The nine newcomers trudged into the meeting space, one after the other. All froze upon seeing Terran. They hugged the far war, staying to the opposite side of his stairwell. The Dark Lord studied each man in detail. Most were fighting age. A few were older. All were covered in soot, and had workers uniforms similar to the ones at the coal plant. More workers. Uneducated then. The men kept their arms tucked close and tiptoed around any stains on the floor. Such adversity to filth. Unusual for men of their trade. Although, they were taking Terran’s form rather well all things considered.

  Without warning, an older coward ran off screaming. Zolin chased him down. Terran looked to Zan. Sweat pooled from the kid’s forehead. Terran said, “You didn’t tell them?”

  “I-I told them,” Zan said. An obvious lie. That wavering voice betrayed him. The kid came near, though stopped shy of going on the steps of the makeshift throne. “I told them you were ‘reanimated.’ Guess they didn’t get what I meant by that.”

  “There is little to get,” Terran said. “The armor keeps me alive. It is nothing mysterious.” Terran said this with a muffled voice, for he kept his hand over his exposed chin. The rot by his chin had spread over the past few days. The exposed chin was too much. Having the bottom of his mouth invisible in front of his men was too much. He loathed how his rotten teeth were visible. It made him look too fragile. All would be well once the helmet was repaired, but for now he was limited. Regardless, he had a revolution to oversee.

  Terran invited the men to step forwards. The newcomers glanced at each other. The tallest one took a deep breath then came forwards. “I’m Jenova. Zan’s cousin. I see this as our opportunity to get back. Take the wealth, then spread it out a little evenly. Think we’re all tired of living in disease infested buildings. It’s time for a change!”

  He got some cheers. The next stepped forward. “I work my second job with Kennov at a diner. Think it’s a beautiful thing what you are attemptin’ here.” In this way, the men introduced themselves, one after the other. All of them were friends of friends, or coworkers, or cousins or whatever. None sounded qualified for anything. Which was not the worst thing. They could always train. Betrayal was unlikely in such a close-knit group. That was crucial at this state.

  After a few minutes, Zolin entered with the elder who had fled. The coward wore a white jacket, pure save for the handprints which littered the coat. He muttered excitingly to himself. Terran heard his own name amongst his whispers. Terran said, “If you have something to say, say it aloud!”

  “I-I’m sorry,” the coward said, looking to the ground. “But surely you understand my trepidation. I mean, you are Dark Lord Terran after all.” The word Lord perked everyone up, as if they had all awoken from a trance. Gazes narrowed. Whisperings followed. Terran cringed. Of course someone would know. But it was fine. He could still salvage this.

  “I am a Lord no loner,” Terran said. He moved his hand off his chin, exposing his ruined flesh. All recoiled at once. “The world has taken its toll on me. I’ve been forced to face many harsh truths. Coming back, seeing the city in this state. It angers me. Diveky used to be glorious. Now the wealthy have ruined it. Even back then, I have been a servant of this city, first and foremost. That also makes me a servant of the people. Of you.”

  Terran scooted down a step, such that he was no longer above the others. His broken ankle flared, a clear warning against this act, but Terran did it regardless to prevent further questioning. “Why don’t we continue?”

  “Sure,” Zolin said. “Whatever you say, Lord.”

  An awkward silence took hold. The challenge was direct now. So many impressionable recruits were here. This should not be their first interaction with the movement. And still Zolin challenged him. Such insolence. This wasn’t the first time either. Would he be like this at every turn? A constant thorn in Terran’s side? Terran clenched his aged fist. The bone creaked. He should put this rebel in his place. March straight up to him. Slam him into a wall. Yell straight in his face.

  Except he couldn’t do that. It was what Zolin wanted. Confirmation that Terran was a power-hungry monarch. “The term does not mean what you think,” Terran said. “The term Lord once meant ‘one who guides.’ I am your Lord of Darkness — the one who will guide you through the dark. Bring you to a better future.”

  Zolin crossed his arms, “Really?”

  “Yes,” Terran said. “Look it up in a history book if you have the time.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  The old man beside Zolin lifted a finger. “Actually,” he said. “Some books do support that interpretation.”

