Nathaniel's transition from unconsciousness back into the waking world was sudden and total, propelling him instantly from a comforting place of nothingness into a reality dominated by pain and thirst. He opened his eyes to discover that he was in a dimly lit stone chamber. Nathaniel could remember nothing about how he got there, or even the events had led him into such a sorry state.

The only thing he could know for sure was that there was a throbbing in his head, the pain rising and falling in time to a loud ticking from somewhere in the darkness. The sound reminded him of the old grandfather clock that had stood in the hall of the Darby mansion before it had burned to the ground.

His first instinct was to work to recall at exactly what point during the evening he had—once again—given up his convictions against inebriation, and had actively begun to drink with the purpose of getting drunk. But after a few moments, it was clear that this wasn't just a simple hangover. His head wasn't aching, it had been hurt. And despite his ability to consume epic quantities of drink, he had perfected an ability to end up in his own bed—and whatever hard palette he was lying on now, it surely wasn't his. In fact, the thin, straw-stuffed mattress barely seemed to qualify as a bed at all.

He reached out to touch the wall next to him, and confirmed that it was cold, rough-hewn stone. Was he in prison? What had he done?

The memories crashed into one another as they washed over him: Hughes had become some kind of monstrous blend of human and machine, and Alexander Stanton was dead—murdered by Lord Eschaton's hand.

Nathaniel sat up, pain making him force out a groan. Bringing his fingers to his head, he felt the dried blood clinging to his hair and scalp. The skin underneath was hot and raw, and if he survived, there would probably be another scar to join the one he had received during his battle with the Automaton.

“Guten Tag,” said a voice from the darkness. Its words were cold and emotionless. Focusing into the gloom, Nathaniel could see the round shape of Grüsser enveloping a small chair across the tiny stone room. The Prussian sat up ramrod straight, his shoulders almost perfectly perpendicular to the lines of the iron bars that separated the two men.

“Grüsser, where am I?” After a moment of silence he added, “And what the hell is going on here?”

“Nichts,” he said, and turned his head to look at the wall.

“What are you doing? Don't you know what's going on?”

“Ja. Eschaton ist here.”

“You need to help me!”

There was no reply. The round man simply sat in his seat, unmoving, and took in a few long, noisy breaths.

The last time Nathaniel had seen the Submersible, he had been fleeing from the carnage in the meeting hall. “What are you doing, man? You're a Paragon.”

Grüsser gave a short, quick nod in the direction of the wall and stood up. “Ich do vas Ich must.” He spoke in a choked whisper so unemotional that he seemed to be talking to the air as much as he was communicating with Nathaniel.

The Prussian stood up awkwardly, then pulled on a ring attached to the square iron door. The hinges squealed as it swung open. Through the open doorway, Nathaniel saw light from the corridor beyond and realized that he was inside one of the Hall's prison cells. “Grüsser, you're a Paragon for God's sake.”

Although the jail had rarely been used over the years, everyone had agreed that they might need to detain villains for interrogation from time to time, and ordinary cells might not be able to contain a superpowered foe. Stripped of his wings and other gadgets, Nathaniel was powerless in every way that mattered. They probably didn't consider him worth the trouble of electrifying the bars, although he wasn't eager to find out.

Feeling a growing thirst, he leaned over the edge of his seat and looked to see if there was any water nearby. A wave of vertigo and nausea rose up through him, and Nathaniel sat back against the wall to wait until the feeling passed. He wondered just how much damage had been done to his head.

The metal door opened again. A tall figure ducked slightly before walking through. “You,” Nathaniel mumbled. The man was no longer dressed in his King Jupiter outfit, but instead wore a simple white shirt with crisply creased pants. Even in the darkness he could see the tiny Omega signs stitched in gold brocade across the vest he wore. The silver buckles on his shoes were cast in the shape of the Greek symbol as well.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” he said, coming up to the bars. “We've never been properly introduced. I'm Lord Eschaton.” He stuck a gray hand through the bars.

