“You ‘avin a laugh?” The guard squawked.

“This is no joke, my new servant.”

“I knew I’d be up to some shady doings when I decided to keep on living as a monster under your care. But I didn’t agree to robbing some bloke who’s done us no wrong.”

“I’m surprised you have such morals, and a little disappointed, to be honest. How do you think I make my money?”

“I d’know! I assumed you were selling your inventions, or sommet.” Wervin reasoned as he began to pace the kitchen back and forth.

“I don’t sell my genius like some unconventional whore. . . I’m not like most natural philosophers. My achievements are my own. Not some plebeians who can’t even begin to comprehend the effort and majesty that went into them!”

“Well, that explains the whole poor thing I guess. Always wondered why I’ve seen machines that have defied all common sense, and yet have to groom myself with a variety of twigs I found outside.”

“Look, Werzdalvin. . .” He sighed. “I am not a cruel man. Evil? Cold? Ruthless? Sure. But not cruel. I have stole from and killed many, but none that didn’t deserve it. This Darwin Windlesworf is not a nice man. He makes most of his money from drug and child trafficking, not from the fine pottery he sells; like he claims. Everyone in Ramsgate knows this, yet they do nothing. I do not condemn this man for what he does, for we all get by in this world one way or another. Still, if a man of his. . . Tastes losses a portion of his gold, I will not grieve.”

Wervin processed what the old philosopher was telling him. The man was right about him lacking in morals, and he wondered himself why he was so against the stealing of this man’s wealth, he’d actually done it on several occasions in the past. Maybe now that he was a freak of nature, in servitude to a wannabe-sorcerer, he felt like stealing would push him of the side of good forever. Yet, he had to admit, they were in desperate need of coin and the man they planned to steal from sounded like a real arsehole of the typical kind. Wervin had encountered many twisted rich folk as a redcoat, most of whom were his superiors. He had seen what some of them did to their ‘toys’ and so many times, his comrades had to stop him from ripping the shriveled stones from their bodies.

“I’ll give you sometime to think about it…” Said the philosopher, breaking Wervin’s internal monologue.

“No need. . . I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” The old man beamed at once.

“So, when do we doin' the unsavoury deed?”

“Nine days from now.”

“Nine days… That doesn’t give us a lot of time to prepare, and I have no experience in breaking into somewhere so fortified.”

“In nine days, the master of the manor will be out of town, along with most of his guards. It’s the best chance we’re going to get in a long time. Don’t worry about your lack of experience, you won’t be doing this alone.”

“You’re coming along old man?” Wervin said incredulously.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. I’m no fighter and much too old for sneaking around. No, one of my other employees will be helping you.”

“Bully! I knew I wasn’t the only one for got my ankle chained to you.”

“Good to see you not completely dense.” He said condescendingly.  “Yes I have others working under me. Unlike the one that keeps hiding from you, this one hasn’t been in this manor in the past seven months. They’ve been away on a mission for me, and should be returning tonight.” Before Wervin could respond, the philosopher continued. “That will be all, I’m tired of talking today. You’re free to do what you want until my employee finds you. I’ll be upstairs, do not disturb me.” With that, the old man was off.

Used to the philosopher's rude behaviour, he simply shrugged and found something to eat.

*  *  *  *  *

It was around midnight and Wervin had been asleep for several hours. His body tired from training and waiting for his mysterious associate, he decided to get some sleep before he showed up.

Wervin stirred from his slumber. He felt like someone was watching him. Not allowing his body to change from its placid sleeping state, he laid perfectly still - straining his ears in an attempt to hear something amiss. He heard nothing. No breathing, or rustling. Yet, he still felt like he could feel the calculating eyes of a predator boring into him.

“How long are you going to pretend to me asleep?” Asked a strange voice in the darkness.

Wervin shot up and grabbed the wooden stake he kept under his straw stuffed pillow. He lunged at the direction of the voice, but only hit the still air.

“Too slow, my amigo.” The queer voice mocked.

Enraged by the it’s casual tone, Wervin pivoted on his heel - once again locating the voice. stabbing wildly again, and again felt nothing.

“Oh, so close that time.”

