Chapter Text
1 - The Lead Minion’s Lament
Moloch von Zinzer wanted a quiet life.
That was all. That was literally all.
A man should be able to wake up, go to work, fix the machines that other people had broken, and end his day without being shot at, exploded, or conscripted into an ill-advised adventure.
And yet, ever since he had fallen in with the Heterodynes—purely by accident, mind you—he had found himself increasingly, involuntarily important.
He didn’t want to be the Lead Minion of the Heterodyne. He didn’t even want to be a minion. But fate, and by fate he meant the entire town of Mechanicsburg, seemed determined to ignore him on this matter.
Which was how he found himself, once again, being publicly declared something he was not in the middle of Mechanics Row, surrounded by the usual chaos of machinery, steam, and aggressively overconfident Sparks.
The air was thick with the smell of hot iron and ozone, the clatter of gears and the hiss of venting steam filling the streets like an endless, mechanical symphony. Vendors shouted over the din, hawking their wares—everything from clockwork prosthetics to highly questionable experimental weaponry.
And then, of course, there was the usual nonsense.
“Ah! The Lead Minion himself!”
Moloch, halfway through a cup of extremely necessary coffee, sighed. “Not a minion.”
The ironmonger ignored this. “Tell me, is it true you once single-handedly repaired an airship engine mid-flight?”
“That’s not what happened.”
“I heard you subdued a rogue Clank using only a wrench and your terrifying authority as Lead Minion—”
Moloch turned on his heel and left before the story evolved into something about taming dragons or wrestling a bear.
2 - An Offer He Can’t Refuse
There were certain mistakes Moloch kept making, and one of them was going anywhere near Tarvek Sturmvoraus when he was in a good mood.
Moloch trudged through the winding halls of the castle, passing through dimly lit corridors filled with ancient gears embedded in the walls, the occasional mechanical gargoyle watching him with glowing eyes. His own workshop, buried in the guts of the fortress, was a wreck of controlled chaos—piles of salvaged parts, hastily sketched schematics tacked onto the walls, and an overwhelming smell of burnt oil and impending disaster.
Tarvek’s workshop, by contrast, was a criminally elegant abomination.
When Moloch stepped inside, he had to pause to let his brain adjust to the sheer audacity of the space.
Warm, golden light pooled from polished brass sconces. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with suspiciously well-maintained schematics and scientific texts. There was a fireplace—an actual fireplace, crackling in the corner like this was some genteel noble’s study and not a place where dangerous experiments were conducted.
And of course, there was the tea set, resting on a low mahogany table between two unnecessarily ornate armchairs.
Tarvek, sprawled in one of them like a smug devil who had just secured another soul, gave Moloch a bright, deeply suspicious smile.
“Moloch, my dear friend,” Tarvek greeted, his voice practically purring with malice.
Moloch squinted.
“This is already bad news.”
Tarvek ignored him. “I need a favor.”
Moloch crossed his arms. “Is this favor going to get me killed?”
Tarvek lifted a finger. “Not immediately.”
Moloch groaned.
“It’s for Violetta.”
Moloch paused, because of course it was.
“She requires a new corset.”
There was a silence.
Moloch frowned. “Why?”
Tarvek took a deliberate, dainty sip of tea. “Because she keeps breaking them.”
There was another silence.
Moloch sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You do realize that this is not my problem.”
Tarvek, a sneaky, conniving weasel, merely smirked. “Oh, but it is.”
And that was when Moloch realized he was already doomed.
3 - The Unholy Marriage of Science and Fashion
The corset was, objectively, a triumph of engineering.
Back in his grease-streaked, cluttered workshop, Moloch worked surrounded by the sounds of clanking metal and the whir of gears. The air was thick with oil, steam, and the general stench of desperation. The entire room looked like a place where great innovation or a small disaster could happen at any given moment.
The final result was a marvel of engineering—light armor plating, reinforced structure, enhanced flexibility, and at Tarvek’s highly suspicious insistence, a grappling hook.
It was perfect.
It was also about to ruin his life.
When Violetta strapped into the corset, the universe itself betrayed him.
There was a click. A whir. A deeply ominous snap.
And then the grappling hook deployed.
Moloch had approximately one second to recognize his mistake before Violetta was yanked straight into him at lethal velocity.
They hit the ground in a tangled mess of limbs, gears, and very, very bad decision-making.
Violetta, entirely unfazed, arched an eyebrow. “Well,” she mused, not moving. “Didn’t expect this much support.”
Moloch, deeply aware of the fact that she was still straddling him, wheezed in despair.
From the doorway, Tarvek took a long, smug sip of tea.
4 - The Best-Laid Plans of Madboys and Men
Later, when Moloch had salvaged his dignity, he stormed back into Tarvek’s obscenely cozy sitting room.
“You planned this.”
Tarvek smiled. “That would imply foresight.”
Moloch scowled. “You’re a menace.”
Tarvek set his tea down with criminal elegance. “And yet,” he said airily, “you are still holding hands.”
Moloch froze.
Tarvek departed, looking deeply satisfied.
And then, before Moloch could flee, Violetta moved.
Not just moved. Closed the distance.
The air between them shifted, thick with something far too deliberate.
One gloved finger traced down his cheek, slow, intentional, sending something terrifyingly sharp down his spine.