Unable to stand up, and trying not to reveal his weakness, Nathaniel let out a tiny, little snort, “And you're the lord of what, exactly?”

The gray man smacked his hand against the wall, letting out a small spark. “Lord of the Paragons, at least.”

“You didn't earn that title, you stole it. You're just a cheap thug and a murderer.”

Now it was Eschaton's turn to let out a derisive laugh. “You're a naïve child, Nathaniel Winthorp. Do you think that all the fine and gentle members of your precious society gained wealth and power simply by asking for it? There is, I'm afraid, no title ever earned without at least a little bloodshed. And I'm sure you more than most men are well aware of the kind of cruel games that must be played in order to maintain that power once it has been gained.”

Between the rage that boiled inside him and the pain washing through his head, Nathaniel couldn't find any words worth speaking in reply. Instead, he lowered his eyes, and saw the stain on his shirt where Alexander Stanton's life had leaked onto him. “You didn't have to kill the Industrialist.”

“Clements did that.” Eschaton replied. “But he needed to die. The Industrialist was many things, but in the end it is safe to say that his greatest power, beyond any of the ridiculous devices that he wore, was that he had the courage of his convictions—as antiquated and wrong-headed as so many of them were. And when a man like that is diametrically opposed to your vision,” the gray man continued, “there is, I'm afraid, only one sure way to stop him.”

Nathaniel shifted himself upwards. “Why am I still alive?”

Eschaton pointed to the wooden chair that Grüsser had been perched on a few minutes before. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”

“As you like.” His words came out slightly slurred. If he was destined to have all the suffering of imbibing with none of the pleasures, then they could at least let him have a drink of something—even if only a simple glass of water. Although now that he was awake, the desire for a shot of whisky was growing quickly.

The wood creaked loudly as it settled under Eschaton's weight. It screeched softly as he shuffled it towards the bars. When he got close enough, the gray man stopped and leaned forward. “Now, ask me your question again.”

He could barely remember it himself, for a moment. “I…I wanted to know why you didn't kill me.”

“Two reasons,” he said, holding up his thumb and index finger to illustrate his point. “First and foremost, I'm afraid that, as far as convictions go, the only genuine one that I can see in you is the desire to find your next drink. Men bound by addiction are, I've found, far more likely to work with me than against me.”

“Like Grüsser?”

Eschaton grinned at that. “You're looking poorly to me, Mr. Winthorp. Are you sure there isn't anything that I can get for you? I'd hate to have you expire before we finish our conversation.”

Nathaniel's instinct was to tell the man to go to hell, but the truth was that at this moment his thirst was greater than his pride. “Water,” he said.

Eschaton turned his head to the side and yelled out the open door, “Grüsser!”

The Prussian appeared a moment later. He had clearly been waiting for his master's call just outside in the hallway. In the light from the open door, Nathaniel could see that his eyes were wide and staring. He hoped that seeing the death of the Industrialist was still haunting him. “Ja, Lord Eschaton. Was ist du vant?”

“Nothing for me, but your fellow Paragon would like some water.” He glanced at Nathaniel and then looked back at the Prussian. “Find him a pitcher, and a bowl and cloth as well. I'm sure he'd like to clean himself up a bit.”

The fat man nodded as Eschaton spoke. “Ist der anything else, Lord?”

“That's all for now, but you'd better hurry, I think. Things are beginning to look tight for you. I'm sure you want me to remedy that.”

Grüsser raced out of the door at a trot, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Just as the sound began to diminish, Eschaton turned and yelled out the man's name again. “Grüsser! Get back here.” The sound stopped, and then grew louder.

When he appeared at the door, the Prussian was breathless and red-faced. Whatever talent the man had brought to the Paragons, great fitness was not among them. “Ja, Lord?”

“Can you also find a bottle of whisky and a proper glass for the gentleman?”

