Involves: No-Yiff, Multiple Characters, Robotic Reveal, Diesel/Steampunk, Street Duel, Short Story

So, a friend  thebeast76 shot me this idea a few days ago and I showed it to him after I finished it, to his surprise, and he approves. X3 So, I guess I'm gonna upload it for you guys to read as well. Enjoy. :3
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Saint Devraux, a cobbled and stoned town in the Bordeaux countryside, a tiny establishment filled with tiny people with tiny aspirations. Three dozen houses clustered together, huddled against the windy summers and frigid winters, few more than two stories high. Electrical and telephone lines hang from the roofs of buildings, crisscrossing the uneven roads and nearly blocking from view the clouded and darkened sky.
A market day, the main street is huddled with the crowds of people, sellers and hawkers. Loud voices pierce the rumbling dull of chatter and pawsteps, sharp salesmen baiting dimwitted customers into purchasing questionable commodities. They stand behind crowds of people, holding up a bundle of venison from a expedition into the dense forests, standing upon a rickety carriage.
A few huddled bunch of people down is a beast in a newer Citroen van, the doors swung open. The hum of jazz music can be heard emanating as the dog cries out to passerby, trying to unload a no doubt stolen new radio onto some unsuspecting country bumpkin. Most of the people have never seen a radio as nice, as small, as clear as the new one from America he has for sale. Then again, most have never ridden in an automobile before.
Many of the people are dressed in handmade clothes, dresses, shoes from artisans and craftsman here in town. The colors are as bland and sullied as that of their town: natural browns, grays and whites mixed in with soft greens, blues and reds to match the wine of their region. It's too hard for a person who isn't from around here to stick out, but, the Deadheads don't come here. And, that . . . is good enough.
From under my heavy peaked cap, I don't notice any stares coming from anywhere. In fact, my worn blue jacket and gray pants seem to have hidden me from notice. But, with each step I worry, with each loud clank and whir of gears, I worry that I shall be discovered again. A raccoon on a bicycle hustles by me with a basket full of flowers and startles me, forcing me to stop. It's nothing, just a villager, calm down.
I turn and look over my shoulder, back towards the south where I have come. The crowds mill around me as if I am normal, just another hawker from Paris or Vichy, or Bordeaux itself, or a wanderer left over from the Great War. In fact, the streets are so full I can hardly see the rolling fields on the other side of the town.
My brow softens and I turn away, hustling down the street towards its center. To my right, I turn and look at a man in a hatchback automobile who has parked along the street. In the back, it's boot-lid popped to show off his wares, I see a variety of items and slow my pace. Then, I finally stop and begin to gently, slowly, walk towards him. A hare, he looks up at me with unease, but forces a smile.
“Is there something that you like, sir?” The hare asks.
I don't answer, I just stare down into the boot. What he's selling are the remnants of the ending of the Great War: a battered helmet with a hole through it's crown, several pocket watches still ticking, a boot knife that has been blacked with . . . with the blood of other beasts, and . . . a pistol. A very, very special pistol that I cannot help but pull my hand from my pocket to reach towards it.
“Where?” I ask, slowly. “Where did . . . you get this?”
I point to the pistol with a black-gloved hand, as still as steel. The hare leans forward and smiles gently, picking up the revolver. He turns it over in his liberally clean hands and sighs just gently. He doesn't know what he holds in his own mitts. A blackened forty-four caliber beast-killer with a red grip etched with a special double-inverted cross.
“It was my fathers during the war.” The hare says. “He kept it from the day he enlisted until the day he passed on. To think the war's been over . . . what, fourteen years?”
“It seems . . . longer.” I say, my voice sounding hollow.
With my left hand, I feel over my waist, the contours of the stuff stuck into my pocket. This poor boy doesn't know what his own father did during the war. He thinks the beast was nothing more than a trench-diver or artilleryman. No, what that boy's father did was more than that, a very special beast.
“Don't . . . don't sell it.” I state.
“Well, why not?” The hare asks.
“You have no idea where that thing came from.” I say. “You have no idea what your father saw and did. Or what he held in his mind until he died.”
There's a pause where the hare wants to argue with me. But, then I see his eyes turn into mine and he cocks his head. I watch as his ears turn down and his jaw gently opens.
“Did . . . did you serve?” He asks me, as if afraid to ask.
“How little an idea you have.” I say, matter-of-fact.
My eyes turn down towards the sidewalk beside which this city-hare has parked his family's car and I can just gently remember. Images of horror and intrigue flashing before my eyes, twisting and curling and turning into one blackened amalgamation of fear and anxiety. Blinking my eyes, I shake my head and step backwards, hardly knowing what it is my own body is doing.
A large body thrusts into me and I stumble forward, catching myself before evening beginning to waver. I open my eyes and turn around to see a barrel-chested fox standing in the road, his entire body shaking as he stands up straight. From the look on his face, I can tell he is inebriated. The beast throws up his arms in anger and confusion and turns his crooked eyes in my direction.
“Hey . . . hey, hey you!” He yells. “Watch where the hell you're walking, you stupid bastard! Why don't you go back to England where you came from, you . . . you idiot.”
The fox steps in my direction, his fists curled into balls, intent on hitting me. I step backwards and widen my stance, not wanting my latest travel to end like this, in a fight with some drunken idiot. But before he can get to me, a dog reaches out and grabs the fox's shoulder and holds him still. The fox throws the hand off and turns around to scream before stops. It's a priest.
