This Cogger's Heart

Hunting gryphons was never easy, not even for an ex-Army cogger like myself. An old mated pair like these were harder still despite it being winter and their nest being empty.

Only an idiot would hunt gryphons with a chick in the nest.

I – not an idiot, despite what you may hear – was properly prepared for the hunt, my legs well-oiled and my equipment pristine. I’d spent three days in the area, tracking their hunting patterns, analysing their droppings, watching through my binoculars as they curled around each other in their empty nest at night. Now it was time for the kill.

I’d found the perfect spot, just under a thousand yards away, to set up before dawn on the fourth day. The rocky hillside gave me adequate cover from their keen vision as I surveyed their tree-top home on the opposite knoll. The lay of the slopes and valleys meant that I was higher than them, granting me an almost clear view into their nest.

It would be clean, quick, and more merciful than they deserved.

The tripod of my Dracona Titan 8-Span snapped together quickly, the rifle slotting easily into position. I had my smaller black-powder rifles with me too, twin Aeros 6-Spans, but for creatures with such sensitive hearing the compressed gas firing of the Dracona was my preferred choice. I also had a newfangled multi-faceted scope with built-in barometer but left it off. Too much technology only gets in the way.

I was peering through the brass sights of the Dracona, lining up my first shot, when the crack of black-powder gunfire rang through the sleepy landscape. Cogger instincts meant my hands went first to the power switches of my legs before reaching for an Aeros, and I was running towards the source of the sound before my eyes had a chance to catch up and see what I was charging towards.

That source was a woman – a lady, I belatedly realised as I tackled her to the ground, a heavy pistol sent flying from her dainty gloved hand. Her rich woollen skirts were in disarray, exposing a great deal of her stockinged legs and I hurried to get back to my feet, pistons in my legs whirring.

My embarrassment at her dishevelled state did not silence me.

“What do you think you were doing?” I demanded, aware that I sounded like a schoolteacher.

“Preventing a murder,” she replied primly, getting to her feet and setting herself in order.

I looked pointedly around the valley, devoid of humans and indeed any motion save the now-distant figures of the gryphon pair fleeing. They would not return to their nest for days now. Days I did not have spare to spend here waiting for their return.

“You are here to kill those two helpless leones aviani, are you not?” she asked as she retrieved her pistol.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “And you call that murder?”

“They are intelligent beings. They should be allowed to live out their lives free from human interference."

Part of me wished they’d attacked instead of being scared off by her shot. It could have easily gone that way; gryphons are unpredictable and highly aggressive. “They are animals. Moreover, they are predators.”

She sniffed disdainfully – sniffed – and holstered her pistol with the ease of long practise. “So says the cogger here for the sole purpose of killing them.”

Her attitude was starting to grate. “This cogger,” I said, “simply cares more about human life than that of any feathered cat.”

I didn’t care to continue the conversation, such as it was. I slung the Aeros over my shoulder and turned off my legs, no longer needing the additional mechanical power.

As I turned to head back to my blind, already rehearsing in my head how to tell the locals that I had not managed to solve their gryphon problem, she spoke again in a much less confident voice.

“Human life? What do you mean?”

“You succeeded in scaring them off the nest,” I replied, not looking back. “There should still be the bones of whatever – whomever – they fed their young last season in there, or around the tree. Enough, at least.”

She didn’t reply, and I did not look back as I walked away.

Being a cogger makes you unique. No two coggers have the same upgrades; everything is custom-made to fit our human bodies and needs. We are, in a word, remarkable.

Nearly a year after the failed gryphon hunt, I had overheard enough remarks about my legs while walking from my flat to my favourite gunsmith that I was in quite a temper by the time I opened the door. The familiar scents of black-powder and metal did little to raise my spirits. The shopkeeper, brother of the gunsmith, greeted me by name.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked.

