Duncan Allistair sat on a reclined couch in a workshop littered with metal scraps and tools. The exacting neatness of his clothes was at odds with the disorder that surrounded him, and he distracted himself from it with a hand written, leather bound book he read. A research report from his eldest daughter. It held nothing new or interesting to him. He wore one of his more subdued outfits, powder blue waistcoat and trousers, a yellow cravat. His pale yellow jacket was folded neatly and draped over the back of the couch. He had eschewed a wig for the day, and his shining silver head was bare.

The workshop was a single roomed building that sat not on a foundation, but floating surprisingly still in the middle of the Inner Circle. It hovered as a bridge between the entire tower owned by the Allistair family, and the penthouse suite that Gideon Lockheed rented. The Artificer in question had shared a partnership with Duncan for many years, and this floating arrangement was borne out of convenience for the both of them. It was owned and kept exclusively by Gideon, much to the chagrin of the neater-minded Magus.

Duncan did not put his book down when the door to Gideon's apartment opened, and maintained his attitude of disinterest even as a large lump of clay - A bust, he knew, of Queen Isabella - was hurled through the air and soared past his head.

"She did not like it?" Duncan asked, apparently uncaring. His voice was almost human, but had a slight tinny vibration that belied the fact that it was produced by a set of metal vocal chords.

"A damned insult to my craft!" Gideon was already raging, as if he had skipped to the middle of his rant to save time. He was moving swiftly to where the clay bust had landed to pick it up viciously, untying his uncharacteristically neat hair from its bun as he walked. He slapped the now mostly mishapen lump of clay onto a nearby table and glared at it as if it, and not the woman it represented, had been the one to insult him.

Gideon, as it transpired, had been contracted to create a new face for the Queen, who had long since been completely Technomantic. Her old one was made out of interlocking metal plates. A work of pure genius, but outdated in comparison to the one that Duncan himself sported, which was made out of a single, solid piece of silver that had been enchanted to be malleable as flesh.

"What she says to my face is only half of it, you know," Gideon was quieter now, but still obviously angry. His voice was just as artificial as Duncan's, but it was harder to tell.

"I expect she's telling everyone who will hear that she's waiting on a new face," Duncan said, "But the Artificer she's hired is taking too long."

"I'm sure of it," Gideon was half-heartedly trying to reform the Queen's bust on his table. "This one was accurate to the molecule. I checked. She asks for perfection and I give it."

Duncan turned the page in the journal, still not looking at Gideon. "You gave what she asked for," he said dryly, "But not what she wanted."

Gideon slammed his scalpel down after making a particularly vicious swipe on the bust. "What?"

Finally he put the book down and stood up. He was tall and thin, almost surreal looking. "You don't know people very well. People are vain. Even when they say they aren't. Me, I'm honest about it. I told you I wanted to be better looking. She won't say that, but it's what she expects. Because you did it for me. Accentuate her best features... downplay the bad." He looked over the now thoroughly mangled bust. "And maybe give her some good eyes. I've been meaning to have you make me a new set..."

---

It was a street in the odd zone between the Inner Circle and Outer Ring. The sort of place where different people had different ideas over which it belonged to. The poorer who lived there liked to say it was the Inner Circle, to feel like they lived among the affluent. The moderately wealthy admitted that it was the Outer Ring, but didn't talk about it much, as they aspired to move to nicer places further in.

It was normally a fairly active community, with Magi, Artificers, and the Ignorant all common sights. This borderlands district was one of the few places where there was at least some semblance of social equality. It was where most business between the higher and lower castes was done, and basic politeness made the Ignorant here feel like they might have a window into higher society.

This morning, however, this particular street was nearly abandoned. For one thing, it was fairly early. The sun was barely rising, and not even visible in some places thanks to the towering buildings. For another thing, there was blood running down the gutters and into the storm drains. The trail of red ran down a slight incline from an alley between older brick buildings, where its source lay, still breathing, but weakly.

Two forms in stark gray, but with shiny heads and visible hands were approaching. One bent down to the woman whose arm was severed from the elbow. The woman flinched as the Automata took her arm in his hands and clamped his thumb and forefinger in a ring around the stump. The bleeding stopped almost immediately, and the woman groaned weakly.

