#pendelton

The door creaked open.

You tensed, your eyes flicking up from your book, already preparing to flee if it was—

"Miss! Miss!" Two little egg-shaped figures came barreling into the room, their stick arms waving excitedly.

Frank. And another Egg Boi you'd seen around but hadn't officially met.

You relaxed slightly, setting your book aside. "Oh. Hello."

"Hi!" Frank chirped, practically vibrating with excitement. "We've been looking for you everywhere! Well, not everywhere, Boss said we shouldn't bother you, but we really wanted to ask you something!"

The other Egg Boi nodded enthusiastically. "I'm George! Frank told me all about how you saved him from the storm and carried him all the way here and you were really nice!"

You felt your cheeks warm slightly. "I... it wasn't that far..."

"It was super far!" Frank insisted. "And you were really brave! And we wanted to ask if..." He glanced at George, who nodded encouragingly. "Would you maybe read to us? We found some books in the back but the words are really hard and there's pictures and we really wanna see the pictures but we can't read very good yet and—"

"Pleaseeeee?" George added, his simple face hopeful.

You blinked at them. They were looking up at you with such earnest excitement, their little stick arms clutching a stack of books that seemed far too large for them to have carried on their own.

Something in your chest softened. They were sweet. Genuinely, endearingly sweet.

"Alright," you said quietly, and their entire beings seemed to light up.

"Really?!" Frank bounced in place. "Oh boy, oh boy! George, she said yes!"

"I heard! This is great!" George was bouncing too now.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. "Here, let me..." You stood, gathering the soft throw blanket that had been draped over the back of your chair. You spread it out on the plush rug in front of the fireplace which wasn't lit, but the area was still cozy, creating a little nest of fabric. "Shall we sit here ? It might be more comfortable."

"Ooh, fancy!" Frank immediately plopped down on the blanket, George right beside him.

You settled on the floor with them, tucking your legs under you, and reached for the stack of books they'd dragged in. They were children's books—clearly old, the covers worn and pages yellowed, but the illustrations were beautiful. Hand-drawn pictures of fantastical creatures and faraway places.

"This one! This one first!" Frank pointed at a book with a dragon on the cover.

You opened it carefully, the spine cracking slightly with age, and began to read. Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but the Egg Bois didn't seem to mind. They leaned in close, their eyes wide as you showed them each picture, pointing out details they might have missed.

"Look, look! The dragon has spots!" George pointed with his stick arm.

"That's 'cause he's a spotted dragon," Frank said matter-of-factly. "They're the rarest kind. Boss told us about dragons once. They're not as impressive as his inventions though."

You turned the page, continuing the story. The Egg Bois provided running commentary, gasping at exciting parts and asking questions about the pictures. It was... nice. Surprisingly nice. They were enthusiastic but not overwhelming, sweet without being cloying.

"Can you do the voice?" Frank asked when you got to the part where the dragon spoke.

"The... voice?"

"Yeah! Like make your voice all big and scary for the dragon!"

You hesitated, then, very quietly and not at all convincingly, attempted a deeper voice. "Give me back my treasure..."

The Egg Bois erupted into giggles.

"That was great!" George said, still laughing.

"Very scary!" Frank agreed, though his giggles suggested otherwise.

You felt yourself smile—a real smile this time. When was the last time you'd smiled like this?

You read three more books, each one greeted with the same enthusiasm. The Egg Bois eventually ended up leaning against you, one on each side, their warm little bodies surprisingly comforting. You'd just started the fourth book when Charlie's voice rang out from somewhere in the hotel.

"ACTIVITY TIME!"

The Egg Bois perked up. "Ooh, we gotta go! Boss says we should participate in the activities!"

"Thank you for reading to us!" Frank said, scrambling up. "Can we do this again sometime?"

You nodded, and they both made happy sounds before scurrying off, leaving you alone with the books scattered around your blanket nest.

You sat there for a moment longer, something warm and unfamiliar settling in your chest, before Charlie's voice called out again, closer this time.

