A/N: It seems you were generally pleased with Sarah's emergence into our story. This pleases me. It really does!

And so we continue our steampunky journey, but first I have to say thank you again to everyone showing interest. I know this is strange and different and what the devil are you even making us read, Steampunk Chuckster? Something good. Hopefully. To answer your question.

Summary: In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

Disclaimer: "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

When last we joined our plucky (and dangerous, it must be said) heroes, the Ice Queen received a new mission. Well, she was blackmailed into a new mission, but that's beside the point. And Mr. Positivity himself, the toymaker, hired a new assistant. A Mr. John Casey.

Let's look! (pulls back curtain with an intrigued face)

"Bartowski!"

Chuck turned from where he stood chatting to a young woman who didn't seem particularly averse to his attentions. He sent John Casey a pointedly annoyed look. "May I help you, Casey?"

"The machine is stuttering again."

"Did you check his jaw? It rusts a little sometimes."

"Not that machine. The important one."

Chuck made an unamused face and watched as Casey ducked back into the workshop. He turned back to the woman and gave her a polite smile, excusing himself and hurrying after his new assistant.

John Casey had been working at the Buy More for a little less than two weeks now, every day, from opening until closing. It had been, in a word, a godsend. The man was surly more often than not, but brightened up a bit with customers. At least he hadn't frightened anyone off, and Chuck considered that a blessing. Morgan had been less vocal around the man, which was another blessing, because Morgan's opinions tended to irk others. And Casey seemed the type of man who lived in a constant state of being irked—whether by humanity or the world in general.

Granted, Chuck had yet to get used to the man's disposition. By nature, the toymaker enjoyed conversing with people. He thrived around others. It was what kept customers coming back to the Buy More when their devices and toys needed repair. To spend nine hour days in the company of a growling cactus plant was not entirely what Chuck had expected.

As he made his way into the workshop, Morgan brushed past him toward the front. "My jaw is just fine, thank you," he snapped. Chuck rolled his eyes and walked to the machine that was spewing an awful lot of steam into the room.

"What have we got here?" Chuck asked as Casey stepped up beside him.

"Think a gear is busted. Rusty screws maybe. I saw a gear that was off-kilter. Probably needs a replacement. S'broken." He took off his hat and mopped up the steam condensation from his face before setting it back on his head.

"That's what it looks like. Shut it down for now. I'll make a trip to the smithy if you watch the Buy More for me. Morgan's perfectly capable, but he has trouble relating to the customers." Chuck didn't mention Casey seemed to have just as much trouble relating to customers, if not more.

"Will this do?"

Chuck turned and looked at the large gear in Casey's meaty hand. The grooves weren't the right shape.

He lifted his eyes to Casey's face to answer and his brain clouded as a sharp stab of pain went through his head. The images flashed again and he saw a document with the letters IBoMaD typed across the top, then the image switched and there was a photograph of men in naval officer uniforms, then another photograph of men posed behind gaming tables with drinks in hand, then a man walking across the street and crumbling to the ground in a cloud of red…a vision of someone in dark clothes in the window above with a rifle at his shoulder…

He shook his head and stepped back from Casey. What did the Imperial Bureau of Machinery and Defense's seizure of a club beneath a factory in New York have to do with anything? And why did he all of a sudden know about it?

"Uh—Uh, that isn't the right shape." There was a suspicious look in Casey's eyes as he stepped closer and lowered the gear to his side.

"Bartowski? Everything alright?"

"Y-Yes! I'm fine, I'm fine. Perhaps I'm a little hungry. I think I will go across to the main street and get some of those pigeon sandwiches. Would you like one? Of course you would."

"Pigeon?"

"I'll get you one. I'll be right back. Go ahead and—you know, do the—fix the—Right." Chuck hurried out of the workshop, grabbing his hat along the way but neglecting his coat. He completely missed the small smile the female shopper sent him as he strode past her and burst out into the street, breathing heavily. It had been awhile since he had flashed—that was what he had taken to calling it. Flashing. Like a flash of painful blinding light, as though someone took a photograph and the bulb exploded directly in his face.

