If the world, as they knew it, ended today, one hard-working mule would totally understand.
"WHAT?!"
It was barely lunchtime, and it already seemed as though everything had collapsed, especially after hearing the new problem.
"You're telling me the Registration Office has been mobbed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you positive?"
Apparently, he was.
Killian stared in disbelief at the aide who brought the news, as if sheer incredulity might force the words to change. But they didn't. The aide repeated himself with painful clarity.
The Registration Office had been mobbed.
By citizens. By other researchers. And—unbelievably—by the master mechanics themselves, who had hobbled their way across the capital in search of information about that mecha.
And Killian, unfortunately, was very familiar with that mecha.
