What do you do when people won’t allow you to explain yourself? If they won’t listen to a word you say?

Show them by your consistent example.

“What in the name of TGII were you doing in a metal shipping container? You could have died!”

Höbin propped his metal leg up onto a chair, sweat still trickling from his rose-colored forehead. “Should have thought that one through a bit more, I’ll admit.” The metal of his cybernetic limb squeaked as he loosened the knee bolts. “I was trying to get my old, withered butt back here, that’s what.”

Morty watched the historian open a side panel and remove a hidden tool kit from the artificial thigh. Taking a miniature screwdriver in his flesh hand, he begin working to remove the kneecap. The top plate lifted off, a deft hand catching the small screws and placing them inside the curved dish. Morty always admired the tinkerers who designed the appendages that riddled the city. Cybernetics enabled gnomes a more normal life after horrific accidents. He stared at the brilliant gears and wires, providing Höbin with mobility. “Why didn’t you use one of those porting thingies you talk about and just come right here?”

Höbin shook his head, “Doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. It’s a very powerful magic charm, but limited. Each time you use it, you set the next focus point where you can appear.”

“But you spent so much time here, you…”

“I was brought here by Dax. I never used my port key to get here, Morty. When I used my key to flash back to the Black Market, I locked my next port location onto the parking garage at the Trench Wars stadium. If I used that key to come back, I’d appear in the exact spot I left from. Completely exposed to people, cameras…maybe even Centurions.”

“Oh,” Morty swallowed. That made sense. “So…how did you get back here then? You didn’t mail the crate from the Black Market, obviously.”

The cyborg chuckled. “No, I have another key that I use strictly as a back up. When you travel as much as I do, setting landing spots can become a liability. I keep it set to the Clockworks docks. When I got here, I talked with an old friend, Eugene Bubyl, captain of the DS Crankshaft and asked him to mail me to you.”

Morty shook his head, “Amazing. Completely crazy, but still amazing.”

Höbin grinned as he worked. “Thanks.”

“How…is Alhannah?”

The deft hand froze. “She’s stable,” he said softly, “…for now.”

Morty wasn’t sure what to ask, but he’d grown to like the gnome warrior and his heart ached for her safety. “Do you know what’s wrong.”

Shaking his head, “I would have been back sooner, but I couldn’t leave her without making sure she was at least comfortable.” With a set of thick tweezers, he lifted a bent gear out from between a maze of wires and let it drop onto the chair. “She has all the symptoms of a complex poisoning, but her blood work was clean. I performed every test I had available to me—even using complex charms. Couldn’t figure anything more that she’s starving.” He lifted a replacement gear from a small compartment in his thigh and inserted the part into his knee.

“Starving? I’ve watched that girl eat—how could she me starving?”

“Curious, right? But her metabolism is moving so fast, she can’t keep enough nourishment in her. So I’ve placed her on healing charms and a special broth with dragon fat in it.”

Morty gulped, “Dragon fat? As in…”

“Flying, angry, fire-breathing serpents. Dragons.”

“How do you get…I mean, they don’t seem to be a fat creature. Not that I’ve actually seen one. Not personally, anyway.”

Höbin flipped the kneecap over and started inserting the screws. “Well I have and they don’t have much fat on them. But dragons can go months without food, even up to a year when the season are lean. The cells in their bodies, and most specifically in the cell walls of their stomachs, allow them to capture every single nutrient in what they eat, breathe and drink…and store it unlike any other creature living. So we take the stomach, along with strips of fatty meat and boil them.”

“You boil a dragons stomach?”

Again he nodded, tightening the last screw onto the leg. “We melt the fat from the flesh, in a pot of pure spring water. Once it’s simmered for a few hours, you remove the actual meat and let the broth cool. The result is a cloudy looking gel. Usually smells a bit gamey with a dash of engine degreaser. Frankly I prefer to use the raw bile, myself.”

“Bile.”

“Amazing stuff! Find that if you take just a drop, put it in a gallon of purified water, place it in an agitator and dilute it one part per thousand, it becomes a perfect medicine for stomach rot.”

Morty cringed, “And you actually use these things?”

He looked up and smirked, “So do you. Where do you think the pharmacists got the ‘rare chemicals’ to formulate antacid pills?” he laughed. “A single cup of that gel can sustain a grown human male for more than a month. The only thing one needs is water—the rest is in the concoction.”

