The moment the door slid open, the skeleton butler could detect the change in the air. Before him stretched a dark hallway wreathed in drifts of humid midst, its contours alien and unmistakably organic. While the City of Lost Things instilled tended to instill powerful feelings of loneliness, abandonment, and cold, unfeeling indifference, this place was alive with activity—and depending on one's definition, 'alive' itself. Vents and fans regulated the air, the walls felt warm to the touch, and never-ceasing was the whir, grind, and moan of complicated things moving in the distance. 

Barely did the post-mortem manservant get a couple hundred feet into the Factory before he was intercepted. As he neared the first junction, a T-joint with a heavy door in the middle obscuring the foremost manufacturing chamber, an appalling band of wretched things lurched around the corner. At first glance they were men, reminiscent of soldiers from a bleak, wartorn era far removed of Yggdrasil's, but no such assertion could survive a second glance. Their flesh, stretched and molded like clay, integrated with their daunting, impersonate masks so seamlessly as to beg the question: were those masks their faces, after all? If eyes lay behind those murky lenses, their fishlike gloss distorted them too thoroughly to tell. The sight of artifice and modification interceded in their bodies so deeply, even through their skulls and into their brains, painted a vivid picture of howling screams in a mad science lab. However, from the way these things moved and spoke, slurred and staggered as if in a dream, any onlookers tended to find themselves doubting that the Guards were ever human to begin with.

A round of exclamations in a distorted, alien tongue, more bilious coughs than speech, echoed through the hall as the patrol spotted the intruder. It took just a moment for the visitor, held at gunpoint, to identify himself and his purpose. Then the group was off, a loathsome escort to bring the bony butler to the Director. They marched him through winding corridors laden with abhorrently lifelike decorations, past foggy windows offering a view of hideous machinations writhing in perpetuity, past skittering things with taut human skin over metal bones, and to the Director's sanctum.

[hr]

Graft awoke with a start and a long, gasping breath, as if from a nightmare. He went to stand, only to find that he couldn't. Fear nipped at the recesses of hid mind as he struggled for a moment before attempting to look down. The quizzical glance downward, itself not the easiest task, explained his predicament: the floor had grown over him. A dry chuckle escaped him, prompting him to swallow and refresh his desiccated artificial inner-mouth. To think something so mundane had been giving him trouble...how long had he been asleep?

At a simple impulse, the growth receded, releasing its master from its bond. Graft thought nothing of it, since the floor was by no means intelligent. Like moss, it just spread over whatever came its way. That, of course, ignited his curiosity. Just how long had he been here? Brushing off the remaining scraps of the nanoflesh cocoon that surrounded him, Graft stood, cracking his joints in quick succession. “Whoo! Good heavens, am I stiff.” As the last tentacle his the ground, he regained his full height, and twisted his back from side to side. The delirium of sleep was clearing, and he could start to remember. “I was...working. With someone important...oh, yes! Goodness, how could I forget! Lady Penn!” He rapped his cane twice on a patch of floor a few feet away from him. Unlike where he ended up, the ground here bore some kind of unnatural taint from beyond the stars. Graft knew it as the unmistakable signature of the presence of his illustrious creator, the genius and visionary Brushen Penn. 

The annals of history surely knew her legend as well as Graft did; once a Brain Sucker fallen from space, she'd devoured the minds of uncountable victims, stockpiling the intellect and artistic sense of each. Nowadays, a veritable Great Old One and an Astrologian of unparalleled splendor, she stood as one of the fabled Bandersnatch Lords, and Graft labored as her trusty subordinate. Her memory provoked a proud smile from her creation. Some gaps existed, but he filled them in without trouble as he continued piecing together what happened. “And I was helping her with her inventory! She had just vanquished some munificent foe, described as a 'World Boss'. Following this achievement, she said she would be going for a while, and decided to reorganize, undoubtedly to preserve her legacy in most glorious fashion. And in my humble office, too! Afterward I knelt to wait for her return.” His eyes landed on the tainted patch again, so faded, then on the shredded bits piled at his feet. The wait had been long...very long. Where had his Lady been?

