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It had been five months since the incident at the tunnels, yet life didn't seem to get tired from tormenting young Indrik. A gang of street urchins made turns, beating the boy with sticks and fists till they lost interest. They were kind enough not to rip off the loosely attached lobe plate. It was all he had left to hold himself together.

After his tormentors left, he, once again, stumbled aimlessly through the Artillery Street where he settled in an enclosed yard adjacent to a nearby business named "Bertolta Zobrats". It must have been a repair shop of sorts because the dumpster was full of discarded parts and mechanisms.

A midst of all that junk was a still wall-clock which stirred awake a dying passion inside Indrik. From his worn, size-too-big boot he retrieved an rusty screw driver and found a solace in tinkering. What parts the clockwork lacked he either replaced by scavenged bits or improvised by repurposing different mechanisms.

At the end his handiwork had outgrown its original shell, but could his thrown together solution actually work? Did he still have it in him?

With each turn of the key his hands trembled even more. For some reason, the result from this simple act of spontaneous tinkering made him feel a creeping dread, as if his life depended on the success. A final, fatal truth that, like a piece of debris hanging only by the few remaining wires of hope, awaited to fall and, this time, finish Indrik for good.

Before the last wind-up, the backdoor swung open and a frail old-man stepped out, carrying a box full of scrap: "Piece of junk! Never going to take an apprentice again-..." His gaze acknowledged the boy sitting back against the dumpster.

"Hey, you there, cur! Scatter before I call the white-cloaks!" The elder discarded the box and staggered onward while shaking his fist, but was interrupted by the rhythmic dings, coming from the, now lively, clock in the young tinkerer's grasp.

This made the old man pause mid step a foot away from Indrik. His skeletal hands seized the clockwork from the boy who didn't offer much resistance.

With eyes that spoke of decades of experience, he examined the noisy contraption. The man's hand found itself in the leather apron's pocket and returned with a shiny brass cog which he seamlessly integrated in the larger system. The dings seized, morphing into a steady ticking. "One thing it was missing was so small, yet so crucial..."

"Not bad work, youngster. Not bad at all, considering what you were working with," the elder spoke with admiration, as if just a moment ago he didn't threaten to call Tuetonics on Indrik. The man offered a handshake: "I am Bertolt, and this is my repair shop. Are you, perchance, interested in an apprenticeship, boy?"

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***I***

With a painful jolt Indrik awoke, coughing profusely, yet could not discern his surroundings which were just black shapes, for a blinding light burned his eyes. Was this the white light at the end of the tunnel that so many have spoken about? If so, the researcher hasn't got much time to bathe in its radiance. He knew his crimes.

Then, like a great monolith, a singular dark column abstracted the light's source that soon morphed into an outline of a person with triangle shapes on top of their head. Were those horns? Has the devil himself come to take Indrik away?

"Satan... is it ze time?" His words were like a light breeze: weak and barely audible.

"Satan?!" The voice, surprisingly, was feminine with a not so subtle tone of exasperation, and also strangely familiar. "Devil takes, I will show ya Satan, shwab!" There was another painful jolt as his head rocked leftward. "Get yarself together already!"

Shawb?! How dare this demon call a genius like Indrik a-... Wait... "Otiliya? Is... Zat really you? What are you doing in hell?"

"Hell? Ohoho! Oh no, we are not in hell. It's far worse. We are still at Imanta's District and it's crawling with cross-bearers." The wolfborn woman leaned in, allowing the researcher to take in her fully. The amused, toothy grin; the soot covered dress, her bandaged left arm; and a black-leather belt from which dangled a scabbarded saber and a holstered coil-blaster.

This meant only one thing: He was still among the living, yet gained no joy from this revelation. His childhood home... His workshop was destroyed. His dream was gone with the Muscovite mongrels. It was all he had on this earth.

Seeing how Indrik's features sombered so suddenly, she knelt beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder: "What's the matter, Indirk-... Oh..." Soon after, her ears flattened with the realization how stupid that question was, so she clumsily switched it up: "Uhh... So... Why did the russisch lurkers want your witchcraft papers? Doubtful, to make some clockwork buddies."

"Why... Most likely explanation is zat they want to use it for dead tissue reanimation advancement for military use," Indrik remembered the undead cossacks and Nikolayevich's words about their expiration time. As well as the hint that the Muscovites had observed the researcher's work for some time which could imply that those abominations were based on his previous work, if the artifact slot was anything to go by.

"Why does it matter now? Zey are already long gone by now..." The man gazed into the morning skyline.

Otiliya tapped her chin: "Ya sure about that? Those ghouls were too slow and stupid to be prime soldiers..." She pondered till her amber eyes lit up with comprehension. "But that ugly golem of yours, it would have killed ya if not for the weak point. Maybe they want to make clockwork buddies after all, eh?"

Eyes closed shut as he was brought into the confines of his imagination. He saw a horde of metal men marching across the field of bloody corpses, uninhibited by such things as fear, hesitation or mercy.

They never stop, for the machine knows no thirst, hunger or fatigue. Only death stifles them, but where one falls; ten more take its place. Spewed out in a constant stream from factories operating night and day, for they too are run by machines.

A true warmachine, to the every letter of the word...

If Muscovites have their own competent occult experts, then with the backing of an empire they could find the right power word combination and tame its aggressive nature or at least direct it at their foes in a controlled way.

No... No... This was not what Indrik wanted. He merely wanted a loyal companion, but they would use his knowledge to enslave the whole world, or even destroy the whole human race in the process. There is no guarantee when dealing with such power on such a scale.

The researcher had encroached on God's domain, trying to be equal to him, and brought the armageddon... A single tear ran down his cheek.

No! He will not let this occur. He will not let his work be twisted. By his life or death he will take back what is his.

Despite the pain, Indrik jumped to his feet resolute and full of new found strength. With eyes that burned like zealot's, he scanned the alleyway and the neighboring street, recognizing the location.

Before he could leave, Otiliya stepped in front of him. "Where do ya think ya are going, fritz?"

"What do you think? To rip my research out from the russisch bastards' cold hands!" He tried to squeeze past her.

She crossed her arms. "Without me?" This made the researcher stand still. "Did ya forget? The liquor was a nice gesture, but ya still owe me eleven hanzmarks, blaggard."

This made Indrik smile. "Then let's not waste any time-..." Yet once again, he was stopped by the wolfborn woman by the shoulder.

She turned him around, shoving a coil-rifle and a harness with pouches into his arms. With astonishment, the man stared at the laundress with an unspoken question.

"I managed to nab one of the stragglers," she jerked her thumb over her shoulder where laid a bloody corpse of one of the markless soldiers, smirking with satisfaction at her work. "And also made him sing. His buddies should have departed by an airship towards Novgorod two hours ago. Any ideas, machinist?"

While adjusting the straps of the harness Indrik spoke: "I know a man, but he will need some convincing. Are you up for the task?"

Otilya's tail wagged side to side and she tapped on the hilt on her belt as an answer.