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toccata_fugue “Ooh! Sweeties! Where’d these come from, can I have one?”
“...ungh?” Prodded impolitely out of dormancy – when had the decision been made for him to recharge at the table, anyway? – Slipstream onlined his optics and lifted his head with a drowsy grunt, to see a dainty yellow arm come out of nowhere and pick up the clear plastic ‘pillow’ of green candies. “...whu-... whoa-... wait, waitasecond-...” He waved an arm, aimlessly, still not exactly awake and not really sure what he hoped it would do.
Sunspot thankfully got the message before diving in. “What’s the matter, Snarky?” She gave him a little flick round the back of the head. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna eat all of them before you get the chance to get your massive chompers around them.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He struggled a little more upright and gave his antennae a tug in an effort to wake himself up a little. “They’re not mine. They’re-... I think they belong to Whitesides.”
“Ooh, is he back?” She brightened, and threw up her hands in mock exasperation. “At flipping last! I’m gonna fragging kill him for scaring everyone like that-”
“Ah-... um, hey-... Sunny, Sunny-...” Slipstream winced, awkwardly. How to explain? Without making it sound like Sharp had snuffed him and stowed him in a box somewhere...?
She settled opposite him, her expression growing more serious. “He’s, ah... not back, is he?”
The constable shook his head. “No.”
“And these...?” She waved the package, making it rustle.
“They were handed in last night. Someone found his satchel down by the Rift.” Slipstream gestured to the plain fabric bag. “He wasn’t with it, so far as I can tell.”
“And they didn’t nab the contents? Impressive.” Sunspot plopped down in the seat next to him. “Couldn’t have been an Empty, eh? So who’s been sneaking around by the Rift? I didn’t think folk liked it down there. Too spooky, or something.” She wiggled her fingers for dramatic emphasis.
“People don’t like it because it’s unstable,” Slipstream corrected, good-humouredly. “They don’t want to fall in if they happen to walk on a crumbly bit.” What if that’s what happened? He’s fallen, which is why no-one can find him? It’s a very long way down, in places. He smoothed the fabric of the satchel between finger and thumb. Maybe we better go do a good thorough check of the floor of the Rift, to be sure...
A little hand waved in front of his face. “Snar-kee? You still in there?”
Belatedly, he realised Sunspot had been talking to him. “Huh?”
She was leaning her weight forwards onto her elbows, staring intently at him. “Come on, what are you leaving out?”
He pursed his lips, indignantly. “I’m not leaving anything out-”
“Pfft, you think I don’t know that face? That’s your I’m cooking up a useless and unbelievable lie to placate the masses with face.” She arched both brows at him. “Want to try again?”
Slipstream pouted, and folded his arms against the table. “It’s nothing important.”
“Sure, sure. And in the event that was actually y’know, true, you’d have no problem telling me, because it’s not important. Right?”
Slipstream sighed. Trapped again. How was it his father never let himself get caught out in his lies? “All right, I just-... didn’t want to upset you.” He huffed out warm air. “Sharpshins dropped it in last night, before you got in from the club.”
“Oh.” Sunspot glanced involuntarily around herself. “W-... was that all he wanted?”
“Apparently.” He watched her, carefully. Well, at least she wasn’t getting overwound about it.
“And...” She turned the parcel over slowly in her hands, watching the individual candies tumble quietly over each other. “...you think he might have had something to do with Whites going missing?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted. “I mean, I don’t want to think it but, uh... well, he had something to do with him going missing the first time, too. Right?”
“...did you ask him?”
Slipstream shook his head, tiredly. “He’d sneaked back off into the dark before I thought about it, and I’ve not seen him since. His locator is mostly unreliable.”
“Well, uh... I might know where to find him,” Sunspot admitted, quietly.
Slipstream turned to stare at her, blankly. “What?”
She directed her gaze back onto the little parcel of treats on the table, and shrugged with one shoulder. “I kinda... bumped into him, a couple of nights ago.” It took work to keep her voice from going quiet and mumbly. “While I was waiting for you.”
He straightened up in his seat, and observed, almost accusingly; “...that was who you left the fuel for?”
“Well it was more of a bribe to get him to go away.” She shrugged, and smiled, sheepishly. “Even though he didn’t take me up on it.” She paused, and added, for emphasis; “Snobby glitch thinks he’s too good for handouts, I guess.”
Slipstream arched a brow.
Great, now I must sound like I’ve got something to hide. “I’ve seen him lurking about round the club, since then,” Sunspot went on, trying to ignore her flatmate’s expression. “He helped direct me out of the ravine when I, uh... dropped my flask that time.”
“The time the bouncers decided tying a competent knot was beneath them?”
