Turning Cogs

"The yoke was eroded." Oscar sprung into existence right beside Asimov, giving him a heart attack just when he was about to nod off.

"Boy, you nearly killed this old fool!" he whines, fixing his jacket out of embarrassment.

The child tried to hide his giggles, but seeing the old man turn beet red was another level of humor. He took the goggles he wore down to his neck to see better as he brought the item closer.

"There was a slight misalignment with the cylinder. I imagine you experienced misfires on a few rounds or so," he continued, deftly releasing the latch that swung the chamber open.

"It wasn't too bad but, the hammer could potentially miss at times. Since it's been eroded from constant use, I replaced the yoke with a new one," he said, closing the revolver with a smug grin, "That should fix it."

Asimov took the weapon into his hands for a more personal inspection, weighing its heft and feeling its balance after testing the mechanism himself. With a practiced eye, he peered down the barrel, noting the bore's clarity. "Hmph."

"One last thing," Oscar added, "Your extractor spring snapped. That's probably what brought you here in the first place."

The old man's eyes fell on the rusty spring he held out. "Well, I'll be damned. Great work, kid! You even waxed the grips."

"It's a courtesy, sir. The forgemaster said you were a regular." the young man said, lifting the welcome sign from behind the counter to put it out front.

And that's when it happened.

"Oof!" Oscar fell as he collided with someone on his way out of the door.

Looming like a shadow, the imposing hulk of a man turned to look at him. Much of his face was obscured by the hood he wore, but the kid managed to make out the grisly scar that marred his visage, lacerating part of his mouth and running up the edge of his left eye.

"Watch it, wretch," the stranger's voice carried a low growl, his eyes narrowing in a menacing stare that seemed to pierce through Oscar.

The stranger moved on without a second glance, striding purposefully toward two other figures that awaited him, stepping on and breaking the welcome sign on his way and leaving the young man stunned and bewildered in his wake.

Oscar picked himself up and glanced at the ruined sign before a chuckle escaped him. The next moment, just when the rude man looked back to relish the misfortune he'd caused, a flying wrench whacked him square in the face and broke his nose with an audible crunch.

"Your mother must've dropped you if you think you could just walk away like that."

The man was on his knees, grunting in pain and nursing his nose as it bled profusely whilst his companions stopped in their tracks. The sound of metal grinding on the road got closer as Oscar approached them with a sledgehammer, swinging the heavy tool over his shoulder like it was nothing. He looked down at the man and sized up his other companions with a quick gaze. The difference in size was quite apparent, yet he was not one to back down so easily.

"Pay for the sign, wretch," he sternly demanded at the bleeding stranger.

The atmosphere grew tense as the child's defiant stance wounded the man's pride further. He hesitated for a moment as he stood towering, his eyes shifting between the sign's wreckage and the determined young man before him. The cocktail of pain and frustration made his nose flare and his face contort as he struggled to regain composure.

"You've got some nerve, brat," he spat blood through gritted teeth, his voice strained while his fingers itched for his blade, "Let's see if that sign cries for you while you die—"

"Enough." a female voice declared, interrupting the fight and forcing the already injured man to kiss the floor with a graceful kick. The woman stepped forward, her presence demanding attention. Tall and poised, she radiated an air of command that instantly quelled the escalating confrontation.

Oscar was left unprepared for such a turn of events.

'...tight leather straps,' but he was distracted by something else entirely, worshipping the glorious sight his eyes were blessed to behold when the woman momentarily held her kicking stance. Yet he kept the sleazy thoughts to himself out of dignity.

The man on the ground glared daggers at the woman but wisely chose not to challenge her further, as if realizing who he was up against. Instead, he spitefully walked away after staring the child down one last time. "I know your face."

"Forgive my colleague's behavior," she apologized after he went, her voice deep and serious as they spoke eye to eye, "I believe you harbor a preference for a more civilized resolution as well, so take this."

She took his hand and gave him a single silver coin. The act of doing so revealed her mechanical right hand, its multifaceted cogs, polished metal contraptions, and marbled surface glistening in the faint morning light. It was seamlessly connected to her wrist, presumably anchored to the bone that allowed the intricate circuits to connect with the nerves.

"It's beautiful," Oscar blurted, entranced by the delicate piece of art and machinery, "I'm guessing the framework is mostly adamantium alloy since nothing else would be strong enough to function as parts in a scale that imperceptible."

Her eyes widened, scoffing in amusement.

"You're not as naïve as you look, child," she admitted, her voice carrying a wry note as she pulled the hood over her eyes "but you'd be wiser to stay out of trouble."

There was something about that woman that didn't sit right with him. Almost like the air was warping around her. But what mattered most to him right now was that they paid for the damages. Because only the gods knew how terrifying the vice master of the workshop could be when he's furious.

"You alright?" Asimov was by the door, having witnessed the entire exchange, and it seemed he was more than ready to intervene.

"I've had better mornings," Oscar shrugged, retrieving the hammer and picking up the pieces of the destroyed sign, "new faces, I think?"

