Enmei couldn’t process it all. He was caught between the inexplicable nature of his surroundings and his sheer incomprehension of himself. Nothing made any sense. He put on the clothes in a daze. Calm. Keep yourself calm. A voice echoed from his memory. The girl again, in the dimness of a Tokyo apartment. She was above him, her forehead pressed against his, her long black hair pooling around Enmei’s head. She seemed about to cry.

“We’ll be alright, Enmei. We don’t need to go to Heaven.”

That pain behind his eyes again. No use. He couldn’t tell what was real in his head. He groaned, looked over at the girl, at Katsumi, once more.

And she was staring at him now, eyes wide with fear. He started in surprise.

She gurgled something but the respirator muddled the words.

“Flesh Artisan!” Enmei called. The machine creature had wandered away into another room, but now came rushing back.

“I have her, do not fret.”

The Flesh Artisan tapped at a control panel attached to the altar. Katsumi’s respirator let out a mechanical hiss, and the Artisan plucked it away from her face, guiding it up into the assortment of operating tools above them. She began retching instantly, but soon quieted to an even, rasping inhale and exhale. Their machine creator steadied her as she sat up.

“Enmei,” the Flesh Artisan said, “fetch one of those bottles by the wall, would you?”

Enmei did as he was told, circling the altar and handing the bottle to Katsumi. She drank from it eagerly. Her resuscitation seemed to go much smoother than Enmei’s had.

“Well, now that you’re both awake–”

Katsumi slid off the altar, practically collapsing into Enmei’s chest. He caught her reflexively and tried to nudge her back onto the stone platform, but she resisted, clinging to him weakly.

The Flesh Artisan took a step back. “Oh . . .”

Enmei looked at the creature for an explanation. The mechanoid made the robotic equivalent of a chuckle. “Unlike you, Enmei, it appears her memory survived the surgical process intact. Her vision and body seem to be functioning acceptably as well. But Enmei – she knows who you are, and nothing else. I believe the correct course of action would be to hold her.”

Katsumi was whispering something into the folds of Enmei’s uniform. He felt a wetness against his chest, and it took a moment for Enmei to realize she was crying.

So he held her, first out of obligation, then out of fear. He feared he had forgotten something crucial. Somewhere in the mess of his memories, this girl was incredibly important to him. Enmei’s mind raced but he . . . he just couldn’t remember how.

“I shall retrieve her clothes,” the Flesh Artisan said, moving away to the cupboards.

“Enmei, where are we?”

Katsumi’s whisperings had become louder, more clear.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “I don’t know what’s going on.” He paused, then added. “But we’re safe, Katsumi. We’ll be alright.”

She hugged him tighter.

“Can you stand by yourself?” Enmei asked. She made a nodding motion into his chest. “The . . . the doctor is going to bring you some clothes now. Can you put them on yourself?”

Another nod.

The Flesh Artisan returned, and Katsumi reluctantly separated herself from Enmei. He looked away as she dressed.

“Enmei. Why is there a robot with us?” she said, fidgeting with the strap on the uniform’s waist. The shirt was baggy on her, but the pants were short enough such that she wouldn’t trip when she walked.

“Greetings, child. I am the Flesh Art–”

“He’s a doctor,” Enmei interrupted. “A surgeon, I suppose. He helped wake us up.”

“To be more clear, I created you two. A pair of my finest creations, I must say. Artificially enhanced, fully capable of elementary magicks and Amorphic arts.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Did you say . . . magic?” Katsumi blurted, just before Enmei could do the same. The Flesh Artisan looked at them, spider-like eyes flipping from one to the other. “Well, of course. You wouldn’t be very useful to your chaperones if you couldn’t harness the power of the Amorphic Continuum. Look at your palms. I’ve inserted the highest grade military Amorphium outlets there – a gift from the ones who commissioned your creation.”

Katsumi and Enmei both looked down at their hands. It was true. Enmei hadn’t noticed it before, but embedded in each palm lay a black metal disc of sorts, in place of the skin. At the disc’s center lay a glass sphere, set deep into each hand such that it looked like an eye peering outward.