“That’s the one. I could have been wandering about down there for days, if I’d not bumped into him. I swapped him a glug from my flask for some directions.”
“We are talking about the same guy here, right?” Slipstream challenged, at last. “The one who used to freak you out so badly, you wouldn’t sleep in your own room and had to cook up an excuse to nap on Joyride’s armchair, every now and then?” He pointed a semi-accusatory finger. “Sounds almost like you’re flirting with him.”
“Oh, pssh. I hardly think bumping into him once or twice counts as flirting.” Sunspot shrugged, guiltily. “He’s a hungry useless Empty. He’s kinda... not so scary as he used to be, you know? When he was all clean and shiny – and not about to fall over because his tanks were empty – and had what felt like half the police supporting him? He was scary then. I used to believe he could do what he said he was gonna do. Now it’s more, I don’t know...” She waved her hands. “ ‘Sure, I’m scared. ‘Cuz you won’t immediately fall over, or anything’.”
“Methinks someone doth protest too much.”
“Point being, Snarky,” she elevated her voice just enough to be heard over him, “he’s been lurking around the club, and if you want to talk to him, you might be able to find him there. Take it or leave it.”
* * * * *
“If our guest wishes to become one of us,” the artist acknowledged, clambering her ungainly way up his arm, “even if only for a short time, until he is healed and can return to his own people? Then he most certainly shall not be made to wear shabby blobs of enamel.”
Demonstrating his usual patient good humour, Cenac had already stretched out on his front side on the floor, quite passively, allowing the handful of worker females to climb onto his back, armed with sticks of chalk. Apparently recognising it would take quite some time to complete, he folded his arms in front of him and pillowed his head against them.
Minuet settled cross-legged on the moss in front of him, her breakfast in hand, and perked her antennae forwards, cheerfully. “You are a strange one, Cenac,” she acknowledged, with a chuckle. “And if only we understood each other better! I am quite sure we would both have some interesting stories to tell each other.”
He smiled back, releasing a hand from his folded arms to stroke her arm, affectionately. It sounded almost as though he was purring – a soft, deep rumble that seemed to come from very deep in his chest.
“At least I can feel confident that you enjoy the attention!” she laughed. “I am glad you are friendly. I shall be sad to see you go, when we finally work out where you came from.”
* * * * *
It was a strange sensation, Whitesides acknowledged, having the little sentients scampering about on his back, mapping out a new paintscheme. Mostly it was tickly, where their fuzzy little two-toed feet touched, and almost irritatingly light and scratchy where they were drawing, although it was hard not to shiver, too, when one of the tiny artists decided that something wasn’t quite right and took a cloth to rub the chalk marks back out.
If only he had the capacity to arrange for a wash and polish on a more regular basis! Being attacked with a sudsy mop wasn’t especially pleasant; it did rinse away accumulations of dust and engine particulates, but usually also led to moisture in his venting. A good polish afterwards was a different matter entirely. He couldn’t quite keep himself from purring at the thought.
It was immediately clear when the artist had decided she was satisfied with the design, because the sensations changed, and not too subtly. The light, almost annoying touches had been replaced by the smoother, more serious (and cold!) strokes of a paintbrush loaded with enamel, mapping out the design and making the chalk marks permanent. A flicker of second thoughts bubbled up in his mind – was this a good decision, after all? Once they were finished, their marks would be spread permanently over his back, and nothing short of a scouring pad and solvent would remove them. He’d already checked the enamel over the dents on his chassis and it was good quality, scratchproof stuff.
It was a fair decision, he reassured himself. He just wanted to feel like he belonged somewhere. They may not have designed him, they may not know how to fix him, but for now, they’d welcomed him and seemed to enjoy his company. It frustrated him that he couldn’t show his appreciation of their kindness verbally, but this might be enough to reassure them – although it felt like a strange gesture of appreciation when they were doing the work!
The clear-winged one’s little female partner today wore a yellow flower on her head, behind her antennae, its stem woven lightly into her plaits, somewhat like a lopsided hat. Whitesides stroked a curious finger over the little mop of petals. Something about it stirred a residual memory fragment – something that he’d written to his long-term memory, but which still lurked in his short-term buffer, not yet written over. Flau for m’muh. Something small and pink and excited, squeaking incomprehensibly. He propped his head on one hand, and pursed his lips, grimly. What did it mean?
The small female seemed to pick up on his sombre mood, and its possible cause; her antennae flattened, and she removed the flower from her hair, tucking it behind her. She squeaked something he didn’t understand, but the rhythm of the chirps led him to think it was a question. He smiled, reassuringly, carefully picked up the flower and set it back on her head. It is not your decoration that has upset me. It is something else that bothers me, although I have no definition for it.