He almost forgot how it felt—the way his head rang for a few moments after, the terror as he realized his lack of control over his own mind. Whatever was doing this to him was more than just lack of sleep. There was something in him. Something that had to do with Bryce's automaton. That blue cube with the churning innards…

Was it the gear that had triggered it, he wondered? Or was it Casey? But Casey was just a distempered fellow who had needed a job. Why would he have anything to do with whatever Bryce had brought to his workshop in that automaton? He wouldn't. And that was all there was to it. Perhaps it wasn't triggered by anything. What if he was beginning to flash without a reason? What if it happened while he was in the middle of the street? He might be hit by a steam carriage or trampled by horses.

He stopped after a block and leaned against the brick building next to him, unable to wrestle the image of the cloud of blood exploding from a man's chest out of his head. Why was that the only thing he remembered from the flash? Something grisly and violent and terrifying…

Had the victim been the owner of the seized club? Why was a government agency concerned with that particular club? Was it a criminal hideout? They most always were. Gambling rings, cover for murderers and drug dealers, opium dens on occasion.

But it was nothing for the Bureau of Machinery and Defense to worry about. They had more important things to deal with, didn't they? National security, for instance.

Feeling more confused, but ultimately better now that his headache was gone, Chuck ran his hands down his face and let out a long breath.

Footsteps clanged above him and he looked up at the patrolman crossing the iron bridge between the two buildings, his gait slow and lackadaisical, as though he had nowhere special to be. He wore a tall top hat, goggles to protect his eyes from the smoke that rose from the factories, a thick coat, and he had a rifle slung over his shoulder by a leather strap.

Patrolmen in Los Angeles were almost as corrupt as the criminals they were paid to stamp out. If you had the money to pay them off, they saw nothing, they heard nothing, they did absolutely nothing. Many times they were mercenaries for hire—and the crime lords had the money. Chuck had learned early on in his life as an orphan that the patrols weren't to be trusted. He and Bryce had enough run-ins as young teens to know who to avoid—and patrolmen were always to be avoided.

A woman yelped behind him and Chuck spun. A young boy burst through the gathering crowd and crossed the street, hiding something under his jacket and holding it to his chest as he ran, a wide-eyed look of terror on his face.

"Come back here, ya little bastard!" A rotund man hurried after the boy, a long stick in his hand. "Help! Thief! Stop!"

The child, who must have been no more than eight or nine years old, met eyes with Chuck as he reached the sidewalk and halted, looking left and right. "Mister, please. My mother—"

"Hey! Stop 'im!" the merchant yelled from behind a carriage that was forced to skid to a halt to avoid hitting him. Chuck could feel the man's piercing black eyes glaring at him, even though he hadn't been able to tear his own gaze away from the desperate features of the boy.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he half-heartedly reached out towards the boy, but was easily dodged, which had been the point. The thief hurried off then, but not before sending him a mildly surprised and tentatively grateful look. Apparently Chuck had not been quite as convincing as he had meant to be.

Can't win 'em all.

Overhead, Chuck heard a loud click, the sound rising above the din of the startled crowd. How he managed to hear it was a mystery, but it had almost been like the boom of a cannon shot from inside his cranium. The shouting continued as he looked up and saw the patrolman staring along the barrel of his rifle, the muzzle following the escaping child.

"Get down!" Chuck bellowed as loud as he could, startling a well dressed gentleman strolling past him. Without another thought, the toymaker tore down the sidewalk after the boy and dove, wrapping his arms around the much too skinny shoulders and taking him down to the ground hard, managing to roll midair to take the brunt of the collision. A shot rang out, the terrifying sound echoing off of the buildings surrounding them. Women screamed and ducked inside of nearby stores, gentlemen dove to the ground and covered their heads or cowered against the walls and behind light poles.

Another shot rang out and connected with the pavement near the young thief's head. "Come on, come on! Get up!" Chuck leapt to his feet and lifted the boy up with one arm and tucked his nearly nonexistent weight up under his armpit, rushing down the street and ducking into an alleyway. He set the boy down and looked into his frightened green eyes, kneeling before the dirty-faced thief, his hands on bony shoulders. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

The boy brought a sleeve up and wiped at his mouth quickly, shaking his head. "S'alright. Thanks, mister."

Behind him, he heard the cock of a rifle. Chuck spun and stepped in front of the young fugitive. "He's just a child. And hungry. Please."

"Think I care about that, you civilian scum? We're all hungry for somethin'." The man reached up and took a splinter of wood out from where he'd had it clenched between his teeth, flicking it to the ground and raising the rifle again. "Move aside or I shoot through you." There was a smirk on the stubble-surrounded lips beneath the goggles.

