Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you do—people are going to believe what they want.

“Don’t confuse me with the facts,” they’ll say, “I know what you are and the truth has nothing to do with it.”

Smile and stand your ground. Fighting against such personalities is a fruitless one.

As I said before…you can’t change stupid.

They all stared at the television, stunned, as the reports continued to roll in.

“But you saw Wendell get away?” the wizard stammered, grabbing the bodyguards jacket with both hands. He studied Shamas’s face carefully. “You’re sure?”

Prying his jacket free, he smiled, “Yes, Chuck. He was fine. Can’t say the same for the suit that took the bullet—but Wendell was perfectly fine as they pushed him into the van. They sped off before another shot was taken.”

Chuck plopped down into a chair, sighing heavily, “Well that’s a relief!”

“Relief?” Lili pipped up, her face contorted, “Someone just tried to kill him,…how is that, in any way, shape or form, a relief?”

The wizard tapped his nose with an index finger, “Because they missed.” He rolled his eyes at Shamas, “Girls. They completely miss the obvious.”

Lili growled.

“What are they saying on the internet, Nat,” asked Deloris, “the city has to be buzzing after an attack like that. You know the main media twists the facts.” She walked around the corner of the control panel…and bumped the handle of the coffee mug, which had been left balancing upon its edge. It tumbled over and across the buttons and switches.

“Oh!,” she cried, trying to catch the porcelain container as it flipped…the residue of coffee splashing across the console. The brown liquid trickled down into the cracks. The mug plunged over the edge and shattered into a dozen pieces across the floor. Sparks popped from the panel and steam rose into the air. Deloris panicked, looking up embarrassed at Nat. “I’m so…,” but she quickly frowned at the shattered mug.

“CHUCK!”

The wizard sat upright. “No she’s not. I’m Chuck.” Glancing at the bodyguard…somewhat concerned and unsure, he mouthed silently, I am Chuck…right?

“Oh no,” Deloris muttered, vigorously wiping the control panel with the sleeve of her blouse. Her eyes, however, were fixed back on the television. “Look!”

A thin, scowling gnome in a brown hooded robe appeared on the screen. WHRN’s anchorgnome smiled, “We’re here with Father Noah, from the Temple of Nothing, talking about the Church’s reaction to WHRN’s exclusive interview with the Gnolaum, Wendell P….”

“We don’t actually know for certain that he is, indeed, the Gnolaum,” Noah cut in abruptly. There was a calm sternness to his demeanor. His face was clean, yet gaunt, with lips so thin his mouth looked as if it had been cut across his face. “No one does—so lets’ not jump to conclusions, shall we? Just because a human is able to sneak his way into our lands, breaking our laws, using arcane witchcraft to hide his true form…”

“Witchcraft!” Chuck bellowed, “We used no such thing! Filthy, evil, why I never…” snorting, “Those were premium grade…” he hesitated, “transformational-ma-jiggers,” he blinked. “Ok, I got them on sale—but I’ll have you know that mägo use the finest, organic substances in alchemy…and only from renewable sources.” He grinned at Shamas, “Because we care about the environment.” But the grin quickly faded, “Well,…except for the animal spleens…and the dragon hearts. Not too renewable, those.”

“Shhh!” Deloris complained, “This is serious.”

“I bet it was serious to the dragon.”

“We know nothing about this human,” Noah continued, his brows pressed forward in an animated show of concern. “Nothing that we can prove or match with known prophecy, do we? You simply have the boys word! Now as a servants of TGII, I commend Mr. Dipmier for his desire to help our people. I commend anyone, regardless of their race, if they seek the welfare of our divine city…if that truly is his intent.”

The anchorgnome smirked, “So you’re saying you don’t support the Presidents belief that Wendell is, in fact, the Gnolaum?”

Tiny fingers reached up and twisted the end of the thin black mustache nested on his upper lip. “What I am saying, is that there must be more proof than a piece of cosmetic glass glued to ones chest to make me a believer. But then again, I’m not a politician, hungry for power—I look after the spiritual welfare of the flock.” He smiled smugly, “Furthermore, I would caution any of the faithful, not to be taken in. I am concerned about the virtuous,  caring nature of our people, which could be threatened by a charlatan pretending to be what he is not. That is what I am saying.”

