Hugo couldn't let Isabelle discover how sick he was. Her godfather would call the station inspector, and then what would happen to the clocks? To the automaton? To him! No, it was much better to just suffer in silence.

But this was becoming more and more difficult as harsh coughs rand out more frequently from the young boy. He felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't let anyone know. It was torture.

The clocks were finally finished. It had taken him so long, that he was hours late for the toy shop, even though he hadn't slept a wink trying to work on them. Hugo wiped the grease off his hands onto his pants hurriedly as he raced to be at least somewhat on time, forgetting his ragged jacket in the process.

Georges stood at the front of the booth, looking down the hall expectantly as he had the day before. Hugo was late, and as much as he didn't want to admit it, that worried him.

The old man smiled in relief as the squeak of shoes on tile told him that Hugo had arrived. He turned around to reprimand the boy, and cover his relief, but something stopped him in his tracks.

"Boy," he whispered in astonishment, "Are you alright?"

Hugo's worn jacket was gone, his ghost white arms revealed and shaking. His face was covered in a thin layer of sweat, and his cheeks burned bright red with fever. His normally bright blue eyes were dull and clouded with pain, and the boy's entire body shook rapidly.

"Y-yes. I'm f-fine." the boy stuttered, "Don't call t-the st-tation inspec-" Hugo's voice broke as he started to cough harshly, even louder and more painfully than the day before.

Georges stood and watched in horror as the boy doubled over, his hands over his mouth as he attempted in vain to stop coughing. With one harsh final cough into his hands, Hugo stood up, panting. Suddenly he looked down at his hands. A single drop of deep red slid through his fingers and onto the floor. Hugo's eyes widened as he slowly turned to look at Georges. Their eyes met, then he bolted outside.

Georges slowly bent down and looked at the red drop staining the floor.

"so," he said to himself," The boy is coughing blood."

And he followed Hugo out into the snow.

*******************************************NEXT-CHAPTER******************************************

The world was spinning at all angles and snow blurred his vision, but Hugo kept running. If Isabelle's godfather found him, he'd take him to the station inspector and then... well, Hugo couldn't really think that far right now. Run run run run run run run run. He had no idea where he was, but suddenly he was face first in a snow drift.

There was loud music coming from a building nearby, and he was in some sort of back ally. A door opened in front of him and two men, one large, one small, emerged from the bar.

"I can't believe him! Throwing us out like that! I just wanna hit something!" the bigger guy slurred, stumbling out on to the snow.

The smaller, rat like, man backed up, almost tripping over Hugo, "Well don't hit me Jacq, here, hit this," he said, picking up Hugo by his collar, "It's almost dead anyways."

Hugo squirmed weakly, but the rat was right, he was almost dead, and he felt it. He should have never left the station, he should have just gone to the station inspector, he should have-

His thoughts were interrupted by a large fist cracking against his chest. Pain exploded from his ribs and and blood burst from his lips as a painful cough forced its way up his throat. He was suddenly slammed up against the ally wall, his head cracking on the hard stone.

The ally spun around him at a dizzying speed everything seemed slow and fuzzy, like he was looking at it through a foggy window. He heard a piercing shriek cut through the air, and vaguely recognized it as his own. He heard shouts from the other end of the ally, and suddenly he was falling, falling, falling until he landed on the snowless rock by the bar doorstep. There was a sickening snap as his left arm twisted underneath him and shattered. All feeling left his arm, and the swirling of his surroundings was making him sick.

Then someone was holding him, cradling him gently in strong arms, while running. But Hugo couldn't focus on this, something else was going to happen soon, and he didn't want it to happen while his face was buried in an unknown mans chest.

"PUT ME DOWN!" he shrieked, twisting and squirming in the arms that held him. "Please! Put me down NOW!"

Hesitantly, his anonymous savior placed him in the snow. Hugo turned and faced the bare ground, propping himself up onto his good arm as he was violently sick into the ice. Tears made their way down his face as the pain in his arm and stomach grew to match the fire in his head. A cool hand was placed on his forehead, as blood on sick came spewing out of his mouth once more.

"Are you done Hugo?" his rescuer asked in a calm tone that Hugo had never heard pointed at him. Could it be...?

"Y-your Isabelle's g-godfather?" He stuttered, his voice shaking with cold and fear.

"Yes," Georges said in the same, overly calm voice, "and you are very sick."

"D-don't take me t-to the station inspect-tor. P-please!" Hugo gasped.

Georg's looked at the child shivering in his arms, and spoke truthfully, "I would never do that."

Hugo sighed and as his eyelids slid closed, Georges raced to save his life.

********************************************NEXT-CHAPTER*****************************************

Isabelle was angry with her godfather. How could he even say that he would turn Hugo in? It was just inhumane! Unimaginable! She couldn't imagine it. And now he was late home from work, probably because he had just betrayed her best friend.

She heard the door open and stalked out if the foyer into her room. She wouldn't look at him. Suddenly there was a gasp, and the whispered words "Jeanne, call the doctor." Isabelle emerged hesitantly from her room, and like her godmother, gasped at the sight before her.

