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Title: Automated Utopia
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Warning: No warnings for this chapter.
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.
(Banner by me. Click for larger)
Before we begin tonight's chapter, gentle readers, here for your enjoyment is a drawing from the journal of Miss Winifred Burkle, depicting the layout of the townhouse at 117 Fairfax Street. She asks that you forgive her handwriting. Click the image for a larger version.
Automated Utopia :: Chapter Two.
The house at 117 Fairfax Street was of a stately five stories, if one included the basement. Its front walk was always immaculately tended, its windows always spotlessly clean. Though it was no secret that its chimney smoked more ardently than others in the area and that inspectors from Scotland Yard were often seen coming in and out, the neighbours were not prone to idle gossip, at least not outside their own parlors. Very few would have guessed in their speculation that the townhouse was occupied by a group of paranormal detectives.
Angel Investigations had the misfortune to previously reside in the Hyperion, a dilapidated boarding house a stone's throw from Dorset Street. It was not exactly the most respectable place for conducting one's business. It was only after some not-too-friendly, and highly accidental, insinuation into the investigations of Scotland Yard into some suspiciously supernatural events that they were enlisted by the proper authorities to be an unofficial branch of the metropolitan police. With such a commission, they were given a comfortable allowance as well as the townhouse on Fairfax Street just off of Regent in exchange for taking all of the cases of demonic possession, rampaging trolls, vampire attacks, or anything of a mystical/mythical/magical/just plain maniacal nature that would not fit neatly on the record. As with all things, the members of Angel Investigations learned to take both good and bad; while they lived in an exquisite house with many fine furnishings, they had to be at the disposal of Scotland Yard at all times- and netherworldly creatures did not exactly keep working hours nor did they tend to locate themselves in the cleanliest of establishments.
Though being the proprietor of a detective agency had only occurred by happenstance, Angel took his role quite seriously, though a little cross at police supersedence over his caseload. His mission was simple enough- to help those who could not help themselves against unearthly forces. One might find that to be an odd preoccupation for a vampire like Angelus who had previously terrorized most of Europe and parts of Asia. However, the days of marauding and mass-murder were long since over for Angel, as he came to call himself, after his soul had been returned to him as part of a gypsy curse. It had taken over a century, but Angel had discovered the path to the redemption for all his misdeeds. Though he had not found the solace he craved, he had earned the trust and friendship of a few humans and demons who gave him the strength to traverse onward. Even when fate chose to take some of those companions away, he expiscated the spirit for his mission, gathering those he had left closer.
Mr. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had joined the agency in its earliest days. He had experienced minor misfortunes in his previous employment as a member of the Watcher's Council of England, an organization specializing in the training and monitoring of Slayers, young ladies to whom great physical strength was predestined in the battle against forces of evil. His family had always provided great service to the Council and so it was no small disappointment when he was relieved of his duties. Undaunted, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce sought out ways to continue assisting the greater good and soon found his path crossed with that of Angel's. In areas of demonlogy and the occult, his services were irreplaceable.
Much as Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's involvement in Angel Investigations was by chance, the inclusion of Mr. Charles Gunn, Miss Winifred Burkle, and Mr. Lorne was much in the same. Mr. Gunn had parted ways with a gang of demon hunters operating in the back-alleys of London to fight alongside Angel, an arrangement that caused him to overcome his prejudices against demons in general. He proved to be a more-than-capable strategist and a loyal and courageous fighter. Miss Burkle, known affectionately as Fred, had journeyed from the Americas to further her education at the University of London, becoming one of the first women in the United Kingdom to receive a Bachelor of Science degree. She was to continue her studies in physics, but the diabolical schemings of a jealous professor at the University sent her through a trans-dimensional portal to Pylea, a fuedal world without the benefit of technology, where she was enslaved for five years before being rescued by Angel and his team members. A brilliant inventor, she created weaponry for Angel Investigations as well as Scotland Yard varying in strength from incapacitation to lethal force for dealing with supernatural entities. It was perhaps fortuitous for Mr. Lorne that Miss Burkle suffered such topological immodesties. For at the moment she was sent to Pylea, he was sent through to our earthly dimension. He quickly found a love for music, the very notion of which was completely alien in his homeland. He opened a burlesque club which he named Caritas, a safe place for humans and demons to enjoy friendly entertainment. Lorne's empathic and precognistic powers proved to be an invaluable resource for the intrepid detectives, and he was offered a place to live at Fairfax Street.
