The twelve-foot automated Ironclad war engine did not slow down as it tore through the outer yard switches of District Seven. Its massive, twin-mounted iron plows churned through the ballast stone, throwing showers of dangerous gravel against the corrugated steel walls of the surrounding foundries.
From its upper boiler housing, two heavy steam-driven harpoons extend outward, their thick steel cables whipping violently through the grease-laden rain.
"Miller! Hold the mainline position!" Prince Bastian barked, his gravelly voice slamming through the heavy hiss of escaping steam.
He didn't waste time aiming his side-arm at the vehicle's five-inch pig-iron armor plating. He turned hard on his heel, his heavy wool coat soaking up the freezing grease-rain as he sprinted across the timber platform toward a group of twenty union ironworkers huddled behind a stack of cold boiler plates.
