When enough people are willing to bind their minds and hearts together in a cause, there is little that can stop them.

Including a corrupt government.

The phones continued to ring until Ian had them removed altogether. Constant reports of fights, fires, vandalism, mobs rummaging through the streets, destroying property. The flat screen mounted to the wall continued to show updated clips and photographs of the chaos rolling through Clockworks like a shadow stretching out from a waning sunrise.

All the captains, chiefs, commanders and executives responsible for every military and civil fighting force was seated around the giant table.

“And how is the President doing?” asked a uniformed gnome.

“He has been sedated, General Bink,” Ian Twofold replied grimly, “from the sheer grief of his children be snatched by terrorists.”

“Can nothing be done?” asked another.

Ian removed his mirrored glasses and placed them gently on the table. He took a moment and rubbed his eyes with white gloved fingers. “All that can be done is being done gentlegnomes. I was placed under the strictest orders to attend to the troubles erupting in this city—to quell these rebellions and to execute the core cause.”

“You mean the troll,” asked a silver-haired gnome.

“I do.”

“That might not be the wisest course of action,” spoke up another. “There has been no documented proof of violence from this Dax…and he was, after all, one of the favorites from the games. Do you truly think the best course is to execute the poor fellow?”

Ian slapped his hand down onto the table so hard, the crack resonated throughout the room and caused several gnomes to flinch back into their chairs. “Not wise? Poor fellow?!” clear eyes glared behind the albinos focused scowl. Several attendees averted the intense gaze. “What am I hearing? Are we not responsible for the welfare and protection of our people? Are we not the leaders of this fair city? If it is not we, who can rise to the challenge and do what is right when all other recourses have failed, who can be turned to? I ask you all, WHO?”

Spinning around in his chair, Ian lifted the remote and clicked.

“Even the media stations have been affected by this unforeseen disruption to our way of life! What do you think will happen next? And all because we allowed strangers into our lands.”

General Bink cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair. “The Gnolaum is not considered a stranger in my mind. He belongs to all races of this world.” Several head nodded at the notion. “It doesn’t matter if he’s a human.”

“But we don’t actually know that Mr. Dipmier is the Gnolaum,” Ian barked.

“Then you admit to being wrong during your press conference?” The executive smiled wryly,  “From what I remember, Ian, it was this administration that welcomed the Gnolaum and proclaimed his authenticity to the city.” Leaning back in his chair, “That puts you in a tight spot.”

All the gnomes around the table nodded in agreement.

“That was not my decision,” Ian said cooly. “I was following orders, nothing more. Now I have an opportunity to clear this mess up and save the administration from ruin by reestablishing order in this city.”

A loud knocking cut into the conversation, followed by the office doors swinging wide. A young female, dressed in a powder blue miniskirt and a black blouse and shoes, rushed in. Gripped tightly in her hands was a manilla folder. Nearly two inches think, she strode briskly around the table. Without a single acknowledgement of the other in the room, she leaned forward and whispered in the albinos ear.

Officers and executives looked curiously at one another.

“What?” Ian burst out loud. His face contorted in anger and a venomous look was thrown at the young female. “Give me that!” he sneered. Snatching the envelope from her hands, Ian slapped it down on the table and flipped it open. Photographs slid across the polished surface before the angry assistant could grab them. Dozens of pictures were piled high, along with typed reports.

“What are these?” asked General Bink.

Ian reached out to snatch them all back, but the military leader slid a single picture out of reach. Using his finger, he pulled the photograph in front of him. It was a panoramic shot of a grocery store—or what used to be one. Gnomes were flooding both in and out of the structure, carts filled with food, water and various supplies. Most were male, though some were accompanied by females. The scene showed mothers and their children off to the sides of the photograph, staying far from the activity. The windows of the store had been shattered, graffiti spray painted across the walls and the blurred image of a violent riot inside the location could be seen in the background. General Bink slid the picture to his right, so the other leaders might see for themselves.

“It looks like this mess is growing beyond your control, Ian.”

“Nonsense,” was his only reply, but it didn’t sound convincing.

“What else does those reports contain, Mr. Assistant to the President?” asked an executive,  studying the photograph closely. “Because this looks like a much bigger problem than you’re suggesting. One that would affect not only my stock holders—but the whole of my company.”

