Age of Bronze

Welcome to London, a city running on automatons and steam. A city where transportation is airships and hot-air balloons and electric horseless carriages. A city stuck in the past, but very much in the future.
The time is now. The year is 1892.
Kate Madeline, the Captain of the Good Ship Carmen and overall Steampunk Pirate, has made her name in this world. Even if they aren't very good names. But she isn't from this world--she is from the 21st Century England. She is a Time Traveller Pirate, able to move through time and, sometimes, space. Her family think's she dead, and have no knowledge of her whereabouts.
But in London, robberies and murders are taking place. These are swiftly followed by man-hunts. The Police has reined Kate into helping.
But when the DNA found on the body of a victim has traces of metal embedded into it and the DNA is that of a Sailor who has been dead for over a year, things aren't adding up the way they should. But this man is far from dead . .


12. XI







 I’d been up since the drizzly first sign of a dull and foggy dawn, bathed and dressed by seven, and off the ship by eight. Jefferson had been deeply sleeping, lying curled up on the largest sofa when I’d surfaced from my rooms, and so I had been extra cautious in my stepping so not as to wake him with the sounds of my heels against the wood.

    Jeremy had caught me in the galley as I’d fixed myself a cup of green tea and a light breakfast of egg on toast, and had asked me if I’d wished to share a carriage with him, but he was going north of the city to Isaac’s townhouse and I south to Bethlem so I had politely declined his offer—as well as telling him to say hello to the darling Isaac for me.

    The ride to Bedlam—or Bethlem Hospital, to give it its proper name—had lasted about ten minutes, and I’d waited for God knows how long at the stop on the bridge.

    Now, I stood in front of the wrought iron gates, staring down at the whole pillar-and-pediment façade of the hospital, one that was half-smouldered in the dense fog, with my head and expensive red dress covered from the in-for-the-day rain by an umbrella. Even my coat didn’t keep the bite of the cold away. Typical British, autumnal weather.

    Apart from the occasional sound of whistling and wheels of carts from the traders going about with their daily wares, and a carriage riding by, there was nothing. The fog impaired vision, and from what I could see the street was now completely empty.

    I glanced over the gates for a sign of entrance, and after a moment saw the intercom built into the right-hand pillar, a modern one with chrome features and a small camera at the top. I pressed the button labelled ‘reception’ and waited.

    A few seconds later a light, female voice picked up. “Hello? Miss, hello?”

    I leaned in so that my voice wouldn’t be quite as muffled by the sudden onset on the downpour. I suddenly wished I had ignored Esmeralda’s letter and stayed at home, in the warmth—but it was too late now, I was here. “Yes, hello. I received a letter from one of the patients of the establishment in the late hours of last night, I was out and so my friend delivered it to me after taking it from the hands of a street urchin.”

    At the other end of the intercom I heard the woman sigh, a sigh then followed by the shuffle of papers. “They’ve been told to stop sending out letters, we’ll have to deal with that,” she said offside, to who I presumed was either another receptionist or a Sister there. “Sorry about that. Do you mind telling me which patient it was?” she said to me after a beat of no speech and the fast type of keys.

    “Yes, um . . . Esmeralda.” I half expected her to say there was no one going by the name of Esmeralda living at the hospital.

    “Oh. Then that’s fine,” she murmured instead. “Just wait there while I open the gates, and then head down to the main doors so that you can log in at reception.”

    I nodded, even though there was no one around to actually nod to—it was a reflex, I did it on the phone or when reading e-mails too—and crossed my heels as I waited for the gates to open, but when they did (albeit very slowly) I, being the impatient type that I was, only waited until there was a big enough gap for me to slip through.

    If I hadn’t been in a hurry, and the visibility was not minimal, I may have taken a few minutes to take in the scenery—but I was in a hurry, and the visibility was minimal, so I hurried down the path and ended up at the row of wood-and-glass doors quickly. I shook the rain off my umbrella and folded it before entering the building, hooking it onto my wrist with the handle.

    The reception of the hospital was simple enough, with whitewashed walls that had a couple of pictures hanging from the picture-rails, a small seating area with a table and a cluster of Chesterfields, and a long, mahogany reception desk taking up most of the room.

    There were two women stood behind the desk, one older and plump and the other younger and thinner, and they were both dressed in standard Sister uniform. And they were both staring wide-eyed at me.

