July 2nd, 1884. Chicago, Illinois.

The sun was rising over the city. Trains shrieked and rumbled out of the union station, heading out for various points across the United States. Two men and one decidedly not-a-man stood on the platform waiting for a particular train to arrive.

Jim Rast watched the brass man through slitted eyes, fingers tap-tapping the gun he'd reclaimed from the creature. Pinkerton had ordered the other agents to quarrantine the scene of the fire and start investigations into the cause or causes while he and Rast escorted the being to a more controlled environment. Rast hoped they'd throw away the key when they got him-it-there. It was wearing a suit coat and trousers they'd secured from somewhere but none of that went any further to making it look human.

It wasn't human. No matter what it said. No matter who Pinkerton thought it was.

But if it was, why the hell did it have to be him?

Nick goddamn Sarlowe. Life just wasn't fair was it? He'd hated him on sight. Nick Sarlowe, super-agent. Best Pinkerton bar their namesake. Handsome, tall and dark and not necessarily in that order. Got the girls, got the choice assignments, got everything.

Then the incident at the World Astronomy Summit and suddenly hotshot Nicky was a brain in a pickle jar.

It was like God smiled on Jimmy Rast that day.

And now he was back to shitting on him.

"Can't I catch a goddamn break?" he muttered, shaking his head. Of course not. He was Jimmy Rast after all. God's own personal whipping boy. He felt eyes on him and looked up. The brass man watched him, eyes blinking audibly with a scraping sound, like razors running across a rail-line.

"What're you looking at?"

"Just trying to decide if I remember you or not Jimmy." Brass replied, his voice toneless and harsh. "Which would you prefer?"

"I liked you better when you were a brain in a jar."

"Strange. I can't recall you ever liking me."

"You're right about that. Hell, I'm not even sure that is you Nicky. We've seen goddamn automatons before. That Brainerd twerp out in Steam-City is churning them out like bullets out a carbine. You might just be some overgrown tinkertoy with delusions of grandeur for all I know." Rast stepped towards Brass, finger poking him in his gilded chest. The brass man looked down at the finger then back up at Rast.

"Don't poke me Jimmy. I do recall not liking that."

"Jimmy. Settle down, there's a good lad." Pinkerton said, tapping Rast in the chest with his cane. "Let's not rile up our prodigal son if we don't have to eh?"

"Sir." Rast frowned and turned away, hands shoved in his pockets. Pikerton sighed and looked at the brass man.

"Well son?"

"Sir?"

"Humph. At least you still remember the chain of command. Anything else?"

"I-no. Nothing." Brass' eyes glittered in the light of the rising sun and he frowned, the elaborate system of gears and gauges that made up the muscles of his face squealing slightly. Dust and soot clogging them up, Pinkerton surmised. It gave him a bit of a guilty expression.

"You're sure?"

"Yes sir." Brass said. He looked at Pinkerton. "You look older sir."

"I am older. A whole handful of months since you last saw me." Pinkerton snorted. "Like a century when you get to be my age boy. Time speeds up as you get older, despite rumors to the contrary. Always remember that."

"I will."

"I'm sure that you will." Pinkerton grunted, peering down the track. He impatiently rapped the platform with his cane.

Tap-tap-tap.

April 5th, 1884. Chicago, Illinois.

Moriarty rapped the platform with his cane and smiled at Sarlowe, thin lips pulling back from small, round teeth. "Shall we go then my good sir?"

"Of course Professor. Step this way." Sarlowe gestured and Moriarty stepped past him, moving with brisk efficiency, head bobbing like that of a darting snake. Sarlowe followed, adjusting his hat on his head and the gun on his hip. "Been to Chicago before sir?"

"It is not a proclivity of mine to speak with the help."

"I-"

"No matter." Moriarty waved a skinny hand. "In answer to your question, no, this is my first time away from the Continent Mister Sarlowe. Though I am quite eager to see the rest of this new-born country after the conference. Particularly the so-called Steam-City. I hear it is the wonder of the coming century."

"Yessir."

"You've been there?"

"Once sir. The Pinkerton Agency makes it a habit of assigning agents to Doctor Brainerd's personal staff."

