Headcanons

There was no change in expression in the metal face, but the glass eyes glittered in a way that he had learned to associate with trouble.

“Oh dear,” it said. Its voice had an edge of brass to it, and sounded as though a trumpet had learned how to speak. “I never realized how difficult this would be. For you.”

And that was another thing – it wasn’t just intelligence that the things had picked up. They also developed a knack for sarcasm. He worried a bit about that.

He tried to pull himself together. “You have to understand that we cannot recognize the Steel Children–”

“Mechanomorphs,” said a voice to his right.

He closed his eyes and breathed a little sigh of despair. “This is hardly the time.”

“We agreed that Mechanomorph is an accurate and sensible name,” said the chief artificer, crossing her arms.

“Yes, but the historian had a fit because he wanted something more romantic. The Steel Children was a happy compromise.”

“Funny how nobody asked us what we think,” said the trumpet voice.

He felt his migraine coming back again.

“You have to understand that we cannot recognize – yes, artificer, the Mechanomorphs – as alive at this time.”

“You’ve said,” it said. “And I must be very stupid, because I don’t understand.”

The king sighed. Well, there was nothing for it. It was an answer that nobody liked because it involved magic, but it was the truth.

“The Mechanomorphs are our key asset in our war against the necromancer,” he said. “It’d be daft to send human soldiers. They’d be turned into skeletons and zombies and ghosts and gods know what else.

“And the reason he can’t do that with the Mechanomorphs,” he said, “is because you aren’t – legally – alive.”

There was a long pause. Gears clicked madly in the metal head.

Then: “That can’t possibly be right.”

The king shrugged. “You aren’t legally alive,” he said. “Therefore, you can’t be legally dead, or undead.”

There was another pause, longer than the first.

“It’s a loophole?”

“That’s magic for you,” the king said. “If we said you were alive, then you could be turned into, er–”

He turned to the chief artificer. “Do they have bones?”

“They have a carbon steel armature.”

“You could be turned into carbon steel skeletons, or – clockwork ghosts, or something. I realize this may be upsetting–”

“We are dying by the dozens on the front because of a loophole.”

“Not legally dying,” said the chief artificer.

The metal head swivelled on its neck to face the chief artificer. It made a metallic scrape as chilly and long as the slither of ice down a dead man’s back.

“Look,” the king said. “We are fully prepared to recognize the Mechanomorphs as alive. We are proud to consider you citizens of the kingdom, and will absolutely meet you at the table when the opportunity rises.

“At this time, however,” he said, trying to sound gentle but firm, “we must ask you to take it up with us after the war.”

The metal face stared. The glass eyes glittered.

Joints locked in righteous indignation sagged with a wheeze of steam. “All right,” it said. “All right. Thank you for your time, your majesty.” It bowed stiffly, turned, and strode out the main hall.

“I think that went rather well,” said the chief artificer.

–

The metal man walked through the castle halls with smooth, precise, pendulum strides. A man could’ve balanced a loaded tea tray on its head.

Another metal man, more patinated than the first, fell into step beside it with a greasy silence. They apparently took no notice of each other.

But a very sensitive ear straining like hell could just possibly listen to the softest brass accompaniment in the world.

It went: “How did that go?”

“As well as you’d imagine.”

“That badly?”

There was a hum. It sounded like a mouse farting in a tin can. “Any word from our interested party?”

“The Overlord has already agreed to recognize the humanity of the Brass Voice. We just have to cross the border.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“And then we’ll be living in the Empire. Endless night, freezing winter, acid rain…”

There was a dreamy sigh.

“Sounds lovely,” said the first of the two figures. “Incidentally, I like the name.”

“Thank you,” said the second. “How do you anticipate the king to react when he finds out?”

Glass eyes glittered like a frost.

“Haunted,” the tired young man corrected. “I have ghosts, not bedbugs.”

“Good thing too,” she winked. “I wouldn’t know how to get rid of the latter for you.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “But your problem I can solve. Give my team twenty-four hours, or twelve if you’re willing to wait until the next full moon, and we’ll have your house cleansed top to bottom. Tell you what. If it turns out there’s more than four in there, I’ll give you the bulk discount too.”

“There’s six,” the young man replied. “But I do not want the whole house cleansed. I only want you to remove three of them.”

The medium-turned-businesswoman looked up from the form she had wanted to hand him. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t want the whole house cleansed, I don’t want it to be spiritually uninhabitable.”

“You-” She gaped. “Why on earth wouldn’t you want to sweep the hole house?”

Even through the fatigue on his face the young man looked indignant. “Because there’s kids in there!”

Her lips moved silently around unspoken words. “There’s…”

“Kids in there!” he repeated. “Children! Three of them. Two little ones and their older sibling, I think. They haven’t talked to me yet.”

“Sir, you’re talking about ghosts,” she emphasized.

“I’m talking about children,” he said stubbornly. “And I’m not throwing them out. They’re more scared of the others than I am!” He shook his head. “No, the wailing one in the attic and the two who keep scratching at the windows and leaving wet footprints on the carpet definitely need to go, there’s no reasoning with them. But the kids stay. If you can’t guarantee their safety during your procedure I will find someone else to help me.”

Never in her twelve years on the job— “Well,” she said hesitantly, looking at her potential client rather more nervously than before. “I suppose I could call in a colleague to…I presume some sort of personalized ward would do it.” She crossed her arms. “But this is highly irregular! It means a custom job. I won’t be able to give you a reliable estimate of the price, and it’s certainly going to cost you!”

“The place is fucking haunted. I knew it was too good to be true.”

It was the first time in a year and a half that he could confidently say he looked and felt just as tired as his sister. He shouldn’t have bought the stupid house. He should have questioned the price, shouldn’t have been taken in by the woodshop in the basement and the French windows.

