After a very long and very draining day spent interviewing more and more eccentric and or desperate slum dwellers looking for work in his newly acquired and modified warehouse, James barely held himself back from slamming his head onto the desk he had been using. The notes he had taken did help filter away the profiles he wanted absolutely nothing to do with, but he still had more prospective recruits than he could afford to hire.

Let's just try to think about the ones I liked the best, and see what's left afterward.

Despite his odd way of speaking, Bob the frogman was one of the candidates James liked the most. He had a no-nonsense attitude, valued honesty and hard work, and had an undeniably muscular body, barely hidden by his thick green slimy skin, and that combined with his height of 3 meters and his naturally powerful frog legs made him a remarkably efficient physical worker. Out of the lot, he was the one James was the most surprised didn't already have a job. After asking the frog himself, it turned out most employers weren't quite as understanding of his speech pattern: that, and good old racism.

Ellie Bell, the towering former Merry Mess goon with a hook instead of a right hand, was an interesting case. She was familiar with the gangs and the ways they operated, she didn't have much of a moral compass but appeared to be utterly loyal to whoever was paying her at the time. James was unsure if she was a spy sent by another group or if she genuinely thought he was the best employer for her. Her hook did make her less efficient as a worker in his warehouse since he intended for her and most of the others to move and organize crates, but after she demonstrated she could lift a pair of boxes stacked on top of one another with her remaining hand her handicap wasn't as problematic. James wouldn't have been surprised if her impressive muscles had been all she needed to manage such a feat, but she had told him she had the Body Aspect. Only that, if she were to be trusted.

Next was the poor Elen Gurt. The small lithe woman showed an above-average talent in organizing and low-level management, but her biggest draw was her willingness to work a night shift. James also had to admit her plea to get away from her nightmarish neighbor and his eggs played a part in her ranking on his list, and she reminded him of himself in a way. But had that been the only thing going for her, he wasn't sure he would have bothered to recruit her.

Mop Skybreaker was a strange one. The young man wasn't impressive, remarkably average in everything in fact, almost suspiciously so. Either he was a spy, or James had managed to get his hands on the most boring man in the slums. Bar his odd name and family history, there was nothing worth talking about. No Core, no Aspect, no history with the gangs, just some odd jobs here and there helping the merchants of the Black Block. Well, there was one thing that intrigued James. Mop had said his name came from his janitor mother, but as far as James was concerned no one in the slums would bother with a proper janitor, doing the cleaning yourself or getting a goon to do it seemed much more efficient. The only people he could imagine bothering to get someone full-time just for cleaning were the Black Bank and the major gangs, so either Mop's mother was involved with very important people or she worked in the main city, and both of these answers intrigued him.

Claude Puma was... Peculiar. The fact he had been so open about his nature as a clone and how he came to be was intriguing, and the mix of the man's curiousness and his tendency to overshare stood out among the rest of the applicants. They had all shared personal things with James, but most of them only said the bare minimum or inconsequential things, and none of them had asked as many questions as the clone did. James recalled reading about the fact that liars tended to tell a lot of details when trying to deceive someone because being vague was a lot more suspicious. Out of all the people James had met today aside from the shooter, Claude seemed the most likely to be a spy. Which either meant that he was one or that someone would use him as a cover to truly act as a spy. If James hired the man, he would be getting either a spy or a scapegoat for one, and both would serve his little scheme. As much as it annoyed James.

Joelle Janvier, despite being on the "dangerous maniacs" list, brought a very important ability that no one else had: as insane as her recipes could get, she was the only one who could cook properly. If James wanted to set up some kind of mess hall or-

Wait. I don't. They're all grown adults who managed to live for so long in the slums, they know how to get food. If anything, I'm sure some guys from the Block will try to set up their stalls here when lunchtime comes to try and make an extra buck.

A weight was lifted off his shoulders as he no longer had any reason to hire her.

After confirming his core team, he skimmed through his notes, comparing the various profiles to see which would best fit the bill. One he had initially dismissed grew a lot more interesting as he gave it a second read.

Snowflake isn't that impressive, but the improved olfactive sense could be great to detect poisons. It'd spare me from having to set up a permanent Mischief lookout on the surface and risk them getting noticed. He's a little too enthusiastic for his own good, but I'm sure the infused and the other recruits will keep him under control.