"I suppose the young Mister Brainerd counts as a national treasure does he not?" Moriary smiled again, eyes glittering as they stepped out of the station onto the street. Chicago seemed to explode to life around them. Horse-drawn carriages competed with prototype Stanley Steamers, Tesla-brand electro-velocipeds and Brainerd-patented steam buggies on cobblestone streets. Horns honked and steam-engines grumbled, clogging the air with a nearly-tactile cloud of noise and smoke. Moriarty staggered, unused to the noise and chemical odors. London was a cultural epicenter, true. But as yet no European or British city had so wholly given over to the Second Industrial Revolution as had the cities of America. Sarlowe reached out to steady the old man but Moriarty batted his hand away with the swipe of his cane.

"I do not require assistance."

"Sorry sir."

"I am unused to such-such noise." Moriarty shook his head. "How do you people stand it?"

"You grow accustomed sir." Sarlowe smiled slightly. He hated it himself though he wasn't going to say as much to the little man before him. The Revolution had caught most Americans by surprise but they had adapted quickly. Sales of the new horseless buggies were growing and more and more of the machines were appearing on the streets of major cities. Electricity was also available in most cities thanks largely to Edison and Tesla. Or rather the competition between them.

Nikola Tesla had arrived earlier in the year, backed by European investors and with a burning desire to make America the testing ground for his theories on current and electrical power. Edison had the support of American-born conglomerates and an inability to tolerate healthy competition. It made for a buyers market with one-off elecrical contraptions or mass produced devices like generators and velocipedes appearing everywhere at the drop of a hat.

Brainerd Industries had carved itself a niche somewhere between the two, providing problem-free steam powered versions of everything Edison or Tesla came up with. That and the automata of course. The Steam-Man had just been a prototype, horrible as it was. The ones that came after were worse in Sarlowe's opinion.

Some of them almost looked human.

But the trains were nice. Brainerd knew how to design a train. The Steam-Titans were just the first, used only for specific passengers but soon enough Brainerd would have them available for all the railroad companies.

For all the world. A brave new world.

Sarlowe grimaced as a velocipede chugged by, electrical generator trailing a smell like burned hair after it. Too bad the new world smelled so damn bad though. He coughed into his hand as they started down the sidewalk.

"Who else has arrived for the summit?"

Sarlowe looked over at Moriarty. "Sir?"

"Who else has arrived? Pay attention young man." Moriarty said, eyes narrowed. Sarlowe looked away.

"Sir. I escorted Doctor Loveless to the conference hall a few hours ago. Professor Cavor as well..."

"Ah. Loveless. I expected the dwarf would be here. But Cavor-the Italian was in hiding last I'd heard."

"Not very well if he was sir. He arrived on the last Titan before yours, cricket uniform and all."

"Hrm. Auspicious gathering indeed." Moriarty smiled. Sarlowe felt a chill crawl up his spine and he turned swiftly. He'd felt eyes on him, that same sensation a man gets when there was a gun pointed at his back. Moriarty jerked around, watching him. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Something." Sarlowe's fingers brushed the butt of his gun. "I felt-"

"THE END IS NIGH!"

Sarlowe whirled, pistol flashing out. The madman squatted on the corner of the street a few meters away, bedraggled robes gathered above his skinny, scabby knees, knobby fingers gripping a sign. He leaned forward, hood covering most of his face and squalled, "THE END IS NIGH! THE OLD ONES COMETH!" Sarlowe holstered his gun with a disgusted sigh as he watched the human wreck continue to rant.

The Starry Wisdom sect had been formed in Massachusets in 1844 but forty years later it had chapters and adherents in every civilized country. Worse than either cockroaches or Masons, the Starry Wisdom planted lunatics on every street corner from Chicago to Paris, all babbling the same trash. All ranting about the return of the Great Old Ones or the Shining Trapezohedron or a mish-mash of the two. Members of the sect were even outside of the conference hall where the astronomy summit was being held.

"Detestable creatures." Moriarty said. As if for emphasis he struck the pavement with his cane.

Tap-tap-tap.

