That night Eithan's face had been worked into a pile of slag. He went out into the city to look for the old man. Cold dust on tacky blood on feet and calves. The old man was laying in the alleyway, the paws of the dog alcohol heavy on his shoulders, its snout in his skull.

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At the old man's shack -- his hand moved -- springloaded grip -- metallically menacing -- will of steel....

Mysterious equipment scattered about: jarred lightning, gray dust, a hissing metal coffin. The old man smiled:

⋗ Do you want power, boy?