A Turn o' the Century Gent (Hotwire)

During the early nineteenth century, California was still an isolated squalor where European colonials formed the minority in comparison to their native American counterparts. Communities of notable size only existed against the coast. Sea trade was steadily increasing. A recently founded ramshackle port, notable for its abundance of seals, which gathered on an island within the cove, began to thrive. The colonials made their living off tariffs from Russian merchant vessels. It was the port that would come to be known as Jump City.

Due to a closure of the route over the Colorado river, emigration into California only happened by sailing vessel. One such ship provided passageway for a very interesting settler. Makar Orlov was a Cossack searching for an escape from the hardships of his homeland Siberia. Much about his history is unknown, but it was noted by the townspeople that he came from wealth and privilege, for the man's refinement and purse knew no bounds. Orlov renovated an old missionary outpost in the hills for sanctuary, never addressed the peasantry directly, and possessed a sizeable library brought from home.

While he had a reputation for seclusion, attended only by his indentured servants, the cantankerous old man was well liked in the town. This fondness derived from his revolutionary knowledge of machinery. Upon arrival, Orlov updated the town's one industrial undertaking. The people were tanners, taking cow hides and producing leather. From his instruction they were able to construct and maintain steam-powered conveyors. It was an invention at the pinnacle of its time, denied to greater civilisation due to California's seclusion.

The fate of Gospodin Makar Orlov is uncertain. As a foreigner, he was certain to have inspired distrust amongst the Europeans, regardless of his technological prowess. An account from one Spaniard claims that he was outed to be a practitioner of heathen cults, but then the reported monstrosities it leads on to detail are little short of fantastical, the jealous gossip of small-minded men. The Cossack likely died peacefully in his sleep.

Since he had no next of kin, one of his freedmen took possession of the outpost come manor. It remained untouched until the turn of the century. Then Russian historians emerged, following up earlier documents written by the man. There was great excitement in scholarly circles that Makar Orlov was some kind of prodigy on par with Leonardo Da Vinci. His early work was far thinking and showed much promise. Only before he left for North America his writings had taken a dark turn. The inventor claimed to have designed a doomsday machine through nothing more than recurrent dreams. These blueprints he'd taken with him.

However, after an extensive search of his manor the mentioned library was never found. The historians abandoned their pursuit. In forty years further the grounds themselves were bulldozed and built over. The famed Journal of Makar Orlov seemed lost forever. Or it might well have been.

In truth the ingenious Cossack had designed a basement extension that defied all contemporary laws of architecture. It was a curved superstructure built amidst false walls, somewhat similar in design to modern stealth plane technology. Once sealed, the chamber could not be identified, not even by sonographs purpose built to investigate geology. In conjuncture with his faithful freedman, Orlov had hidden his legacy. No one alive today knew of its exact location.

“It's somewhere round here.” Fortunately, Scapegoat was not alive. He was undead.

The ghoul had brought a team of men to an outlying district of Jump City. The ground was solid concrete, but with a network of small drainage tunnels slicing throughout. For a hundred years men had built here without ever encountering the prized library. But nothing stays lost forever. A little insider knowledge could do wonders. Vernon knew where to look for the Journal. He had been quite adamant as to its existence. But he couldn't get it himself. Nor was he capable of understanding a metric millimetre of the data inside. Sometimes insider knowledge was better outsourced.

In this instance the ghoul had gone running to a man of reputation. An inventor of equal genius to the late Orlov. The goons stood around belonged to a Jump City villain named Steampunk, “I can't narrow it down much further. Left my dousing rods at home. So with a city block of concrete to look under... any bright ideas bossman?” Scapegoat gave the older man an attentive look, as if waiting on his word. The ghoul was shabby and gaunt but his usual creepiness was belayed by a chipper disposition.

The journal of Makar Orlov. What a prize to possess. In a bid to take over jump city and revert it to the age of steam, such a weapon as the one supposedly detailed in this one book would be of the utmost importance. So that's why when this... Scapegoat... found his men, and gave him a lead, steampunk found himself intrigued. Firstly because of the promise, and secondly because someone had managed to actually find him, and not the other way around.

That's why steampunk stood by this... vermins side as his goons canvased the ground.

"I believe that this Orlov may have left a few small clue as to how one is to enter his underground dwellings." He said pulling out surveys of the area.

"You told me this underground complex could not be detected by sonograph technology. However, I believe a different sort of measurement is needed here. Magnetic." He said pulling out a small device that pinged in his hand. As he walked, the pinging increased. Soon steampunk found a small circle of ground about 5 feet in diameter where the ping was constant. "Here we are."  Grennan muttered ordering his men to dig.