"Come on, everyone! Don't make me come find you!"

You sighed, carefully gathering the books and folding the blanket. There was no escaping activity time, apparently.

The common room had been transformed with a circle of chairs, and Charlie stood in the center looking far too excited about whatever she had planned.

"Okay, everyone! Today we're going to do a classic team-building exercise! The clapping game!" She demonstrated by clapping her hands in a rhythm. "You say your name, something about yourself, and everyone repeats it with claps! It's fun and a great way to learn about each other!"

Angel Dust, sprawled across one of the chairs with his legs over the armrest, raised one hand. "Yeah, I'm gonna pass on that."

"Angel, come on! It'll be fun!"

"I ain't clapping about myself like a seal at SeaWorld. I got standards."

Husk, who was sitting in the chair furthest from Charlie with his arms crossed, grunted. "Not happening."

"Husk—"

"No."

Charlie's smile strained slightly but didn't break. "Okay! Well, more participation from everyone else then! Vaggie, you start!"

Vaggie looked like she'd rather be literally anywhere else, but she sighed and stood. "Vaggie," clap clap, "I'm Charlie's girlfriend," clap clap, "and I run security here," clap clap.

"Great! Everyone repeat!"

You dutifully clapped along with Charlie and Niffty who had appeared from somewhere and was clapping with manic enthusiasm. Sir Pentious, you noticed, was also clapping, though he kept glancing in your direction between claps.

Charlie went next, then Niffty, whose introduction involved something about cleaning and blood that you tried not to think too hard about. Then Sir Pentious stood, adjusting his top hat.

"My name's Sssir Pentiousss," clap clap, "I like to build," clap clap, "and dessspite my ssstupid egg bois, I think Im rather sskilled," clap clap.

The rhythm was off, but everyone clapped anyway.

Then Charlie's bright eyes turned to you, and your stomach dropped.

"Your turn!"

You shook your head quickly, shrinking in your seat.

"Oh, come on! It's easy! Just your name and something about yourself!"

You shook your head again, your face burning. Everyone was looking at you. Sir Pentious was looking at you. This was a nightmare.

"It's okay, take your time!" Charlie encouraged, still smiling that relentlessly positive smile.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your hands twisted in your lap. The silence stretched on, becoming more and more uncomfortable.

"Charlie, maybe we should—" Vaggie started.

"No, no, she can do it! Whenever you're ready!"

You wanted to sink through the floor. Your heart was hammering. Why was this so hard? It was just your name. Just your name and one thing. Why couldn't you—

"I—" you started, your voice barely audible. You clapped once, the sound weak. "I'm..." Another clap. "I'm new here..." Clap. "And I... I like tea..." Clap clap " and books too ...sorry" clap.

The claps were off-rhythm and your voice was shaking, but you'd done it ... sort of.

Charlie looked like you'd just given her the best gift in the world. "That was great! Everyone repeat!"

The half-hearted clapping that followed was probably meant to be encouraging, but you just felt exhausted. You slumped in your chair as Charlie moved on to the next activity, relief washing over you.

You didn't notice Sir Pentious still looking at you, something soft in his expression, or the way his clapping had been slightly more enthusiastic when it was your turn.

The activity had finally ended—Charlie had declared it a success despite half the participants refusing to engage—and you'd escaped back to your room for what you'd hoped would be the rest of the evening.

But an hour later, you'd finished your current book and found yourself craving tea. The cup you'd abandoned in the library earlier had gone cold, and the idea of something warm and soothing was too appealing to ignore.

The kitchen was mercifully empty when you arrived. You moved quietly through the space, opening cupboards with careful hands, searching for the tea you'd found before.

Third cupboard. There. A small tin of loose-leaf tea, the kind that required a proper pot and strainer. You'd always preferred loose-leaf—there was something meditative about the process of preparing it, the ritual of measuring and steeping.

You found a strainer easily enough, but when you turned to look for a teapot, you stopped short.

On the counter, almost hidden behind a stack of mismatched mugs, was the most beautiful teapot you'd ever seen.