  “There,” Terran said, gesturing to the man. He was poised to say more, but instead shut up. It seemed Terran’s form still intimidated him, despite the prior compliment. Not that he cared; the man had already proven Terran right. “I am your Guide through Darkness. Does that title suit you better?”

  “I s’ppose,” Zolin said, crossing his arms. Though he did not sound satisfied, he was alone. The rest, while certainly not happy, were not against him. Their passion for the movement dwarfed their concerns over Terran. The Dark Lord waited in silence. Directing them back on track would look suspicious. He’d wait for another to do it. They ended up sitting around for half a minute. It was torture, plain and simple.

  “This is my second cousin Olska,” Zolin said at last, patting the old man on the shoulder. “He works at a firework’s factory.” The man stepped back, and meekly waved at Terran with a four fingered hand. Zolin continued for him: “He knows a way for us to make gunpowder. And loads of it!”

  “We can get charcoal from Zolin’s plant,” Olska said. “Sulphur from my place of work. The saltpeter may be hard to acquire, but there are warehouses of the stuff. We can produce more than enough gunpowder and in time too if we start today.”

  “Good,” Terran said. He put his clawed hands together into a steeple. “Very good. Your mind seems keen Olska. Why do you toil away doing peasant work in a factory?”

  “Not because I want to,” said Olska. The man lowered his head. “I’d much rather be a professor but I’ve never had the chance.”

  “Do not fret,” Terran said. “Your skills are being put to use.” They were indeed lucky to have this man. Though Terran wished not to admit it, he had no idea how to acquire the explosives needed in time. Their biggest hurdle had been overcome. Despite this good news, Zolin still frowned.

  Terran asked, "Is there something which bothers you?”

  “It is nothing to concern you, Lord,” said Zolin. Silence returned once again. So did the murmurings. Terran feared another thirty seconds of awkwardness. But then—

  “Honey, I’m home!” Pisk strolled in, shades still on despite the darkness of the sewer. He cringed upon entering. “Whew! I did not miss that stench. It’s disgusting. Or is it just the rotting corpse in the corner over there?”

  Terran curled his fingers. Such brashness, and yet he could do nothing. Punishing the traitor would ruin this image he was building. And so, he stayed silent as Pisk approached. “Got your errand boy now, boss.”

  Derik meandered behind him, a hefty bag at his side. He scooted between the crowd of recruits, maneuvering with a certain grace such that he avoided touching any of them. He stepped around moist spots in the floor, as if bombs were hidden in the filth. Derik stopped this strange dance only when he was as far as he could get from everyone.

  “Ah, Derik,” Terran said. “We meet again. I’m glad.”

  Derik twitched. “You’ve been… busy.” It was clear from his cadence that the blacksmith had chosen that word carefully. A right decision, thought

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like the rest of you to leave. Derik is going to begin repairs on my body. I’d prefer it if you weren’t here for it.” That gave Zolin a chance to voice concerns in private, but it wasn’t like Terran could do anything about it. Right now, it was best that Terran got repaired so that he could be useful again.

  The men left. Sighing with relief, Terran slouched against the stone stairs he sat upon. Derik approached with the bag. He got his stuff out in silence. The metallic patches, the welder. All the items seemed accounted for. Terran still felt the need to make sure. “You did get everything from the list, correct?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Derik got out a plastic tree of some kind. It smelt vaguely of vanilla. The bag was filled with these strange plastic trees. Even combined, their odor did relatively little to overpower the sewer’s natural stench. Terran laid his bad leg down on the step, straight as could be. His broken foot, though still encased in the metal armor, flopped uselessly to the left, the front almost pointing backwards. Derik gagged, “A-Are you sure we have to do this?”

  “I am certain.”

  Derik got out the final two items, a saw and a prosthetic boot. The boot was metal and not hollow, just as Terran requested. Strange. He actually had it all. Terran had expected something would be missing and that he would need to drill into Derik about his failings. Modern Diveky truly had everything, it seemed.