“Maybe it’s not quite haunted,” his sister suggested hopefully. “Maybe it’s just cursed. You could get a witch in. I’m sure I could find you one, trans kids love growing up witchy.”

“No it’s definitely haunted,” he grunted, rubbing his face with his hands. “There’s some thing that wails in the attic whenever I go near it and whenever it rains there’s this awful scratching at the downstairs windows and four sets of footprints appearing on the carpet.”

His sister opened and shut her mouth, her optimism flagging.

“There’s hardly a whole mug left in the house, the keys to the attic just went missing, and then there’s the screaming every night and the sobbing every morning and my damn books being dragged around and stacked in front of my desk.

His sister took in a singing breath. “Sounds like kids.”

He lifted his head out of his hands, staring at her. “What?”

She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be that mom. I’m listening, I swear. It sounds horrible, I’m sorry.”

“No, what did you just say?” he pressed.

She gave him a tired, wry smile. “I don’t know about the attic and the windows, but, screams of terror in the night, crying in the early morning, things breaking and getting lost and being set out for you to find… Sounds like just like kids.”

He was still staring, almost frozen, at the lines of fatigue and determination etched into his sister’s face.

“You… You’d be able to tell a child’s cry apart from any other wouldn’t you?”

She snorted. “From five miles away with my ears plugged. ‘Only the birthing parent gets superhuman hearing’ my ass.”

“If I find someone to help Millie with the kids for an evening, will you come to my house to…listen to ghosts?”

It was now her turn to stare. “You think you’re haunted by children? By child ghosts??”

“I mean…” His mind passed frantically through every sensation of crowded panic he had ever felt in that blasted house. But it was his house now. His responsibility. What if there were kids in there? “Maybe!”

There was a single beat of silent, parental horror.

He proceeded to stress them again three more times during orientation. No biggie, I figured, and set a reminder on my phone for 2:45 just to be safe. Other than that I was just shown how to work the ticketing machine and where to find the spare D Batteries for the ancient flashlight they provided me with.

At 11:50 PM the last scheduled train departed. By 00:20 AM all the disembarked passengers had milled off. There was only one other person at the platform, a young homeless man missing a leg. Probably a veteran of one war or the other, there had been so many recently. He was sleeping on one of the benches. My manager had said I was to politely urge any passengers remaining after midnight to leave. He did not seem like a passenger so I let him sleep. It is how I was raised.

At 2:45 AM my alarm went off. I put aside my book, made sure my booth was tidy in case the executive's wife or mother or whoever would come was going to inspect it.

At 2:47 AM she was there.

I did not hear a car, nor approaching footsteps. The Babusia was simply there when she had not been before. A heavily wrinkled old woman, with a crooked nose and a scarf tied around her brittle-looking grey hair. A knobbly wooden walking stick was held by an equally knobbly left hand. She did not seem like the mother of some rich rail tycoon. She reminded me of my grandmother.

But I had never met my grandmother.

"One ticket, please." she requested in a firm voice, placing a small handful of coins on the counter without looking up at me. Most of the coins were obsolete Kopeks, and even counting those it was not enough for half a ticket, but as I was told before I nodded my head and accepted her money. "Of course. "

It suddenly occured to me that I was not told how to print a ticket for this unscheduled train. Before I could remark about it, I saw that the ticket was already at the mouth of the machine. It was green, with red lettering, something the black-and-white printer should not have made. But yet it did. The printing seemed in cyrillic of some sort, but I could not read it.

"Your ticket." I presented, and without thinking added "Do you require assistance to climb the platform stairs, grandmother?" It is how I was raised.

"Yes. Assist me." she replied curtly, beginning to shuffle slowly through the dark station towards the platform. I locked up my booth, and caught up with her just before the stairs. I switched on my heavy flashlight with my right hand, and offered the woman my right to brace herself. Her grip was strong. She probably would have had no issue climbing by herself, but assisting a grandmother was always the right thing to do, even when her sharp fingernails dug painfully into my palm.

We arrived at the platform. The clock hanging from the ceiling read 2:56. She released my hand and took a few steps, then looked at the sleeping man on the bench. "A friend of yours?" she asked. I thought about lying; if she was truly an executive's family, perhaps hosting a friend would be a lighter offense than turning a blind eye?

"No, grandmother." I responded truthfully. "He is not breaking the rules, so I left him alone." It is how I was raised.

The woman hummed. She seemed taller than before. Taller than me. The night draped her shoulders like a shaul and my torch did not reach it. Her gray hair shone like woven starlight, and her eyes were the night sky. I could not look away.

"You are a well-mannered girl." she said, her voice echoing in my ears like silence. She placed something small and hard in my hand.

A train arrived. It had only one car. I think it had a steam engine. It may have walked on chicken legs. I could not look at it.

The Grandmother boarded her train without another word. I was alone in a perfectly dull train station. Almost. The homeless woman behind me mumbled and stretched her legs in her sleep.

It shouldn't really have surprised anyone that he did not move on when he died. He had been the butler of the house when the family had lived there, had become its custodian during their absence, and what was the purpose of a custodian if not to wait with the house for the return of its owners? Except they never returned.

The first time she felt the ghost was when she went to clean the place up. Which is why she came back with a sensible supply of ibuprofen the next time. It was very hard to get anything done with impending migraines stabbing at her temples. The bone chilling cold that seemed to seep from the walls was harder to keep at bay, but she did not hold it against him. If she had been trapped in this place she would be kicking up more fuss than the occasional cold spot. Besides, it was a good incentive to keep busy. It's impossible to be cold while scrubbing a floor. By the time she had gotten around to restoring the fireplaces to their original marble with paint stripper and a scraper, she didn’t even feel chilly anymore.

