❖ The Gear of Humanity II ❖
The crisp morning air hadn't yet warmed, and the fog still clung to the cobbled streets as the distant chimes of the city's gear-powered bell towers echoed faintly.
Police officers in brass-accented uniforms stood guard behind yellow steam-threaded tape, securing the alley where it all happened. Lanterns hummed and flickered on wrought iron posts, casting long shadows across the walls slick with condensation. The scent of rust, oil, and something far more organic lingered in the air.
Rowan stood just outside the crime scene, his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff, as if the weight of last night's memory still clung to his coat.
Inside the alleyway, Emeric Voltaire crouched beside a dark smear that had yet to dry, examining faint, scorched indentations in the stone floor. Noelle, a few paces away, adjusted her gloves and carefully plucked a pale strand of synthetic fiber from a rusted pipe joint. Her eyes narrowed.
Eventually, she stepped out of the alley, walking up to Rowan. "Can you come with us?" she asked.
Rowan turned, expression unreadable. "Why?"
Noelle crossed her arms. "We've cross-referenced other cases. This isn't a one-off incident. The way the remains were arranged… and the wiring beneath the flesh… It's not just one robot." Her tone sharpened. "There are more."
She hesitated. "We're not fighters. But you… you handled it."
Rowan glanced away. "I'll think about it."
Before she could reply, the steam-powered vehicle rolled up beside them with a loud hiss. A hybrid of 20th-century design and arcane engineering, its brass piping and exposed gearwork hissed with pressure. The driver, a stern-faced officer in a navy blue uniform with a brass chest badge and a kepi, tapped the door.
"Get in. Headquarters is expecting you."
Emeric took the front passenger seat. Rowan and Noelle slid into the back. As the car chugged forward, steam rising from vents along its rear, the city unveiled itself around them.
Garnelion was waking up.
People sipped coffee outside iron-railed cafés, their umbrellas spotted with dew. A woman on a fourth-floor balcony sipped from a ceramic cup, watching the sunrise with tired serenity. Steam pipes vented rhythmic bursts along the buildings, and above, an airship groaned through the clouds like a ghost whale.
They entered the heart of the city.
In the center of a massive roundabout stood a towering statue, forged from an alloy of copper and gold. It depicted a tall man in a long coat, his right hand outstretched with an open palm, while his left held a small gear between his fingers. His face was gentle, thoughtful—yet melancholic. Behind him, sculpted wings of interlocking clockwork arced from his back, spreading wide like the ribs of a celestial machine.
Noelle leaned slightly toward Rowan. "That's the god of gears—Aurelius Varn. He built Garnelion with his own hands. He used to walk these streets and invent things to help people. They say he disappeared after a tragedy no one speaks of anymore."
Tourists posed with vintage Lewis cameras, snapping photos. Locals placed flowers at the statue's base. Some simply stared.
The car moved on.
Soon they arrived at the police station—a grand, Victorian behemoth of a building, its architecture ornate and brooding like a castle of brass and stone. It resembled The Carson Mansion, its pointed towers framed by iron gargoyles shaped like owls and serpents.
The officer stepped out. "We're here."
Rowan's boots hit the slate as he stepped down. Behind him, a wide boulevard pulsed with traffic. Steam trams rattled down elevated rails. Rows of French-style lampposts lined the sidewalks. The scent of roasted nuts and coal drifted from a nearby vendor.
Emeric gestured for Rowan to follow. "Let's go."
They entered the station. Inside was a whirlwind of movement—officers walking with folders, typewriters clacking, pneumatic message tubes hissing in every wall. At the center stood a wide counter between two grand staircases. A female officer at the counter looked up as their escort approached.
He leaned in. Words were exchanged.
She nodded and waved them through.
Eventually, Rowan found himself in a quiet interview room. There, he told everything—the alley, the robot, the skeleton arranged like a dancer, the moment of confrontation, the eyes that weren't eyes.
The gas lamps inside the station flickered as the last of the interviews wrapped up. Rowan leaned back against the bench in the grand lobby, letting the murmurs and footsteps of the station pass over him like wind over stone.
"They do not wish to be human out of love, but out of torment," he thought, eyes half-lidded. "It is not our kindness they envy, but our suffering—our trembling, our madness, our need to be more than mere flesh. In their imitation, they reach not for life, but for the sickness of life."
Footsteps echoed near him. Emeric and Noelle appeared from the corridor, each with a slightly different look—Noelle's eyes sharp with fresh resolve, Emeric calm but contemplative, as if quietly turning over dozens of thoughts behind his spectacles.
"We're done here," Emeric said. "But the work's just begun."
Rowan stood. "What happens now?"
"We walk," Emeric replied. "Observe. There's something out there we missed—and Garnelion doesn't reveal her secrets to those who stay indoors."
The three of them passed through the station's heavy oak doors. The city opened before them with the chill of morning mist and the gentle chaos of urban life. Car horns cried out distantly. The scent of brass, smoke, and distant baking curled through the wind.
They stepped out onto the stone landing at the top of the steps. Behind them loomed the grand Victorian police station with its elaborate balconies and iron spires, and before them stretched the central avenue of Garnelion—alive and vivid.
The sound of boots on wet stone echoed as they descended the stairs.
The street was coming alive. Steamcars clanked by on iron wheels. People gathered at cafés, sipping from delicate cups as paperboys weaved between tables calling out headlines. Streetlights cast halos through the thin fog, and shopkeepers turned signs from "Fermé" to "Ouvert."
A woman in a navy-blue coat dashed through the crowd, her hat nearly falling off as she clutched a briefcase to her chest.
"She's late," Noelle muttered.
"Likely the atelier again," Emeric replied with a faint smile. "The fashion houses of Garnelion are ruthless about punctuality."
As they continued, a cat emerged from beneath a stall and rubbed against a man's leg. The man, seated calmly at a small café table, took a sip of his drink while reading a newspaper. The rustle of pages, the clink of glassware, the low hum of machinery in the distance—it all folded together into a strange harmony.
Then came a scent—warm, crusty, slightly sweet.
Just ahead, beneath a canopy of brass piping and lanterns, a street vendor tended a case of golden fougasse, steam curling from its interior.
"Trois, s'il vous plaît," Emeric said, already pulling a few coins from his coat pocket.
The vendor grinned as he handed over the wrapped breads. "Bonne journée, monsieur."
Emeric turned and passed the fougasse to Rowan and Noelle. "My treat."
Rowan took his with a nod. "Thanks."
They moved forward together, chewing quietly. The bread was rich and fragrant, a temporary comfort against the cold.
"It's strange," Noelle said after a pause, "how the city feels so… peaceful right now."
"Don't let it fool you," Emeric said, tearing a piece of crust. "There's a quiet kind of danger here. The kind that hides in polished boots and smiling faces."
They descended into a narrower passage, the upper tiers of the city casting long shadows across their path. Steam leaked from overhead vents, and gears the size of dinner plates rotated steadily on the sides of buildings.
A rusted plaque loomed ahead, nearly obscured by ivy.
Rue Blanche.
Emeric stopped. "This is where the next case begins."
Rowan looked at the street name. "What happened here?"
"The seamstress who vanished three weeks ago," Emeric said. "No signs of forced entry. No leads. Just silence."
"And we think she's tied to the other victim?" Rowan asked.
Emeric's tone sharpened. "We don't think. We know. It's all connected—somehow."
They stepped into the street, the mist thickening around them. A clock overhead ticked slowly, gears churning somewhere deep behind the walls.