A Time for War

[The Doctor]

A Time For War

Discussion Thread

 

~ 18 May, 1742 ~

 

Lightning streaked across the sky as Doctor Linaeus Chromwell haphazardly thrust his fist into the forward section of his new clockwork machine, in it clenching an odd looking screwdriver. He twisted nearly a dozen cogs before withdrawing it, retracting the bit, and sliding out a different one using the sliding controls on the side. He slid it sharply back into another series of wheels, and twisted another half dozen devices before quickly straightening and dashing around to the other side of the machine and pulling the central lever upwards sharply.

 

The candle-light in the room flickered as the machine began to click and whirl, and the lightning outside seemed to arch oddly towards the bell tower. The sounds of the machine were drowned out momentarily by a thunderous clap of thunder. The weather could not, however, drown out the angry shouts and yells of the mob at the foot of the tower, nor the curses that flooded up from blow, echoing around the massive bell-tower.

 

“Doctor Chromwell, there isn't time! If you don't give yourself up now, they'll hang us for sure!”

 

“Patience is a virtue, Casimir...” he muttered, not looking up from his work.

 

“Doctor, please, y–“

 

“The more you pester me, the longer this is going to take!” he snapped, throwing his apprentice a withering look before climbing into the machine with his screwdriver and sliding it between the cogs, wheels, dials and levers on the dash. “I'm almost done.”

 

Casimir sighed impatiently. He threw a dark look at Chromwell's machine, then the stairs, then back to the machine. “I'm sorry,” he said, tearing off his work belt and throwing it to the floor before dashing down the stairs. Chromwell cursed under his breath - when that fool of an assistant left the tower, there was no way he'd be able to keep the mob from getting in through the open door behind him. There was a surge of hateful yelling from outside, and he knew that his student had been taken by the mob. He heard the crashing of angry footsteps on the stairs below, and knew it was only a matter of minutes before they reached him.

 

With a final slide of his screwdriver, he shifted one more control and the machine surged into life, the cogs and wheels within spinning, the grinding of metal and wood clicking against each other filling the room, drowning out even the sounds of the clock itself. With a shout of triumph, he straightened in the control seat and grabbed hold of the lever to his left. With a final look at the staircase and the murderous mob at it's summit, he pushed the lever downwards, and watched as arches of lightning enveloped his machine, and bright blue-white light consumed his vision.

[Writer]

December 11, 1941

 

 

There was a knock on the door. Ethan Francis glanced up from the table before him, mildly annoyed. "Not now," he snapped irritably. "I'm busy!"

 

The door opened nonetheless and Ethan growled. The young man facing him did not seem to be intimidated in the least. "Sir, It has to be now. The breach is active again. But something's different this time."

 

Ethan froze. "Not bombs?"

 

"It's not like that, no sir," the young man confirmed. Ethan glared at the door. Then, he stood and hurried out, motioning the young man to follow.

 

"Explain," he ordered.

 

"When the bombs come through, it's just a minor displacement 'till they blow, you know? But with this... it's rippling and twisting, but nothing's coming out. Not yet."

 

They entered another room and Ethan darted around to several different machines before ordering the young man, "Get the team. Something's..." He stopped, frozen as he stared at yet another machine. "Is that..." His eyes widened. "That's not... that's impossible!"

 

"Sir?" the young man inquired, puzzled. Ethan whirled on him. "Get the team! Tell them Event Zero. No! Wait. Gather at the cars. We're going out there. We've got to."

 

"Sir, the air raid sirens," the messenger protested. "There could be bombs..."

 

"It's no bomb," Ethan replied. Urgently, he repeated. "Gather the team! Get them to the cars! Now!"

[steven]

After drinking the pint glass of its contents, he placed it on the table and waited a few seconds for the drink to take its effect, but he still felt and thought sober. He had been through four pints of larger and still felt unaffected. Under his breath he insulted the drink and the pubs owner before deciding this wasn't the place to be if he wanted to get drunk, so he left this place behind and looked for someplace new that could provide him with something with a more mind altering effect than the crap he was getting from here.

 

Heading outside he journeyed around London. The change was clearly noticeable. Growing up in London, he remembered it to be a lively place busy with activity. Now the bombs have began to drop, fewer people brave the streets in fear of a bomb falling upon them. But after you step foot on the battlefield, you're no longer scared of bomb, if anything a bomb would be somewhat of a blessing than returning to fight.

 

After finding some who had dared to travel the roads, his was informed that the nearest pub was several blocks away across the river. Knowing the area, Noah was aware of a shortcut that involving across the unused bridge. Upon crossing Noah took the time to enjoy a quick cigarette and observe at the sleeping London, hidden out of fear behind their closed doors in case the bombs arrived and began damaging the great city. It was very disappointing to see his beloved city cowering from their enemies attack and dreamed of a day where he walked alongside his children through busy crowds.