    The older one was the first to clear her throat and greet me. “Welcome, Miss Madeline,” she said with a small smile. See, my name get’s everywhere. “I must say I did not realise it was you.”

    I looked at her for a moment before a sense of realisation smacked me in the face. “Sister Barbara, good morning,” I breathed, walking over to the desk. “It’s been a long time.”

    Sister Barbara used to be one of the nurses working on the hospital ward at the Yard, where I’d end up most days for either being arrested for theft or just generally getting myself into a brawl—she was the one who used to fix up my injuries.

    “Have you been getting into fights again, Katherine?” she asked, gesturing to the almost faded bruises on my face.

    “I actually haven’t,” I said, because it was at least half the truth. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time—pub brawl I tried to break up—and well . . .” I held up my braced wrist. “This happened.”

    She sighed and shook her head. “Kids these days,” she muttered, half to herself.

    “I’m not a child—I’m twenty-two!”

    “Young adults these days,” she said, “better?”

    I smiled and nodded.

    Silence prevailed for a few seconds before the other Sister, whom I didn’t recognise at all, raised her voice. “You said Esmeralda sent you a letter?” She is the one I had talked to over the intercom.

    “Um, yes. Yes, she said I was to tell you that she requested an audience with me,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my coat to retrieve the letter and hold it out to the woman.

    She nodded and I watched her arms move as she used her hands to find something below the top shelf of the desk. When she found what she was looking for, she gave a small “a-ha” and dropped a flat, rectangular object onto the desk. I recognised it immediately, as I had one exactly like it back on the ship on a table in the main hallway. It was a digital log book, and whereas this one has signatures for those who had visited the hospital, the one on the Carmen simply had the scrawny signatures of the shipmates.

    I also heard the buzz of a button, which I didn’t know the meaning of, but I didn’t question. Instead, I bent slightly and wrote my signature on the digital page, except it took up more than one box because the spaces were small and my signature was large.

    “Thank you, Miss Madeline.” She took back the tablet and then gestured with one hand to something behind me. “Ben is here to escort you to Mrs Lockhart’s room. Good morning Benjamin.”

    I swirled around to see a dark skinned man, thick armed and thick-chested, stood behind me. I had to crane my neck to look at his face, which was scarred on one side from the right corner of his mouth to his hairline. “Oh, hello there.”

    He looked down at me with a straight face. “Umbrella?”


    “Leave your umbrella here, miss.”

    I glanced at Sister Barbara, but she just looked at me, so I glanced back at Ben and his lifeless expression. There was something about him. “Why?”

    “The end looks sharp; it could be used as a weapon.”

    I barked a laugh. “Do you honestly believe I’ll use this thing as a weapon? How low rate that would be!”

    “Not you, miss,” he muttered, still with no expression in his face. He was too apathetic. “But if a patient was to get a hold of it then . . .”

    “Fine,” I sighed. I unhooked the handle from my wrist and leant it carefully against the side of the desk. “Happy?”

    He nodded, though rather slowly. “Come with me.”



As it turns out, Bedlam had two separate hallways, one for visitors and one for patients, and it was a system of segregation. Apparently it was also to keep visitors safe, but I couldn’t see that being true—plus the hallway I’d walked down was one with windows set at intervals in which different rooms could be seen through, through one I’d seen an electric chair stood on a platform and surrounded by wired machines, through another was a chair hanging precariously over a large tank of icy-looking water, a padded room that must have had a window so that the person in there could be monitored, and finally one full of padded tables with straps and metal tables alike. All had been empty.

    It was eerie. It made the place seem abandoned, and abandoned, ancient asylums were beautiful in a tragic way.

    Now, however, I didn’t realise that Ben had suddenly stopped walking, and since I was looking at the images on the walls I ended up walking straight into his back.

    “Sorry,” I muttered, stepping straight back and used my hands to flatten down my dress.

    “We are here,” he muttered before he stepped aside.

    There wasn’t something quite right about the wall and door in front of us. After a moment I realised that both were curved.

    “Thank you for escorting me,” I said with a smile, side-stepping around him.

    “You have an hour,” he muttered before he turned and walked away.

    I grasped the two round door handles, turned them, and pushed the doors open. They creaked aggressively, as aggressively as creaking doors could, so I only opened them as much as I needed to in order to fit through, and then turned around briefly to close them.

