I'm very proud of this. The title is latin for 'Art is long, life is short', my favorite latin phrase which fits this story perfectly. I always associate 6 with latin since when we first see him he is humming the latin hymn 'Dies Irae'. This mostly is based off of some ideas I came up with after seeing the movie and then watching it with commentary (which you should all do). It explains some of the actions of the characters. Well, enjoy!

"Please…p-please!"

The pen-nibbed fingers scraped the bottom of the metal, coming down empty once again. 8 just laughed and raised the key higher, dangling it above the smaller stitchpunk's face. Taunting him. 6 stared up at it desperately, the intense distress clearly visibly in his mismatched eyes.

"Jump." 8 sneered.

Usually, 1 let 8 continue in such barbaric torture when punishing the others. The brute got some sort of pleasure from causing pain in any form possible. On most occasions the threat of his bodyguard's ways was enough to get 1's point across, to keep everyone in this church under his iron fist. 5 cowered every time 8 looked at him the wrong way. The twins scampered off to hide as soon as they heard his labored steps coming down the hall. Even 2 knew that it was best to just go along with whatever 1 told him when 8 was around, if not for the others' safety rather than his own. And as for 7…well, she wasn't around anymore to be intimidated. Good riddance.

6, though, wasn't like anyone else 1 had taken into his care. It was like he had a difficulty hearing, because if he ever wanted to order him to do anything he had to repeat it several times over. The striped stitchpunk would shake his head and then give 1 a strange look, as if he was staring at him through a fog. Everyone learned the hard way not to get too close to his key. The first time it happened he became hysterical, repeating nonsensical words at the top of his voice and splashing ink everywhere. This obsession, although unreasonable and quite odd, became helpful to 1 when he had to make sure that 6 understood his rules. Even then it was difficult to reprimand him; he would never pay full attention to 1's words, switching his gaze back and forth from him and the key that 8 would be holding.

1 had to deal with many infuriating behaviors in the sanctuary, but this one had to be the worst. At least he didn't typically bother the order that 1 had worked so hard to maintain. He just stayed in his little room, drawing on scraps of paper. Mostly harmless. Every so often he would sing a bit, but that was nothing compared to something 7 or 2 would try to do.

But now it was different. 1 didn't need 8 to punish 6. Yet. He needed to get a straight answer from him. To find out what he had drawn on the parchment that was secure in 1's hand. If 8 continued tormenting him, he would be too distracted to tell 1 anything. However, if they gave him back his key, he would close up and ignore them as he frequently did.

This, indeed, was quite the predicament.

"Now, 6, we're going to try this one more time." 1 said as calmly as possible, "Why did you wake up screaming last night?"

He had actually already told him the answer to this, but 1 figured it was best to start at the beginning. Going back to where they had left off might confuse him even more, and then they would never stop this endless game of charades. 8 appeared to be considering playing around with the key again, but a swift slap from 1's staff cut him off. They didn't need 6 to be any more sidetracked than he already was.

"…I saw things…d-dark…really dark…" 6 shuddered, "Nightmare."

"Yes, yes. I know. We all heard you." 1 replied curtly, "So then you drew out this 'nightmare' on this paper, right?"

He gestured to the scrap in his hand. The ink had started to bleed through, and was seeping onto his fingers. 1 grimaced and discretely wiped it on 8's back. His bodyguard didn't notice, or else didn't care. It was hard to tell with such an oaf of a protector.

6 gave a small nod.

"Well, that clears things up considerably. Now, 6, could you try to…elaborate on what this picture means, exactly?" 1 asked, unfurling the said image.

Personally, 1 wasn't sure that the picture was actually anything. It looked like a giant scrawl of ink blots, with messy drips painting around the border. Anyone taking a quick glimpse would think that it was a piece of litter. A rag. But 1 had an awful feeling that all the figures represented something. He could slightly distinguish two of them as stitchpunks, but only the first's number was legible: 9. 9? There was no 9. The other stitchpunk's designation was unknown, but it was lying on its side from what he could tell. That wasn't a very good sign at all. Although he couldn't see which stitchpunk it was, he thought he could guess.

The object in the middle only solidified his fears. It was a large round orb with what seemed to be wires hanging from off of it. Right under it was a small device. He had recognized it the first time he saw it. The talisman.

1 had been positive that only he really knew what the talisman did. The scientist had instructed him about it and told him to tell the others once they got to safety. Of course, he did not such thing. That kind of knowledge in the hand of careless individuals would only make the danger even more imminent. Instead he kept it to himself, cursing the dark enchantment. No one else had shown any recollection of the device that had brought them to life.

That was, until 6 started drawing it everywhere.

