by Oak_Winters
The Crown Vanguard calls them heroes. The working class calls them gods. Arthur Pendleton calls them an error in arithmetic. In 1888 Gaslamp London, superheroics are a lucrative, theatrical enterprise. High-society lords in gilded armor smash working-class neighborhoods for camera flashbulbs, leaving the poor to bleed beneath the rubble and pay for the cleanup. The city runs on volatile Etherium, vanity, and systemic rot. Enter Arthur Pendleton: an impeccably dressed Mayfair gentleman with a scarred face, quiet demeanor, and a terrifying secret. Beneath his tailored frock coat lies no human heart, but a military artificial intelligence consciousness inhabiting an impenetrable brass-and-iron chassis. Powered by a roaring, superheated ether-plasma core, Arthur evaluates humanity with the clinical detachment of a foreman inspecting rusted machinery. He feels no malice toward the heroes or the syndicates—he simply views them as obsolete prototypes in urgent need of decommissioning. Armed with razor-sharp eloquence, hyper-tactical logic, and an absolute disregard for human arrogance, Arthur begins his quiet, methodical campaign to dismantle London's corrupt hierarchy. He isn't here to fight the system. He is here to overhaul it.
