The metal keys were pressed down. Gears and drive shafts meshed, and copper type slugs stamped with letters clattered onto the parchment like raindrops falling from the sky.
"Beatrice, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'm writing to ask you to help me with something."
"What makes me feel even guiltier is that I still can't tell you much. You know I'm a Secret Keeper of the Church."
"But I heard you passed the trial and became an Investigator... I can't describe how I felt when I heard the news. You've always been the sort of child who liked to get to the bottom of things, so, as you wished, you'll be getting closer to the truth."
"Anyway, congratulations. I've always been busy with Church affairs. I promised your mother I'd look after you, but I haven't done much to care for you."
"My own situation isn't great either, especially lately. They say I went too far in the way I executed a cultist..."
The parchment in the mechanical typewriter ran out. A hand made of gears and various mechanical parts pulled it free and set it aside. At the same time, two more mechanical arms deftly fetched a fresh sheet of parchment, slid it into the typewriter, and fastened it in place with the latch.
The clattering started up again.
"They always have too many excuses. They say I've offended the factory owners, and that it'll worsen relations between the Empress and the Church... No one cares what happens to those cultists."
"Damn it, how did the Church come to this!"
The figure in the red hood stopped typing, shook his head, and sighed.
"That cultist was extremely dangerous. The Pollution he brought with him was terrifying... But at least I've executed him."
"Some workers were still Polluted, though. The Church leadership rejected my proposal to purify all of them. They only agreed to exile the workers."
"That's what I'm asking you to do, too, Beatrice. Please go keep an eye on them for me. Make sure the Pollution has stopped and won't spread."
"They'll be exiled to a remote corner of the Empire, supposedly to an island."
"Believe me, Beatrice, getting away from the heart of the Empire isn't a bad thing, especially at a time like this."
"I know you've just become an Investigator and want to go on adventures, to see the truth of this world."
"But the dangers of this world always exceed your expectations. Some things are Polluting just to speak of."
"That's why Secret Keepers like us exist."
"Anyway, stay away from here. Stay away from Rhine and the Empire's borders. The Empress's ambitions are too great; she may need to sacrifice the entire Empire to fulfill them."
The fingers tapping at the keyboard stopped. The priest sitting at the desk stretched, then reached for the teacup.
His pale fingers grasped the cup, which held steaming black tea. It was a custom that had come from the New World, where people drank a cup of hot tea to ease their fatigue.
The priest took small sips of the scalding tea. With a whir of gears, the mechanical arms on his back switched to screwdrivers and deftly opened several panels on his body.
Another arm picked up some machine oil and poured it into the openings beneath the panels.
The priest set down his teacup, leaned over the desk, and continued typing.
Meanwhile, the mechanical arms on his back never stopped moving. They swiftly maintained the mechanical parts of his body with precision and quiet efficiency.
"Stay on that island for a while and take it easy. It's very safe there."
"Don't neglect your task, either. Keep an eye on the Polluted workers, and tell me immediately if anything seems off."
"If the Pollution becomes uncontrollable, don't hesitate. Carry out the purification protocol at once."
"Don't take chances, don't hesitate, and don't be fooled by appearances. Many cultists don't look evil. Some really are kind by nature, but that doesn't stop them from endangering the world."
The priest stopped again, as if something had come to mind. He sat quietly, lost in memory.
A long while passed before he let out a deep sigh.
His pale fingers picked up the teacup. He took a sip, then realized the tea had gone cold.
He shook his head and resumed typing.
The mechanical arms on his back had lifted his robe and were brushing dust from the tubes along his thighs.
His skin was sickly pale, making the metal components embedded in it look even colder and harder.
"You don't need to worry about me, either. The Church has arranged administrative leave for me. I'll find somewhere scenic to rest for a while—let things die down."
"I haven't decided where to go yet. Perhaps I'll visit the Northern Territory. I hear they have some unique customs there, and recently they seem to have dug some ancient ruins out of the ground."
The priest scratched the skin on his back. The mechanical arms had started polishing the bolts along his spine.
"Perhaps people get long-winded when they grow old, but I still want to remind you of a few things."
"You might not understand what follows, but that doesn't matter. Just remember it. There may come a moment when you need it."
"When you have time, read more scripture. Not just the Candlelight Society's texts, but the sacred texts of the other four great Churches, too... The Church may hide things, but it doesn't lie."
"When reason can't help you decide, trust your instincts."
"Humans can be trusted. Trust humanity."
"Nothing besides humans can be trusted, whether living beings, machines, or..."
The priest's fingers paused over the keys. In the end, he didn't continue typing. Instead, he pulled the parchment closer and started a new line.
"No matter how friendly or reliable they seem, don't trust them."
"Remember, the underlying nature of this world is always madness."
The mechanical arms seemed to be nearly finished with their work. They climbed up the priest's neck and tightened several screws embedded in his flesh.
The priest's letter was almost finished. He typed out the final line of the signature.
"Cardinal of the Rhine Diocese, seventh-rank priest of the Candlelight Society, council member of the Secret Keepers..."
The priest's fingers paused. Then he released the typewriter's platen spring, took the parchment from the carriage, crossed out the long signature, and put the sheet back in place. He typed a new signature instead.
"Your uncle, Jules."
He removed the parchment, folded it around the letter, and sealed the envelope with wax. Then he took the seal and pressed it into the wax.
The seal bore a lit candle, the holy light of the Candlelight Society.
When he was done, the priest sat at the desk, lost in thought, while the candlelight flickered beside him.
After a while, he seemed to suddenly remember something and slapped his forehead.
"Nearly forgot that. I really am getting old."
As he moved, a crack appeared down the middle of his head, then split it open.
There was no flesh or blood inside his skull, only a jumble of steel parts, pipes carrying various fluids, and rotating mechanical structures—all of them in place of his brain.
The mechanical arms reached inside at once, tightened the screws, applied machine oil, and began maintenance.