Cyrus rattled a mug against the prison bars. His eyes latched onto the court outside his cell where prisoners in black-and-white striped uniforms slammed their hammers against the rocks, crushing them to pieces. They raised their tools and trudged them against the debris. The stone broke off into smaller segments, and the prisoners repeated their movements.

Slamming, hammering, trudging, slamming, hammering, trudging, slamming, hammering, trudging...

Like cogs in a machine, the prisoners performed their actions. The drops of their hammers against solid matter thudded through Clockwork’s ear without a second to spare, without a moment to distort the metric.

Possessed their work any purpose? Did it benefit a grand design? Of course, it did. The meaninglessness gave it meaning. It broke down the will of those who couldn’t conform to society and reshaped their remains. Everything it found undesirable, it stripped away. Until those once unfit suited society’s tastes. But could one call them still the same men after the procedure? Individuality and uniqueness always had to pass the test. Only once society allowed it could it spread. But how often could that truly work? Humans longed to be free, even if they didn’t realize it themselves. Yet, no matter how often they failed, government and society would continue to achieve their wretched dream to create a humanity that fit their design. They would forever remain the world’s dog trainer.

Cyrus dropped his mug, letting it shatter on the floor. He sat on the metal sleet that functioned as his bed and manifested violin and bow in his hands. Swinging his bow against the strings in an interval composed of three adjacent whole tones, Cyrus disrupted the hammer’s harmony.

He had created a sound in disarray wishing for release. For a moment, the prisoners glanced at Cyrus. They heard his music and increased their pace, crushing the stones to pebbles. And those, they smashed to dust. Their once blank faces contorted, sweat dripping from their foreheads as they attempted to drown out Cyrus’ tune.

But Cyrus did not release it. No. He continued the tritone and let the sound revibrate into their brains. The hammers dropped out of the prisoners’ hands. They clawed their temples and covered their ears. To hear the tritone would force them to face the cruel reality of their being. But even in their denial, they couldn’t continue to follow.

“My, my. Aren’t you a naughty boy to torture your fellow dogs like that?” Skyfrost appeared next to him. Wearing a priestess garnet that made her look anything but holy, she leaned to him and caressed his cheek. Her lips twisted to a grin as she blew her words into his ears. “Even Kaiser Wilhelm couldn’t bring himself to hurt animals, yet here you are. But by all means, continue. It’s such a looovely sound.”

“Only once a dog learns pain will it leave its master.” Cyrus continued to play the violin, trying his best to ignore Skyfrost. In the background, bass and keyboard started to play and mix with his instrument.

“Then, what should I do to hurt you?” Skyfrost pressed her nose against his neck and sniffed. A cold breeze tickled his skin, and Skyfrost placed her hand on his kneecap. “Never forget that you’re my bitch.”

Cyrus blew his nose, paying no attention to Skyfrost’s touch. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just another tool for me to use.”

A fit of laughter overcame Skyfrost as her hand started to wander up to his knee while she increased the pressure she exerted on his flesh. “Is that your denial? The delusion you say to yourself in the mirror?”

He couldn’t let anything bother him or disrupt his play. Nothing could put an end to the music, and he would play it even if his body gave out.

“Do you hate me so much that you sold yourself out to Skyfrost?”

That voice! Cyrus’ eyes widened; his pupils shrunk. As the heat started to blaze over his skin, he intensified his play. The bow tugged against the strings, drawing over them like a knife to their near breaking point. Barely could it contain Cyrus’ rage.

Why the Hel was she here?

Ragna Griffin rattled against his bars with an extendable baton. A black leather police uniform snuck to her that – as much as he hated to admit it – fit her petite appearance while her commissar cap matched her twin tails.

Cyrus chuckled. “Ragna Griffin – you wretched witch. Have you come here to die at my hands? Well, well, well. Perhaps that is the tower’s wish? I’ll happily oblige and get rid of you.”

“Oh, how cute.” Ragna squinted her eyes and smirked, her tone dropping to a baby voice. “He weavy finws he’s in contwoll.”

Cyrus flashed his teeth. “I’ll let that be your last words.”

And now, Ragna chuckled. “You’re so blind. What happened to your dreams? To your world of freedom?”

“There won’t be any freedom as long you’re alive.” Continuing to play his violin, Cyrus barked at her. “You’ll die. You’ll die. You’ll die. Even if I have to destroy the world.”

“Even if helping Skyfrost would prevent the world war?” Ragna placed her free hands on her cheek. Outside his cell, she looked down on him. She blushed, and her eyes sparkled with every syllable that left her blue lips. Meanwhile, drums and trumpets started to play to her words. “Wouldn’t you wish for a world war had ravaged, Clockyboy?”

“You really know nothing about me.” Cyrus snarled. “You think a war will make us equal? In the ashes that remain, the strong will thrive, and the weak slave away. There’s no freedom, no truth, just the rule of the strong. The pigs on the top will secure their towers of gold and watch the rest fall in the mud. The roots must collapse, and the tree fall for my brothers and sisters to grasp at true freedom.”

The cells disappeared, and Ragna walked inside.

“A bold move to let me free,” Cyrus said.

