I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for me. The hissing of the steam vents outside my window was a constant reminder, mingling with the clatter of gears and whirrs of brass cogs that filled the air of my workshop. My sanctuary. Or maybe my snare. The remnants of my last experiment lay scattered across the cluttered table—copper tubes crisscrossing like veins, each one pulsating with electric anticipation. I could feel them watching, always watching. Shadows lurking at the corners of my vision, vanishing when I turned to face them.
Outside, the rain drummed against the cobblestones, a relentless tattoo echoing the chaos in my mind. Those unyielding droplets reflected the gaslight from the streetlamps, creating halos that danced around the edges of my tortured thoughts. I could almost hear their whispers blending with the storm’s symphony, a cacophony of suspicion that gnawed at my sanity. Perhaps they were listening. Perhaps they were part of the experiment.
I had initially started my work in secret, my designs burgeoning from the skeletal remains of previous patents purloined from the archives of the Academicum of Mechanis. It was an institution steeped in prestige and, ironically, secrecy. The experimentation that thrived there was whispered about in the back rooms of taverns, where the elite would sip absinthe while discussing their latest mechanical triumphs. But I had cast my lot with the outcasts: the street inventors, the unsanctioned alchemists whose ingenuity was matched only by their desperation.
But desperation breeds madness, and I was acutely aware of that. My latest endeavor was not just another tool or gadget—it was a transmutation device, a means to blend biology with machinery, to create hybrids that could revolutionize our understanding of life itself. At least, that was my hope. But with each failed attempt, doubt seeped into my mind like the oil pooling beneath my workbench. Perhaps I was merely pushing the boundaries of sanity, and the prying eyes of the Academicum were not so far-fetched an idea after all.
Every knock on the door sent a shockwave through me. Every creak of the floorboards above pulsed with the rhythm of my heart. Even the fizzling of the alchemical potions on my stove made me glance over my shoulder, convinced that the shadows were shapes taking form, waiting to consume me whole. I was losing sleep, the wild night hours blurring into days, and my hair had begun to frizz from the static of my electric experiments, a tangle of wires and thoughts that I could barely contain.
The clockwork automatons I had fashioned from discarded parts scuttled around me, their beatific little faces carved into brass plates, eyes glowing with gentle amber light. I had named them “Sprockets” after the gears they were built from, and they were more loyal than any human companion. Sometimes I caught myself confiding in them, telling them of my fears. I often wondered if their delicate mechanisms were not so unlike my own disordered mind—programmed to function, yet susceptible to the sabotage of human error.
As the evening deepened into the folds of night, I heard the telltale sounds of footsteps echoing through the alley—a rhythm too deliberate to belong to the average passerby. The shadows fused together, thickening with intent, and I crouched low behind my workbench, breath held alongside my heartbeat. There were too many of them, I thought, my paranoia sharpening into a blade.
Of course, it could just be my imagination. The wards I had built to protect my work were falling apart—my devices had become more of a hazard than a safeguard. The steam and smoke coiling through the air seemed to dance maliciously, taunting me as I took refuge behind a makeshift barricade of metal and wood. Was that a clinking sound? Perhaps they were already inside, silently inspecting my universe of broken dreams and half-formed realities.
The automatons, bless their worn-out gears, gave me the strength to peek through a crack in the wooden door. I saw them. Cloaked figures, their faces obscured by the shadows, whispering among themselves as their fingers darted over blueprints hastily plastered to the wall. My blueprints. My dreams laid bare for them to dissect.
The terror boiling in my gut flared into action. I recalled the letters I had received—threatening messages sent by the Academicum’s shadowy Council, each one a promise of prosecution for venturing too far from the prescribed path of invention. I had mocked their warnings, but now I regretted my hubris.
“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, a mantra against the rising tide of dread. My hands, slick with sweat and grease, fiddled with the intricate clasps of my prototype, a hybrid of flora and metal that pulsed and throbbed like a living thing. Designed to detect intruders, it was my last hope. I hurled the strange contraption toward the bubbling cauldron at the back of my workshop, watching as it lit up in vibrant hues of purple and red, a musical chime resonating through the air.
A spark of release shot through the room, illuminating the dark corners where the figures hovered. Their whispered conversations turned to shouts of alarm, and I seized my moment. Emerging from the shadows, the Sprockets sprang to life, their gears grinding in protest but bolstered by purpose. With the fervor of a tempest, they surged into the night, rallying around me like vigilant guardians, oscillating and whirring with a frenzy of brass and iron.
“Run!” I shouted, but it was too late; they had already encircled me, the dark figures retreating from the light, their eyes glinting like shards of glass. I could see their true intent now—infamy awaited me if I didn’t act quickly.
“Retribution is at hand,” one of them hissed, and I felt the weight of my fate rest upon my shoulders, heavy and ominous. This was a new experiment, one that no amount of schematics or ingenuity could prepare me for. My only ally was my paranoia, guiding me away from their grasp, urging me to flee.
As I stumbled back into the heart of my workshop, I activated my final defense—a self-destruct mechanism embedded within my most volatile concoction. With a trembling hand, I pulled the lever, and the machine roared alive. The room vibrated with an electric hum, a chorus of steam and gears harmonizing in a discordant symphony that escalated into chaos.
The figures shrieked as they were engulfed in the blinding light of my creations imploding around them, the explosion resonating through their twisted forms. I fled into the night, heart pounding in synchrony with the clanging of fire alarms echoing through the streets of New Coilsburg. The city was alive with steam and smoke, a mechanical beast thrumming with my urgency, and I melted into the shadows just as they had once melted into mine.
In the end, what I had produced was not merely an experiment but a lesson—a painful reminder that in this world of brass and menace, my mind was a labyrinth where paranoia thrived. The fear gnawed at me, but I carried on. Perhaps one day I would return to reclaim my work, my dreams—a phoenix beneath the gears of tyranny. But for now, I was just like one of my Sprockets, fighting against the darkness, ever in the grasp of an unseen hand, forever aware that the next corner I turned might reveal the cages of my past or, worse, the prying eyes of my future.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