I’d come to exchange my empty Dracona gas cartridges for full ones. We were handling the transaction and my mood was finally lifting when the shop door opened again. He gave me a nod and moved to the end of his counter closer to the door.

“Welcome to Brentner and Brentner, how may I help you?”

I looked over to inspect my fellow customer.

She recognised me before I did her. In my defence, my eyes are still merely human and well-bred women have a certain same-ness to them. Nothing about her was as distinctive as my cogger legs.

Thinking of my legs made me remember hers, and I was lost in awkward recollection for long enough that I did not hear her response to the shopkeeper, nor his to her. All I knew is that he disappeared out back, leaving me leaning against the counter and wishing I was anywhere else while she approached.

“I was wrong about the gryphons,” she said once she was standing near me.

I made an inquisitive noise, rather than saying something scathing.

“I found the remains that you mentioned. I…”

It seemed very uncharacteristic of her to be so uncertain. In the very little time I had spent in her company, she was certain to a fault.

“As you can perhaps imagine, I am of a social class where gryphons are hunted for sport,” she continued after a moment with a gesture that encompassed her whole self – expensively dressed, impeccably mannered, with an air of someone accustomed to deference. “I never liked the practise. Now that I am able to do something about things that I think are morally wrong, I do, whenever I can.”

I thought for a moment before responding, a rarity for me. “That is an admirable goal. Misguided, in that specific instance, but admirable in general.”

“I’m glad you understand. And I’d like you to know that the gryphons did not return to that nest site. I left funds at every post office within thirty miles so a telegram could be sent to me when they were sighted, with the intention of hiring another hunter then. I haven’t heard anything.”

“That’s good,” I replied. It was good. It was responsible.

It was unexpectedly considerate for a woman of her status. Not what I’d have expected her to do after we’d parted ways on that hillside.

“I’m glad you approve,” she said, smiling. The way she smiled, crookedly with a dimple on her left cheek, was as unique as any cogger’s upgrades.

Guard duty was not a favourite employment of mine. But the pay was good, the job was brief, and it got me out of my flat. I was largely ornamental, stationed on the left side of the grand display case with another cogger – civilian, I guessed from the quality of his gears – on the right. On request of the museum curator my legs were permanently powered up for the night despite my explanation that it was a waste of gas. I shouldn’t have bothered; who listens to a lowly cogger anyway?

The elite attendees of this gala ignored us both, as if we were merely part of the furniture, which suited me fine. That is, until I spotted a certain smile across the room.

She was dazzling, dressed in finery and draped with gems equal to any others in the room – a room occupied by least two duchesses, the heiress to the world’s largest airship empire and a foreign princess. Her crooked little smile seemed elegant in this setting, and my very human heart fluttered.

Eventually, she circulated over to the display, peering through the glass with an intensity that was almost familiar. She sniffed disapprovingly and her expression suddenly made perfect sense. I’d seen it on her face on that rocky hill, when she thought I merely a brute killing for sport or profit.

“I scarcely believe how much we value things like this,” she said after a long moment, head turned towards me and voice pitched low enough that not even the other cogger would hear her.

I hummed in agreement, trying to match her subtlety despite my joyful surprise that she’d recognised me, again, and my uncertainty about where the conversation was going.

“Special guards, even,” she continued, then her tone changed. “Who will be stationed here until…?”

Understanding bloomed. “Midnight. We’ve only been hired for this evening’s special exhibition.”

“Such a pity we do not value it more highly,” she said.

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Especially when there are other security issues, such as the broken latches on the second window in the revival artist’s wing.”

I’d noticed that on arrival. A pity the curator had proven he didn’t want to listen to me. I didn’t know what she intended, or even why, but I was starting to appreciate this unusual woman’s moral compass.

She blessed me with her dimpled smile and returned to the party.

The following day, all the newspaper headlines expressed shock and dismay over a terrible museum heist. I bought a copy of each.