Pinkerton's cane rapped against the platform as a sleek black shape pulled down the line, quiet hisses of steam burping out from concealed exhaust ports. It was cigar shaped and slender compared to the bulk of the trains riding the rails. It lacked windows and the gaps between cars were covered by armored plates. Despite the armor it gave the impression of speed and grace. Pinkerton gestured at the serpentine train with a look of pride on his craggy features.

"Brainerd Rail Titan Mark Two. We call it Rail 51. Only one of its kind so far."

"I know the feeling." Brass said, gazing placidly at the train. Pinkerton glanced back at him and grunted. Brass stepped towards the edge of the platform, fingers opening and closing with an audible clicking sound. A golden 51 was emblazoned on the globular front end of the train. A hiss of pneumatic hinges signaled the opening of doors along the side of the train and Brass turned to find himself face to face with a score of men armed with rifles. Pinkerton stood behind them, leaning on his cane.

"Sir?" Brass said, voice even. He didn't feel betrayed, frightened, or even surprised. It was as if he were floating in warm water, his every emotion dulled and gellid. The instruments that served as his eyes whirred behind his lids and his vision focused on the fingers clasping each trigger, analyzing the tension in the finger muscles, waiting for them to tighten.

"Just a precaution my boy. Until we find out exactly what you are."

"I am Brass."

"Besides that my lad. We need to know what makes you tick. Whether the heart of Nicky Sarlowe does beat inside that tin chest or whether you're just some wind-up toy who's having an identity crisis." Pinkerton said calmly. The agents began to move towards Brass, surrounding him yet staying out of one anothers line of fire. Brass raised his hands in surrender and was walked aboard the train. It was well-lit but spartan, the walls lined with hardwood benches and gun-racks that carried a dozen different types of rifles, pistols and other more esoteric devices. Pinkerton gestured towards a door at the far end opposite the engineering car.

"Take our prodigal to the public car Jimmy my boy. Make him comfortable. I'm going to go let Professor Brainerd know we need some expert advice."

"Yessir." Rast opened the door and mock-bowed to Brass. "Right this way sir."

Brass walked unhurriedly into the next car, Jimmy right behind him, and his eyes clicked as they adjusted to the better lighting. The car was as different from the other as night was day. The interior was paneled in polished cherry wood and the floor covered in a tightly woven carpet that gave it the air of a museum rather than a train. This was only enhanced by the display cases lining the walls of the car Brass was brought to. Brass examined them as he stood in the center of the car. Each case contained one or more objects of a less than usual nature. Here a mannequin dressed in golden robes with a hood to match. One gloved hand was turned upwards, displaying a strange device built into palm and connected by wires to smaller devices on the tip of each finger. A plate on the glass declared, 'SHOCK-GLOVE OF THE MAGISTER OF THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE'.

Across from that display sat a case containing a clay statue in the shape of a medieval Chinese warrior. Or rather it looked like clay. Brass's eyes whirred and clicked and the image expanded, revealing the intricate metal joints that bespoke of something other than a mere statue. The plate read, 'TERRIBLE AUTOMATON OF THE DEVIL DOCTOR'.

"Like looking in a mirror ain't it? Rast said. Brass turned in sections-first his head, then his torso, then finally his legs, the sight making Rast shiver with disgust.

"Why would you say that Jimmy?"

"Don't call me Jimmy."

"Why not Jimmy?"

"Because only people I like get to call me Jimmy brass man...and you ain't neither." Rast snapped. He gestured at the Chinese automaton. "You're just a machine like that one. Just because you walk and talk like a man it don't make you-"

"Nick Sarlowe." The voice was harsh. The woman it belonged to was anything but. Rast turned as Pinkerton stepped into the car alongside a woman dressed in a man's suit. She was shorter than the old man with hair the color of coal and eyes to match set in a tawny face with a sharp curve of a nose and crooked smile. She glanced at Pinkerton. "Looks just like him. Except harder. Less...human."

"Ain't you the observant one." Rast sneered. Pinkerton rapped the wall with his cane.

"Hush boy. Professor Brainerd here has some observations to make. Go ahead my dear."

"Thank you sir." She slowly walked in a circle around Brass, who observed her with no apparent concern. "Do you recognize me?"