* * * * *
Jazny was returning from his small garden, high in the rocks on the borders of the colony, with a selection of small fruits in his satchel when he bumped into Five. The royal guard looked particularly unfriendly today, his small dark scales all puffed out, making him look as prickly as his usual manner.
Before he could pass, Five caught his arm and steered him roughly away. “You need to find yourself a better outlet for your interests, aberrant,” he said, gruffly. “You are having an inappropriate degree of contact with the monarch’s daughter, and it will cease henceforth.” He waved a finger close to his face, threatening. “You know the rules, and you know your place. You are knowingly overstepping your boundaries.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Jazny squeaked, trying not to let his voice scale off into incomprehensible high-pitched clicking. “The monarch herself tasked me with looking after our guest. I will not be able to do so when madame Minuet is close by, if I follow your decree.” Bravely, he added; “if you wish me to stay clear of our lady’s favoured daughter, you will need to instruct her to stay clear of our guest.”
Five’s glare deepened and his wings hiked, threateningly. “Impudent wretch. How dare you speak to me like that!” he snapped. “You are still aberrant, and still easily replaced. Do not allow yourself to think that the monarch’s favour will save you from exile, because you still have the capacity to outstay your welcome.”
“But you give me no chance to explain my situation-”
“What is there to explain?! You are fraternising with a social group far above that which you are even entitled to speak to!”
One of the colony’s messengers saved Jazny from further chastisement. A bold blue and white in colour, with an embroidered bag for her letters strapped firmly around her upper body, she approached hesitantly, from the direction of the tunnel mouth and the outside. “S-sirs?”
“Can it not wait, Meadow?” the guard snapped, switching anger that had previously been directed at Jazny onto her instead. “You can already see I am busy.”
The messenger cringed under Five’s glare, and slicked back her antennae, but didn’t back away. “It is important, sir. We’ve just received word of another disappearance, sir. From the next colony over?”
“And why is that of importance to us?” Five challenged.
“The missing individual is one of Minuet’s sisters.”
Five straightened up, awkwardly. “Madame Brushfoot?”
The messenger bobbed her antennae. “Yes, sir.”
Minuet’s oldest sister might not be the most exotically-marked of all her clan, being a plain chocolate-brown all over, with lightly-speckled blue wings, or the sweetest of voice – her tones were a little gruff, all things told – but she was certainly recognised as the most just and sensible of her siblings. She was popular, too. Her disappearance was more than just a worry.
“Do they have any idea where she might be?” Five wondered, turning his back on Jazny – the aberrant was the least of his worries. “Whether anyone else might have been involved?”
“No, sir. Just that she was there, and-... well... then she was not.” Meadow spread her hands.
“Holes,” Jazny commented, softly.
“What?” Five shot him a glare, but didn’t tell him to be quiet. “Holes in what?”
“Holes in reality,” Jazny repeated, more confidently. “Allowing passage of creatures from one world to another. It would explain the disappearances. It may also explain where our guest came from.”
Five narrowed his eyes and snapped his wings. “Nonsense. There are no such things as holes.”
“Then perhaps you have a better explanation?”
Five bristled, caught out – he was a warrior, not a thinker, and he had no better explanation to use to insist his malformed rival be silent. “We will investigate,” he decided, after a frantic second looking for something to offset his irritation. “And ‘we’ does not include you, Clearwing. Go tend to your pet. And be warned, if I see any more inappropriate contact with Minuet? I will personally see you exiled.”
* * * * *
Lancet peeked through the door into the spare room, where the triplets had been playing, using his berth as a trampoline. Everything had been quiet for a few minutes, and he hoped they’d finally worn themselves out and dozed off.
The little bits went through stages – exited, exhaustive play first thing in the morning, so by the middle of the day they were completely worn out and had to go and nap for an hour or two, to defragment out their small memories. After that, and after a little fuel to recharge depleted motors, they’d be just as enthusiastic as they had been before their rest.
Sure enough, Stalwart and Lightstep were cuddled up together in a foil, fans humming softly, but Felicity was sprawled out on her own at the end of the berth, obviously having been having trouble going dormant. He understood her problem – he himself was finding it difficult to engage his dormancy protocols, instead spending hours just staring at the ceiling and trying to work out where it had gone wrong.
He managed a tiny smile; the little femme was flopped out on top of Dog, in the middle of a nest of craft materials. Spread out in a circle around the sleeping infant were a handful of old pens and scraps of paper; amongst the detritus, however, was a small hard-backed black book. The lettering was too small to read at this distance, even using increased magnification, but he knew what it would say – ‘Blink’s Journal, keep out!’, written in the special pearlescent pen she’d been given by one of Slipstream’s friends, in the colour that matched her own plating. Organic squiggles of green pen surrounded the text.