Ian forced a smile to his face as he replaced the mirrored sunglasses onto his face. “Just some minor skirmishes in the mid districts. Youth, feeling a bit rambunctious and overstepping their bounds. Nothing the Centurions can’t handle.”

The executive nodded to the stack of pictures. “That looks like a great deal of overstepping.”

Standing up abruptly, Ian grinned wide and motioned to the door. “I think this meeting was a tad premature. Why don’t we reconvene in a day or two, shall we? Thank you all for coming, the secret service will see you out.”

Curious and wary stares were tossed the albino’s way—yet Ian remained calm and stoic. His pearl white smile never wavered. When at last the elevator doors closed in front of the last leaving party, he collapsed back into his chair.

“What is going on with this city!?” he raged, “This was not supposed to happen like this!” Spittle foamed along his bottom lip. His head snapped around at the girl. “What else do you have on this?”

“N-nothing, sir. That’s all we’ve collected so far. There are fights occurring int he streets now. It’s everywhere. The normals are retreating to their homes, while the lifts to the lower districts are being closed off.”

“Closed off?”

“Yes, sir. The reports say that the lift operators have sided with the factory workers and muddles and have removed themselves—parking the lifts at lower levels and then turned them off. No one can travel below except by ramp or stairs.”

Ian’s anger subsided. “What about supplies? The stores in these pictures?”

“Without the lifts, sir, there are no supply chains. At least not from the factories below. Th greenhouses have been closed off, all manufacturing has ceased…and the delivery chains have joined them. Drivers won’t work until this can be resolved. More than a hundred truckers were assaulted, twelve placed in hospital. So they shut down.”

Ian slammed a fist on the table.

The girl gulped and shifted uncomfortably beside him. “The city is being closed off, sir.”

“What about the utilities? Water, sewer, electricity?”

“Still on…though there have been some demands from members of the Public Works.”

“Demands?” Ian frowned, “What demands?”

The girl once again, fidgeted in place. “They…uh, well…”

“Og spit it out, will you!” he snapped, “What do these criminals want?”

“They want…the resignation of this administration, sir.” She leaned over carefully and slid a few pieces of paper aside, searching for a report. “The Workers United are demanding the government faction be placed into the hands of the City Counsel until a new election is called.”

There was a momentary lull as Ian stared down at the official letter, which happened to be signed by Philburt Bellows himself. The lull was followed by extraordinary laughter.

“Are they serious?!” he cried, “Toss our control into the laps of that decrepit group of pencil pushers and social groupies?” he threw his head back and cackled.

The young lady took a step back.

Coming to his senses, “So all these years we’ve allowed Bellows the freedom to dip his toes into the various pools of our society…only to have him gather his dogs together for a fight?” Slapping his palms on the table, his fingers curled like claws, his nails scraping the surface. “So be it. I’ll give them a fight they will never forget! A fight this city will never forget!!”

“Ahem.”

“What now!?”

“They made a second demand as well, sir,” the girl peeped just above a whisper. She pointed to the letter.”

Snatching the paper up, Ian scanned it as he read aloud. “blah, blah…we demand that you surrender your office and blah, blah….ah, here it is. As we have determined in our own minds that the Gnolaum is in fact, the one of prophecy, we also declare, as a united people, that his specific associations could pose no threat or harm to this people. Thus, we demand that you release the evolu, known to the people as Dax, within the next cycle. Refusal to honor this request will bear with it, immediate and city-wide consequences. We do hope your wisdom exceeds your previous judgement in these matters as we have secured the core resources of this island and will, if required, use them for the good of the people. Respectfully, Mr. Philburt Bellows.”

White hands rent the paper violently into dozens of pieces.

“Get out,” he whispered aloud. “Now.”

Walking briskly across the carpeted floor, the young lady hurriedly closed the doors behind her.

All the plans, all the efforts he’d made over the years. Carefully, meticulously, working his way up the chain of command and into the good graces of the government faction, for what? To lose it all? To go back to pasting flyers on lamp posts for lowly city reps trying to make a name for themselves? He sneered, thin lips curling back. No. It was a mistake to have worked for others. He should have run for office himself. But then he would have been watched too closely. Someone, eventually, would have worked out what his true intentions were.

