Orion immediately shot up, waking from a seemingly endless slumber, and his eyes connected with the slightly crooked calendar on the other side of his room. Five days were marked with bold red crosses. The next to be marked was May sixth. Two words boldly claimed most of the numbered box: “town square.”

“Good morning, Carmsborough!” his radio sounded off next to him, illuminated by a brilliant ray of sunlight peering through the cracks of the blinds on his musty fifth-floor window. “I’m your host, Cranky Crankshaft, here to bring you your seven o’clock sound waves. Today’s a busy Tuesday, both on the streets and at the station, because coming up shortly is a live performance of Giraffe’s new album, America…”

He slammed the off button on the radio, stirring up dust particles that danced in the sunbeams, which spiraled in any direction the invisible air currents would take them. Then, his attention drifted back to the calendar, and a grin took over his face.

“About time.”

Both of his feet landed on the floor, bending the unsupported old planks beneath them that were worn from decades of use and abuse. The entire building was structurally unstable, and probably one bad day away from crumbling under the pressure of too many floors and too many people. Still, it hadn’t given out yet, and it wouldn’t today, either.

He opened the squeaky door to his bedroom and walked into the living room-kitchen combination main area. His dad and sister were at the table, eating eggs that were no doubt picked up at the block market earlier that morning.

“Glad you actually made it up,” his dad said, reading the newspaper that was also from the morning’s market trip. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it to your dress rehearsal at eight.”

Orion worriedly looked at the grandfather clock across the room. The second hand had broken off years ago, but the swaying pendulum in its body still kept near-perfect time.

And that time was five past seven.

“Son of a gun,” he said, his eyes widening for a second time.

“Good going, Orion,” his sister said, smirking.

“Shut up, Sam,” he replied, turning and re-entering his room.

All the excitement and anticipation for the town square event would have to wait a couple of hours. He threw on his nicest clothes, a white button-up t-shirt and a pair of brown leather overalls, and packed the bag at the foot of his bed, which was also made of brown leather. In it went a flask of water, a granola bar, a pair of gloves that matched his bag and pants, and a pair of pilot goggles. He shut and locked the bag before hooking the keyring on one of his pants loops. They jingled together as he bounced out of his room, his bag hanging over a shoulder.

“Your hair’s an awful mess,” Sam said, cleaning her plate at the oxidized copper sink. She never missed a chance to harass her older brother, and their dad was powerless to stop it at this point.

“Thanks, Sam,” he mocked. “It’s not like I’ve just woken up or anything.” He stifled a yawn and went to the mirror in the living room. Annoying or not, she wasn’t lying. His brown hair went every which-way on his head, curling at the ends. It was a style, but certainly not his. He tried his best with a comb, but it pulled out as much hair as it straightened, so he dropped it and finished out the rest of his routine in front of the sink.

“I’m headed out,” he said, walking to the front door. “I’ll be back in time to head to the town square.”

“I’d love to join you,” his dad said, nose still in the newspaper, “but I’ve got some roadwork to do in the Higher District all afternoon.”

“What? But this thing’s gonna be epic,” Orion said, dejected. This wasn’t the first time his dad had to back out of their plans because of work. He couldn’t blame him too much, because they needed the money, but it seemed like they’d made no progress on his dad’s crushing debt.

“I would sure hope so,” his dad replied. “They sure are hyping this thing up, despite not telling us anything it can do.”

“I, for one, don’t care,” Sam remarked, walking to her own room. “What’s the point if they’re only going to make one?”

“Was Mom like this?” Orion asked, pointing at the closed door of his sister’s bedroom.

“Eh. Maybe it’s a prototype, and that’s why there’s only one of them.”

“Something like that.” With that, he was out the door, his mood falling with every step down the stairs. Each floor took him past other apartments. Some were loud and full of energy, some only had the hum of pipes running through them, but the rest were dead silent, their doorknobs long unturned. His pace was brisk as he went down the four flights to the ground floor, each step creaking to his tempo.

He bounded across the lobby and opened the door to the street. The sun bloomed in his eyes and soaked into the cobblestone roads. The spring air was dense but warm. A cloudship here and there dotted the sky, but not a single cloud interrupted the open blue world above him.

A few years ago, being a cloudship pilot was his dream. He would imagine himself up in the air, waving the brilliant Carmsborough flag a mile above the districts below. At one point, he’d even started taking classes for piloting, but that dream died when he flunked out and had to help full time with his dad’s payments.

