A/N -- Wow. WOW. And "wow" again. How'd I get pushed back to the second page already? I guess that 9 is a rapidly growing fanfiction category to the extreme...of course, it's partially my fault too, for updating so late.
I was actually shocked at the number of people who favorited this story and added it to their alerts. That's all very well, but next time, could you please REVIEW it too? You lurkers. You know who you are.
The Seeker
II. Acid Rain
The pugnacious mauve sky overhead seemed to drop a few inches, threatening to break open and spill upon the barren landscape below. The lone figure plodding through the ruins caught the edge of a rumble of thunder, and sighed. It was time to head home.
Weaving through the randomized tangle of scrap metal and man-made debris, he spotted the fall of the first raindrop, nearly the size of his hand. It splashed maliciously as it landed a few centimeters away from his foot, and he imagined he could hear the sizzle of contact as the barest wisp of steam floated up. Once upon a tie, the rain that cascaded down here must have been pure, rejuvenating. But the span of man and machine spewing pollutants into the atmosphere had put an abrupt end to that. Only acid rain fell now.
Derelict wastelands and acid rain. Well, it certainly matched his mood.
Nearly a week after the defeat of the B.R.A.I.N., the remaining stitch-punks were struggling to prevent themselves from going crazy as they salvaged through their ruined world. At least, 7 and 9 were; it was difficult to discern if 3 and 4 had any similar qualms, as they were so wrapped up in cataloguing their new shelter. The four survivors had taken up residence in the laboratory where they had first gained consciousness, sifting through documents, trying to uncover as much information as they could about their meager existence.
9 was under the impression that he was more depressed than the others were. Perhaps it was because the guilt of awakening their ultimate enemy was still a dead weight upon his shoulders, heavy and oppressive, intensified by the deaths of his five comrades. Or perhaps it was because, despite the finality of freeing souls from the talisman, he was unable to shake the sensation that he just wasn't done yet. Since he'd joined up with the rest of his kind, everything had happened so fast. His life had become a raging, tumultuous river, where he was constantly crashing over the fleeting rapids of battles and adventures, and now he had been unceremoniously dumped upon the delta at the end – left to question what had just happened, and if it had really ended at all.
9 managed to make it back to the lab before the rain had worked itself up to a drizzle. Winding his way up with the aid of bits and pieces of stable architecture, he preoccupied himself with the absent thought that perhaps they should install an elevator, like the one that had been in the old church. Something to keep them busy, if nothing else.
7 was waiting for him upstairs. "How are you?" she asked.
He somehow managed to dredge up a smile. "I'm alright," he replied, and in her face he saw the flicker of doubt that meant she knew he was lying.
"Anything interesting out there?" She was attempting to sway the direction of the conversation now. Unadorned by her battle gear, 7 was easier to read than usual, so he was able to detect an inkling of something in her gleaming optics. Pity.
9 shook his head. "No. Nothing."
A tremor zigzagged into his feet as more thunder, closer this time, vibrated the lab's crumbling foundations. As if on cue, the relentless hammer-beat of freakishly large raindrops began on the sagging, ancient tiles above.
"Hope the roof doesn't fall in," mumbled 9 aimlessly.
7 sighed. "I can't say I don't know how you feel, 9," she told him, touching his arm. "But you need to stop torturing yourself. You need to…you need to just let it go!"
He swung around to catch her gaze.
"What does it matter to you?" he demanded. "I ruined your life too, 7."
7 glared into his round optics, her mouth halfway opened, not the slightest sound emerging. Finally she shook her head, posture deflating. "I can't stand seeing you like this," she murmured incoherently.
From across the room, there came the dry rustling of paper, just in time to end the morbid turn their conversation had taken.
In the document-strewn expanse of the laboratory, 3 and 4 were in their prime. 9 couldn't remember a day when their eyes hadn't been flashing furiously, storing away every last shred of information that they could get their metal fingers on. This stormy afternoon was no exception. The twins were hurriedly poring over the collection of myth analogies and science journals that had once belonged to their creator – and were pushing scraps of paper away from their exceptionally small bodies as they completed their tasks.