Now he was being called out. The President was sedated and out of the way for now. The officers of this administration would be forced to administer his word for the time being…but for how long? How long did he actually have before the wave of truth came out and all his plans were exposed?

“All because of this stupid human and his friends!”

He didn’t bother to wipe the drool from his bottom lip.

“Fine. If that’s how we have to play the game, then that’s how we will play it.” With a single fling of his arm, Ian exploded the papers into the air.

****

“This is NOT what I had in mind!” Philburt cried out. The smoke was still rising from several fires he knew were started by people advocating his message, but not following his example. The streets were packed with screaming gnomes—volunteers from the factories below. They walked, hand in hand, chanting and speaking to any ‘normal’ they met. Workers rushed from door to door, handing out flyers that explained what was happening in Clockworks and how the government was exerting unrighteous dominion over the people. It was an urge for those in wealthier circumstances to come out of their shells and support their fellow citizens in their right to earn something more.

But few would agree.

Philburt and Shamas looked out from the apartment rooftop. The city looked like a maze from up here. A maze that looked impossible to solve except from up here. A perspective and view that allowed for one to see the overall picture of what was in play. What barriers there were and what turns had to be made. It wasn’t easy. The normals were too engrained in their lives—the patterns of relying on the government for assistance, thinking it was the only way. The best way. What did it matter if other people suffered, so long as your own life maintained a steady flow of consistency and security?

But at what cost? Runners were turned away from door to door, house after house, apartment after apartment. The normals retreated into their homes, shut their blinds and ignorantly waited for the situation to pass. This was, after all, someone else’s problem.

That’s when the violence started.

Some of the younger volunteers had had enough. The snide remarks, the disgusted glares, being turned from place to place without a single consideration for others. The truth of Clockworks City—of how people treated one another, was quickly thrust into the light.

…and the light was an ugly one.

I knocked over trash can, a rock through a window…that’s how it started. Before the day was through, groups of youth, hundreds in number, had started painting over windows, along walls and other high-profile locations.

Normals Hate The Poor.

The Unwanted.

We Are Not Slaves.

Equality Or Nothing!

“You can’t control it all,” replied Shamas, “And even if you could, would you want to? Be like the government faction—seeking to control others?”

“No,” Philburt said soberly. He watched another window being broken by rocks, “I wouldn’t. I’d rather teach the people correct principles and let them govern themselves. Encourage them to do good.”

“Most of them are. Just look at them. Yes, there are some hot heads out there—but there is a lot of injustice these folks have been dealing with.” he shrugged, Being treated like dirt wears on you. I know from personal experience.”

“It doesn’t make what they’re doing, right.”

“No, it doesn’t. But you also warned them. You placed the plan in front of them and those who vary from what you have committed to do will have to suffer the neutral consequences of their actions.”

“They’ll be furious.”

“No,” Shamas corrected him, “They’ll be guilty of crimes. The anger is a choice…as are their actions right now. Your focus needs to be on guiding the masses in the correct efforts.”

“I just…” but he stopped. There was no point regretting his actions now. It was too late. The wheels were in motions and this was an all or nothing effort. Things had to change in Clockworks City…or else. “Has anyone from the administration replied yet to our demands, Mr. Tanklestein?”

The old factory manager sat at the small, round kitchen table. His kitchen table. On it were charts, papers and a sparkling laptop.

“No, Mr. Bellows. Not a word as of yet—but the day is not over yet.”

Nathan Taylor’s face looked up from the screen, his wheelchair hardly fitting in the tiny nook used for a dining room. “Are you serious about using the Public Works as leverage?”

Bellow looked over his shoulder, but said nothing.

“Right then,” Nat replied, “I guess that answers that.”

“It will put millions at risk,” Shamas said quietly so only Philburt could hear him. “The moment we stop the water…or the power. Think of the hospitals. Think of how many people will suffer—maybe even die.”

The business owner looked up at him sharply. His nose flared. “How many have already suffered for the negligence of these wealthy gnomes who care nothing for their fellow gnomes? We have never said that things need to be equal—only in opportunities. We are not asking for a penny…and we earn what we keep.”