"L-Look. Come on, can we not be reasonable about this? He probably stole a measly loaf of bread. Honestly, how much could that be? What if—I know! I know! I will pay for it. I will pay. Then everyone wins, yes?"

"Or I can shoot you both and I'mthe only winner," the cloaked man sniggered. "Say your prayers, princess. If you know any."

Chuck felt the boy's small fist tighten on the back of his vest. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the sound of the rifle going off, the excruciating pain of the bullet slamming into his body, rupturing a vital organ.

He heard the shot and felt a sudden pain cut across his shoulder. Chuck hit the ground and grasped at his arm beneath the wound, squirming in pain and whimpering in terror. The thief scrambled away, scaling the fence at the end of the alley and expertly hoisting himself over it, disappearing forever with his prize without looking back once. Gritting his teeth and growling at the stinging wound, Chuck turned back around when he heard soft clicking of what sounded like heels approaching where he lay in the alley.

His vision began to blur, then, the tops of the buildings flanking him shifting this way and that, so he shut his eyes tightly until he heard the rustle of skirts and felt a hand on his chest. "Damn it," a feminine voice cursed softly. "Is he fainting? He's fainting. Oh, God."

Another whispered curse sounded in the same angelic voice, this time closer. He blinked his eyes open, seeing a hazy face haloed by blond tendrils of pristine, lustrous hair. He thought maybe he was smiling as he reached up with his uninjured arm, his fingers stretching out to feel the soft skin of her face, whoever she was.

"What—!" WHAP! He felt the sting of something slapping against the side of his face and he succumbed to unconsciousness.

When he blinked open his eyes again, a woman was leaning over him, pinching her lower lip between her teeth in some emotion he couldn't decipher because he was too busy being positively dazzled by how incredibly gorgeous she was.

"Oh, thank goodness you're awake. Sir, are you alright?" she asked in a soft voice. Was she who had been crouched beside him however long ago that was? Had he passed out? What…?

"Ah!" He winced at the stinging pain in his shoulder as he tried to sit up. "I've been shot. God, I've been shot. He shot me. I'm gonna die," he rambled, dropping his head back against the pavement and panting.

Her face was so close to his now as she moved the hand that was against his chest up to his uninjured shoulder. Chuck stared, slack-jawed, the pain in his arm forgotten as he took in her churning gray-blue eyes, full lips and arched eyebrows. Her blond hair pulled back into a pretty knot with dainty escaped tendrils framing her perfect face was a shocking contrast against the dark, soot-cloud sky. "You'll be alright, I think," she breathed with a reassuring smile. He realized he was clutching his wound with his free hand when she tried to cautiously pull it away with gentle fingers on his wrist. He was in a daze, his shoulder hurt, and he was supposed to be dead. I'm supposed to be dead.

"Am I dead?" he whimpered.

She smiled a bit but didn't answer, helping him to sit up. "Do you think you might be able to stand up if I helped you?"

"I've been shot!"

Her eyes flicked up to his. "Yes, I see. We're going to stand up, alright?" He swallowed thickly. "I, uh, alright. Yes." He paused. "How long was I unconscious?"

"A little less than a minute. Nothing serious." So it was her kneeling over him.

She had one hand wrapped in the material of his vest, the other clutching his uninjured arm as she helped him carefully climb to his feet. He took in her appearance more fully this time, the simple and understated dress covering her tall, lithe figure, the navy blue material tight on her torso and flowing down over her legs—long, long legs. He assumed, of course. Or maybe he was losing too much blood.

Suddenly a stinging in his cheek alerted him to something that he thought he remembered before he…

"Did you hit me?"

Her eyes widened, and then she looked incredibly confused, and maybe even a little affronted. "Hit you? Of course I wouldn't hit you! You've been injured!"

Chuck furrowed his brow, then shook his head. "I-I'm sorry. I must be crazy."

"It's understandable," she reassured, patting his arm. "You're still bleeding, though. We have to do something about that."

"What—Ah!" He winced as she jarred the wound on his arm, pushing his suspender strap close to his neck and away from the gash. "What happened to the—the man who was—the patrolman fellow?"

"He must have realized he was a barbarian and left before he could cause anymore trouble," she said through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing. "I cannot abide those men, strutting about with their rifles, taunting innocent citizens for laughs. Trying to kill a little boy for no other reason than to break the monotony in his day." He thought for a moment she had murmured some hellacious curse under her breath, but realized he must still be a bit delirious from blood loss, or fainting, or both. The way she was smiling up into his face, her soft blue eyes, the kindness in the way she touched him. No, he was hearing things.

