Bolt

In a small city of Tarniville where cloud-like steams puffed out from the train chimneys and factories, and bustling people go about their day tinkering machineries to put food on their tables, somewhere near the slums, was an old house, a very old one.

The roof was made of shingles, the walls with bricks, and large pipes that went in and out of the house itself and into the ground. The glass windows haven't been wiped in ages and had already turned yellowish, or maybe brass.

And the owner of the said house couldn't be bothered. If you're wondering, he lived 24/7 in his basement and barely saw the sun, tinkering with his inventions, always and always. His late father named him Bolt.

Now twenty-three years old, he still didn't have the faintest idea why his father named him as such. Bolt could mean many things: a bar that slides into a socket to fasten a door or window; a short, heavy arrow shot from a crossbow; to flee in a speedily fashion… But none of these explained why a father with a completely sane mind would name his son, Bolt.

Anyway, it was a sunny morning and Bolt just so happened to run out of screws and his remaining welding rods weren't enough to finish his new project. So for the first time that month, he went out of his house.

The sun burned his pale skin, the paleness being the result of vitamin D deficiency. Damped air that smelled of urine brushed past his face, almost blowing off his top hat. It was a beautiful day.

He stepped outside, made sure to lock the door, and when he was certain he hadn't forgotten anything, he left and headed to the city.

"Riveting Nuts," said Bolt to the coachman.

Riveting Nuts was a company that manufactured nuts, screws and bolts, gears… From steel sheets to pipes, from drills to mallets, you name it. You can buy them there at a reasonable price with a guaranteed quality. If you get your stuff there, you cannot use the poor materials as an excuse for failure. That would undoubtedly be a skill issue. And for people like Bolt, Riveting Nuts was heaven.

As he sat there in a rickety coach, through the window, he saw an airship with a large screen dangling from it. An advertisement was being shown. It was about the upcoming competition. An annual event for talented individuals like Bolt, aspiring inventors showcasing their new inventions. It was a huge event that will be broadcasted to the whole country for everyone to see.

People from all over the globe would visit Tarniville just to witness the possible birth of the next genius who could possibly further their already advanced civilization.

It was a century ago since Ricky Pimp pushed forward the idea of steam engines and gears. A genius that made people's lives easier. A genius who had a rug to riches story, inspiring thousands of people to be like him.

And for someone like Bolt, Ricky Pimp was a guiding star. The unreachable moon. And someone he could only dream of becoming.

"We've arrived, sir." Said the coachman as he pulled the reins of his two black horses. Bolt handed him ten privets.

Privet was their currency. Square coins that are made up of 65% copper; 35% zinc, giving it a dull golden color. There was also a hole in the middle of the coin. And although the original purpose being for easy carry and to minimize losing them, they were used as jewelry most of the time, mounting them on chains and bracelets. Mostly to show off. Only rich people do this.

"Give me five dozen welding rods. A box of mating and self drilling screws, a dozen eye lags, ten hypoid gears, herringbone, double helical, and a rack and pinion." Said Bolt. "Wait! Include a spiral bevel, sprockets, spur, internal, planetary—"

The young man attending him, who happened to be in his first day of job, couldn't help but suck in a lot of air. "Would you mind listing all that for me, sir?" Said the young man as he pushed a notepad to Bolt.

Bolt pursed his lips. "Okay"

He wrote them quickly. His penmanship was no better than a kindergarten's but legible enough to be read.

And after he got what he needed, he went to the adjacent establishment that sells all types of barbecue and brought his favorite, a slightly burnt boneless chicken feet.

Unbeknownst to him though, a young lady had been eyeing him since the moment he entered the shop. To be more specific, to the large bags he carried with the bright red logo of Riveting Nuts, a screw with a pair of large googly eyes, a wide mouth showing all 32 sets of teeth, and thin limbs.

She followed him to his house and this was when our story began.