The camera pulled back, focused on the reporter, “And there you have it, folks, right from the Church’s own mouth. Don’t fall for a counterfeit. Make sure you have the appraisal in writing before you buy. The real question now, is wether the human S.L.A.G. pilot of the Gnolaum is, in fact, the Gnolaum after all.” He grinned into the camera, “Let’s take a moment and see what citizens of the city have to say about this.”

The screen flashed to a middle-aged female chewing gum, which popped as she talked around her pierced lips. She winked. “I think it’s cool, really. I mean, so what if he’s a Human—we should accept one another differences.”

The camera cut to a male gnome in an expensive looking brown suit, carrying a briefcase. “Unless he’s going to adversely affect the prices of electronics, oil or root crops,” he snapped, annoyed, “does it really matter?”

Two youth laughed and pushed at one another, trying to get in front of the camera. “How are we supposed to know? Maybe someone should put him through a test—see what he knows, like, as the Gnolaum? Get it? Then you wouldn’t have ta guess anymore.”

Deloris snatched up the remote, clicked off the television and slammed it down onto the table. “This is already worse than I thought!”

Lili crinkled her brows, confused. “What did I miss? Noah didn’t say anything rude or cruel, and those people were just sharing their thoughts.”

“No, it was more than that. The media used the citizens to plant thoughts and suggest problems. Place those seeds in the hearts of viewers. Noah indirectly issued a challenge of proof. The comments after solidified his distrust. That’s what the media does—uses planted questions, tears and anger to sway viewers. They played this well. Too well. Which means if Wendell is going to sway the people of this city, he’ll have to prove who he is—not just flash the Ithari on his chest.”

Nat stopped typing, “Prove who he is? Like what?”

Chuck stood up and stretched his arms. “Perform magic, I’m guessing.” He gave Deloris a grave look, “The Church won’t want anyone upsetting their perch any more than the government will. Which means whatever they’re crafting, IF they’re crafting something, Wendell’s not meant to succeed.” He sighed, “That puts our boy in the middle of a very nasty feud.”

****

Wendell leaned heavily upon the counter, staring into the mirror.

All I wanted to do was encourage people. Tell them that the city is wonderful, maybe mention a few kind folks I’ve met along the way by name. Help them out. Express how much I loved playing in the Trench games. But he knew that the questions gnomes had were already growing out of his control. Someone was mad and had tried to kill him. This is like a bad movie…and I have no idea how it’s going to end.

Ian kept him up to date on the conditions of the city. How the people were reacting to his presence after each interview. It wasn’t good. Swarms were still hovering around the WHRN station, asking questions and forming opinions that spread like wildfire. There had been at least three outbreaks of violence in pubs within  five miles of the station.

I haven’t even gotten a chance to say what’s really on my mind! Explain what I love about this place. Instead he was manipulated and cornered by professionals during interviews. First at WHRN, by Pip Flocker—who seemed to be holding a grudge, then at two smaller, local stations. It was becoming apparent that reporters were looking for opportunities to make a name for themselves. Each had been cruel and very negative—twisting Wendell’s words.

Now the gnomes of the city were angry. Bridges and lift carts were being sprayed with ‘Send the Giant Home’ slogans all over them. Picket lines had formed in front of the Centurion Citadel, demanding the deportation…or execution of, Wendell and Dax.

…and it was getting worse by the hour.

How do I get through to anyone if they won’t even listen to me? If I don’t get a chance?? Dark rings of stress were starting to show under his eyes. Even with the warm pulse of the Ithari’s power flowing through his veins, he felt tired. Exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally—even mentally tired. It was too much for him. He sighed.

Not a sign of Chuck or anyone else I know—no one to help me figure this out. To tell me what to DO. Dax was barely able to maintain consciousness for more than a few minutes at a time. Wendell had asked three times for Ian to take him to Morty’s warehouse, but his requests had been denied. There wasn’t time, he was told. It wasn’t safe. Surely if his friends wanted to see Wendell, they’d come to him. No, he reassured himself, I know better than that. Deloris and Nat were part of the revolutionaries.  Members of the movement were hidden throughout the city. It would be foolish for his friends to expose themselves and walk right into the government’s grasp. Besides, Chuck probably couldn’t get past the front desk…and Lili, he sighed. Lili.