“Ja.” He stood leaning awkwardly against the doorway for a moment, gasping for breath. He seemed to be waiting to see what else Eschaton might have to say to him.

“Go!” the gray man boomed, and Grüsser vanished like a chastened cat, his footsteps going even faster than before.

Nathaniel frowned. He had no great respect for the Submersible, but it was clear that Eschaton's intention was to humiliate him, and he was still a fellow Paragon. “Is that necessary?”

“Yes,” the gray man said to him with a nod. “He's hidden behind a mask for so long that he can no longer tell if he's pretending anymore. But we'll fix it in time.” He nodded and smiled. “You need to appreciate that there is nothing that I do to the men who serve me that they have not already done to themselves. I just bring it into the open and put it to work for my purposes.”

Nathaniel considered this for a moment. “Are you trying to tell me that every man ultimately wishes for his own subjugation?” Having spent most of his life with his nose half-buried in books by the old masters, he had to admit that there was a certain degree of simple charm to the philosophies that Eschaton espoused.

The gray man nodded in response. “I'll admit that it's not the natural human condition. It's simply the outcome that we have brought upon ourselves from the endless arrogance that comes with assuming that we are the children of the divine.”

“So you don't believe in God?”

Eschaton leaned back and laughed softly. “Are you shocked that I might question whether there is an intelligent creator who watches our lives from his throne in the clouds?” He shook his head. “The only being I've ever met who was assured of the love of his creator, was the one who never realized that I helped create him.” Eschaton lifted up his arms and balled his hands into fists, “until I tore him to pieces.”

Nathaniel took a moment to realize what he was being told. “You helped create the Automaton?”

“I was the midwife…” He let out a thundering laugh. “You're lucky you don't believe the Automaton was ever truly alive, Mr. Winthorp, or you'd be facing an ethical dilemma of world-shattering proportions.”

Nathaniel knitted his brows together. The man was talking enigmatic nonsense, but…“What do you mean by that?”

“By your own definition, I'd be a god!” He leaned back in the chair, and the wood let out another brutal screech under the strain. “Did Darby ever tell you about his unfortunate assistant?”

“I don't think…”

“Does the name Harrington ring a bell in your mind?”

“No.”

“There is something so wonderful about being as young as you are, Mr. Winthorp. You can simply pretend that the world was always the way it is now, and that the true cost in human blood it took to make it that way is simply a fairy tale that the older generation tells the younger to keep them in line.” Eschaton's voice dropped to a whisper, and for an instant Nathaniel could almost glimpse the man he had once been. “But the cost of progress is very real.”

Grüsser wobbled back into the room. He held a silver tray in his hands with two crystal tumblers, a pitcher of water, a towel, a bottle of whisky, a shot glass. If anything, he looked even more red-faced and terrified than he had before.

“Grüsser,” Nathaniel said, “what's the matter with you?”

The Prussian let out a choking cough.

“It's all right,” Eschaton said. “Why don't you show him? I'll take the tray.”

Grüsser handed over the drinks, and then slowly unbuttoned his jacket. As he removed it, it became obvious that there was a mechanical device of some sort hidden underneath of his shirt.

He lifted up the blouse to reveal a metal contraption that held a series of metal bands strapped around his body. It was a gorgeously manufactured piece of clockwork, but it seemed to be digging cruelly into the folds of his flesh. The highest of the rings was strapped low and tight around his neck, and seemed dangerously close to cutting into him.

It was obvious now that the ticking that Nathaniel had noticed when he first woke up had been coming from the device strapped to the Prussian, and it was going faster now.

Eschaton stood and placed the tray onto the flat of the chair. The tumblers shook violently, and the pitcher spilled some of its cargo over the side. Some it was taken by the towel, while the rest slipped off the tray, down the chair, and into a small puddle on the floor. Nathaniel wasn't thirsty enough to cry out yet, but he was thirsty enough to notice.

