thegoodfellas/blogset-br huggingface dataset:
trick of the smoke, a trick of the light, the unhinging of a tired mind. A chilltouched the air.Hold together,he thought, repeating it like a manta.Oliver set the butt of the rifle on the ground and leaned the barrel against his leg. With his left hand, heslid the matchbox open, then plucked a match out with his right.One toss. How many could he catch in the blast?The metallic heads continued their stares unbroken. The phantom images dipped as one, as if in prayer.The air grew cold.Oliver laid the match head against the edge of the box.A wind cut across the square. Yellow-green mist began collecting in the empty space between Oliverand the hounds. It lapped at the stones and the feet of the creatures, seeping into cracks and betweentoes and claws. Oliver stayed the match, retreating back against the fence. The yellow mist, blackening asit swept the brick, began a steady undulating pulse, propelling itself along the stones like an inchworm.The ground began to boil.Oliver stuffed the dynamite in his pocket and leapt for the fence. His injured hand landed on arough-edged slat of iron that tore into the bandages. He wrapped his other arm into a tangle of bentcrossbars and held himself up by the sheer strength of fright. His legs kicked for purchase, scuffing theedge of the low wall.Below, the square suddenly became a seething lake of black-yellow pus. Bubbles churned to its surfaceand burst, spraying up into the air. Tendrils of yellow mist snaked up beside Olivers face, then sweptover him with a rank odour of decay. They got in his nose, his throat, his ears.And something crashed through into his mind.Not this time, by God!Oliver released one hand and grabbed for the dynamite, and at once the worldevaporated.He was hanging above an endless sea of filth: blood mixed with oils, ashes, white and yellow ichors, andpus. Above loomed a sky of towering grey fingers, their steel ends lancing into the ocean. Bodies swamthe seas, drowning, choking, flailing, bloated and pustulant.Oliver hung from nothing, having lost all perception of his body. He clawed with no hands at the ironfence he knew to be there.A figure came walking across the ocean, stumbling over the roiling bubbles. He wore an oversized longcoat, speckled with additional pockets, which the spurting filth did not seem to touch. He fixed Oliverwith startling blue eyes.Youre Oliver Sumner, he said.Oliver clung to the invisible fence, still trying to secure his feet.Whos asking?My name is Aaron, he said. Aaron Bolden.Could I trouble you for some assistance?His slight smile flattened. Im not sure how.Perfect.Oliver gave up on his fingers and tried to will himself to stay above the frothing liquid.Youre theAaron, arent you? You know, Hews and Bailey speak very highly of you.For watching, perhaps; for intelligence. I havent had much luck with action, Im afraid.Hews mentioned that you had certain faculties of sight.And so I do.What do you see?Do I see you hanging off a fence, you mean? Yes, youre there.With a mental sigh, Oliver concentrated on loosening his grip.No, no. Dont drop down, Aaron said hastily.
