← It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton
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- [00:00]
Ann
I was never really a runner. The way I see running is a gift, especially when you have stage four cancer. I'm Ann. I'm running the Boston Marathon presented by bank of America. I run for Dana Farber Cancer Institute to give people like me a chance to thrive in life, even with cancer.
- [00:19]
Wil Wheaton
Join bank of America in helping Anne's cause. Give if you can at B of a dot com SUPPORTANN what would you like the power to do? References to charitable organizations is not endorsement by bank of America Corporation.
- [00:29]
Unknown
Copyright 2025 the EGO Power Plus Savings Event is on at lows right now. Get a free select EGO 56 volt battery with purchase of a select trimmer, blower or mower kit. That's a $299 value. Plus. Shop today for new and exclusive items you need for your lawn, so get ready for spring with the latest in innovation from EGO, the 1 rated brand in cordless outdoor power. Only at Lowes we help you save. Offer valid through 416. Selection varies by location while supplies last.
- [01:25]
Wil Wheaton
Hello friends. Welcome. I'm Wil Wheaton and it's storytime. The heart wants what it wants, and it will fight for it with a passion and fury that is unimaginable until you fall in love and you feel it for yourself. Today I'll take you to a time when two consenting adults fulfilling their heart's most intimate desire could lead to prison or worse. A time when the truth of who you loved had to be hidden away in the most secretive places. A time when even the most powerful of men could be destroyed with a single, carefully uttered whisper. You are about to meet one of those men at a moment of great consequence in his life. A moment when his heart's desire is at his fingertips, but only if he can grasp a cold brass hand and find the hidden heart of Brass Attending. The hidden Heart of Brass Attending By Christopher Scott My business depended on a certain mix of violence, tragedy, and unfulfilled potential. On the streets of Hell's Kitchen during Prohibition, no cocktail could be found in greater abundance. John Bradley, my assistant, stopped mid step on the broken sidewalk, gazed at the gauge on his residual psychometer, and declared, here. Nearby, a few drops of blood remained on the sidewalk, nothing I hadn't seen before, dozens of times. But since this crime scene was so much more personal, I needed a distraction. Bring the shunt quickly, I said. Jimmy, my apprentice, pushed the spectral shunt, a wooden and wheeled monstrosity covered with more than a dozen dials and switches, into position and thus began what would be my final Sparking Bradley and Jimmy were no strangers to New York's meaner streets. As for me, a silver spoon from the gilded townhomes on Fifth Avenue, I had long had reasons beyond my work to make surreptitious visits to the more desperate neighborhoods of the city. I had itches. I preferred to scratch outside the confined borders of high society. Are you ready, Mr. McCutcheon? Bradley asked. As ready as I'm going to get, I responded while rubbing my sore left hip. Something in there had been dogging me for days. Truth be told, I could have used several more days to research my risky undertaking. But while poltergeists could linger for months or years, more often they only lasted for a few days before moving on. And I couldn't take the chance of losing my opportunity forever. My opportunity to undo the damage of a rich man's sense of entitlement. How do you feel, Jimmy? I asked. Are you feeling appropriately alluring? I sure am, Mr. McCutcheon. I just dare one to haunt me. Sparking a brass attending invited danger and profit in equal measure. The brass automatons, animated by the spirit of a recent dearly departed, courted the favor of New York's elite, who longed for servants unencumbered by constitutional rights. After all, the poltergeist already got its shot at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, right? Convenient loophole for the Astors, the Rockefellers, and the like. If that's the profit part, what's the danger? Well, take an angry spirit and give it access to the corporeality for which it longs, and it's bound to start a ruckus. Bradley placed a copper skull cap on the boy and then screwed a spike of the same metal into the top the brass attending's head. Both cap and spike were tethered by conductive wiring to the spectral shunt, which he then used to attune the psychometric profile of the lure Jimmy to that of the desired poltergeist, the active psychometer, a much smaller box with a purpose similar to the residual psychometer. One looked for where spirits had