Her smirk was all teeth. “Now,” she murmured, voice dangerous, “where were we?”
And that was when Moloch’s survival instincts flipped the script entirely.
Instead of fleeing, he grabbed her by the collar and kissed her first.
His brain, naturally, immediately began screaming.
This is ill-advised. This is so very ill-advised.
And yet, despite all rational judgment, he found himself pulling her closer, because if he was going to die horribly, he might as well make it worth it.
Violetta grinned against his lips, and Moloch knew, without a doubt, that he was never getting out of this alive.
Chapter 2: Aftermath
Chapter Text
AFTERMATH: Or, in coping with Ladies of a Certain Station (and Martial Skill)
Moloch von Zinzer had long ago accepted that the universe hated him.
Some men were born into greatness. Some clawed their way toward it with blood and fire.
And some, like Moloch, just wanted to fix machines, get paid, and not die in someone else’s grand destiny.
Instead, here he was—standing in the War Council Chamber of Castle Heterodyne, surrounded by half-sane geniuses, sentient weaponry, and at least two minor fires, waiting for Lady Agatha Heterodyne to inevitably turn to him and say—
“Ah! Moloch! There you are!”
And there it was.
The chamber was a chaotic sprawl of war and science—stone pillars lined with Clank-carved reliefs loomed above, flickering glass panels embedded in the walls displayed dozens of intricate battle schematics, and the long central table was covered in plans, blueprints, half-finished devices, and a miniature war simulation that was, of course, currently on fire.
Steam vented somewhere behind him, hissing through ancient pipes. A distant explosion shook the walls, followed by a Clank’s static-screeching distress call.
He ignored it. This was fine.
Agatha Clay Heterodyne, ruler of this mechanical madhouse, was grinning bright and wide, her golden curls in a haphazard bun, loose strands sticking out like she’d been electrocuted and hadn’t noticed. Her leather corset was bristling with tools, the high-collared white blouse beneath it bore fresh scorch marks, and the goggles shoved onto her forehead were still fogged from whatever dangerous experiment she’d been elbow-deep in before now.
She waved a half-soldered Clank arm at him, sparking merrily at the seams.
“I need you to recalibrate the siege engines—they’re firing at a slightly concerning angle—and while you’re at it, the secondary boiler is—”
Moloch held up a hand.
Agatha blinked, confused, as if the idea of someone stopping her mid-sentence was a revolutionary concept.
“I’m going to wait,” Moloch said, tone as flat as a man standing before a firing squad, “until this council is over, so I can get a full list, instead of you remembering one thing at a time.”
Agatha tilted her head. A golden curl bounced free, landing in a fresh oil spill.
“Oh! That’s actually a good idea.”
Moloch exhaled, as if he had just won the single greatest battle for common sense in his life.
“And,” he added, before anyone else could start throwing more repair requests at him, “I wanted to talk about pay.”
Silence.
Around them, Clanks whirred and clicked. The burning battle simulation table continued to smolder.
Agatha looked genuinely surprised, like it had never occurred to her that Moloch had not simply materialized into existence for the sole purpose of fixing things for free.
“I have been very useful,” Moloch continued, tone slow and even, “and I think you’ll agree I should be getting a good salary.”
Agatha recovered fast, nodding. “Oh, absolutely! You’ve been invaluable! I can easily arrange something. But what brought this on?”
Moloch braced.
Because he felt it before he heard her.
A gloved hand landed on his shoulder—firm, deliberate. A soft, deadly purr followed, low in his ear.
“Oh, you know,” Violetta Mondarev murmured, leaning into him like a cat stretching in the sun, “he’s got… other pursuits to support.”
Moloch closed his eyes. Briefly. Regretfully.
Because, of course.
Violetta was all sharp smirks and deliberate ease, draped in a deep-blue waistcoat that hugged her like a second skin, black leather gloves hiding razor-thin throwing knives in the seams, and a dangerously cut skirt that allowed for movement, weapons, and the illusion of propriety.
Her auburn hair was coiled into a sleek, impeccable twist, the several silver blades tucked in her belt glinting in the candlelight.
She leaned in further, the brush of her cheek against his temple intentional, taunting.
And because this day wasn’t humiliating enough, Moloch wasn’t even wearing his usual grease-streaked apron and gloves.
No.
He was wearing a Sturmvoraus Original mechanic’s suit—sleek, tailored, obscenely well-fitted—because Tarvek had ambushed him earlier, smiling like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Which Violetta had definitely noticed.
Which Agatha was now noticing.
Moloch felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.
From the left, a choked noise. Tarvek, losing his battle to not laugh.
And then—
Agatha clasped her hands together and lit up like a woman who had just found the single most entertaining thing she had ever seen.
“Oh! Oh, this is adorable!” she declared, beaming.
Moloch felt the intensity of her delighted stare like a heat ray.
Violetta, pleased as sin, let her fingers drag down his arm before stepping back, an unfairly confident smirk playing at her lips.
Moloch, actively withering inside, refused to make eye contact with anyone.
“Oh, this is great,” Agatha said, grinning. “This is so great.”
Moloch contemplated simply lying down on the floor and accepting death.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, stared at the war table’s still-burning battlefield simulation, and muttered, “I am never getting out of this alive.”