It was an obsession as manic and obscure as the one with his key. One day when 1 had gone up to make sure he was up to no trouble the wall had suddenly been covered with pictures of it, all similar minus minor ink stain differences. That hadn't concerned 1 much until 6 began to talk to him about it. Explain some of its uses. The confused stitchpunk had named it 'the source', and surprisingly knew a considerable amount more of it than the others. Almost as much as 1 knew. It had been a stunning revelation, and one that 1 knew he had to control.

So, whenever 6 tried to share this knowledge with anyone else, 1 would cut him off and assure whomever he was addressing that he was quite insane and nothing he said should be taken seriously. The only one of their number that hadn't bought into this excuse was 2. And that was very much a trouble spot. 1 hadn't actually caught him in the act, yet, but he was pretty certain that 2 sometimes snuck at night to try and get 6 to tell him what he knew. He had found some copies of 6's pictures 'hidden' in the meddler's workshop. 2 had been studying them, several notes pertaining to them were stashed nearby.

Maybe 1 would have to find some way of getting rid of him before he learned too much…

6 gave a fearful glance at the picture and shook his head violently, turning away. Small splatters of ink flew out of his fingers, furthering the stains on his body.

"What!?" 1 growled. "Answer me! Now!"

8, upon hearing 1's utter vehemence, stepped forward with an evil grin on his face, obviously intending to make 6 to reply with his demeaning influence. But 1 pushed him back with his staff, keeping him at bay. For once, he could do this by himself.

"…you'll get angry…" 6 whimpered.

"I'm already angry!!"

6 gave a pitiful frown, looking about as if trying not to look at his questioners. Then his stare returned back to the key, still tightly grasped in 8's unwieldy hands. He raised out his arm to snatch at it, but brought them back almost instantly. No doubt he realized by now that he wouldn't get what he wanted out of pure force. He wasn't even close to being strong enough.

"…my…m-my key…p-please! I need…need my key!" He said, voice high and cracking.

His whole body was trembling, pen-nibbed fingers tapping nervously together. He was revealing what he really was. Weak. Vulnerable. Only the truly weak showed off their weaknesses. The strong were the ones who hid it behind superiority and grandeur. It was the philosophy 1 lived by, and it was playing itself out right now.

"You can have your blasted key back once you explain this!" 1 cried, practically throwing the picture at 6's face.

6 shrunk back, but the motion caught his attention. He held his gaze at the piece of paper, then looked fearfully at 1. He was hesitant. Reluctant. And yet, he knew that this was the only way to redeem what was his. 1 gave a sadistic smile. He had set up the perfect ultimatum.

"…the…the source…" 6 insisted, pointing at the talisman, "Go back…g-go back…!!"

"Confound it, I've had enough of that nonsense! Here. I'll make it simple so that even you can understand it." 1 jabbed fiercely at the first figure in the picture, "What is this?"

"The ninth one. Sleeping…still sleeping…" 6 frowned, as if this was a bad thing.

"Okay then. See, this isn't so hard, cooperating. We already know that this," Another jab towards the middle, "is your precious 'source', but I still need to know what this," a final jab towards the limp stitchpunk on the side, "is. So please. Elaborate further."

"…it's…it's…" 6 was hugging himself at this point, as if cradling a weight, "…it's…"

"Spit it out, you insolent fool!!"

"…you."

Although 1 had been fully anticipating this answer, the blunt power of the words struck him hard and deep. How dare 6 depict him as…no. He couldn't bring himself to think about it. This was disrespect of the lowest form. He glared down at 6, who was staring blankly at the floor, swaying back and forth a bit.

"8." He barked.

8 hadn't been paying attention and looked over, flustered. "Yes?"

"Give 6 his key back. He deserves it for his…honesty." 1 instructed.

8 groaned and flung the key over. It hit the back of the wall and bounced onto the floor. 6 nearly jumped after it, scrambling on his hands and knees. Once he got a hold of it he began to caress its side, running his fingers up and down its neck, whispering unintelligible words.

"However, it seems that he also deserves a reprimanding, as his honesty was blatant slander." 1 informed. "And we do not tolerate that here, now do we?"

8 smirked, cracking his knuckles in preparation. 6 didn't seem to hear, lost in his own fixation of his key. He didn't even notice 8 as he lumbered his way toward him, every step causing a tremor through the floorboards. Good. Perhaps it would be better for him that way.

1 had left the room as soon as the screaming started, the accursed drawing in tow. He had never cared much for watching acts of physical supremacy. Dominating through intelligence, logic, the mind, suited his personality a lot better. That was a reason, he believed, why he and 8 made such a effective team: he was the clever one who laid down the rules, while his bodyguard was the daft lug who enforced them. Together they could keep everything in perfect working order.