There were a few things he remembered from class, however, like the fact that cloudships were originally designed to scoop up the clouds and return water to the city. It was an interesting way to combat the capital area’s growing water crisis, but it hardly helped in the long run. Inevitably, cloudships were converted into storage and transportation machines, and the government sold them all to companies and individuals. There were even rumors that some mob boss bought a large portion of them.

As cool of a story as it was, he doubted it. Nothing that interesting ever happened in Carmsborough.

“Good morning, Orion,” his neighbor greeted, as he briskly passed her sitting on the front steps of the apartment complex. She always had a chipper attitude, despite the financial situation she’d been in for years.

“Good morning, Miss Sona! I’m running late for rehearsal again!”

“I suppose you better hurry then, Orion. I’ll see you later in the square, right?”

“You bet!”

He darted off, his steel-toed boots connecting loudly on the rocky road with every bound of his legs. The streets were busy with bikers and foot-travelers socializing and making their morning commutes. Somewhere blocks down, a train blared its horn, no doubt passing through the Housing District to go to the Commerce District.

Even though everything was overwhelmingly normal, he felt every particle in the air. Today was gonna be a good day.

Thirty-five minutes later, tired and out of breath, Orion made it to his rehearsal building. He took a minute to collect himself before pulling on the door.

Which didn’t budge.

He tried again, both pushing and pulling at the wooden antique, but it was no use. Was he too late? Usually, the doors were always open, and he’d end up dramatically interrupting rehearsal when he was late.

He snaked around the building, trying to peer through the tinted windows to see what was happening. Every single room had its lights off.

There was no rehearsal today, apparently.

He’d rushed to get around, ran all the way over, and didn’t even have to be here.

At that point, he was questioning whether the day was actually going to be good, or if he just had his hopes up.

Now what? He had another four hours before the event in the town square and nothing to do in the meantime. His eyes wandered the street, hoping for an answer to jump out at him. They stopped on a diner, with people rotating in and out at a surprisingly quick rate. Must be a popular place. Strange that he’d never noticed.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

His stomach rumbled. It was still pretty much breakfast time. He might even have a chance to pick up a quick shift at work and still make it to the town square on time.

He walked into the diner and was immediately hit by the enchanting smells of a variety of well-cooked breakfast items, a stark contrast to the bland egg-only breakfast he’d had at home for at least a month.

“What can I get for you, honey?” a waitress asked, grabbing him a set of utensils rolled in a napkin, then beckoning him over to an empty bar stool.

“What do you have?”

“Coffee, water, you name it.”

“A coffee sounds nice, thank you.”

He adjusted himself on the stool and looked up at her. She stared back at him, as if waiting for something. “What’s wrong?”

“What kind of coffee, darling?”

“Oh, um, plain is fine.”

She kept staring, but seemed to accept that as an answer. He looked down at the menu, switching between the different breakfast items. It all looked incredible.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asked, setting down a plain white mug that housed his plain black coffee.

“No. My dad always gets us eggs at the morning market. We can’t really afford to go to diners like this.”

“How old are you, hon?”

“Seventeen.”

“And you’ve never been to a diner?”

“Nope. Well, not that I remember.”

“That is one sad life. I know times are tough these days, but you have to go out and live every once in a while, you know what I mean?”

“I’m going to the event in the town square later today. Does that count?” He took a sip of the bitter coffee and flinched at the flavor. She gave him a look of hopelessness and left him to decipher the menu while helping other patrons.

There were a lot of good-looking items, but the french toast was the winner by a mile.

The atmosphere in the diner was electric. People shuffled in and out, creating a cacophony of noise and a liberal blend of personalities. Old couples claimed the booths, while younger bodies lined the barstools. Almost everyone was smiling.

“What’s your name, dear?” the waitress asked, returning to the counter in front of him.

“Orion.”

“Like the Greek god Orion? With the bow and arrow?”

“Yeah, something like that. Except I use a bow and cello.”

“Clever. I’m Pamela. What’s on your mind for breakfast?”

“I think I’ll have some french toast, please. It looks heavenly.”

“I’ll let the chef know you said so. Coming up shortly.”

-◦=[ ]=◦-

Orion was right — the french toast was heavenly. He also couldn’t stop smiling at the waitress, who was now on her tenth story about her ex-husband. Maybe interesting things did happen in Carmsborough, only he never got to experience any of them. Someday, that would have to change.

“Anyway,” Pamela said, “that’s how I realized I was a lesbian. And, the poor sap has to pay me alimony. It’s a double win in my book.”

