I am a clockwork soul.
I am not a big clanging machine, some rusty contraption that screams under pressure. That is not me.
There are those souls that favor the loud noises, screaming speakers and driving thumping bands. These are the engineers of our steampunk universe;
down in the bowls of the airship, feeding the fires of the boilers, the steamfitters and welders. Oh how I love them, they live life with such energy and passion it is a wonder to see.
Where would be without them?
But alas, this is not me.
My body is made of brass plates, dulled from years of wear and abuse. My outer armor protects me from the harsh environment.
My mind and my soul are clockwork, made of small dynamic parts spinning and whirring, whirring and clicking. A million complex parts carefully made by some long ago aged clock smith in a hidden lab, for hidden purposes and the experiment long forgotten.
Some couple of years ago, a curious soul found me sitting there, dusty and tarnished. The key hanging on the wall, she places it and winds me up not knowing what I’m for.
Thus under her ministrations I am awakened and arise in this new dystopia.
I am clumsy, I’m unsure but I am here.
I will venture forth in this new world, knowing only I am new on the seen and finding my own way.