One by one, the others filtered in from the glowing doorways, their movements sluggish, their eyes downcast. Ragatha limped in, her button eye catching the dim light, her yarn hair frazzled. Zooble dragged themselves, a cacophony of clinking, ill-fitting parts. Gangle’s porcelain crying mask was already streaked with old tears. Jax followed last, his ears flat against his head, his yellow eyes hollow. Kinger stood at the edge of the group, a statue of silent grief.

At the center of the room, a huge, monolithic screen flickered to life with a burst of blue static. The overwhelming, booming voice of A.B.E.L filled the space, a sound like grinding gears and shattering glass.

A sharp, distressed sound cut through the silence. A muffled, choked sob. All eyes in the room turned to the stage. There, in the center of it all, stood the silent figure of Caine. His denture head was bowed, his mouth sealed shut by a cruel metal guard. Long-dried, rust-colored streaks ran from the cracks of his sealed face, down his white shirt. His hands were folded in front of him, perfectly still, like a broken mannequin.