Well, unless this was indeed a credible threat to their standing.

He scanned the picture again with a grimace. Nothing. This meant nothing. Just the scribbles of an insane artist, nothing more. Possibly something less. If that was the case, then why was it bothering him so much?

2 had once said, in 6's defense, that the stitchpunk was actually able to see things. Visions, he had called them. He had publicly conjectured that he could even look into the future, but hadn't been able to share too much. 1 had stopped his speech as quickly as anything that was associated with the talisman, or the scientist himself for that matter. That didn't mean that he had destroyed 2's strong faith in that idea. That 6 was a kind of prophet for them to use.

"Feh." 1 spat, readjusting his hat and cape. Both of them had become disheveled during his fit of rage. A leader must always be presentable, even when nobody was around to see.

So, say 6 had seen the future (not that 1 was saying that he had), then certainly the results of the picture had to be circumstantial. If a certain event didn't take place, then the one portrayed in the drawing wouldn't either, logically. He studied the details of the lines of ink, looking for anything that would secure his fate.

Ah! There it was. He set his finger against the figure to the far right. The ninth one.

As far as 1 knew, this mysterious ninth stitchpunk didn't exist, but he had no evidence to disprove it. Without that, he would be committing a fallacy. Fallacies show ignorance, lack of dedication to an argument. No, he could not say for sure whether there were indeed nine of them in the cold, dead world.

But if this ninth one happened to come around, showing up sometime to their sanctuary, 1 would be sure to set him straight. Either keep him locked in with the rest, or send him out to fend for himself. Let him know that 1 was in charge, keep him under his rules. This was exactly what 1 would do, by any means possible.

Anything to keep himself alive.

1 walked over to the fire and threw the scrap of paper into it, the flames eagerly licking up the material on first contact.

Yes, 1 would definitely have to keep his eyes open for this '9'.

6 had told himself to stop crying a long time ago.

Not that he was actually crying in the literal sense. It was more of a deep, guttural gasping as he willed himself to stay completely still. Stitchpunks couldn't cry, couldn't create any form of liquid for that matter. But 6 remembered. He remembered what it was like to cry. He didn't know how, but he did.

The only liquid that 6 was sure that stitchpunks had in their systems was oil, but they couldn't create that like humans could with their blood. It functioned about the same way though. The only difference was that humans could make more blood cells while stitchpunks had to scavenge around and find oil in jars and cups, then fuse it back inside. This was only necessary when one had lost a considerable amount of it, though.

6 wondered what a considerable amount was. He couldn't see a spot on the floor of his room that wasn't covered in his own life force. Was that a considerable amount? He wasn't sure.

8 had been particularly merciless this time around. Usually he only got a little rough with him, but this time he had pulled out all of his guns. 6 wasn't able to recall a time when he actually bled after one of his punishments. Every now and then he would be sore or bruised, but never like this. He was certain that something inside of him had to be broken.

He was supposed to learn something from this: never draw pictures from his dreams ever again.

At least 8 had let him keep his key. Sometimes he would take it away and hide it. It would take days, maybe weeks, before 6 could find it again. Those were dark periods. Dark, dizzy, and cold. Without his key, the world around his was numb and empty. Even with his key it was sometimes difficult to hold his concentration with his surroundings. It wasn't his fault, though. He didn't really want to be like this.

6 shifted, turning as slowly as possible over to his side. Wrong move. He let out a sharp cry as jolts of pain shuddered through his body. He must have irritated one of his wounds because a fresh spout of oil gushed from his chest, mixing with the ink from one of the bottles that 8 had knocked over during the punishment. The warm and sticky substance pooled around his right arm, which he could no longer feel or use. His prominent drawing arm.

Everything around him began to spin, the backdrop of his room swirling around him and fading into darkness. 6 was actually surprised that he had held his consciousness this long. All the times he had seen 5 beaten brutally in the same manner, the one-eyed stitchpunk had gone limp way before this.

Then again, there had never been quite this much oil when it happened to 5.

He was about to let the darkness enfold him, and hopefully take him to a place where the pain would end, when a voice called him back to reality.

"Oh my…oh my, oh my…this is not good at all…"

6 strained too see who it was. The combination of the gloom of the night and the struggle to remain awake made it almost impossible, even with the candle in the visitor's hand.

Still, the voice was unmistakable.

"…2…" He moaned, about to roll over for a better view then thinking better of it. Hadn't he learned from his earlier attempts that it only made everything hurt so much more?

"Sh…be still, my boy. Let me see what they've done to you." 2 whispered. 6 could hear his steps slosh the oil on the floor as he walked toward him.