Georges was holding a shivering boy in his arms, and it wasn't just any boy, It was Hugo. He was wearing only a thin shirt and short ripped pants. His overly thin body shook, and one arm lay limp and mangled by his side. Sweat and blood matted his hair to his too pale face, and his breathing was labored.

"What happened?" Isabelle breathed, unable to comprehend what she saw.

"Some drunkards found an easy punching bag." George's growled, all distaste for the boy in his arms long gone.

Jeanne came back in, looking flustered. "He's on his way. Georges who did that? How-" She was cut off by a ring of the doorbell.

"Quickly get the door, I'll put him on the bed." Georges said, carrying Hugo into the spare room.

Isabelle stood and watched dumbstruck as Jeanne lead the doctor into the spare room.

************************************TWO-WEEKS-LATER*******************************************

Hugo hurt. His chest hurt, his throat hurt, his head hurt especially. The only thing that didn't hurt was his left arm, but he couldn't feel that at all, so it wasn't much better. Something was wrong, aside from his evident injuries, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then it came to him. No ticking. There weren't any clocks. But if he wasn't with the clocks, where was he?

He cracked his eyes open, squinting as the evening light aggravated his headache. He was in a bed, a real bed, bigger than the cot he had back home. He was in a room nicer than his own too. There was a dresser and a window, with the curtains drawn, and no holes or cracks in the walls. He heard footsteps outside his door, and watched it open slowly. A head peeked inside hesitantly, and burst into a huge smile when it saw he was awake?

"Isabelle?" Hugo asked in a dry voice.

"You're awake!" she squealed happily "I have to go tell Papa Georges!" She started to run out of the room, but stopped when he called for her.

"Isabelle wait!" She turned around to face him, "Where am I?"

She laughed, "It's kind of a long story, but I have to go get Papa Georges."

She left, and after a minute, re-entered with her godfather in tow.

"See Papa Georges!" she was saying, "He's awake! For real this time!"

Hugo looked up at Georges from his bed. The old man wasn't glaring at him as he usually did, but smiling in relief. It almost seemed as if Georges was GLAD he was alright. But that was impossible, the man hated him.

"How do you feel." Georges asked, surprising Hugo slightly.

"Fine," he lied, not wanting to give the man an opportunity to call him out in whining. But he was met with a different kind of rant.

"Don't start that boy. Everyone here knows that you are definitely NOT fine. You've been unconscious for two weeks, concussion, pneumonia, lung infection. Everything imaginable was and is wrong with you boy, so DO NOT say you are fine!"

Hugo looked down in shame, "Sorry."

Georges' tone softened, "Let's try it again shall we? How do you feel?"

Hugo coughed lightly before replying, "I... hurt. Everywhere. Except my left arm. That I can't feel at all."

Georges didn't seem surprised by this information, but he frowned sadly when Hugo mentioned his arm.

This troubled Hugo for some reason he couldn't understand. Why would that make Georges sad? What was wrong with his arm!

"Why can't I feel my arm..." he asked slowly.

Georges sighed and Isabelle looked away. Hugo looked down in a panic. What was wrong... What was wrong... What was wrong with his arm...

Where was his arm?

"Where is my arm."

No answer.

"Where is my arm."

His voice was calm, and forceful, and still no one replied.

"WHERE IS IT!"

There were tears flowing out of his eyes. But he didn't try to stop them. He couldn't fix things anymore. No clocks. No toys. No gears. No nothing. You can't fix things without two arms, two hands. He only had one.

******************************************BREAKLINE*************************************************

One doctor said that he was in shock.

Another doctor said that he was crazy.

Yet another said it was brain damage from the concussion.

They were all wrong, but Hugo didn't bother to set them straight. If his arm was gone, he couldn't fix things, he was useless. Why was it worth talking? Why was it worth living? It wasn't. So Hugo Cabaret hadn't spoken in three months.

They had taken him to a therapist who had turned out to be a madman testing the limits of shock therapy. He had twelve scars from that.

He had gone to a hospital that gave him a drug which made him see horrible things, day and night. He had screamed then. The doctors called that progress. George's called it torture. Hugo still had nightmares.

A spiritualist doctor from Spain said that he had evil spirits inside of him, and cut his chest in elaborate designs. It got infected and Hugo's almost constant fever rose above 106 degrees. He had eighteen scars from that.

Some strange doctor in colorful clothing thought that he needed to let his senses loose with acupuncture, and a four day "vacation" in isolation. As it turned out, she just liked stabbing him with needles when she was angry. Or drunk. When she was drunk, she hit him too, just like Jacq and the rat had. Hugo didn't sleep much anymore.

Isabelle would talk to him. She sit and talk to him in his room, telling him about her day and her friends and pretending that he was listening. At night, when he couldn't sleep, and he'd wake up in a cold sweat, thrashing round silently in his bed out of fear, he'd hear her. Crying. Crying about him, because of him. It made him sad. But not sad enough to talk.