#incwrites

If Crib were awake, she wouldn't care about staying put for so long. If anyone she gave half a shit about working the library were still awake-- hell, if the library hadn't mostly shut down after that first day, she might be willing to stick around in there for longer than an hour or two at a stretch. If anything were actually broken inside Crib, if there were something to fix, she'd have a fucking field day! But no. No. Crib was intact and internally unmarred.

Drawing close to her seemed to upset the sleeping bot; she would begin to breathe and stare blind at the smallest nudge, clink, or other disturbance The Mouse caused. TM had done a thorough check-up over the span of a few hours, taking frequent breaks to clear her head of the sound of bellows. What the fuck was wrong with her? What the fuck was wrong with Crib? She felt exposed, she felt useless; talking to Granny was nothing but frustrating, as the flighty anon refused to do anything to move them somewhere more enclosed; she'd managed to piss off the remaining library attendant (with the dying drawl of a voice) who'd come out to investigate, and so burned her bridges in the hope of moving Crib inside; she couldn't even turn Crib off to mess with her innards, for every time she shut her down, she booted back up into sleep mode, and it was too dangerous to simply disconnect the core with the tampering she'd done months ago.

She wouldn't say she was bored. Well. Maybe a little.

Mostly she was just anxious, as if Crib's absence had left some void of anxiety that -someone- needed to fill. She hated the feeling, hated the situation, hated whatever stupid ass-magic had put half the town to sleep almost to spite her tempting fate. She'd finished all the books she'd checked out on the first day, and now she couldn't even sit still long enough to read anything she'd snuck out through the library vents.

So she makes the trek back to Pretty Baby, carefully extracting her lockbox from among the secured saddlebags. It's almost too bulky for her to carry, but she manages the half-empty thing. She buys a few impressive balls of yarn from the (thankfully) still open craft shop, makes camp down under the library's awning, and begins to knit. The repetitive motion is calming, and she feels herself sinking into the dangerous desperate quiet she'd driven Crib out of the barn for before. The mood might only last an hour or two, but still.

Crib awoke alone.

Stone-faced, cold, guarded by the night-lit library. Overhead, the stars were as bright as in the middle of the nowhere-fields, disregarding clouds and city and smog. She felt at peace, in spite of her still, watching faces and constellations in the sky.

She heard a stir as she let out a rush of ethanol, and she ignited with an internal spark.

All at once there was a beating on her locked furnace door. Passive to the sound, she began to breathe, continuing even when the screaming began. The noise echoed in harsh harmonics through her systems. Let me out. Let me out, the shrieks seemed to plead, metal and wordless as their owner. 

Crib sat pleasantly as she waited for her boiler to heat up. Cold, leeching cold poured from the sky; she let a little more onto the fire, breathing heavily to stoke the flames. The screeching intensified; insulation beginning to melt, wires beginning to stick and spark, smoke infusing with the cloying smell of burning plastic. It squirmed, and shrieked, and panicked it fought, but gradually the frantic clanging died with The Mouse.

Crib smiled.

---

Awake. Awake. Actually awake. Good. This was good, this-- TM's gears stop short as she shudders fully conscious to the sound of Crib's ignition in the emptied furnace. Click. Click. Click.

Lighting a fire that wasn't there.

A paralyzing dread grips her as she slowly, carefully pushes open the furnace door, easing out to the bench; a sudden whoosh of air startles her and she trips on the lip of the doorway, falling to the freshly-dampened pavement with a clatter. She picks herself up, Crib's breathing at her back, but she nearly falls again when she turns to face her friend. 

Her core eye is out, but the bottom two pierce red through the dimness. Crib stares, unseeing, burning angry crimson. Perfectly still but for the agitated rush of her bellows, and an uncannily loud blue matter hum. 

She is not awake.

Back to their regular sizes, they'd left the city almost immediately; TM had tried to putz around on the motorcycle awhile during the magic, but agreed it hadn't been worth risking the highway. Now, they'd gone to refuel, and come back, intent on taking a now-usual trip down to the Plifterston Public Library. 

But the city was angry today, alive with a magic that stiffened the air. Don't worry about it, The Mouse had told Crib as she entered the building. Anything happens, it'll be an adventure.

What a dull-ass adventure this was gonna be.

There had been a dull, uniform clatter as she managed her pile of books, as she rushed between her pile of books, the door, and the button to open it in careful routine. The lady at the information desk had slumped forward her chair, eyes shut in a drowse. A handful of browsers lazily slunk to their knees at the shelves, looking at the bottom-most books before settling sideways. A few people had simply dropped, spilling books and bags as they hit the floor in a sudden slumber. TM took a look back, not noticing much change otherwise, and decided to let Crib decide on whether to make it their problem or not.

She came out of the library with the fresh stack of books balanced neat on her head, sliding them off on the bench where Crib sat. But no, this was wrong. Crib wasn't acknowledging her, wasn't moving, wasn't even breathing her long, bellow-drawn breaths, and as TM looked up to examine her friend, she saw her eyes had gone out. She might as well have been a statue. 

Frowning, she climbed up her friend, and leaning her head against Crib's she still heard the warm hum of blue matter. Good. Not dead. Meant the others probably weren't too. That was good. But still wrong. Crib didn't sleep in public. The thought terrified her. It simply wasn't done.

