While Harold was busy with Theodore, other things were at work, both within the Institute itself, and in Xantrak at large. Olivia Tailor, for instance, had just checked out a book from the library—a mildly-battered copy of Mutants, Monsters, and Abhumans: A Brief History. In a  much more secluded part of the library, Ralph Matheson was mixing together the ingredients for witherdraft. Devon Li, meanwhile, was hard at work in one of the Institute's laboratories, drawing up plans for the construction of a Dilation Engine; and of course, the other students at the Institute were busy making their own preparations for the Creature Fair as well.

Rotating teams of Repairmen were hard at work rebuilding Carter Library. Richard Tailor, the Institute’s director, was negotiating the terms of a grant with the mayor of Xantrak. The city’s factories were alive with heat and toil. Iron Albert was being prepared by the police for his nightly patrol; and of course, in the dark caverns and murky waters beneath and around the city, strange things and stranger people lurked in shadow, bearing strange faces and stranger tidings.

But among these different actors, there was one person in Xantrak who could see everything on the stage. He alone had the script, and he alone would be left standing when the curtains closed; or at least, he thought it was so.

He lay beneath black bedsheets embroidered in silver and gold, and sheltered by a dark canopy worked in soothing shades of blue and green. Though his eyes were half open, and though his head needed to be propped up with a pillow, he was quite alert, and so it was no surprise when the two Retainers guarding his door stepped aside, allowing a man garbed as if in shadow to pass through.

The man in shadow knelt beside the man in the bed. Weakly, the man in the bed raised a hand and placed it on the other’s shoulder. “Welcome back, humble servant of Terra,” the man said. “You may rise.” and the other man rose. “What news have you to report?”

The Servant spoke softly, but without fear. “The Monsters are getting restless, my lord. There are new attacks every week, and each more harrowing than the last. Your butlers are doing what they can, but we only have but so many machines, and those can do only so much.”

The man in bed nodded. “I see. And what of the Institute? Do they still pretend not to see us?”

“For the moment, lord. As of late, their actions have been largely reactive. The police sweeps are more extensive, but they don’t appear to be targeting any of our headquarters. They have also contracted the Repairmen for various construction projects. And the city’s factories and armories have greatly increased production.”

“Hm. And what are they producing, exactly? Aside from the usual.”

“I am unsure, my lord. Some new project has begun, I think, but the plans have been split up between various facilities. I have visited each, but as I have no talent for engineering, I am unable to discern what exactly the plans are for.”

“I understand. I want you to keep an eye on whatever the institute is building. But bring a Tinker on your visits. And of course, I don’t have to tell you to be discreet.”

The Servant nodded. He said, “No one will see me, my lord.” But this was unnecessary, for the bedridden man had no doubt that this was true.

A few minutes passed, and more information was exchanged between the Shadowed Servant and the Bedridden Man. As the conversation neared its end, the Man said, “You have served me faithfully, and you serve Terra just as well. But there is one more thing you have yet to tell me of.”

“You wish to know of the Bakers’ boy, lord?”

The Old Man nodded, and the Servant began, “I have been watching him most of the day, my Liege, but there is scant to report. He is now a participant in this year’s Creature Fair.”

The Bedridden Man croaked out a laugh. “After all these years, they bring that back? And when the Bakers’ son is old enough to compete, no less!” The Man could have called it a coincidence, but he knew that on this stage, there were none. What was Tailor up to? “Go on, my servant.”

The Servant continued, “He seems to be interested in plant-based neogenics, and his research is becoming more and more advanced. He even forged a note from a teacher to get to the third floor of Cunningham Library.”

The Old Man  tried for another laugh, but it quickly became a hacking cough that split his ribs and the air alike. Blood began to trickle from his mouth. In an instant, the room’s guards leapt to action, but the Man swatted them away. “I am fine. I just need water.” As the guards scrambled over themselves trying to fulfill the order, the Man continued, “So he’s a chip off the old block after all! I was worried he may be of no use to us.” Unbidden, memories of his own time at the Institute flooded his mind: victories won, friends, made, enemies vanquished… monsters born, trusts shattered, and one great loss sustained. Quickly, he banished the memories and turned his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “Does the boy know anything of his past?” Or his future? was the unasked question.

The Servant recalled the encounter in the library a few hours ago. He’d let himself be seen to provoke response, but he’d sensed no recognition radiating from the boy, only panic and trepidation. “No, lord. He knows nothing.”

“He will,” the Bedridden Man assured himself, “He will.”

One of his retainers handed him a glass of water. He sipped it slowly. “Keep watching the boy, and tell me of any changes. You are dismissed.”

