writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

The last bed was occupied by a man who was bleeding through the makeshift bandages on his head. His face and hands were dirty, a combination of soot, engine grime, and gods-only knew what else. Xiang didn't care that the man himself was dirty; he cared about his head trauma, and whether his injury was still opening, prone to infection. Hands carefully washed, Xiang set aside his crutch, able to stand on his own for so long as it took to take the patient's vitals. He'd come in with no identification and in fact, no one had stuck around to explain who he was and how he'd gotten injured, according to the intake information hastily scribbled on his chart.

Frowning, Xiang got to work. It was only after he'd cleaned up the man's face and head that Xiang got a good look at him. His unknown patient was still unconscious, but Xiang couldn't deny that he was a very attractive stranger.

bb_shousetsu

The last thing Fox remembered was being only inches away from the engine room before stars exploded in front of his eyes. No, he remembered the pain too and the whiff of air before something crashed against his skull and he crumpled, wishing he'd actually worn the reinforced skull cap he'd stolen last week. He didn't have time to think about how he'd been so close he could almost feel the diamond monocle in his fingertips before blackness took over.

( That afternoon and the next week continued in much the same way. )

At lunch I confided in Jessamyn. “I thought maybe he’d actually, you know, teach me something not just make me his servant. I could get this same experience at home and I wouldn’t have to wake up so early. I mean look at you and at Gwen. You two are learning right away. That isn’t fair.”

Jessamyn clucked her tongue sympathetically and slid me a lemon cake. “Well, think about it this way. We’re both apprenticed to family. Family wants to share, pass down the trade. You though, he doesn’t know you well yet. Maybe he’s just jealously guarding his trade secrets.” She paused to rearrange the bonnet holding back her curly red hair, and then attacked a mixing bowl with a whisk.

I watched her for a moment and then said suddenly, “It would be a lot faster and easily to get things done if you could have a machine mix for you, wouldn’t it?”

Groaning, I got up, just so I could shut the rooster off and wash up. Breakfast was eggs and ham. I took my toast to go, not because I was eager to get going, but because I just couldn't sit at the table any longer, creating deeper and more ridiculous ideas of what working for Professor Lippett would be like. By the time I got to the mental image on a decrepit old man in goggles that made his eyes bug out, skin dotted in liver spots, and a voice like a rusty gear, I had to get out.

bb_shousetsu

I tried to dawdle on my way, pausing to talk to a few people, stopping to buy a cup of tea in a mug engineered to stay comfortably warm. It cost extra of course, but the cup was reusable. I took a longer route than necessary, riding my steam-powered bicycle at the slowest speeds I could possibly manage. People swore at me as I held them up, but no matter how hard I tried, I still arrived only a mere three minutes late.

Three minutes was apparently enough. I knocked on the door to the building that housed the professor's laboratory and heard an amplified sigh. "There's a perfectly serviceable and rather large doorbell just to your right and you choose to knock? Come in, I've left it open anyway."

I gritted my teeth and stepped inside. As far as first meetings went, this was not boding well.

bb_shousetsu

There was a mechanical rooster crowing. You heard that right. I woke up to the sound of a distinctly metallic "cockadoodledoo" that reminded me in no uncertain terms that I had to get up, get dressed, and get myself to my first day at my new job.

I'm Oliver Merrill. No, Oliver Merrill Jr. My father's the Oliver Merrill people actually know by name. I'm just his son. Last week he decided it was high time I got myself an appropriate apprenticeship, and learned how to do something outside the family business. Why? Because after years of arguments, he'd finally learned that I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. I needed to be my own man, not just his kid. He accepted it; he's kind of funny that way. We fight, but bottom line is, we're so similar he can usually see my viewpoint, and vice versa.

The problem was we didn't see eye-to-eye on just where I should be working. There was a science laboratory at the university that could have used a few more research assistants, and I figured one of them should be me. I had intentions of going down to the university, presenting myself with a letter of recommendation from my father and getting one of those positions. My father had other plans. He came home telling me I would be working with Doctor M. Fitzgerald Lippett.

"What, the loony recluse? Are you serious? This is a joke right?"

"It's no joke. You start next week, seven in the morning, no buts about it. You're lucky Oliver, so don't complain."

I found out a few days later, the university was cutting back on staff and they'd only taken on two assistants. My chance there had been gone before I'd even known. Good old Dad, looking out for me, in his backwards way, had gotten me what he thought was the next best thing. What I couldn't understand was why the doctor had agreed. Everyone knew he was the hermit inventor that toed the line between genius and madness. He didn't like people; he just liked his inventions. What was I supposed to do there?

( Phoebe Bricklesworth was going on an adventure. )