    The potent, almost offensive smell of burning incense drifted up my nose and made me choke. I glanced over my shoulder and stared. The round room was decorated in all sorts of shades of purple and pink and black, the walls were papered with pink flowers on a white background, with three windows built into them with artificial views that I guessed could be controlled by a remote somewhere. In the centre of the room was a set of plush chairs surrounding a glass table. The bed was just to the right of that set of chairs, a huge thing with a thick draping canopy.

    I doubt any other patients live like this. So why does she?

    “You mustn’t lurk in doorways, my dear,” a female voice, that didn’t sound like Esmeralda and yet did at the same time, murmurs. “It’s considered rude and unfriendly by some, including myself.”

    I moved away from where I was and go to stand near the centre of the room, leant against the side of one of the chairs. From here I saw that a tea tray was set out on top of the glass of the table.

    “I was starting to get worried when the clock went past nine,” the voice said, an amusing tone to it. “But I knew you wouldn’t be as unkind as to not show up. Sit down dear, make yourself at home. How do you like my chamber?”

    “It’s . . .” I started but my voice trailed off. I slid around the chair and sat down in it, practically melting into the cushions it was that soft. “It’s rather different than what I thought it would be like.”

    There was a laugh from near the canopy of that bed. I looked over but could see nothing. After a moment a woman emerged from behind the canopy, a woman no older than thirty. Her dark brown hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders and her blue eyes watched me. She wore a ruffled blouse with an under bust corset over it, a brown pinstripe skirt that gathered at the front so it fell to the knees, stockings, and black garden boots. I was pretty sure I had an ensemble like it in my wardrobe.

    “Who the hell are you?” I said, standing up and reaching down for the knife I slid down the side of my boot this morning.

    “I see you haven’t changed much, you’re still missing a little thing called being courteous.”

    “Who are you?”

    “Last time I checked my name is Esmeralda Victoria Lockhart,” she murmured, taking a couple of steps forward.

    I laughed, head thrown back. “Do you think me stupid? Madame Esmeralda is at least seventy.”

    “Actually,” she started and I brought my head back straight just in time for her to sit down. “Actually the Madame Esmeralda you met almost five years ago was the present form in that world, I am a past, younger form brought to the present of this world by myself.”

    My eyebrows shot into my hairline. “What?”

    “I am seventy years old, but I am from one of the most distinguished Traveller heritages, dating back hundreds of years. So, when you’re as experienced a Traveller as I am, you are able to delve into your own timelines.”

    “But Traveller’s aren’t supposed to do that, it messes with the timelines.”

    She giggled. “You still don’t know a bloody thing about time travel, do you? Not really,” she said after her giggling subsided. “There are only two part of time Traveller’s are not meant to venture to: their death, and the time before their birth. Travelling to those two events can only have catastrophic consequences.”


    “My actions, my coming to the present from the past, does not affect my past, present or future. I am my past form with my present’s mind.”

    I pinched my thumb and index finger against the bridge of my nose. “I really do not understand what you are saying. How can you, a past age, be here?”

    “Because I’m a hell of a lot better at Travelling than you. You’d be surprised at what I can do.”

    “But . . . but you—you gave your travelling piece to me!”

    “I never did that; I never said I did that. In that shop, five years ago, I gave you one of the two Travelling Pieces I had in my possession. I told you that I was sure we would meet again, and here we are.”

    I stared at her for a moment, eyes wide with incredulity. “You’re truly Madame Esmeralda?”

    She smiled and gestured to herself. “The only one.”

    There were a number of things I wanted to say to her, a range of questions, but I said known of them. Instead I blurted out, rather unceremoniously, “Why did you send me a letter asking me to meet you?”

    “Did you not read the contents of my letter?” she asked, running a painted nail over the front of the packet of tarot cards on the table beside her. “You have gotten yourself caught up in the affairs of a man who is half metal, in a world you know nothing about. You’re putting yourself in danger, Katherine, and you don’t even realise.”

    I retook the seat across from her, tucking my hands into my lap. “What do you mean?”

    “These events go far further than this man you have been reunited with, or the woman from the media, or the man you found in that warehouse—”

    “How do you know about that?”

