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Chapter 3
From the Machine
Klunk–clang
—the sound of rebar hitting the concrete floor, then a
thump
—the sound of Free also hitting the floor.
“Eh?” Free opened his eye to see that he wasn’t pierced like a shish kebab, instead in front of him was the back of a rotten clothed stranger who wielded heavy rusted gauntlets.
“Ay, red guy, you alright?” The stranger turned around, speaking in a cordial tone, and offered his hand to Free.
Free got up on his own, keeping a close eye on the stranger, “Who are you?”
The stranger chuckled, “Right, you must be an Alien, makes sense that you don’t know me, pardon my manners.”
Another spear of rebar soared at Free, the stranger caught it with ease then smirked, “The name’s Silk, aka the guy who just saved you, twice, and yours is?”
“…Free, the Self-made Machine,” he looked behind Silk, seeing a rebar-wielding man clad in armor just like the guards.
“Oh, that’s Eight, sorry about his behavior, he’s just being a baby.” Silk turned around, catching another rod of rebar, “Come on Eight, I’m welcoming an Alien!”
Whatever Eight said in response was inaudible, he was too far away to be heard, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t pleasant.
Free scooted back, “Obviously, I’m interrupting something here, so I’ll just make my leave.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Silk readjusted his gauntlets, “You should probably go grab your companion then, they seem to think differently.”
While Silk and Free were having a chat, Frost had sneaked up behind Eight and tackled him, pinning him to the ground as they struggled for control, before being kicked off and sent flying towards the other two—landing feet first next to them.
Frost unsheathed their knife as they stared at Eight, who was now rapidly advancing towards them, “Are you alright, Free?”
“Are
you
alright, Frost?!” Free noticed that Frost’s stance was unsteady.
“I will manage.” Frost turned their gaze to Silk, “May I have your name?”
“Name's Silk. Nice to meet you Frost.”
“Likewise,” Frost turned their gaze back to Eight, “Mind if I lend a hand?”
“I don’t mind, helps always welcomed—just try to keep up,” Silk said before kicking the ground—flinging a chunk of stone into the air and then punching it forwards—towards Eight, then running right behind it.
Before Frost could run in as well, Free jumped in front of them, “Frost, No. Not today."
“…”
“As
you
said, ‘we are running on borrowed time.’”
“…I will be quick then.”
“Dude—"
And with that, Frost dashed after Silk, leaving Free in preverbal and literal dust.
“…Whatever,” Free sighed.
As Frost caught up, Silk and Eight collided, the ground cracking as their weapons locked together.
“Not using Yard’s spear huh—Did you discard it like the rest of us?” Eight screamed as he pushed Silk back. “Seam, Hem, Yard, and I—all discarded just for your own selfish ideals,” he pushed even further, his eyes beneath his helmet glowing like wildfire.
Silk said nothing back, simply staring at Eight, which only angered him further—the joints of his armor glowing an intense emerald green.
“This world is over—its blood drained and heart left rotting!” Eight snarled. “Thirty years. Thirty years you have been in complete denial—and we only continue to suffer because of it!”
Suddenly Frost appeared from behind Eight—taking advantage of his focus on Silk, and slashing his left shoulder, but—without breaking eye contact with his nemesis, Eight struck Frost with his off hand during the split second they left themself open—flinging them back like a ragdoll.
But this retaliation left Eight’s unguarded for a moment, Silk using it as an opportunity to push back as he chuckled, “You know, now that you mention it, I did keep one thing—a Seam specialty.”
Out of thin air, glowing inscriptions materialized onto his gauntlets as the aurora in the sky glowed even brighter.
“Of course you would you little—” Eight jumped back as a blast of energy emitted from Silk, engulfing him and Eight, leaving a wide pit where they had clashed—like a hole was perfectly punched into the ground, and with both of them nowhere to be found.
Meanwhile, Free was tending to Frost, who he caught right before they hit the ground. During the fight Free had constructed a gilder out of rebar and trash bags, a better alternative than using his own energy.
“Come on, it’s clear the guards want Silk, not us. We can just wait this out someplace safe,” Free slinged Frost’s arm over his shoulder. “Where did those oldies go anyway—”
Silk and Eight reappeared in the middle of the sky, rapidly exchanging blows which kept them airborne with just their impact.
“Free,” Frost slowly pointed at Silk and Eight, “Fly me up there.”
“Frost. Dude. Buddy, you’re not about to die because of some oldies’ beef. I will fling you off this building myself if I need to,” Free dragged them towards the rooftop’s edge, which was a far distance away.
“Silk should be winning; Eight’s form is sloppy at best.”
Free glanced back to see that what Frost was saying was true, there were many times which Silk could have easily dodged or parried an attack but seemly chose not to.
