AN: And just because this wasn't on the first chapter . . .
Disclaimer: I do not own the television miniseries Tin Man. I do not own the characters of the television miniseries Tin Man.
Chapter Two: Fog
Ambrose is lost.
And Cain knows Ambrose is lost because a thick, dense cloud of mist shrouds the palace grounds. Ever since the discovery, with Raw's help, of the Sunseeder's true design—to feed off of the inventor's emotions and convert them into weather patterns—Ambrose has been considerably easier to understand . . . and considerably harder to please.
Cain has begged the viewer to keep the discovery between them. Ambrose is the only one who can fix the Sunseeder, and if he knows that his emotions are the reason the O.Z. is suffering, things will be chaotic. The faster the machine is shut off, the faster everything will return to normal.
But things cannot be normal if Ambrose is lost. In fact, things will only be made worse, so Cain puts it upon himself to find the headcase.
It doesn't take long. When Ambrose is lost, he does not tend to wander far from his lab. Cain finds him in the stairwell, sitting cross-legged in the corner of the landing between flights with his shoulders hunched and his chin resting precariously in the palm of his hand.
"There you are," the tin man breathes easily, his anxiety quelling some. "I've been looking for you."
Ambrose looks up, startled by the sudden presence. "You have?" he asks warily as the tin man takes a seat beside him.
"Well, of course." Cain smiles genuinely, knowing how to handle the inventor when he glitches. The alchemists warned them that it will happen from time to time. The queen has been utterly distraught since hearing the news, but Cain, DG, and Raw have taken it in stride, somewhat relieved that a piece of their old friend will forever be imprinted on the man known as Ambrose. "Who else would I be looking for?"
The skepticism in the inventor's eyes does not waver as he timidly asks, "Do I know you?"
Cain has answered this question many times, and he is hardly fazed by it anymore. The words are so ingrained, in fact, that they seem etched onto the tip of his tongue. "Sure you do, Sweetheart."
The fog from Ambrose's uncertain eyes lifts—as the fog from around the palace does, Cain is sure—and the inventor smiles brightly. "Wyatt!" He lunges into the tin man's lap, hugging him fiercely. "You found me!"
Cain lets loose a hearty chuckle, wrapping solid arms around his headcase and reveling in the inventor's scent. "I'll always find you, Ambrose."