It was all elegant curves and delicate details, made of what looked like brass and copper that had been polished to a soft gleam. But what made it truly remarkable was the cradle it sat in—an intricate framework of gears and mechanisms, all exposed and visible, like the inner workings of a clock. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each gear precisely cut and fitted, the whole thing balanced on four ornate legs.

You reached out, your fingers hovering over it hesitantly. It was too beautiful to be a regular kitchen appliance. Someone clearly cared about this piece.

But you really wanted tea.

Carefully, as if it might break at any moment, you filled the pot with hot water from the kettle and added the tea leaves. The pot fit perfectly in its cradle, and you placed a teacup— delicate porcelain with a floral pattern—on the counter beside it.

Then you waited.

That's when you noticed the ticking.

Soft at first, barely audible, but growing slightly louder. The gears beneath the teapot were moving, turning in a complex dance of mechanical precision. You leaned closer, fascinated and slightly worried. Was it supposed to do that? Was it going to explode?

You kept your eyes on it, watching the gears rotate, the whole mechanism moving with purpose. It was mesmerizing—the way each gear influenced the next, the smooth rotation of the largest wheel at the center, the tiny click-click-click of the smallest gears at the edges.

The ticking reached a certain rhythm, then—

The entire cradle tilted.

"Oh, Shit." You gasped, reaching out instinctively.

But the movement was controlled, precise. The teapot tipped at the perfect angle, and a stream of perfectly steeped tea poured into the cup you'd placed nearby. Not a drop spilled. When the cup was full, the cradle returned to its level position with a soft click, the gears slowing to a stop.

You stared at it, your mouth slightly open.

It was incredible. It was beautiful. It was possibly the most amazing thing you'd seen since arriving, possibly the most amazing thing you'd seen full stop.

"Ah! I sssee you've found my automatic tea ssstation!"

You jumped, spinning around so fast you nearly knocked over the teacup.

Sir Pentious was in the doorway, his eyes bright with what looked like pride and excitement. He slithered into the room, his movements eager. "Isss it not magnificent? I designed it mysself! The gearing system allows for precise timing based on the temperature of the water and the density of the tea leaves, ensuring optimal sssteeping time before automatic dispenssing!"

He was beside you now, gesturing enthusiastically at the device. You pressed yourself back against the counter, acutely aware of how close he was, but he seemed too excited about his invention to notice.

"The cradle uses a weight distribution mechanism combined with a clockwork timer—all mechanical, no magic required! And see this gear here?" He pointed to one of the smaller gears. "That one controls the angle of the pour to prevent sssplashing! I've calculated the exact degree necessary for—"

He finally seemed to realize he was very close to you and cut himself off, that pink flush returning to his face. He cleared his throat and stepped back—or rather, slithered back—giving you more space.

"I... apologize. I become... enthusiastic about my inventionsss."

You managed a tiny nod of your head, your eyes drawn back to the teapot. "It's... it's really beautiful," you said quietly, the words coming easier because you were looking at the device instead of him.

His expression lit up. "You think ssso?"

You nodded, reaching out to very gently touch one of the stationary gears. "I've never seen anything like it. How did you... how do you even think to make things like this?"

"Years of practice and innate geniouss!" he said proudly, then seemed to catch himself trying to show off. "I mean... I have always had a passion for invention. Creating things that are both functional and... aesthetically pleasing."

You were still examining the gears, genuinely fascinated. "What else do you make?"

The question was out before you could stop it, and you felt your shyness trying to claw the question back into your mouth. But you were curious. This was amazing. If he could make something like this, what else could he create?

"Oh, many thingsss!" His enthusiasm was back, though he seemed to be making an effort to control his volume. "I have weapons systems, defense mechanisms, transportation devices—I've created functional airships before! Well, ssseveral iterations of them times. They keep getting... damaged. But my current project is a laser array that can—"

He stopped, his eyes widening slightly as if remembering something. "Actually, would you like to hear about my lasersss?"

