ru

I

I

so when you're running from a scary person with a scary cane. This complex has bec

cheek to keep from crying out. Flesh and loose bolts don't always play along, I suppose. Every movement sends a

I can just hear his faraway whistles. Tingles claw through my veins and behind my bones, heat flu

here I am. But I know it's close to midnight; I ca

tling under my skin, in my joints, around my heart. The moisture dries up in my hands and cheeks, each movement becoming more of a struggle. I have to fight to keep my footing. I have to fight to get away. "D-don't touch me." My breath quivers and I pull out of his

and lift him into the palms of my hands, his scrap parts glinting in thin pinpricks of starlight. The more I stare at him, the more he only looks like a bundle of cogs and wheels h

onversation a thousand times. Goggles are expensive things, infused with old magic to make the night less dark to tired eyes. My fingers find the stucco and I use the prickl

al metal under my fingertips. I pat MN-9 back into his pocket and draw my hands up, above the metal, against polished lacquer. A door. My chest throbs, and I have to w

and twisting, a twinge in my chest. I don't want to fight.

, groping for something to hold, a knob of some sort. The air feels sour and thick.

hat he did! He

do you not understand? We c

d and fast as I can. The door is a lot heavier this time, jammed in a lot harder. Laughter dogs me. I slap the hand away and kick with all my might. MN-9 whines. The door squeaks open

slams b

ru

e. Each drop sizzles as it drags down my skin. MN-9 squeals. I slam my hands over his pocket, the flutters in my stomach growing so sharp I drop to my knees, the pain and heat and transformation tre

my bones until it fits around them like a porcelain straight jacket. My neck jerks up, out of my control. I hear the tick,

he in my chest. Heavy steamliner airships chug across the sky, their bellies moving like shadows over the clouds. But they can't blot out the moon. It hangs like a white medallion

the transformation has ended. I can feel the gears whispering against ea

cry. I can't

ement. I can't smell the smoke of the city or the scent of buttery croissants rising in the baker's oven. I can't taste cinnamon dustings on crumble

ical parts and human parts will come undone and finally kill me. The rain soaks through my shoes, drowning the plucky clumps of grass ar

my voice, my jaw popp

st how natural it sounded, how comforting and deep. But mine isn't like that. Mine is light like flute music, but not in a beautiful way, in a mechanical way. When I tal

oing back to Stepmother's, somewhere safe and warm." Except 'home' is never safe with my stepfamily, but I'm too tired to grapple with that now, all machine and MN-9 malfunctioning in the downpour. The city sags before me, shops and carts built of rotting white wood slats. I can make them out easily, caked in green and yellow mold. I can even make out traces of the church in the distance, gothic architecture washed out under the moon's silhouette. The palace isn't

shoes and making speedy escape even harder. There are no gates to the city, only crumbling remains of two brick walls. I tear past them without much thought and stumble through the city square. The dark coats it like a fog. A few lone women slink through the streets, parasols

andy. Clara's hand. "Luciel?" a woman calls. I risk a glance up. Fashions on the street have changed, leather to lace, work pants to long skirts. I'm closer

hey'd fo

y body isn't built to take the impact. Nothing matters at all. I focus my eyes to the to the only place I dare, to a house that juts out of a rocky mass in the distance. I ball my fists, trembling, the dumb, terrible magic in me crackling up my gears and down the braided plating on my spine. If I could, I'd squeeze my eyes shut and sink deep, deep into the street, hudd

into my mind with the hiss of the pounding rain on the street. If time healed old wounds, I'd be dead, buried, and rotting. I ste

the clouds. I clutch my droid with shaky hands. He's dying. I have to get him home. Tick tock. My heart keeps time as I step from the muddy road to the lawn. I have to lower my head to watch

insides. I hope the man is doing better than I am. He's probably been through more than even I have, and babbling about him is a good distraction. "What did he tell you, MN-9, to get your help? Sure, he seems charming. And his eyes, don't they seem f

ers and fa

unneling them into whispers of days long passed, of a boy long gone. My rigid lips press together, the

e, fist raised and poised to knock, the rest

e. You'd think that would make me braver, but it doesn't. I still want to run, still want to hide

il a crack grows down my fingers. I