  But the blacksmith was not done. He got out four metal poles, two smaller and two larger. He put them beside Terran’s leg. “I-I’ve been thinking,” Derik said. “Maybe it would be better if I made a brace out of the metal. You could be healed that way. Surely it's better than a prosthetic. Right?”

  His eyes shined. The poor man seemed to be begging. “Enough stalling,” Terran said. “I must be mobile today. These men will not accept me otherwise. And do not be worried about my mobility. Once you weld it on, the prosthetic will fuse with my own body. It will become an extension of my armor. For all practical purposes, it will be as if I still have my foot.” It would be better than that, of course. No more pain from his left ankle down.

  “Your armor,” Derik said. “That’s how you're alive. It’s magic. Right?”

  “Enchanted,” Terran said, as if that weren’t obvious enough. It paid to be specific when it came to types of magic. “The armor keeps me tethered to my body, and so it shall do the same for any metal that fuses with it. Including this prosthetic.”

  “I see,” Derik said. “But—”

  “Quit the questions,” Terran yelled. “Get to cutting.” Derik placed the saw just above Terran’s ankle, then began the cut. He sliced through bone. Putrid flesh peeled and fell away. A horrid odor began. Derik gagged. Nose covered, he continued to cut without looking.

  A jab made Terran sit upright. “Look!” He yelled, pointing to the saw. “Your cowardice will not cost me a leg.”

  “S-sorry,” Derik said. He continued the cut. His hand became a blur. Terran winced when the blacksmith reached bone. The bone shattered into little splinters which stung his aching more flesh. Terran bit his lip to avoid screeching. Pain could not distract him. He had to be strong. He had to be ready for anything.

  Here Terran was, immobile and vulnerable, while his youthful helper operated on him with a saw. It would be all too easy for the helper to try something. The same thought doubtlessly crossed Derik’s mind, unless he was that much of a fool. (Which, admittedly, was a possibility.) So Terran tried to keep his left hand still, a subtle signifier that he was in control. That he could still slit a throat in an instant.

  Derik passed the center of the bone. His claws clenched against concrete as Terran seethed. A bit of bone came out, allowing Terran to see that the inside was green. Mold had infested the center of Terran’s leg. A musty odor arose which made even Terran cringe back. Still Derik did not stop. The blacksmith was in a zone, focusing solely on cutting, as he muttered all kinds of prayers. Not even a minute in, yet the task was almost done. Such dedication. Such efficiency. The blacksmith had been keeping his potential hidden. Even if it was only because he wanted out…

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Derik made the final cut. Flesh tore away, the sensation flaring the nerves across Terran’s leg. Howling with pain, Terran dug his claws into concrete, hyperventilating as he convulsed. The foot, encased in the boot, rolled to Derik. With a yelp, he kicked it across the room and patted over his tattered cloak.

  “Stop….th-that,” Terran said. “Worst…part…done. Patches…” He stopped there. With each word Terran spoke, the ruins of his stomach would swell, and he’d have to use every scrap of willpower to resist the urge to vomit.

  The welding came easy now. First Derik attached the prosthetic, then came the usual business of matching metal scraps to holes in Terran’s armor. As Derik worked on these, Terran rolled his new foot around. The pain dissipated within minutes, save for an odd pinch where the metal met his flesh. But the prosthetic was as mobile as Terran’s actual foot. It would do good in a fight. May even be better than his old one, seeing as it was made of metal. Perhaps Terran could replace his other limbs one day. Though preferably when he was in a more secure position. Regardless, the earlier pain was gone. His putrid form may terrorize onlookers, but it was amazing how he could adapt.

  “It’s done.”

  “Pardon?” Terran asked, snapping back to reality.

  “Your armor is covered,” Derik said. “Save for the bottom of your helmet.”

  “Very well.” Terran stood tall. His legs wobbled slightly, for this was his first time standing in a few days, but they supported him well enough. He towered over Derik once again. “You will return here tomorrow with a bevor.”

  “Bevor?”

  “The bottom part of my helmet,” Terran said. “I want a new one welded on.” Yes, then the people would rather not be able to see his rotten teeth. He could walk with dignity then. “I couldn’t have you do it today, for you have to take the measurements.”