    She smiled with one corner of her mouth, a little smirk. “I’m not as isolated in this place as you might think. I all but run this place, which is why I live in the luxury I do. I have eyes and ears all over this city, I see and hear things,” she said and picked up the tarot card pack. The cover was a simple one, a traditional one of dark blue and gold. “And are you forgetting I am a Traveller as well as psychic, and a much more experienced one than you. I have seen the future of various worlds, and the futures of various people. I have seen your future.”

    I glanced up at her from the tarot deck she was placing on the table between us, leaving the packet on the arm of her chair. “Then maybe you’d tell me about my future, if you’ve seen it.”

    She let out a shrill of a laugh. “It doesn’t work that way, my dear. You know a future cannot be told until you’ve lived it.”

    “And yet you’ve seen your own future?”

    “I’ve seen my past, present and future more times than you’ve read Jane Eyre.

    “Oh,” I said, “well I highly doubt that. I love Jane Eyre. Therefore I’ve read it many, many times.” I shook my head abruptly and curled and uncurled my fingers. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. What do you want from me, Esmeralda? Why call for me now? And don’t just say it’s because I’m putting myself in danger, because I’m a pirate, I do that every day. What is this world you spoke of, this one I know nothing about?”

    “You’re a Traveller, Katherine; you have probably seen the world I speak of.”

    “How can I have, when I do not what world you speak of?”

    “The world of metal. The new bronze age,” she murmured as she shuffled her tarot deck. “You may not realise it but we Travellers dream of the future without having to have seen it, it leaks into the unconscious recesses of our minds and bleeds out when we sleep. So do not try to lie to me and say you have not seen this world of bronze, because I can tell by the recognition in your eyes that you have.”

    I hesitated before nodding and glanced down at my hands once more. “I’ve seen it. I’ve dreamt of the world you speak of, yes. The buildings are of bronze, the roads are pitch, flakes of metal drift in the breeze, and the sun hangs limply in a sky so polluted it is nothing more than thick, brown smog. There is no life, only machines.”

    “I have seen life in my dreams of that world,” Esmeralda said as she parted her tarot set and placed them on the table, one above the other. Did she want to do a reading for me? I didn’t believe in that stuff. “Humans are chained up like slaves, shuffling along like lambs to the slaughter. But there are only a handful of humans left in that world, there are no animals. There can be no animals, because there is no water and hardly any plants. It is an awful world.”

    “What is it?” I asked and met her line of sight. “What world is it? It cannot be a coincidence that the both of us have dreams about it.”

    “It is this world,” she said. “Or, at least, the future of this world if what happens does happen. But the event is not predestined, it can be stopped.”

    “And how is it linked to me?”

    “Not to you precisely, but to your friend.”

    “My friend?”

    She sighed out of her nose. “Your Jefferson, the man that is half metal. Your rediscovery of him, your acceptance of him still being alive, your caring for him and giving him a place to stay—it has all combined to weave you into that dreadful world. Jefferson is part of that world; you are part of this world. He is part of the world that will happen if it is not stopped.”

    “I . . . don’t understand.”

    “You will,” she murmured. “But for now I’ll tell you this: stop, Katherine. Stop before you’re in too deep. Stop before you get yourself hurt, because you will. Your Jefferson is so far into this that he cannot get out, even though he does not understand it; do not go down with him. Your Jefferson is half-metal, he injures and kills for his creator, for his twisted Victor Frankenstein—”

    “Unwillingly!” I growled. “His kills for his . . . creator as you call whomever it is that did this vile thing to him, that turned him into what he is. Jefferson did not ask for this, he did not ask for any of this. You have not seen him, Esmeralda, so don’t you dare speak to me about him killing, don’t you dare make him out to be some emotionless machine!” Without realising it I’d sprang to my feet, staring down at her with anger shaking my limbs slightly. “You have not seen him break down; you have not seen the guilt barrel down on him. Yes he has killed, but so have I! Yes he has killed, but you did not see the fear in his eyes, the hurt, yesterday when I told him—you did not have to endure his reaction!”

    “Katherine Madeline Willows, sit down right now!” she ordered. I did so, albeit slowly, because the wrath of a psychic in Bedlam is not something I wanted to come across. “I did not mean to cause offence, Katherine, you must know that,” she said more calmly, “I just don’t want you to do something stupid.”