"Can you speak?" the Automata still standing asked, looking down at her with his hands in his pockets, apparently somewhat disinterested. The woman did not reply, so the Automata made a sound similar to a sigh and lifted a small aluminum sphere from his pocket. It had two nodes, one one each side. One was gold, and the other copper. The Automata lifted the orb with the gold node facing his mouth and spoke a short message, "Fifth and King's Way, need a stretcher and mercury." He dropped his hand, but the sphere remained floating, and then flew away, out of the alley and down the street.

"Clean cut," the other officer noted, looking at the stump. "Must have been a sharp one. Probably titanium. No blood leading anywhere else, that's weird. What you think, Marv?"

Marv made the strange sigh noise again. "Scavver," his partner nodded in agreement. "He was pretty well prepared, I guess. We'll get her healed and hauled off. Maybe she can tell us something useful when she's stronger. In the mean time, try not to disturb anything... I don't want to deal with this..."

"Me neither," he replied quietly, "We'll get the ball rolling and shunt it to Crowley."

"Ha, sounds like a plan."

Standing inside near a second floor window of the Bold Helvetica, Connie stared with an almost bored expression and a slight frown. She saw the two members of the Automata Corps standing next to the the limp body of the dismembered woman talking to themselves. This crime or whatever, happened right in the alley next to her shitty, erm... wonderful establishment.

Thinking to herself, Hmm... Well then. This may be bad for business...
With a heavy, heavy sigh, Connie walked downstairs, prepared a bucket of water, grabbed a mop, and walked to the entrance of the alleyway.
In a bored monotone, "Uhh, mister Automata Corps members? Is this mess going to be cleaned up soon? I run this tavern, and I don't think my customers would very much appreciate a bloody carcass on the premises as a new forn of decoration now would they hmm?"

Automata Corps Officer Second Degree Marvin Long(AKA "Marv")

Officer Long turned to look witheringly at the bar woman. Or, that's what he meant to do. His standard issue face was completely incapable of showing emotion, and the look he wanted to give came out as a blank stare.

"Ma'am, we are working to keep the peace, not to ensure the success of your business. As it happens, the victim here is not dead, and our main priority is to keep her alive."

He almost wished it wasn't so. He didn't know who the young woman was, but he knew that if she lived she would want her Technomancy arm back, and would be a bureaucratic nightmare until she got it.

"And our second priority is catching the perpetrator. I'm going to have to ask you to go back inside."

"Good job, Felix. That was a wonderful presentation," Arno Crepley-Quates said, sitting at the head of a long mahogany table in a meeting room in the offices of Quates Fine Metalcrafts. The other attendees shifted uncomfortably in awkward silence, giving subdued golf-claps.

"Thank you, father," Felix replied, bowing to the table, oblivious to the unease his presence caused. Putting his easel of diagrams to the side and retracting his pointing baton, Felix went back to the table, taking his seat at Arno's right. The meeting continued from there, some of the discussion was logistical and financial, most of it being political in nature. While Felix understood the logistical and financial aspects of the discussion, he didn't understand that much of the smiling and patting-on-the-back that was being done was done to hide malicious intent due to his having lived quite a secluded life. He was not privy to the games that the old and wealthy played in order to become older and wealthier, and was even less aware of the threat that his existence posed to them. When the meeting concluded, Felix followed Arno back to Arno's office, where Felix had a desk next to his father's and resumed poring over innumerable financial reports from the different departments and branches.

"You know, one day, should I ever get tired of all this, I'll give you the reigns of Quates Fine Metalcrafts," Arno said proudly to his son.

"Thank you, father," Felix replied, "Should that day come, I will accept the responsibility graciously."

"Well, I have another meeting to go to that will take the rest of my day, when you finish, remember to lock up before you go home to your mother."

"Understood."

Arno put on his bowler hat and jacket, grabbed his umbrella, and left, while Felix continued to work. Bending over his desk, Felix noticed a slight discomfort along his spine that had been slowly getting worse over time. He had only had to do it a few times in his thirty years of life, but he was probably due for another maintenance check soon to deal with joint stress. Given his unique structure, there were few artificers with the skill, and even fewer his family trusted completely, who could deal with his maintenance. It was time to schedule an appointment with Gideon Lockheed.

