What better way to spend All Hallows Eve, the Scientist thought, than here, in my sanctuary, untouched by the world? He shut the heavy wooden door against the raging storm and felt along the cold wall with his left hand for the control for the electric lights. Darkness smothered him, until his frantic, flailing fingers reached the switch and flicked it up. He stifled a sob and used the back of his left hand to rake a stream of moisture from his cheeks. The Scientist shook his head, muttering to himself. It was just the storm, the driving rains. But it left a salty taste on his lips.

He removed his overcoat, carefully, his right arm hanging limply by his side. He reached for the coatrack, but came up short—the lip of the collar touched the hook and fell to the floor. The Scientist didn’t mind. He was already moving across the room to the long stone slab he used as a table, clutching his right arm tightly with his left.

What is man? What is his purpose? What makes him human?

Thunder crashed outside. The storm was intensifying.

The Scientist shivered, not from the cold, but from the thought of himself. His vision blurred; he wiped his face again, with his left hand. Then he took a deep breath and looked at his right hand—

—Or rather, at where his right hand should have been. Lightning flashed through the tall glass windows behind him, projecting jagged shadows as he held up his right arm for a better look.

What have I done?

Blood, flesh, and bone were replaced by metal. Seven lean strips of metal, which reflected the pure white light that came through the windows.

Have I sacrificed my own soul?

Thunder pounded in response, accenting his heartbeat.

The seven fingers twitched. Seven iron stems flexed, throwing sparks across the cavernous ceiling.

Seven demons, encaged in my body. Is this life, or death?

Thunder rumbled.

Or is this new meaning? Is Seven not a holy number? Is this my purpose, my final experiment?

The volume of his heartbeat decreased, but the tempo increased. For you, my love, he whispered. I do this for you.

Tonight, I prove that God is not the only giver.

Tonight, I harness that which has been made known to me.

Forgive me.

His last tear vanished with a flick of a single demon-finger. The Seven moved in perfect harmony, nearly as quick as the flashes outside the room, blinking in and out of existence with the flickering of the light. They cleared the table of the failed projects and withdrew the cords from the corners of the canvas that covered the Anomaly. The Scientist was nearly overcome with revulsion at the sight, but the Seven continued in their work.

This is where it begins.

Thunder crashed through the trees.

A new age of Man, unbound by the pious, free from religion’s lies.

For what is man? A living being, given the breath of life by an all-powerful, omniscient God. The only creature in the universe to bear a soul, in which is housed a fraction of eternity.

The Scientist moved back and forth around the stone table, his left hand now the useless. The Seven required neither tool nor assistance; they were tools themselves. Seven axes, scalpels, needles, pulling flesh over iron, twisting metal into bone, inserting the blessed with the damned.

The creation is now the Creator.

Lightning struck nearby. The dim electric lights brightened momentarily. A loosed branch crashed through a window; cold wind and rain poured in, onto the unforgiving stone.

The Scientist and the Seven continued their work, unheeding, far into the night.

The storm continued to rage; the hours flashed away with the lightning; the Anomaly slowly took shape.

What power does God have over man? Can he affect our lives, or does he simply observe as we destroy His once-perfect creation?

Knowledge. The greatest gift given by God. The answer to the riddles of this universe. Every question has an answer.

We are your answer, said the Seven.

This Creation is the answer.

The storm thundered its agreement.

The Scientist’s clothes had long since been saturated by the damp, his beard had become drenched, both drip-dripping onto the stone, his eyeglasses misted beyond his ability to see through, by the time the Seven were satisfied with their work.

Finally, the Creation was complete.

The head of a wolf. The mind of a man. A heart of iron and shadow. Dark life in its veins.

Soulless existence.

The Scientist and the Seven looked at the Anomaly.

And yes. Yes, it was good—even beautiful.

Forgive me.

Thunder pounded, ever louder, ever closer.