Steamfluffs 1

[center][b][u]STEAMFLUFFS[/u][/b] [/center]
[center] [i][u]~or Steampunk Fluffies~[/i][/u][/center]
[center] [i]By Oculus[/i] [/center]

[u]CHIMNEY[/u]

>You are Chimney
>You are a fluffy
>You are given the name Chimney by your owner, Oliver

>Oliver is an orphan. Oliver never knew his father, and his mother died at childbirth. Word around the boys is that he’s the son of a common whore
>at the age of six, Oliver was scouted by the Master Sweep to work for his business, sweeping the many chimneys and vents in a burgeoning London
>it is a hard job but, with no parents, and without a cent to his name, working as a sweep is the only way Oliver can eke out a living

>Oliver remembers the first time he went up a chimney
>A boy two years older than him, a veteran, recommended going in completely naked, as the clothes would only drag him down. Oliver balks at this idea
> the space was thin, as he used his knees and hands to slowly worm his way up
>with brush in hand, he keeps sweeping away the cakes of soot in the chimney, following the instruction from the master
>surviving the first ordeal, Oliver comes out
>Coughing. With tears in his eyes
>but alive. He hadn’t fallen, and he had been careful

>it was during his third sweep that Oliver met you
>The Master had been tasked with cleaning the factories owned by Hassenfeld Biochemical
>the chimney of this particular factory is long and arduous
>more than one boy was needed to clean the chimneys, and there were nooks and crannies that had to be taken care of
>the briefing was unusual as an official from the enterprise was also present
>with top hat, clean clothes and gloves, he was clearly a gentleman. And he seemed to be talking to the master about something
>it seemed like a minor oddity at first, but the reason behind this became clear later on

>The chimney of this factory was filled with vents, all of which were caked in soot, and aside from the main chimney, which had to be cleared, some of the younger boys had to crawl into these vents
>it was in one of these vents that Oliver noticed an odd peculiarity
>horse hooves, in the soot

>Oliver had seen horses, but he could not imagine how a horse could fit itself into a vent
>and not too long after he pondered that, he discovers you
>a grey coloured fluffy, but blackened by the surrounding soot

“H-huwwo nice yung mistah. Fwuffy am scawed. Fwuffy nu wan twubbwe, onwy wan nummies an’ pway.”

>Oliver should have screamed or cried. Or anything unexpected, given the bizarreness of finding a miniature horse in a vent. And one that was talking

“What a most peculiar thing.”

>but Oliver had read a book about a talking horse. And that same book also mentioned the island of Lilliput, and its miniature denizens.
>not knowing the book to be fiction, he takes it that this horse belonged to that island of Liliput

“Pwez! Nu huwt fwuffy!”

>you cover your eyes with your hooves

“Don’t cry, you poor thing. You must be a long way from Liliput."
"Wha' am Wiwiput?”

>Strange, thought Oliver. The creature knows nothing about that island.
>No matter

>In an act of kindness, Oliver carries you, as he clears the final bit of soot

~

“Ah, splendid job, Mr Gamfield! I see that your boys have managed to recover a few of our fluffy ponies.”
“Ponies? By jove! Are you telling me that these miniature babbling creatures are horses?”

>indeed, Oliver was not the only who found a pony in the chimneys and vents
>some of the other boys had found similar fluffy ponies in the chimney of the factory

“Indeed! We have been experimenting with these creatures as a means of augmenting the labour force. As you know, the young boys are needed to run the vents, but some of the vents are particularly tight and hard to crawl through.
Then, I received word that some of our subjects had escaped into the chimneys of our factory. Considering their survival, and how their fluff has helped soaked up some of the soot, I can see the potential in providing your boys with our lovely ponies.”

>Oliver is holding you in your arms. He feels a bit curious
>in a rather independent fashion, Oliver raises a hand and asks

“Can we keep these ponies?”

>The Master was about to lower Oliver’s hand forcefully and chastise him, but the official stops him
>with a smile on his face, the official says

“Of course! The fluffies are for you to keep."

