*Here's chapter 2. Enjoy! Oh, and thanks, Masako Moonshade for reading my story, even though you don't usually read OC fics. That makes me feel special. X)

The sun had sunk beyond the horizon when the stitchpunk finally stopped to rest; a molten lump of golden lead that trickled out of sight. For a while, there was darkness, so thick and profound that the burlap figure felt that he would not—could not—go any farther. He shouldn't disturb the inky blackness. He sat down on a rock and began to wait. Slowly, the moon crept up overhead, a tremulous ball of grey light that cast a dim luminance over everything, but he didn't move. Something inside him—a hook? Glue? No, maybe his heart, on a string—had affixed itself to the ground so tightly that, frankly, the stitchpunk thought that he couldn't get up, even if he wanted to. Why should he? There was nothing here, nothing there, nothing everywhere. And he? He was nobody. Stillness oozed into his cloth skin from the outside air, covering him like molasses, like tar, forming a thick shell that obscured vision, hearing, movement, thought…

When the shell had cracked and the stitchpunk was free, the moon had been chased off by the radiance of the sun, taking along its posse of stars and fleeing without a second glance; it would be back. The ragdoll stood up, feeling refreshed, the night's stupor already behind him and getting farther away every second. This was a new day—a whole day to watch over the beautiful decay of the city, the landscape, the world. He looked around and balked.

He didn't know this place. At first glance, the landscape—half-demolished buildings, broken sidewalks, bones—may have looked the same as anywhere else, but his trained optics told him otherwise. There were different patterns in the cracked pavement, radically altered structures that were nothing like the area he had tenderly guarded, watching day after day as the asphalt and mortar crumbled to dust. This was an entirely new part of the city; the worst thing he could imagine. Where was his part of nowhere?

A cracking noise alerted him. Immediately, his senses shifted into overdrive: his corroded optics opening wide to scout the landscape, ears pricked, fingerless hands pressed to the ground to pick up any vibrations. A new area meant new dangers, new things to fight and hide from that he didn't know about. The stitchpunk saw a patch of dirt to his right. Excellent. He crept over and began to roll around in the soft earth, only stopping once he was completely covered and hidden from view. As long as he stayed still and kept his hands and feet out of the sun, he was invisible. Nobody again.

The cracking noises softened and deepened in pitch to thumping sounds that could be felt through the dirt. Not only that, but they came closer. Quickly he flattened himself on the ground, tucking his arms and legs in. If anything saw him, he'd be just a clod of dirt, unappealing to the eye and just begging to be ignored.

The noises came closer, until they were almost right on top of him. Cautiously the stitchpunk cracked open one optic and peered up at the source. What he saw he couldn't believe.

*Sorry to leave it with a cliffhanger, but I'm typing this up during my lunch period and I still haven't eaten. :( While the urge to write may overpower the urge to eat, it doesn't do so forever, I'm afraid.