The next time Grog saw Fizzy was later that same evening. The golem and her shield-serf had gone out, found the mine, met their basilisk kill quota, and returned to get paid in only three hours. Certainly above-average completion time for that particular Quest, though there was hardly any competition for it. The main issue with delving in those deep mines was the piss poor ventilation. Magic was necessary if one hoped to breathe normally, which usually involved special mining gear that the average mercenary would have to either rent or purchase specifically for this job. That barrier to entry combined with the basilisks’ petrifying venom made this particular chore extremely unpopular with adventurers. But, unlike those meatbags, Fizzy was a golem and could ignore both of those hazards.
Unfortunately for Tony, he still had lungs and blood. He was hardy enough to resist being turned to stone, but he’d been operating on half-breaths the entire time. Sure, he had Air Bubble as a breathing aid, but that Spell was a filter. Its purpose was to block out airborne toxins and extract air from the water if submerged. It was practically useless in an environment with little-to-no oxygen. There were several instances where Tony almost suffocated down there. To make matters worse, he hadn’t gotten a single break until this ‘triumphant’ return to Grog’s branch of the Mercenary Guild on top of being sleep deprived from the train ride beforehand. His cumulative exhaustion was readily apparent in the waterfall of sweat and the buzzsaw-sounding breaths coming off of him. In stark contrast, the golem showed no signs of fatigue and actually looked cleaner and shinier than her initial visit.
And then, just a few minutes after her arrival, Fizzy dragged her beaten servant off for their second go at the very same Quest. Grog was therefore entirely unsurprised to find the two of them waiting for him when he arrived at the Guild the next day. He’d barely opened up shop before they turned in the assignment, got a fresh one, and left immediately. This scene repeated itself later in the morning and once more around noon. By that point Reverb Mine had apparently run out of basilisks for them to slaughter. Either that or the horse-sized lizards were too busy hiding in fear from the mithril exterminator. Bottom line was that Fizzy doubted she’d find twenty more of them without a lot of digging, so she just grabbed another repeatable Quest to hunt subterranean monsters. This one had to do with controlling the earth elemental population at Blackthroat Mountain’s dead heart, fifteen kills at a time. The golem and the hobgoblin completed that task a total of six times over the next two days before they ran out of those as well. The blast snails in the canyons just north of the volcano were met with the same fate as their body parts were required to produce a variety of flammable powders.
All things said and done, Fizzy had raised a whopping 12,000 GP in just a week. By this point, Tony had earned back the coin that went into his collar several times over. Just as the Paladin hoped, having a Shaman and Ranger at her beck and call helped tremendously towards tracking, hunting, and catching wild monsters. Unfortunately for the hobgoblin, his shiny boss expected him to keep up with her at all times. That meant that, since she never paused to sleep or eat, he wasn’t allowed to do so either. The greenskin snuck in whatever naps and snacks he could, but it wasn’t enough to keep up with the construct’s unreasonable demands. As a result, the athletic and agile hobgoblin had been reduced to a zombie-like state. His eyes were dull and unfocused, his deep voice was reduced to a wheezing whisper, and his impressive physique had deteriorated to the point where he was practically skin and bones. He collapsed many times, yet found himself immediately forced to his feet as Fizzy did everything in her power to wake him up.
“Get up, meatbag!”
And then, inevitably, not even the golem’s tender care was enough to rouse him from his coma.
“I said!”
*THUD*
“Get!”
*THUD*
“The fuck!”
*THUD*
“Up!”
*THUD*
The golem kept kicking the sleeping hob over and over as she yelled at him. Normally that was enough to jolt him awake, yet this time he remained firmly unresponsive.
“I think he might be dead, boss,” Plus chimed in.
“No, he’s not. He’s still breathing. I think. Hold on.”
She put her hand in front of his face and, sure enough, her freshly waxed palm started to mist up a bit.
“Told you so. Now wake the fuck up, you slacking piece of shit!”
She gave him one more boot to the head for good measure. Strangely enough, the extra spite and verbal abuse didn’t seem to be helping.
“Okay, Fizzy? I think we need to talk.”
“… Is it important?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“Sure thing. Not like we’re in a rush at the moment.”