“I call this device my Chronal Suit,” Eschaton said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a large key. “The name is a bit indulgent, I admit, since it only changes the awareness of time and does nothing to time itself.” The bow end was large and square, and it looked like a larger version of one that might be used to wind up a child's toy. “Turn around, Grüsser.”

The Prussian spun in place, exposing a tin box on the back of the device. Eschaton stuck the key into it, then began to slowly turn it. The Chronal Suit emitted an almost comically loud grinding sound as Eschaton wound it. “And truthfully, the only person who fully feels the effect is the wearer. But I think Grüsser is most excellent at communicating his awareness, don't you?”

With each spin, the bands around his neck and chest noticeably relaxed, and Grüsser sputtered and coughed. “He ist ein madman, Nathaniel!” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.

Eschaton turned the key around and around until the mechanism was fully wound. The bands were slack now, but the ticking was louder.

Eschaton pulled the key free as Grüsser massaged his neck. “Please, Lord Eschaton, I don't want to die this way.”

“Sadly, Helmut, I don't think we've quite reached the point where I can consider you one of my children…yet.” He clapped him on the shoulder, and Grüsser noticeably flinched. “How long that will take is up to you.” Whether the twitch was born out of fear, or a shock from Eschaton's electrified body, it was impossible to say.

“We found poor Grüsser in the basement yesterday. He had been trying to make his way into the secret passage that Darby built for him to use his submersible. But unfortunately, all the doors had sealed shut during the birth of the Paragon.”

Eschaton waved his hand at the door. “All right, Grüsser. You should make it through the night. I'll see you in the morning.”

The Prussian took a nervous bow. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“And thank you for bringing us the drinks,” the gray man replied. “I'm sure Nathaniel will appreciate them.”

Grüsser nodded, and then slunk away, moving with slightly less urgency, but more grace, than he had before.

“Now then,” Eschaton said, picking up one of the glasses from the chair. “Where were we?”

Nathaniel frowned. “Is that what you have in store for me?”

“No. There's only one Chronal Suit, and it's Grüsser's. To be honest, my first instinct was to simply let you sit down here to rot, stewing in your own sickness and pain while I destroyed the old world around you. I'm sure that once your mind had softened sufficiently it would have been far more amenable to my way of thinking.” Eschaton filled a glass with water and held it up in front of the bars. It was close enough for Nathaniel to reach, but he'd have to reach through the bars to get it, and if they were electrified…

Nathaniel resisted the urge to try, despite his desperation. He wouldn't let the man torture him so easily. “You truly think I would become that much of an idiot?”

“I think that, given enough time in that cell, you'll begin to recognize that pride and righteousness are not the mighty sword and shield that Stanton taught you they were.” Eschaton wagged the glass back and forth, spilling some of the water onto the floor. “And maybe you'd begin to appreciate how easy it is to exploit the weak and unfortunate.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don't you want to exploit people? Didn't you exploit Hughes and Grüsser?”

“Neither man was, as far as I know, either weak or unfortunate when I met them. Neither were you, for that matter. And as I told you before, I did nothing to them that they didn't truly want.”

“So you say,” he mumbled. “And what does Lord Eschaton want?”

The gray man replied without hesitation. “I want to remake the world and save humanity. To pull it back from the brink of its own folly and save the human race from its inevitable extinction.”

“And what kind of man is it that believes he can do that?”

“We already know that you would say he is a god. And,” he said with a moment of dramatic pause, “I am a compassionate one.” Eschaton slid the water through the bars.

Nathaniel, no longer able to control himself now that it was safely in reach, grabbed the glass from his hand and began to swallow it down desperately, the excess trickling down his face.

“Now, while you're enjoying that, perhaps you'll give me a moment to finish telling you the story of Mr. Harrington. Then I'll give you some whisky.” He handed Nathaniel the damp towel, moved the tray and its contents to the floor, and sat. “I know it's difficult to imagine that older men were ever as young as you are now, especially in our age of progress and enlightenment. And old men can seem sad, because even after their crimes are conveniently forgiven by history, they must still live with their sins. But I still think you may be interested in hearing this story.”