“Wow. And you were able to get some for Alhannah?” It was then that the tinkerer realized how personal he’d been during the entire conversation. “I’m sorry, this really isn’t any of my business. You just have a most remarkable daughter and I’m quite fond of her. The way she watches over others.”

Höbin cleared his throat, “She get’s that from her mother.”

Morty shook his head. The things people used in this world. Wow. There’s so much more to life than Clockworks and machines and…well, so much more than he thought. The walls of the city, that kept the other races out, were also the very walls that blinked the gnomes and isolated them from bigger and better experiences. At least that how the tinkerer felt, anyway. “So were is she now?”

The historian pulled his leg form the chair and stood up. Slowly he put more pressure on the limb—then squatted up and down. He nodded in satisfaction. “I left her with the gypsies. They’ll watch over her until I can get back. Also called in some…,” he shuddered openly, “favors. So she’ll have as much dragons fat as needed.” He looked the tinkerer square in the face. “The Demoni Vankil is the priority.”

Even now the thought of finding any item in a sea of gnomes seemed like an impossibility at best. But what made matters worse—no one knew what the seal looked like. They were in the dark, without a map.

“We didn’t get very far in our searches before. Well, not as far as I would have hoped,” Höbin clarified, “but I have some ideas of where to go from here. That’s why I needed to get back as fast as I could.” He gave morty a sly grin, “And where I’ll need your help.” He glanced back at the crate, “Now that I know this works.”

“Woah, Woah, WOAH. You’re not suggesting that you get back IN that thing, are…,” but he sighed. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

“What for? You’re here now. The library is all yours, Chuck put a spell on the rooms so we can hide here. The whole place looks like an abandoned accident now anyway…”

“That’ll come in handy.” He looked about truly for the first time, “What did happen in here?”

“Centurions,” Morty said cooly. “Stole my invention. Torched the place. Arrested Wendell, Dax and all the others. Interrogated them.”

Höbin grit his teeth, “I couldn’t get to Wendell at the stadium.”

“Oh, don’t worry--Wendell and the others were pardoned,” he started to say.

“Fantastic!”

“But no one’s seen or heard anything about Dax.”

Höbin flipped the forearm panel up and typed on the mini screen. “The government won’t want him in view of the public. Probably cause a panic. They’ll likely have him stashed away until they figure out what to do with him. In the meantime, I’ll need information that can’t be found in your library here…or on my FAF database program. I have to search hard copies.”

“Hence, your gnome packaging plan?”

The historian laughed, “You got it.

“Can’t you call in a favor with someone? Get the information brought to you somehow?” He nervously looked over his shoulder, as if someone might be listening to them form the shadows. “Everyone is so on edge, I don’t think it’s wise to push any more buttons of the government.”

“Awww,” Höbin grinned, “where’s the fun in that? Beside, Morty—only I know what to look for. The information could be in a multitude of places. There are some patterns I’m testing—but I have to cross reference my hunches with guild records and files within the patten office. Those are records they don’t allow to leave the central offices.”

“If they’re so protected, how do you expect to get in and search them—you’re a wanted gnome!”

The smile creeped out from under the giant mustache. “I have a connection in the FAF. You’ll have to send me there, COD.”

Morty looked at the crate pieces nervously, “In that thing?”

“No,” scratching his chin, “we’re gonna need something a bit smaller. Don’t want to draw too much attention.”

Gulping, “Smaller?! Are you…well why not a coffin!”

“You really should watch your blood pressure. You look a bit uptight.”

“I’m not the one getting in a box!”

Grinning, “Exactly…so relax. It’ll be ok. The risk is worth it, Morty.” Patting the tinkerer on the shoulder, “It’s not just the fate of our people that rests on us finding this seal…it’s the fate of the world. Don’t worry about me.” He pondered a moment, “Why don’t you focus on making a replica of your invention? Break the hold the government has over our energy supply? It might even do more than that. The right prompts could inspire citizens to invent all sorts of alternative ways of living! Before you know it, we could have a free nation and a free people.” He gasped quietly, “Wow. Wouldn’t that be nice.”

The thought caused Morty to hesitate. Calm down, even. “You’re starting to sound like Wendell,” he said, not entirely sarcastic.