Lastly, there was Spike, formerly William Pratt. Although he started in life as a kind-hearted young gentleman, he learned to be every bit as ruthless a vampire as his grand-sire Angelus. Yet, even without a soul, Spike retained the ability to feel great love and caring. Through a series of grand misadventures that could fill the pages of several novels, Spike found himself in love with Miss Buffy Summers, a Slayer in the town of Sunnydale near Lincolnshire. To earn her love in return, he sought out his soul, but this act, though noble, did not achieve the esteem for which he longed. In a strange turn of events, Spike was given an amulet which had been delivered to Miss Summers by Angel. Though none of the parties knew its purpose, only that it was to be worn by a champion in the approaching battle to stop an ancient evil, Miss Summers offered it to Spike. Wearing it would ultimately decide Spike's fate, allowing him to end the battle and close the Hellmouth located beneath the town but at the cost of his own life. Mysteriously, the amulet, thought to be lost in the ruins of Sunnydale, was returned to Angel who, upon opening the package containing it, released Spike's spirit from the gem's core. His first months after being brought back from the dead for the second time in his life were spent as a ghost, nearly ineffectual to the world around him, but soon enough he was returned to a corporeal form and able to assist fully in Angel Investigations though he much preferred preying upon Angel's nerves.
Ascending from the basement to the ground floor to the first floor of the house took exactly forty-nine steps if one did not count the steps to traverse between the two staircases. Fred had taken to counting them as she spent what felt like several hours of her day back and forth between basement and parlor, usually with a heavy load of new parts to inventory, no simple task when wearing a corset and bustle. She could feel a sort of camaraderie with Lorne whose high-arched boots no doubt caused him some pain, but she was definitely envious of Spike who took the stairs without any effort at all. Though she would have liked for her room to be moved to the ground floor for convenience's sake, she knew that it would be met with opposition since Spike's room was located there. She smiled to herself thinking that Spike himself might oppose her encroaching on his privacy even moreso than the objections Angel, Wesley, and Gunn would make in their attempts to protect her whether she asked for it or not. Erring to keep the peace between all of her boys, she kept her wishes to herself and endured.
The heavy mahogany doors to the parlor were open when they reached it. The townhouse itself stayed very dark; the only time the damask draperies could be drawn was after sunset as to ensure the safety of the house's vampiric residents, but there really was not much need for it at dusk. On this night, however, the parlor was even more dreary than was usual, and there was a chill draft though the fire was stoked. After being in the smoggy basement, it took Fred a few minutes to notice that it was dark plumes of smoke wafting through the air that were eclipsing the interior of the room. Angel was holding up one of the sashes of the bay window, fanning the vapors outside. Wesley was stooped, coughing tremendously, one sleeve of his jacket singed while Gunn was scraping something charred and smoldering off the bottom of his shoe on the fire grate. A soggy and wet lump of the same material adhered to Gunn's shoe was smudged into the paneled floor, obviously having been stomped on.
Wesley looked up and, upon seeing Fred, tried to straighten himself up, taking great gulps of air, "We seem to have had a slight problem with the Caselli..." He had to pause, covering his mouth with his fist as another coughing fit took hold, but he gestured with his other hand to the pantelegraphe machine which at closer observation seemed to be the source of most of the smoke in the room.
"Bloody hell, this is the fourth time in two weeks. Sending a telegram would be less likely to burn us all alive," Spike groused, throwing himself into a sprawled pose on the sofa.
Fred kept her mouth and nose covered as she inspected the Caselli for any permanent damage. The tin transmission plate was still smoking, and the lathe-needle had practically melted. "We'll have to inform the Chief Inspector that we'll need some replacement parts from the Met." She turned to stir the smudged pile of ashes on the floor with the toe of her boot and announced with a decided nod, "I think the next batch of pantelegraphe paper will need several parts less potassium ferror-cyanide."
"You'd think with all the progress of the last century that they could just market and sell pantelegraphe paper with the correct amount of PFC in it already," Angel grumbled, dusting some soot off his jacket.