"He just…left?" Chuck asked.

"I suppose so. I was so focused on you that I'm afraid I didn't entirely notice him."

"Me?" he panted. This stunningly gorgeous woman was focused on him? Granted, she had just seen him get shot. He winced again as she pulled a little against his brown vest to move it as well. His wound was bleeding through his tan shirt and soaking the material. "I guess I'll never be wearing this shirt again."

She sent him a quick smile and swallowed a bit thickly. He watched as she paled at the sight of his arm. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm—" She seemed embarrassed and he reached out with his good arm to steady her when she swayed a little, but realized just in time that his own blood dripped from his fingers.

He pulled his hand back and dropped it to his side as she steadied herself against his chest.

"I'm not accustomed to this much blood, I'm afraid." She took a deep breath and shook her head, standing straight again, obviously unaware of the effect she had on him standing so close. He could feel the warmth of her, smell her. She smelled like fresh flowers. "Fortunately, it's not so bad. It is a deep graze but nothing worse than that. Then again, I'm no doctor."

Chuck couldn't help but smile when she flushed at that, her eyes drifting over the wound and prodding gently at the torn shirtsleeve.

He jolted suddenly when with one rapid movement, she tore his shirtsleeve clean off of his arm, clutching it in her hand. She used it to mop up the blood around his wound which had already stopped gushing at least. He swallowed, trying to ignore that a beautiful woman had literally torn a portion of his clothing from his body. He had just been shot, though, and desperate times…as they say.

"That was a very brave thing you did. By the way." She tied the cloth of his shirt around the wound tightly, keeping her hands there for a long while, and Chuck was still more baffled than he was in pain.

He shook his head, trying to will himself out of the stupor this woman was putting him in. "Don't give me any credit. I actually wasn't thinking at all." He flashed his teeth at her, his nose crinkling as it always did when he grinned. "I'm not sure I was fully conscious until I was on the ground having just been shot."

"Well," she giggled. "I'm not sure you were entirely conscious even then. You thought you were dead."

"Ah, but can you really blame me?" he shot back softly. "I thought I was in Heaven and you were an angel." He licked his lips and looked away in embarrassment. Did I really just say that? Wonderful, Bartowski. Just marvelous. He inwardly rolled his eyes at himself.

Her smile was wide and there was a small blush on her perfect cheeks, but she sent him a teasingly scornful look anyways. "Oh, come now. Is that the best you can do?" He turned his head so quickly that he felt his neck crack. She ignored his bulging eyes and lightly set a hand on his makeshift bandage, still smiling. "Now let's get you to the clinic down the road."

He had to shake himself out of a daze not for the first time since she appeared in the alleyway to help him. "No, no. I-I'm fine. I'm alright. Maybe I'll just head back to work."

"Work? I don't think that's a good idea—"

"It's just a graze, like you said…"

"A rather deep graze. You might need to have it stitched up."

"…and my sister will know how to patch this up in no time." His shoulder was aching something powerful now that she wasn't touching it anymore. It was funny how that worked.

"Your sister is a nurse?"

"She is. Ellie's trying to get into medical school to become a doctor. It's slow going, what with it being a male dominated profession. And quite a few stuffed-shirts who don't take well to change, even when it's progress. You will pardon me for saying so, I hope." He paused as she walked him out of the alleyway, her eyes flicking up and down the street. Her grip was strong on his arm, and he felt incredibly safe—strange that she was the one making him feel safe and not the other way around.

He felt foolish.

"Miss, I—I was wondering…"

"Yes?" she prompted distractedly.

"Your na—"

"Young man! I saw what happened! Are you alright?" A middle-aged man with a tall top hat and skewed overcoat pushed between Chuck and his pretty companion.

"I-I'm fine, thank you."

"The way you leapt in front of a bullet! Bully! …Where is he?"

"Uh, who?"

"The boy!"

"He…left?"

"A shame. A damned shame. You know…" The man must have seen Chuck's eyes dart past him. "Is everything alright, Sir? Did you lose something?"

Chuck scanned the crowd frantically. He had taken his eyes off of his mystery woman for less than five seconds and now she was nowhere to be found. "A—A woman."

The man gave a loud belly laugh. "You wouldn't be the first poor sap to lose one of those. Ha-ha!"

