Darkness blanketed Christi, darkness that comforted her. Something poked her side; light began to seep in as she blinked her eyes open. A snide grin greeted her, Alex. Who else would it be? 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Jeez, you sure do snore; you had the whole place looking at ya. Here I was thinking the old man was bad,” he chuckled. 

“Shut up!” she snapped back. 

Continuing to rub at her crusted eyes, she sat up. Crowds of nondescript cityfolk jubilantly danced and drank. It was the eve of the foundation festival, and festivities were certainly underway. The city of Chrodrift celebrated its official one hundredth anniversary. The whole thing felt like a blur to Christi. 

Alex feigned a gasp, “I’m shocked. No snarky comeback? Did the sleeping beauty not get enough rest?” 

Christi stuck her tongue out and blew a loud raspberry. Alex burst into laughter.  

“You know, sometimes I forget you are just a kid. I remember when Ratchet first brought you in, all covered in dirt, and you were a scrawny kid at that. You used to be so nice and quiet back then, ya know?” 

“And you used to be less annoying back then, ya know?” 

Alex placed his hands on his heart, imitating an action like he’d just been stabbed. A loud grunt accompanied his performance. 

“Oh, you wound me so! I don’t think my fragile little heart can take much more!” Turning towards Christi, the two burst into a fit of laughter. 

Alex rose from the bench, standing amidst the jubilant crowd that danced around him. He turned, revealing a face devoid of colour; a crimson streak of blood smeared his visage. 

“Well, that’s enough reminiscing for one day, eh Christi?”

A bright light blinded Christi. The crowd vanished, and she was no longer sitting on a bench but standing in the middle of a large, circular, vivid white light. Alex was nowhere to be seen. Beyond the circle, nothing but a theatre of darkness could be found. Christi frantically glanced around. A cacophony of terrified screams and desperate pleas for help assaulted her ears. 

“Why didn’t you help me?” A woman’s voice rang out, piercing the medley of terror. Stepping out from the darkness was a woman with two of her limbs severed and torn off. 

“You just watched me die. Why didn’t you help?! Why didn’t you?!”

A tendril, like a Vaudeville hook, dragged her back into the sinister black veil. A guttural scream followed. 

Christi fell back. Her breath drastically quickened. A drip sounded to her left. She stilled. Another drip. Not wanting to look but unable to command her body to resist, she turned. 

Her left arm was gone from the elbow down. Droplets of crimson trickled from the bloody stump that remained. Suddenly the light around her dimmed red. The ground beneath her felt sticky and wet. Raising her right hand, she flinched as she discovered it caked in blood. 

A steady ticking noise sounded overhead, quickening by the second. Another flash, large blue symbols and glyphs flickered brilliantly for a moment before her. A giant mechanical spider loomed over her. A cluster of cogs, gears, and hissing fits of steam. All cluttered together in the shape of this cruel metallic arachnid.

She glanced around, seeking a means of escape or a saviour. Death pervaded her surroundings. Trampled corpses beneath the clocktower rubble, the vociferous screams of those being crushed beneath a bull-shaped mechanical monster. 

A wall of flame roared to life, encircling her, trapping her. The spider stalked forward, the ticking grew louder and more shrill. It brandished its jagged tendrils, raising a serrated limb high. 

“Alex,” she whimpered. 

She woke in a cold sweat, screaming. Her breath was ragged and shaky. Glancing quickly to her left, she exhaled a relieved sigh. A bronze mechanical arm consisting of a rudimentary structure of cogs and gears clicking and clacking in tandem outfitted her arm. Much like the model she admired at a gear venue in her youth.

After a few minutes of languishing in bed, she jumped to her feet. She wiped the cool sweat from her forehead and approached the window. Some fresh air would help. Reaching forward, she grabbed the stiff wooden shutters and pushed. 

Sunlight blasted her face. She gazed out onto the small, lively town of Barakat. 

The streets were jam-packed with vibrant parasols, exploding with colour that shaded cubic open-air stalls. It was Aoine, the final day of the working week and Barakat’s weekly designated market day. The streets were bustling with merchants and customers alike. 

Fresh fruits and vegetables garnished the wares and trinkets on display. This was a simple market town; well, it was more like a small city, but regardless, it was a town. A nice change of pace from the concrete jungles they often visited.

