# The Piston Reserve



## Scathainn (Feb 21, 2010)

*The Piston Reserve*
_A Steampunk Alt-History RP_

_Soon shall thy arm, UNCONQUER'D STEAM! afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car;
Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear
The flying-chariot through the fields of air. 
— Erasmus Darwin —


Tanks come in two forms: the dangerous, deadly kind and the "liberating" kind.
— Robert Fisk —_​
The air was grey, as was usual for a London morning. The sky was thick with smog and soot, and in the distance the massive factories could be seen belching thick smoke into the atmosphere. The ground rumbled as an overhead monorail clanked along the high track, and beneath it Richard Cruddace waited outside the office of the ROC. His foot tapped on the ground impatiently, and every so often he would reach in his coat pocket for his stopwatch. 4:17, it read; the clock was ticking as every second flipped down a new time display.

"Bloody ingrates," he muttered. "First day on the job and they're late already." It was true that Richard was not a stern man; he could be seen walking the streets of London early in the morning, speaking kindly to the street waifs and orphans, giving them sweets with a wink and a smile. They knew him as Mr. Armclank, for clank it did. He was not a stern man, for sure; but if there was one thing Cruddace could not stand, it was lateness.

Finally, a long limosine rolled up to the step of the office. A burly bodyguard stepped out of the vehicle and opened it up for the passengers, showing them to the door. "Welcome!" said Richard, waving his arms wide in greeting. It was at that moment that his clockwork arm ran out of juice, sputtering to a help. It locked into place, outstretched awkwardly. Cruddace's face went red.

"Terribly sorry gents, let me fix that," he mumbled. Reaching to the small belt at his waist, he removed a small key from a hidden pocket. He then clicked it into place at a heavy brown box at his belt, turning it a few times emphatically. The arm sputtered to life once more, slumping down to a normal position. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes, introductions. As you all know, I am Chief Constable Richard Cruddace, and my superiors have designated me as their representative in this endeavour. Please, come in."

He held the door open, ushering the scientists to the waiting room. The room was small, quaint, and utilitarian. It was warmly painted and lit, yet felt slightly empty. On the walls were a few old-fashioned paintings of various subjects; trees, rivers, and one in particular of the portrait of a grotesquely fat old man lined the walls. Richard led the scientists inside and closed the door gently. 

"Welcome to the ROC, gentlemen. Now...perhaps we might have some introductions?"

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ALL: Introduce yourself (name and occupation) to Richard and the others. What are your initial thoughts of London? Of Richard? Of the other scientists? What are your suspicions as to the nature of the project? Did anything unusual happen on the way to London?

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The game's afoot, gentlemen! :victory:


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