The pipes on the large machine hissed gently as green and purple smoke began to fill the large glass chamber. Large blue sparks leapt from every shining chrome surface, earthing themselves around the apparatus with a series of loud pops.

On the platform above, a slow and crooked smile spread across Dr. Wolfgang Reinhardt’s distorted face. His eyes, mostly obscured behind his enormous smoked-glass goggles, nevertheless glowed with a deep-seated fire.

Try to stop him, would they? No matter how many times they sent the village priest up to the castle, denouncing his “abominations against God”, they couldn’t stop him now. Even if they all came up, brandishing pitchforks and flaming torches…

He was interrupted in his thoughts by his hunchbacked servant, Lorencz. “S-sir…there are peasants at the gates…”

“Are they brandishing pitchforks and torches?”

“Y-yes, sir. And scythes.”

Reinhardt merely strode over to the wall, and placed his hand on the large, cast-iron switch.

“Lorencz…it is time.”