Nathaniel, his initial thirst at least somewhat satisfied, sat up, placed the empty glass down on the floor by the bars, and then took the miniscule journey back to his seat, dabbing at his damaged head with the cloth.

Eschaton waited patiently until he was seated before continuing. “I was originally hired as an engineer by Alexander Stanton. Does that surprise you?”

Nathaniel said nothing. It sounded doubtful, but if he was going to be a captive audience for a madman, he might as well avoid agitating him.

After a moment of silence, Eschaton continued, “I was straight out of the university—a man of simple means, but not without the training necessary to allow me to enter into your step-father's employment.”

“What did you do for him?”

“I made toys,” he said with a scowl. “Stanton became the Industrialist well before he ever met Darby, and he needed trinkets to prove his power. Or did you think that he made his own hat and gun?”

“I hadn't thought…”

Eschaton cut him off. “And when Darby finally appeared, Stanton handed me over to the old man like one man might lend another a pair of shears.” He adopted Stanton's upper-crust cadence by way of mockery. “'They're slightly rusty, old fellow, but I'm sure with a little clean and a sharpen, they'll get the job done.'”

“And Darby?”

“He believed he was the only genius in the world…” There was a note of sarcasm in Eschaton's voice that Nathaniel hadn't heard before.

Perhaps taunting him might work better. “Why didn't you just quit?”

“And miss my chance to work side by side with the ‘greatest inventor of our age'?” He laughed. “As miraculous as Darby may have seemed to you and the Stanton girl, he was ten times more so to me. And for a while it was perfection. I helped him with everything from the perfection of fortified steam to the creation of the Automaton himself.”

“But then I slowly discovered that genius is selfish. For someone to be considered a true visionary, it takes not only his own hard work, but also that of everyone around him. And only one man gets all the credit. If I was going to make a name for myself, I needed to create something all on my own.”

While he understood the impulse, unlike Alexander and Sarah, Nathaniel had always been content to enjoy the fruits of Darby's intelligence. His frustrations had come more from Sir Dennis's constant tendency to try to educate everyone about everything.

“I don't mean to be impertinent or rude,” Nathaniel replied—although if he hadn't been trapped behind the bars he would have been far more than that, “but what is the point of all this?”

Eschaton frowned. “I know that listening to others isn't the kind of thing you care for, Nathaniel, but if you'll indulge me a little bit longer, I think my intent will become clear.”

Nathaniel pointed to the silver platter. “Then, may I have some more water if you're not going to drink it?”

“Patience is a virtue. Once I've finished, I'll give you all the water you want.”

Eschaton clearly wanted his every move to seem manipulative and enigmatic, but as far as Nathaniel could tell, it was all the same nonsense. “I have nothing else to do.”

“Good.” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward again. “I assume that as a protégé of Dennis Darby, you're familiar with fortified steam?”

“It's what powers my suit.”

“It is the secret that gives power to all the miraculous devices Darby created for the Paragons. It also was the animating force behind the Automaton.”

“I know that.”

“You seem to know a great deal, and yet your ability to remain staunchly ignorant in the face of a constantly changing world is outstanding. But,” Eschaton continued, “as miraculous as fortified steam is, it is directly effective only when driving inanimate machines. When exposed to living flesh, there is no reaction.”

“Darby had said that it was…” He paused while he searched for the word. “Inert! And that is, I think, usually considered to be a good thing…”

“Good only if you think that the goal of humanity, now that we have struggled to a point only slightly above that of the common ape, should be to remain forever unchanging. A good thing only if the only goal of invention is to ease the burden of our brief journey from cradle to grave, but never transform it. Do you think that this sad condition is where we should stay, Nathaniel?”