Where Fliss had found it, he had no idea. He was relieved that she had found it, because when-… when Blink came back-… The idea that his little girl had run away made him hurt, inside. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, feeling like a lump of hot lead had been plopped down in his chassis.
When Blink came back, she’d be pleased to have her book again, he consoled himself. Might even believe Felicity hadn’t stolen it, or lost it on purpose. Might even – and fates preserve us, please – forgive her.
“All right, little ones. Time you retired to your own little basket, eh?” He gathered both the little boys up in one big sweep of his arms, and snuggled them carefully down in their berth. “Don’t want you rolling away, now, do we?” Stalwart stirred and lit his optics, albeit not for long, but Lightstep never even flickered.
His weight made the foam mattress shift beneath Felicity; she stirred and snuggled tighter around the well-loved soft toy, grumbling something clickily incoherent.
“Come on, Poppet.” Lancet stroked a hand across her small shoulders, and gathered her up out of the mess of pens and crayons and paper. “Bed for you, too.”
“...fine book,” she explained, sleepily, her little head bonking against his chassis as he carried her over to her cot. “Bink to come home now?”
What did a mech say in response to that? “Soon, Fliss,” he lied, but she seemed satisfied. “You tuck up with your sibs, first, eh?”
“Sta’war and Lizzy no leave,” she instructed, sleepily, burrowing under their blanket and snuggling down on Lightstep’s free side. Stalwart automatically stretched an arm over her.
His daughter’s sleepy words didn’t do anything to help the hot pain in his chest. The idea that they were scared of losing each other next...?
You ought to get yourself some rest too, while you’ve got the opportunity, Lancet reminded himself, turning away. They’re not going to be quiet for long, and you’ve not defragmented in days. It might help your mood.
...that’s if he could find anywhere to rest. His berth was still more of a playground than a place for emotionally-exhausted nurses to collapse and try and go dormant. He picked the little book out of the mess – to his daughter, it was a substantial block of paper, but it was more like a postage stamp in his large fingers – before sweeping the bulk of the old pens and crayons into the translucent purple plastic tub they’d previously been living in.
Instead of settling down to get a nap while the triplets were quiet enough for him to actually attempt it, Lancet sagged into a chair at the table in the kitchen area, trying to ignore the way his spark hurt. This couldn’t be why she’d run away, could it? Losing the journal? It was important, but... so was her family. Weren’t they? Or maybe this had broken the last cap on the well – losing the book was that last little bit of pressure that made the dam on her feelings break down, and prompted her to at last act on the flood of emotions pouring out.
Lancet knew he shouldn’t look inside, that she’d be mortally offended if she knew he’d peeked without her there to explain, and especially after he already knew she didn’t want people looking! But he had to just check, just quickly – partly out of curiosity, and partly needing to see if there was anything there that might indicate why. If anything at all was going to give him a clue, it would be here. Blink rarely let anyone look into her journal, and certainly never if they’d not asked; she poured her feelings into it, carefully filling every last tiny space up with her thoughts and drawings. No wonder losing it had stressed her out.
He leafed carefully through the pages; a lot of it was drawings, like fantasy characters from her old storybooks, or pictures of things she’d been getting up to – helping Footloose with some gardening, or making a den with Skydash.
The last few pages were different – one was full just of words, the thoughts of a little spark who had lost a parent and feared him never returning. Concerns about the part she herself had played in his disappearance – was it my fault? Was I bad?
The last page of Blink’s work was comparatively simple. There was a little dark blue character in on corner, with its arm stuck out in a point, and a little pink character in the opposite corner, apparently walking away. The writing scribbled in heavy black pen at the top of the page was jagged and untidy in anger – and she must have been pretty furious, to have wasted a great swathe of her precious paper with nothing but big, hard lettering; sometimes I wish she would just go far away if she won’t be good. I always get the blame if she’s bad. It was at least partly hyperbolic – if Blink got in trouble for Fliss being naughty, it was usually when the older girl lost her temper with her sibling and started to misbehave herself.
Underneath that, a thin, spidery hand had written (in pink, naturally) but i lov yu be and drawn a little lopsided sad face.
The next couple of pages contained Felicity’s untidy work – including one particularly poignant image of two characters hugging. Each character was barely more than an abstract collection of blobs, but the colour of the blobs – one candy pink, the other a muted dusky blue – made the identity of each character pretty obvious. The enormous smile each wore was impossible to ignore, as well.
Bee come hom and am hapy, the wobbly pink handwriting said, its author not quite possessing the manual dexterity to keep it tidy (or the dictionary to spell quite right), yet. Iam sori for make bad. I lov siser. Come hom
When Celerity finally returned home with Skydash, it was to find Lance still sat at the table, his head propped in his hands, his face damp with tears he’d not bothered to wipe away.