His fingers reached across the counter and caressed the red wax of the envelope. Shrub had kept his word. Wendell had the satisfaction of looking into Mr. Upshots eyes as the gnome begrudgingly handed it over. The gnomes thought it was nothing more than a blank sheet of paper, stuffed in a fancy envelop. Perfectly harmless. Useless. But it was Wendell’s only real comfort now. A reminder of the one thing he’d forgotten over the last several weeks. That is, until this morning.

The Demoni Vankil seal.

It was the whole reason he was here. Everything had been secondary—and he’d gotten caught up in the games, the fame…the problems. Wendell’s mind swam with the possibilities of where a tiny artifact like that could possibly be in this vast city of countless nooks, crannies and firecracker gnomes. Were the seals different? Could this be bigger than the last? Maybe hidden in something bigger? The seal in Til-Thorin had been hidden in the foundation of the keep itself. He wondered if Höbin had been able to narrow the possibilities of where the seal might be. If we can just find it, there wouldn’t be any reason to stay!

He liked that thought.

But the very idea of the old historian raised a fear in his heart. Where is Alhannah? Is she safe? He grit his teeth and looked himself in the mirror. They say she wasn’t with us—but I remember her being dragged across the stadium floor. I remember her being thrown to the concrete in the parking garage. I remember yelling at the Centurions when they kicked her body! But it didn’t matter how much he pressed Ian or the President—neither of them knew where she was…and Wendell believed them. All Shrub could discover was that she was not with Wendell and Dax when they had arrived at this facility. So what happened?

He gripped the letter firmly, the paper crumpling between his fingers. Where is she?

All day long Wendell had read the letter. Over and over again, searching each line, hoping the words would change. Hoping it would give him some hint as to what Wendell needed to do next. He read until his eyes could not longer focus. The letter apparently didn’t work that way.

The words had not changed.

Let go of your anger and frustration and trust in the path before you. Let go of your fears, my son. You will make mistakes. You will fall. You will even fail. But you must learn to let it all go. Instead, trust your heart and in your relationship with the gem.

Accept who you are, my son, for only then will you be free.

…and when you are finally free, the answers will be within your grasp.

Those were the only sentences that made sense. Wendell did feel angry. Angry at being lost, at being manipulated and taken advantage of—but people were also relying on him. It didn’t matter what he was feeling. Dax, most especially, was counting on him. Wendell was their only chance of getting them both out of Clockworks. Well, out of this building and area of Clockworks, anyway. The sedation was preventing the elf from gaining enough clarity to teleport. Dax was utterly helpless…until Wendell could find a way to change their circumstances.

But how do I can I hope to do anything, make any progress or win any support, when I seem to be ticking everyone off? His head fell forward, the weight of his thoughts like lead bricks. He let out a heavy sigh. You’ve got to think, Wendell. There has to be a way to make some headway with these interviewers. Someone who actually wants to listen to what you have to say. He sighed again. There was no doubt in his mind what was about to happen.

Rishima Geebler wasn’t a fan. Wendell didn’t even consider a good representation of a gnome. If there was a league of evil reporters, she was their queen.

Stop it, Wendell. Stay calm. For all that’s happened, you’re actually doing well. He looked at himself sternly in the mirror, squinting. You haven’t given up—that’s the first thing. The most important thing. You haven’t given up. ‘The key to everything is having a good heart—the rest is just practice.’ He tried not to laugh. You’re getting a crap load of practice…that’s what this is. He looked at himself more sternly in the mirror, So be grateful. Be happy. Trust yourself and lets…

There was a knock at the door. “Wendell, they’re ready for you.”

He gulped. Practice. That’s what this is. Just practice. Sharpen the people skill…sharpen the knives. Only way to grow is by jumping in with both feet.

But he found himself gulping.

Then again, it’s also a sure way to drown if you don’t know how to swim.

Sliding the envelope into his front pocket, Wendell cracked his neck, smiled at his reflection and said aloud, “Let’s do this.”

****

His living room had been rearranged for the interview. Plants in their huge pots had been gathered around and adjusted to make the set look more like a wild jungle than a plush apartment. Two chairs sat together, one oversized and lower to the ground, both turned slightly towards one another. Rishima was already in one of the seats, her makeup mirror out. She puckered and checked her eyebrows, then batted her lashes—flashing her trademark smile at her reflection.

I was wrong, she’s not their queen, Wendell gulped again,  hesitating, she’s the devil.

Ian grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the set. “I realize we are off to a rough start with the interviews…and we’ve upset a few people…

“A few people? Upset?” Wendell snorted, “Ian, someone tried to kill me.”

