Survivors of her cruelty limped on mecha-crutches or skimmed through the streets on castors where legs had once been. Armless wretches wandered about, begging for solder or lubricant drippings. It was rare to see a villager without a pair of punctures in the thoracic tubing, sealed with duct tape.
The Inventor’s first patient emerged from the Shoppe, flexing organic limbs, connected to neurotransmitters, and bristling with muscle. That night, when the Countess, oil spilling down her fangs, descended upon the town, she recoiled to see her former victims gazing at her openly, baring throats of flesh.