Hunched over a massive wooden table, an elderly man carefully sewed scraps of dead flesh onto a framework of bones more than twice his size. So absorbed in his task, he was, that he failed to notice another living presence enter the decrepit laboratory.

 

“Doctor Alexi Romerov!” boomed a deep, commanding voice.

 

Startled, Alexi jerked his head up and looked around frantically. Seeing a man in the doorway, he squinted in the dim light, trying to make out his unannounced and unwelcome guest. Finally recognizing the figure, the doctor turned back to his work. “Oh, it’s just you,” grumbled the old man, applying another stitch to the body before him while waiting for the inevitable rebuke.

 

“Just me?” replied the other man tersely. “You would be wise not to take that tone with me. I am your superior, as much as you dislike acknowledging the fact.”

 

Doctor Alexi harrumphed loudly, then turned back and gave his visitor a mocking bow. “Well then, Necromancer Edvard Barov, please excuse my lapse of proper etiquette and subservience, but my work is time consuming and keeps me too busy for empty pleasantries.”

 

“Too time consuming, Acolyte Romerov,” snapped Barov. “You’ve had more than enough time to finish your abomination, and you still have a great deal of work to do!”

 

Alexi waved the retort away dismissively. “You cannot rush quality, Edvard. You may have hastily assembled your creature in order to earn a promotion, but I will not sacrifice my craftsmanship for petty material gains. My monster will be perfect, unlike your clumsy beast.”

 

Barov turned red with anger. “The abominations are hulking brutes of undead meat, not elven dancers! You may have forgotten, but this is an army! We have deadlines – ones we must meet! We are in the middle of a war, and mass-produced soldiers are the key to victory, not custom-made monsters!”

 

Alexi took off his glasses and cleaned them on his black robe. “You have no idea what you are talking about, Edvard,” he replied wearily. “Without innovation, the Scourge is doomed to failure. Great numbers can fall to superior strategy, and if we do not change and adapt our foes will learn all our tricks. You do not understand because you are not a scientist. You were a paper-pusher before the Plague, and you are a paper-pusher now. And I will never finish if you don’t let me get back to my work.”

 

The Necromancer sputtered with rage, unable to respond coherently. Finally controlling himself, he held up a finger angrily. “One month, Alexi! I’ll give you one month to finish making your abomination! If you are not done with it then, I will throw you to the tender mercy of our leaders!” With that, he turned and stormed out of the lab, leaving Alexi alone once again.

 

Alexi chuckled and went back to his work. “Poor Edvard,” he said quietly, “your temper will be the death of you one day.” He patted the stitched monstrosity on the table, feeling the cold, leathery texture of the creature’s skin. “You will be a masterpiece,” he whispered, “no matter what anyone else says.”