AN: Hello, Kats and Kittens! How're things? Well, this is my second Tin Man fic, and I'm really excited that it's not a one shot! In fact, I'm almost finished writing it. This is the fastest I've ever written anything, and I'm really proud of it so . . . go gentle on my hopes and dreams, eh? Well, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the television miniseries Tin Man. I do not own the characters of the television miniseries Tin Man.

Apples to Apples

Chapter One: The Event

Glitch – or Ambrose, rather – was locked away in his lab again, and under the persistent (and somewhat annoying) insistence of the queen and DG, Cain was stalking down the corridor to drag the inventor to yet another mid-day meal that had seemed to "slip his mind." Passing servants ducked their heads and avoided eye contact as he passed, his clenched teeth and snarling lips a sure sign that he did not want to be bothered.

"Glitch!" He yelled rather harshly as he entered the man's laboratory without knocking. "This is the last time I'm going to-" Cain cut off abruptly, halting mid-stride as his jaw hung slack and his neck craned uncomfortably.

On a raised platform backed against the farthest wall of Ambrose's lab stood a massive, domed machine, glinting as streams of sunlight filtered through the tall windows. Cogs and wires and things that Cain had never seen before were strewn about the floor, covering nearly every inch of the polished wood. Puffs of steam were regurgitated towards the ceiling from a curved pipe at the very top of the dome, coating the top half of the room in a dense fog.

Several sparks flew from one end of the contraption, and the tin man's attention was quickly averted towards it, finding the inventor himself bent over a complicated-looking panel. In his hand he clutched an object, from which the sparks were emanating – something akin to a blowtorch – and his face was covered with a square, metallic mask that had a small, glass-plated opening so that he could see.

Cain composed himself, remembering why he had been forced to find the man in the first place and recovering some of the anger that had melted away. He marched forward, ignoring the objects crunching beneath his boots.

"Glitch!" He yelled again, still unable to get the man's attention. He growled and made his way up the platform steps, stopping just far enough away so that he was out of reach of the sparks still flying into the air. Putting a hand up to shield his eyes, he inhaled deeply and bellowed, "Glitch!"

Finally, the sparks ceased, and a metal-masked face turned in his direction. Cain huffed in relief. His next step would have been throwing things at the adviser, and, as tempting as that was, he wouldn't want to startle the man into an accident . . . at least not on purpose.

Cain watched the other man straighten to his full height – which was actually almost a full inch taller than Glitch; not that Ambrose had grown any, but with the way he held himself it was almost a wonder how the head case's spine had withstood all that slouching – and lift the mask up to reveal an oil-smudged face. The tin man took in the other's entire appearance – the disheveled hair and clothing, the rolled-up sleeves, the cuts and nicks on his fingers and hands and arms. It was a very different side of the man that Cain had not imagined. He'd figured Ambrose for the designing type, the kind of person who made the plans then sat back and watched while others built his inventions. However, the sight before him seemed to display evidence to the contrary.

The inventor's eyebrows rose in question. "Mister Cain? Is there something I can help you with?"

Cain grit his teeth. He hated when the other man called him that. It only served as a painful reminder that Glitch was no longer the carefree, somewhat confused friend they had once traveled the O.Z. with. He was a stranger and someone that Cain had no intention of getting to know.

The tin man crossed his arms and glared at the adviser. "Lunch," he said simply, watching the other's face contort with confusion.

"Lunch?" He asked softly, extracting his pocket watch and glancing at it briefly. His eyebrows rose again. "Oh. I hadn't noticed."

Cain rolled his eyes. "What a surprise. Can we go, please?"

Ambrose shook his head absently and placed the watch back in his vest pocket, heading down the stairs towards the lower level. "There are too many calculations. If I stop now, I might forget and have to start over again."

And therein lay the problem. Ambrose's underlying fear was forgetting – so much so that he pushed himself far beyond his limits and ultimately drove himself to exhaustion. His friends had understood the first month or two, gently cautioning him and suggesting he take is easy. Now – almost seven months after the head case's rebrainment – his skipping meals and avoiding sleep until passing out over his work table was something to be expected. They still attempted to keep him involved in as many family and friend functions as possible. They'd even planned a ball for the following week in honor of the O.Z. finally falling into a state of ease as things slowly returned to normal.

