Grinding Gears, Chapter 1: Returning Home

Rain. Isaac hated rain, even on the best of days. Today in particular, however, he found that he had a personal vendetta against it. Not only had it tried to kill him this morning by wetting a perfectly good patch of pavement, but now it was hindering his progress. He frowned out of the window, watching the rain race down to the bottom. No, this wouldn't do at all. "Record-breaking", the radio had said. A scowl crossed his face. They'd be talking about more than just rain breaking records by the time he was through, for sure. For once, his name would be in the papers as a success, not a failure, and he'd get the adoring fans he deserved. This time, it would happen. His life's work would be a worldwide phenomenon and he'd be a millionaire. He was certain of it, and he had to be right. At least, that's what he told himself. He let out a heavy sigh, letting his forehead rest against the window. The glass was cold and soothing to his fevered skin. An unwelcome side effect of falling in that stupid puddle, of course. No, not falling in, being knocked in. Isaac Cratchit never fell. It had to be the fault of that haughty woman who'd been walking beside him. She'd given him a strange look a few minutes before, after he'd finished a test of his latest invention— a hands-free umbrella that you could wear on your head. Just another product of his utter genius. Someday someone else would see it too.

He let out a long, slow breath and pulled away from the window, making his way across the sitting room. The furniture was expensive and high quality, and a fairly good portion of it had gathered a huge amount of dust. The only thing that looked sat in was a rather worn brown lounge chair. He flopped into it with a small smile. He loved this house. There was more than enough room for his laboratory, and the bed was much more comfortable than the cot he'd been reduced to sleeping on just a few weeks previously. He folded his arms behind his head with a smug smile. Inheritance was a beautiful thing; he wished he'd thought of it. Poor unknown half brother. The accident had certainly been tragic, but at least it had worked out in in his favor. He grinned. An entire house all to himself, and he hadn't had to pay a dime for it. It was a dream come true. He was even more reassured that the universe existed to make him happy in that moment. He preened smugly, running his fingers through his hair. Things were going to change now, he just knew it. His eyes fluttered shut and a dreamy smile crossed his face as an image shot through his head.

He was standing on a podium, dressed in his Sunday best. A huge crowd stood before him, all o them in silent awe of the young prodigy standing above them— exactly where he should be. Someone so spectacular and so obviously superior could belong nowhere else. The women seemed especially admiring. A pair of mechanical wings adorned his back, shining bronze in the sunlight. Each intricate detail was highlighted, showing off his fantastic, expert craftsmanship. Every pair of eyes was cast upon him and his absolute genius was shining for all to see. When he spoke, it was the voice of a leader— no, a king.

"Ah, excuse me?" a polite voice snapped him from his pleasant reverie. He frowned, opening his eyes. A gray-haired man in a stiff Naval uniform was standing in front of him, hands clasped behind his back. He had high cheekbones, and a small pair of glasses with round lenses sat on his nose. He didn't look all that pleased. "Who are you?"

Isaac frowned at him. Had the bell rang? "Have you brought a housewarming gift?"

The man blinked, looking confused. "… Excuse me?"

He rolled his eyes. Oh, good. Not only had this trespasser woken him up, but he was deaf as well. "I said, have you brought a housewarming gift?"

"… Why would I bring you a housewarming gift? With all due respect, sir, this is my house."

Oh. Not deaf, delusional. "No it isn't. I inherited this house, you see. A dear relative of mine passed away and now it's mine. That's how inheritance works."

"Yes, I know how it works," the man said mildly, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Isaac rolled his eyes. "No, you leave. This is my house. I'll have to fetch the authorities if you don't."

"This is my house, sir."

He rolled his eyes again, sighing. The poor man must have started drinking early today. "No it isn't! I got this house from my dead half brother fair and square!"

"… Dead half— oh. Oh dear. Are you Isaac Cratchit?"

Isaac sat up quite suddenly, and the other man flinched. "The one and only! Why? Have you heard of me?" Hope bled into his voice. He'd been trying desperately to improve his public image for weeks now.

"I'm your half brother, Mr. Cratchit. My name is Vince Bundy."

Isaac laughed. Well, at least this drunkard had a sense of humor. "No, Vince Bundy is dead. The police officer told me so."

"Well, I'm afraid he was mistaken. I was… held up during my deployment, that's all. Now please get out of my house."

"I already told you, this isn't your house. I signed the paperwork last month!"

He frowned. "There must be some kind of mistake. I'm still alive."

Isaac snorted. "Whatever you say, ponytail. Get out."

The man looked rather startled. He nodded tersely, and Isaac could see a vein throbbing in his neck. He turned and walked off. Isaac wouldn't have been surprised if his suit started creaking as he left. It looked like it had been starched until the thing could probably get up and walk off on its own if it had the means to do so. He gave an amused sort of smile as he left. Silly drunkards. He'd have to start remembering to lock his door. He laid back and closed his eyes, snuggling down into his chair. Back to his nap.

**********

Vince didn't understand it. He'd been presumed dead, yes, but it wasn't like he'd been gone for months… right? He bit his lip, watching the people bustling down the street. The sun glimmered against the cobblestone, and he winced against the light. It was strange, not having the ocean swaying beneath his feet. The buildings towering over him gave him a previously unknown tight feeling in his skull. They were so tall and so close together. He drew a shaky breath and closed his eyes. This was a whole other world from the one he'd gotten used to. He couldn't even see the ocean from here.