The gnome shrugged, his head bouncing about, “Which is unfortunate, I agree…,” he held up an index finger, “but we did get some great publicity over it. Oh, don’t look at me like that. We’ve been hammered to this point, I know—but we can’t give up, Wendell!” Ian stopped short, his tiny fingers gripping like steel, “Seriously—we cannot give up. You,” his voice faltered. For a moment he stood there, looking off into the distance and clearing his throat. “You are the best thing that has happened to this city in a long time. We can’t let these…these…” He took a slow, deep breath to gain his composure, “I-shall-not-say-it-in-mixed-company-of-dirtbags determine the outcome. Do you understand? If I have to arrange to build a platform in the streets, so you can shout at these hard-headed,” he trailed off, his voice overcome by a deep growl, “I will.”

Wow, he’s really mad! Wendell couldn’t help but smirk. It was an unusual sight—the red growing across the pale cheeks. like an electric stove warming up. Is he actually shifting to my side? Cool.

“So,” the gnome said softer, composing himself. He smiled brightly, displaying his gigantic white teeth as he brushed lint from Wendell’s sleeve, “You do your best.” He pinched a piece of the fabric and let it drop to the floor. He stepped on it and made a rinding motion with the toe of his shoe, “Oh, and if that TV tart starts to play dirty…you find a window, slip in, and to stick it to her.” His grin thinned out to something more sly, “Don’t hold back, Wendell. Just bury her.”

Then Wendell did laugh, “Why Ian…I think you might actually make me like you.”

The red on his cheeks intensified. He pushed Wendell forward, “Shut up and get out there.”

The gnome I thought was a devil, is turning out to be more of an angel—while the one who looks like an angel…he shivered.

“Mr. Dipmier,” Rishima cooed, holding out her hand daintily, “so wonderful to see you again! Huge fan of yours. Huge fan.”

Wendell rolled his eyes, keeping his hands close to himself. “No, you’re not. You disliked me, you hated Alhannah and you hated Steel and Stone the moment you met us.” He slumped down into the chair next to her, knocking a fern leaf away from his face. “So don’t start this interview with a lie.”

The two camera gnomes froze.

Unused to being called on her introductions, she looked up at Wendell with droopy eyes and quivering lips. “That’s…so untrue! I was just doing my job. I didn’t hate Alhannah or Steel and Stone. I was reporting the truth to the public, which they have a right to know.”

“And who’s truth would that be, Rishima?” Wendell countered, staring back at her boldly.

“Well I…uh,…”

“Ok hun,” shouted the director, who glanced at his watch—completely absorbed in his won world. “We’re on in 5, 4, 3,”…he held up two fingers, then one, then pointed at her.

The confusion fell to the wayside as the mechanical smile appeared to greet her adoring public. “Good evening ladies and gentlegnomes, this is your favorite reporter, Rishima Geebler, here with you live for another personal interview with our city’s most interesting celebrities. Tonight we’ll get an in depth look into the mind and heart of the man whom everyone’s talking about, the Gnolaum.”

The yellow smiley peeked out from under the sports jacket with a plotting grin. Wendell’s own face followed suit. He had an idea.

We’re live?

****

“For the last time, SHUT UP!” Ian snapped angrily.

The black suits clamped their lips together, though several shook silently in place, unable to altogether contain the laugher.

Wendell sat on the sofa and cranked up the volume of the TV. All through the night the reports had rained in. Every station who had a bone to pick with Clockworks favorite reporter, ran coverage of the live broadcast.

The broadcast where Wendell P. Dipmier humiliated Rishima Geebler. Live.

“You were supposed to talk about the problems of the city, Wendell,” Ian grumbled, staring at clips of Rishima choking on her words and then stomping out of view.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to talk about gnomes loving and caring for one another…”

“I know.”

“You were NOT supposed to personally attack the reputation of the most popular reporter in our city!” he bellowed.

Wendell giggled, “I know.” The sheer joy of the experience filled him with glee. “But it made a lot of gnomes smile, Ian. The suits, the camera men, even the director couldn’t help but grin as I walked through my personal experiences with Clockworks favorite reporter.” He lingered on the word ‘favorite’.

Ian plopped down into the chair next to the sofa, “I know.”

“You did tell me to find a window…”

“I know I did.”

