The girl brought her newfound motorrad to a stop among a cluster of tall trees. It was enough space for a small campfire, bedroll, and her to park Hermes. Climbing off her motorrad, the girl set about fixing the place up for the night. She wasn't particularly good at it, but she managed to get a small fire going after a while of flailing at a stack of twigs wildly with a lighter. That was something she'd have to remedy, the girl decided. Now that she was on her own, she'd certainly need to increase her skills at surviving.
Dinner was a bit of jerky she had found in one of the bags Hermes carried. The girl made a note to learn how to hunt as well. Jerky wasn't bad, but it wasn't really a filling meal. With a placated, if not full, stomach and crackling fire to keep her warm, the girl made to get ready for bed.
She kicked off her shoes and socks, tossing them to the side. Then, with a furtive glance around to make absolutely sure that no one was watching, the girl stripped off the pink dress she was wearing. She was about to toss that into the pile along with her shoes and socks, but she paused. As she stared at the blood-soaked garment, the weight of everything that had happened struck her. Her parents had tried to kill her. Her own parents. And then she had been saved, but her savior had been killed in the process. His blood was soaking her clothes, her dress, her face and hair.
The girl sunk to the ground sobbing, dress pressed to her chest. What a sight she must be. A waif of a girl kneeling on the ground clutching her bloody dress like a security blanket wearing only her childish green panties with pink flower-prints on them—she was too underdeveloped for a bra after all.
A cough snapped her out of sobbing state. She glanced around quickly. "It's me, Hermes. I… well, I'm not really one for comforting children—never learned the skill. I'm a machine after all. But still, you look like such a pitiful mess over there. I may not be human, but if you want to talk, I'm here for you."
The girl smiled sadly at his words. "You remind me of my father," she said softly. "When I fell down and hurt myself, he said similar things."
"Ah. Well…" Hermes paused. "Is that an awful thing?"
The girl began to cry once more. "He tried to kill me! Both my parents. They… did they not love me?"
"I cannot say," Hermes said. This caused the girl to begin to cry even harder. "But! Before they tried to kill you, did they love you? Before they and the rest of the country went insane, did your father read you stories at bedtime? Did your mother tuck you in, kiss you on the head and tell you goodnight? Did they care before?"
The girl thought about this. "...yes," she whispered. "Every day father came home, hugged me, and threw me up into the air. His little flower, he called me. Every morning, mother would cook a great big breakfast for me, drowning in sugary syrup."
Hermes gave a grunt of approval. "Then your parents love you. Forget that they tried to kill you; they weren't in control. Instead, remember the years of kindness they've had for you. The time they spent with you. If you spend all your life thinking about the bad things, it will weigh you down. Your guilt will be your past, and that will be your God."
The girl stopped crying. She wiped her face with a clean corner of her bloody dress. She thought about what Hermes had said. Finally she decided. "Then I'll remember the good times we had together. I won't hate them. I don't know if I can love them anymore, but…"
If Hermes could have smiled he would have. He didn't really care too much about his rider one way or the other. As long as he was used, he was fine with it. But ambivalence towards his rider did not mean he could not help them out in a time of need. "Then, while I can't say I'll always be here for you, I'll at least be by your side for a time. Saku—."
The girl cut him off. "No. No, I don't think I can handle being called that anymore. Even if I've forgiven my parents, it still hurts."
Hermes hummed. "Then what shall I call you?" he asked.
After a second's pause, the girl glanced over at the riding cap that the dying Kino had pressed into her arms. Something clicked in her an she nodded resolutely. "Kino," the girl declared. "I'll be Kino. In honor of the traveller that gave his life for me. And I'll travel the world, to keep his memory alive!"
"Very good," Hermes said. "Then, Kino, let us set off first thing tomorrow. There's a beautiful world out there I'm told."
The newly christened Kino shook her head. "You're wrong. It's an ugly world. An unkind place. It is not beautiful." She paused and held her arms above her head. Her blood-stained hands were lit up by the fiery tongues of the setting sun, the crimson liquid all the more vivid for it. "And that, in a way, lends it a sort of beauty."
"If you say so, I suppose," Hermes agreed.
Resolute in her decision, Kino took her old dress in her hands. With a final glance at it, she hurled it into the flames of the firepit. It burned slowly, sending embers fluttering into the sky.
"By the way, Hermes," Kino said. The motorrad grunted in acknowledgement. "Before. You… uh… said you could see me."
"Correct."
"So you can see me now then?"
"Again, Correct." At Hermes' words, Kino flushed bright red, realizing her state of dress. "Cute panties by the way."
Kino crossed her arms in front of her chest in a futile attempt to protect her modesty. Then she paused. "Didn't you say you you were a machine? But you think my… panties are cute? Do machines think about people in that way?"
"I…" Hermes' headlight sputtered slightly, as if considering something. "Well. How strange. It seems as if I've taken on some of your precursor's personality traits. He must have literally put his soul into fixing me up, I suppose. Part of it anyways. Enough that I recognize a number of human sensibilities."
"Oh." Kino didn't really have much to say to that. She wasn't well versed enough with how motorrads worked to dispute Hermes' claim. "Then, if you understand human sensibilities, can you stop looking at me? It's embarrassing…" the girl muttered
Hermes chuckled. "But it's more amusing to see you flustered, arms crossed about your breasts as if there's something to hide, cute little green panties illuminated by moonlight and firelight."
Face lit up like a tomato, Kino dashed over to the largest suitcase, which was most likely to hold something she could cover herself with (The other cases having only food and other such travel stuffs), only to be stopped by a combination lock.
The girl turned towards Hermes. "Do you, erm… know the combination? From your memories of the other Kino?" she asked meekly.
"Sure thing," Hermes said. Kino brightened up, only to have her spirits crushed. "I'm not going to tell you it until tomorrow."
"But, but, but…" Kino stammered. "It's… I can't sleep like this!"
"Maybe you shouldn't have thrown your only other clothes into the fire." Hermes was completely uncaring. Kino flipped through a few combinations before slumping to the ground in defeat. She was far too exhausted to try and guess it. And so, with much trepidation, she resigned herself to sleeping half-naked on the forest floor.
Soon enough Kino drifted into slumber. Hermes was quite pleased with this, as it caused her arms to fall to her sides, no longer protecting her modesty—something she had tried to safeguard by sleeping with her arms crossed. But in time he tired of watching the young woman's naked chest rise and fall with tired breaths. Hermes joined Kino in sleep (Or at least the closest thing a motorrad can do to sleep).
In the morning, the two would wake and would begin a journey that would span the world. The beautiful world.
Well, after Hermes forced Kino to spend a good hour or two standing half-naked in the morning dew as she attempted to guess the code to the luggage with him giving her terrible clues. Why the blush on her face as she struggled with the infernal contraption was just as radiant as the dawn's rays. And so the first chapter ends, and so the story begins.
The title Kinography is a play on pornography (Which is almost what this is) and not related to the actual word Kinography which is often ironically used on 4chan's /tv/ (television and film) board and Reddit's /r/moviescirclejerk when referring to the highest caliber of film. Because trust me, we are most certainly not the highest caliber of film here. We're not even the highest caliber of writing. Because, you know, smut. Very high brow this is, innit?
Anyways, cheers. Review if you feel up for it.