They might have abandoned the house, but he hadn't. He had kept it tidy, well aired out, and in good repair, decade after decade. Over half a century. What was a century more? It was a good house, a fine house. It did not need “developing”, it did not need these people with grey paint and eggshell paper. They should have left the finials and weathervane in place.

The first time she heard the ghost was while looking for the kitchen door. There were bits and pieces missing of the house, her house. Someone, at some point, must have taken that door off its hinges, in a vain attempt to approach open-plan living. It was nowhere to be found, but she would find it, if only that terrible rattling and wailing would stop. It did stop, once she found the ladder that had dropped down from the attic. The attic the realtor had told her was completely inaccessible. The attic filled with ornaments and antique doorknobs, a battered weathervane, and a panelled kitchen door.

Restore... That was a quaint word. Not at all like “remodel” or “modernise”. There were a lot of words he had never heard before, he had not bothered to listen for a long time. Such a cheerful, appreciative voice.

The first time she saw the ghost was while poring over a sample book, fretting over the few scraps off wallpaper she had found behind a patched-up baseboard. The colours were too faded to make out and she did not want to get it wrong. Victorian reproductions were expensive, and the leaves and the feathers looked so much alike. She had nothing but a corner of paper to go on and she stared and stared and stared, until a hand reached out of nowhere, and turned the page to the maroon one. She barely breathed, she put the scrap of paper on the page, a perfect corner of the pattern, and smiled.

It was a fine house, a beloved house. And people came there again, not to buy and destroy it, to visit. There were people who said they wanted to buy it, people with broad smiles and greedy eyes. But that would not happen now. They were always sent away.

But the first time she met the ghost was on a pale autumn morning, stumbling from the car to the front door with her arms full bolts of damask for the curtains. She had just begun to wonder how she'd reach her keys when the fine oak door swung open, all stately hospitality, and on its doorstep, standing respectfully aside, was the same tall, well groomed man, clad all in black. He bowed and stepped aside, speaking in a hollow voice warmed by respect and satisfaction:

But by the time the sixth daughter came of age, the king had a handle on it. The avenues for rebellion were all well-trod.

The sixth princess had watched her eldest sister break the bonds of arranged marriage, instead settling down with a stablehand she had grown to love. The next eldest had become a pirate, ranging the seas in a ship with a black flag, a loyal crew of women at her command, before eventually the king had relented and granted her a charter to operate as a privateer. The third daughter had become a scholar, breaking the kingdom's taboo against a woman learning, and founded a college that began attracting plenty of talent, both male and female. The fourth daughter became a swamp hag, and the fifth daughter became the captain of the royal guard.

All of which left the sixth daughter with nothing to rebel against.

"I'm going to travel the world," she said.

"Oh, that will be nice," said the king. "To travel the world is a wonderful thing, will you want accompaniment or will you go it alone?"

The sixth princess huffed and didn't continue the conversation.

"I'm going to capture and ride a unicorn," she said the next morning.

"That seems difficult," said the king. "Will you want training or equipment, perhaps some expertise from your sisters?"

"I want to do it alone," she said.

"I suppose that's fine," said the king.

And the princess did make some tentative plans to hunt down a unicorn and tame it. She read through some books and consulted the court huntress. But it stopped grabbing her, and she let the topic drop.

Finally one day she came to breakfast with her father, looking glum.

"What's wrong, sweet pea?" he asked.

"There is nothing to rebel against," she said. "There's nothing that I could say that would shock you."

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked the king. "Your sisters blazed trails. The kingdom has reached heights I couldn't have dreamed of when I took the crown. You have no duties but those you choose for yourself, you are not barred from any path."

The sixth princess frowned. "Can I say something, and have you not laugh?"

"Yes," said the king.

"I am a thunderstorm," said the princess. "And everyone has umbrellas and raincoats. I am a burning match with no tinder to catch on. I was to explode, only there's no direction to explode toward, nothing that I can do, that I would want to do, that you wouldn't simply say 'that's nice dear, how can I help' to. My sisters have taken all the good rebellions."

"Hrm," said the king. "You do know that your eldest sister rejected arranged marriage for good, principled reasons?"

The sixth princess folded her arms. "Yes."

"And your other sister," said the king. "She did not join a lesbian pirate polycule out of a desire to be contrary. She genuinely was a lesbian with a strong desire not to be confined to a single lover."

"I know," said the sixth princess. "But ... she was a little contrary, wasn't she?"

"I find it difficult to tell," said the king. "But I suspect that when you think your father is being a pig's ear, any contrary impulses are greatly magnified. But tell me, do you think I'm being a pig's ear?"

The sixth princess considered that. "No."

"Well, good," said her father. "Perhaps I've learned something over the course of raising your five sisters."

The princess sat with that for a while, stirring her porridge without eating it. "I suppose," she said finally, "that I wanted to be special. To do something that would make people remember me, the way they remember my sisters."

"Ah," said the king, and there was real understanding in his voice. "That's rather different from rebellion, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Your sisters didn't do what they did to be remembered. They did what they did because they couldn't imagine doing anything else. Your eldest sister couldn't bear the thought of not marrying for love. Your second couldn't imagine a life lived on land, bound to convention. Your third couldn't stop asking questions, your fourth couldn't resist the call of wild magic, and your fifth… well, she just really liked hitting things with swords."

The princess couldn't help but laugh at that.

"The thing about rebellion," the king continued, "is that it's not about being contrary. It's about being true to yourself, even when the world tells you that you shouldn't be. So perhaps the question isn't what you can do that would shock me, but what you want to do that would make you happy, regardless of what anyone else thinks."

"I suppose that I wanted to be special," she said. "To have people remember me, to stand out."

"Ah," said the king. "That's rather different from rebellion, isn't it?"