TM checks Crib's systems, ignoring any looks or remarks from any still-awake passers-by, and when after a thorough search and even a full reboot nothing seems wrong but a forced and continual stasis, The Mouse closes up the hatches and sits dismally down on the bench. It was the middle of fucking winter, they couldn't just stay here overnight. Not with the possible fog.

But her smile comes back, a laugh playing at her lips. Maybe they'd fallen asleep too.

She decides that the best solution is not to leave Crib behind while she wanders, because fuck it, she'd already been keeping the loaf safe for a few days. What was a few more? It couldn't last forever. She had books, she had--- well, no she really only just had books. But hell, if it rained, she could just curl up in Crib's furnace once it was cold, and...

Fuck.

Characters: Crib Wright, Shi Carlton, The Mouse

Rating: PG-13??? (warnings: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5])

Prompt: (To Crib) The Mouse has passed away.

Context: Fanbot AU; rising anti-automaton sentiment in Plifterston forms a league of bot-killers, Crib and TM get jumped, and everything goes to hell.

Note: Thanks all y'all who put up with my fretting and fussing over this. I will be writing more in this verse because god damn I have a lot of things spinning in my head about it.

--

"Ain' anyth'n I c'n do, doll."

Those were the crushing words.

She sank, sank under the immeasurable weight of them. She didn't want to believe them, but she'd known, she'd known, she knew. Since the sickening pop of the shattered core, since the small puff of blue sparks, since her eyes had gone out and the entire alley was bathed in red light.

Blood covered her hands. It didn't change a damn thing.

They were just leaving. Finally about to go away for awhile, when it appears. The room seems too colorful as the anon enters, the sunlight through the roof and magic shouting far too harsh and sudden. Crib is confused, startled. A look of knowing terror blooms in The Mouse's features, as she scrambles all too late to try to keep the grey from leaving.

"But we didn't ask--"

And the room erupts in smoke.

It takes her a few minutes to notice she's on the ground, as her steam engine begins to sputter from prolonged malpositioning. She pushes upright with a little too much ease, and as she watches the smoke billow out the doors, she realizes with a sinking survey of the room that The Mouse is gone. Completely gone.

...Not completely. 

She tries to pick her hands off the ground to stand full upright, and alarmingly top heavy she stumbles backwards into the wall. No, stop. What are you doing, Crib. Look. Freaking look.

She catches herself, not overwhelmed, but confused, too hyperalert and focused on her surroundings to notice herself. At a nagging voice in her core, she stops. She stops. She looks, down, at her hands, at her feet.

Oh. Oh! Her old arm. Her left arm was how it used to be! That's where The Mouse went, of course! And a little blue-matter core sitting on the ground in the middle of the-- oh.

Crib quickly ambles over and scoops the core from the ground, tucking it in her-- oh. Her coat was off. Probably for the best, considering the sleeve would have torn. For that matter, her skirt was off too, and perhaps /that/ was for the best too, as it would have restricted her joints. She does a small tripod shuffle in place, feet pitting holes in the dirt, then makes her way over to Pretty Baby, with his bags loaded high with wood and belongings. Maybe they could still have an adventure! But wait, no. She doesn't have anything even resembling toes now, or feet; she couldn't shift gears! She turns about anxiously in place, still clutching TM's core carefully to her chest.

A small cough catches her attention, and she catches sight of a shawled, smiling anon in her rear optics. Crib snaps around to face the familiar grey.

"Gran--!"

But it puts a finger to its lips. I'll give you a lift, it says, without saying a single word. But only if it's the right destination. 

There were rules to these things, of course. 

Crib frowns, confused, though not distrusting. She wasn't... What was it? She wasn't old enough for that? That didn't seem quite right. Any semblance of world-weariness felt thoroughly purged from her systems. The weight was gone, the-- the paranoia. Realizing this, she smiles back, half-overwhelmed by how overwhelmed she wasn't.

When  news reaches them of what happened-- scrappers, of course, it had to have been scrappers, poor child lived alone on the streets-- it doesn't- doesn't sink in at first. Not with Crib. 

TM just frowns, the same disappointed frown she'd had when she heard of Laurie's own death, as she watches a grim sorrow settle over her friend.

"He was only a kid."

Children weren't-- he wasn't-- she had hardly known him, and still, Crib had felt an uncanny fondness for him, almost familial in nature. And then, again, so quickly another had passed. She sets down against a tree, curling herself against the bark. 

He was only a kid. 

She'd been born of the death of a child, sure, she knew that it happened but it didn't, didn't make it any less

it was wrong

it was terrible

it was pointless!

That was it. Pointless. Oh, how the blunt gnawed.

Oh, Bellus.

Bellus, darling thing.

She hasn't the heart to wipe the oil from her hands, to clear the stone from her gaze.

They had let him in.

Trusting.

Into their home.

And so they had to let him out.

The hard way.

The look of fear in TM's eyes might be telling. She's gone too far.

Maybe he didn't deserve it. It was just a dent. A little rip. He hadn't meant it. 

Like with Geoff. 

She had plenty of spare parts. She could be fixed. Could he?

Crib isn't listening. Isn't seeing. Doesn't care. 

Don't let The Mouse get to him. She'll bring him back.

Him and his problems.

Into the lockbox she goes.

Just for awhile.

Into the junkyard he goes.

Into the compactor.

(Never again.)

Crib flees alone to the Salton, sick with tears she will never shed.