Author’s Note: Scenes in first draft from an upcoming work.
The flying things filled the sky like oversized bluebottles buzzing here, there and everywhere with a general disregard for their passengers safety. Dark ink stains on a dirty blotting paper sky, the Pegasus Carriages went about their business of human transportation with even less purpose than the insects they so resembled.
“They bother you, Mortimer?”
Headlock appeared not to hear his companion’s words, instead, his attention remained fixed upon London’s latest aerial business.
When he spoke, it was with measured words.
“It is not the carriages per se, Grace. No, it is not them at all.”
“Then, what? To see a man whose business it is to instil unease in others having that same unease instilled in him is frankly unnerving.” Grace placed a canary-yellow glove upon Albion’s champion’s arm.
Headlock lowered dark eyes to the ground, then returned them to Grace’s flashing green own.
“It is those creatures that power them, Grace, those beasts they call automata. They are wrong, ungodly, devils dressed in suits of lead and I intend to prove it.
When Headlock moved away, Albion’s fogged gloom followed, a little more ice filling the space he’d vacated.
Miss Grace Grace was not a girl prone to chills, but she did; she did not relish the sensation.