“To stick it to her…”

Ian sighed, “I know…”

“Bury her, I think was the term you used.”

“OH ALRIGHT!” he yelled. Huffing and heaving, the gnome slapped his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. “It…,” then softer, “wasn’t what I was hoping for, but at least you got your foot in the door. The stations seem to like what you did.”

Wendell beamed, “No. They loved it. Apparently, the stations hated her more than they hated me. Even if I am human. I just had to point out her personality and let the truth do the rest.” He sat up, pointing at the TV, “How many stations do you think have run with this story tonight?”

Ian considered, “Close to all of them, actually. WHRN owns most of the minor stations, but since the assistant managers know the general station manager is dating that harpy…” then it hit him, “They’re running with the story anyway.”

Wendell laced his fingers behind his head. “You think we could get some interviews with people who might listen now?”

Ian blinked once, then again.

“Ian?”

“What? Oh. Oh—yes!” He pulled his glasses from his face and started cleaning them with a cloth from his pocket. “You’re smarter than you look, Wendell. I’m impressed.”

“My, my—is that a compliment I hear?” he laughed, “Will miracles never cease!”

“Don’t get too caught up in all this. Not yet. You have at least one person who won’t take the cheap shots and you’re due there in about three hours. Do me a favor and take a nap, you’ve been up all night.”

Wendell sank deeper into the couch, smirking, as a clip of Rishima screaming at the laughing camera men flashed over the monitor. “I’ll think about it.”

Ian put his glasses back on and walked to the door. “You did good, Wendell.”

“Thanks.”

“No,” the gnome said, “I mean that. You’re a lot smarter than I gave you credit for. I underestimated you. Won’t happen again.”

****

The transport pulled in between two old and decaying buildings. Unlike the rest of the city, especially the abandoned districts where Wendell had spent time as a Trench pilot, this area was maintained. The old streets and shorter buildings were old, but they were worn with time, not neglect or abuse. Brick and steel structures, with fresh paint, clean, sparkling windows and wooden doors.

“This doesn’t look like the rest of the city,” Wendell said aloud. It reminded him of San Francisco, or the older parts of Chicago, which he’d visited with his father on a family vacation when he was twelve.

“We’re in the grandfather district,” Ian blurted out, unimpressed. He lifted the coffee mug and sipped carefully, “The last of the original buildings from when the first settlers discovered the island. This is what you might call the historical district of Clockworks. Can’t demolish any of it. It’s protected by law.” He looked out the window of the vehicle and yawned, “I’m told these structures are priceless. Frankly, I think they’re ugly as a skin sore on your backside. Can’t see what everyone talks about.”

“I think it’s beautiful.”

There were hundreds of shops surrounding them. A grid of buildings that made the air tingle with life, and for a moment, Wendell thought he’d gone back in time. Back to Earth. There were museums and bagel shops, barber shops and even a library. They drove past pet stores and pipe stores, old fashioned cobblers and even candy-makers, already setting their stands at the edge of the streets. Gnomes by the hundreds walked up and down the lanes, greeting one another politely and shaking hands.

This is a whole other world from the Clockworks I’ve seen. Where were the crowds? Where were the dense populations, pushing and pulling? This area seemed completely untouched.

He watched an old street sweeper pause and tip his hat to a couple strolling by. This isn’t like anything I’ve experienced since I’ve been here. There wasn’t flashing technology, electronic billboards pushing the latest craze. No, this was altogether different. A slower pace with a friendlier people. The vehicle slowed and stopped in front of a big wooden door with a hand-painted sign on it that said, ‘The ORIGINAL WHRN. We may be small, but we’ve got moxy!’

“Please be on your best behavior in here,” Ian pleaded.

Wendell pressed his open palm to his chest. “Me? Now why would you ever say such a thing!?” He bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“The Voice is respected by everyone in the media. He’s respected by everyone in the city.”

Wendell smirked, “Except you.”

“Well,” Ian shrugged, “I’m special.” Then seriously, “We’ve kept this stop a secret, so we wouldn’t be mobbed. No one knows you’re coming. But you can be sure there’ll be a mob when you come out. I’ll be waiting here, to cause a diversion. The boys will be in the back to sneak you away. We’ll meet back at the apartment. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Alright then,” Ian popped open the door, “Try and have some fun this time.” He glared, “Polite fun.”