The next autumn was uncommonly mild, enough so that I’d allowed myself to be persuaded by some old Army friends to holiday at the Riviera. We jaunted around in pleasure boats, attempted to fish, and startled the locals with our tolerance for drink. Much as I enjoyed the vacation my legs did not appreciate the salty air and I spent the return airship journey gently oiling my gears as we wafted through the sky toward the spires of my urban home.

Back at my flat I collected my mail and resolved to deal with my baggage the next day. An envelope from Brentner and Brentner surprised me and I slit it open immediately. Two folded pages of vastly different quality paper were inside.

I began with the one stamped with the gunsmith’s monogram. It was a simple typed letter, advising that they were sending the other enclosed letter to me on behalf of one of their other customers, who had been quite insistent about acquiring my address. They refused to give out my details but had compromised with her by sending the letter on her behalf.

Her.

My fingers were uncharacteristically clumsy as I unfolded the other letter, this one handwritten on thick, smooth parchment lightly scented of something very feminine, very her.

Dear cogger, the letter began, and I realised she didn’t know my name any more than I knew hers. I continued to read.

I will keep this missive brief, as I hope to speak with you about its contents in person. I am preparing for an expedition and am in need of a hired protector. You are obviously skilled with guns, possess mechanical enhancements, and appear to have that rare thing we call common sense.

If you are interested, please come to the below address any afternoon before the end of the month, as I will be departing on the first of the next. I can provide the details that I do not wish to put into writing when we meet.

An address for a social club far beyond any I could gain entry to on my own merits followed, then the letter concluded with a signature penned with such complex flourish that I still could not make out her name.

I was intrigued and abandoned the rest of my unopened mail to go deal with my luggage immediately, instead of tomorrow. Tomorrow was suddenly holding far more interesting plans.

Hunting dragonets was far more challenging than hunting gryphons. They were smaller, faster, better camouflaged, and this sub-species diurnal as well.

Fortunately, hunting the humans who were seeking to capture the tiny serpentes aviani to sell as exotic pets was far simpler.

My lady looked down her nose at the poachers as I slotted another mesh canister into my modified gas-firing net launcher. Based on the Aeros mechanisms it had been made to my specifications but paid for by my lady, so it was a downright pleasure to use and eminently functional, as evidenced by the three poachers tangled in my net.

“I cannot abide men like you,” she said disdainfully to our catch.

One of them sneered at her, trying to exert dominance while flat on his back with her boots dangerously close to his head.

“We ain’t doing anything wrong,” he argued. “There’s no law against it.”

“That’s true,” I said casually, addressing the comment to my lady. “It’s not illegal to trap dragonets. And out in these forests, so very far from the nearest bastion of civilization, even if it was illegal, who could stop them?”

“That’s right. There’s no law enforcement out here to enforce, well, any laws, really.” Her smile was pure mischief when directed at me; savage when she turned her face back down to the trapped poachers.

“With that in mind,” she continued, her words polite but her tone vicious. “I think you should leave these helpless creatures be. We wouldn’t want anything happening to you in these lawless lands.”

She rested a hand on her holstered pistol to make her point very clear. For further emphasis I slung the net launcher over my shoulder and unsheathed my knife. The knife was another gift from her at the start of this journey, our fourth expedition together to stop various poachers and hunters, looters and plunderers. It looked as wickedly sharp as it was.

I heard their startled inhales and grinned.

“Let me get you out of that net,” I said with false kindness.

We made a big show of it, my lady and I, helping the men get untangled and back on their feet. We watched them trudge back towards the road as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving us alone with the rousing dragonets. Our own camp was nearby, and we would not leave the colony until we were sure they’d be safe.

“A job well done, cogger of mine,” she said, slipping her elegant hand into my calloused one.

I gently squeezed her fingers in reply and in the fading light I saw that dimple appear in her cheek.

This Cogger's Heart was written for Writing Battle's Verdant Owl competition in 2026 where I finished in the top sixteen and had a thoroughly wonderful time.