She and Tony were currently in their room on the third floor of the Mercenary Guild branch that Grog managed. It was a cramped, murky space that served little purpose or function beyond a quiet place to sleep and store luggage, which suited Fizzy just fine. Sure, she could have gotten a temporary residence at a more reputable establishment, but the security here was surprisingly good for how cheap the room was. The golem had just finished delivering her latest completed Quest and had come up to store an intact blast snail shell she’d harvested for personal use. It was a huge and heavy thing about the size and weight of a barrel of sand. She could have carried it up the stairs herself, but why do such menial labor when she had a shield-serf? It was about the principle, not the practicality. In the end she had to carry both the shell and the Shaman since the latter had passed out halfway up the stairs and wasn’t responding to her gentle nudges.
“Yeah, see, that’s the thing.”
Plus sounded far less upbeat than usual. Concerned, almost.
“Unless I’m missing something, we’re not in a rush, period. We have no deadlines or schedules to keep, right?”
“Well, no, not especially. I just see no reason to put off securing the funding I need to get myself set up.”
“That’s great and all, but do you have to push Tony so hard?”
“Yes. I do, actually. He’s a shield-serf. Getting worked to the bone is part of it.”
This wasn’t just her being mean. Sentencing someone to be a shield-serf was considered equal or greater in severity to the death penalty precisely because it came with the stipulation that the condemned criminal would be given no mercy, kindness, or consideration. Theirs was a brutal existence of toil, suffering, and violence that was guaranteed to end in a gruesome fashion. Many would consider death to be a welcome release if they were in Tony’s shoes, and it was Fizzy’s legal obligation to keep it that way. The law surrounding shield-serfs was so harsh that it literally made misery a requirement, and the golem was in danger of losing hers if she didn’t comply. She knew all this because it was outlined in the manual that came with the hob’s obedience collar. Plus should have been equally aware since she had a habit of reading every piece of text that drifted within Fizzy’s eyesight, even if the dominant personality didn’t bother to.
“No, I get that. My point was that you don’t HAVE to go THAT hard. It’s not like there’s government agents tracking your every move. Surely you can let him catch a break every now and then.”
“I can, yes. Why would I, though?”
“Because you’re not Boxxy.”
“… What?”
“You’ve been acting a lot like it lately. You know that?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Really? So this unstoppable drive for wealth, the vagrant lifestyle, the random detours to inflict unprovoked violence, and ‘educating’ a ‘servant’ like that - that’s just how you’ve always been, is it?”
“… Okay. Maybe I have been emulating Boxxy a wee bit, but why not? Things worked out great whenever I followed its plans.”
“Sure, but that was in the past. When it was around to call the shots. But that’s not the case anymore.”
“What are you getting at? Are you saying I can’t handle myself?”
“No, I’m saying you need to let go.”
“Let go? Of what?”
“Of Boxxy. You need to accept that it’s dead and move on with your life.”
“But I did. And I am.”
“But you’re not, though! You blindly cling to its ideas and methods instead of coming up with your own solutions. You go glum and quiet every time something even remotely reminds you of it, and yet you act like it doesn’t bother you! Just look how uncomfortable you are right now!”
“Shut up! You don’t know me!”
“How could I not?! I AM YOU, YOU STUPID RUST-BUCKET!”
“I said shut up!”
“Stop running from the truth! Turn around and face it!”
“STOP! IT!”
The golem thrashed about, her hand banging on her head as if that would somehow silence the voice inside it.
“Boxxy’s dead, it’s never coming back, and it’s tearing you up inside!”
“RRRAGH!”
Fizzy kicked the huge snail shell next to her as her anger boiled over. The impact sparked a loud bang alongside a burst of fire and smoke. The explosion didn’t accomplish much since it was only at the level of a firecracker, but it made the silence left in its wake seem oddly heavy. The only noise in the dingy room was the unconscious hob’s shallow breaths and the faint grinding noises of Fizzy’s shoulders going up and down.
“I know,” she spoke quietly, her voice shaking. “By Billy’s quivering blanket, I know. It hurts so bad that it drives me mad.”
“Then why do you act like it doesn’t? Why are you trying to do everything you can to ignore your grief instead of dealing with it?”
