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Mon Cœur Glacé
Chapter 2: The Mechs
Author's note: Happy belated Valentine's day! In the spirit of the occasion, I present you with a somewhat cute moment between Monkey and Trip. For future reference, I'm planning on posting a shortish new chapter about every week or so. Thanks very much for reading, and if you enjoy, please let me know!
It was when fighting mechs that the anger overtook Monkey.
They had come far too close to Trip this time. He had been preoccupied, fenced into a corner by a legion of mechanical monstrosities. With each thunderous strike of the staff he grew more furious, more aflame, doused in mech oil and beaded with sweat. As he built up a natural rhythm the blows came more easily, and it was simple to fight an enemy who you had loathed your entire life, who had taken everything from you, and all he had to do was think of the slavers, his parents, Trip.
When he'd finished they lay twitching around him in a mound of searing metal.
"Monkey!" Her shriek pierced the air, ghastly.
He spun and leapt towards the sound of her voice, bounding across the ground faster even than the blood pounding in his ears, vision blurred but clear enough to see the three machines crowding around her. The nearest one grabbed her by the arm and lifted her straight into the air like she was as fragile as feathers; Monkey made a frantic and involuntary noise in his throat, but he was still too far away. The mech shook her until she screamed. He could see her flailing, trying desperately to set off her EMP. It was going to cut her. He was almost upon them now - so close, so goddamned close, Trip I'm nearly there - and the roaring in his mind increased until there was nothing else but the desire to slaughter.
He rained down fire and a whirling mass of death. In one almighty blow the mech holding Trip was carved in two, oil spraying from the severed deformity in an uncanny imitation of blood. As Monkey fell to the ground he knocked back the other two, and when they were hurled away from him, dazed, he hit them hard enough to disable their internal wiring and detach their heads from the rest of their bodies.
Monkey stood in the midst of the carnage. He hadn't realised that he had been yelling. He was panting, aching, a stone-cold mech murderer, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
"Are you hurt? Trip?" He dropped to his knees, oil pooling all around him, and placed both hands on her shoulders. "Trip, are you hurt?"
She was curled into a ball. At first he thought she was trembling and shuddering, but then he realised she was shaking her head. He had smeared some mech oil onto her bare arms. It wasn't blood, no. She wasn't harmed.
"Oh, god," he breathed. "Shit."
"That was close," was all she could manage, quiet and unsteady.
The relief was overwhelming. He rested his head upon her shoulder, a spontaneous reflex of gratitude and closeness and the realisation of how near he had been to losing it all. She smelt how he imagined comfort should smell.
"They found me. They found where I was hiding. I'm… I'm putting us both in danger. I'm so sorry, Monkey. I'm sorry it has to be this way." She found it difficult to talk, and her voice stuck hard in her throat. The guilt Monkey heard there pained him.
He pulled back to look at her, silencing her with his firm stare. He was so close he could make out dust and sweat in the corners of her face, a single thread of garnet hair in front of her eyes, vulnerability and great strength in that honest gaze. She did not blink. The arch of an ancient building shaded them and a whisper of a breeze wafted the grass around their feet. They kneeled together in the grime and oil and mech parts, two strangers suddenly not so much like strangers anymore. He wanted to sweep away the strand of hair with his hand. He did not.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he said.
Then he got to his feet and helped her up. They didn't quite meet each other's eyes. Trip said something about scanning their course and ran ahead, Monkey following after her, always following.