"Well, don't fret," he said, securing the oversized revolver back to its strap, "I'll have the boys keep an eye on them. See what they're up to."

The boy resumed his routine. Opening up shop, lifting the blinds, turning the lamps off, and dusting the shelves had been his duty ever since he started. It was one of the conditions that the forgemaster gave him in exchange for allowing him access to their facilities and tools. As long as he didn't do anything too crazy of course.

"You should have this," Asimov said all of a sudden, immediately walking out of the shop after shoving a wrapped package on the boy, momentarily knocking the air out of him, "give my regards to the forgemaster, kid!"

"T-Thanks," Oscar waved back, coughing.

There were three books inside.

The first was a linguistics book for mastering grammar and vocabulary. Following that was an unmarked plan book that turned out to be a collection of various structures, machines, devices, and an array of other projects. And then, standing out with its hardbound leather cover, was one with a rather peculiar title.

"Theoria Chaotika."

---

(Location Undisclosed -- Heresy Inquisition Order Headquarters)

Papers were strewn against the walls, some pinned and others glued, while a neat web of strings crisscrossed the room connecting fragments of information from snippets from various newspapers to handwritten letters and profiles of several individuals. The complex collection that would seem insane to most people was the ongoing study created by one man, all converging like a map to a single article plastered on the door.

'Tradition turned Tragedy: First Prince missing after Royal Ball!'

"Vice Commander, sir," the communication device on his table projected a man from head to torso, one dressed as a civilian sporting a wide-brimmed straw hat commonly seen on farmers, "Your suspicions were on-point, once again. Bishop Edmund vi Demetria came in contact with the outsiders."

Unfortunately, there was no response.

"Sir?" he would go on to call out a few more times in vain, for there was not a single soul in the room, "...maybe he's taking a shit."

Many other threads were linked to the article at the door. The unreported disappearances in the Eastern District, the worsening stench of the sewers, accounts of heightened monster activity in the borders northeast, the upcoming spring festival, the impending declaration of succession, and the cross-examined letters disclosing the presence of defectors amongst the Nobles.

"Why am I even waiting for this guy," the subordinate, diligently waiting.

On the table's center, which was freakishly clean and organized, was a wax-sealed red envelope inscribed with a 'B' insignia. And right below that were 3 neatly stacked documents with a name written on every front page.

'Clyde Sorath'

'Dane Bougel'

'Drow Cornelian'

Just when the transmission ended and the projection dissipated, something stirred behind the Vice Commander's seat. Then there it was, an elusive shadow constantly obscured by the play of light that seemed to distort its shape, fading from view whenever it was stationary and reappearing with an otherworldly shimmer.

A strange, ethereal mist cleared and a pair of disfigured eyes were revealed. Each one moved independently of the other as they scanned the room and were soon drawn to the items on the table.

It made a shrill noise, displeased as it recognized the names. Though it was the envelope in particular that drew its attention in earnest, the eyes narrowing.

A blackened tentacle emerged from the table's edge and spit-like mucus oozed and bubbled as it moved creeping on the table. Its sinewy appendage traced a path toward the envelope, the probing tendrils caressing the insignia with a disturbing intimacy. Inspecting the item closer, it broke the wax and decided to spill the contents.

A single document slipped out and glided playfully in the air until it eventually rested on the tabletop. It would've been a perfectly clean white sheet if it weren't for the message printed right in the middle.

'I Know Everything.'

A sense of dread filled the creature, the panic palpable in the frenzied twitching of the eyes and the strange gurgling noise that it was making. Unbeknownst to it, each and every drawer of the table was filled to the brim with primed charges and explosives waiting to be ignited. Yet, even more, fatal was its failure to perceive the magic circle on the document, drawn in invisible ink.

Residents nearby would later note hearing thunder on a cloudless day.

---

(Eastern Outer District -- )

In the woodlands on the outskirts of the city, a simple hut that was half-dug into the soil sat solemnly in the shade as a pleasant breeze blew past the trees. It was not too distant from the smithery but was far enough to keep away from the noises of the people and the road.

Oscar, without a family to live with, had built himself this humble abode that he called home. And every so often, when there was nothing he could busy himself with at the workshop, he would retreat to this place and bask in the company of nature.

However, to his rather unpleasant surprise, he stumbled upon an unexpected intruder sprawled lazily across his bed, snores harmonizing with the rustling leaves.

"...who?" he was baffled at the sight, immediately reaching for the cooking pan on instinct.

Despite the long blonde hair and the hat covering their face, it was the gnarly little monkey toes that told the young man that this barefooted bastard could not possibly be a fair maiden. Giving him all the resolve he could ever need to get in position and smite this beast.

Oscar violently peels the odd hat off the sleeping trespasser, "Hey—," and creates a tragic dent on his beloved stainless pan. The sound it made caused even him to wince and regret the act for a millisecond. The victim on the other hand returned to his previous state of sleep, albeit in a significantly quieter manner.

"This day keeps getting better and better," he mutters, proceeding to rummage around in search of something to bind the intruder with.

~fin~