It isnt real, but it may still harm you.How do you know that?I... A sudden jolt of pain stole across the mans face. Grandfather Clock...hurt me. The noise wasntreal, not in the auditory sense, but it was still...I remember my bones breaking.Oliver looked up and down the mans limbs. Aaron followed his gaze.Its strange, I know, that theyre intact now. Though Im not quite dead and may thus retain a bit ofmyself.Bailey said theyd hooked you to the Chimney.Aarons hands began to tremble.I...true...though I... He inhaled, still shaking. I should not be alive. A thousand times I should not bealive.You seem quite alive to me.The small smile returned.A conclusion drawn from observation. I suppose I can accept that.Oliver looked around, seeing no visible means of escape. He realised with some relief that his sense ofsmell did not appear to be working, nor could he feel fatigue in his clinging arm, nor nausea in his gut fromthe vile sights. The sloshing and moaning of the oceans prisoners echoed undiminished by distance.Where are we, Aaron?We are inside his mind.Whose mind?The third one, he said. Not the Lord, not the Lady. Someone else.I would hope I heard you wrongly.Except that you heard perfectly.Aaron began to pace beneath Oliver.I have gathered through my limited observation of him that he is an exile of sorts. He hates the Lord andLady so powerfully... Aarons eyes flickered almost closed. He tilted his head as if craning to hear asound Oliver couldnt hear. Theyve done something to him, I think, to hurt him, to cause him pain.Thats what all this is. He swept his arm to indicate the sea. His pain.And those?Oliver said, casting his glance at the moaning souls slipping between the waves.They are those of us who have been claimed by the downstreets, and the machine disease.You know that?He...showed me.Has he claimed you as well, then?The mans face fell. I dont know.Oliver thought for a moment as Aaron stood caught in his melancholy.Would he help us, do you think, Aaron?Help us? This is not some Titan that can be bribed.You said he hates the Lord and Lady. Well, if Bailey does his job, we will have what we need to kill Grandfather Clock, but we may need help with Mama Engine. We havent even begun to look at how todeal with her.Aaron hunched his shoulders and glanced out across the ocean. He hatesus too, Oliver.Then well have to deal with him as well, wont we?Aaron sucked in a breath. He could very well have heard that.Talk to him. Offer him an...an agreement. Between him and myself. Let him know we have commonenemies.Are you certain about that?No. It may turn out to be the most fool thing Ive ever attempted, but its prudent to keep your doorsopen.The cries of the damned hammered on Olivers ears. He struggled to keep his concentration amidstrising panic.At last, Aaron nodded; then his eyelids began to flicker again. Oliver hung for an endless few minutes ashis impromptu companion performed whatever inward gyrations the contact required. Doubt worried athimWhat are you thinking, allying with this
horror?but he quashed it with logic: one of these unholycreatures was easier to deal with than three. That made sense, didnt it?Aaron jerked and came back to himself.So? Whats the word?Aaron shook his head. I cant tell. I know he understood. Aaron took a deep breath, rubbed hisabdomen absently with one palm. But this doesnt feel right. What if he turns on us after...And suddenly Oliver was hanging from a fence, with his left arm cramping and a stick of dynamite in hisright hand.The ground rushed up to meet him. He landed squarely on the already-injured ankle, toppled forward,and slammed cheek first into the brick. His stomach clenched and he barely had time to tear the mask offhis face before yellow and white vomit surged up and out. After that, the scalding air rushed in and hehacked up more vileness. Vomit be damned, he slapped the mask back over his mouth and took longbreaths until his lungs settled back from convulsions to mere searing discomfort.Bugger.He pushed himself up and leaned heavily on the wall. His pack and rifle lay where hed left them. Thelamplight guttered out, disturbed by its rough treatment. A few minutes of exhausting struggle found amatch struck and the flame reluctantly wiggling back to life.A silver, eyeless snout regarded him from just past his shoes.Jeremy? Oliver said.The rat shook its head.Aaron?Jeremy ducked his head and clicked backwards and sideways without turning. Oliver lifted his gazeslightly and found the glinting brass eyes of his choir staring back. Theyd stepped off to the sides. Aclear path spread in front of him, out into the dark.Jeremy backed some more and ticked three times.Jesus. Give me a minute.Oliver took a pull from his rapidly emptying water flask and fixed his mask. Then, with aching joints andmuscles, he collected his gear and his rifle and pushed himself to his feet. He kept the dynamite and thematches in his pocket.Jeremy turned and scuttled away. Oliver followed at a slow limp. When hed gone twenty feet he heardnoise and turned.Ticker hounds and clickrats and half-human