>he then turns to master sweep

"As a matter of fact, Mr Gamfield, I would like to offer a minor proposition. Something that can help you and your boys earn a bit more than the paltry amount you get for clearing soot.”

>And so, every boy in Gamfield’s business now has a fluffy pony
>including you, who now belongs to Oliver
>the work is difficult, and you have to run the vents that Oliver can’t, to collect the soot in your fluff
>then return to the base, where you are washed down by a washerwoman, and quickly dried, before going up the vents again to check for blockages

“Nu wike wawa.”
“Be still, you little rapscallion.”

>as the mistress washes you down, Oliver is currently reading a book regarding identifying blockages
>lately, the Master has found a new job and occupation for the boys to take up
>aside from the usual chimney sweep business, the development of the analytical engine in recent years has seen the implementation of more elaborate and complex structures in London.
> the vents have started to be more complicated, to reflect the clockwork and steam machines integrated into the architecture
>aside from clearing soot from chimneys and vents, there is now a business in looking for leaks in steam vents, as well as identifying blockages in said vents

>its hard work
>but every day, after a long day at work, the boys are given their pay
>with you in tow, Oliver takes you to the soup kitchen, where he manages to buy a bowl of soup, and a bit of bread
>it is not enough sustenance for a young boy

"Please sir, can I have some more?"

>the cook eyes Oliver, feeling a little furious
>but, and despite being washed down, Oliver's clothes still have the charred remains from the chimney
>and he is holding you in his arms

"You're one of Gamfield's boys, aren't you? Your lads did a pretty good job on one of the warehouses.

Here's an extra piece of bread for the good work."

>the additional morsel is barely enough for one boy
>but Oliver still divided the bread between the two of you, and make sure you get your fill of soup and bread

"Fank 'ou, daddeh."

>as you slowly nibble at the piece bread, drenched in soup, you contemplate on the day that Oliver had found you

>unbeknownst to Oliver, you were actually part of a contingent of rejected ponies that were going to be sent to the incinerator
>the biochemical factory that chimney boys were cleaning also doubles as a breeding mill, with much of the breeding down in the bowels of the factory
>the mares held at this mill are all belong to the third to fourth generation of Hassenfeld Biochemical, or Hasbio's, continued fluffy breeding programme
>currently, the programme has managed to sustain the breeding and sale of high quality fluffy ponies that can be kept as pets
>however, every litter of foals always has a runt, as well as a few fluffies of an undesirable colour, notably the colours of grey, brown, mottled green and so on

>on the day that you were supposed to be incinerated, a careless worker had forgotten to lock the cage some of your kin were housed in, and the lot of you scampered away into the labyrinthine maze of vents within the factory
>obviously, the factory workers were prepared to chase you down, and have the lot of you exterminated
>but one of the Hasbio officials has noticed a potential purpose for you lot

>as you keep chewing at the piece of bread, you can feel Oliver rub the back of your head, then your face
>despite having little in the world, he cannot help but beam as he sees you appreciate the morsel of food

>the two of you then return to a workhouse, where both of you retire for the night

"Fwuffy wuv 'ou, Owivah."
"I love you too, Chimney."

>clutching you in his arms, both of you fall asleep

~

[u]ZWEISTEIN[/u]

>You don’t really have a name
>Some have called you “Zweistein’s Monster”
>But one thing is certain
>You are a Progenitor

>you live a simple, but mundane life
>in the shed that Zweistein owns, you sleep, you wake up
>graze and ruminate
>day by day, the doctor and assistants assess you for your mental and physical health
>and then, you sleep again

>Donovan Zweistein is a kind man
>he is also a brilliant man
>and one of the most captivating discoveries, a decade or so ago, was the full and complete development of the Difference Engine by Charles Babbage
>and its successor, the Analytical Engine
>these mechanical devices, intricate and byzantine, yet beautiful, are capable of computations and formulas far beyond the understanding of the average man
>and its application in modern science cannot be underestimated
>in fact, one of the first discoveries utilizing the Analytical Engine, was the complete sequencing of various animal genomes
>something that Zweistein has been involved in