    “It’s a habit of mine to do at least two stupid things every day.”

    She scowled at me. “Getting involved in this, so involved you cannot turn back, with only cause you great pain. I know that, Katherine, because I have seen you future if you make a certain decision.”

    “Well . . .” I started and twirled a loose strand of my hair around my index finger. “Can you tell me this decision so I won’t make it?”

    “You know I cannot do that,” she said and gestured to the cards laid out on the table. “How about we consult the cards?”

    “You know I don’t believe in that.”

    She shrugged and leant forward. “We won’t do it the conventional way; there will be no questions but simply a four-card spread—”

    “I do not wish to do so,” I said and curled my hands into fists.

    She looked at me squarely for a moment, her hand hovering over a card before she pulled it back. “Then I shall tell you one thing, Katherine, we all reach moments in our lives when we come across a fork in the road of our life, and we must choose which path to take—only the destination for both the short-cut and the long route is our death, and they determine the length of our lives. Your decision, however, will not only affect the length of your own life but the lives of those around you as well, the lives of all those you care about.”

    “You already seem to know the decision I will make, so you are being less than helpful.”

    “You have never been fated to lead a simple life, my dear. You will suffer, and suffer greatly.”

    I pushed myself out of the chair I was sat in, unable to listen to any more of her words. She might as well have been speaking in riddles, for all the sense she was making. I did not want to hear any more of what she had to say, no more answers that barely answered anything, no more words that shed no light.

    “We are done here,” I spat and stalked off to the door. My hand was just about to twist the doorknob when she murmured:

    “You will lose people, Katherine. You will lose one to the blade, others to the bullet, and one you will kill yourself.”

    My eyes widened and I released a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. “Then tell me my decision so I won’t make it, and then I won’t lose anyone,” I whispered, my breathing ragged.

    “Some things are predestined, death is one of them. You cannot stop death, nor can you delay it. People die when they are fated to die, and for all you are, Katherine, death is the one thing you cannot stop.”

    I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself down. Not now, not here, not again.

    “Why are you telling me this? Why tell me that those who I care about will die? Why tell me I will kill someone I care about?”

    “To prepare you.”

    I gave a short, incredulous huff of a laugh. “To prepare me? Death of a loved one is not something one can be prepared for.”

    “Forewarning means less hurt.”

    I shook my head. “Then you don’t know anything, Esmeralda. The moment someone is born is a forewarning that someday they will die, but it doesn’t lessen the hurt experienced when they are taken. The death of someone hurts, and this idea of forewarning does not change it.”

    “You think I am not aware of that? You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose a loved one?” she asked, a hint of anger in her voice. “I know more so than you, I will always know more so than you.”

    I wanted to leave, I just wanted to leave this place and never return, to get to my ship and drown away the memories of this damn meeting with whiskey and rum. “I should never have come here,” I murmured. “My life would have been so much better had I not come here and heard the words you’ve said to me, if I’d not heard the fact that I will lose people I love. That I will kill somebody I love. Is that the only reason you wanted me here, Esmeralda, that reason and to tell me to leave Jefferson alone. I cannot do the thing you ask of me, Madame, I cannot abandon him.”

    She was silent for a few moments, for what seemed like an eternity, but then she simple said, “Then I will give you advice, my dear Katherine: do not trust anyone, the world you think you know is much different to the world you live in. So do not trust anyone, not even those you do trust.”

    I gave a short huff of a laugh. “It’s a good thing I trust no one then.”

    “We both know that isn’t true,” she remarked. “But most of all, beware the metal hearts.”

    I couldn’t take anymore of any of this. In a haste I threw the door open and ran out, my heels clicking frantically along the floor as I retraced the corridors back to the reception. I had to get out here, get so far away from here. I had to find somewhere quiet and release all the emotions bubbling up inside me.

    I needed a strong drink. And a lot of it.

    How could she say such things so matter-of-factly, as if it was all common knowledge? How could she say so simply that I would kill someone I cared about?—how could anything good come from knowing this? Because now I’ll just spend every moment in constant paranoia, checking and rechecking that nothing I did would be fatal to that person, whoever that person was.

    That was the horrible part, the knowing but the not knowing just who exactly they were. Leo? Jefferson? Jeremy? Lutz? Someone I hadn’t met yet but would grow to care for?