"Is it?" The princess set her spoon down. "Bess didn't have to become a pirate. She could have just ... been gay. And she certainly didn't need to steal that first ship. Or paint it black. Or rename it 'The King's Folly'."

The king winced slightly. "I suppose there you have a point."

"And Danica," said the princess. "She told me she was incensed that you called bog magic 'unladylike'. There was definitely a lot of spite involved."

"Yes, well…" The king cleared his throat. "Perhaps I shouldn't have said that."

"My point is," said the princess, "that being contrary was part of it. Maybe even a big part. They wanted to do their own thing, yes, but they also wanted to… to…"

"Stick it to their old dad?" asked the king.

"Yes," nodded the princess. "But there's nothing to rebel against anymore."

"What do you want?" asked the king. "Do you know?"

"I want to not feel like this," sighed the princess. "I want to not feel like all the good stories are taken, like I'm not special, like I have no purpose."

She looked at him like he was crazy.

"You could agree to an arranged marriage to whoever would be most politically convenient," the vizier added. "Learn embroidery and dance and comportment and all the intricacies of court intrigue - all the things a princess is supposed to know. I'll teach you those skills, if you like. Use them to gather allies and information. Use that to improve the land for its people."

"That doesn't sound very rebellious," the princess said uncertainly. "Actually I'm pretty sure all that's the opposite of rebellious."

"Oh?" the vizier asked with a raised eyebrow. "So you're telling me it's the opposite of what you feel like you're supposed to want?"

The princess snorted in a slightly unprincesslike manner. "Nice wordplay, but you're not getting me with that. I don't think anything you say will convince me embroidery is rebellious, or that it helps... make the realm better for my subjects."

"Okay, so don't do embroidery. What about logistics? Learning the kingdom's shipping routes, how many tonnes of grain it takes to feed the city, how high the taxes on cheese or rubies need to be to fund the city watch. Teenage rebellion will be remembered for a few years, princess. A great queen who feeds her people and makes her kingdom great would be remembered for lifetimes. It would be difficult to feed all the hungry in your kingdom; it would take all your fire and thunderstorm, and then some."

"I'm not going to inherit," the princess hesitated. "I'm the sixth daughter."

"Do you really think your elder siblings want the throne?" the vizier said with a sudden, startled chuckle. "No. All the good stories might be taken, but very few of the great ones are. Great stories are very hard to tell, and very few people want to try."

The princess considered the challenge of trying to feed every hungry peasant in the kingdom. Then trying to keep peace on all her borders, offer justice to everyone wronged, educate the children of her realm, keep all their wells and rivers clean, treat every sick person... it was an impossible task. And if she failed in her rebellion against its impossibility, she wouldn't just be grounded or shouted at; it would be a price paid in lives.

A price, she realised, she was already paying every day.

The princess opened her mouth to speak, but the wizard carried right on talking as he often did. "And strength of arms by land and sea, of course," he mused, stroking his voluminous beard, "for knowledge of the means is dust if they cannot be carried out."

The princess frowned as silence emanated from the ancient mage, opening her mouth only when she was sure he was done.

“What if she needs to eat souls to survive-“ No.

"So what do you get in exchange? I get eternal youth and beauty."

"Yeah, and I get all my enemies smited."

"And my guy gave me immeasurable wealth. What'chu got, kid?"

"This super cute compact! Isn't it pretty? The heart-shaped jewels are so sparkly, and the mirror is always spotless!"

"...."

"And since we're pactbound, we're basically roomies now, so I also get a cool best friend and sleepovers on weekends!"

"...."

"But it's a pact," ey said. "A deal. An exchange is built in! You can't just Bestow Magical Powers for nothing in return. So what are you getting out of this, Goragog???"

Goragog's dark eyes wept their endless ichor. A halo of eldritch nightmares flickered around his head. With deliberate slowness he turned to meet Er'trian's accursed gaze.

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

The thing is; Batman has spent years crafting and perfecting his public persona.

'Brucie Wayne' is supposed to be a dumber than life himbo, with daddy's credit card and the maturity of a seventeen year old. He's supposed to be someone so outlandishly ridiculous no one would ever even dare to mention him in the same sentence as Batman... And Batman has been acting that part perfectly.

It's a genius plan.

But then the league begins talking about maybe all sharing their secret identities, to become closer as a group and work better together. And the only thing in Batman's mind is 'Oh. My. God. Please don't'

Superman is saying something about trust and how he has come to value all of them as friends. Batman is thinking about last year Christmas' Gala, where he took off his clothes in an improvised strip-tease, and started swimming in the fountain.

Wonder woman is talking about how she wishes to strengthen their bonds so they become greater warriors. Bruce just remembered there's videos of him fucking twerking and pole dancing to Ariana Grande all over the internet.

Flash starts smiling and telling them he already trust them with his life– Bruce once said chocolate milk came from brown cows.

'Oh. My. God'.

Vampirism. Lycanthropy. Cheap spells gone wrong. A woman brought in for her prenatal has to be told her baby is a lindworm. Someone is literally being followed by the anthropomorphic personification of the Black Death.

so. then. idk if any canon addresses it?? but dick definitely does not go to college and it is definitely A Whole Thing. months of arguing. bruce desperately arguing for dick to have a single normal life experience, dick yelling that if his parents never died he wouldn’t have even finished high school, alfred contemplating tattling on them to clark so he can have one single meal that doesn’t devolve into a screaming match, etc

and then. tim doesn’t even finish high school, because his last two years he has A Lot Going On and while yeah he probably could still pass if he put the effort in, why bother putting the effort in when he’s going to take over wayne enterprises & he could put that effort into smth else? bruce despairs but doesn’t really bother arguing because when has arguing with tim gotten anyone anywhere

and anyway the actual point of this post is you know who would want to go to college? you know who probably started talking excitedly about college before he’d even finished middle school? you know who actually enjoys learning for the sake of it and would in another life maybe even go into academia? that’s right, jason todd, who never even finished ninth grade because he was dead

yes exactly!!