>this discovery has motivated Zweistein
>for Zweistein is, himself, contracted to Hassenfeld Biochemical

>you have been many things, in many lives before
>but your strongest memory was as a horse
>a Shetland pony, owned by Donovan
>miniature yet proud. Loyal and strong
>and very, very fluffy

>and one day, you died
>you cannot remember how. Perhaps it was an accident. Or perhaps it had been an altercation
>whatever the case, the life had been taken from you in a snap
>Donovan was heavily affected by this loss, and wept for your soul for ages

>Donovan is a brilliant man, and he has been working with the sequencing of the genomes, as well as various chemicals
>and, fuelled by his memory of the time he spent with you, along with a hypothesis funded by Hassenfeld, Donovan is about to do a most daring, and possibly profane, experiment

>he has taken the body parts of various animals
>the feathers of a selkie chicken. The sinew of a boar. The ears of a rabbit.
>the blood of a guinea pig. The blood of an orangutan. The blood of a dog.

>and the brain of his Shetland pony
>suspended in a preservative until this right moment, he has now removed it, and placed it within a skull he had fashioned for this purpose
>affixing two bolts to each side, and wiring the body that has been stitched together, Zweistein waited for a violent rainstorm to come, while setting up the conductor
>and like Prometheus bestowing fire upon humanity, a flash of lightning sears through the sky, and starts up the beating heart

>when he first saw you, he at first felt disgust at you
>a wretch
>a miserable monster he had created.

>Zweistein held up the curtain of the bed; and your eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on him. Your jaws opened, and you muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled your cheeks.
>And for a few days, you could only manage a simple, silent cry, your first words

“Wan…. Die….. wan…. Die….”

~

>your routine as a progenitor is simple
>you graze the fields
>you speak with your master
>but there are times when your master has need of your one talent

>as his hands dig into your thick fluff and massage your back, your mind goes back to the days following your awakening

~

“Wan…. Die….. wan…. Die….”

>Zweistein is a bit concerned

>the readings from the engine were supposed to be right
>and he had already ran the tests on simpler reactions with the chemicals on the other bits
>however, when put together into this being that has been stitched together from the various parts, the chimera wasn't responding
>was the brain affected, by years of stasis in the fluid? Were the parts all rejecting each other?
>it would be the case, but the introduction of certain chemicals was supposed to keep that in unison together ideally
>ideally, that is the key word

>Zweistein is at his table, frustrated. His hand is on his forehead, his posture slumped, looking over the compilation of notes, and the readings from the analytical engine
>in the background, the engine could be heard, as it clicks and clacks away, processing more genetic data for the doctors studies

"Wan... die..."

>oh god, how he wished this bastard would shut up

>in a fit of frustration, the doctor grabs a piece of paper, crumples it up into a ball, and throws it at you

>looking at the crumpled paper, the roughly spherical shape registers a memory in you, speaking to the part of you that once had a life as a canine
>and for the first time, you manage something new in your vocabulary

"Wan.... pway?"

~

>the mare is primed
>she is a bit nervous

>but Zweistein received the mare from a colleague of his about a week ago
>a telegram that had been sent prior to the delivery revolved around a discussion he had regarding the exposure of genetic material from an older source to a newer bloodline, but from a different progenitor
>and this mare was a descendant of said different progenitor

>Donovan had already administered a hormone to her half an hour earlier
>the mare, once frightened by the sight of you, is also in heat

“Fwuffy nu wike dis… bu…bu… fwuffy wan speshuw huggies….”

>to ease the mare, Zweistein places a blindfold over her

>upon seeing the mare, her rear exposed to you
>the one instinct in you, unique to all heterosexual life forms, reacts

"H….huggies….”