“I guess so,” he replied, and glanced over at a wooden diner wall with a heavy clock hanging on it. How had two hours passed already?

“Thanks for keeping me entertained, Pamela,” he said, getting his wallet out of his backpack. “I’ve gotta head to that event now, though. How much do I owe you for the breakfast?”

“Your company was plenty enough,” she said, wiping his part of the bar top with a wet cloth. “You can come back next week if you want, too. Go have fun now.”

“Are you sure? I’d hate to not pay. Won’t you get in trouble with your boss?”

“I am my boss, Orion. I own this diner. If I needed your money, I wouldn’t have offered to serve you. I could tell you couldn’t pay by the way you gawked when you walked in.”

“You could tell that?”

“I can tell you a lot more about yourself than I’ll bet you even know, kid. You’ve got somethin’ in your eyes.”

He felt a little sheepish, but smiled. “I’ll do what I can to come back next week. See you, Pamela.”

With his unusual breakfast behind him, he left the diner and started his walk to the town square. Maybe today was going to be a good day.

-◦=[ ]=◦-

Even though there were forty-five minutes until the event began, the town square was packed. It was difficult to move around, much less see the presentation platform from Orion’s spot, but he was still primed and ready for the newest innovation of the century.

There were few craftsmen like the Gearmaster. Similar to the rest of the western world after the first World War, Carmsborough also went to automation and lines of workers slaving in factories. The Gearmaster, however, kept things the old-fashioned way. He was a one-of-a-kind tradesman and a master of his craft, as his name suggested.

Day in and night out for years, the inventor would toil away in his workshop, producing unique and interesting machines that were alive and dynamic. One month he would produce a dove, and the next a cat would bound out of his doors.

And the strangest part was nobody knew how he did it.

His creations were affectionately titled “steambots” because of their brassy, visible inner workings. After a while, though, they all disappeared off the streets of Carmsborough. Most people assumed they’d been stolen or wandered off, and he never spoke about them again.

For years, he hadn’t spoken to the press or even appeared in public. The world thought he’d died. So, when news came out that he was revealing his most passionate, mind-bending steambot yet, Orion got excited. The first steambot he’d have the chance to see.

And now, within the hour, that steambot would be revealed to the world.

His anticipation continued to build as the minutes whisked away on the large clock tower in front of him. It dwarfed the town square, the tick of its large hands providing a constant reminder of Orion’s giddiness.

Finally, with a couple of minutes before the presentation was set to begin, and the square somehow more packed in than before, the Gearmaster walked onstage. A large forklift followed suit, carrying something covered by a tarp. It was about three meters tall, and apparently very heavy.

The crowd hushed, soaking in every movement the Gearmaster made. He talked with the driver of the forklift for a moment, who then set the covered object on stage.

There’s no way that whole thing is the steambot, Orion thought, shocked by the size of the tarped object. Although, it would explain why the Gearmaster was on a hiatus for years.

“Welcome, Carmsborough,” he said, talking into a mic centered on stage. He almost didn’t need to say anything. All eyes were already on him.

“I’m glad to see that my creations can still bring a crowd,” he continued, gesturing widely with his arms. There was a bit of a shakiness to his arms and voice that must have come with his age. “What I’m about to show you is the culmination of years of hard work and ideas. It’s taken many of the world’s greatest minds to get to where we are today, but it was certainly time well spent.”

In one sweeping motion, he removed the extra-large tarp, revealing his creation underneath. It really was one ten-foot steambot. The machine was humanoid, with a large chest and equally large abdomen, two arms, two legs, and a head with a grated mouth. It was apparently powered off, because unlike his other bots, the eyes weren’t glowing.

The crowd was awestruck by the massive machination. A wave of clapping rippled through the plaza, prompting the Gearmaster to take a deep bow.

“This is what I like to call ‘The Clockwork.’ It’s heavy, it’s huge, and it’s here to protect you. Like my other creations, this machine picks out one person in all of Carmsborough that it feels would benefit the most from its protection, and sticks with them until the very end. It’s a personal golem shield, essentially. How about we turn the Clockwork on and see who it chooses?”

Cheering, clapping, and chants of “Turn it on!” bounced around the town square and echoed throughout most of Upper Carmsborough. The famed Gearmaster had once again outdone himself.

This is incredible, Orion thought. Today really was good.

“A beautiful presentation,” a voice said from behind the crowd, louder than the Gearmaster’s own mic. People slowly turned to see a man holding a megaphone. A path was cleared in front of him by ten armed guards. “I’m so glad you finally created the Clockwork.”