  “R-Right,” Derik said, sighing. “That’s what the tape is for.” He approached, not even recoiling as he took a few measurements. He was soon done. Then he marched off without making any notes or anything.

  “You’re not writing?” Terran asked. “You must remember. You’re attaching it directly. Once you attach it, it's on forever. My helmet cannot be removed. Not even for a moment. This must be perfect.”

  “I-I don’t have any writing stuff,” Derik said, stepping away. “But it's okay. Because I always remember.” He said that last part with a strange confidence. Terran found himself believing the blacksmith, despite having no reason to. Derik started to leave, but Terran held up his hand. The unwilling minion froze on the spot.

  “One last thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “The bevor,” said Terran. He glanced down at his boney claws once again, racking them against concrete as he tried to organize his thoughts. “I don’t want any holes. No slits. It will be solid like the old one. I can’t have people seeing me for what I really am.”

  Derik took a moment to respond. His gaze was focused on his claws. But he did give a stiff nod. A sad look crossed his face, but it was gone before Terran could correct the error. Silence returned to the tunnel. Even the army outside seemed a world away. It was just them.

  “Thank you,” Terran said at last. “Now be off with you. I wish to test out my new prosthetic in peace.” Derik never ran faster, leaving behind both his bag and welding stuff. Terran did not call this out. He took it as a promise that Derik would finish his job first thing tomorrow. That man really was something. Even if skittish, Derik never failed to disappoint. Men of such reliable skill were hard to come by in this modern age. Though perhaps Terran spoke too soon. He had yet to test the prosthetic.

  Terran rushed around the room. His prints were harder with the metal boot. Other than that, there was no difference. He could even transfer his vinye over. Terran focused on the act, bolstering the prosthetic. He kicked at the stone. Chunks flew through the air like bullets, chipping at the opposite wall. Then he ran for the wall, slashing invisible foes as he went. Terran skidded to a stop, then kicked the wall. The room lurched at once. Bits of stone fell from the ceiling.

  Terran smiled. Such a magnificent recovery. His attacks with this foot would be better than ever. It was time. At long last, he could guide the Order of Broken Chains in the proper way. The movement could begin in earnest.

  ***

  The next day began like the previous, with the new recruits being crammed into the back of the large meeting room. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, most refusing to get close to Terran. The crowd’s collective body heat made the room murky and miserable. Even Terran sweated, despite him and Zolin being on the opposite side of the room. So many new faces. Terran looked to his assistant and said the obvious. “There are more now, Zolin.”

  “Aye,” Zolin said. “Friends told friends. Seems people like the idea of our revolution.”

  Terran hissed, “I thought we were to keep this a secret.”

  “Friends of friends,” Zolin said. “They’re quiet. They’re like us, after all.” Zolin waved towards the larger group, and Terran noted that said gesture did not include him. Not that he minded. It paid to be distinguished from the rabble.

  This situation was not dire. More recruits would only be a blessing, provided they didn’t talk. All it took was one bad man. Best to test their loyalties now. Terran stomped the ground. Everyone jolted back. “Nobody talks,” Terran said. “I want to make that perfectly clear.”

  A few of the newcomers tried to flee but were unable due to the guards stationed there. Many gawked at Terran, even the veterans, as if they were seeing his hideous form for the first time. Zolin seemed poised to say something. Terran said, “We all must fall in line. There is no room for error.”

  “These folks are quiet,” Zolin said. “There’s no need to-”

  A guard gasped. Then one of the peasants. Then another. The crowd parted like a dividing sea. Pisk entered with a confident gait, shoving past people as he marched. He strode right up to Terran until he was a foot away from the beast. Then he took aim with a gun, finger hovering over the trigger.

  Zolin gasped. “Have you gone-”

  “Quiet,” Terran said. Pisk had not taken his chance to fire. Either he was an idiot, or there was something else at play. “What is your game here, boy?”

  Pisk titled the gun the side, allowing Terran to see its sleek frame from multiple angles. “Magnus Revolver. Ashten Wood grip, an inch and a half slide. One of a kind, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I suppose so,” Terran said. “Why are you showing me?”