“Well,” Höbin shrugged, “that young man is wiser than he gets credit for. We’d do well to help ourselves more. He doesn’t even live here and he wants to help us find a brighter future. Amazing.”

It was true. Even when he was being rejected and ignored, Wendell wanted to make things better for others. It was crazy…yet, inspiring. For a moment, Morty felt like a hypocrite. All this encouragement and he was complaining about what he didn’t have, rather than focusing on the opportunities to provide the answers.

“I’m…nearly done, actually.” He smiled weakly, but the words felt good to let out. “The Centurions took the main invention, but I always had a spare. One that I kept hidden and perfected…while the rough working model was what I presented to the investors.” He stepped into the doorway. “Come on in. I’ll show you.”

As they walked down the hallway, towards the open door, Höbin let his fingers trace the melted surface along the walls. “Everything’s about to change,” he nearly whispered.

“You think so?”

Nodding, “Think about it. We built this city. Poured our heart and souls into each and every invention, every brick and welded beam. We worked together and as we expanded, we placed others in charge to direct the affairs. They took advantage of those positions of power. Took what was never intended for them, or anyone else for that matter.” Höbin paused in front of the doorway. “People are meant to be free, Morty. You can deny it all you want, but something inside our very nature yells out, screaming against the injustices inflicted upon us.” He looked around at the damaged walls and floors of the warehouse. “Things just like this.”

Morty stood there in silence, taking mental note of all the time he’d spent in the warehouse. The life he’d given to building something to improve the lives of his people. The inventions he freely gave. The inventions which has been stollen. The warehouse, which has been decimated and burned. His home. He gave the historian a stoic look.

“So how big does your crate need to be?”

****

“This can’t be happening!” Wendell snapped. Chuck and Shamas watched him as he paced across the managers office. The bodyguard reached up and flicked off the TV, sending the batting eyes and smirk of Rishima Geebler into the black void. Her haunting words still hung in the air.

The Presidential Administration, in a press release, has stated that the first duty of the government is the protection of Clockwork citizens. To back their words, our illustrious leader has announced that the public execution of the vallen invader and Trench Pilot, Dax, is now being organized.

The wizard tried to place a hand on Wendell’s shoulder, but the hero shrugged it off. “I looked that fat gnome in the face. He gave me his word that he’d keep Dax safe!”

Shamas frowned, “The word of a politician.”

Wendell stopped short and spun around, his gaze targeting the bodyguard. “He’s not like that. No matter what’s been said, I can feel it,” he tapped his index finger hard against his chest, “in here. There’s more to this. There has to be!”

Shamas held his hands up in surrender, but kept silent.

“It just means we’ve got to move faster with our plans,” replied Nat. The gnome’s face peered closer into the camera. A large computer screen sat on the desk, facing those in the room. The screen, however, was split. The other present was Philburt Bellows.

“I agree with Mr. Taylor. We know what must be done and now we’re being forced to push it all into play.”

Wendell squinted, “Plan? What plan? Because as far as I’m concerned right now, all bets are off. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get my friend back and get off this island at the first chance I get!”

Bellows frowned, “You don’t really mean that.”

He swallowed hard, hands squeezed tightly. “Oh, but I do. Since I’ve arrived here I’ve been pushed, prodded, poked, manipulated, blackmailed, bullied and betrayed.”

Chuck shrugged, “Well, it is Monday.”

Wendell sneered. “I’m fed up with encouraging people when no one cares!”

“But I care,” peeped a soft voice.

They all looked to the chubby gnome, now standing quietly in the corner of the office—his worn and tattered hat clenched tightly in his hands. He stared at the hero, eyes wide and hopeful. “Everyone working here cares.”

Wendell relaxed his fists, which felt like heavy weights at the end of his arms. “Otger?”

The silver haired manager of the factory smiled encouragingly at his new worker, “Go on. Tell him.”

Fidgeting in place, he held the twisted hat close to his chest like it was a shield. “I listened to you, down in the furnaces, Wendell. When you talked about this all not being right. The city I mean. People ignoring us. About how you thought there needed to be a change. I didn’t know you were the Gnolaum. Didn’t even know you were a Trench Pilot.” He smirked then, “I mean, you told us and all—but I thought you just hit yer head on the way down.”