"You need to pull yourself together, Bundy," the voice of a memory sneered through his mind, "can't talk if you're panicking, now can you?"

His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep, gasping breath to combat the lightheadedness that had suddenly overtaken him. He tugged on his ponytail lightly to try to bring himself back down to earth. Now wasn't the time for memories. He needed to take care of the situation with Mr. Cratchit. He'd heard that Mother had remarried and had another child, but he hadn't been expecting that. He clasped his hands behind his back, making his way towards the police station. He needed to work this out. As much as he loved this little half brother that he'd never met, he didn't particularly want him living in his house, especially if it meant that he wouldn't be able to live there anymore. He rubbed his temples. When had his life become so chaotic? At this point all he wanted was to sit down with a nice cup of tea and a book.


He pushed open the door to the police station. It was fairly good-sized, and quite a few people were already in line to speak with the officers. Vince glanced at them. There was one perk to his uniform, he supposed. He strode past the row of people and to the door that led to the back, where civilians weren't allowed. His lips twitched faintly, threatening a bitter smile, but he didn't go through with it. This was because a young man in a brand new police uniform approached him, bronze badge glinting brightly— it was clear that he'd spent several hours shining and buffing it to perfection.

"Hey! You can't be here. This is a restricted area."

Vince watched him blankly. "Sorry, but I'm afraid that I can."

He frowned. "No, you can't. Where's your b— … oh. I am so sorry, sir!" his eyes had finally landed on the trio of badges pinned to his jacket.

A flicker of amusement shone in his eyes. "It's no bother. Now, may I speak with your Sheriff please?"

He looked rather uncertain at that. "Well, ah… I can't just allow you into his office without a—"

"Let me see your deputy, then," he said firmly. He didn't have the patience for this.

He shifted uncomfortably. "… Alright. Come with me, then." He turned and started walking. Vince followed, satisfied.

They came to a door with a smoked out window at about head level. It read "Deputy Allan Hane". He raised a hand and knocked lightly. "Ah… sir? There's a Navyman here to see you."

There was a pause. "Tell him to come back later."

The man turned to relay the message, but Vince shook his head. "I heard, and I'm afraid that's not an option." He reached over and opened the door.

"Wait, you can't—!" the officer cried, trying to stop him, but he fell silent when he saw what was in the room. Vince looked around as he stepped inside.

The office before him was simple, but obviously purposely so. There was a map of London on the back wall, with pins of various colors stuck in it to highlight problem areas in the city. The man sitting behind the desk at the center of the room was surprisingly scrawny for a police officer, with mouse brown hair and beady blue eyes. He was pale and would be the kind of person that most would consider easy prey— if it weren't for the utterly massive amount of scars that adorned every inch of his exposed skin. It made it clear that he'd been through hell, and he wasn't afraid to go back if it meant dragging you, kicking and screaming, back with him. Vince's torso gave an unpleasant tingle at the sight of them. Seated on his desk was an attractive young lady. Her hair was black and piled on top of her head, and her eyes were a vivid shade of green. Judging by how red her face was on how flustered the deputy looked, they'd obviously been about to engage in something that definitely wasn't suited for work.

Vince raised a brow, despite himself. "I'm not sure that consorting with ladies is the best thing to do in the interests of keeping your current employer, Mr. Hane." He bowed deeply to the lady in question. "Ma'am." Her blush got even brighter as she scrambled from the desk, smoothing her dress and setting her hair to rights before making her way towards the door. The deputy raised a hand to stop her, but she ignored him. The door clicked shut, and Vince turned to the young officer. "You should wait outside."

"But—"

"Do as he says, Brooks," the deputy said quietly.

The officer paused before he gave a stiff nod. "Yes, sir." He turned and exited the room.

The deputy waited until the door shut before turning to Vince, obviously making a huge effort to look professional. The effect was ruined by the laughably red shade of his face, unfortunately. "How can I help you, Mr…?"

"Bundy. My name is Vince Bundy. You can help me, Mr. Hane, by letting me see the sheriff."

He shook his head quickly. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that. Mr. Spicer is very busy."

Vince sighed. "Yes, I realize that, but this is important."

He rubbed his temples. "Yes, I'm sure. Whatever it is, you can make an appointment for it."

Vince felt a flare in his temper, and one of his hands balled into a fist. He took a deep breath, keeping himself in check. "Right. And how soon can I do that?"

"A few days at least."

He shook his head. "I can't wait that long."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, you're going to have to."

"Mr. Hane, with all due respect, this is extremely important." Vince took a slow breath, feeling his frustration rising.

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do to get you in to see the Sheriff. However, you can take this extremely important matter to me."

For a moment, Vince looked like he was going to belt the deputy across the jaw. He took a slow, shaky breath, and his expression was masked by indifference. "Very well. I've just returned from my tour of duty and I have one month of shore leave. I've apparently been presumed dead, because my half brother's inherited my house."

The man frowned at him. "… Ah. And why are you coming to the police about this? It seems to me that you'd want to take this to court."

That was the last thing that Vince wanted to hear. "I don't have the money for a court case; I'm dead."

"I'm sorry sir, but that's the best I can do."

Vince took a deep breath. "Where am I supposed to sleep, then?"

"I would suggest a church."

He bit his lip. This wasn't how he'd pictured his return home. He nodded, inclining his head. "… Thank you." He turned and strode out without another word.