Taking advantage of the early morning, Orran had decided to take a light stroll around the outer ring. A small, spherical drone followed close behind him like a duckling would their mother, bobbing up and down as it followed the young Magus. The fresh air was quite pleasant for him, since he had spent the majority of his sleepless night in his workshop working on his newest project that his parents had assigned to him. Developing a security system that was better than the current was a difficult thing. His parents had this mentality, often saying 'Improve on what's not broken'. Rather than a security system, maybe he should develop a device that would monitor an individual's bodily health? Both inventions were meant to protect people or rather, help them live longer. Upon further thought on the monitor, he figured it might be a good idea to bring it up with his Uncle Duncan to see if he thought it'd be a good idea. However, the plan to implement it might be a little extravagant and it might end up being an exclusive item for everyone in the inner circle, which is not what he intended. Not that it's within his control.

For now he figured he'd just sit on the idea for a little while, maybe write it down. Breaking from his thoughts, he realized that the early morning wasn't as busy as he thought it would be, but than again, the sun had only just started to rise.

Finished with his bookkeeping, Felix locked up the office and left the building, flagging down a carriage drawn by clockwork horses, and headed towards the center of the Inner Circle. He got off at the building next to the Alistair Tower and looked up, seeing Gideon's workshop hovering between the two buildings.

"I hope he won't take offense to my arriving unannounced," Felix thought to himself, "I should have set up an appointment, or sent him a message beforehand, oh well." People were usually pretty forgiving of Felix due to his child-like appearance and demeanor, and also his status, a fact he had come to rely on over time.

"Felix Crepley-Quates," Felix introduced himself to the concierge at the front desk, "I have business with Mr. Gideon Lockheed." The concierge didn't question it, so Felix headed to the lift, riding it up to the highest floor. Stepping out, Felix headed down the hallway and used the knocker on the door that he was sure led to Gideon's penthouse, and awaited a response.

Duncan had long since left him alone, and Gideon was engrossed in his sculpting, the large part of his anger having ebbed away in his work's absorbing him. He would present this one, a more striking visage than the Queen's original, with a smaller nose and shorter forehead, and a more defined chin. They were all subtle changes, but they added up to a more attractive bust. If she approved this one, it would be used to make a plaster mould, which in turn would be used to make the Queen's new silver face.

Gideon didn't hear the original knock on the door, and instead heard a repeated chime from a copper hemisphere sitting on a table near the door. It was a simple device, more magic than artifice. It detected the sound of his door's knocker from his apartment across the way, and alerted him with a chime. Sometimes it picked up more vigorous knocks from elsewhere in the nearby buildings, and it went crazy when it hailed outside, but all in all it was a serviceable device, considering its simplicity.

He crossed the enclosed footbridge from his floating workshop to his apartment. His living space seemed starkly furnished and decorated after the downright clutter of his workshop. The contrast showed where Gideon spent most of his time.

He opened the door, didn't immediately see the knocker below his line of sight, and was moving to close it again when he finally spotted little Felix.

"Ha! Felix," he smiled fondly at the boy(or whatever he could properly be called), "You should get a taller hat, I almost didn't see you. Come in," he waved Felix through the door and closed it. "What can I do for you?"

A man, or at least the remnants of a man that now exists only as a fully metallic figure stands in the middle of a crowded room. Several people that surround him are wounded and the rest are scrambling. A few more fully metallic figures stand behind him. On his back are two large swords that are removed in a single quick movement.

"Halt. I am third degree Officer Robert Crowley. You are suspected of unlawful transport of potentially illegal crafted works. Surrender without struggle and there will be no more casualties." His voice rang with a metallic sound. The delivery of his message was robotic but only because he has said the line countless times. Each time he has a glimmer of hope that the suspects will give heed. This is rarely the case however and this time was no different.

The man directly in front of Crowley was a big man who stood several inches above Crowley in height and had two automata arms that appeared to have heavy duty strength enhancements. An all too familiar expression forms on the man's face as he raises both arms over his head.

Don't do it. Crowley sneers inside his head.

"You elitist bastards thing you can tell us how to do our business? Try taking us in when your nuthin but scrap metal!" The man bellows as he pulls his hands down hard on Crowley...or so he thought. His hands fall down through nothing as Crowley took a single quick step back.