"No. The woman I was just with. She was here. Standing here." Chuck felt his heart sink all the way to his feet.

"What woman?"

"She was standing right here!" Chuck argued loudly. "Did you see where she went? A woman with golden hair. A…a dark blue dress. Very pretty. Incomprehensibly so. Did you see where she went?" He spun in a circle, searching the faces in the crowd.

He couldn't find her. He frowned, more upset than he cared to admit, and allowed the man to lead him to his carriage. Chuck gave the address of Ellie's clinic, hoping she would not be there.

Her maternal instincts were still just as powerful as they had been when they lived in the orphanage as children. When she saw he had nearly been shot, and by a patrolman no less, she would rage 'til the land mass upon which they stood sunk clear into the ocean.

}o{

Everything was grey.

Down each alleyway, through each curtain-drawn window, in each pair of eyes he met as he stalked through the streets, he saw darkness. In a world that was once filled with light, before the sins of man overtook paradise, now there existed only shadows. They seeped over him like blistering hot molasses, threatening to enter his pores, his eyes, ears, nose, mouth.

He shivered as a cold gust of wind nearly blew his hat off, causing him to have to pull his hand from his coat pocket to reached up and steady it. Tugging his cloak tighter around him, his eyes flicked to the small merchant cart that sat unattended. It was a foolhardy show of trust on the merchant's part. To trust the villainous masses, to trust human beings with one's livelihood like this, was a grave mistake. And he would pay for that mistake.

It was a wonder no one had stolen from him yet. Perhaps the merchant needed to learn his lesson…

He slid a hand out of his cloak and swiped a mushy apple from one of the baskets on the cart. He hated apples, the gritty insides under the pretty, smooth skin. An apple was too much like man. It disgusted him, so he threw the apple to a middle-aged woman huddled in an overly large black coat, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face.

"Aw, bless ya, Sir. Bless ya," she gasped, scrambling to collect the apple off of the grimy ground and biting hungrily into it so that the juices sluiced over her lips and chin.

He fought off the urge to vomit and turned away in utter disgust, not bothering to hide it from her.

He was trapped in a world in which human beings ate food from the floor like animals. Studiousness and hard work did not occur to people like the impoverished woman he had given the apple to. No, they would sit in their own filth on the side of the street begging for coins and food. And the ignorant masses would readily aid them in their conquest for ultimate inactivity.

A loud gong sounded just ahead, once…twice…three times, and he looked up at the tower constructed into the side the old cathedral which was now used as a boarding house for the mildly insane. Whoever had thought to put schizophrenics and lunatics in a large building with church bells that sounded off every hour certainly had a few screws loose themselves.

He chuckled at his own humor, rare though it was, and turned the corner, away from the cathedral for the insane, towards a small clock-shop he knew well.

The owner had never noticed him during his visits, had never approached him to ask if he needed any assistance. In fact the man had gone about his business each time, ignorant of the presence of this darkly clad, tall man who had been in his shop at least fifteen times in the last week. Of course that was because the owner had never been there when the mysterious stranger had visited. In fact, none of the workers had seen him.

He had only been in the shop during closed hours, in the middle of the night, when he could work silently and efficiently without time constraints or the threat of being interrupted by the lazy-eyed apprentice or the chubby, flour-smudged wife the clock maker rarely touched.

The bell jingled loudly as he walked in. The clock maker looked up from the glass case that housed his intricate wooden table clocks and pocket watches. The smile on the middle-aged man's wrinkled face was tentative at best, and he went back to his work.

"What are your hours?" the mystery man asked, sweeping his hat from his head, his eyes scouring the shop for any other customers as he smoothed his hand down the slick, straight dark hair on his head. The shop was fortunately empty, and the tell-tale sound of whirring from the workshop past the threshold behind the clock maker was nonexistent. They were completely alone.

"I open at nine and close at five thirty on the dot. Er…might I help you…find something, Sir?"

"No, no thank you. I've found everything I need. Is Tim here, by chance?" He raised a pert eyebrow and tossed his hat so that it hung effortlessly from one of the clocks against the wall. The clock maker regarded his action with a hint of confusion, but mostly just agitation.

"Tim?" He shook his head. "Whom are you looking for?"

"Oh, I am wrong. It's Tom, isn't it?"