“You don’t have ta sell me.”

“But I feel I do at times. I don’t want this plan to be confused with replacing one bad set of decisions with another.” Bellow’s expression softened, “This is about being aware and taking off the shackles, not robbing one people to give to another. That’s what this government has done!” Taking a deep breath, “Using the utilities will turn the focus of the masses onto this administration. If we cannot change their minds and encourage a resolution, then it will be forced upon them by their own followers…because they will be seeking for relief. But no more relief than these workers seek themselves.”

They stood in silence for several minutes, both staring out the windows. As the light waned over the great city known as Clockworks, the fires set by the anger of mobs grew brighter.

Shamas sighed loudly, “I wish Wendell were here. Maybe he could talk to the people and calm them down.”

Philburt Bellows leaned against the window frame. The light from the fires reflected in his dark eyes. “I’m afraid that this has gone far beyond what even the Gnolaum was expecting.”

****

“Goodness,” Höbin whispered aloud, “This is a bit more than I was expecting!” The streets were rampant with enraged and overenthusiastic citizens wanting to shout out every last personal squabble and injustice of their lives.  The historian had to hug the sidewalk several times, just to avoid being trampled by fleeing mobs. “Where did all these people come from?”

Youth jumped on top of parked vehicles, windows exploded in a nearby restaurant and a chair rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. Dozens of gnomes lined the walkways, arm in arm, shouting up at scared faces looking out from apartments and barricaded homes. It was utter chaos.

“Then again,” he smirked. Patting the shade ring on his right hand, Höbin kept his pace even and his voice low. The magic was once again working as promised. He could move about without being noticed, so long as he didn’t create any reason to warrant direct attention. Gnomes walked or ran past him without a word. Without a single glance.

Lucky for the fishis, the address Höbin secured was within walking distance. Almost half a day—but he didn’t have to use a public transport, which would have drawn unnecessary attention to himself. The result would have been jail…or worse. As it happened, the Mushcranks lived in the lower districts, under the warehousing plateau. It was curious, that the most famous of all tinkerer families would make a hole in such a dangerous and poverty stricken locale.

Höbin stepped into the shadows of a deserted shop doorway and checked the paper again.

“2242 Boorum Street.,” he grunted, “This is Boorum, but…”

The buildings on Boorum looked almost depressed. The cross breeze from the refinery districts carried the soot and other caustic chemicals over to plaster themselves on the brick and steel buildings. Smaller family-owned manufacturing plants, like a cobblers shop, weavers and the like, lined the street, their walls and foundation slowly eroding away. This was the area of the city where it was undecided of whether it should be zoned remodel or historical. That meant no one cared. Not a penny would be spent to refurbish the buildings, nor pay to have them demolished and removed. Once upon a time, Höbin thought, this must have been a charming place to visit. Now it was a corridor of tired, hunched over buildings that no one wanted anymore.

A group of youth shot past Höbin, hooping and hollering, while the last boy sprayed bright orange paints in waving lines across the brick walls as he ran. A sudden wind change threw overspray into his hair and the side of his cybernetic eye.

“Blasted…,” he started to shout, but thought better of it. He was out and extremely vulnerable. If it wasn’t for the desperation in finding the last seal, he wouldn’t risk this. So he wiped the paint off as best he could with the sleeve of his jacket and kept walking.

2242 Boorum was an old repair shop. The painted sign on the front that read Mushcranks & Beyond: If we can’t fix it, we can come up with something better, was faded and in many places chipped or missing. However, the lights were on in the shop, which was a good sign. At least someone was home and Höbin had the right place.

“Steady, old man,” he whispered to himself, “You need to do this right and not blow it.” But what should he say? There was no telling what the seal even looked like. He only had a description from Morphiophelius of what the seal from Til-Thorin looked like. He’d traveled around the world to Väthinerä, but that was only the resting place of the first seal. Only the Nocturi and whomever stole it knew what it looked like.

“What do I say?”

“Say whatcha like,” chortled a short fat gnome, stoking a rather thick cigar. He had a tattered grey apron on and bear arms, wielding a broom, “that’s my rule, it is!”