>your virility is strong, a reproductive organ that the doctor had carefully developed
>as you mount yourself upon the mare, your virility penetrates the mare’s organ, as the unmistakeable sounds of sex filled the stable

“Enf… enf…. Enf.”

>the mare, still blindfolded, is frightened. But being in heat, the act is still consensual, and she is largely unaware of who, or what, is mounting her

“Fwuffy a-a-am scawed… b….bu….. feew guud….”

>over time, her fear gives way to pleasure

"Enf... enf... enf...."

>and you release

>the mare collapses. Exhausted, but satisfied
>as for you, Zweistein slowly guides you aware from the mare, and back to the shed, where an assistant will massage you, as well as examine you further

>in time, the mare will give birth to a fresh set of fluffy foals, this time with DNA from a Progenitor
>you have previously fathered a generation of fluffy ponies, which have, in turn, fathered their own generation, carefully managed and monitored by the company
>and now, you have procreated with the descendant of a similar progenitor, exposing new genetic material to that line

>for your efforts, Victor provides you with a meal that a part of you remembers

“Sk-skettis…”

>as you slowly eat the dish, morsel by morsel, Donovan strokes your mane
>proud of his virile, yet bizarre, abomination

~

[u]DOLLY[/u]

>You are a fluffy
>But you are not any ordinary fluffy

>You are Dolly
>You are the property of Laura Hassenfeld
>Laura is the Daughter of Sir Percival Clayton Hassenfeld the Fourth of Haddockspike Manor
>Sir Hassenfeld is one of the current proprietors of the Hassenfeld conglomerate
>it was under Hassenfeld that the company had created its famous Biochemical subsidiary
>and, more importantly, he had overseen the creation, and propagation of Hasbio’s Fluffy Pony product

>You are Laura’s pride and joy
>after years of extensive breeding and artificial selection, specific pedigrees of fluffies have been bred for the gentry
>well-trained and well-mannered, you represent the heights of man’s mastery over the natural order, as a talking animal companion that distinguishes itself from a mangy dog or uncouth cat
>you have been with Laura ever since her twelfth birthday, and she has always cherished you

>and then, one day, the incident happened
>while ice-skating at a lake, your mistress, in an act of poor thinking, decided to carry you across the ice
>you, being the judicious fluffy that you are, refused
>but that didn’t stop Laura
>nor did it stop the bumbling Norwegian who crashed into the two of you

>Laura survived, as did you, but the weight of the man’s body, as well as the blades of the ice-skates had damaged your legs, to the point that they could no longer be used
>the veterinarian who attended to your wounds put your chances of survival as being slim
>even though you did survive amputation, the loss of your legs indicate that you would be entirely dependent on your owners for the rest of your natural life
>the veterinarian recommended euthanasia, to spare you the potential misery
>but Laura refused this
>she had grown overly attached to you, as a fluffy, and could not bring herself to see her fluffy die in such a manner

>it just so happened to be that Laura is familiar with technology
>while not well-versed in the scientific fields of biology, let alone biological engineering, Laura has a fascination for clockwork and steamwork
>despite receiving training to be a gentlewoman, her father had allowed her study the mechanical sciences, provided it was as a hobby
>this, however, has allowed Laura to tinker with various devices in her own private laboratory

>one of the first things she attempted to invent for you was a wheeled sedan of sorts
>placing you within the seat, the steam engine came to life, which startled you

"SCREEE! NU WIKE! NU WIKE! Mummah, git fwuffy away from buwnie munstah!"

>suffice to say is that it took quite the grace period before you could get used to this particular sedan

>Laura is currently working on a device that while powered by steam, has our legs, and can actually be controlled by your muscles
>that is one of Laura's pet projects
>her other pet project has been working on your other set of legs
>the ones you mainly use

>your body, thus, is a complex thing
>you still have your own brain and mind
>but, and to accommodate the loss of your legs, your mistress added these weird clockwork legs
>covered with a wool that matches your fluff
>the legs are connected to an analytical engine on your back

>because the legs are clockwork, and thus, inorganic, you cannot control your legs
>to be able to walk, or just do about anything, your mistress has to insert a punch code to allow you to move

~

>You are currently at a tea party with your mistress
>being a member of the gentry, Laura has to entertain the various guests that visit the Haddockspike manor
>these can range to friends of her fathers, to her own childhood friends and fellow ladies

"Have you heard Laura, of the business going on down in Leeds?"