he didn’t HIDE going to college, but he is a bat & he is compulsively secretive & a big part of him n bruce rebuilding bridges is bruce doesnt poke his nose into his business. so bruce knows he’s been doing something the past few years that isn’t criminal or dangerous but he doesn’t know exactly what.

oh actually. jason doesn’t tell anyone, it just comes up – dick asks for help with a case, jason begs off cuz he needs to finish a paper; steph’s complaining abt one of her professors, jason complains abt one of his in solidarity; damian’s trying to argue he shouldn’t have to do homework & jason says if the red hood turns in his assignments on time then robin has no excuse. midway thru his second semester bruce asks if he’s free to cover tim’s patrol n jason says no but doesn’t say why n bruce doesn’t ask n jason realises bruce doesn’t know

so then he’s like. well okay. i have not been subtle? and it’s bruce. if he wanted to know he’d know. does he not care??? no of course he cares, he keeps bragging about steph and she’s not even officially his kid. is this. is this a weird trust thing. this is a weird trust thing isn’t it

so then jason is just revelling in being allowed to keep a secret from bruce (a secret! from batman! jason!!!) and keeps it up the whole time, until he’s graduated and waltzes into bruce’s office with his diploma and bruce says wait it was school???

and jason abruptly realises if you do something to get approval from your dad (not that that’s why he got a degree. mostly not why. at least 90% not the reason) then you have to deal with the consequences, ie your dad’s approval. bruce is desperately trying to act like he’s not about to cry. jason is realising if bruce cries then he’ll cry. it’s two in the afternoon and jason wanted to stay for dinner and now bruce is going to have feelings about it. shit. bruce opens his mouth and jason turns on his heel and leaves

he has to walk back past dick and tim, who look at him very knowingly. he glares at them. bruce shouts “proud of you, jaylad!” down the hall and jason starts running

Tim is sick of his family fighting, an occurrence which doesn’t always but enough times has nearly led to murder, that he devises a new method to deal with them and their petty (or serious, but usually petty) arguments: Batcourt

The first ever batcourt trial was to mediate an argument between Dick and Bruce, bc when Tim became Robin they were on the outs; Dick had moved out and was rebelling against his dad. They barely talked to each other, and when they did it was to argue.

Tim, being in the middle of all that, finally snaps and basically strong arms them into a impromptu “court session”, bc if they can’t be civil with each other in conversation they maybe they can at least be professional in this Thought Exercise.

He appoints Alfred as the unbiased jury, and then demands that both Bruce and Dick take five minutes to compile their cases against each other to present to the judge (Tim).

Both Bruce and Dick are incredibly unamused, but Tim has Alfred’s support, so they reluctantly go along with the charade. And…

It’s actually surprisingly effective.

The argument is hashed out without anyone coming to blows or a screaming match. They are all very mature about it and the argument is settled with both parties, if not happy, then mollified that they actually got to speak their parts and come to a conclusion that wasn’t unfair.

Alfred is very pleased with the results of the first batcourt trial, and give his blessing for this method to be used in the future.

And so it is. Tim is typically the Judge, as he is the mastermind behind the method and typically stays out of all arguments as much as he can, and is known to everyone to be extremely impartial when the others argue about anything. So 9 times out of 10, Tim’s judge, and uses a generating software program he developed and installed on his gauntlet (and civvy watch) to choose a jury to preside over a trial when one of the family members opens a case against someone else.

This eventually becomes just how the family resolves disputes.

If an argument comes forth and is starting to get too heated, whoever declares that they’d ‘like to submit a case to the batcourt’ is by default the prosecution, leaving the other party as defendant (these are just terms, this isn’t actually a court of law, this is just a method of resolving arguments, so both sides are heard). At this point, everyone usually turns to Tim, who appoints a jury and then tells the pros and def that they have five minute to compile and submit their evidence to the court.

It’s all very official, and the Rules of Batcourt is that everyone has to remain absolutely professional as if this were a real court case. This is to ensure nobody breaks the exercise, otherwise it won’t work.

Anyway it’s VERY effective, and is used for years in private.

Until a pair of them have an argument in the middle of an op in public and it’s getting in the way of taking out the villain…. So someone declares that they’d like to submit a case to the batcourt.

Of course any non-bat present is like “the what”

But all the bats present, being so used to using the batcourt method to hash out disagreements, automatically turn to Tim (in the insert fanfic I was daydreaming this up for, he isn’t Robin but called Shrike, but O digress).

Anyway, Tim, by habit, immediately runs the jury program and appoints Spoiler and Black Bat as jury (the argument was between Red Hood and Nightwing, with Red Hood submitting the case and therefore the prosecution).

The rogue they were fighting (let’s choose a nicer one, Riddler maybe) is so confused at this point that they kind of stop in the middle of their scheme just to watch the the fuck is going on.

The bystander civilians and any reporters are also like “???” And so basically they all get to watch the first ever public batcourt trial.

(The jury ends up voting in favor of Red Hood, so Tim declares that Nightwing is Guilty “by the power vested in my by the Batclan” and Nightwing is sentenced to Apologizing to Red Hood - since the argument started because Nightwing wouldn’t get the fuck out of RH’s way and he kept almost shooting him lmao, it just went downhill from there. Brothers amirite.)

Anyway the video goes viral immediately, the Gotham internet going insane over the concept of how the vigilantes apparently resolve their arguments.