"Fool..." Crowley said in a low tone. It was like a blur as he took both swords and slashed downward onto the man's shoulders where it was still flesh. His blades cut through like butter. They could not hear it but with Crowley's enhanced hearing he could hear the ultra high pitch of the vibrating blades. They were designed to be able to cut through most metals that he will ever have to come across and this poor man's flesh and bones held up about as well as paper to chainsaw. The rest of the men were far more compliant afterwards. The man who attacked Officer Crowley was taken away for emergency medical treatment. They may save his life but he will most likely loose his right to automata and will be forced to live the rest of his life as a cripple.

Nearly a half an hour later during the cleanup of the automata smuggling bust two fully automated men who are recognized as fifth officers come up directly to Crowley. Whatever it was seemed somewhat urgent.

"Officer Crowley!" The first one says in the the same metallic voice as his own. None of them had expressions on their face and none of them had any distinguishing features. In fact the only one without standard issue weaponry was Crowley. "Your presence is requested by Officers Scarver and Marvin."

If Crowley had teeth he would grit them. However he has no such capabilities anymore and for the most part good riddance to them. He nods once and the two men are off as quick as they came. Turning back to his squad he gives them a single wave to continue their work here and he begins to walk to his designated location.

It only took him fifteen minutes to reach his destination and the scene still seemed fresh. He began to take in the information as quickly as possible. Firstly there was blood on the street but it only seemed to come from a single source which was most likely an open wound. There was no blood splatter or drip trail to follow. This was very strange. However he did not have much time to go over this in his mind as he quickly spotted the ones who called him standing around the corner of the alleyway.

"Officers." He states going to full attention. "Crowley reporting in. What can I assist you with?" he states again with that dry robotic tone. This was also something he has said countless times. It was not part of his job that he was overly enthusiastic about. However he let no hint of this out except perhaps in the dryness to his already cold demeanor.

Automata Corps Officer Second Degree Marvin Long(AKA "Marv") and Officer Third Degree Aidan Scarver

Officer Long was still dealing with a nosy civilian, and so he waved Crowley back to where Scarver was directing the medical attention to the victim. She had had mercury applied to her stump, and her breathing was more regular. Her whole arm and her legs were elevated on the stretcher as a pair of emergency workers lifted her up to take her to the floating ambulance that was parked on the street.

"Crowley, good," Scarver began, taking a note pad from his gray uniform pocket. "Young woman was attacked," he was rattling off, "We have no identity as of yet. Her arm was removed from the elbow. Safe assumption is she had a Technomancy arm, and was beset by a scavver. If that's the case, it'll show up in the black market, hence us calling you. She is alive, but not conscious. We hope she recovers soon, she might be able to give us a description.

"In the mean time we have approximate measurements for her arm, to help find it if it surfaces," he tore a piece of paper from the notepad and handed it to Crowley. The paper had a series of measurements including overall length, diameter, and lengths and widths of various parts.

"Those were all taken from her intact arm. Depending on the level of craftsmanship they could very well all be wrong. We're kind of hoping your... Er... Rapport with some of the black marketeers we have in custody will help extract some answers."

"Good day, Mr. Lockheed. I'm rather fond of this hat, I'd sooner wear stilts," Felix returned the greeting humorously, "I think I'm due for some maintenance, I've been feeling a slight discomfort along my neck and back." Felix motioned as best he could to indicate the pain in his spine. Felix entered Gideon's penthouse and looked around, admiring Gideon's sense of aesthetic.

Upon Crowley's arrival and Officer Marv's continued nagging, Connie finally decided that the bloody drop in property value wasn't worth getting in trouble with the Corps over.

With a frowning sneer and fake falsetto, "Alright alright I get it! I'd offer you 'Fi~ine' gentlemen some of my famous watered-down ale for your stupendous and continued service, but I wouldn't trust myself to know what hole to Shove! the tankard up. You'll will have to do with my many mediocre thanks. I bid you gentlemen a horribly good day."

Connie performed a very dramatic curtsy before taking her cleaning things back into the tavern, slamming the door behind her.

"Sorry about the mess," Gideon said dryly as Felix glanced around the place. He led Felix through the bridge to the workshop where many of his body parts had been created. He casually, but deliberately, threw a nearby sheet over the bust of the queen.

"I imagine," Gideon began, "That it's nothing more serious than stress warping in the metal. Sit, take off your jacket," he swiped some papers and scrap metal haphazardly from one of the workbenches lining the room. They fluttered or clattered to the ground, but Gideon paid them no mind.