The ball was, of course, on the bottom of Ambrose's list of importance, not even the enticement of dancing to his heart's content able to peak his interest. His only reaction had been a polite smile and an inattentive "Oh, well that should be fun" before returning to his work.

"Glitch," Cain said in a warning tone, turning to follow the man as he wandered off towards his desk.

The adviser sighed, leaning over several blueprints and scanning them with a frown. "Mister Cain, I've asked you repeatedly to please call me Ambrose."

"And I've told you to quit calling me 'Mister Cain,'" the tin man countered, walking up right behind the man and forcing him around. Ambrose was startled, both by the sudden gesture and by Cain's proximity, and his eyes widened. He swallowed hard, his breath stuck in his throat. Cain realized their position as well – his fingers gripping the other man's upper arms and standing almost flush against him so that the adviser was forced to lean backward over his desk, palms flat on the smooth surface – and immediately released him, stepping back and clearing his throat.

"The queen and DG are waiting for us."

Ambrose sucked a deep breath into his deprived lungs, quickly pulling himself together and standing straight. "I don't think any major travesties will occur if the queen and the princess are forced to wait a few more moments," he said, turning back to the blue prints and leaning over them. His cheeks burned a light red as his mouth went dry, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to rid himself of the strange feeling.

"You obviously don't remember DG very well," the tin man smirked, his eyes wandering, once again, to the large machine on the platform above them. And even though he knew he would regret asking – oh boy, would he – his curiosity got the best of him. "So . . . What is this thing?"

Ambrose took a moment to respond, turning back towards the man with a blank look. He probably was not asked that question very often, as most people knew he had a tendency to ramble on for hours at a time. But the sudden shine that took the inventor's eyes and the smile that spread across his face was more than worth the tiresome lecture to come . . . at least Cain hoped so.

"It's a CDMTU," Ambrose began, receiving a pointed look from the tin man. "A Cell-Diffusing Mass Transit Unit."

Cain's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "A transporter?"

Ambrose nodded excitedly. "Precisely!" He grabbed the sleeve of Cain's coat, pulling him up the stairs and towards the machine. "It's able to transport anyone to anywhere at anytime. It's large enough to transport more than two-dozen people at a time – or even small vehicles – and accurate enough to send several people to different destinations at once." The adviser pressed a button on a small keypad, and a hidden door slid open, Ambrose pulling his captive inside before any protests could be made.

Cain looked up as they entered. It certainly looked bigger from the inside, the dome creating more space. The adviser was right; a decent amount of people could fit into the expanse.

Ambrose continued to talk, his voice reverberating off of the walls and echoing back at them. "DG was my inspiration, always complaining about having to ride the storms between here and the other side." He released Cain's coat, jogging to the center and spinning around with his arms stretched wide – a purely Glitch gesture. "Can you imagine it, Mister Cain? Having one of these in Central City would change everything! One push of a button and you can be . . . anywhere."

"It'd . . . be convenient, I s'pose," Cain said with a shrug. He was a countryman through and through. He liked taking his time getting to places – when leisure allowed for it, of course. He liked catching his own food and making camp and sleeping under a veil of stars. Ambrose's machine was, indeed, convenient, but it was still just a machine; something bigger and faster that took the simple pleasures out of life.

Ambrose chose that point to turn to the tin man, gaging his skeptical look as he glanced around the chamber. "You don't like it," he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Cain turned to him with a sympathetic smile.

"Well, it isn't me you have to impress, head case."

Oh, but it is, Ambrose thought, nodding and starting in the direction of the door.

Suddenly, there was a loud whirring noise, and both men covered their ears as it reached a deafening tone.

"What's happening?" Cain shouted, finding the inventor's face just as confused and frightened as he assumed his must be.

"I don't know!" Ambrose returned with a shake of his head. "It shouldn't be functional yet! It's probably just-"

The door slid shut, and both men gasped as they began to lift into the air, the gravitational pull shifting. Cain threw his arms out to try and steady himself but to no avail. The last thing he saw before a bright light swallowed them whole was the adviser's terror-filled eyes, and the only thing he wanted to do in that instant was take his friend's hand and tell him they would be all right.

AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard for any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?

Well, how was it? Think I should keep going? Later, Gators! I'm off to post this on LJ. Catch you on the flip side. :)