He shook his head. “You sound like Darby. Always going on about the future, and the possibilities that tomorrow will bring. Why not be content with the present?”

“Because the present never lasts,” he said angrily. “And I wanted to discover if fortified steam couldn't be something more than a fuel for mechanical destruction. I wanted to see if there was a way you could access its power directly. But until Darby had created the Automaton, I wasn't sure it was possible. After all, if fortified steam could allow a machine to mimic a man, then shouldn't it be possible to create something that imbued a man with the attributes of a machine? Why not create a stronger, more efficient humanity? And that was when I came upon the idea of fortified smoke.”

Nathaniel found himself intrigued in spite of himself. “Fortified smoke? What are you talking about?”

“My dream—a caustic gas based entirely on what Darby considered to be the undesirable qualities of his beloved gas. It would be less stable, but capable of interacting with organic matter, and with flesh.

“And such a material already existed! It was a by-product of Darby's early processes, but when I asked him about it, he called it a perversion of what he had created. He forbade me to investigate any further.” Eschaton let out a thundering laugh. “Can you imagine?”

But Nathaniel could envision it. It would have been exactly what he would have expected Darby to say.

“But it also meant that he knew the truth, he was simply afraid to the take the next, obvious step.”

Nathaniel had heard these kinds of rants before. Many villains considered themselves to be misunderstood “men of genius.” But unlike all of the previous madmen he had encountered, Lord Eschaton actually had worked with Darby, and he had already managed to defeat the Paragons. This was more than mere bravado. “But you weren't afraid.”

“Not at all—and in that, Nathaniel, we're not so different after all. We both have, from time to time, ignored our elders in pursuit of the vision of our desires.”

“Mine only left behind empty bottles, not dead men.”

He replied with a smile. “I never said that we were equals.” He held up his arm and let electricity crackle over it. “But you could still become so much more.”

Nathaniel didn't like the threatening tone in Eschaton's voice. “Are we done? Can I have my water now?”

“Almost—just a little patience.” The gray man planted both feet on the floor and reached down to grab the small glass on the ground. He flipped it over and put it on top of the whisky bottle. “Here you are,” he said, slipping the liquor through the bars. “This should entertain you.”

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said glumly. He would have rather had the water, but he reached out for it anyway.

Eschaton's other arm grabbed him and pulled Nathaniel up against the bars. He was surprised, but not shocked. The gray man smiled at him, and let him go. “I can be benevolent.”

Nathaniel didn't say a word. He just poured himself a small glass. If nothing else, it would dull the pain of this lunacy.

“At that time I was still confused in my morals,” Eschaton continued. “I decided that if anyone was going to be the victim of my experiments, besides some small stray animals of course, it would be myself. So, I set about to create fortified smoke and apply it to living flesh.

“I did my work in secret, utilizing whatever parts of Darby's lab I could gain access to. But the one piece I couldn't create was Darby's Alpha Element: the unique metal that energized the steam and gave it its unique properties. And Darby kept the only sample around his neck.”

Darby remembered the key that the Bomb Lance had taken. “That's what you stole from him!”

“Not quite. The Alpha Element is useless for creating fortified smoke. But he had created an earlier sample, one that created a steam that was ‘impure' and highly poisonous. He claimed to the world that it did nothing, but I knew he was lying. I had seen the results. I had christened it the Omega Element, and I stole it from his vault.

“Once I had taken the Omega Element, I tried dozens of combinations to get what I wanted. And it was when I added coal smoke to the water vapor that my fortified smoke was born. Unfortunately, it also had a devastating effect on organic matter. My intention had been to hybridize a new form that would bring the powers of the smoke and steam together, and so I pressed on. When I discovered a nonlethal blend, I exposed myself to what I had planned to be a small amount of gas.

“But we all make mistakes,” he said with a sigh. “And the smoke ate right through the tubing I had built to contain it, and the gas slowly filled the room. By all rights I should have been dead, and for a short time perhaps I was.