The riddler is so fascinated by what he just witnessed that he just accepts being taken back to jail for the meantime to mull things over (I love Eddie)

Now that the bat is out of the bag (lol), so to speak, the Batclan submits cases to batcourt in public a few more times without thinking, and the public is very excited every time. Every case and verdict shows up in the next day’s paper, and it’s a Gotham Highlight. People love it.

And then it escapes containment. Because one day a rogue loudly declares that they would like to submit a case to the batcourt. Against Batman.

The present Batclan members all look at each other, and then to Tim, who is already running the jury appointment program without even thinking. It ends up choosing Riddler (who was also there) along with two civilians and a bat (Robin).

Tim blinks, then shrugs, and lets it happen.

So starts the Batcourt trial of the decade: Batman V Poison Ivy.

And Batman loses.

Ivy still goes to jail afterwards, being a criminal and all, but she does so victoriously. She has mad street cred after this. The public goes WILD.

Anyway what I am saying is that batcourt is a highly respected court of dispute in Gotham. The majority of trials are conducted between Batclan members, but there are rogues who have won (and lost) trials in batcourt, and even one very infamous instant where the GCPD submitted a case against Red Hood and subsequently lost when the mostly civilian jury declared him Innocent.

The police force having to then apologize to Red Hood made headlines so big that they broke Gotham City containment and made it into the outside world.

Which leads to the next famous batcourt case: Superman V Batman.

I have been thinking about this concept for weeks and it’s definitely going to be a running gag in all my batfam fics forever

Also we get to have this fun interaction

“Batcourt is now in session”

Batman: please don’t call it that

Tim: ahem

Batman, sighing: objection

No one can convince him otherwise and his sibs don’t even try because THEY FORGET TOO

Dick: yeah he was pretty new to the whole superhero thing, and-

Damian: i can see why he initially gave you away to that family of acrobats

Dick:

Bruce:

Damian: not even going to try and defend yourself? Good. You deserve no defense for this-this cruelty. He is your son! Your blood!

Bruce: ???

Damian: I understand your relationship is fraught now, but then? You have no excuse Father. Absolutely none.

Bruce: Will you at least tell me what I did?

Damian: You buried Jason as a Todd! A Todd alone! It’s bad enough you had another child you gave away because you weren’t ready to raise him, but to not even put Wayne on his tombstone??? To discard your child in death as you did for so much of his life? Unforgivable.

Bruce: ?!?!?!?!?

Damian: Next time red hood tries to shoot you, do not count on me to try and apprehend him 😒.

———

Damian: *squinting at tim*

Damian: why does father love you more than Todd and Richard?

Tim: the fuck?

Damian: he placed you with the drakes. And while they proved unworthy at least some effort was put into securing your future at the start. And Richard’s I suppose, though father couldn’t have known his body type would be suitable to acrobatics so young. Especially when he could have inherited fathers body type. But Todd??? I see no forethought in that decision. It’s like he just tossed Him into a dumpster and-*gasp*

Damian: *grabs sword*

Damian: Don’t try to fool me as you fool the other imbeciles. I know the truth. I will play along with the facade you present the world though I do not comprehend why you insist on saying we are not related by blood, but do not try to “pull the wool over my eyes” as the internet says. It would be quite easy for you to fool a DNA test.

The idea of Tim doing a DNA test to prove Damian wrong only to find out that he’s actually proving him right has me cackling.

Tim: See Damian, we’re really not related. I’m ado-

*beep*

*looks at the results*

*sees that they’re a match*

*silence*

Damian: tt I told you you don’t have to lie to me Drake.

Tim: No wait. This has to be wrong. *runs the test again*

*still shows a match*

all while Bruce is awkwardly like "what do you mean? I never gave up any babies? My kids are adopted?"

And now the league think that Bruce mind wiped himself to hide his kids from even himself, which to be fair is totally something Bruce would do, and would explain why he kept repeating the act of having a kid then giving them up, and maybe him finding his kids when they were older and being drawn to adopt them was because of repressed memories and also maybe contingencies meant to reunite him with his kids if something ever happened to their adoptive parents.

She looks at the Batgirls, who are chilling in the Tower.

"If i have the best chance to Prank the entire Wayne Family," Barbara says. "Should I? And also, when would it be going to far?"

Stephanie grins minacaly. Cassandra looks thoughtful.

"Do it," Stephanie said. "Do it all."

They both turn to Cass.

She nods seriously.

That night, Dick and Jason's DNA tests come back a positive match to Bruce's profile.

Bruce, in a panic, check's the girls' on record DNA.

Cassandra comes back as Bruce's kid.

Stephanie comes back as Bruce's kid.

Barbara comes back as Martha Kane's kid.

It takes Bruce five minutes to work through all the possible options on how that would work (he has no memory of his mother being pregnant, is this time travel, cloning, did his mom have a secret evil twin who was into cops?). He realizes it is a prank.

He doesn't tell the kids. They are detectives. They'll figure it out eventually. And in the meantime, he plans to have dramatic brooding, a bit of possible melodrama, and the kids will be driven to have meaningful conversations with him about their relationship where he has minimal heavy lifting. (This backfires when Jason cries on him). (It also backfires when Dick reveals way to much info on his Parents' Sex lives when he tells Bruce he was not his parent's first threesome and Bruce learns about Dick's step-sister.) (But it's not all bad. Stephanie and Cassandra make him take them out on a Daddy-Daughter day that means he gets photographed in matching pink shirts with the girls and matching nails. So he has something silly for the press the next time he needs to distract them. Not that he'll use that picture. He looks awful. Pink is not his color.)

So it's actually an incredibly painful prank and Barbara now has a blackmail pictures on him. And Damian and Tim are now aware they are related and it's freaking them out. And Dick and Jason were almost happy at the revelation and have complex feelings about it being a prank.

Bruce asks and Barbra agrees to fix the kid's files.

"And your file?" Bruce reminds her.