With the beautiful tea device in front of you, you found yourself curious rather than frightened. Maybe his inventions weren't all scary. Maybe some of them were like this—functional artistic.

"Sure," you said quietly. "What kind do you make?"

You were picturing something harmless—maybe colorful light shows, or those little red dots that cats chased. Something fun and non-threatening, like the teapot.

Sir Pentious's whole demeanor brightened. "Oh! My lasersss are my pride and joy! I've designed everything from small-sscale targeting systems to full industrial applications! My greatest achievement is my portable death ray—it can disintegrate nearly anything in secondsss!"

Death ray.

The words hit you like cold water.

Your hand froze on the teacup. The warmth that had been building in your chest turned to ice.

Not laser shows. Not cat toys.

Death rays. He built death rays.

Your expression must have changed because Sir Pentious trailed off, his enthusiasm dimming as he noticed you'd gone very still.

"I... that is to say..." He seemed to realize what he'd just said. "It's a death ray in name only! Mostly! I mean, it's very precisely calibrated and I haven't actually disintegrated anything in quite a while—no, that's not helping—what I mean is—"

You took a small step back, your hand falling away from the teapot cradle, the teacup trembling in your other hand.

"I'm reformed!" he said quickly, desperately. "I don't use the death raysss anymore! Well, not on people! Or demons! Or anything living! It's purely for... demonstration purposesss now! Academic interest! I would never actually—"

But you were already shrinking away, that familiar fear flooding back. Death rays. He made death rays that could disintegrate things. Things like you. And you'd momentarily forgotten that he was dangerous because he'd made a pretty teapot.

"I should... I should go," you managed, grabbing your teacup with shaking hands.

"Wait—I didn't mean—please, I wasss just—"

But you were already hurrying toward the door, tea sloshing slightly in your cup. You heard him start to follow, then stop himself.

"I apologize," he called after you, his voice strained. "I didn't mean to... I'll just... go..."

You didn't look back, practically fleeing to your room and shutting the door firmly behind you. You set your tea on the nightstand with trembling hands and sank onto your bed, pulling your knees to your chest.

Sir Pentious slithered back to his workshop with his tail dragging behind him, the picture of dejection.

He'd been doing so well. She'd been interested in his invention! She'd asked him questions! She'd even touched the tea station with such gentle curiosity, her eyes full of wonder, and he'd thought—he'd really thought—that maybe Husk's advice was working.

And then he'd opened his mouth about the lasers.

"Idiot," he hissed to himself, unlocking his workshop door. "Sstupid, thoughtless, absolute buffoon!"

The workshop was his sanctuary, the one place where everything made sense. Walls lined with blueprints, worktables covered in half-finished projects, tools organized with meticulous care. The Egg Bois knew better than to disturb him when he was here unless it was an emergency.

He slithered to his workbench and slumped over it, his head in his hands.

"Sshe was talking to me," he moaned to the empty room. "Actually talking! And asking questionsss about my work! And I had to mention the death raysss!"

He lifted his head, staring at the small partially assembled device on his workbench. It was delicate work—nothing like his usual large-scale weaponry. Tiny gears, miniature mechanisms, all designed to be beautiful and functional and completely, utterly harmless.

He'd been working on it late at night when he couldn't sleep, imagining the way her eyes might light up when she saw it work. Something small enough not to frighten her. Something that might make her smile at him the way she'd smiled at Frank and George.

"Why did I mention the death ray?" He dropped his head back to the bench with a thunk. "Why am I like thisss?"

No answer came, because of course it didn't. He was alone in his workshop, having once again sabotaged his own pathetic attempts at... whatever this was.

He sat up, adjusting his top hat with shaking hands, and pulled the small device closer. The mechanisms glinted in the lamplight, each piece precisely crafted and fitted. It was almost finished—just a few more adjustments to the timing mechanism, some fine-tuning of the movements.

He picked up his smallest set of tools and got to work, his hands steady despite his emotional turmoil. At least here, in the precision of gears and springs, he knew what he was doing.