been, the other looked for where they were silently scanned for our target. Jimmy was 15. Innocent and naive for 15, but when your job is to appeal to a poltergeist looking to make trouble, those traits come in handy. While we all waited for the ghost to arrive, Jimmy bounced on his feet with excitement. Sixteen years ago I had bounced the same way when I placed the cap on my head for the first time. Back then I was a one man show. Incredibly dangerous, for sure. A Miracle I survived, but I had loved it. But as is often the case, one's dreams at 18 don't always predict one's priorities later on. In theory, Jimmy would remain safely out of harm's way. At the last second, just before the poltergeist grabbed hold, Bradley would engage the master switch and channel the disgruntled spirit into the inanimate brass statue Bradley had placed opposite Jimmy on the other side of the shunt. Six New York police stood at the ready should the freshly sparked brass attending lash out. It was anyone's guess where those police were the night John Doe, now poltergeist, was murdered on this very sidewalk, probably at the Lamppost Tavern, downing pints. But then I had sat a mere block away from the scene, at a different kind of establishment, nursing my third bourbon of the evening and cursing my own stupidity, equally oblivious to the murderous assault taking place and my own role in it. Bradley powered up the shunt and electricity began to pop and sizzle as it arced between Jimmy and the brass attending that awaited its animus. The apparatus was designed to protect our bait, but the mop of curly black hair hanging beneath the copper cap began to rise as it acquired a bit of the charge. Jimmy laughed. The exact numbers were a closely guarded secret in the business, but no small number of apprentices were electrocuted during sparkings. The entire brass attending industry invited disaster, but Wall street couldn't get enough. At age 18, I had taken the inheritance left to me when my parents went down on the Titanic and tossed it into the brand new and highly speculative business of spectral engineering. By 1928, at age 34, I had created over 500 of the automatons and increased my fortune 20 fold. For those 16 years I shared the self serving viewpoint of the Astors and the Rockefellers. So I had harvested souls trapped betwixt this life and the next like they were any other exploitable resource. I'd like to say some great moral epiphany had finally penetrated my thick shell of pride and selfishness, but it. It hadn't. In the end, the heart wants what the heart wants. And despite my success, my heart now wanted something else. No, not something else. Someone. Someone I had come dangerously close to losing forever. I wondered if my actions today represented a true change of heart, or if I had rationalized it that way. In the end, like everyone else, I knew precious little of about the motivations of the omnipresent, but silent unless spoken to brass attending. Either way, I had to get on with it. Into position, Mr. McCutcheon, Bradley instructed. He read my mind. Normally it would be our wealthy client receiving the directions as we prepared to bind the captured spirit to a second life of servitude. I had told Bradley, Jimmy, and the NYPD I intended to bind the brass attending to myself so as to spare them any legal ramifications. A reward to celebrate my years of success. In reality, I planned to sabotage the sparking and leave the attending sparked but unbound. I had done my homework. John Doe was knifed from behind with no warning. A random act of violence, according to the police. But I doubted that the poltergeist's imprinted trauma wouldn't be anything confrontational, but instead a desperate question of why. Maybe even spoken aloud as he exsanguinated on the sidewalk. I gambled the brass attending wouldn't lash out if I was wrong. Well, we would all be glad the NYPD was here doing their job instead of at the lamp post knocking back a few. The active psychometer crackled to life, indicating John Doe's anguished soul drew near. Ready yourselves quickly, bradley commanded. I stepped up, face to face with the still lifeless brass attending, cringing when my hip complained again. The potential danger jolted me with familiar yet undefinable excitement, but this time I found it laced with something new. Guilt. I felt guilty to be thrilled while endangering the lives of eight other people. I took a breath and stared into the eyes of the attending. Instead of envisioning myself dominating the brass man so as to bind it to me, I imagined myself its equal and it the master of its own future. Here it comes. Called out Bradley. The electricity surged. Jimmy's hair stood