That would be nice. Wendell stepped out onto the curb and instantly, gnomes up and down the street gasped. Bright, wide eyes gaping at him. Studying him. They’re…not screaming or running away. He attempted a smile. Then a little wave of his hand.

Most stayed frozen, staring back,…but a few did wave. Mostly the younger gnomes. Then a few more.

…then it caught on.

“He’s here!” cried one gnome aloud.

“It’s actually true—the Gnolaum is really in Clockworks!”

“Amazing!”

Gnomes started to cheer.

“What a blessing…”

“Did you see how he shut down that tart, Rishima? Totally AWESOME!”

He nodded to himself, Good start. Good, good, good. He walked up to the front door, pulled it open and walked inside.

The tile floors creaked under his weight as he walked. The entrance echoed with each step, the click-clack of his heels against the surface. The first few floors of the building were all exposed by inside balconies, wrapping around the gigantic front desk. A female with glowing pink hair and dangerously long finger nails sat propped up behind the counter. She hummed cheerfully, blowing bubbles and painting her toenails on a propped up foot. The tiny jar of polish was a bright orange to match her eyeshadow.

“Ahem,” Wendell said softly.

“Yeah,” she answered in a nasal voice, without looking up. Her gum popped as she chewed with an open mouth.

“I…have an appointment with,” he hesitated, “well, I don’t know his name, but gnomes call him The Voice?”

She snorted loudly, perfectly imitating a pig. “No hun, he ain’t got no other name, ‘cause he is The Voice.” She looked up…and nearly flipped out of her chair. “Sweet bearded lady!” she cried aloud, dropping the polish onto the counter.

Wendell jumped back himself. “Sorry! So sorry…didn’t mean to startle you, mam.”

Peeking up from behind the counter, she cocked her head to the side. “You’re…that Wendell fellow, ain’tcha? The alien.”

Wendell nodded. Hadn’t really thought of myself as an alien—but I guess I do look pretty different…

She stared at him up and down and blew another bubble until it popped. She stood up slowly, then leaned forward, over the counter—eyes glued to Wendell. “Well ain’t you a yummy little thing!” Her bosom pushing against the buttons of her blouse.  “You really are him.”

“I-I think so,” he stammered.

“OY! COSMO—WE GOTS OURSELVES A LIVE ONE HERE!” Her voice shrieked through the corridors of the building, echoing in every corner and clawing at one’s spine. Wendell stumbled backward so fast, he slammed into the opposite wall and nearly knocked over a trash can.

She grinned at him. “Show starts in ten, love. Down that hall, third door to the right.” She winked and blew him a kiss.

Keeping his back against the wall, Wendell scraped his way around the desk area and bolted down the corridor.

“Come see me after the show, darlin’,” she called loudly after him, “and I’ll getcha’ m’number!”

****

“This is The Voice…with WHRN in Clockworks City. We may be small, but we’ve got moxy!”

Wendell sat in the booth nervously waiting. He’d been ushered in by a cross-eyed gnome who couldn’t seem to stop giggling. It wouldn’t have been so bad…if Wendell knew what was so funny. Instead, he was shown his seat and had it explained that under no circumstances was he to wander about. Wendell was handed a pair of earphones, then given his choice of station refreshments: brown tap water or Ginny-Kay’s organic, reconstituted, homogenized squash juice.

Wendell discovered he wasn’t thirsty at all.

His host was across the room in another booth, wrapping around him in smokey glass. A single light was hanging overheard, allowing Wendell to see a single form moving about in the booth, but with no clear shot of seeing what the gnome looked like. A small pillar of smoke rose from the booth. Pungent cigar smoke that rolled over the top of the wall and descended into the rest of the room.

A small green light lit up in front of Wendell.

“We’re here with the famous man of the hour, Wendell P. Dipmier.” The voice was deep and calming. Unassuming. “Now I don’t know about you folks out there, but I’m curious to find a human on gnome soil. We’re not exactly the most popular race on Elämä. I know, I know…but I’m only saying what you’re all thinking. Let’s shove all the agenda’s aside, shut down all the corporate profit machine mentality, so credits don’t tarnish the pursuit of the truth…and ask the real questions. Ask the hard questions.”

Wendell slapped his hands over his knees to keep them from shaking. Oh no, here it all comes. I’m not ready! I’m not…

“I’m going to ask these same questions so you and I can find the truth of the matter, together. That alright with all of you out there? Just you, me and Wendell. If you have questions you’d like me to ask, or if you’d like to ask the Gnolaum directly, you know the number: 121-55-SHORT.”