“Darby found me hours later and took me to safety. When I awoke, I found that instead of killing me, it had transformed me.”

Eschaton leaned back, showing off the results. “It stripped the fat from my body and bonded with my muscle tissue in a way I don't yet fully understand. At first it left me crippled and weak.

“After he realized what I'd done, Darby was furious and terrified. He told me that I was lucky to be alive, but that he could no longer trust me. Once I proved myself capable of walking, he threw me out into the street. I tried to turn to Stanton for help, but he would have nothing to do with me.

“But I had seen the future, and once I managed to regain some health, I refashioned myself as a villain. Calling myself the Clockwork Man, I used my intelligent bombs to rob banks and fund the laboratory I would need to recreate my experiments. But the Paragons soon managed to catch up with me, and even my exploding men were no match for them.

“After that, I simply built devices for other villains. It kept the Paragons busy and away from me while I studied my own condition and gathered my resources.”

Nathaniel took his next draught of whisky directly from the bottle, not bothering to pour it into the glass this time. “You said you were crippled in the accident.”

“Even without the Alpha and Omega Elements, I was slowly able to improve my body using a regimen of pure smoke and steam. And during those years I was able to uncover more about what had happened to me. But I wasn't able to recreate Darby's metals, and I needed them not only to complete my own metamorphosis, but to continue those experiments.

“It wasn't until I had the Omega Element back in my grasp that I was able to complete my evolution and become the man you see in front of you.”

Nathaniel nodded with comprehension. “So that key you stole was…”

“The Omega Element, yes.” He stood up and leaned down to open a gate at the bottom of the cell door. “But even with it, I have reached the end of my transformation. I was birthed by an accident, and that has limited my possibilities. But I am sure that with the proper application of scientific rigor, even greater discoveries are possible.”

When he stood up, there was a dangerous grin on the gray man's face. “And that next step, Nathaniel, is one that you and I are going to take together.” He slid the tray through the iron bars, then slammed the gate shut.

Nathaniel dragged himself up off the bench. The alcohol was beginning to do its work, and he was feeling incredibly tired. “I'm not sure what you think I can do for you. I won't assist a homicidal madman.”

“I think that you'll find that genocidal is the correct word.”

Nathaniel reached down and took the water first. “Fine—whatever you want. I'm your prisoner now.”

“I never expected you to assist me willingly. But now that I have all the pieces that I need to resume my experiments, the next step is finding a suitable test subject, willing or otherwise.”

Nathaniel stood, his eyes widening as the weight of the words sank in. “No…”

“No? No?” Eschaton said mockingly. “And why not? You're young and strong—and since the irony of using Alexander Stanton or his lovely daughter is denied to me, I'm afraid that you're absolutely the next best thing.”

Cold terror struck Nathaniel, not just from the realization of his fate, but from the knowledge that there was no one left to save him. “You can't do this to me, Eschaton!” And yet, even with the waves of shock, he kept feeling weaker and weaker. What was wrong with him?

“Can't? Stupid boy, I must. This has been my plan all along. If I'm going to end the world and save humanity, I'll need to fill the new world with better beings. And while my own transformation has been spectacularly successful, it was also an accident—one that, I have discovered, is not easy to repeat.”

Eschaton's voice rose in volume until it was just below a shout. “I am just a crude version of what could truly be humanity's next great state of being. And although not everyone will survive what is to come, the small portion that does will be part of a better world. It will be a place where humanity will become stronger, more powerful, and be freed from the petty concerns of human frailty. And if you survive, Nathaniel, you will be the first true child of Eschaton.”

Nathaniel wanted to tell the villain that he'd rather die, but instead he found himself sliding down the wall. It seemed that despite his anger, the weight of his injuries was too great. Perhaps he would die after all. Maybe that would be a blessing…

It was only as he slumped over onto the bench and fell back toward unconsciousness that it dawned on Nathaniel that the whisky had been drugged.