“Enough, Duncan. It's hardly three in the afternoon and you're already sudsy. Go home, child, haven't you brought your family enough shame?” The dog slowly questions.
“I can do with my . . . my money and my time h-h-however I please, Father.” The fox stutters.
He throws his hand up and hits himself in the chest, his muscles ripping through his arm. The priest merely shakes his head, but, offers no words of protest. He must know doing so is pointless. But, the fox turns in my direction and throws up one hand and waves it at me, as if sending me away.
“You stupid foreigners and your . . . your . . . your stupid ways! Why don't you get out of my sight before I f-f-f . . . kill you!” The fox shakes his head and then reaches to his waist where a brand new semi-automatic pistol is holstered.
I had noticed the pistol before, but, wasn't sure if the beast was stupid and headstrong enough to draw it on me. No doubt he sees my old army-issued clothes and wonders if that means I'm armed as well. The beast would then, and only then, be correct for once in his pathetic little life. He turns and begins to stumble away, up the street from where I came. I watch him go and begin to walk.
I take but three steps before I am forced to stop.
“Hey!” I hear a voice yell.
I turn to see the fox stopped in the middle of the street. His paws are spread wide and his tail is throwing itself to and fro in a frightened rage. Something has gripped the beast mentally and I know this won't end well. His left hand is limp while his right hovers over that holster. I don't turn my body, but merely look at him.
“Move yourself from this decision, child!” I yell, my voice sounding as hollow and empty as ever. “Nothing will result save for your death if you continue!”
“Why don't you prove yourself, soldier-beast!” The fox yells. “I know your type, you lonely gimp bastards limping through this county! Why don't you throw back that coat and face me, if you can take me.”
“What is wrong with you?” I holler. “Are you so quick for death that you wish to end it in a petty duel?”
“Against you? I could take you in my sleep. The only question is, once I kill you, should I call the police . . . or the Deadheads?”
I step back and am silent. The fox knows, too well. Whether he has seen me or he's just grasping at straws, I don't know. But, all I know is that I must finish this. The fox just smiles and wrings his fingers over that holster, desperate to pull it and gun me down. Finally I turn my body slowly, steadily, each movement causing a loud grinding noise to bounce off the walls.
The entire town has gone silent. No doubt this is their entertainment for the month. They've gathered around the sides of the buildings, wide faces and open eyes peering down at us from windows, alleyways and shop doors. They have cleared the road in both directions, in anticipation of some American-style high-noon shoot-out. Both the fox and I move towards the center of the narrow cobbled street.
“Don't do this, boy.” I plead, halfheartedly. “You know not what you do.”
“Oh, I know . . . I know what I do. I don't know what side you're on, or which country you or your kind came from, but . . . b-but I intend to stomp you out.” The fox proclaims.
A bit of laughter and clapping comes from the now-silenced crowd of people. The fox turns and smiles at them, his head swinging from side to side. His pearly white teeth show and he chuckles before turning his eyes back on me. He's determined on this and there is now only one outcome. Slowly I open my blue trench coat and reveal my lithe frame, my waist wrapped with a heavy leather belt studded with special shells.
“Enough, then. Draw and kill me, if you have the heart, puppy.” I say.
“That's all I needed.”
The fox quickly, surprisingly so, draws the Russian-stamped pistol and unloads it down range in my direction. One shell drives itself into the cobbled street, another hits a hanging sign just above me. The third and fourth shells hit my chest directly while the remaining three rip at my clothes and drill into the ground behind me. I stumble back with the hits, my peaked German-made hat tumbling to the ground.
I stare at the cobbled street, my body shaking from the two impacts. .38 caliber shells, not large, not powerful. Not enough to even pierce my chest armor. Gently I stand up straight and stare down the street at the fox, who is beaming a smile at me. But, slowly, the smile begins to dissipate. A gasp comes from the crowd.
My metal face has been revealed and I know it. Pressed and stamped somewhere in Bavaria of blackened titanium and steel, I am not like the rest of these folks, or even like the jackal I was produced in the image of. Plates overlapping plates produce my face, which can move almost as naturally and powerfully as an organic beast's.
Large black and silver ears stick up on top of my head, which can hear for miles. I can even pick up radio transmissions, no matter how sensitive. But, no matter how freakish, alien and futuristic my face may seem, it's always my eyes that drive them away. Twisted, overlapping glass and metal plates produce the shutter that appears as a normal beast's iris and pupil. While I can hide them behind thin metal eyelids, these are just for show.
“It's my turn.” I say.
Quickly, yet jerkily, I throw back the jacket and pull the special revolver from my waist. Loaded with heavy shells, I raise it to chest level and fire but one shell. My arm doesn't even recoil from the shot. The shell explodes a few feet from the fox and the shrapnel drills into every point of the beast's body. He screams loudly and drops to the ground hard, like a collapsing building.
The crowd is silent. No screams, no cries, not a sound. They've read about my kind in the papers, in books, seem them in film reels in movie-houses before their Georges Melies film. They just stare at me, frightened, blank eyes turned towards me as if asking, 'what now?'. Gently I lower the pistol and re-holster it, the gears and hydraulic pumps grinding out loudly in the unnatural quiet.
I allow my jacket to close before I lean forward and retrieve my hat, a little crumpled, from the ground. I dust it off with my leather gloves and place it back upon my visage, those long ears poking up through the sides. Turning away, I begin to walk, my exposed steel paws loudly stomping down onto the uneven pavement. I can't stay in this town. It's never this town. It's always the next one.