The green light over Wendell’s mic stared back at him incessantly.

“First question, Wendell,” the voice said smoothly, “Why us?”

Sheepishly, he leaned towards the mic—like it might be a snake that would bit him if he made the wrong move. “I-I’m not sure I understand your question.”

“I’m asking why you came to Clockworks? Why not Humär, or Mävro or, who knows—ANYwhere on our planet but here? You’re the Gnolaum.  You have things to do, people to see and save. Surely you have more important things to do than hang with the underdogs of the world?”

“Underdogs?” Wendell snorted before he could stop himself. “You don’t watch Trench Wars, do you?”

The Voice laughed, “Oh I certainly do, but I wasn’t cheering for you, I’m embarrassed to say. Put my money on the fly boys this season. My bad.”

“Well that’s a pretty easy questions to answer, then. I’m here, because…well,…” but he stopped. It actually wasn’t an easy answer. There were no hooks, no traps that he could see. This was a real interview. Now was the time to set the stage for the rest of his message. “I’m here because I want to be.”

“You…wanted to come here? I mean no disrespect, but we’re not the most popular race of this world.”

Wendell grinned, “Maybe, but the gnomes are the first people I’ve revealed my self to since I came to the planet.”

There was a sound of someone choking. “Whoa, whoa, stop. You came from another planet?! I don’t recall that being mentioned growing up in church…or talked about by our religious leaders.”

Wendell swallowed. Whoops. Think, Wendell, Think. “Well, I meant from Sanctuary. That’s where the Ithari is kept ad where I took on the mantle. I had to come down to Elämä from there.”

“Gotcha.”

The window was open. Time to jump through. “And I have wanted to say, ever since I got here, that I love it here.”

“Y-you do? Seriously. As in, enjoy being among the little people, surrounded by the evil dark sorcery of technology?”

Wendell laughed out loud, relaxing, “I am completely ok with everything I have seen here. Well, thrilled and impressed would be more accurate. What confuses me, is why anyone would turn away such brilliance.”

“Like Trench Wars?”

Grinning, “Exactly like Trench Wars! Which, I should let you know, was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Jumping and rolling and engaging in combat inside a thirty foot robot? Cool!”

Wendell watched the shadow behind the frosted glass sit back in his chair. “Well I’ll be. Hope you’re listening out there, Clockworks, because I don’t think we’ll ever have a better compliment than that. The greatest figure in our prophetic archives is sitting in this studio, right now, telling us that he loves what the rest of the world hates about us.”

It was a curious thought. “Well, yeah. Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Not exactly the norm,” said The Voice.

Laughing again, “Yeah—well I’ve never been known to be normal, so I’m not exactly breaking any molds here.”

Chuckling.

“What possessed you to climb into a S.L.A.G. int he first place?”

Wendell cleared his throat and leaned in closer to the mic. “To get everyone’s attention.”

“My-my-my,” The Voice clicked, “you certainly did that! Not only did you enter, you won the games—against seasoned pilots!” With a sigh, “Probably not in the way that you wanted though.”

“I would have preferred more talking and explanations and a lot fewer strikes with batons.” He rubbed the back of his neck absentmindedly.

“Ouch. I bet. So…what now? What are the plan since you’re exposed the gnome population?”

Wow. That’s the real question, isn’t it? Had Wendell actually made it to the point where he could be himself? Where he could express his thoughts and feelings openly and make some serious progress? Chuck wasn’t here. Dax wasn’t here. He wasn’t relying on Motherboard, the G.R.R., Bellows or even the letter at this point. I go there all on my own.

He stared at the mic in front of his face. Whatever came out of his mouth was going to be heard and remembered by the rest of the gnomes in this vast city. What Wendell said next would define him in the minds of the population. Leaning forward in his chair, it squeaked.

“I want to make a difference  in Clockworks,” he said softly, “and to unite the people of this world.”

The pause grew uncomfortably long before The Voice responded.

“That’s a big plan.”

Wendell smirked, “This is a big city.”

“Don’t suppose you want to take the time and elaborate on this a little, do you?”

Now’s your chance, Wendell. Do it. Do it now and don’t look back. “Yes,” he said, which sounded sheepish. He cleared his throat and, “Most definitely. I got to travel around this city, to meet a lot of fantastic, generous people. I discovered things are not always as they seem here.”