Gunn replied light-heartedly, "You should patent it, and then maybe you could afford raise our wages... and hire a cleaning service." A cleaning service may have been desired, but everyone present was aware that of the all the housekeepers they had previously employed, two weeks was the longest anyone stayed. They were usually out the door and down the street raving about the green-skinned monster living on the ground floor or blood stored in the icebox after three days.
"Not that it isn't perfectly fabulous to be standing here, but if I wanted to be in a dingy room filled with smoke and sarcasm, there's a quaint little opium den just off Golden Circle..." Lorne interjected.
"Yes, well, before it decided to spontaneously combust, we had just received a message from Chief Inspector Appleyard," Wesley wheezed, finally seeming to catch his breath.
"The message didn't combust spontaneously; that would imply that there was no agent to catalyze the reaction and the potassium..." Fred began, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Nevertheless," Angel interceded, "our services are need at the British Museum."
"It's not more mummies, is it? Or those blasted Persepolis lions coming to life?" Spike frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "Last time, one of those Assyrian relics nearly took off my head."
Angel snorted, "Like it could have bitten through your thick skull." Spike started to retort, but Angel put up his hands in a placating gesture. "If I could continue? It seems someone- or rather something attacked the curator Mr. Franks while he and his colleagues were transporting several cases of artifacts to the newly-built library wing. Whatever creature attacked them killed three members of the staff and stole some articles."
"And let me take pause to postulate here- the objects that they stole have mystical significance? How original," Spike looked positively bored at the prospect.
Wesley finished helping Fred sweep the remains of the message into the already overflowing waste bin. He straightened his jacket once more, brow furrowing as he noted just how burned the sleeve was, "Original or not, Appleyard expects all of us to investigate."
Spike made a petulant noise. It was not that he minded doing actual detective work instead of being used as brute force, but if everyone was required to investigate as the Yard had requested, it would mean that all six of them would have to squeeze into the carriage. It was going to be a very long night.
Previous Chapters :: One.
x-posted @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
nekid_spike and darker_spike.
Author:
fenderloveRating: This chapter is rated PG though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Warning: No warnings for this chapter.
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.
(Banner by me. Click for larger)
Before we begin tonight's chapter, gentle readers, here for your enjoyment is a drawing from the journal of Miss Winifred Burkle, depicting the layout of the townhouse at 117 Fairfax Street. She asks that you forgive her handwriting. Click the image for a larger version.
Automated Utopia :: Chapter Two.
The house at 117 Fairfax Street was of a stately five stories, if one included the basement. Its front walk was always immaculately tended, its windows always spotlessly clean. Though it was no secret that its chimney smoked more ardently than others in the area and that inspectors from Scotland Yard were often seen coming in and out, the neighbours were not prone to idle gossip, at least not outside their own parlors. Very few would have guessed in their speculation that the townhouse was occupied by a group of paranormal detectives.
Angel Investigations had the misfortune to previously reside in the Hyperion, a dilapidated boarding house a stone's throw from Dorset Street. It was not exactly the most respectable place for conducting one's business. It was only after some not-too-friendly, and highly accidental, insinuation into the investigations of Scotland Yard into some suspiciously supernatural events that they were enlisted by the proper authorities to be an unofficial branch of the metropolitan police. With such a commission, they were given a comfortable allowance as well as the townhouse on Fairfax Street just off of Regent in exchange for taking all of the cases of demonic possession, rampaging trolls, vampire attacks, or anything of a mystical/mythical/magical/just plain maniacal nature that would not fit neatly on the record. As with all things, the members of Angel Investigations learned to take both good and bad; while they lived in an exquisite house with many fine furnishings, they had to be at the disposal of Scotland Yard at all times- and netherworldly creatures did not exactly keep working hours nor did they tend to locate themselves in the cleanliest of establishments.