The Servant left quickly, and in the same way that he had come. Night’s curtains fell upon the city not too long after. As the Sun passed over the misty horizon, the Bedridden Man thought of his friends’ son. He was sure that fate would bring him within reach. No, not fate, he corrected himself—the Goddess. She could do anything. In Her, all things were possible. It was foolish to question it. But even if he had the script, he still had yet to see the ending, so yet he wondered: what was the Boy doing now? And what would he do next?

* * *

Harold had no idea what to do next.

It was now evening in Xantrak, and Immortal Lamb Chops were on the menu. Harold liked them well enough—although he could have done with more seasoning—but really, he found himself becoming more interested in the process used to make them. Strictly speaking, lambs weren’t immortal; rather, neogenics had been used to freeze their development, such that they would live out their entire life spans without getting visibly older. He wondered how many genes had been changed to accomplish that. A few hundred? A few thousand? And of course, you couldn’t change up a creature’s entire genome at once; you had to do it in stages. By his estimate, the Immortal Lambs would probably take at least a few months to produce, but they could easily take over a year. That was using the conventional methods—blasting it with Meta-Rays, or infecting it with a specially-designed pathogen. But then, of course, there was always the unconventional method…

Abruptly, Harold looked up to see that Theodore had managed to put away an entire plate of food. He could have sworn that there was a bottomless pit where his stomach should be.

“What?” Theo said, indignant. “I was hungry.”

Harold shook his head and went back to his notes.

Soon after he’d left the third floor of Cunningham Library, Harold had copied down his findings from Unusual Applications of Botany. Just from reading a single chapter, he could see why it was restricted. Most of the knowledge contained within it had been rather repulsive, and a good bit of it had even been used in the War. But buried between grotesque descriptions of mutated plants was the information he needed, and he’d managed to dig it out.

Harold’s eyes slid down the page. Beneath a veritable laundry list of chemicals and equipment, and a series of complicated alchemical equations and processes, was a freehand sketch of the dog that he’d be making for the Creature Fair. He was sure that it would be enough to win the competition… but the question was, would he have enough time to complete it? In a lot of ways, this was more complicated than simple immortality.

Harold turned to an empty page and began scribbling down more equations. He’d already done the math over lunch, but now he did it again, hoping to get a different result. The numbers, however, were stubborn, and only yielded that which he’d already known to be true. Unless the formula was wong—and Harold knew for a fact that it wasn’t—it was clear that the conventional methods could see the dog’s creation by the beginning of the next term, if he was lucky. That is, unless he had some sort of x factor to speed things up, something like…

He performed the equations yet again, but this time he accounted for the use of nitroblathlamene in the procedure. Suddenly, months turned into weeks, weeks into days, and days into minutes. Time went from being his greatest enemy to a sworn ally. April 9th became a goal to strive toward instead of a day that he would come to rue. All because of nitroblathlamene—the miracle substance that was to neogenics what a philosopher’s stone was to alchemy, that had only been discovered a few years prior, and that wasn’t even taught at the Institute because even a few drops too many could easily turn a pigeon into a velociraptor or a rat into a wooly mammoth. It was new, it was exciting, it was dangerous… and it was one of the materials that he was prohibited from using under the rules of the Creature Fair, so there was no point in even considering it.

Sighing, Harold closed his notebook in much the same way that one might close the lid of a coffin. It was only at that moment that he noticed Theodore appeared to be trying to get his attention. “Sorry,” Harold said, “I was in the midst of a scientific reverie. What were you saying?”

Hmph. And they say I’m easily distracted, Theodore thought before repeating his statement. “I was only trying to tell you that dinner will be over in ten minutes, and you’ve barely touched your food. If you don’t want to go to bed hungry, you should get a move on.”

Harold put a hand to his stomach and abruptly became aware of just how empty it felt. “Right,” he said, “I probably should.” He looked down at his plate, and realized that he had no intention of finishing the lamb chops. He’d seen some pasta floating around, though; maybe he could grab some before the Refectory closed.

“I’m getting back in line,” Harold said, standing up. “Do you want anything?”

“I’d like some pie, if they have it.”

Harold rolled his eyes. “Why do you always get pie if you hate it so much?”

“But that’s the thing: I don’t hate pie. I love pie! It’s my favorite desert! It’s just that the specific kind of pie made by this specific school is exceptionally bad, and I keep getting it because I want to find out why. I don’t know if it’s the flour they use, or the temperature they bake them at, but I’m going to figure it out.”

Harold shook his head and threw his hands in the air. “Whatever you say, Theo. Make sure no one touches my stuff.”

Now it was Theodore’s turn to roll his eyes. “What, you think someone here is going to rob you?”

Recalling the person who’d been watching him in the library that morning, Harold thought that it was certainly a possibility. But to Theodore he said, “Just do it,” and strode off.

Harold returned to the table a few minutes later with two plates in hand. It didn’t take him long to notice that something was wrong.