"No. I-yes." Brass blinked once. Twice. "Yes. Professor Eileen Brainerd. Daughter of John Brainerd and Crying Ghost Woman of the Hidden People. First woman granted tenure at Miskatonic University. Applied Technological Innovation and Ley Theory."

"A hollow recitation of accomplishment easily memorized by either a difference mechanism or a parrot." She ran light fingers across the sigils engraved on the curve of his cheek. "I asked you whether you remembered me."

"Yes." Metal fingers reached up, touching her hair briefly, gently, before falling back to his side. "Yes, I think I do."

"Yes I think you do too." Brainerd peered closely at his face, the side hinges where cheek met jaw. "Ingenious." With quick fingers she flipped hidden catches and slowly lifted away the top half of Brass's face, revealing the smooth expanse of a globe of glass beneath, supported on metal struts, its surface marred only by twin arrangments of circular glass mirrors situated where a man's eyes would have been. Wires trailed from the mirrors to the inside of the glass globe and the thick rum colored liquid concoction that filled it. Brainerd could smell the faint scent of caramel emenating from behind the glass as she rubbed it with her fingertips. It was wet and covered in sweat. Wiping off the condensation her eyes met those of the thing floating in the center of the globe.

She stepped back with a curse, her eyes closed. "God. Nicky I'm so sorry."

Brass reached up and flipped his face back down, the hidden catches fastening automatically. Then, once his mouth was in place, he replied.

"Why? You didn't do it."

"I know, but if I had realized..." She trailed off, chewing a knuckle. She turned to look at Pinkerton and Rast. "It's him. I'd know the curvature of those lobes anywhere." She smiled weakly. Pinkerton nodded, looking satisfied.

"I thought as much. The way he speaks, distorted or no, and the way he moves. Nick Sarlowe."

"Could of fooled me." Rast muttered. Brainerd glared at him.

"A lot of things do that don't they Rast? You're one concussion away from being a simpleton. And on a similar topic, how much of your memory do you possess Nick?" She looked back at Brass. "Do you recall anything about your time prior to-to this?"

"Not Nick. Brass." he said almost kindly. "In answer to your question, not much. Not nearly enough. I remember..."

"Yes?" Pinkerton stepped forward, eyes shining with eagerness. "Yes boy, do you remember who attacked your father's house?"

"No. I remember Moriarty."

"That was months ago." Rast snapped.

"Well, his long term memory is looking to be mostly intact. It's his short term that's worrying me." Brainerd said. She leaned forward, looking into Brass' eyes and tapped her front teeth with a well-gnawed fingernail. "That and his design. Doctor Sarlowe was a surgeon true, but this-" She pulled aside the edge of Brass' borrowed coat and looked at his molded torso. When she tapped it the interlocking plates that made it up twitched in a approximation of a reflex action. "This is beyond anything I've ever seen as far as automata design."

"Steam-Man of the Prairies." Pinkerton stated. Brainerd shook her head.

"No boiler. It's all clockwork. Levers and gears clicking against one another. How it hasn't stopped yet I can't say. Some sort of perpetual motion winder maybe?" She ran hands across Brass' stomach and down the front of his trousers. Brass cocked his head.

"Looking for something in particular?"

"Nothing I haven't seen befor-what the hell is that?" Brainerd pulled back the edge of his trousers. "They made you anatomically correct?"

"Apparently so." Brass looked down, head cocked.

"Hunh." Brainerd stepped back, shaking her head. "Hunh. We should take him to my father. He's the expert on artificial biology after all."

"Been a while and a bit since I've visited with John." Pinkerton rubbed his jaw. He turned to Rast.

"Jimmy, go tell the engineers to get us on track for Missouri and Steam-City 3."

// disclaimer

The characters, concepts and ideas presented within The Amazing Mister Brass are the intellectual property of Josh Reynolds and are © 2008. The Warhol Superstars artwork is the intellectual property of Mike Rasbury and is © 2007. Grapefruit: Pulp with a Twist, Grapefruit logos, and site design are all ™ and © Mike Rasbury 2005-2008. Any reproduction or use is strictly prohibited. All rights reserved.

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