“Because that’s all I have left. If I just ‘let go’ of Boxxy… I’d have nothing left.”
Deep down, that was Fizzy’s biggest fear. The crushing solitude in the days and weeks following her father’s death had scarred her so deeply that not even her transformation into a monster could heal that wound. The thought that she’d have to go through all that again was horrifying. That was why she was all the way out here in a foreign land, with a new name, working her shiny metal ass off for gold she didn’t really need, so that she could pursue ambitions she didn’t truly care about. She kept her mind and body busy with ultimately pointless chores and tasks because that was much easier than confronting the terrible truth.
Boxxy was dead, and with it so was Fizzy’s purpose in life.
“You have me, don’t you?” Plus tried to comfort her. “You know damn well I’d never leave you.”
“But you’re me.”
“So? What’s wrong with living for yourself? It’s what Boxxy would want you to do.”
“Uhhh…”
“Sorry. Please forget I said that. What I’m getting at is that you really need to confront this hang-up of yours, for your own sake. You keep going on about future plans and incredible inventions, but how are you going to move forward if you’re always looking back?”
“Wow.”
“That’s still super corny, isn’t it?”
“So much so that you can put it in a pan and pop it.”
“But you know what I’m saying is right. We should be number one on our list. And everyone else’s list. Because we’re too awesome to settle for less.”
“I… I would like that. I really would. I just- I wish I knew what to do with myself.”
The funny thing was, Fizzy wouldn’t be having any of this trouble if she were a pure golem, because then she wouldn’t have gotten attached to anyone or anything to begin with. Alternatively, if she were still a gnome, she’d likely work through and come to terms with her loss in a healthy and rational fashion. However, her mind and psyche were a tangled mess of the two conflicting sides, resulting in her having enlightened emotions that her golem core couldn’t process on its own. Thankfully for Fizzy, she had a friend to help her through this.
“I’m not sure either, but I’m we’ll figure something out. We’re awfully clever, after all.”
“This is true.”
Granted, that friend was just a voice in her head, but it was better than nothing.
“For a start, why don’t we go back to the topic of Tony?”
“Again? What’s this meatbag got to do with this?” she pointed at the unmoving sack of bones.
“We both agree that acting like Boxxy’s still in charge has to stop, yes?”
“I guess?”
“That means we need to reassess how you’ve been treating the guy. Stop applying box-brand brutality and think about how Fizzy Rustblood would handle a shield-serf.”
That was easier said than done. She’d never been in charge of someone to this extent. Then again, it wasn’t as if she was responsible for his wellbeing. If anything, the opposite was true, hence why the blunt method seemed appropriate. The issue with that was that there was no doubt Tony would expire if she kept this up, and her ego disagreed with the idea of slowing down on account of someone who was beneath her. But what if she set aside a bit of time to ensure the fleshling could keep up? Not a handicap, but an investment. There was no doubt that keeping him around was worthwhile. He was convenient and useful out in the field until his deteriorating health reduced him to this sorry state. Completely understandable, but also avoidable. If Fizzy removed the personal element, she’d equate Tony to an effective multi-tool that was malfunctioning due to lack of maintenance. A self-mending one, too. All the golem had to do was stop using it long enough for it to take care of itself, and then continue to enjoy the benefits after. It was a notion that her enormous ego would not complain about.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I see. That’ll work.”
“Did you think of something?”
“Yeah. I just need to manage my time better. Like for instance, I’ve been so focused on the money-making I still haven’t gone to see that golem smith about my arm. I need to get this stupid shell ground up, too. This guy isn’t going anywhere, so now’s a good time to handle that.”
“It’s a start, but what about after that?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll definitely ease off a bit.”
“That’s good. I’d hate to see him kick the bucket.”
“Really? Wait, do you actually like this guy?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“What? I’m not allowed to like people?”
One could practically hear the pout in her tone.
“It’s just a bit weird. What’s so great about him?”
“I happen to appreciate that devil-may-care vibe he has going. He doesn’t let anything put a damper on his spirit. I also think his voice sounds pretty cool, and he’s kind of funny at times.”
“You know he’d kill us without hesitation if he had the chance, right?”