out. Stick straight. Still, he laughed. The arcs turned from their proper bluish white to a supernatural purple and green and flooded the automaton with spectral energy. The brass rippled, then shifted in a gravity defying manner and finally transformed from the shape of a faceless statue of primitive shape to the intricately detailed simulacrum of the poltergeist's former earthly visage. In this case, a handsome man about five years my junior. As it finished forming, the brass attending's face became a portrait of shock and surprise. I could almost feel the knife plunging into my own back. The life drained from his eyes again and again as it struggled in its death loop. I looked for any sign of recognition. None could be seen. Unsurprising, it could take hours for the newly sparked to set aside the deaths they were reliving, sometimes for years, and make sense of their new existence. While he hadn't recognized me. I certainly recognized the simulacrum of John Doe. As I said, I had done my homework. I risked everything to spark him today before I knew how the brass attendings felt about being yanked back from the great beyond. How would this one feel about me knowing my actions had placed him in the hands of a hateful murderer? Pack everything up, I told everyone. Take the attending to my townhouse. I'll be there in a few hours. You aren't coming with us, Mr. McCutcheon? Bradley asked. I have something to attend to, I said. I needed to know if I stood a chance with my new brass attending, if it was even possible that he wouldn't hate me. How'd I do, Mr. McCutcheon? Jimmy asked. You did splendid, Jimmy, I assured him. Thank you, Mr. McCutcheon, he said, beaming. Come on, Jimmy, bradley said. Let's get the equipment into the truck. Yes, Mr. Bradley. Bradley, I said. Be gentle with the attending. Give him full run of the townhouse. But mind him carefully. Yes, Mr. McCutcheon. Soon the police dissipated. Jimmy slammed the back door of our truck and climbed into the passenger seat. Moments later the vehicle rumbled away, and I alone remained grateful though I was for the uneventful sparking. It was no surprise I had done it hundreds of times. I began walking south toward nearby Calvin's Coffee House. Calvin's would bring a completely different kind of danger than the sparking. In the past, it had thrilled and aroused, but today I only felt uncertainty, and that, for a confident man of privilege like myself, was both unfamiliar and unpleasant. But as I said, the heart wants what the heart wants, and I could no longer refuse mine. My last effort to deny its deepest desire had produced an unfortunate chuckle that triggered the unraveling of my meticulously crafted life. Nothing marked the entrance to Calvin's. Beyond the puddles of urine and piles of debris littering the small alleyway, the eye level panel in the nondescript wooden door slid open. Jellybean, I said to the eyes peering out. I yearned to get inside and off my feet. The walk over had further aggravated my hip. The panel slammed shut, bolts were undone, and the entire door swung open to reveal an enormous man in a crimson beaded flapper dress with an accompanying silver headband. He finished the look with a rank stogie sticking out of one corner of his mouth. Come on in, Mr. McCutcheon, he said. Thank you, Froggy, I said as he closed and locked the door behind me. Calvin's Coffee House was an inside joke, a certain set of vices for its specific clientele could readily be found there, but I could say with certainty that coffee could not. Mr. Chandler, your regular masseur isn't here, froggy said. Not a concern, I said. I'm here to relax with a few whiskeys and anyone will do. In fact, I needed a different masseur today. I'll let the bartender and Mr. Russo know, Mr. McCutcheon. Thank you, Froggy. I made my way to the corner table Calvin's kept for me. Within seconds, a handsome young man around 25 plopped a glass of bourbon on the table. On your tab, Howie? He asked. Not Mr. McCutcheon. Or even Howard. What an incorrigible flirt. On a different day, I would have returned the playful banter. Yes, Kenny, thank you. I took down half the glass with my first swallow and set it back on the table. A lineup of middle aged drag queens cancanned on a tiny stage up front. No one would ever mistake any of them for a woman, but at Calvins that wasn't really the point. In front of them at the closest table, a group of five young men a few years younger than Kenny kissed, passed a reefer between them, and otherwise enjoyed the freedom to be themselves. Moneyed students from Columbia University looking to liven up their otherwise safe and predictable lives. Privilege always recognizes its own. I downed the