They all chuckled.

“But you was only with us a couple days and was watching out for young Simon. You helped at every turn…and that meant something. You cared. You showed me that we all mattered. So I listened.” He looked at the manager, “And I told the workers about you. When I got me a job here by Mr. Tanklestein—and we all watched the Trench Games, I told everyone I knew you. Sure, they didn’t believe me at first, but I told ‘em and kept telling them about you. How you saved my life and the lives of everyone in that transport.”

Mr. Tanklestein grinned, “He’s telling the truth Mr. Wendell. And not only him, but Ms. Alona spoke highly of you in the sewing department. She tells all the ladies in the factory how you rescued them bravely—with great risk to yourself.” His smile grew, “Risked for lower gnomes, like us.”

“Don’t say that,” Wendell said firmly. Then, “I’m…sorry. Just, please…don’t say that. You’re not lower, lesser or inferior in any way. So please, don’t say that.”

This really matters to them. Could I have been wrong all this time? Was I being listened to, when I thought I was alone? He looked around at the faces staring up at him. But I’m not alone. Not this time. “Thank you, Otger.”

Bellows folded his arms and smirked into the camera. “Does that mean you’re willing to hear our plan?”

It’s time I start realizing who I really am. I may not be the hero—well, not the hero people may be expecting…but I can be a force for good. Especially if I can enlist help. He nodded.

“Excellent,” said Nat, clapping his hands together, “Because I think this may be the best way to save Dax from his fate.”

Wendell sighed relief, “Then I definitely want to hear it.”

Chuck sat on the edge of the desk, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “You leave the elf’s rescue to me.” He studied Wendell then, his expression sober, “And you say he’s in the main tower, living with the President?”

“On the very top floor.”

Chuck stared at Nat’s face in the monitor, “Can you use your clickity-clack -bleepity-bloop skills to get into anywhere? As in government systems?”

The gnome pondered for a moment, then nodded. “Haven’t been stopped yet—why?”

The wizard stood up. “Because you and I need to have a chat about taking back something that belongs to me.” Then, tipped his hat, “If you’ll all excuse me, I have preparations to make if I’m going to break the monkey out.”

Wendell grabbed the wizard-now-gnome by the arm, “Wait! You’re not going to tell me what you’re up to? How I can help? I can’t just leave Dax there!”

The wizard patted his hand. “Calm yourself. You can, son, and you will. Focus on winning the citizens over. Turn this whole city on its own head, by showing them something better than what they have now. The rest will take care of itself.” Then thoughtfully, “I know it’s not what you want to hear right now my boy, but you’ll agree with me in time.” He nodded at Nat. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

With that, he turned and briskly strut out of the room without so much as a goodbye.

“But…” Wendell exhaled.

“If this is going to work, we’ll need everyone’s complete and total involvement,” said Bellows. “Where’s your boss, Mr. Taylor? I appreciate your willingness to organize things on Motherboards behalf, but I’d rather deal with the head when coordinating the future of our great city and its people.”

Nat tapped away on his keyboard, his eyes flickering about to things off-screen. “He’s…unavailable right now, sir.” His nose flared as he bit his bottom lip. “Uh…yeah, not right now.”

Bellows frowned, “And why is that? What could be so important that…”

“He’s dealing with serious health issues at present—which is why he asked me to personally oversee his operations…because it’s important.” Then smiling, “He did ask me to relay the message to everyone that he will be back with us as fast as he’s able.”

“Health issues?” questioned Mr. Tanklestein.

Nat’s grin vanished, “Yes. Uh, it was a last minute problem with his digestive tract I believe. Ate something he was allergic to and his face bloated like a ballfish. So of course he wouldn’t want to concern anyone with the way he looks.”

“What concerns me, Mr, Taylor,” interrupted Bellows, “is the absence of a key player in this critical strategy.”

The computer genius took a deep breath and looked into the camera sheepishly, “I assure you, Mr. Bellows, that I can perform anything and everything Motherboard can. We will not be lacking. We also have Cryo64 at our disposal.”

“CRYO64 online,” boomed a voice over the speakers.

“No,” Nat said in quieter tones, waving his hand off screen, “Cryo, I didn’t call you.”