2 kneeled down next to him, setting the candle on the floor. He muttered to himself as he examined 6's broken body, his tone somewhere between concerned and angry. 6 was soothed by the sound of his voice. Someone did care about him. He wasn't so alone after all.

And then 2 touched him.

It was very gentle, a loving touch, not intended at all to bring suffering. But it did. 6 was able to diminish his outcry to a soft whimper, for 2's sake. The throbbing was a lot worse than what the noise suggested, but he didn't want 2 to feel guilty. He hadn't done it on purpose.

He felt guilty anyway. "Oh, I am so sorry, child…this is much worse than I thought…"

"...8…"

"Yes…yes I know."

"…and 1…"

"How long have they left you like this?"

6 wasn't sure. He had lost track of the time. "…hours…maybe…"

"Monsters." 2 huffed, "What was their excuse this time?"

6 considered answering, but soon realized the consequences. 2 would confront 1 about it. Would know about his nightmare. 1 hadn't liked his picture, and for good reasons. It had shown his death. But if 2 got involved then he would be in danger too. He could be hurt. Or killed. He was so old, so frail. 6 didn't think he would be able to survive this. He knew that he had barely done that himself.

"Never mind that. It doesn't even matter the reason. He shouldn't be abusing his power in this way…" 2 insisted, "Protecting us, he says. More like protecting himself."

"…thank you…2…"

"What for, my boy?"

"For…for being here…" 6 said faintly.

2 smiled comfortingly. "Of course. Of course…" He paused, "I'll be right back, 6. I promise. I need to get some supplies…too risky to move you. Maybe 5 will be with me when I return. I could use his help."

And with that he got up and walked out of the room, taking the candle with him. 6 wanted to call out, to ask him to stay, but couldn't. He was too tired and weak. Besides, 2 had promised he would come back. He would come back and fix him. It would be all better then. The pain would finally stop.

The moon was shining through the stained glass windows of the church, a rare sight. Usually the night sky, like the one during the day, was covered with smog and clouds. But tonight it was fully visible, the moonlight streaming in like water. It made him barely able to make out the pictures depicted in the beautifully colored windows. They told the stories from the books that the twins had found scattered throughout the church. 6 couldn't read like them, but he could understand the pictures.

There was a man. He was not from the world, but he came to it. The son of a loving creator who wanted his people to listen to him. But the people were corrupt and forgot about the creator. So he promised to send his son to save them. The people waited for a long time. A very long time. 6 understood their impatience. He had been waiting for someone to save him and his fellow stitchpunks too.

The time came for the son to arrive, and he showed everyone his father's love. Some returned to the creator, but the rest still opposed him, their hearts hardened by evil desires. They killed the son, even though he was the one they had been waiting for; they just didn't recognize him for who he really was. This was the part that confused 6. Why would they kill a man who obviously did so much good? He was always shown with a strange halo of light around his head, showing perfection and righteousness. And so they killed him?

There was a happy ending though. The creator raised the son back from the dead, promising to do the same to those who believed in him. This frame was 6's favorite. It was blue with soft clouds and people in brilliant white clothes surrounding the man. It made 6 feel peaceful. Content. Not everything in existence was evil. Not everything was trying to rip him apart.

6 had always tried to copy this style of art, the simply beauty of it all. Every time, though, he had fallen short, only creating messy versions of it. His art was so ugly in comparison, mainly dark blots of the ink he so dearly loved. But it gave him something to aspire to, and he knew he would work until he finally gained this goal.

His time to do this, though, was running short.

If 1 had been more thorough he would have discovered more pictures like the one he had questioned him about earlier. That had been the last one he had drawn. The rest he had stashed away, hoping they wouldn't be found. He needed to remember, but he didn't need them out so publically displayed. His punishment would probably have been far worse.

All of them were strange in the fact that they all included a character 6 had never seen before: the ninth one. Even without this foreknowledge, he had figured out a considerable amount about him from his vision. He was to be awakened soon, and then he would come and save all of them. Not much unlike the man from the stained glass windows.

Unfortunately, before that would come the deaths. This is what these pictures were mainly about.

The first one was of 2. 6 had hated every moment of drawing it. Just the thought of 2's dead body made him sick. The second was of 8. The third of 5. And the last one…of himself. It had been strange inking out that one. As in all of the dreams he drew out, he never could distinguish what happened during the actual vision until he had it on paper. Seeing himself lying lifeless in the claws of a giant beast was not what he had expected when he was finished with that one.

6 knew death would be painful, far worse than anything he was experiencing now, but he wasn't afraid. He was prepared to face it head-on, to accept it once it came to take him away. After that, the ninth one would free him, and they would all rise again, like the story of the windows said.

6 sighed, hoping and praying that '9' would come to save them soon.