rest of the bourbon and flagged down Kenny. Another, I said. Make it a double. Right away, Howie, he said and scurried to the bar. I wasn't even 35 years old, and right now I felt older than the queens on stage. At first I had only ever considered Calvin's as a place to seek immediate gratification, not as a place where the fringe of society might find a sense of community. Over time, Froggy, Kenny, and the others changed that. Now I'd take Calvins over the Yale Club any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Good afternoon, Mr. McCutcheon, said a man with a French accent. Afternoon, Rousseau, I said. He owned Calvin's. About your massage, he said with a regretful note in his voice. The only masters we have available today are Breast Attending. I know how you feel. I knew only Brass Attending Messrs would be working today. That's why I had come. I'm ashamed to admit I had so focused on the creation of the brass servants that I knew precious little about them. Beyond the sparking. All bore the souls of individuals cut down in their prime who then gained a second chance. But at what price? A lifetime of servitude? Sure, I had freed today's attending from that binding, but would it be enough I needed to know what to expect when I returned home. How did the brass attending truly feel about their circumstances? Don't worry, I interrupted. A brass attending will be fine. Risa's eyebrows shot up before his manners took over again. Yes, sir. I will prepare the room. Thank you, Rousseau. My next bourbon clinked against the table. Kenny's hand was on my shoulder, his warm breath on my cheek. Anything else? He asked. No, Kenny, I said, smiling. I was once like him and the boys from Columbia University, my own straight jacketed personality exploding free when I reached the safety of Calvin's. You let me know, he said, winking as he sashayed to the next table. As I worked my way through the double bourbon, I felt the grip of my anxiety loosen. The room is ready for you, rousseau said. Giancarlo will be your masseur. My anxiety had diminished, but not departed entirely, so I slammed the remainder of my drink and followed my host through the famous red door separating the speakeasy from the rest of the establishment. I'm sorry Mr. Chandler isn't here today, rousseau said when we stopped in front of the door to the massage room. Thank you, I said hopefully. Next time. Rousseau motioned me to step inside. Upon entering the room that enclosed the padded slab upon which I would bear both body and soul, I discovered Giancarlo's brass form, stark naked. Of course he was. Rousseau had no reason to suspect a change to my routine even rendered him brass. I found him an attractive man. You may cover up, Giancarlo. Just a massage today. Yes, sir, he said. His metallic skin shimmered and shifted, remaining the same man but now wearing shirt, trousers, and a smoking jacket. Would you like me to step out while you disrobe, then, sir? The brass attending asked. Yes, please. Giancarlo slipped through the door and I began to shed layers. First my overcoat. Next came jacket, vest, and tie, then shirt and trousers, and finally my drawers. I had stood naked in this room dozens, if not hundreds of times before, always eager and ready for what I felt entitled to today. As I slipped under the COVID and positioned myself face down on the table, I felt vulnerable. I could feel my heart thudding as I waited, the aromatic incense failing at its intended goal of relaxing me. Finally the door opened and I heard the unique sound a brass attending makes as it moves. Not quiet like flesh and bone, but not the clanging of brass either. I felt the COVID drawn down and my back exposed. Warm oil dribbled along my spine. I braced myself. I had never felt the gentle touch of an animated brass attending. Only that of a violent post spark crisis. When the touch finally came, it was unusual. It didn't mimic the touch of human fingers. The sensation remained uniquely its own. Not soft flesh, nor hard metal. Most importantly, the brass attending's own tactile feedback must have been objectively superior. His caresses adapted quicker than any human masseur to apply the exact right pressure. A moan of pleasure slipped from my lips. You are happy with the intensity then, sir? Oh, God, yes. I blurted. But no sooner did I say the words than I remembered the supernatural strength of a brass attending. He could rip me apart like a chicken carcass and pulverize my bones if so inclined. Which brought my thoughts back around to why I had come. No bound brass attending would reveal inner hostility willingly. Giancarlo would have to be manipulated. Do you know who I am? I asked. No, sir. My name is