Though being the proprietor of a detective agency had only occurred by happenstance, Angel took his role quite seriously, though a little cross at police supersedence over his caseload. His mission was simple enough- to help those who could not help themselves against unearthly forces. One might find that to be an odd preoccupation for a vampire like Angelus who had previously terrorized most of Europe and parts of Asia. However, the days of marauding and mass-murder were long since over for Angel, as he came to call himself, after his soul had been returned to him as part of a gypsy curse. It had taken over a century, but Angel had discovered the path to the redemption for all his misdeeds. Though he had not found the solace he craved, he had earned the trust and friendship of a few humans and demons who gave him the strength to traverse onward. Even when fate chose to take some of those companions away, he expiscated the spirit for his mission, gathering those he had left closer.
Mr. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had joined the agency in its earliest days. He had experienced minor misfortunes in his previous employment as a member of the Watcher's Council of England, an organization specializing in the training and monitoring of Slayers, young ladies to whom great physical strength was predestined in the battle against forces of evil. His family had always provided great service to the Council and so it was no small disappointment when he was relieved of his duties. Undaunted, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce sought out ways to continue assisting the greater good and soon found his path crossed with that of Angel's. In areas of demonlogy and the occult, his services were irreplaceable.
Much as Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's involvement in Angel Investigations was by chance, the inclusion of Mr. Charles Gunn, Miss Winifred Burkle, and Mr. Lorne was much in the same. Mr. Gunn had parted ways with a gang of demon hunters operating in the back-alleys of London to fight alongside Angel, an arrangement that caused him to overcome his prejudices against demons in general. He proved to be a more-than-capable strategist and a loyal and courageous fighter. Miss Burkle, known affectionately as Fred, had journeyed from the Americas to further her education at the University of London, becoming one of the first women in the United Kingdom to receive a Bachelor of Science degree. She was to continue her studies in physics, but the diabolical schemings of a jealous professor at the University sent her through a trans-dimensional portal to Pylea, a fuedal world without the benefit of technology, where she was enslaved for five years before being rescued by Angel and his team members. A brilliant inventor, she created weaponry for Angel Investigations as well as Scotland Yard varying in strength from incapacitation to lethal force for dealing with supernatural entities. It was perhaps fortuitous for Mr. Lorne that Miss Burkle suffered such topological immodesties. For at the moment she was sent to Pylea, he was sent through to our earthly dimension. He quickly found a love for music, the very notion of which was completely alien in his homeland. He opened a burlesque club which he named Caritas, a safe place for humans and demons to enjoy friendly entertainment. Lorne's empathic and precognistic powers proved to be an invaluable resource for the intrepid detectives, and he was offered a place to live at Fairfax Street.
Lastly, there was Spike, formerly William Pratt. Although he started in life as a kind-hearted young gentleman, he learned to be every bit as ruthless a vampire as his grand-sire Angelus. Yet, even without a soul, Spike retained the ability to feel great love and caring. Through a series of grand misadventures that could fill the pages of several novels, Spike found himself in love with Miss Buffy Summers, a Slayer in the town of Sunnydale near Lincolnshire. To earn her love in return, he sought out his soul, but this act, though noble, did not achieve the esteem for which he longed. In a strange turn of events, Spike was given an amulet which had been delivered to Miss Summers by Angel. Though none of the parties knew its purpose, only that it was to be worn by a champion in the approaching battle to stop an ancient evil, Miss Summers offered it to Spike. Wearing it would ultimately decide Spike's fate, allowing him to end the battle and close the Hellmouth located beneath the town but at the cost of his own life. Mysteriously, the amulet, thought to be lost in the ruins of Sunnydale, was returned to Angel who, upon opening the package containing it, released Spike's spirit from the gem's core. His first months after being brought back from the dead for the second time in his life were spent as a ghost, nearly ineffectual to the world around him, but soon enough he was returned to a corporeal form and able to assist fully in Angel Investigations though he much preferred preying upon Angel's nerves.
Ascending from the basement to the ground floor to the first floor of the house took exactly forty-nine steps if one did not count the steps to traverse between the two staircases. Fred had taken to counting them as she spent what felt like several hours of her day back and forth between basement and parlor, usually with a heavy load of new parts to inventory, no simple task when wearing a corset and bustle. She could feel a sort of camaraderie with Lorne whose high-arched boots no doubt caused him some pain, but she was definitely envious of Spike who took the stairs without any effort at all. Though she would have liked for her room to be moved to the ground floor for convenience's sake, she knew that it would be met with opposition since Spike's room was located there. She smiled to herself thinking that Spike himself might oppose her encroaching on his privacy even moreso than the objections Angel, Wesley, and Gunn would make in their attempts to protect her whether she asked for it or not. Erring to keep the peace between all of her boys, she kept her wishes to herself and endured.
