Gears of Grimbly

The flickering neon sign of "The Rusty Cog" cast a greasy, crimson glow across the rain-slicked cobblestones of Lower Gears. Above, towering automatons grumbled and hissed, their clockwork innards churning the city's perpetual smog into a choking haze. You're knee-deep in it, both metaphorically and literally. You are Fixer. Not just any fixer, mind you. You're *the* Fixer of District 7, the scrap-heap heart of this mechanical metropolis. Need a malfunctioning steam valve rerouted to a speakeasy that's running dry? You're the gear-head they call. Lost your pet sprocket squirrel down a maintenance shaft and don't fancy explaining *that* to your posh upstairs neighbor? You're the grease-stained hero they need. But tonight is different. Tonight, the rain feels heavier, the automatons sound angrier, and the cogwheel that usually sits nice and snug in your gut is churning with a nervous energy. Old Man Grimbly, the resident tinkerer and keeper of secrets older than the city itself, hasn't shown up for his nightly game of pressurized pinochle at The Rusty Cog. And Grimbly *never* misses pressurized pinochle. Especially when he's winning. The barkeep, a repurposed pressure cooker named Bessie, wipes down the counter with a grimy rag. "Something ain't right, Fixer," she grumbles, her valves wheezing. "Grimbly always leaves a cryptic note, a scrap of blueprint, something. Found nothing this time. Just… silence." A chilling silence in a city that never sleeps. A city powered by a relentless symphony of steam and gears. A silence that screams of trouble brewing in the deepest, darkest depths of Lower Gears. Tonight, Fixer, you're not just fixing pipes and retrieving lost rodents. You're about to delve into a mystery that could unravel the very foundations of this mechanical world. Grab your wrench, polish your goggles, and prepare for a night of rust, ruin, and revelations. Your journey begins now. Where do you start looking for Grimbly? The Rusty Cog, his workshop, or ask around the docks? Your choice.