  “My great Uncle’s got a gun shop,” Pisk said, putting the gun back in the holster. “Figure we could all get ‘em. Even you, Terran, you Blackwell hatin’ bastard. Figure it would go well with your technique.”

  Terran growled. This man clearly did not know his technique.

  “We don’t need guns, Pisk,” Zolin said, stepping between himself and Terran. “The bombs are just a necessity due to our lackin’ numbers. After that, we’re done. I’m not havin’ us delve further down that hole. No guns.”

  “Why not?” Pisk asked. “Cops got ‘em.”

  Zolin crossed his arms, “We won’t be dealin’ with cops after the big day.”

  Terran marched to the center of the room. Again, the people departed for the walls. His very form made them cringe back. It must’ve been due to his exposed chin. Best not to belabor it, seeing that flaw would be fixed later that day. “Pisk’s point is fair,” Terran said. “When we take over, there will be destability. Having guns could ensure the wrong people don’t take over.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’,” Pisk said. He took a seat on the far stairwell, Terran’s makeshift throne, and idly waved his gun around. “I ain’t gonna overthrow the Blackwells just to have some mafia boss put his thumb over us. Look, I got it all planned out. Just sneak a few out his shop a couple days at a time. We’ll be armed to the teeth come the ceremony.”

  “No gun’s and that’s that,” Zolin said with a sigh. He marched off, maneuvering around Terran, as he approached the recruits. “We’ve got enough to do as is. We haven’t even started delegating for the day.”

  “There’s more room in the hall,” Terran said, pointing to the exit. “Perhaps we could do this out there. We could all spread out then. It would lessen the body heat too.” That suited everyone just fine, and the men walked off. Even Zolin left in a huff.

  Terran ripped Pisk off the false stairwell throne, then brought him close. The man scowled. No fear. But Terran was used to that from Pisk. It was annoying as hell, especially when he couldn’t drill the man for sitting on his throne, but Terran was used to it. “I’d like to talk with you before we meet with the others.”

  Pisk punched Terran’s hand, then stepped back. “‘bout what?”

  “You have a good idea,” Terran said, hating himself. It was the truth, even if it hurt to give this throne sitter satisfaction of any kind. “It only makes sense that we be armed. I want you to procure the weapons such that Zolin does not find out.”

  “You wanna go against him?”

  “Zolin is not the leader.”

  Pisk crossed his arms. “Then who is?”

  “The three of us,” Terran said with a smile. He put his clawed hand on Pisk’s shoulder and led him away from the throne. “And two of the leaders are in agreement: guns it will be. We will arm our men on the day of revolution. Zolin needn’t know until it's too late.”

  “I like how you think,” Pisk said. He got out a second revolver from his rear pocket. It was red and black, with a handle made of metal. “This one’s for you, by the way. Figured it's a good idea to arm those in charge first.”

  “I do not need it,” Terran said. “I am Gifted. My claws suffice.”

  “That Blackwell, much as I hate her, she uses guns and she’s Gifted,” Pisk said. “Look, they're easy.” He pulled out his gun, aimed at the wall. “Bang! Sap’s dead. Ain’t even gotta move a muscle.”

  “I cannot accept.”

  “Just try it.” Pisk shoved the gun into Terran’s hand. It was heavier than he thought it would be. The grip was awkward to hold. Pisk explained, “You load the bullet’s into that side chamber there. Then you aim. And shoot. Like this.” Pisk lifted his arm out, then there was a click. “See?”

  Terran mimicked the motion. It was slower.

  “Not bad,” Pisk said. “Try like this.” They attempted again. Then again. And again. Each time Terran got faster, but he was still slower than Pisk on the trigger. The motion was simple, but there was a lot of elegance behind it. The right finesse of the wrist, the correct movement of fingers. It was especially difficult for Terran since his body protested such refined movement.

  “We need ya out here.”

  Click!

  A man stood in the doorway. Terran had aimed his gun for his heart. Pisk whistled. “Good thing I didn’t load ‘em. That could’ve been bad. Real bad. I can take it off your hands if you’d like.”