Within ten minutes the had found some sort of large round disc, perfectly decorated in bronze and copper. In fact, if he didn't know any better, it would appear to be a..."

"Porthole."

It wasn't often Scapegoat got to work with mortals. Against them and in lieu of them, sure. But usually it was more kitsunes and Chaos Lords, even the odd fallen angel. Fraternising with so many supernatural entities could cause a fellow to lose sight of the simple pleasures in life. It was that outlook Vernon hoped to reattain as he revelled in the simple honest megalomania of your average joe. In Steampunk he had found a being of unbridled ambition. Almost made him want to break out the pompoms.

Their mutually beneficial arrangement (and subsequent found respect for one another *cough*) almost didn't happen. Scapegoat would like to thank all those that had made this possible. His mother. His acting coach. Their loving and adoring fanbase. But most of all he'd like to thank a demon. Count Andromalius. This Great Baron, of what is allegedly Hell, knows at all times the whereabouts of thieves and other people of like-minded wickedness. Only by consulting Andromalius did Scapegoat know where to find Steampunk.

Demons were often fickle, and prone to ignore one so minor as a ghoul. They did not have to tolerate his presence, let alone his queries. Thankfully on this occasion Scapegoat had a guarantor who could not be refused. The Count freely delivered his illicit information. Whereupon the ghoul remarked, “Say. If you can do that, why can't you just tell me where the chamber is?” Vernon was hence savagely thrashed for his insolent inquiry.

Steampunk's labourers had done well. Henchmen were rarely an asset, except when they were a literal extension of their master. This appeared to be the case here. Crouching onto the balls of his feet, Scapegoat went to touch the proclaimed porthole. Suddenly a visible bolt of electrostatic charge struck the ghoul. He collapsed backwards, quite dead. Fortunately Vernon had let his companions know of his tendency to perish at any solid blow. In such an event he'd given them specific instructions to strike him a second time, adding pretty please. Doing so would bring him back to life. It was a crude method of immortality but one fitting of a demon's humour.

Scapegoat awoke with a puzzled expression. The last thing he could recall was investigating the porthole. Then something had hit him. An iceberg? No. Wrong kind of porthole. Ah yes, a static bolt. The ghoul felt his hair, which had frizzed slightly in comical fashion. He turned to Steampunk and held out a finger, “I love static charge! Gives me temporary powers to zap people. Watch. Touch me.” Vernon reached closer.

This foolish freak. Couldn't stay out of trouble. That's why when Vernon toppled at the static charge, one of his henchman knocked him back to life with a solid blow from a shovel. One of his henchman curiously reached forward and received a slight shock.

"Let's move already." Steampunk said peering down at the device in the ground.

There was a metal rod. Steampunk held his hand out, firing a small grapple into the hole, and pulling the rod out. It had a strange square knob on the bottom.

"It appears that we need to simply..." Steampunk said pushing the knob into a square hole in the center of the circle. "Fill in the gaps."

Electric arcs sprung from the edge of the disc to the tip of the rod. This activated the machine. It began to rise up. As it rose above the surface, it's true purpose was shown. It wasn't a porthole. It was an elevator.

"Going down."

Joy buzzer by name, joy buzzer by nature. The indulgence that was paid to Vernon both amused and delighted the ghoul. These guys were a-ok. Fashion sense was a little outdated, but Scapegoat couldn't talk. His personal hygiene was a shambles, hadn't bathed since his death. Unless that time Nina chucked a pail of water at him counted. She had tipped a bucket over the ghoul as he stood outside her shop one day, waiting to be let in. Which, now that Scapegoat looked back, might have been less about cleanliness and more about getting rid of him. Camping outside her door that night might have been a mistake.

Steampunk's skill at logic puzzles was commendable. Vernon recalled encountering this particular one in nursery school. Back then if a piece didn't fit you chewed on it until it did or until the adult took away your toys. Good times. Gooooood times.

No more gingerly than before, Scapegoat willingly hopped onto the bronze lift panel as it began its descent. You could teach a monkey not to touch the electrified banana but not Vernon. Fortunately the electrostatic energy was now redistributed through a coil. They were safe to touch the metal. Only four people could make the trip at a time, leaving several henchmen still above ground. They would have to catch the return porthole. Or take the stairs. Assuming they went and built said stairs.

While in motion they passed various layers of masonry. Due to disuse the lift was prone to scrape clear weeds lodged into the brickwork, or against sections of displacement, turning a once smooth ride into a shudder filled grind. The gears worked hard to complete their journey, eventually coming to rest. The lift stopped with one last shudder. Everything was pitch black.