“How so?” From across the room, a shadowed thumb rose into the air, encouraging Wendell.

“When I got more involved as a Trench pilot, you tend to mingle with fans. They come from all areas of the city. At first I spent a chunk of my time in the lower districts and I was appalled at what I saw. People struggling to survive, while the rest of the population rolled on like it didn’t even exist.”

“That is the way of the city.”

“But should it be?” Wendell felt the tug on his heart—the pressure in his chest that made it hard to breathe each time Simon’s face appeared in his mind. “There are little children…,” he choked, “children—wading through garbage, to find things to eat. There are people who are struggling to exist right under our feet. Yet I could only find a small handful, if that, of decent gnomes who were trying to make a difference.”

“Like?”

“Like Philburt Bellows.”

The Voice scoffed, “The gazillionaire!? PLEASE…don’t get me started on the rich elite of this society who prey off the rotting bones of our population.”

“He supports thousands of workers through his factories.”

“In a city of of a billion people!”

Wendell could feel the blood rushing through his cheeks, “And that makes him what? Less noble? Less kind…why? Because he can’t save everyone? That’s not his job—it’s ours!”

Pause. “Interesting.

“Even the President cares deeply about the people—but what is he supposed to do? No matter who he is, he can’t change everything. That’s our opportunity.” No that’s not right. “Privilege and honor would be more accurate. A chance for the normals of this city to rise to the occasion and help those who cannot help themselves.”

Wendell could hear what sounded like the repeated clicking of a ball point pen over the speakers. “But Wendell…why should we care about those around us who are struggling, even suffering, when The Great It Is has seen fit to inflict life’s challenges upon them?”

No turning back. “Because TGII didn’t inflict it upon the good people of Clockworks. The good people of Clockworks have inflicted it upon their own.”

“Excuse me? Did I just hear you blame the pain and suffering in this city on the rest of us?”

Wendell squeezed his eyes shut. You can do this Wendell. You can do this—and it has to be said. It has to! “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

The Voice paused. The shadow in the booth leaned forward and rested on the deck, head hung low. “You know this point of view won’t exactly make you popular among the people.”

“Are you saying you haven’t seen this around you? Selfish people who are only concerned about themselves, about their toys and luxuries and getting gain, instead of the welfare of those around them? Those infinitely less fortunate than themselves?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Well we can’t hide behind words anymore. A persons true nature will either prove or condemn their words…and I’m not seeing these problems being affected at all, except by people like Philburt Bellows and President Shrub.”

****

“Quickly, sir,” the black suit said bluntly, “The crowds are forming out front. Yes, this way.”

The interview had lasted for more than an hour. The phone lines were finally shut down. There were so many responses, so many gnomes that had something to say—everything was jammed. Every phone line clogged. Over two hundred million emails. The cell towers were even shut down because of the overload from the billion plus text messages sent to the station. It became an instant madhouse.

The callers that did get through were anything but civil. Yelling and shouting at Wendell, gnome after gnome challenged his stance and views on the normals of the city. The Voice finally closed the show and recommended that Wendell leave the station as quickly as possible.

This had not gone as the hero had hoped. Sadly, he couldn’t think of what he should of done differently.

Do they just not care? All the pain and suffering going on around them here in Clockworks? Maybe the don’t see it. Maybe they simply haven’t had the experiences themselves, so they can’t relate to what’s happening. It could have been anything. Important thing was, gnomes were mad. Very mad, and they were focused on one person.

Wendell.

The suits weaved in and out of the rooms, down the halls and out the back door effortlessly. Professionals and work, but this time, they searched the adjoining building for snipers.

What they couldn’t control were the crowds.

Bodies were everywhere, flooding the alleyway like rats waiting for the chance of a bloody meal. They pushed and shoved at one another, blocking the short path to the parked van. Wendell came out the back door of WHRN to the angry expressions of the talk show fans.

An explosion of lights jumped into his range of vision as a rock struck him solidly in the temple. It was followed by a another stone, landing sharply against his collarbone.

His giant frame swayed in the light.

“Grab him!”

“How am I…he’s huge!”

“Crap, Blake—you missed, he’s…down.”

“This is special agent Bloomburg, the Relic is down. We are under attack. I repeat, the Relic is down and we are under attack. Civilian hostiles. Immediate backup required.”