The heavy mahogany doors to the parlor were open when they reached it. The townhouse itself stayed very dark; the only time the damask draperies could be drawn was after sunset as to ensure the safety of the house's vampiric residents, but there really was not much need for it at dusk. On this night, however, the parlor was even more dreary than was usual, and there was a chill draft though the fire was stoked. After being in the smoggy basement, it took Fred a few minutes to notice that it was dark plumes of smoke wafting through the air that were eclipsing the interior of the room. Angel was holding up one of the sashes of the bay window, fanning the vapors outside. Wesley was stooped, coughing tremendously, one sleeve of his jacket singed while Gunn was scraping something charred and smoldering off the bottom of his shoe on the fire grate. A soggy and wet lump of the same material adhered to Gunn's shoe was smudged into the paneled floor, obviously having been stomped on.
Wesley looked up and, upon seeing Fred, tried to straighten himself up, taking great gulps of air, "We seem to have had a slight problem with the Caselli..." He had to pause, covering his mouth with his fist as another coughing fit took hold, but he gestured with his other hand to the pantelegraphe machine which at closer observation seemed to be the source of most of the smoke in the room.
"Bloody hell, this is the fourth time in two weeks. Sending a telegram would be less likely to burn us all alive," Spike groused, throwing himself into a sprawled pose on the sofa.
Fred kept her mouth and nose covered as she inspected the Caselli for any permanent damage. The tin transmission plate was still smoking, and the lathe-needle had practically melted. "We'll have to inform the Chief Inspector that we'll need some replacement parts from the Met." She turned to stir the smudged pile of ashes on the floor with the toe of her boot and announced with a decided nod, "I think the next batch of pantelegraphe paper will need several parts less potassium ferror-cyanide."
"You'd think with all the progress of the last century that they could just market and sell pantelegraphe paper with the correct amount of PFC in it already," Angel grumbled, dusting some soot off his jacket.
Gunn replied light-heartedly, "You should patent it, and then maybe you could afford raise our wages... and hire a cleaning service." A cleaning service may have been desired, but everyone present was aware that of the all the housekeepers they had previously employed, two weeks was the longest anyone stayed. They were usually out the door and down the street raving about the green-skinned monster living on the ground floor or blood stored in the icebox after three days.
"Not that it isn't perfectly fabulous to be standing here, but if I wanted to be in a dingy room filled with smoke and sarcasm, there's a quaint little opium den just off Golden Circle..." Lorne interjected.
"Yes, well, before it decided to spontaneously combust, we had just received a message from Chief Inspector Appleyard," Wesley wheezed, finally seeming to catch his breath.
"The message didn't combust spontaneously; that would imply that there was no agent to catalyze the reaction and the potassium..." Fred began, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Nevertheless," Angel interceded, "our services are need at the British Museum."
"It's not more mummies, is it? Or those blasted Persepolis lions coming to life?" Spike frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "Last time, one of those Assyrian relics nearly took off my head."
Angel snorted, "Like it could have bitten through your thick skull." Spike started to retort, but Angel put up his hands in a placating gesture. "If I could continue? It seems someone- or rather something attacked the curator Mr. Franks while he and his colleagues were transporting several cases of artifacts to the newly-built library wing. Whatever creature attacked them killed three members of the staff and stole some articles."
"And let me take pause to postulate here- the objects that they stole have mystical significance? How original," Spike looked positively bored at the prospect.
Wesley finished helping Fred sweep the remains of the message into the already overflowing waste bin. He straightened his jacket once more, brow furrowing as he noted just how burned the sleeve was, "Original or not, Appleyard expects all of us to investigate."
Spike made a petulant noise. It was not that he minded doing actual detective work instead of being used as brute force, but if everyone was required to investigate as the Yard had requested, it would mean that all six of them would have to squeeze into the carriage. It was going to be a very long night.
Previous Chapters :: One.
x-posted @
nekid_spike and darker_spike.
Tags: