Title: Learning to Live 3: Looking and Seeing
Author: purplerhino
Disclaimer: If they were mine I'd be writing books, not fanfic. I write for love. I write for fun. I do not write for profit.
Spoilers: Everything.
Rating: PG-16
Characters/Pairing: DG/Cain, AZ/Jeb, Glitch /SemiOC
Summary: "Are you going to unscramble my eggs?" Scraps tilted her head and looked up at Wyatt not-sir.
"Wyatt, meet Scraps. Scraps, this is Sir Wyatt Cain. You can skip the 'sir' part. He doesn't like it: unless he's your boss." Scraps looked up at the man she was meeting. He had the palest hair, silver-blue eyes and a pale complexion. He also looked like he could break her in half with his pinkies.
"Locked out of the sun while standing in it," she muttered then remembered to gracefully curtsy. "Sorry. Bad doggy, bad form. Niceties first."
The blond Wyatt-not-sir was a man made of tin, like Frank. No one said, but it was there. Always worn, star on the chest and heart on the sleeve. Wasn't that supposed to be the other way around? But he wasn't dressed all formal like a prince in a castle. His sleeve was cotton and vest of leather. He dressed a little like Frank.
"No bad dogs, Scraps." Frank put a hand on her shoulder. It was comforting. The kindness of strangers, not often felt. She could feel the care and an undertaste of anger and sorrow.
Wyatt-not-sir frowned and turned suspicious eyes on the Frank one. "Tellin' tales?"
Frank shook his head. "Think she's a mite touched in more ways than one."
The not-sir seemed a bit more wary. There were two men in uniforms, starched red jackets with black trousers. They wore guns on their hips. Guards. Was she in trouble again? Wyatt-not-sir held out his hand and she shook it. Strong fingers; working hands, not palace hands. He didn't belong, yet he did. Loyalty, honor and vigilance. She wasn't in trouble.
Scraps tilted her head and looked up at Wyatt-not-sir. "Are you going to unscramble my eggs?"
He chuckled. "I'm not sure eggs can be unscrambled, kiddo. But if they can, the people we have here can do it." He took that tone she was used to but didn't care for. Like he was talking to a child.
Scraps nodded. "When you break your eggs, you make an omelet. Mine has a lot of stuff tossed in, willy-nilly. Who made that word? Willy-nilly? It's as strange as patronizing. That's another silly word. It's something often regretted."
Not-sir rocked back on his heels, reassessing the woman who may be little and a girl, but was not a little girl. "You're right at that. I think underestimating is an interesting word, too. Lots of syllables."
Frank followed the conversation as if watching a pong-ball match. It was damn interesting.
"Yup," Scraps popped the p sound. "When you chew on those syllables it tastes like eating your own words."
"That it does," Wyatt-not-sir offered the hint of a true smile. "It seems I have a habit of tasting those words when it comes to young ladies. You'd think I'd have learned by now."
The Frank one snorted with amusement.
"Come on then, Scraps. There are some people to meet," Not-sir motioned to proceed down the hall.
They, and the two guards with their guns, moved through the palace. There were paintings and art, plants and marble, and royal things for show. Wyatt-not-sir didn't care about any of them. His cares were living and breathing. A good man.
Frank was talking about her and she tuned him out to look around at all the prettiness. She paused in front of a portrait of a pretty woman. "There is a portrait that kept a man young. The painting became a horror, absorbing the ills. It was stabbed and the man died. The collector had it behind glass. The hole was so carefully fixed."
Wyatt and Frank had stopped and turned to look at her as she spoke.
"The Collector. You talked of him in the carriage," Frank walked back to stand beside her.
"I did?" Did she? She couldn't recall.
"Said he collected all sorts of things and built death," He tried to remind her.
"Carbine guns and armor on wheels. Explosions in the palm of your hand and hatred in metal. He made these to collect his magic items," Scraps agreed. "The painting, the bed, the crystal orbs and the shoes of silver were his favorites. He also loved to build new things. The challenge of the art of destruction."
