know he had been kept up.

            “I need this payment, old friend,” said Flint, returning to Elliard, “I can smell it… the exhaust… the gunpowder… they diesel… I can smell my… freedom… my chance. It’s so close, mate.”

            Elliard sputtered, “You will die a nothing, Lieutenant.”

            “Nobody will remember you, Billy,” said Flint, smiling, “They don’t remember us. No matter what. Be we thug.”

            Flint slapped Elliard’s chest.

            “Be we treasure hunter,” Flint touched his own chest, and then motioned the two of them connecting, “Or even old war heroes.”

            “You… are no hero.”

            Flint jumped as a crash was heard from the door. Elliard’s men had begun trying to get in. Flint looked over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. The door wasn’t even locked and they were trying to break it down. Flint returned to Elliard, taking out his revolver and pressing it to his chest.

            “Neither are you,” said Flint, smiling, “Don’t you read? They recognized you after all, Billy. Your medals were revoked. Uncle Sam says you owe them for those banks… and that orphanage. Strange how that works.”

            Elliard’s eyes flashed anger, before he began coughing, and one eye closed for the last time. The other lingered on Flint. Flint smiled, cocking back the hammer.

            “I’m still a wild card, boyo,” said Flint, “and all I want… is my ship.”

            Flint fired his gun. The last of Elliard’s breathes escaped him, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Flint rose and walked to the table, quickly throwing on his pack and dealing with the rest of his gear.

            Elliard’s men continued to slam into the door. The door creaked and cracked with every hit. Flint opened his LeMat, throwing away the useless shells and fully loading new shells into the new design. He put his hand on the chest, and quickly wondered what he’d do with the object.

            Crash, the door came off the hinges and one man fell to the ground ontop of it. Two other quickly ran through the door, pistols raised. Flint cocked his pistol and aimed, wasting enough time to insure he’d shoot the bigger’s head and pulling the trigger.

First origin Story is Up!

    I got a few sections of my origin stories done and I am excited to post a few of them! Seeing as they are meant for the Secret Swan Society we are collecting all of them there. So, head over to the Society's blog and check out the first origin story!
    If you are awaiting the others, then just send a holler and I'll consider posting a few here as well. Wouldn't be so bad! Super excited! Also, look out for more posts.
    I have also been doing some work over at the Citizens of Antiford website with some character stuff. Cannot wait! Their site is growing quickly. Go check them out and give them some love.