Frankensteins gathered behind him. He stepped forwardand they followed. He started again at a steady pace, and they trailed behind him like a herd ofcattle...or a pack of wolves.Guess we know his answer, eh, Aaron?Albright had fallen with a bullet in his throat.Kinney had died screaming with a hound tearing into his belly.Sims had crawled nearly thirty yards with a severed arm before the Boiler Men cooked him like a pigwith their copper rods.Phineas had just vanished, and hed last seen Thomas Moore assaulting a Boiler Man with his barehands.And who had run away and hid himself in the shadows of old Mile End Road?Bailey crouched behind a piece of rotted and soggy wall, once the facade of a building, and clutched hisrifle to his chest. It was an old Enfield from his days in the army, made in 41, and it had seen him throughworse snags than this.Worse than metal beasts impervious to bullets at war with metal men equally impervious?He silenced his own thoughts to better hear the movements
of the enemy.The Boiler Men had been waiting right at the base of the rusted stair. Phineas Macrae had been the firstto spot them. They might have been waiting for hours, not needing air or rest or water. Luck was with thequeens agents, however, as the Ironboys were some ways off and facing away from the stair, as ifwaiting for someone to return to it. Bailey had ordered retreat, hoping to slip away and circle around outside their field of vision.Then the dogs had come at them, tearing out of old shop doors and from beneath the uneven flagstonesof the street. Nothing Baileys crew had thrown at them had done anything to slow them down. Then theBoiler Men had caught them, charging impassively into the fray and killing everything in sight with Atlasrifles firing as fast as Maxim guns and copper lightning rods lancing through the perpetual night. At somepoint Bailey had ordered retreat and fled.There had been noise, then silence. Now there was only the thudding footfalls of the barons soldierspatrolling the perimeter of the street, and the shuffle of their guns poking into cracks and beneath rubble.Bailey held one lapel of his vest over his mouth and sucked a breath. His mask had vanished in thefighting, along with his lantern and half his ammunition. He squatted, sweating, and fiercely willed himselfnot to cough.He wished for a moment he was back in India, where the heat was not so oppressive and the enemydied like men aught to. But Boiler Men did nothing like normal men. Even their movements were strange,executed with the confident, measured precision of creatures who knew themselves to be invincible.A foot fell on the other side of the wall. Time to move on.Bailey sucked one last burning lungful of air, blinked the soot from his eyes, and crept backwards fromhis place of concealment. The old shops floor had rotted and fallen through, and had formed a shallowcrater into which Bailey retreated. He slipped silently into a viscous pool at the bottom, cursing the lackof light.The Boiler Men seemed to have no need for illumination, and thus hid their movements. Worse, Baileycould not see far enough through the smoke to determine how visible he might be. Did the sides of thishole provide any cover at all?He exhaled his held breath quietly and drew another through his lapel. The Boiler Men could not bestopped with a single Enfield rifle. It would be at least another two or three hours trekking though thesedepths to reach the base of Aldgate Tower. Bailey had no mask, no eye protection, no water, no food,and thirty rounds of ammunition that were useless against such adversaries anyway.But the tape had to be retrieved. No matter the cost, those horrid godlings of Whitechapel had to bedealt with.Praise to England, he muttered to himself. God save the queen.The oily liquid moved.Tentacles shot out of the pool at the base of the hole, entangling his legs with terrible speed. In an instantthe faithful Enfield was readied and a shot plunged into the opaque waters. Whatever lay beneathspasmed with the
impact. The tentacles contracted, shredding though Baileys trousers with serratedmetal edges. The sting of sliced skin shot up through his spine, followed by the blazing fire of slime in thewounds. A second shot shattered the waters surface, sending up bits of metal and gore. The tentaclesshuddered and fell limp back into the pool. Bailey staggered from the water, collapsing on the bank of thehole.A ness. Damn ithow could he have been so careless? He tested one leg to see if there was any tendon damage.Flesh, mostly. Good. First order is to get out of this blasted hole.He planted the butt of his rifle in the muck and pushed himself up.A shot rang out, and a portion of Baileys arm exploded.Another, and a force like a charging elephant bore him to the ground, smothering his face in the clingingmud. White pain flared in his back and abdomen.His gasp drew in the unfiltered razor smoke of the downstreets. Choking, he clawed at the slick, coldearth and cursed every machine built since the dawn of history.The ground shook with the approach of iron boots.