"Not that you guys can see, but there a bunch of unpaid bills from the electric company here. Guess they cut off the power. When will those Victorians learn to keep on top of their utilities?" Being a ghoul, Scapegoat possessed potent night-vision. He was just getting used to the idea of leading people around via conga-line, when more noises began. Around the room gas lamps began to light automatically. They were swiftly surrounded by a thin veneer of luminescence. A double archway presented itself, divided by a cylindrical column adorned with fluted shafts. Scarred marble steps, eroded by a small stream of groundwater which trickled across, led up to this entranceway.

"Marevlous! Absolutely marvelous!" Steampunk said stepping into the entrance with two minions and vernon. Such a magnificent place. It was secluded... undetectable... beneath the ground... and according to these geological surveys from before the place was built, there were even underground rivers leading out to sea near here.

"I believe this place may hold all the answers we need." Steampunk said. He walked forward towards the steps. He sent the elevator back up to the surface to bring down another load of henchmen. he had instructed them to wait for the elevator to return before going down themselves.

"Let us see how expansive Mr. Orlovs underground expanse goes.  Steampunk said, proceeding to run up the stairs and into an unseen room.

"I see things. Remarkable things." He said. The room was enormous, with technology and tools abound. It was as if he had stepped into a workshop built just for him.

As attested by the erudite Grennan, this forgotten vault was indeed a cradle for the remarkable. The floor itself moved on clockwork motors, weaving a path between dusty worktops and unfathomable machinery of recondite function, the exact designs of which were protected by tarpaulin coverings. Being sealed off for so many years one might have expected the air to be stuffy, if not outright unbreathable. Yet as Vernon sniffed he found it to be as crisp as ever, suggesting quite possibly air conditioning. What he did not detect were the presence of any dead bodies. This had to be the worst crypt Scapegoat had ever visited.

The ghoul came to some contrivance with a six foot cloth covering. He began to walk against the floor as he studied it. Scapegoat flung off the tarpaulin and found himself looking at the Cyberman cavalry, "I'm a stranger to taxidermy, but shouldn't there at least be some fresh left on this horse?" Steam vents extended out of the beast's nostrils. If Vernon had to guess, he'd say you were loading coal into its caboose. A Grand National winner for sure.

Steampunk turned to the horse. "This is no Taxidermy. It's a marvelous work. Now for the prize. Men! Search for that journal." Steampunk said. He looked around began to think.

"I believe I have found just the place to set root." Steampunk said.

"With some modern improvements, this place will become a beautiful place to rest myself."  He began examining the objects. It was all beautiful. And all his.

Wary of these abundant marvels of a bygone era, the henchmen, steadily increasing in number, began to spread out. There were not massive amounts of space to scour, but urgency was lost as apprehension gave way to curiosity. Like their employer, they shared a love of contraptions adopting traditional, if not outright spurned, principles. Mankind had traded up too quickly. There were still many impressive feats that the old ways could accomplish.

All minds were on higher thoughts, except for that of the base Scapegoat. He was not impressed by the surrounding ingenuity. The horse, he thought, was positively repulsive and crude. Sure you could power a light-bulb with a potato, but you could also do so with a chemical battery, a cylindrical cell with far better aesthetics. This was a museum to him. A collection of hilarious novelties. He distantly hoped there was a gift shop at the end.

Listening to Steampunk's offhanded comments, the ghoul frowned with puzzlement. A genius he may be, but the man was undoubtedly a peculiarity. Scapegoat peeked over his shoulder, "I don't understand, bossman. What's your preoccupation with this outdated technology? They make ipods now that can hold 4000 songs. Four. THOUSAND. Why not upgrade your villain theme?" At least make the transition from gas lanterns to 8-track tapes. There just weren't enough 1960's based criminals.

"The technology was a marvel of it's time. And with a little work, can far surpass anything today! The journal this man owns may change the world. Steampunk said looking down at the ghoul. He picked up a small device from the table. It was a square machine with a small cone on the end. It was enblazoned with copper designs, but the on the top, in basic bronze, was the image of a sound wave.

"For instance." he said picking up a empty bottle from the floor and placing it on the table. He put the box on the small device on the table and turned the switch. A slight high pitched whining sounded, and the glass vibrated, before shattering on the spot.

"Imagine such devices on a larger scale. With my power, these novelties can be improved."

Scapegoat's eyes widened at the demonstration. Evisceration of glass. That was pretty neat. Upon prompt he did indeed envision the larger applications of such a device. Unleashed across a city-wide scale it would shred windows, cars, greenhouses, light-bulbs, containers, mirrors, but most of all - it would make people miss all the Christmas specials. To control glass was to control the world! ...of programme scheduling.

