Free Broken Hero by Jonathan Wood

don’t associate asking politely with people who want to kill me.
    The second’s pause gives me more time to absorb the scene. Two figures. Both of them at least eight feet tall, hunched, wreathed in heavy canvas that falls to the floor… I suppose the word is cloaks, as anachronistic as it seems. It hides their exact forms in shapeless brown folds. Heavy hoods leave their heads in shadow.
    But there is still the exposed fist there, making it abundantly clear that these are the kin of the robot we fought yesterday.
    “This was mistake,” says the robotic shape with its hands where I can’t see them. “I told you. We go now.” It has a thick German accent, every w replaced with a v.
Vee go now
.
    “Uhrwerkmänner,” Clyde breathes behind me.
    “
Gesundheit
,” says Hannah. Her pistol is also drawn, pointing over my shoulder and tickling my ear. Still, that’s some surprisingly cool nerves. At this point during my orientation I think I was curling up and crying uncle.
    “No,” Clyde starts, “I mean that these are them. These are Lang’s Uhrwerk—”
    “I know what you meant,” Hannah says.
    “Oh.”
    “We mean no harm,” says the one with its palm extended. “We come because we want to talk. To discuss with you, yes? You understand?”
    I am very aware of the amount of weaponry we are showing right on our own doorstep. The bulk of the Uhrwerkmänner hides a lot of what’s going on from the cars driving by, but that bulk in and of itself is going to attract some unwanted attention. This is not the place to do this.
    “Put the weapons away,” I say.
    “Seriously?” Kayla and Hannah ask at the exact same moment. Synchronicity between the pair is not necessarily a reassuring development.
    “Very much so.” I slide my pistol back into its holster.
    I hear the sword slide home. A moment later, Hannah’s gun stops tickling my ear.
    “What do you want to talk about?” I ask the robot. “Yesterday one of you tried to kill us.”
    A club descending
. I blink the after-image away and rub my palms dry on my trouser legs.
    “Yes,” says the one with hidden hands, “yesterday you killed my friend Nils, let us talk about that.”
    “No, Hermann,” says the first, turning away from me, shapes moving beneath the surface of his cloak like tectonic plates. “We are here because we need their help.” He turns back to me. “We need you to save our lives.”
EN ROUTE TO THE MI37 SERVICE ENTRANCE
    I honestly had no idea we had a service entrance. Tabitha apparently did. While the Uhrwerkmänner take the street route, we navigate the bowels of MI37 and pick up Felicity along the way.
    “Seriously?” she asks me. “On our doorstep?”
    “They say they need our help.”
    Apparently there is a facial expression for times like these that perfectly mixes skepticism and concern. Felicity provides me with a good opportunity to study it.
    “This sort of shit happen to you often?” Hannah asks, hustling along behind us.
    “No,” says Tabitha at the same time that Clyde says, “Probably more than it does to other professions.”
    Felicity nods. “Both of those answers.”
    “Right then.”
    Another elevator ride takes us to the service entrance and a narrow alleyway. Tabitha studies her laptop along the way. “Nothing on security cameras or satellites. They’re alone.”
    Kayla pulls back an old-fashioned steel grill as the elevator’s broad doors sweep open. The two Uhrwerkmänner stand in the alleyway, hunched and cloaked. I can smell something like engine oil and even standing still they emit a faint whirring sound.
    Felicity steps forward. She extends a hand. “I’m Felicity Shaw, director of Military Intelligence Section Thirty-seven. I understand you are seeking aid from the British government.”
    The one on the right shifts awkwardly, looks back at the alleyway’s entrance, but the other steps forward slightly. “I told your friend. We are in need of your help. Our lives, they are in