~3858 words
“...ungh?” Prodded impolitely out of dormancy – when had the decision been made for him to recharge at the table, anyway? – Slipstream onlined his optics and lifted his head with a drowsy grunt, to see a dainty yellow arm come out of nowhere and pick up the clear plastic ‘pillow’ of green candies. “...whu-... whoa-... wait, waitasecond-...” He waved an arm, aimlessly, still not exactly awake and not really sure what he hoped it would do.
Sunspot thankfully got the message before diving in. “What’s the matter, Snarky?” She gave him a little flick round the back of the head. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna eat all of them before you get the chance to get your massive chompers around them.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He struggled a little more upright and gave his antennae a tug in an effort to wake himself up a little. “They’re not mine. They’re-... I think they belong to Whitesides.”
“Ooh, is he back?” She brightened, and threw up her hands in mock exasperation. “At flipping last! I’m gonna fragging kill him for scaring everyone like that-”
“Ah-... um, hey-... Sunny, Sunny-...” Slipstream winced, awkwardly. How to explain? Without making it sound like Sharp had snuffed him and stowed him in a box somewhere...?
She settled opposite him, her expression growing more serious. “He’s, ah... not back, is he?”
The constable shook his head. “No.”
“And these...?” She waved the package, making it rustle.
“They were handed in last night. Someone found his satchel down by the Rift.” Slipstream gestured to the plain fabric bag. “He wasn’t with it, so far as I can tell.”
“And they didn’t nab the contents? Impressive.” Sunspot plopped down in the seat next to him. “Couldn’t have been an Empty, eh? So who’s been sneaking around by the Rift? I didn’t think folk liked it down there. Too spooky, or something.” She wiggled her fingers for dramatic emphasis.
“People don’t like it because it’s unstable,” Slipstream corrected, good-humouredly. “They don’t want to fall in if they happen to walk on a crumbly bit.” What if that’s what happened? He’s fallen, which is why no-one can find him? It’s a very long way down, in places. He smoothed the fabric of the satchel between finger and thumb. Maybe we better go do a good thorough check of the floor of the Rift, to be sure...
A little hand waved in front of his face. “Snar-kee? You still in there?”
Belatedly, he realised Sunspot had been talking to him. “Huh?”
She was leaning her weight forwards onto her elbows, staring intently at him. “Come on, what are you leaving out?”
He pursed his lips, indignantly. “I’m not leaving anything out-”
“Pfft, you think I don’t know that face? That’s your I’m cooking up a useless and unbelievable lie to placate the masses with face.” She arched both brows at him. “Want to try again?”
Slipstream pouted, and folded his arms against the table. “It’s nothing important.”
“Sure, sure. And in the event that was actually y’know, true, you’d have no problem telling me, because it’s not important. Right?”
Slipstream sighed. Trapped again. How was it his father never let himself get caught out in his lies? “All right, I just-... didn’t want to upset you.” He huffed out warm air. “Sharpshins dropped it in last night, before you got in from the club.”
“Oh.” Sunspot glanced involuntarily around herself. “W-... was that all he wanted?”
“Apparently.” He watched her, carefully. Well, at least she wasn’t getting overwound about it.
“And...” She turned the parcel over slowly in her hands, watching the individual candies tumble quietly over each other. “...you think he might have had something to do with Whites going missing?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted. “I mean, I don’t want to think it but, uh... well, he had something to do with him going missing the first time, too. Right?”
“...did you ask him?”
Slipstream shook his head, tiredly. “He’d sneaked back off into the dark before I thought about it, and I’ve not seen him since. His locator is mostly unreliable.”
“Well, uh... I might know where to find him,” Sunspot admitted, quietly.
Slipstream turned to stare at her, blankly. “What?”
She directed her gaze back onto the little parcel of treats on the table, and shrugged with one shoulder. “I kinda... bumped into him, a couple of nights ago.” It took work to keep her voice from going quiet and mumbly. “While I was waiting for you.”
He straightened up in his seat, and observed, almost accusingly; “...that was who you left the fuel for?”
“Well it was more of a bribe to get him to go away.” She shrugged, and smiled, sheepishly. “Even though he didn’t take me up on it.” She paused, and added, for emphasis; “Snobby glitch thinks he’s too good for handouts, I guess.”
Slipstream arched a brow.
Great, now I must sound like I’ve got something to hide. “I’ve seen him lurking about round the club, since then,” Sunspot went on, trying to ignore her flatmate’s expression. “He helped direct me out of the ravine when I, uh... dropped my flask that time.”
“The time the bouncers decided tying a competent knot was beneath them?”