“I doubt that. Even after everything we put him through, he still let us capture him instead of running away in Steelhead.”
“He’s just going along with what he thinks is Frank’s divine plan. He said it himself.”
“Yes, because there’s zero chance he has a reason to lie about his motives.”
“Come off it. What else could it possibly be?”
“I don’t know, but I get the feeling he’d tag along even without the obedience collar.”
“Okay, that’s definitely wishful thinking.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter too much. He’s along for the ride regardless, so let’s at least make sure we don’t throw him under the cart.”
“Agreed. Actually, I might do more than that.”
“Oh?”
“Just a thought I had. For now, I should get busy. All this talking is making my left hand itch.”
“But… you lost your left hand.”
“Exactly.”
With that, Fizzy awkwardly hoisted the huge shell onto her shoulder and went out, leaving Tony behind to recuperate. She figured he’d be out for a few hours while she handled some low priority chores, which would probably be enough for the hobgoblin to be well enough to at least wake up. Her assessment was way off, however, as Tony’s eyes slowly peeked open mere minutes after she left. He sat up, grumbling and groaning while he rubbed his sore head and sides. That was close. The way she kept kicking him almost made him flinch. Thankfully, he was very good at playing dead and was able to overhear some very interesting things as a result. Much as he told Fizzy back in Steelhead, people’s lips were a lot looser whenever they thought he couldn’t understand them. The hob suspected that, being a former pink-skin herself, his handler would fall into the same trap. He was right, albeit for the wrong reasons. The golem just liked hearing the sound of her own voice.
Regardless, overhearing one side of Fizzy’s conversation with herself was a bonus. What Tony was actually trying to accomplish with the comatose act was to be left to his own devices for a while. A dangerous and painful gambit, but ultimately successful. Without further ado, he reached for one of the waterskins on his belt. This one in particular held the contents of that half-bottle of rotgut he scammed off of Grog, but he wasn’t going to didn’t drink it. Oh, no. This liquid had another, more important use. In the goblins’ tongue, it was known as mojo, and it was much more valuable to them than the civilized world suspected. Mojo was one of the few things the primitive greenskins actually produced, and was a vital component in many of their magical rituals. Admittedly goblins sucked at actually passing the details of those down to the next generation, but Tony was a Shaman with a Level 10 Ancestral Knowledge Skill. He didn’t need teachers.
The specific ceremony he intended to perform started with him stripping naked and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the small room’s cold stone floor. He bit into his thumb hard enough to draw blood, then used it to paint a circle around him. He chanted a quick Cure Spell to close the wound and then proceeded to rub himself down with what mojo he had. The vile substance burned and itched, but Tony had been through much worse in the past few days. He didn’t utter a peep as he used every last drop of rotgut to cover himself from head to toe. He was extra careful when applying it to his neck, lest the collar that hung loosely from it suddenly decide it was being tampered with. Once everything was in place and the room positively reeked of alcohol, the hobgoblin placed his hands on his knees, closed his eyes, and started chanting.
“Hooooorm trechaaaaaka druuuuuuum galaaaaka. Hooooorm trechaaaaaka druuuuuuum galaaaaka. Hooooorm trechaaaaaka druuuuuuum galaaaaka.”
As the Shaman maintained that long, droning mantra, the circle of blood on the floor started to smolder. Streaks of white vapor rose from it and wrapped around the hobgoblin. The strange smoke crawled along his moist skin, searching for a way past the layer of rotgut. It inevitably found such gaps since the Shaman didn’t have enough of the stuff to cover every millimeter of himself. Those exposed spots ripped open as if severed by a knife, and all the blood that trickled out instantly vaporized into yet more flesh-rupturing smoke. The chain reaction was just as painful as it seemed, yet Tony maintained his focus and his chanting without so much as a flinch. He and pain were old friends.
“Hooooorm trechaaaaaka druuuuuuum galaaaaka. Hooooorm trechaaaaaka druuuuuuum galaaaaka. Hooooorm trechaaaaaka druuuuuuum galaaaaka.”