Christi leaned out her window, inhaling the crisp morning air before retreating back into her room to get fully dressed. She grabbed her carrier bag, slumped by the foot of her bed, and plopped it onto the dishevelled bedsheets. After some light rummaging, she found what she was looking for. 

A black shirt and trousers; she always liked to keep things simple when it came to clothes. Pulling her shirt and trousers on, she entered the bathroom. With a spin of the handle, cool water began to pool in the basin. She cupped her hands and splashed some cold water onto her face. 

Looking up, she observed herself in the mirror. Wild, murky green hair draped her shoulders. Baby blue eyes contrasted a darkly tanned, youthful, oval face. Biting her lip, she gathered her wild mane into a high ponytail and secured it tightly with a thin band of leather. 

Exiting the bathroom, she scooped up her leather bandolier slung over the edge of her bed. She slid it over her chest and fastened it into place, double-checking the pocket's contents as she did so. 

A pouch of coins, some more leather bands, and a wrench. Only the necessities, of course. 

She strode forward and swiped her leather knee-high boots, pulling them up. Last but not least was her grey cloak, which she wrapped around her shoulders. 

The door closed shut behind her; the hallway was empty save for the loud drone of voices below. The stairs creaked as she descended downstairs. She strolled over to a smartly dressed fellow who was gorging on his breakfast. A chestnut brown sparrowhawk adorned the man’s top hat today. Yesterday it was a whitevale feather. Pulling out the chair opposite him, she plopped herself down. 

Two plates of food had been arranged, one for her and one for him. Sam, however, was never one to wait concerning matters of food. A dark handlebar moustache perched itself above his lip. A broad smile surfaced as he took notice of her. 

“Ah, Christi! How is the little miss on this lovely morning? Did you get much sleep?” He chirped enthusiastically. 

Christi folded her arms, slouched back, and sat in silence. Sam chuckled. 

“Still as quiet as ever, I see. It’s hard to believe you’re the same girl I met four years ago at the festival exhibition in Chrodrift.” He gestured to the plate of food before her. “Ah, excuse my manners. Please indulge yourself.” 

Christi stared at Sam, remaining silent. Sam sighed and rescinded the plate. He returned to his platter of food. Picking and dissecting the food neatly with his fork and knife like a surgeon. 

“Well then, let’s get down to business, I suppose. Master Piotr wishes to see you; he has a matter of importance he wishes to discuss with you. He’s currently at the exhibition booth in the town centre, attending to business, of course.” 

No sooner upon finishing his sentence did Christi rise out of her chair and take off.

“Be careful, little miss!” he shouted after her. Christi turned and nodded. Looking about, Sam waved down the nearest waitress and smiled gleefully. 

“Pardon me, but could I bother you for a second helping of that exquisite lunch plate?” 

Christi pushed her way through a sea of people talking, chatting, trading, and enjoying their carefree, quaint life. A flock of small, giddy children brushed past her nonchalantly, not a care in the world. She spotted a little boy sitting alone on a doorstep messing around with an assortment of cogs, gears, and keys. Memories of her time spent with Ratchet and Alex as a young child in Chrodrift floated to the forefront of her mind.

The child noticed her staring and waved at her whilst smiling. She lifted her left hand to return the wave. 

The shrill scream of the spider rattled her head. Wincing, she clutched at her head; her legs wobbled as the floor shifted beneath her. The crowd faded to colourful blurs. A firm hand gripped her shoulder. 

“Whoa there, miss, are you ok?” said an old man. “You’re alright now; here, follow me. I have a stall nearby where you can catch your breath.” 

He led her to a stall overflowing with an array of colourful flowers. Turquoise blues, crimson reds, and brilliant purples. The old man pulled over a squat wooden stool and sat her down. 

“You can rest here for a moment, miss; these crowds can be awfully suffocating,” his voice began to dissipate along with the noise of Barakat. A primal roar erupted before her; her head jerked upwards. Ratchet, the man who raised her, stood before her, engulfed in flame. 

The old man extended a hand out. “What's wrong? You don’t look too-” 

Christi slapped away his hand and sprinted off, slipping through the throng of people. 

“I was only trying to help,” the old man sighed. 

Christi ducked into a nearby, lone alleyway. Her breath escaped her. She slid against the damp wall and pulled her knees to her chest. After a few minutes her breath returned. Looking down, she clenched her left hand into a fist. As she released it, she listened to the cogs and gears in her mechanical hand turn quietly. 

