Piston, Turbine, Crucible, The Living Mortar and I paused to catch our breaths as the Annies around us suddenly froze, collapsing on the street outside our safe house. I hesitantly lowered my revolvers, glancing around. 

“So . . . is it over?” I asked. 

The Living Mortar looked up at the sky. “You can always count on those three to get the job done.” 

“Cylinder,” Piston said, attracting my attention. “Sweep the safe house. Let’s make sure there’s no stragglers.” 

I nodded, hurrying into the building, guns raised. After a quick preliminary check, I saw nothing but trashed furniture and fallen animatronics. Sticking my head out of the window of Crucible’s room, I shouted down at the others. “All clear!” 

Suddenly, I heard Crucible’s closet door creak, and I turned to face it, both gun barrels pointed at the barrier. From within the cracked door flickered a green light, and I frowned, moving back a little.  

“Uh, guys?” I called. “We got a rave or something in Crucible’s closet.” 

As I finished my sentence, the flickering stopped, and the door burst open, revealing an older woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and Middle Eastern features. Her left arm seemed mechanical, the appendage consisting of a series of sleek silver plates. At her feet stood a two-foot-tall ventriloquist’s dummy, donned in a suit and sporting coal-black eyes.  

“Guys!” I yelled again, tightening my fingers on the triggers of my revolvers. 

“This is where the beacon led us,” the dummy said, its voice eerily childlike. “But they aren’t in reach of my scans.” 

The woman lifted her mechanical arm in my direction, and her palm began to glow, a green energy flickering across her fingers. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And where the hell is Ahab?”