Automata

Prologue

Oliver Moreau was not feeling particularly inspired. He sat in his cramped seat as the train rattled across the English countryside, passing all sorts of outstanding monuments and beautiful rolling hills dotted with cozy cottages with smoke puffing delicately out of their chimneys, indicating an amiable, happy family inside. Or, that's what he supposed he would have seen if absolutely anything could be made out through the pouring gale. Oliver had always thought Brits were a little too muddy, a little too impulsive, a little too gruff. He had come to London with high hopes that he would be pleasantly surprised, that he would be able to get in deep and see the beauty of English life. But looking out over the landscape? The weather was exactly like the personality of every British man he'd ever met.

The train lurched to a stop and all the passengers began slowly getting up and grabbing their things. Oliver lifted his bag and walked out quickly before many of the passengers had left their seats, dodging a few men bent over as he went. Oliver stepped out into the not-so-clear air and though he quickly opened his umbrella, his overcoat became unpleasantly wet. He took a deep breath, overlooking the city, and immediately let out a raspy cough. A few men, likely native Londoners, gave him odd looks as he stood, doubled over, as his body rejected the smoggy air.

London was... in an effort to avoid calling it dirty... busier than he had imagined. In Paris, people took their time, they knew that doing things slowly and carefully was how they beat Britain the war. But in London? Everyone always seemed to be rushing around like their mother in law was finally on her last leg and they were looking for a priest to finally banish her soul to Heaven (or somewhere else).

But still, London meant opportunity. Oliver grinned and picked up his bag, calling a coach to take him to the finest silversmith in town. He passed multiple buildings and shops as he went, many seeming rather ramshackle. One smith with an ash-covered face standing outside his shop accidentally melted a hole through a silver platter as Oliver watched. He couldn't believe some Brits were real. Couldn't they ever take their time for fine craftsmanship?

Oliver walked into the silversmith's shop to find a large, haughty man with a thick mustache looking over a set of silver spoons. He stood and grinned when Oliver entered.

"What can I do for you today, Sir?"

"I'm looking to partner with the best silversmith in London to partner with to start a business."

"And what kind of business are you thinking of?"

"Automatons."

The man looked at Oliver like he was speaking a different language. His accent wasn't that thick, was it? He had been studying English since he was a child, and he thought he was enunciating clearly.

"Clockwork people, animals, those sorts of things."

A small amount of clarity came to the large man's eyes, but he shook his head and smiled. "Sounds good, mate, but I've got my shop running pretty good here."

Oliver frowned.

"But! You should talk to my wife's brother. He's got a whitesmith shop down the road, and he would prolly help you"

"Whitesmith? What does that mean?"

"Means I can take any metal you got and make it look like silver. Nobody in Britain could tell th' difference!" Oliver turned around to see the man who had just entered the shop.

"Th' name's Samuel Griggs. Nice to meet you!" An ashy and sweaty hand was thrust into Oliver's' and he couldn't help but grimace as he looked up at the man it was attached to. It was the man who he had seen melt the platter earlier. Of course it was.