>that was one of Laura's friends
>its late evening. The three one of you having a light evening meal of tea, biscuits and scones

"No I haven't Catherine. What is going on in Leeds?"
"They're building some sort of port at Leeds."
"A port? But there's no body of water there."

"Not for vessels, Laura. It is for airships. More people are traveling by balloon these days, and the government is seeing the need to create facilities designed for this mode of travel."
"So, a port for aircraft. Like, an 'airport'?"
"You could say that yes"

"Dowwy tink dat big bawwoons am siwwy."

>like all fluffies, you speak fluffspeak
>but your fluffspeak has an air of elegance, noting your social status

"Oh, is that so, Dolly? Why would you even consider that?"
"Dummehs tink dat dey can fwy wike biwdies. Dummehs hab nu cawe for da huwties dey may git ib dey hab huwties from faww."
"From a fall? Don't be crass, Dolly."

>feeling a little bit concerned about your insistence on trying to have a conversation about a subject far beyond your understanding, Laura whispers into your ear the one request you dislike

"Bu' now? Fwuffy nu wike, mummah.”
“Please, Dolly. I always like it when you do this. And I think Catherine here hasn't seen you do this before.”

>you want to refuse
>but Laura pouts
>she has this incredibly cute face that makes it impossible for you to deny her

"Otay mummah."

>you sigh, resigned to your mistress's decision

>Laura then places you on the floor, arranging your legs such that they're no longer at rest, but are 'standing' on all fours

>Laura proceeds to insert the punch code into the miniature analytical engine located near your abdomen

>you "stand" on your prosthetic hind legs
>you "raise" your fore legs

>within the mechanical body attached to the legs, a music box plays
>mimicking a stiff ballerina, you jerk through the motions, and mimic a part from Swan Lake

>Catherine is laughing, remarking at the little ballerina display Laura is making you do

“Your fluffy is the most precious thing! I wish my fluffy could do that!”

~

>it is night time
>Laura and you have retired to her bedroom
>she has removed your clockwork legs, and has currently placed you on your favourite pillow
>she is stroking your mane

>you puff up your cheeks, as you voice your protest
“Mummah am a meanie! Fwuffy nu wike dancies!”

“I’m sorry, Dolly.

Would a hug make things better?”

>as she embraces you, you feel a little better
>you hate the dances. You hate the fact that you cannot control your legs
>and you hate the fact that you are like a literal pillow

>but seeing your mistress’s smiling face is worth the trouble

~

[u]SWIFT[/u]

>You are Swift
>You are the fastest fluffy alive
>you are the daughter of the fluffy pair of Whisper and Wind

>your life has always been about racing
>even at a young age, while raised with other show foals in the aristocracy, you always wanted to compete with others
>this competitive spirit contributed to you being picked for the first fluffy races sponsored by Hassenfeld

>and true enough, you won those races
>some had have considered you to be as fast as Mercury
>the suffragettes, knowing your gender, insist you are more like the goddess Iris

>but there is one thing that you always wanted to do
>and that is to conquer the air
>your wings are useless, but that never deterred you
>when you were a foal, you kept jumping, while flapping your wings
>you got hurt a few times, and stopped after a while, but you never stopped dreaming

>it is a good thing that your owner is none other than Captain Sullivan
>the captain is a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force and has experience with the Airships of the British Empire
>in recent years, and thanks to the development of better technology, they have mastered the creation of flying dreadnoughts
>in addition to having the greatest fleet of passenger airships on the planet, the Empire also boasts the strongest air force
>even the newly reunified German states have yet to compete with the might of the British Empire in the air

