'Boris' sits cross-legged at its table, foot bouncing in the air to an imaginary rhythm. It doesn't remember the name of the song, who composed it, or even what most of the instruments were supposed to be, but it remembers that it likes the song, so it doesn't let its mind stick to that train of thought for very long. Sometimes the song filters through the pipes from one of the upper floors, played by an old radio or maybe a gramophone, and it's probably the only reason 'Boris' even knows the melody. When the song is real, and can actually be heard, 'Boris' thinks that maybe it could recall the face or name of the person who wrote it if it played for long enough. Unfortunately it isn't played very often, and 'Boris' can't figure out why. It thinks it's a nice song.
Other times, it looks at the pipes when they make too much noise on their own, and it hears something in its head telling it to fix the pipes if it wants to keep its job. It doesn't know why. It doesn't have a job. Sometimes it gives in to the too-deep voice in its head and tries to repair the pipes, and it usually succeeds, though another part of the pipe tends to break just outside the safehouse as soon as it's finished with the bit it was working on.
It squirrels away random objects that it brings back to the safehouse on the rare occasion that it actually leaves. It doesn't understand why, but it connects with some of the objects. A wrench, an ink-stained gear, an old sketchbook, a record or two, and any recordings it can get its hands on. It recognizes most of the voices, and though it can't place a name or face to any of them, it gets comfort from the idea that it might not be alone. It doesn't think any of the voices used to be the one it had, though, since none of them match the voice in its head that tells it to fix or build things, and it still can't talk. It thinks that it would remember how to talk if it heard the voice it must have had at one point.
A few times it found clothes. A shirt and bowtie, vivid purple and bubblegum pink respectively, for the first time. It can just barely place them with green eyes every once in a while. The second time it found an old, pale blue bowler hat. It's unreasonably attached to that one. The most recent accessory it recovered was a single black stocking. It likes that one even more than the hat. It associates it with cigarette smoke and laughter and pretty hair and good friends.
Sometimes it finds books or nametags or little napkins with words on them, but it doesn't know how to read. It probably did at some point and it can still read the letters on their own, but actual words have difficulty forming, so it doesn't really bother trying anymore. Instead it cherishes the handwriting, tries to recall who wrote what, attempts to copy the writing and develop its own style. It doesn't work, but it's fun, so 'Boris' keeps doing it.
Occasionally it finds things it doesn't really know what to do with. Notebooks with an H hastily scribbled on the front, a stack of letters addressed to J and S, and an old, empty inkwell with an equally dry pen and the same H labeled on it. It looked through the notebooks a couple times. The person that used them was a good artist.
Once it thought it might have finally remembered something. The letter M, dark hair, closed eyes, the want to sleep for as long as possible. It was probably right about having remembered that, but it slipped through its mind with the same ease that ink slipped through its fingers when it tries to block a hole in the pipes.
It continues to stare purposelessly at the wall, as unblinking and seemingly free of emotion as ever. Internally, it's going through every memory it has, hoping something will turn up.
Nothing ever does.
a/n- Sequel to the first three chapters, but probably not the last in this little string.
My main AU.