A small ember flickered to life in the palm of her left hand. Alex had done the same thing back then at the festival. Four years ago she had been robbed of her family, her home. Now she was all alone. 

Tears streamed down her cheeks; scrunching up her sleeve, she wiped them away. She extinguished the flame and sat up. Dispelling the thoughts, she set off to pursue her original objective, finding Piotr. 

Piotr, as always, was notoriously easy to spot. A crowd gathered around a tall man wearing a helmet that resembled a clock face on the front. The mask in part had earned him his infamous nickname, The Clock-Faced Genius.

Christi made her way over to him. Even from where she stood ten meters away, she could hear him. The usual loud and exuberant sales pitch, as always, paired with complaints of false accusations raised against his inventions. Standing in front of Piotr was a stocky man missing an arm similar to Christi.

“My good man, I assure you my product functions exactly as I described!” Piotr protested vehemently. 

The amputee scratched his head. “I don’t know; seems like a load of atfur shit to me, the kind of stuff that’s make-believe, ya get me?” Piotr reeled back, stunned at the man’s comments.

“Make-believe?! My good man, what do you take me for? Some underhanded thief or a sleazy con man?! I am the furthest thing from such devious titles. I am an entrepreneur, and an honest one at that. There is no greater pleasure in this world than faithfully serving my clientele, so I ask you again—Oh Christi! Christi, my dear!”

The crowd split as Christi approached; Piotr clapped his hands together. “Why, what marvellous timing! Christi here is my protégé, and wouldn’t you know it, a practitioner of my very product”. 

“Christi, dear, if you would be so generous as to treat this man to a demonstration of what my product can offer,” Piotr said, gesturing to Christi. 

Christi rolled her eyes and ignited a small flame before enlarging it and whipping the flame around her arm, tightening the flame like a constricted thin snake. The crowd gasped in awe; the amputee, however, frowned at Piotr. 

“Hold on a minute; couldn’t you have just told this chick to use her own magic to create that flame?” 

“Why, how astute! Well, how about this: we’ll have you test the arm yourself; that way you can determine yourself whether I am deceiving you or not.” 

Piotr offered the man a mechanical arm identical to Christi’s; reluctantly, the amputee fitted it to his right stub. After some slight adjustments, it slotted into place. 

“Feels a bit weird. Alright, what now?” he asked Piotr.

“Now sir, close your eyes and picture a small ember in the palm of your hand.” 

The amputee grimaced at Piotr. 

“Huh?! Do ya think I’m stupid or wha?!” 

“Please, sir, if you would comply for a moment.”

“Alright, fine, whatever.” 

The amputee closed his eyes, and sure enough, a little flame like Christi’s sparked to life. An audible gasp escaped the crowd once more, jaws hung agape and eyebrows cocked. 

The amputee opened his eyes and stumbled back. Stunned at what he was experiencing. 

“What? But... how? I have close to no magic at all… How is something like that?” 

Piotr chuckled lightly; Christi smirked. Always the same reaction, she thought.

The amputee began flicking his hand about, groaning. He shot daggers toward Piotr. 

“Hang on a minute; how come I can’t do what that chick just did? Ain’t I supposed to be able to do the same thing?”

“As I mentioned earlier, my good man, Christi here is a practitioner of this product; she has been honing her magical craft for four years now. I have records and proof of Christi’s progress if you require further validation.” Piotr proffered a leatherback journal that contained notes and photographic evidence documenting Christi’s four-year journey. 

“Have your doubts been cleared now?” Piotr remarked. 

“Ha! This is something alright; I’ll be sure to tell my buddies all about this.” 

“Oh please do, sir, the more the merrier after all,” Piotr said candidly.

After some discussion on payment, the amputee left with his newly acquired product; he waved goodbye to Piotr and Christi. The crowd slowly trickled away after some more sales. 

“Well, another successful day of business, Christi, my dear. My gratitude once again for aiding with the showing; I’ll be sure to treat you to—”. 

“Excuse me, are you by any chance?” a hoarse voice interrupted him. 

Piotr and Christi both spun around in unison. Standing before them was a broad man with a wild grey beard. For the second time today she was face to face with Ratchet, the man she believed had perished in Chrodrift.