She could remember the painting. It scared her: there was something dark and hurtful about it even though the man pictured held an unearthly beauty. The shoes were okay, but seemed rather silly, if full of magic. The crystals were deceptively innocent but innately dark. And the bed was… neither good or bad, but old and earthy. There were many other things he had collected, but those Four were the ones he most valued. Then it poured out: whatever she recalled was gone.
"You're Frank, and I'm Scraps, and he's Not-sir," Scraps muttered, as much to herself as Frank. Sometimes repetition helped to hold on to things.
"Yeah. That's right, darlin. Come on," Frank sounded so sad, she wondered why. He was nice.
Wyatt-not-sir was talking to Frank again. "Some of that sounds like the new weapons the Longcoats started using. Someone was developing bigger, better guns and those armored tanks. Maybe I should speak with Azkadellia."
They took her to a room full of people—five men and a female Viewer—and a mirror for show reflected everything. Everything was opposite in the mirror. Were good people bad in there? Were people in their right mind mad and those mad were sane?
There was one man her eyes turned to. His dark hair was curly, not like hers, not nearly. There was a hint of a scar peeking out of the middle of his hairline, mostly hidden by a few soft, stray curls. His eyes were toffee-brown and his nose was a bit crooked. He was looking at her with interest and curiosity. He made her tummy feel funny.
One of the men in a suit of green stepped towards her. "We've heard a good deal about you, young lady. We'd very much like to see what is going on inside your head, and we shall see if there is anything we can do to help your thoughts to be clearer."
Scraps shrugged. "That's nice. Do you wear light green because it's supposed to be soothing?"
She bit her lip. That was bad. Not polite. The words just spilled out before she could try to stop them. Not that she had tried too hard.
Well, she was unexpected. The woman who was brought in was reed thin and looked the size of a child. No, she moved like a woman. And there was something old around her eyes. Her hair was… red. And springy where the braids ended. Very springy.
Introductions were made all around. Scraps seemed a poor choice of a name for her. But it was no worse than Glitch, he supposed. And he'd grown quite attached to that one.
"Can you remember who performed the operation, Ms. Scraps?" Hilow, the alchemist present asked.
"I can't remember who I am. Why would I remember someone else?" She crossed her arms, looking at the man as if he were the one with a brain problem.
"Yes. I suppose you do have a point," Hilow had the sense to look abashed. "So, there's no chance of finding out whose brains were patched together with yours."
"Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief, Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief." She ticked off her fingers and her voice took on a sing-song quality.
The chief alchemist started jotting it down and Glitch rolled his eyes. "It's a children's rhyme, not a recipe."
Scraps looked at him again. Her silver eyes seemed to look into him. It made him feel twitchy.
"I think there is a cook. I know recipes. Or… maybe that was me, and there wasn't a cook. I don't know what was original. I'm not original. I'm left-over parts. A bit here, a bit there, stitch her up and see what she can do. I'm not right in the head."
Glitch found himself shaking his head. "Only because someone made you that way. And you're more right than you ought to be."
Scraps smiled at him. She was not beautiful. She would never be regal, or elegant, or classic. But her smile made her very pretty.
The alchemist and Healers urged her to take the chair next to the mirror. Scraps sat down and the female Viewer reached out to touch the girl's temple. The mirror shimmered and showed a three dimensional image of a brain. It was amazing. There were thin lines all around her left lobe. Yet everything matched up perfectly. There had to be … sixteen sections!
"This was done by a genius. An insane genius… but it's almost beautiful," the Healer present was in awe.
"Looks pink and squishy to me," Scraps cut in.
"That took artistry as well as a deep font of knowledge," Hilow ignored the girl.
"Hullo, right here," Scraps held her hand up and wiggled her fingers.
Glitch felt a lead weight in his stomach and a need to be sick. "Dr. Pipt. I'd bet half my mind that is the work of Dr. Pipt."
"Who's Dr. Pipt?" Cain called from the back of the room. Everyone turned, having forgotten that Wyatt and Frank were there.
"A genius. An alchemist and engineer, a sorcerer. A terrible and powerful combination. Rumor had it he was quite mad, twisted even. He also invented the procedure for brain removal." Glitch answered gravely.