Höbin nearly fell over in shock. He’d never heard the large gnome approaching. “Uhhh, yes. Exactly. That’s what I was thinking?”

“Lookin for a clock? A refurbished uPad perhaps, for the grandkids maybe?” the gnome wiggled his wiry eyebrows at the historian, “You’d be the talk of the reunions, you would—buying the little ones a custom detailed, refurbished uPod. Oh yes you would!” He pointed at Höbin and then tapped his own eye, “Looks like you’re a gnome up on popular technology.”

Not knowing what to say, Höbin…nodded.

“Thoughtcha might! Can always pick ‘em, I can!” He waved, “Come on in, good sir—I’ll show you me wares and ya can pick from the best.” With a grunt and a train of thick white smoke rolling up and over his forehead, the obese gnome led Höbin down a short flight of grungy looking stairs. Pushing on a rusted door they stepped into the shop. Small shelves lined the walls, piles and piles of oddly stacked…Höbin was not sure what they were, though the historian would most likely call…junk. Chipped cups, TV’s with cracked screens, radio hybrids made from scraps and retro telephone parts, the absurdities never ended.

“Interesting shop you have,” was all he could think of saying, not anting to offend.

The fat gnome grinned pridefully, smoke shooting from his nostrils. “Adrian Mushcranks, “ he beamed, holding out a dirty hand. His chunky fingers wiggled in place until Höbin finally gripped them in a firm handshake. “Master repairman, at yer service. If me and me son can’t fix it, well—we’ll invent something even better, we will! Now let me show you me special selection of fine custom wares.” Waddling behind the counter, he proceeded to lay small electronic devices onto the glass between them. Well, Höbin assumed they were electronic devices, but in truth he wasn’t quite sure. Two of the five items looked like uPod shells, but one was missing a screen, wires protruding from the device. The other was covered in random ink markings. The rest, well—they looked more like sardine tins that electronic devices.

“These are…your special items?” Höbin asked.

Adrian just smirked. “It’s a mobile entertainment device.” He reached down and wiggled the tiny red and yellow wires, “Built to hook up to you entertainment system. Plays music, movies, maybe even games! Even comes with a remote.” He patted the device, winked, and then plopped down a huge metal box onto the counter with a thud. It was covered with buttons and dials.

“You call that a remote?” Höbin asked shocked. “Aren’t remotes supposed to be convenient? Portable?”

Adrian waved the comment away, “Phhaw! People want flexibility, adornments for their homes! That’s why this comes with its own custom stand.” He flipped a plastic milk crate onto the counter, wiggling his eyebrows. “And if it’s decor yer worried about, I’ll throw in a custom doily to give the set ambiance.” He grinned wide with the last word, waving his hands over the trash.

This couldn’t possibly be the same family Höbin was looking for? Was it?!?

“I uh,..” he stumbled for words, “Nice wares, but I’m looking for something specific.”

“Ahh—a discriminatory kinda customer I see.”

Höbin bit his lip to keep from chuckling. “MmmHmm.”

“Do you have something specific in mind?”

Here goes everything. “Actually yes. I’m looking for antiques of a particular type. My agency says your family,” he paused, pulling the scrap of paper from his pocket, “if my information is correct, descends from the famous Mushcranks? As in the microchips, copiers, industrial lifts Mushcranks.”

The gleeful look on Adrian’s face vanished without a trace. He spit his cigar onto the floor without taking his eyes off of Höbin. “Maybe I is and maybe I ain’t. Who wants ta know?” With slow and precise movements, the round gnome waddled out from behind the counter.

“Oh, well, it’s only me asking,” Höbin said, adding a quite gulp at the end. “Just me.”

“Well,…just me,” Adrian said with a scorn, “why would you be wantin’ ta know about my family? Cause I’m awful tired of you lot snoopin’ round here, askin’ all sorts of questions I can’t answer! I don’t take ta threats comin to me home where me old lady and kids sleep.””

Confused, Höbin rattled through the forms and names he’d looked up…and completely missed the shop owner walking around him and bolting the door shut.

Adrian cracked his knuckles.

“You ’n me is gonna have a little talk and work all this out.”

Höbin smiled and turned around. “That’s a wonderful idea…,” he started to say.

That is…until the shop keeper broke his nose.