James nodded to himself. Yes, Snowflake was worth it. But would six workers be enough for his plan? With the handful of infused he planned to keep stationed here, nearly a dozen persons to man the warehouse lined up with what the Blood Angels had done back in the day. Granted, he had managed to rob the place and get away with almost no issue, but the guards at the time weren't all that impressive. Bar that Cored mutant, in retrospect, James was certain he'd have been able to fight his way through as he was at the time. Not that it would have been a good idea, since he now knew exactly how powerful the Angels were as a group. With how great Techlord's inventions were, the idea a mech the teen had made was destroyed in a single attack was terrifying.

In any case, it looked like James had his team ready. Now all he had to do was go out and announce the good and bad news to the crowd.

Still, as his mind wandered back to his heist on the warehouse in his early days, James wondered what had happened to the guards there.

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Farther away from the Black Block and James' new warehouse, yet still close enough to be considered part of their area rather than a part of the inner circle of the slums, stood an old hospital. The place was easy to dismiss based on looks alone, it was merely yet another building scarred by time and Zalcien's past, though one slightly dirtier and more damaged than the rest. The blocky U-shape of the hospital was to be expected for this sort of building, and although it had been remade from metal scraps the towering H on its front made its origins even more obvious.

And yet, this place was shunned. No one dared approach, and most of the neighboring buildings, despite being in a good enough state to be habitable, were empty, people refusing to live near the accursed place. For a demented mind lived in these walls, one everyone in the slums had heard at least once about, the deeds it committed had turned into horror stories that even many in the main city heard about, though those fortunate few were too blinded by their comfort and trust in the Union to believe these tales to be real.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Yes, none in the slums, not even the latest arrivals or the youngest of children, had been spared from hearing the stories about the maddest man in Zalcien.

The Patcher.

In one of the operation rooms of the former hospital, the insane man was at work. When one thought of a mad doctor, they usually imagined a white coat, maybe blue or green scrubs, but the Patcher was no medical professional. The tall humanoid figure wore a white top, indeed, a buttoned-up shirt with long sleeves that were always folded back up to the elbow, but that was the only thing remotely doctor-like about him. His pants were black and so were his shoes, but the most eye-catching features of his outfit were the leather gloves and apron he wore, made from multiple sheets of leather of varying sizes seemingly randomly sewn together, most were between beige and brown shades, but some were a little darker, others a little paler, and a few were of completely different colors, such as green or blue.

The long face of the Patcher was home to a pair of two pale blue eyes, bordering on grey and usually shielded by a pair of perfectly round glasses resting on a small pointy nose and a pair of long ears, decorated by dangling silver bars that acted as chimes. His lips were thin and currently contorted in a small smile under his prominent cheekbones, his skin stretching without a wrinkle. To top it all off, his curly pepper hair was stylized in an odd way, mono-color strands of either black or grey standing out like little spikes, strangely similar to a durian.

He was standing as he worked, a scalpel dancing elegantly between his gloved fingers as he twirled around the metal table his current project was on, currently an undefined pile of lightly throbbing red flesh half as tall as he was. In a macabre spectacle, he cut away at the flesh in fluid and elegant motions before examining the slabs and tossing them to either one of two other tables set up nearby, covered in various limbs, bones, organs, and skin sheets, sometimes only to then pick up something from either of the piles and sticking it in where he had just removed something and miraculously sewing it shut with a needle floating around him, dancing along with his spin and turn. He hummed to himself a sweet melody, the ringing of his chimes accompanying him along. During one of his examinations, a pair of green eyes mounted over two rows of human teeth stared at him from the pile of flesh, nearly crushed beneath the meat, the mouth slowly opened and closed in silence, the movement too subtle to let the teeth make a sound as they met.

The Patcher stared at the thing that could barely be called a face and chuckled, patting what could be called the top of the head, hidden beneath a roll of meat from the pile.

"Be nice now, the operation isn't over just yet. If you behave, I'll consider shutting down your pain receptors next time."

The eyes continued to stare. The meat pulsed on, barely moving and unable to make a sound.

The madman's smile grew a little more before returning to normal. He approached yet another table set up nearby, this one not covered in flesh but with various tools, from even smaller and more refined scalpels to a butcher's knife passing by a bone saw. He took a good look at his current patient, tilting his head as he examined it before putting down his cutting tool, taking the time to quickly clean it with a white towel laying on the table, but before he had the time to take whatever else had caught his eye a loud yet slow knocking came at the door.

For the first time since the operation began the Patcher dropped his smile, a sneer worming its way onto his features before he cooled down and put on a more neutral expression.