Howard McCutcheon. I am new York City's leading sparkist. I've created hundreds of brass attendings. If the automatons harbored ill will to me and my ilk, I would find out soon enough. The fingers stopped ever so briefly, as did my heart, before resuming their divine movements. Yes, sir. Very good, sir. His careful words landed the guilt like a hammer blow. I would like you to share your experience with me. My experience, sir? The experience of a brass attending. It's fine, sir. The attending had shifted his ministrations to my right buttocks and upper thigh. Fine. Ugh. I moaned again as the brass attending skillful digits leeched the tension from my body. Yes, sir. It's fine. What was your life like before? The same and different. How? The same. I was a messer. Same as now. I made myself available to wealthy gentlemen. Same as now. Giancarlo progressed to my left hip. There was a popping sound and I reimagined the hapless chicken carcass. But then the pain I had experienced for the last several days vanished. Obviously a good masseur, I said, completely sincere. Thank you, sir. How is it different now? I can eat to enjoy the taste of food, but don't need it to nourish my body. I can sleep to indulge in a dream, but never require rest. I am free from illness and disease. I am virtually immune to personal harm. In short, I am largely unconcerned about my physical person. Does the absence of those concerns change your perspective? The first two could lead me to gluttony and sloth on occasion, the latter two to needless fear and suffering. I don't miss them. Sounds like brass attending isn't half bad. I am also not free to leave this establishment without Mr. Russo's blessing, something he has not granted in the eight years since I was sparked. Eight years could have been me that sparked Giancarlo. The brass attending's fingers were gently working my neck and behind my ears. He could crush my head like an overripe peach. Now came the riskiest part of my plan. When his fingers reached my temples, I asked him, do you know if I was the one who sparked you? The fingers again paused briefly before continuing. I don't, he said. I could tell he was lying. I remained silent while he finished his gentle work on my temples. Roll over, please, he said. I did as instructed. When his fingers pushed against the flesh of my chest, I opened my eyes. The brass man leaned over me, my own body's reflection distorted by the attractive curves of his metal physique. His focus on the task at hand masked anything else he might be feeling. And if you did know for sure it was me who sparked you, and I was lying here, completely vulnerable. Something like irritation flashed in his otherwise inscrutable eyes. It would change nothing. I would give you the massage you requested. Nothing less. Nothing more. It may make no sense to you, but that is not my concern. The facts of my creation do not entitle you to a glimpse of my hidden heart, any more than Mr. Russo deserves. Power over my free will. I felt his powerful, metallic arm press his no longer pliable brass hand against my chest until I struggled to draw breath. I more or less expected this, but panicked anyway. Does my current aggression feel more human to you, Mr. McCutcheon? Does my petty retaliation make you more at ease? Does it comfort you that I act more like you might? As I grew lightheaded, I clawed in desperation at his crushing hand. Just as blackness began to move in from the periphery of my vision, he removed the pressure. I sucked in air, coughing and spluttering. Your treatment is done, Mr. McCutcheon. And now you face a choice. When you see Mr. Rousseau on your way out, you can tell him the truth of our encounter, which will almost certainly lead to my destruction. Or you can lie and tell him you were completely satisfied with the massage and allow me to continue my work here. What you don't know is which path I wish you to take. Good day, Mr. McCutcheon. You are wrong, Giancarlo. I do know which path you prefer. He exited. I dressed and returned to the speakeasy, where Rousseau awaited me. Did you find Giancarlo satisfactory? He asked in Earnest. Quite, I said. Despite the brass attending's assertion to the contrary, I hadn't lied. My goal was never a massage or the selfish absolution Giancarlo had assumed to be my ulterior motive. I needed to know truly how the brass attending viewed themselves. He could have ended me, and therefore himself, with a few more pounds of pressure. That path was his to choose. But he hadn't. With the life of his sparkist in his hands, when he weighed his options, he had concluded he wanted the path forward only I could provide. By keeping the circumstances of our encounter