While his fervour was undeniable, Vernon was still not moved by Steampunk's logic or visual examples. Tapping into applications of technology long abandoned paled in comparison to the archaic might of an Unholy One. What was a broken bottle to the splendour of Hell? Regardless, the ghoul tried his best to understand, "So you go for the gimmick because you're good at it. Gotcha. Most people have an affinity. Just not many people can make a living off the more obscure affinities. I mean. If you didn't dabble in this junk, you'd be like any other burger-flipping schmuck. Another cog in the machine, to use a familiar idiom." He gave Grennan a kindly smile, as if regretting his last statements, "Err. I could be wrong."

One of the henchmen would call out an alert. The library had at last been found. An alcove in the further recesses contained a sealed vault which was readily accessible from the outside. Machines on the vault's exterior fed through the wall, hybrid engines invading an amateurish mural. To Scapegoat these bronze vents meant nothing, but to an astute observer they would realise these generators controlled the climate inside the vault; humidity, oxygen, and temperature. Orlov was evidently a far-thinking man. His parchment paper was a collection of vellum, rehashed linen fibre sheets, and small quantities of books utilising modern paper techniques. A given life-span for the inferior varieties could have been no more than one century. Yet proper tempering had allowed this collection to survive almost twice as long. Provided they did not come in contact with water.

Steampunk walked into the library and began turning books over. Novels, scientific journals far out of date. It was the later 1800's after all. But his real prize was the journal of Orlov. One of his men came running up saying they found his journal in one of the desks.

"Marvelous. Prepare the container for storage until all of our equipment is moved in. I want this place set for a permanent settling within the week."

The aide nodded, and pulled out a box from a cart they had brought with them. He placed it on the ground, opened it, then placed a leather clad book inside, before it sealed, and created an internal vacuum, further preserving the book until later time.

"Send a message to any remaining men up top, and have them forward it to the lads back at base. Tell them to ready the terrain and aerial vehicles, and prepare to move in on this spot. Have them move as much of our equipment as they can fit." Steampunk yelled to a lackey, who saluted, and ran off into the tunnels.

"I hope he checks the maximum capacity. Don't fancy digging my way out if that lift breaks." Vernon was rearward of Steampunk's shoulder once again. Only this time he was half preoccupied. In cartoonish fashion, the book which had just been safely secured was suddenly in his hands. The ghoul wore a pair of reading glasses upside-down as he flitted between pages. It may be observed that he dwelled upon pages with diagrams longer. What was a book if it lacked pictures?

Inside were various day to day ramblings mixed in with an array of maverick theses and detailed schematics. It was written mostly in old Russian, but an occasional passage contained script from an obscure Siberian dialect considered extinct by today's standards. Some of the sketchwork extended by leaf, unfolding to be four times the width of your normal page. On one of these was Orlov's masterpiece, an article titled by the unknown language, roughly translated as 'apocalyptic dynamo'. Though Scapegoat did not disturb this particular page,

"It's no Very Hungry Caterpillar. I was hoping for pop-up." He now held the journal up by one edge, dangling its contents and putting pressure on its spine.

At the very pop-up comment, steampunk looked back over his shoulder to see him with the journal.

"Don't you touch that!" Steampunk yelled taking the book from him. He turned heel and put the book back in the container.


"The things in this book contain a power you could not begin to imagine. Those devices in the other room were things Orlov created with the technology of his time. The things he could not create, he wrote in this book. Now why would that be?" Steampunk began lecturing before turning back to Scapegoat.

"Because they required more powerful technology. Technology we have now. We can create the machines of Orlov."

The bicentennial tome flew from Vernon's hands back into the protective upkeep of Steampunk. Artifacts were best left in the possession of true historians after all. No one else could be arsed preserving the memorabilia of bygone eras. The majority of people lived for the present; Scapegoat was one of those people, only there was a certain influence guiding his actions which thought solely of the future. Be they immersed in the present or enamoured by the past, all would be dragged kicking and screaming towards their future. It was the way of things.

Like a particularly dim child at the back of a classroom, Scapegoat gave his answer to the unexpected question, "Guh." Like all men of lecture, Steampunk answered his own query. Ambition was often watered down to make it more palatable to the layman. And although Grennan did not paint a picture vivid of his grand scheme, the simplicity he instead presented served to make the ghoul yield a smile of understanding.

"You're the genius, Boss! You can't fail." Scapegoat angled his neck straight up, looking beyond the recesses of ceiling crags. "Long as God in his Heaven don't interfere."