Timeless

Disclaimer: I don't own MLP or TCID.  Let it be said here that all copyrighted material will be the legal property of the holder of said copyright.

A soft chattering, clattering noise fills the air. Such is the norm for this polluted, clanking, overheated slum of a city. Not that you'd get the inhabitants to admit it. They practically worshiped the city (and surrounding colonial lands) that had been dubbed Steampunk. The name had been give 28 years earlier as a slur, an insult to a group of ponies that dreamed of a place like this: Steampunks, those who saw a future of steam and engines, gears and pistons, magic and science living together in a variety of devices. Now the city was the technological envy of the Equestrian Empire with its airships of unrivaled speed and automatons of unmatchable power. They were proud of their precious steam engines and grinding gears and clockwork cogs.

Speaking of Cogs…

They called me Deadcog. Mr. Hamilton Deadcog. My real name is Dr. Alexander Hamilton Copperplate the second C.E.D. But I would prefer it if you'd call me by my chosen business name, Mr. Hamilton. You see, my father was a bit of a jealous sort and decided to go take out a man who was a vastly superior coppersmith to him. The ensuing fight ended … badly. For him, I mean. If your name is Wilbur Redpot, then it's the greatest victory to ever occur in the history of the world. Regrettably, Dad died, but he and the fight of Verdigris Patina became a legend. They call it “The Copper War”, a tale of a town fighting off a superior enemy and uniting to help their fellow neighbor. And as time passed, the facts, and thus the legend, became more and more twisted until the coppersmith Wilbur Redpot becomes a saintly hardworking soul,  instead of a business tycoon who was driving every other coppersmith out of work in order to make a successful monopoly, and my father goes from a failing coppersmith who had too much to drink and not enough money to spend, to a baby eating monster who wanted to burn the town down, piss on its ashes, and go kick some puppies and kittens afterward.

Which as you might expect, is bad for his son's business, reputation, and physical well-being.

So I use by my middle name, Hamilton in all things. Business, pleasure, private and public. It simplifies things. Plus it gives me an air of mystery, what with no one knowing my last or full name. They all think Hamilton is just a fake name I have procured for my own use. It also sticks it to those who disapprove of how steampunk is using more and more griffin names instead of pony ones. The one thing I agree with the average steampuninite on is that pony names are absolute rubbish.

Now, I am not a medical doctor. No, my doctorate is in engineering. To be specific, circuitry engineering. To be even MORE specific, electrical circuitry, though I can work with the steam and magical kinds just as well. But I prefer to work with the underused and under-appreciated electrical brand of scientific research . Which brings me to my nickname. It stems from my greatest creation, my magnum opus. It is an invention that no pony has ever seen before or even so much as dreamed of before:

The electric clock.

It doesn't move with gears or cogs, but with electrical currents, pulsing through quartz at constant intervals to keep the time. The clock face is a screen of glass that has the numbers set on it in block letter font .It can be switched between armed time and normal time, something no other clock can claim. All other clock come in standard time, and ONLY standard time, and thus are a pain to armed forces. My creation fixes this allowing me to see to desires of both groups. It is a truly incredible mechanism indeed.

The inhabitants of Steampunk have taken my invention poorly. It's to be expected of course.  This wonderful creation renders them all obsolete. The electric current proves that electric circuits are superior to steam ones. They will be the wave of the future and shut this city down. They know it. I know it. And so does the government. I'm already getting orders from nobility, including the palace itself! Princess Celestia herself knows that I will change the world, and is responding accordingly. The city fumes with anger and more than a little fear and desperation. They have taken to sling out slurs and giving me death threats. Occasionally, some (other than an old ‘friend’ of mine I mean) try to keep true to their word.

The key word there is 'try'

They call me Hamilton Deadcog, the one who has killed the keepers of time. They say I want to smelt the whole city into a molten slag, reforge it into a giant metal shlong, and have the starving and overworked slave labor force be composed entirely of puppies and kittens.

Like father, like son.

As I quietly slip through town, trying to avoid undue attention, a few slightly uncommon, though by no means rare, things appear, replacing the constant aftereffects of the grind of steam engines. The sound of the creaking of ropes and loading of boxes, and the spiel of a speech about the usual “bravery and patriotism” bully explorers like to drone on about vibrate in its place. The smell of grease and fires are replaced with the peculiar pungent odor of the extremely light but not flammable Clothium gas. And the taste of the air goes from smoky and metallic to foul and sour, the taste one gets around a mass of the great unwashed. The source of it all was both unbelievable and imbecilic.

A time traveling airship.