secret, the sparking had given him back his prematurely ended life, for which he seemed at peace. He was only angered by the unjust terms in my insinuation. He lacked the character to rise above them. This gave me hope. Well, I'm glad you approve of him, rousseau said, obviously relieved. Perhaps Mr. Chandler will have returned by the time of your next visit. Minutes later, I sat in the back of a checker cab en route to my townhouse, where the aforementioned Jack Chandler was delivered a couple hours earlier, right after I had sparked him in brass, I found Bradley sitting patiently in the parlor with the New York Times. When I returned to my townhouse, the exact location of Jack Chandler, for whom I had risked everything, remained a mystery. He only broke from the death loop around 30 minutes ago, Bradley informed me when asked. He roamed from room to room for about 10. After that. For the last 20, he's been standing in front of your dressing mirror. He hasn't spoken. Thank you, Bradley. You may go now. But, Mr. McCutcheon, he may yet prove dangerous. You never know with the newly sparked. I should be here when you test the integrity of the binding. If Jack is a danger to me, it's only because I deserved it. I'll be quite all right. After 15 years, I have good instincts on these matters. Yes, Mr. McCutcheon? I followed my assistant out to the front entry, where we paused. I need to speak to you in the morning about changes to the business, I said. I think it's time I stepped down his head and you take over. Bradley kept his cool, but his eyes betrayed his surging pride. I wondered if what I offered was truly a reward. Yes, Mr. McCutcheon. Now out you go. Go celebrate your promotion, I said, and shooed him out the door. Dreading each step, I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber, where the full length dressing mirror and its admirer awaited within. Until I faced Jack, I could imagine whatever outcome I fancied, the future still uncertain. Once the reunion took place. I would be forced to accept his decision, whatever my fate. As I rounded the top of the stairs and entered the upstairs hallway, I caught a flash of brass through the open door at the far end. Once at said door, the entirety of Jack became visible. He stood facing away from me, gazing at his reflection. Like Giancarlo earlier, I found him naked, and it startled me. Hello, Jack, I said. He said nothing and did not turn to face me, but his brass melted and reformed. Now he wore a smart business suit. I stepped behind him and to the side. I could just see his face in the corner of the mirror. His emotions remained impenetrable. I placed my arm around him and rested my hand on his shoulder. I expected and yearned for the warmth and malleability I experienced with the masseur, but Jack's brass remained cold and rigid. How could you do it, Howard? How could I not? I replied cheekily. Still, he refused to turn and face me. Our conversation remained abstracted via the looking glass. Don't, Howard. Don't try to charm your way out of this. Plenty of wealthy men passing through Calvin's have tried to make me their property. I thought you were different. Jack, it's not like that. He whirled around and pushed me away, his brass still cool and unyielding. It's not? He asked, his incredulity finally cracking his emotionless mask. Look at me, Howard. For God's sake, look at me. When I found out you were killed, I was sick with grief. Once you were gone, I realized how much I needed you. Am I supposed to feel sorry? He spat. How dare you try to elicit sympathy from me. I was knifed in the dark after fleeing Calvin's and your humiliating response to the opening of my heart. Knifed for no other reason than loving another man. Now I find you have sparked me in brass, so even running is no longer an option. Jack, just listen, I pleaded. I suppose the binding prevents me from giving you the thrashing you deserve. Jack knew how to throw a punch, and this one connected with my jaw like a brass baseball bat. I felt the weight come off my feet just enough that I slipped and crashed to the floorboards, landing on my shoulder. When I struggled to right myself before his next blow, I couldn't find my arm. When I willed my muscles to move it, nothing happened and I remained firmly on the floor. Finally, I rolled myself over and the arm dangled limply, the shoulder dislocated and the limb useless. I gave up and awaited the pummeling that never came. What have you done? You fool? Jack asked me, rubbing his fist and still looking surprised. No binding had prevented him from connecting, and considering the ramifications of his unexpected freedom, the only thing I could if they find out, they'll give