A few seconds passed, with the contented hum of industry in the background, before Graft shrugged with a smile. “Oh, well!” He told himself. “No use sitting around. I've got a Factory to run! I am in the business of business, after all. What would Lady Penn say if she returned to see I let the place fall to ruin!?” Picking up his cane, the Director speedwalked over to the window of his office. He planted his palms on the sill, peering out into the Testing Room. As ever, bits both organic and artificial rained from the various chutes through the grill ringing the chamber's outside edge, joining the stream leading to the Processing Center. In the center of the Testing Room, his latest creation slepy idly. A [url=https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/9955b5ea-1422-4b21-b965-322f5bf204ef/dcl3si1-e3cbac0c-1192-456c-95f1-c64b67311e95.jpg/v1/fill/w_900,h_632,q_75,strp/bird_by_trufanov_dcl3si1-fullview.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9NjMyIiwicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvOTk1NWI1ZWEtMTQyMi00YjIxLWI5NjUtMzIyZjViZjIwNGVmXC9kY2wzc2kxLWUzY2JhYzBjLTExOTItNDU2Yy05NWYxLWM2NGI2NzMxMWU5NS5qcGciLCJ3aWR0aCI6Ijw9OTAwIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmltYWdlLm9wZXJhdGlvbnMiXX0.eBaEx6a63FXpB8uMAMrF5x4YfGq4ifWFrR55fwYB1mQ]beast[/url] of bone and black nanoflesh, it made mockery of Yggdrasil's wyverns, yet appeared far less abominable than most of the Factory's new products. Making a mental note to get some Guards in to test the unnamed monster later. “I must run a tour immediately,” he reflected. While the Factory stood as a well-oiled machine that could not have failed to stand the test of time, just keeping on as usual did not satisfy Graft. His enterprise needed to get bigger, bolder, and better, and it needed to get there [i]now[/i]. Graft could not rest while tomorrow was calling!

He pushed off from the windowsill, bounced his cane off the ground, caught it, and started to move. “Papillary!” he called for his assistant, opening a new line of communication with his special skill. “Get in here!” The industrialist bustled over to his office's door, provoking the neural sensor above it to look him over and slide the door open. So enthusiastic was he that he nearly bowled straight through the crowd at his front door. Instead, he slid to an elegant halt. “Well, that was fast,” he grinned, talking through his teeth. “Although, I remember Mirir being a bit prettier. Hahaha!” Before him, the Guards looked nonplussed, and the skeleton butler a touch confused. Before he could say anything, Graft continued. “I kid, I kid! Look young man, you've got to learn to stand up for yourself. Too bad you don't have the...guts!” No reaction. Graft shrugged, rolling his eyes. He placed his cane on front of himself and leaned on it with both hands, saying, “huh, must have misplaced your funny bone. Well, since I don't sell a sense of humor yet, I'm guessing you're here for me. What can I do for you, good sir?”

The butler delivered his summons, prompting Graft to stroke his goatee. “The Lords are calling everyone, hmm?” Whoever it was doing the calling, Penn wasn't among them. Graft could say with almost complete certainty that she hadn't returned since disappearing from his office, given the stain left by her presence. Maybe more importantly, what could possibly warrant pulling [i]everyone[/i] of note from their posts? If the Chateau were under attack, the Chapters would already be on lockdown, and a more urgent form of communication would be enacted than skeleton postman. “Well, not like I can refuse!” he told the butler cheerily. “At the very least, I can arrange a meeting with Miss Kath afterward to bargain for a better look at her trade logs.”

At that moment, a voice came to Graft through the channel opened by his skill, Open Line. “Apologies, Director!” An odd, burbling high-pitched voice reached him. “I was just...uh...”

Graft cut her off. “Whatever it is, put a pin in it! I'm going to a meeting with the Board, and I'll need a complete inspection on my desk when I get back.”

“Yes, Director!” Papillary sounded almost as earnest as her boss. No doubt she wanted to try and prove herself useful. Unlike Graft, she wasn't made for this job, and he doubted their creator ever intended for them to work together. The poor girl couldn't be doing what she was meant to all the time, however, especially with Penn gone, so Graft took her under his wing. Without a lick of innovation, craftsmanship, or business sense in her, she at least served as a capable secretary, and her Cook levels made her useful for anyone who still needed to eat, including him.

Graft nodded. “Very good!” Picking up his cane again, he took off at a brisk pace for the nearest hidden elevator. If not for their like, he would have needed to proceed through all four following chapters himself, which would be neither quick nor enjoyable. After stepping inside, Graft selected a destination and waited to be whisked away to the Final Chapter. 

[hr]

Before long, the Fodder Baron set foot inside that very place. Immediately the gravity of the room settled upon him, as though the air itself was being choked from his augmented lungs. Carrying his cane rather than walking with it to avoid the possibility of leaving a hole in the lush red carpet, he proceeded at a steady pace through the dead silence. Ahead, the pitch-black thrones of the Ten Bandersnatch Lords loomed, all as immaculate as they were unoccupied save one. There, sprawled atop his seat, was Rodias. Other than by reputation, Graft knew him poorly. A few times he stopped by the Factory for some item or another, but he was by no means a favorite customer. As far as he knew, Rodias also boasted the unique status of being one of the only Bandersnatch Lords to have not created a subordinate. Now, only he sat here ready to receive the guild's elite.

Graft approached, trying to get a sense of how close would be appropriate, before kneeling. He laid his cane in front of him, and declared. "My lord. Director of the Factory, Third Floor Chapter Keeper, Vitaphagas Graft reporting. Awaiting your orders." Was that reverent enough? Having Brushen Penn at his creator did not do wonders for his sense of formality.