“Wervin unleashed a roundhouse kick. A foolish mistake. He threw too much of his weight into the kick and when the leg collided into nothing, it simply kept going, making him lose his precious balance.

“You fight like angry child.” It tutted.

Wervin roared! He became a tornado of punches, elbows and stabs. Attacking in every direction in hope that he’d eventually hit the owner of the irritable voice.

“I think that’s enough fun. . . ”

Wervin keeled over on the ground. Something struck him with enough force to knock him to the floorboards, and force him to cough saliva.

As he was hunched on the ground in pain, he heard a pair of footsteps walk away from him. A candle was lit in the corner of the room, and then another at his bedside.

“There we go. Now we can get a good look at each other. The voice mused.

Wervin got to his feet. His cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. “I’m guessin’ you’re the associate the old man was talking about.” He hissed.

“That I be, amigo.” Said a man with tanned skin, well oiled black hair and pointed moustache. He looked to be about half a dozen years older than Wervin’s twenty-six. The man was thin, but even in the darkness Wervin could see compact muscle bulging from the his clothes.

“Amigo ay. . .” Wervin tasted the strange word. “The old man has Spaniards under his employment as well. He truly is cracked.” Wervin did not have anything against the children of Spain, but most Englishmen were born with a slight distrust of their darker skinned cousins, and he was no exception.

“Sí! What gave me away? Was it my beautiful bronze skin? My impeccable onyx hair? My voice that makes the señoras melt?”

“Nah. You could well be French with that arrogance of yours. But the French don’t tend to stink of oil and spices, unlike you Latin folk.”

The Spaniard laughed at that. “And you posses a tongue that can’t go five seconds without insulting someone. You’re a limy alright.” He smiled.

“Too right I am mate.” Wervin replied, smiling back. “The names Wervin.” He stated, as he stuck out his left.

“Never heard that name before. My name be Juan Damián De Cervantes, fourth of his name.” Juan replied proudly, placing his right hand in Wervin’s left. As soon as he touched Wervin’s skin, he yelped - swinging his arm back.

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Wervin couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s for watching me sleep and hitting me in the stomach, you arse.”

“Guess I deserved that.” Juan chuckled while he shook his hand. “The Hechicero warned me you leak lighting from your body. I didn’t think it would hurt so much. Sure would come in handy in a fight, amigo.”

“True, but I’d rather not use it until I know more about it. Also, accordin’ to the old man, it drains my batteries quicker, and I need them to live.”

“Enough talking amigo! Now we train!” Juan spontaneously yelled. At the time he shouted, he swung a cudgel at Wervin. A weapon a mere blink ago, was strapped around his Spanish waist.

Wervin managed to dodge the wooden baton just in time. Instead of retaliating, he sprinted to the side of his bed and grabbed the oak cane that was propped beside it. As soon as he felt the smooth wood in his hand, he swung the stick behind him, not even bothering to check his surroundings. Unlike their previous skirmish, Wervin felt a slight shock in his hand, when his cudgel collided with his foes.

He then let out a flurry of jabs with the end of the cane, using it like a rapier, relying on his weapons longer reach to win this battle.

Juan effortlessly dodged the barrage of bone crushing pokes, like they were moving in slow motion. Wervin struggled to see the details of the Spaniards shape, the lack of light in room shrouded his already dark skin.   

The battle waged on throughout the dark morning. Neither never giving up. Their stubborn macho pride demanded they collide until a winner is announced.

The scuffle finally ended at dusk when Wervin collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. His body was flushed red and swollen with bruises. Apart from the slight sweat that trickled down his tanned brow, Juan looked no different from when the two first met.

“You fight like brute, my bald amigo. You rely on your strength and speed to overpower your opponents. I’m sure that worked fine against ruffians and your common soldier. But your time on the Herchicero’s table has weakened your body. You’re in a new world now, amigo. Can’t just rely on brute force to win anymore, because I guarantee, you’re going to be meeting monsters that will make you look in your prime, look like crippled child.”

Wervin wanted to retort, but his mouth was entirely focused on taking as much air in his body as possible. He thought it was funny how a year ago when his captain would tell him of the monsters he would fight, they were always ordinary men, sadist and skilled aye, but still just humans. Now that he had become a monster himself, he could imagine much, much worse.