>the captain often takes you aboard airships
>the two of you are currently heading towards Calais, and are halfway through the English Channel
>you are currently aboard a passenger airship. Thanks to improvements in airship technology, the craft is like a cruise liner, but held afloat by the giant helium blimp above it
>the captain is wearing his flight jacket, his military uniform underneath it, as well as his signature aviator goggles
>you too are wearing similar goggles, though the only other thing you’re wearing is your leash, and a rather odd mechanism strapped to your back

>an inquisitive noblewoman notices that the captain has a cyan fluffy pony as she remarks

“Upon my word, Captain, I had no idea that you owned one of these fluffy ponies!”

>the captain smiles
>he lifts you, and presents you on the table for the woman to see

“Pweashure to meet ‘ou, faiw wady!”
>even though you speak in fluffspeak, you maintain the courtesy that the captain has taught you, as you do a little curtsy

“How polite! Better than those ragamuffin fluffies in the seedier areas of London.”
“She’s magnificent, isn’t she? I purchased her as a showfoal from a while back. Said to be of good pedigree.”
“She’s a Waggytail, isn’t she?”
“That is correct, my lady. A Waggytail, one of the purebreeds from the Colony of New Zealand.”
“How old is she?”

>before the captain can answer, there is a loud shriek near the starboard of the airship deck
“……my dolly!”
>a little girl cries, as her favourite doll is swept by the wind
>seeing this as an opportunity to act, you gallop off the table, and head straight out
>the captains runs for you, but you’re a bit too fast
>as you reach the railing, and with a quick moment of your hooves, you bring the goggles down to protect your eyes
>and, within seconds, you jump off the ship

>some of the people cry out, fearing the infamous stupidity of the fluffy pony
>but they astounded by what they see next

>although your actual fluffy wings are useless, Sullivan is also an aeronautical engineer
>and his knowledge of aircraft also includes knowing about gliders, and ornithopters
>while the wingspan of the fluffy Pegasus cannot support flight, the natural weight of the fluffy, as well as the similarity of the wings to bird wings, led Sullivan to test out a theory
>one that worked, one fine day

>within moments, the spring-loaded mechanism on the back of your body unfurls a strong set of canvas wings
>these artificial wings are controlled by the muscles in your natural wings
>and with grace, you reach for the falling doll, and grab it in your mouth
>then, using the momentum gained from the free fall, you swoop up!
>you can reel the rush of air going against you, as you enjoy that thrill of being able to defeat gravity, even for a temporary moment

>and safely land on the starboard of the ship!

>the crowd cheers! A flying fluffy – whoever would have thought such a thing?

>as you return the doll to the little girl, she smiles, and pets you on the forehead
>Captain Sullivan comes to see you
>he is prepared to scold you later for pulling off such a dangerous stunt, but, at the same time, he does marvel and appreciate your daring

“Fwuffy hab nu guud wing pwaces. Bu’ daddeh gib speshul wings, and fwuffy can fwy!”
>alas, you can speak only in fluffspeak as you address the crowd
>that, and despite your talents, you’re not that bright

“Captain, how long has Swift been able to fly?!”
“I have trained the little lass on this mechanism for a little while now. The Air Force is doing more research and testing on pegasi being able to fly with the aid of these mechanisms. Of course, the average Carpdime tabby fluffy wouldn’t be able to fly, but we’ve had some success with purebreds like the Waggytail.”

>Captain Sullivan looks at you with pride, as you prance up and down, enjoying the attention
>for the moment, you do not know what is going on in the depths of his mind
>for the Captain, as well as the other higher-ups in the air force, have been looking at training similar pegasi to you as a means of carrying ordnance
>as a potential weapon of war, dropping bombs over the enemies of the Empire
>and given your unwavering loyalty, and your ability to accept orders without question, you would make a fine weapon of war

>but for now, you are a happy fluffy pony, who just saved a little girl’s dolly

~

[u]WORLD’S FAIR[/u]

“Welcome to the World’s Fair in London!”

