Sparks flew from the chest of the fallen Edgar Allan Poe with a terrible grinding sigh. His servos were in agony.

“He’s a robot?” cried Wells, incredulous.

“He’s a robot?” cried Tesla, even more incredulous.

“I’m a robot?! Oh wait, I knew that,” cried Poe, and died.

“It’s a long story,” whispered Mark Twain as he scampered over to the inventor. “I’ll tell you later. First, let’s take care of King Sci-Fi, right?”

“Right. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“A plan? That was fast.”

“I am a legendary scientist, you know. Just do as I do.” Tesla addressed the approaching villain. “Your jig is up, Wells! You thought you had won, but the Morlocks are coming to put a stop to your tyrrany.”

Wells laughed. “Morlocks? There’s no such thing. I made them up; they’re purely fictional.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Twain shouted back. “When we get out of this mess, we’ll find some Morlocks, go back in time to yesterday, and set them up here to save us precisely… now.”

Wells screamed as the creatures pounced.