Her chosen will call themselves the Brothers ofCreation. They will be Her Intention, the legacy of humancreativity bent to Her purposes, and weaned upon Her ancient Methods, and they, too, will call meMaster.V. iScared left Tuppence crying. They always cried, at first. In a while he would send the boy up to Gisellashouse of sin and her girls would feed him and dry his eyes.He toddled his ancient frame up the twenty wooden steps leading from his bedchamber, avoiding, withgreat difficulty, those that concealed his various traps. Blast, he must take some of these out. Security didhim little good if he slipped one day and found himself stuck on the point of a poison dart.It was a shame about the other boy. Hed died of fright, perhaps, compounded with malnutrition andgeneral filth. Hed left the poor things body where it had fallen, as it provided a perfect learningopportunity for the one still alive.Such darling things, children. Such wonders of Gods world. When you call me husband and master, mysweet, what wonderful offspring we will fashion.Tick, tick, tock, my sweet. The watch stops at the end of the day.His voice echoed back from the plaster walls. The heat that burned in the back of his head flickered intime with the lamps in their sconces.And what do you want with this other man, my sweet? Well, soon Ill know that secret, too, and in timeI will own every scrap of soul you try to hide.He wandered the halls of his labyrinth awhile, alone with his thoughts. When he was a boy, hedwandered in a similar fashion through Hyde Park, sometimes halting to climb the Gate, until somepoliceman or well-meaning citizen chased him off. It had been a distraction then. Now it was a necessaryexercise to keep the mind calm and functioning.The labyrinth was one of four hidden in various towers close to the Stack. This one was his leastfavourite, lacking a proper amount of madness in its design. It was functional, for certain, but hardlyinspiring. Unfortunately, since his hides in Aldgate and Dunbridge had been compromised, he had tosettle for this one. It sat below Gisellas den of sin, so there was some consolation there. Fine and sternold woman, she was, and shed be chaste to her dying breath, bless her.He walked through halls and staircases, past row after row of identical doors. His mind churned andrefused to lie silent. He caught himself ticking several times and each time angrily clamped his teeth.Why did he feel anxious? It was planned, all planned.He stopped, halted his breath. His ears picked up the last distorted echo of a scuffing. An intruder?Moran didnt know of this place. Neither did the German, or Boxer or Hobbyhorse. And Gisella wouldnever lower herself to walk these filthy halls.Scared twisted his canes head, releasing the knife from the tip. The click it emitted resonated down thehalls. Scareds senses picked at that noise, dissecting, calculating.He flattened himself against a shadowed corner and waited.At length a figure stumbled around the corner at the halls opposite end, stooped and limping. Theintruder placed his hand
on each door as he walked, as if counting them.Scared had not fought with his cane for years. It had to be used like a bayonet to be formidable. For abrief moment he feared his arthritic knuckles would not be capable of it.He could hear the intruders laboured breathing, the moist sucking of the terminally ill. The figureshrugged through a pool of light.Oh, my boy! Scared cried. He rushed from concealment even as the figure collapsed to the floor.Scared knelt down and gathered the boys head in his hands. Oh, my darling. What have they done toyou?Tears rolled down Pennys cheeks, from eyes that stared glazed at the ceiling. The boys mouth opened,closed. A bullet had cracked through his sternum; his shirt was black with old blood and filth. The woundhad been cauterised, probably by the broken flasher still hooked to the lads belt. His skin was pale andsunken beneath the grime.Lie still, my boy. Im here. Scared knew Penny was dying. Nothing could be done but to give him upto the cloaks, and that, Scared could never wish on one of his sons.Pennys breathing grew more relaxed as Scared stroked his hair. Eventually, the boy fell into a lightsleep.No, my child, I cannot save you. But there is life in you yet, and you deserve more than an infecteddeath in a lonely hallway.Dont weep, my darling, he whispered. All is not lost. There are potions, my dear, secret mixturesthat can sustain you for a few glorious, final days. I will make one