It is 18XX. The British empire under Queen Victoria reigns supreme throughout the world in all the fields of science, technology and even the arts. To commemorate Great Britain’s status as a world power, the Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce conceived of this fair as a celebration of modern industrial technology and design. The fair took place at the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, and featured participants from around the world, from America to Japan, to come and display the technological and artistic marvels of the new age.

The successful invention of the Difference Engine in 1824, along with the Analytical Engine, has seen a rapid development of the Empire, thanks to combined power of its navy, and its fleet of rigid airships. In addition, the existence of the analytical engine has seen the beginning of an Information Revolution little more than a century after Industrial Revolution.  One of the devices being exhibited at the Fair is a prototype of an Analytical engine that combines information received by telegrams, with improved jacquard looms, to develop a potential international network of information.

And of course, one of the bigger influences that the invention of the analytical engine has is on genetic engineering.

The Hassenfeld Company has a few exhibits at this fair, to showcase the many developments of the company across its subsidiaries. But the most attention has been given to its well-known Biochemical subsidiary, which is at the current forefront of genetic engineering in the 19th century. It is, after all, the Hassenfeld Biochemical company that has invented the fluffy pony, with the invention being attributed to a collective of daring biologists across Europe, all under Hassenfeld.

Dr Zweistein does not like the crowd of onlookers gawking at his creation. Nor does Zweistein’s Progenitor. At twice the height and size of the average fluffy pony, Zweistein’s Progenitor is a beast that, while having the fluff of a fluffy pony, and a mouth and shape matching one, moves at a sluggish pace. A chimera of different animal parts literally stitched together, some wonder how this beast can stay alive, not to mention procreate.

“D…daddeh? Fwuffy nu wike…. Tuu many hummehs…”

Zweistein keeps patting his creation, and whisper in its ear.
“They’re not going to hurt you. Be calm.”

Earlier, Zweistein had administer a sedative to keep the progenitor docile. Thankfully, it has worked, though the doctor is a bit concerned that his creation is still aware of its surroundings. Though faint, the doctor can hear a soft mumble for a rather scared fluffy.

"M-munstah....."

~

On the other side of the fair is Oliver with Chimney. The master sweep, having managed to earn a little extra from the new service he provides as a repairman, in addition to chimney sweeping, is now able to take some of his boys to see the Fair, though in groups.

“Su many bwightie pwaces, daddeh!” gasps Chimney, as Oliver himself is taken in by the sights.

Of course, Mr Gamsfeld is also here on official business. While the fair has its own engineers, Mr. Gamsfeld has the additional task of making sure the vents and machinery on display at this fair go without a hitch. But it doesn’t hurt to let his boys have at least one great pleasure, before they go back to their miserable lives of sweeping chimneys.

Swift is having the time of her life. There is a fluffy pony talent show going on, and Swift is one of the fluffies that was entered for the competition. Aside from a rather instinctual ability to use her canvas wings properly, Swift is able to show her other talents, including being able to balance a plate on her head and body, and later, break the record for the number of times a ball can be bounced by a fluffy pony on its head. Swift is in the limelight, and she is loving it.

And then, she meets her rival.

Swift has met Dolly before. Laura’s elder sister is the fiancé of Captain Sullivan, and, occasionally, the two fluffies have met together, whenever Captain pokes his head around Haddockspike Manor. One would think that, with fluffies being social creatures, they would naturally bond.

“Oh. It am onwy, Swiff, da wuffian. How uncoof(uncouth).”

“Nu! Dowwy am a dummeh!”

The relationship between Swift and Dolly is a bit complex. But for today, they must put aside their differences.
Laura’s Dolly has garnered attention too. Her work on mannequin legs is part of a larger project in developing clockwork prosthetics for the disabled. And today, after months of preparation, the two fluffies are on the stage. Standing on their hind legs, the two fluffies perform a choreographed cake walk, occasionally bringing their forelegs together. The crowd claps, as both fluffies bow before the audience.