An . . . outlet?

“Pause,” Enmei held up a hand. “Are we supposed to understand anything of what you just said?”

The Flesh Artisan froze strangely. “Oh my. So this is what my clients meant by not telling you anything. I hadn’t thought you two were that ancient. Amorphic Magicks have been around for several thousand . . . nevermind, you two. I believe I should not be permitted to say anything more.”

Enmei glared at the mechanoid. “What? Can’t be permitted?”

“I do apologize.”

Just then, the door to the chamber crashed inward. They all spun to see four forms rush into the room, and were suddenly faced with the muzzles of several rifles.

“Wh–what is this, my dearest clientele? I did just as you asked!” The Flesh Artisan stammered.

“You did. They’re both awake? Good then,” the soldier in the lead said, lowering his rifle and motioning for the others to do the same. “The operation’s been compromised. They traced our path to the workshop. We thought they might have already found this place.”

Gunfire echoed from somewhere outside the chamber. How had they not heard it before?

“Well by the Seraphim themselves! Now they surely have, haven’t they?” The Flesh Artisan began gesticulating wildly with his numerous limbs. “I’m going to have to relocate. You’ve exposed my private chambers, my years of work.”

“They’re after us, Flesh Artisan, not you. We’ll cast a ward over the workshop and they’ll pass you right by.” His words were distorted by the respirator over his mouth. All of the soldiers were wearing them, the cords looped to small tanks at their wastes. They wore black uniforms without emblem, armored vests, and had their strange rifles tethered by thick wires to something in their large backpacks. The soldier in the lead had what looked to be a sword strapped to the side of his pack.

This soldier strode toward Enmei, grabbing his wrist before he could even call out in surprise.

“Good installment. Channeling chords through the bones, yes?”

“All the requested modifications to their bodies and minds have been made according to your desires.” The Flesh Artisan rubbed several mechanical limbs together in a greedy gesture that had apparently outlasted time. He was clearly pleased that the deal was still going through.

The soldier moved over to Katsumi, who flinched back. The man intercepted her wrist anyway, checked her hands in the same cursory fashion. “I trust their minds are sound?”

“The male does have problems with his memory.”

“That’s to be expected. Orbital, hand over the payment. We’re getting them out of here. You two,” he turned to address Katsumi and Enmei. “In the next few minutes, you are going to be scared. You are going to see people die.”

Enmei locked eyes with Katsumi, sharing a look of apprehension before the soldier continued on. “When we leave this chamber, you will not understand what is going on. Seeing this will be hard for you – it wasn’t meant to be this way. Just know that when I and my colleagues die out there, we are dying for you. We are your protectors. What you should fear is what assaults us. If it helps, I am called Matchlight. I am the one you should stick close to.”

One of the soldiers behind Matchlight looked up from a datapad secured to his forearm. “Custodian closing in three dimensional rifts. Locke is stationed CTP 15.034, he gives us three minutes. Tiefling and Bridge are dead at 15.032.”

“Prophet bless them,” Matchlight said, “Tradewind – you’re the only one who can’t afford to die here. Set an absolution ward for the Flesh Artisan’s workshop and stay inside it. If we don’t make it, you’re to contact a different body specialist and the Prophet will get another fireteam sent down. Commission the two products again, same bodies. We’ll try as many times as it takes.”

The soldier called Tradewind nodded, closed his eyes and began a series of complex hand gestures. Matchlight had set the backpack he was carrying on the ground, and from it produced two respirators with tanks.

“The atmosphere in the regions around this workshop isn’t suitable for mortal bodies. Get these on, strap them tight. We’ll be moving fast.”

“Are we going to die?” Enmei asked incredulously. Even with Matchlight’s calm instructions, he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind around their situation yet.

Matchlight glared at him. The soldier had strange irises – black, but rimmed with a crisp orange light. Optical implants?

“As I said, I will lay down my life before either of you would be harmed. We move.”