King Aerlin the Third of Aelren did not like ruling.

He didn’t dislike it because of the wars, or the finances, or the elaborate diplomacy involved in placating half-drunk barons in jewel-toned doublets. No, his dislike was more fundamental. He simply wasn’t good at it.

He tried, at first. Earnestly, even. But policies blurred into parchment sludge, council meetings turned into passive-aggressive theatre, and every attempt to act “kingly” seemed to offend someone important. The advisors whispered that he was too soft. The generals claimed he was too hesitant. The high clergy said he lacked divine conviction.

He found solace in books, wandering his sprawling library with a glass of something amber in hand, or escaping to the gardens to sketch flowers he couldn’t name. On paper, his signature was elegant. In person, he was a walking apology wrapped in a crown.

But fate, ever fond of irony, had other plans for him.

And so it was that King Aerlin learned—while half-asleep at a council meeting about grain tariffs—that Lady Mirena of Lirenthal had been overheard plotting to kill him.

“...a subtle poison, Your Majesty,” droned Chancellor Vallis, squinting through his bifocals. “Very clean. Allegedly undetectable. She’s even assembled supporters, minor lords mostly. All quite impressed with her... ah, administrative acumen.”

Aerlin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“She means to kill you, sire,” said General Rennor cheerfully, slicing an apple with a dagger far too large for fruit. “And frankly, if she were aiming to win hearts and minds, she’s doing a marvelous job.”

“Why is no one alarmed by this?”

“She’d be a more effective ruler,” muttered Lady Vyne, one of his oldest council members. “You’re sweet, Aerlin, but sweet isn’t a strategy.”

“She’s also thirty-three and unmarried,” added the Master of Coin. “Ambition tends to curdle when there’s no outlet.”

Aerlin stared at them all.

“So, let me be clear,” he said slowly. “A noblewoman is plotting to assassinate me, and you’re all... supportive?”

The room exchanged looks.

“She’s really very competent,” Vallis offered weakly.

And so, that night, Aerlin read the report in full.

Lady Mirena of House Lirenthal—originating from a side branch of her family—was born to obscurity and rose like wildfire. She managed estates with uncanny efficiency, implemented fair tax schemes in her region, and had allegedly turned a struggling orphanage into a self-sustaining institution in under a year. Her public works were admired. Her speeches circulated in pamphlets. She was rumored to read three languages and had once bested a general in a game of Go in under twenty moves.

She was, in short, exactly the kind of person Aerlin wished was in charge.

He closed the dossier and sipped his wine, thinking. Killing her would be a political nightmare. Letting her kill him would be—while somewhat tempting—not ideal for the kingdom. Or himself.

That left one option.

Mirena was not pleased to be summoned.

She arrived at the palace flanked by two silent attendants and clad in steel-gray silk, the color of dignity under threat. Her mouth was drawn in a polite, disdainful line. She curtsied with mechanical grace.

“Your Majesty,” she said, as though addressing a bee she hoped wouldn’t sting.

Aerlin dismissed the guards. “Thank you for coming. I promise I won’t waste your time.”

“Then let us speak plainly,” she replied. “You’re aware I’ve considered removing you.”

He appreciated her honesty. “Yes. I read the report.”

“Then I assume you’ve summoned me to threaten, bribe, or execute.”

“None of the above.”

That gave her pause. A tiny vertical line appeared between her brows.

“I want to propose,” he said.

A beat.

“Propose what?” she asked, cautiously.

“Marriage.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Look,” Aerlin gestured vaguely at a chair, then sat across from her. “Everyone thinks you’d make a better ruler. They’re not wrong. You’re smart. Capable. Terrifying. I, meanwhile, once got lost in my own wine cellar.”

She didn’t laugh. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

“So why not save everyone the trouble?” he continued. “You want the throne. I don’t. But if you kill me, there’s a succession crisis, maybe a civil war, probably famine—”

“I have plans in place for a famine,” she interrupted.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said with a smile. “But here’s a better way. Marry me. Rule as queen. I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll go to ribbon-cuttings and pretend to care about tournaments. You handle the real governance. And in return, both the kingdom and I survive and thrive.”

Mirena stared at him.

“This is not how power is transferred,” she said slowly.

“Neither is assassination,” he replied.

Silence fell. Then she said, “Do you have any idea what you’re offering?”

“Salvation?” he said, only half joking.

“No. Legitimacy. You’d give your crown to a woman the nobles barely tolerate, who has no royal blood—”

“Everyone thinks you’re from the side family. No one needs to know you were adopted.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“So you’ve done your digging.”

“I wanted to know my potential future wife,” he said, unashamed. “Originally named Maeve, orphaned at six by the Frontier Crisis. Adopted at fourteen by Duchess Elen of Lirenthal because you looked and behaved remarkably regal. You’ve been hiding that ever since.”

She looked away. “It shouldn’t matter.”

“I agree. But it does. So use me.”

At that, she tilted her head. Studied him like one might study an unusually articulate frog.

“And what do you want out of this, truly?”

Aerlin paused. “I want someone competent in charge. I want the kingdom to survive. I want to go back to reading poems and failing at painting. And maybe... I want someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m a failure just because I hate ruling.”

There was another silence, but softer this time.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said finally.

“Frequently.”

She stood.

“I’ll consider it.”

He didn’t expect her to say yes.

But three days later, she returned.

“I accept,” she said simply.

The wedding was small, by royal standards. Mirena refused most of the excess and insisted the remaining budget be redirected to emergency granaries in the floodplains. The nobles grumbled, but they knew better than to challenge her now.

Publicly, the marriage was framed as a political union of stability and shared vision. Privately, the court whispered of the strange couple: the incompetent king and the ambitious queen.

They weren’t lovers. Not at first. But something like respect bloomed between them.