“That’s the one. I could have been wandering about down there for days, if I’d not bumped into him. I swapped him a glug from my flask for some directions.”
“We are talking about the same guy here, right?” Slipstream challenged, at last. “The one who used to freak you out so badly, you wouldn’t sleep in your own room and had to cook up an excuse to nap on Joyride’s armchair, every now and then?” He pointed a semi-accusatory finger. “Sounds almost like you’re flirting with him.”
“Oh, pssh. I hardly think bumping into him once or twice counts as flirting.” Sunspot shrugged, guiltily. “He’s a hungry useless Empty. He’s kinda... not so scary as he used to be, you know? When he was all clean and shiny – and not about to fall over because his tanks were empty – and had what felt like half the police supporting him? He was scary then. I used to believe he could do what he said he was gonna do. Now it’s more, I don’t know...” She waved her hands. “ ‘Sure, I’m scared. ‘Cuz you won’t immediately fall over, or anything’.”
“Methinks someone doth protest too much.”
“Point being, Snarky,” she elevated her voice just enough to be heard over him, “he’s been lurking around the club, and if you want to talk to him, you might be able to find him there. Take it or leave it.”
“If our guest wishes to become one of us,” the artist acknowledged, clambering her ungainly way up his arm, “even if only for a short time, until he is healed and can return to his own people? Then he most certainly shall not be made to wear shabby blobs of enamel.”
Demonstrating his usual patient good humour, Cenac had already stretched out on his front side on the floor, quite passively, allowing the handful of worker females to climb onto his back, armed with sticks of chalk. Apparently recognising it would take quite some time to complete, he folded his arms in front of him and pillowed his head against them.
Minuet settled cross-legged on the moss in front of him, her breakfast in hand, and perked her antennae forwards, cheerfully. “You are a strange one, Cenac,” she acknowledged, with a chuckle. “And if only we understood each other better! I am quite sure we would both have some interesting stories to tell each other.”
He smiled back, releasing a hand from his folded arms to stroke her arm, affectionately. It sounded almost as though he was purring – a soft, deep rumble that seemed to come from very deep in his chest.
“At least I can feel confident that you enjoy the attention!” she laughed. “I am glad you are friendly. I shall be sad to see you go, when we finally work out where you came from.”
It was a strange sensation, Whitesides acknowledged, having the little sentients scampering about on his back, mapping out a new paintscheme. Mostly it was tickly, where their fuzzy little two-toed feet touched, and almost irritatingly light and scratchy where they were drawing, although it was hard not to shiver, too, when one of the tiny artists decided that something wasn’t quite right and took a cloth to rub the chalk marks back out.
If only he had the capacity to arrange for a wash and polish on a more regular basis! Being attacked with a sudsy mop wasn’t especially pleasant; it did rinse away accumulations of dust and engine particulates, but usually also led to moisture in his venting. A good polish afterwards was a different matter entirely. He couldn’t quite keep himself from purring at the thought.
It was immediately clear when the artist had decided she was satisfied with the design, because the sensations changed, and not too subtly. The light, almost annoying touches had been replaced by the smoother, more serious (and cold!) strokes of a paintbrush loaded with enamel, mapping out the design and making the chalk marks permanent. A flicker of second thoughts bubbled up in his mind – was this a good decision, after all? Once they were finished, their marks would be spread permanently over his back, and nothing short of a scouring pad and solvent would remove them. He’d already checked the enamel over the dents on his chassis and it was good quality, scratchproof stuff.
It was a fair decision, he reassured himself. He just wanted to feel like he belonged somewhere. They may not have designed him, they may not know how to fix him, but for now, they’d welcomed him and seemed to enjoy his company. It frustrated him that he couldn’t show his appreciation of their kindness verbally, but this might be enough to reassure them – although it felt like a strange gesture of appreciation when they were doing the work!
The clear-winged one’s little female partner today wore a yellow flower on her head, behind her antennae, its stem woven lightly into her plaits, somewhat like a lopsided hat. Whitesides stroked a curious finger over the little mop of petals. Something about it stirred a residual memory fragment – something that he’d written to his long-term memory, but which still lurked in his short-term buffer, not yet written over. Flau for m’muh. Something small and pink and excited, squeaking incomprehensibly. He propped his head on one hand, and pursed his lips, grimly. What did it mean?
The small female seemed to pick up on his sombre mood, and its possible cause; her antennae flattened, and she removed the flower from her hair, tucking it behind her. She squeaked something he didn’t understand, but the rhythm of the chirps led him to think it was a question. He smiled, reassuringly, carefully picked up the flower and set it back on her head. It is not your decoration that has upset me. It is something else that bothers me, although I have no definition for it.
