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"Sister Meike, what is a soul?" Asked a boy of eleven years of age. He was tinkering with a broken wall clock on his lap.

A middle aged woman stopped her chores and turned to the boy. She was dressed in the blacks, whites and yellows of the Teutonic branch. "Really, Indrik? Of all the children here you are the last one I expected to ask that question."

She looked skeptically at the self proclaimed "man of science", but the eyes of the young tinkerer didn't betray any signs of a jest or humor. "Oh, well... The soul, my boy, is the breath of God within you. It is that invisible, immortal part of you that thinks, feels, loves, and yearns for new discoveries. It is what makes us more than mere flesh and blood."

Indrik ponders upon the answer, scratching behind his ear with the screwdriver. "Can anyone else breathe it in? Can it be... Made?" He questioned as he was winding up the mechanism.

Meike thought for a moment, but quickly dismissed the notion. "Only by God. No man, no matter how clever, can fashion a soul. We may build great machines, but to make a soul? That is the divine spark that only our Lord can ignite."

"If ever a man claimed to have created a soul, it would have been dangerous hubris, like in the tale of Doctor Frankenstein who-..." She was interrupted as the clock in Indrik's hands rang to life, signaling that it was time for lunch.

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***I***

Indrik blinked in confusion. Where was he? Oh, right... He had found refuge in a small courtyard for some respite. He must have had an episode again. All this running around had worn him down, but at least he was secure. There was no way for whoever they were to track the researcher down now. He had time to think.

He shouldn't have gone alone, or at least bailed the moment he had got his research. Three... No, four collectors. The last one was stationed at the main exit. Most likely to gut the russisch after the deal to leave no loose ends. Clever folk, but they didn't reckon with him. Now they were one man shorter. Steamed that bastard.

For the next time, he should keep around a retinue of thugs on standby for these kinds of events. Then he remembered the russisch dreg and how he himself got here to begin with, deciding against the notion. He can't trust anyone, they always plot against him. That's why he preferred to work in obscurity where none would bother him or impose their own demands.

With a heavy sigh he leaned against the wall, sliding downwards to the ground. Oddly enough there is a sense of serenity in this small courtyard. Hidden from the world by the high walls of the neighboring apartment blocks and one meter-n-half tall wall to keep bums away.

Peace and quiet... Only him and his prized research...

Lonely, lonely existence that is, but not for long... Before the incident Indrik had made the most strides he had ever achieved thus far and soon, after he resumes, his loneliness will be but a fleeting memory. Soon there would be someone he could-...

The thought was abruptly interrupted by a nearby commotion which made Indrik harden his grasp on the wrench.

Behind the disheveled wall a cat hissed, then shrieked, accompanied by a sound of glass shattering which probably was caused by the feline's retreat. Subsequently accompanied by rummaging sounds and then an audible sniffing sound- like a mutt would do. Suddenly, clawed digits grasped onto the wall's ledge and, in a swift motion, the newcomer lifted themselves over the obstacle and landed on their feet. The sight before Indrik had him completely flabbergasted. It was a wench! 

***O***

Otiliya's blood was boiling. She had fruitlessly scoured the whole Kleist District in search of that bastard who had screwed her over. A whole morning's worth of toil gone to waste because some prick in a light-grey coat had bolted right through the washhouse, knocked over her baskets down in the dirty water and vanished in the drain.

Her priekshnik had not only reprimanded her for that, but also said that the whole week's pay will go to repaying the damages. Preposterous, that's almost thirty hanzmarks! This will not stand! She had not left her home at Punsk for Riga just to endure this kind of crap.

After the incident she had followed the blaggard's scent into the underground tunnels and back to the streets where it dissipated into the crowds. If only she could get her hands on him and make him cough up every bit of what he owes her, she would-...

Otiliya's ears perked up as her nose caught that oh so familiar chemical scent. Tail swayed side to side as her excitement grew. There he is!

The laundress lifted her dress upwards slightly and quickened her pace, turning leftwards into an alley. At its end she was met by a wall and a hissing cat, holding back the urge to bark at the despicable flea bag.

With impressive dexterity she lunged at the wall, seizing the edge and launching herself over it. After dusting off her outfit, Otiliya surveyed her surroundings until her gaze fell upon a disheveled form of man in a light-grey coat.

***I***

No ordinary wench, but still a wench— Indrik thought. She had the ears and the tail of a wolf which were covered in fur in the same shade of dark grey as her wild loose mane. There were even patches of fur on her forearms.

By these abhuman features the researcher concluded that, perhaps, she was of Sudovian stock or some other corner of the Confederacy where wolfborn lingered. And, judging by her faded cotton dress, rolled up sleeves and linen apron tied around her waist, the wench was a migrant laborer of the lower-class. The wench in question focused her glare on Indrik which spoke: YOU.

"Oi, you!" she pointed her finger at him, as he looked left, right in confusion. Him? "Yes, you muilya!" She stomped towards him with clenched fists.

"You thought you could just bodge with me toil and slip away just like that, you twat?! All runnin around with no heed for other? Well, I say nay!" The wolf-wench poked his chest thrice to emphasize her point.

"Those four laundry baskets your dimwit-arse knocked over cost me thirty hanzmarks, so pay up! I have not been tracking your sorry stench all over the district for naught!" The wench extended on open hand and glared at him expectantly.

This is outrageous! How dare this lowly Baltic laundress dare to speak to him in such a manner?! Indrik was no longer some tunnel-rat who risked his hide tightening bolts and hermitizing pipes for a few hanzmarks a week! He is a brilliant artificer, he had travelled abroad to the United Reich, and most importantly- he knew how to speak German!

