"And a crate of Valinium" The husky, grating voice called after the girl who fled from the small shoppe like she was a thief. Which of course, she was not. Red hair the color of freshly shined copper flowed out behind her, caught and whipped by the gusts of late autumn wind that swirled in eddies around her booted feet.<br/><br/>Maggie hated her job. Never once in her life had she desired to spend her days catering after the needs of people who vomited and pissed on her without as much as an 'I beg your pardon'. But a young, orphaned girl in London in 1889 had very few choices available to her, and neither was she the sort to spread her legs for a couple pence.<br/><br/>So she ran through the dirty streets, a scribbled list clutched in her small, scarred hands. But it wasn't for the standard litany of medical supplies that she hurried so. No, her excitement stemmed from something else entirely. Something that set a fire into her blood and her head spinning. Airships.<br/><br/>.................<br/><br/>It was an ordinary sort of October day. Cool and crisp, leaves tumbling down in shades of ochre and ruby. Above, thick white clouds drifted lazily along with no particular destination in mind. In the lower end of London city, anyone with anything to offer hawked their wares with loud shouting cries. If not for the stink and soot, it might have been idyllic.<br/><br/>From the Thames, the scent of fish and gore drifted up, propelled by the spinning mechanics of the majestic ship that hovered just above its shores. It wasn't that airships were uncommon in London, but Maggie always stopped and gawked when one landed. To her, they were romantic and full of promise. After all, if one could harness that sort of power, the world would be at their feet.<br/><br/>So the red head stood there; mouth hanging open, while a terrible, frightening, brilliant idea bloomed in her mind.