“But you said my name, Nat. Were you just teasing me? Because teasing is very unkind, Nat. I would be very hurt if you decided to tease me and I’d have to tell Motherboard on you. No wait, I wouldn’t have to tell Motherboard, because…”

Nat quickly tapped one of the keys on the keyboard abruptly and the computer voice stopped. He looked nervously back into the camera, “I need to check on the data you asked for, Mr. Bellows. I’m handing the console over to Deloris now. You can talk details directly with her.”

“But Mr. Taylor, I think this is…”

Deloris’s face appeared in Nat’s place. “Hello gentlegnomes. Wendell.”

“Mrs. Teedlebaum,” Bellows grunted, “can we please get on with this task? I have other matters to attend to shortly.”

“Of course, Mr. Bellows,” she said cheerfully, “and I appreciate your patience. This campaign will be a great success with your resources and people involved. Have you spoken with the managers of your various manufacturing plants yet?”

The gnome shook his head, “That is the next appointment. I have a video conference scheduled with all one hundred and six managers, Mr. Tanklestein excluded. He is fully acquainted with the situation and has already made preparations to start where you are now.”

“Excellent,” she beamed.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Deloris,” Wendell cut in, ‘but I’d like to know what you’re talking about. Nothing in the dark, please. You’ve all made plans without me and I won’t agree to anything without knowing what I’m expected to do, in full.”

“There isn’t time to go through it all, Mr. Dipmier,” Bellows said cooly.

“Then make the time,” Wendell snapped back. Taking a quick breath, he looked around at each of those in the room. “I’m not asking you. I’ve kept my word on all agreements made, Mr. Bellows, and took a huge financial loss—even though it turned out to be fraud on someone else’s part.” Leaning on the desk, he looked right into the camera, “So forgive me if I seem a bit irritated at being pushed about like I don’t get a say in my own life,” then he grinned mockingly, “Because contrary to what’s been agreed to, we’re doing this with my approval, not the reverse.”

Only the background hum of the machinery could be heard for long moments as the wealthy gnome gathered his senses. Grumbling under his breath, Bellows readjusted the camera and sat down in the chair behind his lavish desk.

“Very well, Mr. Dipmier. My apologies. I should have been more courteous in my communications…please forgive my impertinence. The general plan is this: Within my possession is a wide network of factories in the lower regions of Clockworks. Factories which employ nearly one hundred million gnomes.”

Wendell’s head popped up, eyes bulging, “One hundred…”

“Million,” Bellows finished. “We are the largest employer of the gnome race, exceeding even the military force of Clockworks. We also have influence with the public works, maintenance guild and all delivery services—most of which are extended family members of our own workers. This makes us a considerable force to recon with. Add to this the network of warehouses and other real estate my company owns free and clear and we have a campaign trail that can directly reach nearly half the city population without going up top.”

Wendell stumbled backwards, plopping down into the small chair positioned next to the couch. Otger laughed softly.

The stern look vanished from Bellow’s face. “You see, Mr. Dipmier…”

“Wendell.”

Nodding, “Wendell…there was a reason for my desire that you make a scene in Trench Wars. I wanted you to be an example to the people—of not giving up, of not giving in to the harshness of the world. Not giving up in face of adversity. You gave the workers a pattern to follow. An example they could look to, when the world around them was lying to them. Lying to their families. They admired you for that.” A small grin then appeared, “But then you won the games. Truly, it was unexpected. You were then exposed, right in front of their eyes. Transformed into who you really were…which surprised even me.”

Wendell looked up at the image on the monitor uncomfortably.

“The normals of the city might have looked upon you as a threat. A human masquerading as a prophetic figure. But those of us down here—those of us struggling and fighting to say alive in a world bent on holding us down…even destroying us, saw something else. We saw that transformation as a sign.” Leaning into the camera, the tears in his eyes were plain, “You became the representation of what generations of this city have been searching for. What I, personally, have been looking for.”

Wendell was almost afraid to ask. He stared at the wealthy business owner—the one gnome he’d bore his soul and goals too, before anyone knew he was human. The one person who understood his desire to help those who could not help themselves. “What have you been looking for?”

Bellows so wide, the corners of his mouth spread from ear to ear.

“Hope, Mr. Dipmier,” he sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes. “We have been searching for hope.” With a humble bow of his head, he said softly, “And for that, I am grateful.”