As Felix disrobed, Gideon questioned him, almost as a long time doctor seeing a patient. "How's business? I haven't seen your father in a long time."

"Not at all," Felix replied to Gideon's statement about the clutter, "If your workshop was pristine, I would wonder if you did any work at all." Felix's attention was drawn to the bust that Gideon covered, though he didn't catch what it was and decided not to ask. Felix sat and undressed as ordered. "The company has been doing decently well, though with the size of the company, we worry more about overhead costs now than actual manufacturing. Father says our engineers are running out of ideas; while standard, mass-produced parts are fine for the masses, it's art that appeals to the ones father really wants to do business with. In many ways, I think father is envious of your little studio: no overhead to worry about, and all the best, most well-paying clients lined up for your handiwork. Father's been busy, always running between meetings, inspecting factories, and wrangling with 'politics', as he calls it. Maybe I should tell him to relax, and come in to see you. Heaven knows he's probably due for a checkup too."

Crowley nodded once as the Scarver goes over the case. Looking over at the scene one more time the woman might have been somewhat lucky to be alive if it was just an arm. It can even be replaced. If this had happened earlier in the night she might have bled out totally and died. Though something seems off about the whole thing. He wasn't sure what it was and he wasn't sure how to put it into words even if he could put his finger on it.

Crowley winced internally as he no longer had the capability to wince externally, at Carver's mention of his 'rapport' with the underground. Its something that he has been assigned and re-assinged to over and over. It was with cases like this that he was first recognized by the automata corps and allowed him to ascend to the rank he is now. Since then they have made up a slight majority of his cases that he works on. Though his time working with them he has done several busts and over time has gotten to know several people who work with the smuggling rings and black market sellers. He knows only one or two on a slightly civil level.

He was reminded yet again about how there have been several times where he has captured members for them only to be released back for lack of evidence or some such nonsense. He wasn't sure but he had a thought in the back of his mind that perhaps the establishment here had connections to certain smuggling rings. He has never dared brought it up before and has remained totally silent on the issue to anyone else. Though what bothered him this time was something else.

"I know we don't have any identification but do we have any clues as to what the victim was doing in the area at the time of the assault? Was there any signs that there was a struggle to bring the victim to this location or into the allyway specifically? Most of these things are targeted and done with care." He paused his robotic questioning for a moment to ponder. A few memories flood back to him of cases gone awry. "The good ones that is anyway."

"There's some bruising on her ribs that we assume is related," Scarver gestured vaguely at the stretcher as it was being carried away, "She might have been dragged in by force. As to why she was walking down the street at that time... we'll have to hope she wakes up to tell us. We'll let you know as soon as she does.