Several minutes into the ritual, the blood-vapors had completely enveloped the Shaman. The gaseous substance no longer crawled or twisted, but settled and thickened around his form like a bodysuit made of mist. This layer continued to grow and expand until the hobgoblin wasn’t even visible underneath the dense white smoke. And then, about a quarter hour after this started, there was a loud clunk followed by a metallic clatter as Tony’s obedience collar rolled freely across the stone-tiled floor. This jolt triggered its kill-switch, causing a paper-thin spatial disturbance to appear within the metal ring and then collapse a fraction of a second later. If any matter was in its way - such as a person’s neck - it would have been cleanly severed by the unstable portal-like magic.
The chanting then stopped. Tony’s arm exploded from the smoke-suit and grabbed the spent collar. He then thrust it towards his neck, which allowed the solid object to pass through without any resistance. The hobgoblin held it firmly in place for a few seconds longer before the vapors around him suddenly dispersed. Now that his flesh was solid again, he let the collar rest in its old spot as he collapsed on his back, breathing heavily. Not just from cumulative fatigue, but also stress. Frankly speaking, he wasn’t sure he could pull that off. The ritual he performed was intended to safely remove a goblin’s bindings without having to lop off a limb or hack through enchanted metal. Putting the collar back on was dicey, but he hazarded a guess that the Goddess of Coincidences would make it happen. Whether Wilfred actually intervened was both unclear and ultimately irrelevant, because Tony had achieved his goal.
With its kill-switch fired and its magical charge spent, the obedience collar no longer threatened his life. In other words he was free to do whatever he wanted, and if he played his cards well, Fizzy would not suspect a thing. There were still signs of the Shaman having done something in her absence, but those were simple enough to deal with. All he had to do was dress himself and clean up the faint traces of blood on the floor, both of which were accomplished in minutes. The foul stench of rotgut in the air would take hours or possibly days to clear up, but that wasn’t an issue since golems didn’t have a sense of smell. Indeed, when Fizzy returned later that afternoon she saw nothing to suggest her shield-serf did anything other than sleep.
“Tony! Get up!”
She kicked him in the ribs as she yelled his name, flipping him onto his face as he let out a pained groan.
“Ugh… Hey, boss,” he wobbled up to his feet. “How long was I out?”
“Three hours, fifteen minutes, thirty-five seconds.”
“Really? Dat be generous of you.”
He had genuinely fallen asleep while waiting for her. Even if his unresponsive state from earlier was just an act, his fatigue was quite real. This power nap was sorely needed, but woefully insufficient.
“Damn right, it is. In fact, I’m also doing you a huge favor even though you don’t deserve it. You better be grateful.”
“Oh? Did you get me a gift or something?”
“Jolly good guess.”
“Uh-huh. Let me guess… Is it a hat?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Come with me.”
Normally this was the point when the obedience collar would buzz and give Tony the usual ‘do what you’re told or die’ Quest, but it did nothing of the sort. It was now completely decorative. Thankfully for the tired hob, Fizzy seemed to be in too good a mood to notice that small detail, so he played along and followed her out. The golem led him clear across Gun Tarum’s inner city, towards the source of the heavy smog that permeated it - the Anvil District. Much as its name implied, this part of the city was occupied by a slew of foundries, smithies, workshops, and even a few factories. Consequently, the air was so polluted that people without at least 300 Endurance (END) had to wear gas masks or risk coming down with black lung disease. The noise was arguably worse, as the unceasing march of industry filled the narrow streets with a cacophony of clanging that would inevitably damage one’s hearing. It was especially bad for anyone with over 100 Perception (PER) and, unfortunately for Tony, he was well over that threshold. The constant banging was so insufferably loud that he considered knocking himself out for real by bashing his head against the wall. He couldn’t even plug his ears on account of his missing hand.
Yet Fizzy seemed entirely unbothered by the noise pollution. That was odd. After working with her in the field, Tony knew for a fact that her hearing was just as good as his, maybe even better. He imagined not having a heartbeat in her ears or breaths in her throat made it much easier to pick out distant sounds. The fact that she wasn’t reacting to this horrendous racket implied she had some kind of trick to deal with it. Tony wanted in on that.
“Hey, boss! How you so calm?! Dis de song of your people or somethin’?!”
The golem looked over her shoulder and spoke, but the relentless ringing drowned out her words.
“What?! You gonna have to speak up!”