Jazny was returning from his small garden, high in the rocks on the borders of the colony, with a selection of small fruits in his satchel when he bumped into Five. The royal guard looked particularly unfriendly today, his small dark scales all puffed out, making him look as prickly as his usual manner.
Before he could pass, Five caught his arm and steered him roughly away. “You need to find yourself a better outlet for your interests, aberrant,” he said, gruffly. “You are having an inappropriate degree of contact with the monarch’s daughter, and it will cease henceforth.” He waved a finger close to his face, threatening. “You know the rules, and you know your place. You are knowingly overstepping your boundaries.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Jazny squeaked, trying not to let his voice scale off into incomprehensible high-pitched clicking. “The monarch herself tasked me with looking after our guest. I will not be able to do so when madame Minuet is close by, if I follow your decree.” Bravely, he added; “if you wish me to stay clear of our lady’s favoured daughter, you will need to instruct her to stay clear of our guest.”
Five’s glare deepened and his wings hiked, threateningly. “Impudent wretch. How dare you speak to me like that!” he snapped. “You are still aberrant, and still easily replaced. Do not allow yourself to think that the monarch’s favour will save you from exile, because you still have the capacity to outstay your welcome.”
“But you give me no chance to explain my situation-”
“What is there to explain?! You are fraternising with a social group far above that which you are even entitled to speak to!”
One of the colony’s messengers saved Jazny from further chastisement. A bold blue and white in colour, with an embroidered bag for her letters strapped firmly around her upper body, she approached hesitantly, from the direction of the tunnel mouth and the outside. “S-sirs?”
“Can it not wait, Meadow?” the guard snapped, switching anger that had previously been directed at Jazny onto her instead. “You can already see I am busy.”
The messenger cringed under Five’s glare, and slicked back her antennae, but didn’t back away. “It is important, sir. We’ve just received word of another disappearance, sir. From the next colony over?”
“And why is that of importance to us?” Five challenged.
“The missing individual is one of Minuet’s sisters.”
Five straightened up, awkwardly. “Madame Brushfoot?”
The messenger bobbed her antennae. “Yes, sir.”
Minuet’s oldest sister might not be the most exotically-marked of all her clan, being a plain chocolate-brown all over, with lightly-speckled blue wings, or the sweetest of voice – her tones were a little gruff, all things told – but she was certainly recognised as the most just and sensible of her siblings. She was popular, too. Her disappearance was more than just a worry.
“Do they have any idea where she might be?” Five wondered, turning his back on Jazny – the aberrant was the least of his worries. “Whether anyone else might have been involved?”
“No, sir. Just that she was there, and-... well... then she was not.” Meadow spread her hands.
“Holes,” Jazny commented, softly.
“What?” Five shot him a glare, but didn’t tell him to be quiet. “Holes in what?”
“Holes in reality,” Jazny repeated, more confidently. “Allowing passage of creatures from one world to another. It would explain the disappearances. It may also explain where our guest came from.”
Five narrowed his eyes and snapped his wings. “Nonsense. There are no such things as holes.”
“Then perhaps you have a better explanation?”
Five bristled, caught out – he was a warrior, not a thinker, and he had no better explanation to use to insist his malformed rival be silent. “We will investigate,” he decided, after a frantic second looking for something to offset his irritation. “And ‘we’ does not include you, Clearwing. Go tend to your pet. And be warned, if I see any more inappropriate contact with Minuet? I will personally see you exiled.”
Lancet peeked through the door into the spare room, where the triplets had been playing, using his berth as a trampoline. Everything had been quiet for a few minutes, and he hoped they’d finally worn themselves out and dozed off.
The little bits went through stages – exited, exhaustive play first thing in the morning, so by the middle of the day they were completely worn out and had to go and nap for an hour or two, to defragment out their small memories. After that, and after a little fuel to recharge depleted motors, they’d be just as enthusiastic as they had been before their rest.
Sure enough, Stalwart and Lightstep were cuddled up together in a foil, fans humming softly, but Felicity was sprawled out on her own at the end of the berth, obviously having been having trouble going dormant. He understood her problem – he himself was finding it difficult to engage his dormancy protocols, instead spending hours just staring at the ceiling and trying to work out where it had gone wrong.
He managed a tiny smile; the little femme was flopped out on top of Dog, in the middle of a nest of craft materials. Spread out in a circle around the sleeping infant were a handful of old pens and scraps of paper; amongst the detritus, however, was a small hard-backed black book. The lettering was too small to read at this distance, even using increased magnification, but he knew what it would say – ‘Blink’s Journal, keep out!’, written in the special pearlescent pen she’d been given by one of Slipstream’s friends, in the colour that matched her own plating. Organic squiggles of green pen surrounded the text.