"My apprentice? Yes, he goes by Tom. Er…Thomas. He's not working today." He paused. "Sorry." It came out as a grumble, a forced bit of politeness, an afterthought really. It was exactly what the mystery man was expecting and his thin lips stretched into a sardonic smirk. Humans were so predictably human.

"Ah, I see. That's good, that's good." He crossed to the door and latched the lock, turning the sign over so that it read "closed" to the public. Then he reached up and pulled the door shade down.

"Now see here! Just what are you doing there?" The clockmaker pulled his magnifying strap from where it rounded his head and slammed it down on the glass counter. "You unlock that door! I'm still open!"

"God our Father," he murmured to himself, drawing the shade of the shop window down and crossing to the other. "Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command…" He paused, sliding the shade down of the last window, enveloping the shop in pitch darkness.

"Stop this! You unlock the door and let the light in again." There was no response, no shuffling of feet, just the ticking of the clocks in the shop, the whirring of gears.

"…We return to dust."

The voice came from directly next to the clockmaker's right ear and he fell to the side with a cry, cowering on the ground. A candle was lit and placed on the glass case, illuminating the man's dark features. "You're just a man, Lawrence. Just a weak, weak man. I do not judge. It is not for me to judge." His voice was calm and even, like a soothing balm to a festering wound. But it did nothing to ease the terror beginning to mount in the clockmaker's breast.

"W-What are you? What have I done?"

"You've done nothing, really, except open your shop in a rather important building. Important to me. To my operations. Terrible timing, really. This all could have happened one hundred years from now and by then you'd have died of old age in your bed. Something peaceful and silent, while you were sleeping. But then you'd never have the chance I'm giving you now."

"Ch-Chance? What do you mean, chance?" Sweat was pouring from every last pore on the man's body as his fingers snaked along the floorboards behind him, moving as slow as he could. He had dropped a screwdriver earlier and it had rolled under the cabinet. If he could just reach it…

The mysterious man's eyebrows shot up. "Why, the chance to repent. Penitence, my fat, gluttonous friend."

"I have nothing to repent," the clockmaker spat.

"I've seen your nightly jaunts to the whorehouse, Lawrence. It's filthy. Don't think you can play me like you play your wife."

"I've done nothing that any other man in this damned place hasn't done himself. You included, I'm willing to bet." Just a few inches further and maybe he could reach that screwdriver. He pushed himself even further back.

"Me?" The man laughed low in his throat, then his features sobered with a darkness that sent a cold chill through the clockmaker. "I don't touch the stuff." He paused. "Really, you're no worse than anyone else. You're right about that. Which is why you won't be the only one. You'll just be one of the first."

The clockmaker wasn't listening as his fingers closed around the wooden handle of his screwdriver. He carefully eased his hand along the floor, out from under the cabinet. Then he struck, slamming his arm up with the screwdriver pointing at his assailant's face.

But a gloved hand shot up from within the folds of his cloak and bat the screwdriver out of the clockmaker's fingers, sending it clattering to the ground out of reach. The clockmaker let out a sob of despair, watching as the calm murderer drew a syringe from his pocket. A clear liquid sloshed inside of it.

"The only pain you'll feel is the prick of the needle. Not much more you could ask for, is there?" He flicked the side of the glass syringe and grinned. "I made this myself. You'll enjoy it. I promise."

The needle pierced the skin of the clockmaker's neck and within an instant, the color had seeped from his face, the blood stilled in his body, his heart stagnant in his chest.

Breathing hard, the mystery man removed the needle and stuck the syringe back in his pocket, tugging his cloak off and gently laying it atop the clockmaker's body so that it covered the lifeless, gaping face.

"In Company with Christ, Who died and now lives." He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his suit jacket, then shrugged it off, folding it over his arm. "…May they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all tears are wiped away."

He grabbed the candle from the display case and strode into the workshop, past the table he had walked past in the dark on many nights like this, so often that he knew every uneven board in the floor, every placement of the tables and chairs. He knelt down and wedged his fingers into a small niche in the wood of one of the floorboards. With a tug, it pried loose in his fingers.

Within moments, an entire block of floorboards were removed, revealing a set of dirt covered steps leading down into the darkness. On the third step was a glass cover, which he slipped over the candle to protect the flame and started down the stairs.

"Unite us together again in one family, to sing Your praise forever and ever."

A/N: Well, this guy turned the creepy dial up to eleven. Obviously.

But who is he? I won't tell you! Yet...

Review, you wonderful you!

'Til next we meet again!