"That's the weird thing, though. It doesn't seem targeted, but it's such a clean job it's hard to say that it was unprofessional. We're not sure what to make of it, yet."

~~~

"Well," Gideon mused as he started setting tools aside. "I rather think your father will never quite get that sort of business. Anyone of, pardon my arrogance, my level of skill simply doesn't need someone like your father to be a middle man. It is my own professional opinion that the highest levels of the industry will always be private contractors. Hold still," he didn't skip a beat as he began to work. On a subject as complex as Felix, it was more like surgery than mere mechanical repair.

The first thing he used was a little cylinder with an iron hemisphere on the end. There were two dials on the other side, and he fiddled with them for a second, then held the iron side to Felix and started running it around his body. Felix could feel as the iron's selective magnetism attracted only the mercury in his body, making it flow through the vessels to follow the strange device.

He ran it down Felix's arm and said, "Here, hold that for me," placing the iron side in Felix's palm. It held the mercury there in his arm, so that it wouldn't start to seal up the pieces that Gideon had to cut.

"If I were in a position to advise him," Gideon said, obviously about to offer that advice anyway, "I'd say it would be best to cut his losses in that sector."

Felix listened intently to Gideon, taking no offense; Gideon was well-respected for his craft and if he spoke arrogantly, it was a right he had earned. When asked to, Felix held on to the instrument that Gideon handed to him.

"Are you saying that father should focus on cheap, mass-produced parts?" Felix asked for clarification. "Perhaps, though some argue whether the masses even deserve technomancy, regardless of whether they are capable of paying for it or not. While father thinks its worth pursuing as long as there's profit to be gained, some of the other board members feel that technomancy should have restricted ownership, to differentiate the nobility from the nouveau riche. They say that unless we sell only to the higher classes, they would never buy from us because our brand would be 'dirty' and cheap. As a private artisan, what are your thoughts on this?"

As Orran made his way back to the Inner Ring, he decided to walk past the Bold Helvetica, a tavern he often goes to when he drinks with some of the citizens that are from the Outer Ring. As he strolled along, he noticed three Automata Corps officers discussing something. He didn't hear most of the conversation, but he did hear about someone being attacked. He approached them in quite a casual manner, which is something that most people don't do when they're dealing with Automata Corps Officers. "Is there something wrong?" he asked with some curiosity. It was quite odd to him to find three officers together in a place like this, so he suspected that something had happened.

Gideon was silent for a moment as he worked from behind Felix. He had a copper tool to emit intense heat in one of his lower hands, and had a small hammer in his right and a pair of pliers in his other two. He would heat pieces of Felix's endoskeleton and use the other tools to reshape it.

"This sounds like a problem of conviction. If your father wants his company to have a certain image, and he is promoting it as such, then any actions to the contrary make him seem lukewarm. He can either sell to anyone, and drop the 'high class' image, or he can stick to that image and sell only to customers among the Nobility, or the Magi and Artificers.

"I won't bore you with a speech on ethics but: if he chooses the latter he will go out of business. Plain and simple. He can offer nothing that private artisans are not already delivering. He cannot produce it more cheaply without sacrificing the level of artistry that most of his desired customer base demand. And anyone who can produce that level would not need to work for him."

~~~

Marv looked up as Orran approached, and a sarcastic reply to the inquiry died on its way from his mind to his voicebox. This was a Magus, and one he was familiar with. He was young, but his family was forever trying to replace officers like Marv and Scarver with artificial minds. He thought it was something of a pipe dream, himself, but he wouldn't say no to retirement.

"Yes, Mr. O’Niall. An attack," as he spoke the woman on the stretcher(now quickly on its way out and toward a hospital) let out a quiet sob. He glanced at her, but she didn't seem conscious even at this expression of pain. "It was a scavve... a scavenger. Stole her arm right off her. It's not an uncommon crime, but we've got kind of an expert working on it, I'll have you know."

Taking a deep breath...or rather the habit of taking a deep breath as he no longer had lungs in which to breath, Crowley pauses. For the most part he is drawing a blank on the specifics of who this is but he is already drawing up a number of possible people in his head. Though he wanted to make sure there weren't any more clues left on the scene. Not wanting to appear incapable of doing his own investigation and with a well hidden dislike for Scarver's company he sets off over to where the girl was found.

If she had been taken and dragged from the street he would have had a decent chance of finding something...anything that could have provided a clue. This block isn't in a known territory of any of the gangs. Perhaps it was some gutsy thugs? No...no this was clean. If it was spontaneous then whoever did this was brilliantly skilled. As one of the medics pass by on their last round before they leave he grabs one by the arm and pulls them close. He doesn't whisper but he doesn't raise his voice to a level where Scarver or Marv would have heard him.

"You call for me immediately if that girl wakes up. Do you hear me? I'm first to know." he lets them go and heads back over to the site. He stares at it over and over again hoping something new pops out to him that he didn't notice before.

Orran nodded in understanding as the Officer told him the situation, a frown forming on his face. This kind of crime occurred quite often, due to to the costly nature of obtaining prosthetic parts, so he could understand why a scavenger would want it. He glanced at the other Officer, whom he identified as Crowley. He was well aware of what Crowley was capable of, but he still had his doubts about this investigation. He didn't quite hear what the Officer said to the medic, but he had an idea of what it might have been. He decided to keep it to himself.

His eyes flicked back to Marv before he spoke, "I'll be giving the victim a new arm, so you don't need to worry too much about finding the old one, but I'm sure with the criminals, you'll find the arm. If you can, I'll need background information on the victim so I can 'tailor' make it for her, assuming she has a specific trade." His tone wasn't as casual as before, being on the more serious side. He knew that he couldn't do this for everyone that had fallen victim to scavengers, but he wanted to do what he could to help out.