"I'm jealous," sighed 7. "I wish I could have something to entertain me like that."
"Somehow I doubt it's for entertainment," remarked 9.
And about that time was when the rotten weather took a turn for the strange.
9 looked up, confused, as the muffled natural light filtering in through the dirty windows darkened – as if a shade had been pulled over his vision. It didn't last for long, as in the next moment, a burst of lime green washed out the shadows. But when it faded, the lab had gone as black as if it had been the middle of the night – which it was not.
Momentarily blinded, he flinched when he felt a pair of tiny hands clutching at his shoulders, then realized that it was simply 4 clinging to him.
As the lenses of his eyes twisted and adjusted to the sudden absence of light with infuriating slowness, he noticed that 3 had similarly entwined himself around 7. Dim rectangular patches stood out in the place of windows, while discolored drops of water glinted like a torrent of diamonds streaming past.
"Was that lightning?" asked 7, whispering for no particular reason.
"Green lighting?" 9 answered incredulously. "I've never heard of that. Unless 3 and 4…?"
The twins leaned towards each other, exchanged a few chronic flashes, then simultaneously shook their heads.
"It probably wasn't lightning, then," 7 decided uncertainly. "So it's certainly nothing freak out about."
9 didn't say anything – not until the edge of his optic caught a view of the window and he gasped out, "Again!"
This time, all four of them saw the greenness for what it truly was. And it could have been lightning…except it was the wrong color, it was too wide, and it slammed down on the same spot more than once.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The last after-flicker faded, and everything was deathly silent, save the insistent pattering of the acid rain.
"This isn't a regular storm, is it?" came 7's voice finally.
9 could feel the tips of 4's fingers piercing his canvas skin as she gripped him for dear life.
"Maybe it is," he replied reluctantly.
Something thudded below their feet.
They gasped in unison.
After the longest few-second pause 9 had ever experienced, he heard the echoes of a scratching sound, followed by a scuttling thump, like something coming up through the floorboards.
A shape pulsed in the shadows.
"We're not alone in here," hissed 7.
***
Vision. Bright. Ground. Touching. Touching…touching ground?!
She sat up, in the daze of a dream. You don't dream in that no-man's land between life and afterlife. But…
There was her body, the ragged collaboration of patches and metal as it had always appeared. But what made it different was the fact that it was laying on, sitting on, making contact with the ground.
She brought up her arms to hug herself, and found that she was able to do that, too.
Substantial. At long last, she was substantial!
"Hey!"
Her optics clicked as their long-unused focus mechanisms grinded into working order. Spread around her were five limp figures not unlike her own, pushing themselves up, rubbing their heads, copper fingers clicking against the rims of their eyes. Very familiar…
No. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong…
What were they doing here?!
"It's her!" shrieked the one who was striped, blotted with inkstains, a tuft of soft bristles sticking straight up from his head.
"Stop!" yelled the one who was tall, haggard, old-looking.
She didn't.
She ran – ran in the opposite direction, at the structure she hadn't even previously noticed was there, her long, limber fingers reaching out for handholds to swing herself up and away from her pursuers. All second nature now. How odd. She had never done this before...
Her metal feet slapped against beams and protruding nails. She was making an awful lot of noise in her clambering ascent, not that it really mattered.
After all, there couldn't be anyone else around here.
Right?
***
"Stay right there," 7 ordered the twins, who obediently scrambled back into their mound of paper and words.
9 crept ahead with the female stitch-punk, squinting into the tarry darkness. 7 stretched out her hand, and he imagined that he could audibly discern her fist clenching around the handle of her trusty spear. Her other hand brushed against his arm, then brought a finger up against her mouth. Shh.
Swiftly and soundlessly, her spear arm went up.
"Wait," he murmured. The word was barely a breath between his lips.
Too quiet, it seemed, for 7 sent the weapon spiraling at the source of the noise with deadly accuracy, where it was sure to meet its target…
A hand darted up and clamped the rod between two fingers an inch away from impact.