“I’m off now, amigo.” Juan said. “Get some rest. You and I are going to be doing some serious training, before the heist.” Wervin heard the man’s footsteps disappear into the distance, as his head found comfort on the cool wooden floor. His body was so sore, and the ground so inviting, he slept right there and then.

*  *  *  *  *

He woke once more at half past four. His body strained to stand, but it managed. He wiped the drool from his face, that sizzled and bubbled as it touched his electrified skin.

Wervin quickly got dressed and went down stairs to find something eat.

Shortly after his visit to the kitchen. He knocked on the giant metal door that was now in front of him. His free hand held a wedge of cheese and his mouth was stuffed with grapes of various solidity .

“You’re late.” A gruff voice stated from the distance.

Wervin walked from the doorway, now that its iron, rectangular guard had once again moved itself out of the way, with magic. “Sorry boss. I met my new protege last night, and we ended up spending the whole night together.”

“Not surprised. He likes to test the worth of his comrades. I hope he didn’t find you too wanting.”

“Nor do I Sir, nor do I.”

Wervin walked up to where his master was stood and waited. The philosopher began attaching large wires to the batteries on Wervin’s back; beginning the charging process.

Like every time he charged his batteries, Wervin began doing body squats to pass the time. After ten minutes had passed he became too tired to carry on squatting. He filled the remainder of his time reading. He typically read boring books about mechanics and physics, so he could understand his new self and his master better. However, his sparring match with Juan had made him realise just how lacking he was in fighting prowess. So, in his hands was a book about a French fighting style called: Savate. The style that focused mainly kicking, something Wervin had little training in since it was considered unsportsmanlike in England. The book contained many different illustrations and instructions on how to perform certain kicks, when to do them, and the best exercises to improve them. Wervin greedily absorbed the information, and had immediately began to do the splits. A leg stretch that will help him kick higher. He did wonder why the old man had a book like this in his library. His sincerely doubted the ancient philosopher was secretly a renown fighting master. He probably just liked collecting information, regardless of what it was about.

An hour later, Wervin was fully charged and free to do what he wished.

Motivated by his new book, he found the empty room on the second floor he had been using as a training room, and practiced the movements he now saw in his mind.

*  *  *  *  *

“Good to see you’ve already warmed up.” Said an accented voice in the doorway.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” Wervin replied, not even bothering to look at the owner of the voice.

“I wanted to give you enough time to rest up. Seems I didn’t need to, however.” Juan walked into the room.

Wervin noticed that the man was no longer in his immaculate clothing, his upper body was laid bare. His only attire was a pair of tan wool breeches, his hair and moustache however, were still zealously oiled. The Spaniard was densely muscled like Wervin suspected, and almost had as many scars decorating his body as he did.

“Put these on.” Juan instructed, as he threw a pair of thick leather mittens at Wervin.

Wervin instantly fastened the bulky gloves around his hands. “Afraid I’m gonna hurt, mate?” He teased.

“Don’t be silly. Without all this padding around my hands, there’s a good chance I’d kill you. And if by some miracle you do manage to hit me, I won’t have to deal with that annoying shock of yours.” He retorted, as he tied his own pair of leather mittens around his hands.

Once the two were satisfied their gloves were on tight enough, they squared off. The two were dressed similar; Wervin was only wearing a pair of wool trousers when the Spaniard came in. While Wervin was taller than Juan, the tanned man was clad in more muscle, and extruded the confidence of an experienced killer.

Wervin attacked first with a right jab, unable to wait any longer for the fight to start. Juan dodged the blow and returned with his own.

The two were locked in combat for what felt like hours. The entire fight, Wervin was desperate to try out his new moves, and survive.

*  *  *  *  *

Over the week, the two trained fiercely with one another. Everyday they sparred, each time with a different weapon. One day with mauls, another with axes, mallets, knives, sticks, and sometimes with nothing but their bodies. Juan didn’t just teach Wervin how to fight. He also taught him the basics of pickpocketing and lockpicking. How to sneak, and how to blend with the crowd. How to observe your surroundings, and how to talk your way out of a sticky situation.

He taught all these things and more, until the day of heist finally came.