Indrik gathered his wits and was about to tell this hussy his piece of mind, but with polite overtones: "Lady, lend me your ears, for I don't have not ze time, nor ze marks to grant a schmutzvolk like you, so you better hit ze road to whatever bum comunal you came from. A sophisticated man- such as myself- has important matters to attend to."

The researcher punctuated his words with a deliberate Germanic accent to assert his importance, but was shortly cut off. "Don't lady me, you fritz blaggard! Me name is Otiliya and you better get that!"

Otiliya shook her fist him and then berated Indrik some more before he could even conceive a counter: "And what is that 'smutvok' shite? Speak baltic, you shwab! You clearly can! And don't switch gears! Cough up me thirty hanzmarks before I kick your arse! And-" And so she went on and on without giving any breathing room.

The researcher shrank under the wench's constant berate of crude words and felt himself small again, remembering Sister Meike's voice thunder through the halls of the orphanage that carried harsh words of admonishment down on young Indrik for theft of some gears.

This continued for at least ten excruciatingly long minutes. He tried to escape, but was blocked off. He tried to reason, but was cut off again. Indrik had enough. He adjusted the grip on the wrench, calculating the deadly trajectory. A well placed strike should counter even the monstrously robust physiology of demihuman.

But before the researcher could act upon his brutal urge, Otiliya's nose wrinkled in disgust, her ears twitched and her gaze moved to the more conventional courtyard's entrance and he followed it with his own. The sight would have been comical or a start of an anecdote, if it had not made Indrik's blood run cold.

There were three new arrivals that approached at an ever slow pace while shrouded in silence. They were indistinguishable from one another, dressed in long black coats and wearing black fur papakhas with small brass stars in the middle. The sun glinted off their worn grey metal masks, which depicted exaggerated faces bearing teeth with slightly curled mustaches, and also from the silvery steel of their sabers that they began to sheathe after realizing that they no longer had the courtesy of stealth.

Black Cossacks here in Riga?! Then the memory of the flash of steel in the tunnels came back as he touched his scratched forehead. No, that can't be! Even low-life like Makaravich wouldn't dare to engage with the Muscovites, unless the russisch never knew who he had bargained with. The dreg was even more imbecilic than Indrik had ever imagined.

How the hell did they find him so fast?!

"What the bloody-..." Before Otiliya could unleash another profanity onto this world, cossacks as one upholstered their revolving coil-blasters and opened fire on them. He took cover behind a crate as splinters flew from the impact. Meanwhile, Otiliya went on all fours, dodging the initial volley and leaping into the shelter of a pile of rubbish.

As energy beams buzzed above his head Indrik tried to figure out an escape while his cover was slowly being chipped away. All he had was a heavy-duty wrench and an empty steamthrower while his adversaries had the ranged advantage.

The researcher pondered while tapping steamthrower against his forehead, yet nothing productive came of that, so he just launched in frustration the useless appliance into the cossacks and hoped for the best. To his surprise, the russisch butchers, as per some mechanical instinct, seized fire and scattered for cover. Mistaking the projectile for a grenade, perhaps? It did have a silhouette of an improvised explosive.

Indrik wasted no time and sprang into action, locating the closest door. Without checking if it was locked or not, he brought down the full weight of his utensil on the lock, smashing it and barging inside. He then heard someone hot on his heels, followed by a: "Where do you think you are off, fritz!? We are not done yet!" To which the researcher could only spare a single groan.

The chase went on through the winding corridors of the apartment complex. Up and down through the stairwells. And bleeding into the next building by an enclosed bridge. Few sharp turns shrug off the wild mutt, but not the russisches.

Though they were oddly sluggish from the few glimpses. Sharp twists or fast motions made cossacks halt in their tracks before they regained their bearings in a few seconds, continuing the pursuit. No matter what they somehow ended up finding Indrik. The kinship with blood-hounds seemed to be more prominent with them, than the Sudovian wench, in the way they sniffed out his position.

The researcher could not continue this. His heart pounded in his chest about to burst while acid ran wild through his veins. He needed time. Opportunity presented itself in the form of two swarthy workmen carrying an ice closet up the stairs. With a grin Indrik crashed his shoulder into the upper man who let go of his end. The thud spooked the other which made him relinquish his hold. The appliance slid shackly dowards and rammed the door before it could fully open, blocking any entry.

This triumph over adversity led him face to face to an open window. By the view Indrik must at least be on the fourth floor. He could even see the open steelwork of a suspended tram railway. Then his ears were assaulted by a shrap trilling sound of a steam whistle. Peeking outside, a passing mini-blimp revealed the approaching tram locomotive. The fortune is smiling upon the researcher once again!

Indrik backpedaled as he counted the dark-blue passenger wagons. One. Two. Three. Four... Five! He accelerated himself through the window frame. Time slowed down. All he could do is watch as the momentum carried him to his salvation, or doom. Relief washed over him as his foot found the edge of the railcar's perch, but not for long. The foot slipped off. Is this how one of the greatest minds in Riga will perish?

Before Indrik could plummet and splatter across the payment, a hand seized him by the wrist and yanked him onboard. Then he was pushed against the wall of the wagon where he crumpled into an exhausted heap. The sun's brightness obscured his savior, but in the dark silhouette he managed to discern contours of a woman in dress. Who was this angel?

Shading his eyes with his hand, the researcher's vision adjusted more. Why were there triangle shapes on her head? And what was that duster or shrub behind her that swayed like a pendulum?

Her face cleared more. A grin appeared with very oddly pronounced canines. Yet still, Indrik remained oblivious until the last moment when the peculiar angel spoke: "Gotcha!" He had escaped doom only to be greeted by a stomach ulcer.