Paralyzed, it was all 7 and 9 could do to draw back as the hand was succeeded by an arm, then a torso, then a neck, then a head, until a full-sized stitch punk was there, standing in the darkness.
It gazed at them through oddly round optics and dropped the spear.
"Is that what I think it is?" whispered 7.
The stitch-punk took an abrupt step back.
"Don't run!" called 9, hoping that it would find his voice calming. He forced himself to recall the day on which he'd been discovered by 2. "Don't run. We're friends," he added.
It tilted its head to the side and blinked its eyes quizzically.
"You…" 7 finally seemed to succeed in searching deep inside herself for her voice. "Are you a boy or a girl?" she asked.
It hesitated. Then slowly, deliberately, it brought up a steady finger to jab at 7.
A girl, then. 9 cleared his throat, then inquired, "What's your name?"
She shrugged.
"Come on," said 7 insistently. "You must know your own name."
The girl steepled her fingers uneasily. 9 and 7 shared a disbelieving glance, until 7 declared, "Well, there's an easy way to find out." She seized the newcomer by the shoulder, turned her around so that her canvas back was facing them…
It was empty.
"Huh?" 9's makeshift brows knit together in confusion. "No number?"
7 shook her head dismissively, then tried a new topic. "Can you speak?"
The girl stared at them vacantly for such a long time that he guessed the answer was no. Then from her lips there passed a quiet, "Sp…speak?"
"So you can talk," declared 7 triumphantly.
"I can," said the girl, her voice beginning to increase in volume. "But I don't always."
"We need to give you a name," decided 9. "What do you call yourself?"
She looked at him meaningfully. "What do you call yourselves?"
"Hmm." 7 pursed her lips. "In that case, I suppose we should just call you what you are."
"And what am I?" challenged the newcomer, not unkindly.
"Blank," said 7.
The girl craned her neck, as if trying to gaze down her back and determine if this was true.
9 blinked. "Are you suggesting Blank as a name, 7?!"
7 spread out her hands in front of her – universal body language for, What more do you want from me?! "We have to call her something."
"Did you know there's more of you?" the newly christened Blank spoke up, bluntly attempting a bold subject change.
"More?" repeated 9.
"Yes," agreed Blank. "More of you…of us. Five more, in fact."
"Five more…?" breathed 7, her optics widening as she rotated her head towards 9. Perhaps the same thought had just zipped through their minds.
"They were outside." One index finger arched towards the ground. "Below us."
"This is probably somebody's trap," 7 thought aloud.
9 nodded automatically, though his own thoughts were somewhat more along the lines of, It's not them, it's not them…
"Do you want to go down there?" she asked, peering at them weirdly. "You probably know the way down better than I do."
"Go ahead, 9," submitted 7 warily. "I'll be right there. I just need to go tell 3 and 4 that it's safe to come out."
"Are you sure?" 9 was unnerved by the thought of spending even a few minutes alone with this somewhat suspicious stitch-punk. "I don't mind waiting," he added quickly.
"Please?" begged Blank. "Please, 9? That's your name, right – 9? I'd really like to go see them. I'm curious about what I am."
"Just take her," insisted 7. As she brushed by him, she whispered, "If she doesn't even know what she is, you'd might as well humor her."
"Alright. Alright," succumbed 9, reminding himself needlessly in his head: It's not them, it's not them…
They took one of the various roundabout ways to the ground. 9 could feel Blank's presence pressing behind him as she followed relentlessly. Something about her disturbed him, though he was unable to put his finger on what. Of course, perhaps it was because his mind was in such a turmoil. He couldn't even contemplate that would-be elevator anymore, what with him telling himself in an increasingly agitated thought-voice, It's not them, it's not them…
"Look!" exclaimed Blank. Near to the end of their passage, she shoved ahead of him. "There they are!"
Dragging his feet against the rough earth, he kept moving forward without actually looking in that direction. One more time he assured itself, It's not them…
"Well, are you coming, or not?" demanded Blank's too-energetic voice from the open there.
It's not them…
At last, 9 turned his head in the proper direction and opened one optic a slit.
It's not them…
He looked.
It was them.