    If anything happened to any of them and I knew it was my fault, that I’d killed them, I didn’t think I’d be able to live with myself.

    How could she just say that?!

    And what did she mean by telling me to beware the metal hearts? Did she mean Jefferson? I mean, she had spent most of our meeting basically telling me to leave him alone.

    As soon as I reached the reception, I just ran through it, not caring at all for my umbrella because I had ten others, and fled out of doors whilst being aware of the startled faces of the staff gathered there. I reached the gate a minute later and allowed myself to collapse to my knees on the street, my chest full of shooting pains that weren’t just caused from running in a tight corset. I knelt on the ground for a couple of minutes, hands clutching the rails, whilst I calmed my breathing and heart rate because no way in hell was I having another panic attack two days running.

    Heavy raindrops splashed against my face, dampening my hair so it fell from its bun and dangled limply in front of my eyes. There was the sound of wheels getting nearer, a carriage being pulled along the street, until suddenly it came to an abrupt halt and I could see a dark silhouette in front of me. I glanced up to see a carriage that looked like it had stepped out of a fairytale, jet black with a rococo design and an ornate ‘N’ on the door. The blood red curtain was hung over the round window, obscuring the interior. There were two mechanical horses pulling the carriage, their bronze splashed with rain water, and a coachman peering at me from the top of the carriage, only his hood was so deep I could see none of his features.

    The door swung open and a gloved hand wrapped around the doorframe. The interior was dimly lit, enough that I could make out the two black leather benches, and the silhouette of the figure the hand belonged to. There was a flash of something, after a second I realised it was a walking cane that tapped on the floor of the carriage. It must have tapped a release button, for a second later two steps emerged from the floor of the carriage and slammed against the pavement.

    The figure in the carriage inched forward slightly, enough for me to see a coat with its collar upturned, and a top hat. “Did my carriage splash you, my dear?” said the deep, monotone voice of the figure. Of the man.

    I stood up automatically with the help of the railing, and brushed down my dress. “Oh no, sir, your carriage did not. The only reason my dress is damp is because I tripped and fell.”

    “Do you need a ride to anywhere?” he asked after a moment.

    My eyebrows shot into my hairline. “No, no. I’m probably not heading the way you were going, anyway. It’s quite alright, I can walk.”

    “In this dreadful weather? You don’t even have an umbrella.”

    “A little water cannot hurt one, sir. I can assure you that I’m quite fine to walk.”

    There was the sound of feet hitting the ground. I turned my head to see that the coachman had jumped from his place and was now stood uncomfortably close. “Oh,” the man in the carriage said, and I looked back at him. “But I insist on giving you a ride back to your ship, Miss Willows.”

    A shiver ran down my spine. Suddenly it wasn’t the rain that was making me feel cold; my blood turned to ice in my veins and drained from my face. I composed my features in neutrality before saying, “I’m sorry, sir, but I rather think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

    “I rather think that I haven’t,” he replied viciously.

    A hand pressed against my back, the cold hand of the coachman. I jerked back and away, making to flee but his hand clamped around my left wrist. I howled in pain and lashed out with my other hand, managing to knock his hood back—

    Then I froze. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting the coachman to look like, but the reality was certainly very different. His head, though shaped like a humans, had no skin and instead was fashioned from bronze. His eyes seemed to be made from glass, with some sort of mirror behind them so they looked more real. He had no nose or mouth, but it was obvious why he didn’t need one.

    The coachman wasn’t human. The coachman was an automaton.

    And I suddenly knew just who the man in the carriage was, because suddenly it was completely obvious. I knew who the man was because there was only one person he could be. And when he spoke his next words after letting out a deep sigh, my suspicion was confirmed.

    “You have something, or rather someone, that belongs to me. I’d like to have him back. I’d like you to return my creation to me. I’d like you to return Jefferson Taylor-Adams to his maker’s hands.”



A/N: dun, dun, DUN!

So look, no more hiatus for this story, woo! We are now just under halfway through this story, so the plot is picking up pace and getting thicker . . .

Also, I've been listening to music quite a lot of the day whilst writing this, mostly Bastille, London Grammar, and Young Guns, so I've recently realised that the song 'Endless Grey' by Young Guns fits perfectly for Jefferson, so I suggest y'all go listen to it (btw, YG are my favourite band. Ever!)

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