Ragna shook her head. “I don’t need bars to keep you here.” She sat next to Cyrus and, together with Skyfrost, pressed the palm of her hand against his groin. The two women giggled, looking at him with nothing but pity in their eyes. “For me, you’ll let the tower grow. And throw away your world. There’s nothing to prove. Your ideals couldn’t withhold the test.”

Cyrus winced, yet the violin continued to play. If this witch thought she could charm him, she would see how mistaken she was.

“Sinner, sinner, sinner.” Skyfrost twisted her hand around him, her nails digging through the fabric of his pants. “Why don’t you be a good boy and start to confess? I can see it building up in you. If you don’t release, then that’s no good.”

And at that moment, Cyrus snapped. He couldn’t listen to them anymore, couldn’t endure their mockery any longer. These witches tried to control his life even after everything they had done. But he wouldn’t let them.

“There’s nothing to confess,” Cyrus shouted. “Ragna Griffin, you took everything from me. No matter how far, no matter how much, I’ll hunt you down. I’ll throw everything away if I must.”

“What’s going to be then, eh?” Ragna giggled. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on Skyfrost’s lips. “I took everything from you? Or are you going to throw everything away? You can’t have it both. Am I not a manifestation of your delusion? Convenient excuses to keep you going. For all your rhetoric, you’re no better than these fools.” She glanced at the prisoners. Long had they stopped their work. Instead, they had dropped on their knees as their backs bent at a ninety-degree angle. Still trying to stop the music from reaching their brains, their faces had twisted in pain. “You’re dancing on the palm of my hand, and shall I tell you a secret?” Ragna leaned to his ear. “You’ll never get rid of me. Cause then there’s nothing left. I’m living rent-free in your pretty little head.”

“You think I care about that?” Cyrus pushed Ragna and Skyfrost to the ground. “Yes. I’ll throw everything away. The fire inside me burns, Ragna Griffin. And I’ll let it ablaze.” He rose from his bed, casting down a look of disgust on Ragna and Skyfrost. They played around on the ground, kissing and caressing the other’s skin as they giggled without care like a newly-wed couple. “Cast me to depths of the Hel. Strip me of my existence, let me suffer an eternity of emptiness. If that’s the price for your demise, I’ll pay.”

He changed the tune on his violin, granting the tritone release. The prisoners jerked up. Their bodies straightened in a mechanical motion, and they rose from their positions as they formed a circle around Cyrus.

An organ thundered through the prison, and fire sprung up from the ground, adding the final sounds to Cyrus’ orchestra.

To Cyrus’ music, they moved their arms. Free from their torment and tasks, the prisoners followed his tune to a choreography that hadn’t existed seconds before. And the fire spread.

“Blood, blood, blood. The flames of vengeance thirst for blood.” Cyrus’ song jumped from the circle’s center, and the prisoners started to dance. “So feed them till their fill. With blood, let them grow. My fire’s eternal lament. Your blood, your blood. Until they feed the fire, they cannot linger. There’s no fault in me. The flames seek the air. My soul wishes your death. I’ll not hold them back.”

The prisoners broke up the circles. Seeking partners, they teamed up and danced around Cyrus in pairs. The fire’s passion, their feet mimicked. As the flames singed their skins, they continued to follow the music. Reminiscence and the release from pain: the dance entailed it all.

“The world, my freedom, my dreams, my soul, the cities and the good and the bad. All shall my fire consume if it brings forth Ragna Griffin’s end. Erase me from this world if you must. Wicked gods, if you want my suffering, then take me. I’ll accept the hypocrisy. I’ll throw it all away. Turn me into your puppet if you must. Erase Ragna Griffin so that she’ll never blemish this world again. I don’t care anymore. As I stand before you, I ask what makes a machine, and what makes a man?”

The prison was burning. Smoke and flames had consumed the interior, casting a painting of grey and orange that turned to a dark red. Smog infiltrated their lungs, smudge falling on their skin, heat burning the ground on which their bare feet danced.

But no one tried to escape, and no one let the elements get any acknowledgment from them. The dancers continued even as the fire ate through their bodies. Cyrus as well didn’t stop. As his flames trapped him, he would play his violin. From the beginning to the end of his orchestra, not once did Cyrus put his instrument to rest.

And with this, Cyrus Clockwork had cleared the fourth level.

֎

“This is fucking ridiculous.” Geißel sighed and looked around. Mirrors had risen from the earth like crystal pillars. They filled the environment that one couldn’t see anything but reflections, erasing even the sky and the ground. “You’re already at the eighth level, and how much time has passed?”

A longsword appeared in the air. Without averting his eyes from Skyfrost’s group in front of him, Geißel grabbed the weapon’s hilt and pointed it at them.

“But this ends now. Even the four of you together can’t win against my “Sword of Mars”.”

Rory shrugged. “Who knows?” His lips widened to a grin. “But we don’t need to. Lacie Servelf, if you would be so kind.”

The little girl bowed, and the glass under Geißel’s became like air. He fell through the mirror and looked at another endless repetition of reflections. Nothing was there but mirrors.

“This is a world of her creation.” Skyfrost’s voice echoed through the room. “Just so, you know, you can’t get out unless Lacie wants it. So, I would say the terms are clear. Give up or starve to death.”

The mirrors vanished; all light was gone.