of these mixtures for you, my sweet,and it will fill your veins with burning blood and bring strength into your legs once more.Penny opened his eyes again.And we will get you knives, my darling, for I know how you adore knives. And for those few days, youwill express that one act at which you were so blessed by Providence to excel.Pennys tears dried up. Some of that stone came back into his eyes, that carefully crafted heartlessnessScared had slaved over for so many years.He could not help but smile.Ah, pride; how can they call it a sin, my love?The little bell dinged. Oliver found the shelves in their places and the lamp buzzing overhead. His firststep onto the floorboards sent up a creak, and then the skittering of retreating rats. He let the door slideshut behind him, and waited.Outside, Bergen sat casually on the front step, puffing on a thin cigar.Oliver heard the whispering of shifting cloth, and turned to face the bookseller as he floated into view.I thought Id be seeing you again, the old man said.You seem to be closed for a while, said Oliver. Lets have a chat.If anything, the mans smile grew toothier.Of course. Shall we? He indicated the rear of the store.Right here is fine, if you please, Oliver said. I have questions for you.Im sure you do. The mans hands clicked softly as he folded them together against his stomach. Hesettled back into a sitting position, as if buoyed on whatever lay beneath his skirt. Im happy toaccommodate them, with the Ladys blessing.Oliver
opened his coat and drew the heavy book from within. Fickins eyes followed it.This is not theSumma Machina, Oliver began. Not the real one anyway.Its the real one.Oliver breathed slowly. I want no lies, Crow.I have none to tell, Mr. Bull. That is the original script as written down by Atlas Hume in 1834.Then can you explain to me why the canaries havent gone to war with you yet?Ah, yes, the prophecies. Fickin steepled his fingers. The Brothers for Order cannot go to war, Mr.Bull. Their only reason for being is to bring things into harmony. What wars have you ever known to beharmonious?Oliver rubbed the raggedy stubble on his jaw.So they know?Fickin nodded.And they do nothing about it?You must understand the mentality of the clock, Mr. Bull, Fickin said. A clock is a machine. Itrepeats one task endlessly, unchanged. That is its role. Even for its own preservation, a machine cannot alter that role.What is Grandfather Clocks role, in your opinion?Grandfather Clock exists to bring about harmony and precision. He controls the environment, to makeit safe for the Mother to create. He makes it possible for the Great Work to be built.A faint sound penetrated the windows: two taps of Bergens foot. Entry had been accomplished.Fickin straightened, agitation coming into his eyes. But Grandfather Clock never stops with simpleharmony. He wants everything to tick to his tune, so that nothing can ever be out of place. Once he isdone with humanity he will turn his efforts against the Mother herself. He will suffocate her, as he has fortheir entire union. Gods, when I think of the aeons hes been doing this to her...A flicker of fire lit Fickins eyes.And there you are, my Lady.Oliver tapped his pocket. Inside, Jeremy stirred.Aeons?You have no idea, Mr. Bull, how old they are. Theyve been on our small little world since the greatbeasts ruled it, hiding in their primitive brains and waiting for a race capable of birthing them. We are theirchosen people now, the builders of their womb and the stewards of their kingdom.She didnt think to kill him sooner?The fire flashed deep in those sunken eyes. She didnt know how, Mr. Bull. She doesnt understandhim well enough. It is like asking a tree to understand a steamship. We were the first she found that werecapable of fathoming him; that is why she adopted us as her children. She needed our help. The Lordsimply wanted to dominate us.Jeremy nudged his nose out of the pocket. Oliver spread open the book and began leafing throughpages, focussing his attention on the flashing brass, to draw Fickins eyes there.She found someone, didnt she? Oliver said. She found a whole gaggle of people lining up to help hercause. Like Scared. And myself.The fire dimmed. Ive always been a bit ashamed that she felt she needed to look outside theBrotherhood.So it really doesnt matter who gets their hands on this weapon of hers. As long as its used, shell bethe one who benefits.Fickin licked his lips. Shes waited so long for freedom from her tyrant consort. And now, through