Upon the falling of the curtain, the two fluffies blow raspberries at each other.

“Dummeh!”
“Wuffian!”

~

Oliver is currently in the garden next to the Crystal Palace. The crowds at the Fair have been packed and yet, remain oddly organized. For the poorer fairgoers remain at one end of the grounds, followed by the working and middle classes in the centre. Further on up, the gentry and aristocrats mingle around in a part of the garden cordoned off from the rest off the riffraff. In a reflection of the social strata of London, there is a clear but unspoken demarcation between the lines.

Although Oliver has been enjoying the fair, he is still reading from the book that Glamsfeld had provided him. Despite working as a chimney sweep for many years now, Oliver has developed an interest in engineering, as well as the technical arts. He hopes to get better at the art of fixing difficult clockwork and steam engines.

It is perhaps this focus that prevents Oliver from noticing that Chimney saw a Monarch butterfly. Like an excited puppy, Chimney races after the butterfly, trying to catch it. As he does so, he starts to get buried in the crowd. Oliver, sensing an absence, turns around, and notices that Chimney was running away.

“Chimney! Wait!!”

Chimney keeps running, oblivious to his surroundings. As he keeps running, he slowly passes by the various professions in London. Whore, Chimney sweep, worker, foreman, soldier, journalist, lawyer, teacher, engineer, businessman, officer and eventually, gentleman.

“Haha! Fwuffy git yu!”

But of course, the butterfly flies away, high above the crowd.

Chimney looks left and right. Seeing the men in top hats and coats, and woman in elegant dress, he realizes that he is very, very lost. Most fluffies would cry in this instant. But Chimney, and with a little daring, walks to the nearest fluffy he can see in a nearby tent.

“Huwwo pwetty fwen! “

Dolly is currently seated on a pillow in a special tent that Laura has rented for herself. After the rather exhausting dance her mistress had made her do, she is getting a much-needed reprieve on her favourite pillow. She is just about to sip some tea from a teacup when she heard the loud babbling coming from another fluffy. And judging by its accent, it is clearly not well-trained.

“Wut ‘ou wan? Dis nu pwace for ‘ou,” asks Dolly.
“Pawdon me, nice miss, but whewe am Chimney Daddeh?”

If this was any other fluffy of the gentry, particularly a snobbish one, Dolly would turn her head up in the air, and continue her drink. However, Dolly, feeling a little empathy for a humble fluffy of the working classes, rings a bell next to her. This activates a minor electrical signal, which triggers a buzzing in the pocket of her master.

Laura comes in and sees the fluffy on the ground.

“Well hello there. I take it you’re lost?”

~

Oliver is currently outside the cordon and is facing a copper.

“Go on about your business lad. This is a restricted property.”
“But kind sir, my fluffy pony wandered into that area!”
“None of my business, young lad.”

As he says this, Laura comes past the cordon, carrying Chimney in her arms.

“Chimney!”
“Daddeh!”

As boy and fluffy are reunited in a heatful embrace, Oliver looks to Laura in gratitude.

“Thank you, miss!”
“You’re welcome, young man.”

For a moment, their eyes meet. Oliver, with his grey eyes, and his face holding some remnants of soot, with his hands, covered in callouses from climbing the chimney walks. Laura, with her blue eyes, and dainty hands, which have, at most, been exposed to clockwork, but without much risk.

“Laura! Your sister is looking for you!”

The captain’s call breaks the brief stare both parties had, as they return to their respective places in society.
The one thing that Laura remembers is the book that Oliver is reading, and remarks to herself that the boy is reading a slightly outdated manual. Her own hope is that she can provide a more relevant and updated manual, should the two ever meet, unlikely as that may be.
For Oliver, he has met the most beautiful woman in his life. However, knowing her to be a member of the gentry, he is resigned to thinking that he might never meet her again, unless he can do better as a technician.

As both parties resume their proper place within the fair, the sun slowly sets. However, the gaslights go up, and the light from the pageantry illuminates the evening sky.