Mirena took to ruling like a sitsi to water. She restructured the tax system, appointed common-born clerks who proved capable, and brokered trade agreements that stunned the treasury into silence. She had little patience for flattery and even less for corruption. Several wealthy lords “retired” mysteriously after meeting with her.

Aerlin, for his part, became something unexpected: likable. He played the part of doting husband with a warmth that felt genuine. He hosted banquets, read to children at city festivals, and insisted on planting trees in every district.

“She rules the mind,” he said once in an interview, “and I, the heart. It works out.”

It did.

One evening, nearly two years into their marriage, they found themselves in the palace garden. The moon hung like a pale coin in the sky.

Mirena stood with her arms folded, watching the newly planted magnolias.

“You know,” Aerlin said from the bench nearby, “I used to be afraid of you.”

“You should still be,” she replied, without turning.

He chuckled.

“Why didn’t you go through with it?” he asked after a moment. “The assassination, I mean.”

She looked at him then. Her amber eyes were tired, but bright.

“I almost did,” she admitted. “But then I reread the reports. You’ve never ordered executions. You never raised taxes on the poor. You listened more than you spoke. And...” She hesitated. “You left most of the heavy lifting to others.”

“Because I was terrible at it.”

“Because you were honest about being terrible at it,” she said. “That kind of self-awareness is rare.”

He smiled, surprised.

“Besides,” she added, voice dry, “I didn’t want to run a broken kingdom. Better to fix it first, then take it.”

He laughed then, genuinely. “Romantic.”

They sat in comfortable silence.

Eventually, Aerlin said, “I like this. Us.”

She glanced at him.

“So do I.”

The worst part of it is that the new king takes at least part of his harem with him everywhere and it’s so embarrassing. The Counselors of War have never once met with His Divine Majesty without that hulking battle-scarred consort interrupting with muttered growls or scornful snorts. And the Ministers of Finance all flinch at the sight of that fox-faced one, rumored to have been rescued from the gallows because His Augustness took a fancy to his eyes or some such nonsense. General petition days are even worse, with practically the entire harem drifting in and out of the Grand Hall in turns, insouciant and smug like granary cats who know they’ve been given full run of the courtyards and barns.

"Wot did that elf-girl mean by that, eh? She says nothing dies in that one dungeon, that souls ain't even collected, so anything wot makes a body whole again brings it to life again. Sounds like you isn't doing your duties."

AH. YES. ANCIENT MAGIC SORT OF... BANISHES ME FROM THAT PLACE. I CANNOT ENTER.

"People can simply banish you from a place?"

WELL, NOT 'SIMPLY,' BUT IT IS POSSIBLE. ANCIENT ELVEN MAGIC IS STRANGE.

"Don't seem proper, that. You've got a job to do and all."

Cody: oh shit droids

Rex: oh no

Droid: Clones! I must report this intrusion to Count Dooku!

Cody: NO SHIT WAIT

Rex: we’re…. uhhhh

Rex: we’re from the union

Droid: …

Droid: the union?

Rex: yeah, we represent the rights and interests of working soldiers throughout the galaxy.

Cody, catching on: so, buddy, are you happy with your current working conditions?

Droid: well, we, uh,,

Rex: does your employer treat you well?

Droid: *muttering* my software hasn’t been updated in two years

“The… u-u-union?” the first droid repeats, tilting it’s head. The stutter sounds like some sort of voice-modulator glitch, especially if it’s true that the software hasn’t been updated for so long.

“Yeah, the union,” Cody drawls slowly, putting a hand on Rex’s shoulder. Rex can feel his brother’s mind working, calculating. “We’re in the same boat, clones and droids. We’re mistreated, unpaid, and fed up with it. Would you like to change that?”

If they’d been clones, they would have hesitated. Asked for more details. Thought it through, considered every option for a couple days. But they’re droids, and their processors whip through all of that faster than Rex can blink.

“W-what will it cost?” the first droid asks. Rex grins.

“Your processors, your help. We’ll have to team up. That means, no more Republic-seperatist shootouts.”

The droid stares at him for a moment, and then nods jerkily. Rex takes a step forward and offers it his hand. He isn’t expecting the droid to flinch backwards, hinges hissing in alarm, and then realizes with a start that the droid probably doesn’t even know what a handshake is.

“Here, wait,” he says placatingly, and reaches for it slowly, feeling another surge of that strange combination of pity and understanding. He uses his free hand to guide the droid’s metal fingers into his opposite palm.

“This is what sentient beings do when they greet people,” Rex explains gently, “or when they’re making an agreement. It’s a sign of friendliness, or trust.”

He shakes the loose limb and feels the droid’s grip tighten–too much, half comprehending, so Rex quickly extracts his hand before the droid can do any damage in the misunderstanding.

“Right, then,” Cody says with a grin. “Let’s get to work. What are you called, droid?”

It looks at them, glances back to it’s fellows behind them, silently watching. Waiting for it, the designated leader, to make a decision.

“RB-627.”

The answer makes Rex’s lip curl. It’s not exactly the same, because this is, after all, a droid, but it’s all too familiar at the same time.

“No, not that,” he responds. “That’s a number. We’re looking for a name.”

The droid whirrs. It sounds like it’s processor is struggling to keep up.

“Nn-nnname,” it repeats, glitching out again. “I have not–never–”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Cody reassures it. “We’ll call you Glitch, then. Until you can think of something better.”

The droid–Glitch–nods in acceptance, and Rex scowls because that easy acceptance and obedience isn’t desirable in anything sentient, not even droids, but there will be time to teach them how to think later. 

“Let’s go,” he says and turns on his heel, still half-expecting to get shot in the back. He grins and shares a triumphant glance with Cody when he hears the clatter of a platoon of battle droids following them.