you the chair. Unlikely anyone will, but if so, it would be worth it. Jack's face began to reflect his ongoing reassessment of our circumstances, shock and anger cooling further into melancholy and grief, all of it rendered in beautiful brass detail. Of all the responses you could have given to my declaration of love, none could have been worse than laughter. I was an arrogant fool, used to getting what I want without having to give anything in return. I'm sorry, Jack. I'm sorry it took a knife in your back for me to come to my senses. He stared at me, his face expressionless until rivulets of brass ran down his cheeks. When tears began to flow down my own, Jack's face finally softened and I found myself in the embrace of his now warm and yielding brass body. For the next few minutes, after a pause to pop my arm back in the socket. The reunion followed the script I had imagined and longed for. What if someone figures out I'm not bonded to you? Jack asked, his skin glinting seductively in the candlelight as he paced to and fro in my bedroom after we uncoupled. You'll be destroyed, and as you already deduced, I'll get the chair. And what of my alien nature? Jack followed. What of it? It's my understanding there are some advantages, and that if free from the binding grass, attending can be a very satisfying way to live. How could you possibly know? I don't, I admitted, and felt as vulnerable as I had on the massage table, but Giancarlo certainly suggested it was the case. In the end, you will have to decide what you think of the brass and what you think of me. Okay, then. What if it's a passing fancy, like any of the other diversions you've dabbled in at Calvin's? What if you grow bored and discontent? And what if a horn grows out of my forehead? I said, growing irritated with his what if ing. Even though I had no right. I patted the empty spot on the bed next to me. Now come back here. I'm far from bored. But if you don't stop pacing, I will grow discontent. Jack returned to the spot next to me. His skin now radiated a pleasant heat, which warmed the sheets. I grabbed his hand. I love you, Jack Chandler. He looked into my eyes. I waited to hear the words back, but none came. The corner of his lips turned up, but still no words. I didn't know if the emerging smile was genuine or rueful, and I grew nervous. As I did, the smile traveled to his eyes. Only then did I realize that sometime during our conversation I had stopped seeing him as Brass Attending at all, but only as Jack, the Jack who had pulled away the camouflage from my own hidden heart. Finally, he exploded in laughter. Not thoughtless and cruel like mine had been, but playful and full of joy. I guess that makes us even, I said. Jack quieted at my words. Are we? He asked. Can we ever truly be equal? Me in brass and you in flesh and blood? I quieted too. I could not deny the uncertainty around his question, but my heart screamed yes. Was I honest earlier, when I said it would be worth the electric chair to be with Jack again? My heart screamed yes. We hope you enjoyed the hidden heart of Brass Attending. By Christopher Scott Christopher Scott is currently a data visualization specialist living in Arizona. He grew up in the hills north of Los Angeles, carries a small piece of Southern California in his heart wherever life takes him, and plans to return one day. Christopher's calling to imagine other worlds, alternate realities, and the characters that live there has expressed itself in many forms daydreaming, RPG and board games, and writing. Of course, not everything is imaginary. Christopher shares his life with his wife, his three kids, and an ever shifting menagerie of pets. It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton was produced in 2025 by Traveler Enterprises Incorporated, who holds the copyright. Our producer is Harris Lane. Our story producer and director is Gabrielle Dicure. Our content editors are Lynn and Michael Thomas. Our podcast is edited, mixed and mastered by Alex Barton of Phase Shift av. Very special thanks to Wes Stevens, Christopher Black, and Marina Piper. This podcast was recorded at Skyboat Media. Thank you so much for listening. As I said at the beginning of the show, I am so glad that you are here and I hope that you will come back for the next one. Until then, if you if you'd like to help the podcast grow, please review Us Like Us. Subscribe to us. There's a word that I am forgetting that everybody says at the ends of these things. Do whatever that is and I'm genuinely glad and grateful that you spent some time with me today. Until next time, I am Wil Wheaton. You can find me@wil wheaton.net Please take care of yourselves and take care of each other.