Карл Рупрехт Кронен

It is comfortably dark in the night of my room. No light shows itself, and none will. The only sound is the slight tick of my clockwork heart. I don’t know whether it was a good idea putting it in. I used to think it was more efficient; it doesn’t get tired the way human hearts do, but sometimes it winds down, and I have to stop what I’m doing to wind it up again. It doesn’t take long, but seconds count. Even if I wanted an organic heart back, I couldn’t have it. Metal can not be replaced with flesh, although you can do it the other way around.
There is a smell of death on the air and dried blood has pooled around my feet. If it was light it would look something like a slab of liver. It has soaked my gloves, and flakes of it stick to my jackboots. I glory in it, this dark, spilt blood. The man it came from lies dead on a table behind me, cold now. My experiment killed him. They always die in the end. It’s pitiful really.
I’m still wearing my mask, even though my vision is clouded by blood. I’ll take it off later, when Ilsa arrives. She said she wouldn’t come, but she will. She needs me, even though she won’t admit it.
There’s a knock at the door. It isn’t her. Her knock is harder, and angrier, as if my door had offended her in some way. It has; it belongs to me. I slip over to the door with my baton sword in my hand, ready to deal out death if it’s an enemy. But an enemy wouldn’t knock. Maybe I’ll kill them anyway.
It’s just some young SS soldier. He’s come to take the body away. He looks scared, but he shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t kill a loyal German. Well, I probably wouldn’t.
"In there,” I say, and gesture to the table. Then I melt back into the shadows. He picks up the corpse. It’s so thin he can lift it easily. He has a little trouble with the limbs, which are no longer attached, but he gathers them up and scurries from the room. I don’t know why he is so afraid.
I sit back down. Time passes and I am unaware of it. I sharpen and polish my blades, testing their edges with my thumb. It slices deep, and I enjoy the slight pain.
Another knock. It’s Ilsa this time. As I said, she needs me.