Fizzy seemed confused for a moment before her face suddenly lit up as she remembered something. She quickly rifled through her pockets until she found a small tin box the size of her fist. Inside were about ten or so rubbery things that vaguely resembled nipples. She handed Tony a pair and pointed towards her mostly decorative ear. It took the hob a few moments but he got the message and put them in. The maddening clanging stopped the instant he had one in each side. His Magic Item Savant then kicked in and informed him that the earplugs he had been given were specially designed to filter out sounds above a certain volume, and were self-cleaning to boot. The greenskin was grateful for these, but at the same time couldn’t help but feel strangely annoyed at them.
“Bah. Pink-skins. Of course dey rather ignore de problem dan fix it.”
“You can give those back if you don’t like them,” Fizzy held out a hand.
“Hey, now. Let’s not get crazy.”
“Thought so. Now get a move on. All this smoke is sticking to me something fierce.”
By the time Fizzy arrived at her destination, the sun had already set behind the enormous wall of volcanic rock that surrounded the inner city. There were plenty of streetlights that kept things bright despite the thick smog, but there was a rapidly encroaching chill in the air. It was also worth noting that the forges showed no signs of stopping or even slowing down despite the day drawing to a close. That was because this place didn’t sleep. It couldn’t afford to. Gun Tarum’s Anvil District was the most brutally competitive business environment in the civilized world. Pulling consecutive all-nighters to stay even a half-step ahead of other artisans was the norm around these parts. That also went for the small run-down shop that Fizzy led Tony to. It was a humble little establishment along the far edge of the district, right next to the rim of the dormant volcano’s mouth. Behind the dull-looking front door was an equally unimpressive hallway with a simple stone bench near the entrance and three time-worn doors further in. Rather than a place of business, it looked like someone’s old house. It was, in fact, both.
“Malcolm! I’m back!”
“Be with you in a minute!”
Fizzy shouted to announce her presence, and was answered by a hoarse-sounding voice from beyond the door at the end of the hallway. About half a minute later, it creaked open to reveal a human man with a short scruffy beard and unkempt chestnut hair. He hunched over slightly as he walked out in order to avoid banging his head on the doorframe. This was a house built with dwarves in mind, so it was a bit too small for the ‘full-sized’ races. That aside, the man himself was a mess. He had heavy bags under his eyes and hollow cheeks that combined with his lack of personal grooming to create the image of a man who hadn’t slept in days. It was a look that Tony could relate to. A pair of thick round-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, making his pale green irises seem a size or two bigger than they actually were. He wore a dark brown blacksmith’s apron draped over a coal-stained white shirt and a pair of green hempen trousers. A number of tools were poking out of every pocket, most notably a steel rod with silver-lined squiggly patterns along its length.
“Welcome back, miss Rustblood. I didn’t expect you quite so soon.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, not at all. In fact I’m eager to get started. I assume this… gentleman is the friend you spoke of?”
“Friend is a strong word, but yes, this is Tony. Say hi, Tony.”
The hobgoblin groaned out what may or may not have been a ‘hello.’
“Ah. H-hello there. I’m Malcolm Gero. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”
The guy had never met a shield-serf before. Or a hobgoblin, let alone a talking one. He’d been warned that Tony was all of these things, but he still couldn’t help but get nervous when they were face to face. Frankly speaking, he’d be a lot more shaken if he hadn’t just gotten over the sapient mithril golem looking to do business.
“So how’s my order coming along?” Fizzy inquired.
“I just finished packing it, actually. The shell’s outer layer was more cracked than I thought, so it wasn’t hard to break it up and grind it down. I’ve got a whole crate’s worth of blast powder out of it. It’s in the back if you want to inspect it.”
“I do, yes.”
“Great. Right this way, miss.”
Malcolm guided his guest into the workshop he emerged from earlier. All sorts of tools, equipment, and materials were strewn about, especially around the hot forge in the corner. It was just as the golem imagined it - messy at a glance, but with its own unique sense of order underneath the chaos on the surface. She quite liked it, and not just because of the religious symbolism. Her own workspaces usually wound up in a similar fashion. She also felt something approaching empathy in regards to Malcolm’s situation. He was an outcast - a human in a dwarven-dominated market trying his best to make ends meet. He probably had to work twice as hard to get half the recognition that the dwarves here enjoyed. Fizzy knew exactly what that was like, having lived it herself. It was also why she had some high expectations when it came to his abilities.