  Terran lowered his arm. “No, I like it.”

  The man was pale. He trembled. “Zolin wants you outside.”

  “Fine.” Terran handed the gun to Pisk. Zolin would disapprove of him having it. He had nowhere else to put it and certainly didn’t trust any of the others enough to leave it out in the open. Perhaps Terran could get a holster in the future. It would have to be a custom one, lest he ruin his aesthetic. But the holster, and the gun, could work wonders on the battlefield.

  They made their way outside. Although Zolin was the one speaking, everyone looked at Terran as they emerged. No one dared say a word, but still they stared. One man had his mouth covered, seeming on the verge of gagging. One firm glare got them focused back on Zolin. The man spoke logistics now. He assigned drivers to warehouses, coordinated schedules, etcetera. Nothing that required a Dark Lord to step in.

  As Zolin spoke, Zan entered with Derik. The blacksmith had Terran’s new bevor. Walking with his head hung low, Derik soon tripped over himself. He recovered before approaching Terran, and did not meet his eye as he lifted the bevor. It was a good fit. No more would the world see Terran’s putrid jaw. Derik began welding the bevor to the upper helmet. Though it was only fusing with metal, the heat took a great toll on his flesh too. Sparks flew into Terran’s mouth. His jaw burned as if it were in a volcano, but Terran bit his burning lip and kept quiet. The smell of burnt meat spread through the room. Terran’s own flesh was cooking.

  People stared. Even Zolin and Pisk. Silence to the room, save for the dripping of distant water. Many stepped away. Not just the recruits. As if the others didn’t know how Terran repaired himself. Such an embarrassment, being stared at like this. And Terran couldn’t even yell “get on with it” because his cheeks burned so. After a minute, Zolin resumed giving everyone their jobs for the day. Though he’d have to speak twice when addressing a distracted man. (Of which there were many.) Derik was soon finished. Terran’s mouth was aglow, coating the dim sewers in an orange hue. But the bevor was on, and tight too. The Blacksmith had impressed yet again!

  Once done, Derik tried to leave but Terran held him back. The man stood upright, cringing. “Hold on.” Terran said, voice echoing far more due to his new bevor. Speaking felt like spitting lava, but this next statement needed saying. “By my count, we have thirty-seven men here, including me. Is that correct?”

  Zolin nodded.

  “Yet you’ve assigned three recruiters, four silencers, one scientist, one grand planner, one undercover agent, one blacksmith, five drivers, ten material harvesters, six mechanics and six bomb site inspectors.” Terran marched to the center of the room, still holding Derik by his shirt. The blacksmith did not protest. “That totals thirty-eight. We’re one man over.”

  Zolin blinked. He seemed surprised that Terran had been paying attention. “That is right,” he scratched his head. “Guess someone’s gonna need to pull double duty then.”

  “How ‘bout the blacksmith?” Pisk said, coming close. He jabbed at Derik’s side. The finicky blacksmith yelped in a very high pitch. Pisk snickered, “Guy’s already done his job for the day. He could be one of the drivers.”

  “I…I don’t know.” Derik backed away from Terran, separating himself from the group. “I can’t do anything. I have… plans.”

  Terran snorted. “What plans?”

  The wimp recoiled back, receding into comforting darkness. He was stopped by a wall. Terran approached, each step making the backsmith flinch. “We all make sacrifices for this movement,” Terran said. “It’s how we show our dedication. If your plans are of true importance, reveal them and we’ll leave you to them. But otherwise, you must stand with us.”

  This was mere talk. Derik did not care for this movement, Terran knew. He was a rather unambitious person. Most likely, his plan was a simple date with his simple girlfriend. A date Derik would miss tonight. Such coercion was necessary. Terran had to remind Derik of who owned him. That Derik was but a servant, who could be called up at any moment no matter the inconvenience. If Derik refused, that would mean revealing Ema to this rabble. He would not, Terran knew.

  Derik stammered in place, choking over words. His eyes were moist. It looked like the oaf may start crying. That was not the culmination, thankfully, and instead Derik gave a defeated sigh. “Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll do it.”