“Yeah, Interesting,” Free half-heartedly replied, before suddenly Silk and Eight crashed into the ground—landing right in front of the pit they had created earlier and enveloping themselves in a thick cloud of smoke—which cleared as quickly as it formed, revealing… Silk on his knees, with Eight towering above him—holding a piece of rebar over his head, ready to deliver a killing blow—but he hesitated.
“…I miss when we used to fight over who got the last hash brown,” Eight spoke calmly, almost softly. “And when Seam was that genius kid full of potential, and not some forgotten corpse under the Dunes of Velvat. When Hem would show us all the cool animals he found. Remember when he told us he was going to record every living thing and put it in a book for everyone to read, so that they could see the world like he did?”
“Yeah. I do Eight, I remember,” Silk replied.
“Yard would have broken up this fight by now, if he was here. Probably tell us that we can compromise or show us another way, but I don’t think there is one, not this time.”
“Yeah, not this time,” Silk sounded bored, barely looking in Eight’s general direction.
“But…” Eight offered his hand, “It's not too late, you can join me, leave this trash behind, we can be a team again!”
“Would you look at that, it seems like they made up, or something—a perfect opportunity to leave,” Free continued to drag Frost, only to find that they were now not moving an inch.
When Free looked back, he saw that Frost’s eyes were devoid of light—replaced by a deep void as the air around them filled with a thin ice fog. He could hear Frost whispering something slowly under their breath, but it was too quiet to comprehend.
“Do you hear me? Let’s move!” Free pulled at Frost again, but they remained firmly planted where they stood, “What stake do even you have in this?”
Frost did not respond as icicles formed on their horns and the floor around them became covered in a thin sheet of ice which creeped outwards like strangler vines.
“Alright, fine. I can play this game,” Free took Frost’s arm off his shoulder and ran a far distance away from them. Then he lined himself up and sprinted directly towards them with just a simple plan.
He was going to drop kick some sense into Frost.
Neither Silk nor Eight noticed the other two’s shenanigans—still focused on each other.
In response to his offer, Silk gave Eight a puzzled look before laughing, “Naw, it wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“What?” Eight’s hand clenched into a fist.
The ice and snow thickened as Frost kneeled. Their whispers evolved into a slow chant. Free could not see Frost among the mist but could now hear them, although only fragments.
“…Mice…off…sleep,” It sounded like a gentle lullaby, yet each word ended harshly.
Using the frozen over ground to his advantage—Free slid across it, gaining further momentum.
Silk spread his arms wide before he collapsed further onto the ground, “It doesn’t matter, what will happen is what will happen.”
“Are you serious?” Eight’s rage returned, but it was still restrained—he was giving Silk one last chance.
“Yeah. What has your brain rotted, old timer?” Silk said mockingly.
The mist siphoned back into Frost—as Free leaped from his slide, angling his boots at Frost’s chest.
“…rest...,” the mist coiled around their arm as they reached out and their eyes glowed a pale blue.
Free realized in that moment, while he was soaring in the air only a few feet away from his target, that this idea was perhaps slightly flawed—but it was too late to back down now.
“Fine,” Eight raised his weapon, “Goodbye, Silk.”
“See you, pal,” Silk didn’t even look him in the eye, instead he looked towards the aurora above, which had grown faint, flickering like a dying light.
After one last breath, Eight slammed the rebar down onto to Silk’s head—
Clank
—Eight’s strike was stopped, creating shockwaves which cracked the ground and cleared the air of ice and dust. Right between Eight and Silk was a fluffy tail which shined with a honey-colored light.
The tail belonged to a small creature cloaked in black who wore a long tri-ended scarf that flowed in the wind. Its head was a sharp abstraction of a fox’s, with fur made of metal that glowed like its tail, and eyes with split red pupils and sclera as black as the starless sky.
While the creature was somehow able to stop Eight’s strike—it could not hold its ground, the force from the attack flinging it back—its arc leading directly into the pit.
Frost’s eyes suddenly returned to normal as the mist around their arm instantly dissipated and they dashed towards the creature, clearing an impossible distance in mere moments, and tackling it—causing Free to miss his dropkick.
As Free landed back onto the ground, he nabbed a stray piece of rebar and planted it into a crack within the floor, using it as a pole to redirect his momentum, making a complete U-turn as he returned to sliding across the ice—seeing Frost reach for the pit’s edge with the creature in their arms.
But Frost missed by just a hair.
With the pit’s walls being perfectly smooth, there was nothing else to grab onto as they fell. Thinking quickly, they cradled the creature, in a last-ditch effort to protect it from the inevitable impact of the fall.
“Frost!” Without hesitation, Free hastily conjured his wings—manifesting as deformed and semi-solid but functional for what he needed. He thrashed his wings into the ground, increasing his speed even further, then diving after the two—just for a chance of grabbing them and slowing their fall.
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