You see, a good “friend” of mine, one Captain John Sprocket has taken the idea of no more cogs and gears and such rather badly. So, with the help of his rich and influential friend Sir Christofer Wolfe, he announced a genuine plan, that entailed him going to the future and finding out if I really killed steam. I have to admit, this little plan caught me way off guard. It came completely out of the left field. No, you know what, that doesn’t describe the shock enough. It’s like the pitcher of a World Series game spontaneously decided to throw a screwball at the first baseman, knocks him out cold, and then runs around the bases with his pants off. Not even Wolfe would normally try to do something THIS insane.  Makes me wonder what they smoking when they came up with it, and were they were got it from, because I WANT some. They got a well-known mechanic named Tony Seville to help them with the daunting, but publicly thought futile, task. Then they managed to actually build it, defying Sprocket's reputation as a bit of a lazy sort, Seville's lifestyle as a no good robosexual ,Wolfe’s history as crown prince of the fruitca- I mean, an eccentric gentle-colt, and everyone's expectations  including my own (obviously).  Then they managed to convince a mapmaker named Joel, a clockwork automation made in the form of a mare named Golden Heart, and an explorer named Aimee von Hershal to help with the kinks of their absolutely moronic monstrosity and foolhardy plan.

So now the lot of them are standing by the tethered air ship Clockwork, giving valiant speeches about courage and the way of the steam. I'm approaching it from behind the stage and blimp carrying a special something of my own brilliant design for the newly dubbed “clockwork crew”. I'm trying to be sneaky though, because if the crowd saw me, they'd probably tie me up and throw me into the river. And trust me; you do NOT want to know what lives in the river.

I slip behind the stage, and pull a special device of mine out of my coat pocket. These people are not known for being brilliant and, as much as I dislike Sprocket and his friends, and they dislike me, I don't want them to die. Or punch a hole in the fabric of space-time. Or succeed. He might go to the future and find out he's actually right (for once)! And if he isn't, he'll go through out time and try to change it so that he is! Either way, my future as Equestria’s most ingenious inventor will never happen! Which is the most horrible thing that could happen (After all, gentlecolt must have his Priorities)!  So, using my knowledge of magical circuitry, my workshop, a lot of books on time travel thermo, and a replica of the plans of the time device that I “acquired”, I built this little beauty. My invention will (theoretically) explode in such a manner that it will create a magical and electrical pulse that will cancel out the time mechanisms attempts to break into the time stream. It will appear that the time mechanism won't have worked in the slightest, and the crew will be left wallowing in utter shame and failure. The thing is small, and will destroy itself without a trace, leaving no discriminable evidence to be found. I place the thing on the bottom of the compartment and step back to admire it. All I have to do now is get away before liftoff starts and establish an alibi for when the blame game begins and I'll b-

“Oy! You there! Stop!”

….fuckshitcockcuntcocksuckingmotherfuckeringalicorntitsfromgoddamnedbloodyHELL!

Well, there goes that plan. The guards are more observant than I thought. Either that or I am really bad at sneaking about. Or both. Now I need to fall back on plan C. This was, believe it or not, my backup plan.   Plan A involved, among other things: the Equestrian Federal Reserve, a monkey wrench, the fact I am no longer allowed to wear watches anymore due to a royal decree, and an exceptionally long Lingcolt log. It was a beautiful plan. Too bad the monkey wound up getting shoved in the cage too early, and my friend Alfred von Moloch is now being charged with arson. Ah well.

The guard is closing in fast. Its times like this that I wish I learned more than 2 spells in my life. Teleport would have been lovely right about now. If I get out of here, I'll learn it as soon as possible. Thankfully, one of those 2 spells is now going to come in handy. I levitate a rather heavy looking box over the guard and dropped it. The blow should knock him out cold.

THUMP

…and it's full of packing peanuts. What else could it be full of? Certainly nothing useful like Wolfe's legendary collection of rocks, that's for sure! Because that would be helpful.

So now I must fall upon the classic maneuver of ages past, a technique of strategy unparalleled, the most brilliant of all possible moves one can be capable of doing in a situation such as this: running like Hell's bastard child is nipping at my heels. Because if I am found near this blimp, near this crowd, on this day, I. Am. Dead. So I run as fast as I can, faster than I have ever run before. The guard is giving pursuit, chasing me with all his migh- wait a minute, he’s not even winded! Here I am, puffing like the Friendship Express, and this meathead is running like he does it every single day. Which he probably does, the insane health freak. Oh, look, the meathead has friends. Joy.

The guards are capable of keeping up with me easily, even the fat female, who looks as if she has never even heard of the word “diet”, the slob. One of them runs in front of me, so I turn right. His friend comes in front of me and I turn left. The aforementioned slob gallops front of me, so I backtrack. After about ten or so seconds of this, I realize what's happening. The meatheads are boxing me in, trying to catch me with strategy! Why do I get the smart meatheads! Why can't they be ordinary hired muscle, the kind who've never so much as read a newspaper in their life? I look around franticly. There has to be somewhere they won't follow, somewhere I can catch my breath! But where?

Then I see it. The ramp into the blimp. The guards won't follow me there. They'll assume sprocket will deal with me inside. So if I get in and sneak out fast, I'm free!

I run up the ramp, and look behind me. Just as I thought! They won't dare to follow me up here! In fact, they’re turning around. They're heading back to their posts by the stage stairs. Wait, why are they climbing the stairs? And now why are they're moving towards …

Oh.

Oh dear.

“HAAAMIIIILTOOOOOOON!”

Well. Then.  There goes that plan…