And if this crate of blast powder was any indication, her estimate had been spot on. The explosive snail’s shell had been ground up into four batches of dust with different grain sizes, typically referred to as rough, coarse, fine, and very fine. They were organized in appropriately labeled glass jars and were uniform in color and consistency across their respective types. It was no simple feat considering this stuff could easily catch fire or explode if it wasn’t handled with care during the grinding process. Fizzy could have done that herself, of course, but she chose to let this guy do it for a nominal fee instead. That way it saved her a bit of time while she attended other matters and served as a basic test of the smith’s abilities. If he lacked the finesse to do something as basic as processing blast snail shells, then he was woefully unqualified to work on the golem’s new arm.
“Excellent. Couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I assume that means you trust me enough to handle the other job you mentioned?”
“That’s right. Tony?”
“Hm?”
“Malcolm here’s going to graft you a new arm.”
“Ke?”
The hob found himself severely taken aback, and with good reason. He’d spent most of the day dodging explosions, mucus, and shrapnel while operating on an hour of sleep, one raw sparrow, and three gulps of water, all because Fizzy ‘didn’t feel like taking a break.’ Of course, she didn’t. That bossy golem never felt like taking a break. And now she was offering to replace the limb she herself ripped off after he surrendered? Even if he overheard her argument with herself and, as far as he could figure, her decision to treat him a bit nicer, this didn’t seem right. Fizzy was far too selfish to do anything that didn’t directly benefit herself. There was definitely more to this than just ‘a gift.’
“What’s de catch?”
“No catch. I’m just having Malcolm here work on you so I can see how good he really is.”
Alright, that wasn’t too bad, but she also said something else that gave him pause.
“Uh-huh. Now, see, you say dat, but what do you mean by ‘work on me?’”
“He’ll fill you in on the details. Just do everything he says and don’t damage anything.”
“Why, you goin’ somewhere?”
“I got some drawing to do, but I’ll be right here so don’t get any funny ideas.”
“Whatever. So, pink-skin,” he turned to the smith. “What we doin’?”
“Right. Well. See that table back there? The one with the chains and manacles and stuff.”
“Oh? We gon’ get kinky den?”
“Not in the slightest. I’ll need to assemble your new arm piece by piece, starting with affixing the mount around your shoulder. It’s a delicate and time-consuming process, so I really can’t have you moving and shaking.”
“Whatever.”
It didn’t seem as though Tony needed to do anything but sit still for a while. In other words, this was a chance to extend his break, and he wasn’t about to pass on it. So, he laid down as instructed while Malcolm adjusted all the restraints and manacles. The guy clearly knew what he was doing. By the time he was done, the greenskin couldn’t move anything aside from his eyes, fingers, and toes. Even his jaw was held shut by hard leather straps. Meanwhile Fizzy seated herself at a table in the corner and took out some graphing paper. She needed to prepare precise blueprints and schematics so whoever wound up reconstructing her missing limb knew exactly what to do. She still hadn’t decided for sure whether she’d give the privilege of doing so to Malcolm, but the man seemed determined to prove he was capable of it.
Once Tony was securely strapped in place, the smith took a bunch of measurements, made some notes, grabbed a bunch of metal parts out of a cupboard, heated them up, and started hammering. About ten minutes later he returned to the hob’s side with a steel brace of some kind. He placed it onto the Shaman’s left shoulder to see how it fit. He spent the next few minutes making adjustments until he got the shape just right. He then said something to Tony, but the hobgoblin wasn’t paying attention. He’d already started dozing off, so he didn’t even notice that the human had also laid out a bunch of balms and potions on the shelf above. It wasn’t until he felt the pointed tip of a small nail press against his collarbone and saw the smith raise his hammer high in the air that Malcolm’s words finally sank in.
“If I do this wrong, it’ll hurt a little.”
That was the golem smith’s warning from a few moments earlier.
“If I do it right, it’ll hurt a lot.”
And this was what he said just before the hammer came down.