Where Fliss had found it, he had no idea. He was relieved that she had found it, because when-… when Blink came back-… The idea that his little girl had run away made him hurt, inside. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, feeling like a lump of hot lead had been plopped down in his chassis.
When Blink came back, she’d be pleased to have her book again, he consoled himself. Might even believe Felicity hadn’t stolen it, or lost it on purpose. Might even – and fates preserve us, please – forgive her.
“All right, little ones. Time you retired to your own little basket, eh?” He gathered both the little boys up in one big sweep of his arms, and snuggled them carefully down in their berth. “Don’t want you rolling away, now, do we?” Stalwart stirred and lit his optics, albeit not for long, but Lightstep never even flickered.
His weight made the foam mattress shift beneath Felicity; she stirred and snuggled tighter around the well-loved soft toy, grumbling something clickily incoherent.
“Come on, Poppet.” Lancet stroked a hand across her small shoulders, and gathered her up out of the mess of pens and crayons and paper. “Bed for you, too.”
“...fine book,” she explained, sleepily, her little head bonking against his chassis as he carried her over to her cot. “Bink to come home now?”
What did a mech say in response to that? “Soon, Fliss,” he lied, but she seemed satisfied. “You tuck up with your sibs, first, eh?”
“Sta’war and Lizzy no leave,” she instructed, sleepily, burrowing under their blanket and snuggling down on Lightstep’s free side. Stalwart automatically stretched an arm over her.
His daughter’s sleepy words didn’t do anything to help the hot pain in his chest. The idea that they were scared of losing each other next...?
You ought to get yourself some rest too, while you’ve got the opportunity, Lancet reminded himself, turning away. They’re not going to be quiet for long, and you’ve not defragmented in days. It might help your mood.
...that’s if he could find anywhere to rest. His berth was still more of a playground than a place for emotionally-exhausted nurses to collapse and try and go dormant. He picked the little book out of the mess – to his daughter, it was a substantial block of paper, but it was more like a postage stamp in his large fingers – before sweeping the bulk of the old pens and crayons into the translucent purple plastic tub they’d previously been living in.
Instead of settling down to get a nap while the triplets were quiet enough for him to actually attempt it, Lancet sagged into a chair at the table in the kitchen area, trying to ignore the way his spark hurt. This couldn’t be why she’d run away, could it? Losing the journal? It was important, but... so was her family. Weren’t they? Or maybe this had broken the last cap on the well – losing the book was that last little bit of pressure that made the dam on her feelings break down, and prompted her to at last act on the flood of emotions pouring out.
Lancet knew he shouldn’t look inside, that she’d be mortally offended if she knew he’d peeked without her there to explain, and especially after he already knew she didn’t want people looking! But he had to just check, just quickly – partly out of curiosity, and partly needing to see if there was anything there that might indicate why. If anything at all was going to give him a clue, it would be here. Blink rarely let anyone look into her journal, and certainly never if they’d not asked; she poured her feelings into it, carefully filling every last tiny space up with her thoughts and drawings. No wonder losing it had stressed her out.
He leafed carefully through the pages; a lot of it was drawings, like fantasy characters from her old storybooks, or pictures of things she’d been getting up to – helping Footloose with some gardening, or making a den with Skydash.
The last few pages were different – one was full just of words, the thoughts of a little spark who had lost a parent and feared him never returning. Concerns about the part she herself had played in his disappearance – was it my fault? Was I bad?
The last page of Blink’s work was comparatively simple. There was a little dark blue character in on corner, with its arm stuck out in a point, and a little pink character in the opposite corner, apparently walking away. The writing scribbled in heavy black pen at the top of the page was jagged and untidy in anger – and she must have been pretty furious, to have wasted a great swathe of her precious paper with nothing but big, hard lettering; sometimes I wish she would just go far away if she won’t be good. I always get the blame if she’s bad. It was at least partly hyperbolic – if Blink got in trouble for Fliss being naughty, it was usually when the older girl lost her temper with her sibling and started to misbehave herself.
Underneath that, a thin, spidery hand had written (in pink, naturally) but i lov yu be and drawn a little lopsided sad face.
The next couple of pages contained Felicity’s untidy work – including one particularly poignant image of two characters hugging. Each character was barely more than an abstract collection of blobs, but the colour of the blobs – one candy pink, the other a muted dusky blue – made the identity of each character pretty obvious. The enormous smile each wore was impossible to ignore, as well.
Bee come hom and am hapy, the wobbly pink handwriting said, its author not quite possessing the manual dexterity to keep it tidy (or the dictionary to spell quite right), yet. Iam sori for make bad. I lov siser. Come hom
When Celerity finally returned home with Skydash, it was to find Lance still sat at the table, his head propped in his hands, his face damp with tears he’d not bothered to wipe away.
~3858 words
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