"Open the door, but don't come in."

Something followed his orders, and a completely bald human head passed through the crack in the doorway, followed by the leg that served as its neck.

"Phooone..."

The Patcher sighed.

"Very well, bring it in."

This time it was a hand that passed through, a large chubby hand as big as a man's torso, a hand that was attached to a disgustingly long limb made of multiple arms grafted together at the joints. The creature behind the door paid attention to keep its hand at the same level as the tables in the room and to keep it completely flat and parallel to the ground, for in its palm rested an item. An old black telephone, with a roughly pyramidal base on which rested the proper phone, a rotary dial attached to the base and a curly black cable connecting said base to the phone. As soon as it passed through the doorway the ringing that came from it spread through the room, going from complete silence to a thunderous sound. Still, it was only when the hand stopped near the Patcher's waist that the madman picked it up, twirling the line between his fingers, the needle floating in the air limiting the gesture.

"Ahoy?"

"Patcher, it's Karadok."

A smile returned on the man's face.

"Karadok! How are you doing, my good orc? Taking care of those muscles of yours, I hope? Your triceps seemed a little inflamed the last time I saw you. And your jugular! I hope you're taking care of it, hm?"

"Patcher, I want to talk business."

The madman groaned.

"I know, it's the only thing anyone ever wants to talk about. 'Patcher, I need you to heal someone!', 'Patcher, I think you took one of my guys!', 'Patcher, I need a monster to clobber that newby!', always work, work, work. No one ever asks how little old me is doing, or if they could drop by to take some tea."

The orc on the other end of the phone ignored his complaints.

"Lord Runar has been trying to catch an exotic creature for some time now-"

The Patcher returned to his earlier enthusiasm.

"Oh! What sort of-"

"A shadow elemental, we believe."

"Peh, no flesh. You can keep that one."

"That was the plan. Anyway, Pierce Evil tried to get it but made a mess, Lord Runar wants me to already prepare a replacement just in case."

"And you want me to do what, exactly?"

"I want you to make us a monster. Either to replace Pierce Evil or to prevent his imminent demise."

The Patcher tapped his gloved fingers on the base of the phone as he thought.

"What do you want, exactly? Sheer strength? Dexterity? Endurance? My work is complex, Karadok."

"From what we've learned, the creature is immune to mundane means, but magical attacks do harm it."

"I'm guessing you would want to inscribe a few runes?"

"Yes, it would spare us the cost of manufacturing equipment."

"I think I have something in mind for you. The problem then is, what do I get out of it, Karadok?"

"We have the money."

The madman gasped.

"Money? Do you take me for some kind of monster-making machine, Karadok? I am an artist, I do not work for 'money', at least not for the sort of project you're commissioning here."

"We won't kidnap people for you, Patcher. Unlike you, we have a reputation to keep and we follow the rules of the slums."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't see what else you could bring to the table, my dear Karadok. My other contracts already give me all I need."

"Enchanted tools for your operations, perhaps?"

"And risk your magic ruining my precious projects? No, I do not think so. Besides, I do not need your trinkets to do my work, unlike others."

The orc on the other end of the phone stayed silent, and the Patcher knew he got him.

"What if... If I solemnly swore to the Black Bank you would get my corpse if I happened to die? Would you do it then?"

"Oh, Karadok, you know I prefer to work with living flesh."

"I will not quit my work for lord Runar until the day I die, Patcher."

"What about a compromise? I get you the day you cease working for Runar. Whether it's because you die, you quit, he dies, he fires you, or whatever else, the day you no longer work for him you get on my table. That's a fair deal, no?"

As the silence grew, so did the madman's smile.

"... Fine. But you better make us the best monster you have ever done."

"But of course! I'll start on it as soon as I get a signed contract. I'll have one of my pets send my end of the deal before the end of the day, the rest is in your hands. It's always a pleasure to work with you, Karadok, and soon to work ON you!"

The orc didn't even bother to answer and just hung up the phone. Without anyone but his creations to witness him, the Patcher released a chuckle. Oh, he couldn't wait to rummage through the orc's innards and put those remarkable yet inefficient muscles to better use. But first, he had a new project to start.

"Philibert, go warn the others, we have a new big project to start soon. And bring me some paper."

He turned back to the table with the pulsing pile of meat.

"Do not worry, dear. I haven't forgotten about you. Let's wrap it up for today, we'll finish this soon, I promise."

The smile that adorned his lips chilled the poor thing down to the soul.