BLOOM
CHAPTER 9
Cataclysms were nothing peculiar in this establishment. Flora's Cliff had already witnessed a devastating multitude of disasters, so much so that its former inhabitants were often in the business of developing predictive solutions. One of their more versatile accomplishments was a thirty-three by thirty-three-foot stronghold that sat at the facility's base. A thick room with asphalt borders that remained inaccessible to most of the lower-ranking staff members. Its designers hoped it'd serve as some kind of war-room for future struggles, proudly nicknaming it the title 'Project Crisis'. Developmental struggles forced them to settle on the nickname: Tape Room.
Arthur despised the Tape Room. His body would quiver when the hall speakers blared his name, requesting his immediate presence. He'd messed up somewhere, done something minor that would earn him tyrannical punishment. Nat would constantly assure him that his suffering was of a non-sadistic nature, that the justice would be deserved.
This day was no different. He'd already succumbed to the multiple piercing blows and bruises, which left him face-first on the ground. His boss strutted around his lifeless body, hurling the usual decimating phrases. Arthur could only clutch the velvet silk ground between his metal fingers, hoping the next strike would kill him, freeing him from his woes.
The lustrous smooth fabric coated every corner of the Tape-Room, from the ceramic floor to the asphalt walls. They'd originally implemented it to keep the construction scars under wrap, but its designers couldn't abandon its gripping aesthetic. With it, they coated every furniture piece in the room, of which it could only boast a few. A small round wooden table and some complementary chairs. Nobody ever used them.
Nat had already delivered the daily report, she did her best to relay the information through every bout of Arthur's misgivings. The crumbling crew numbers, issues with the unstable brook, and the new guests who seemed quite apathetic to their traditions. These happenings did little to deter the boss's mentality. He simply carried on pounding Arthur's metal flesh, repeating his favorite adage:
"End to end, eve to eve, the sun remains above as it shines below,"
That was his mantra. SUN's mantra.
A picture frame dominated about a foot of space over one of the Tape Room's walls. SUN always ensured it remained visible in Aurthur's sights during their abuse sessions. It was to maintain that subtle yet heavy reminder of the hierarchy state down here. There were multiple of them in the facility, all covered with the same type of velvet silk. The staff was always required to prostrate three times whenever passing each one of them. Sneaking a peek at the enigmatic photo beneath was a forbidden act, punishable by death.
Arthur began to suspect that this was his fatal error, unintended disrespect towards their father, the mighty Yugori. This didn't turn out to be the case.
"Arthur," SUN started with his mighty bellowing tone, "you reek of self-admiration."
He crouched his large stature to get a better view at Arthur's dented face, "you glared into one of the many reflections offered in the domain of Yugori and found yourself lacking nothing, didn't you?"
Arthur coughed out a bit of black oil from his system, "my apologies SUN, master of our fate, I did not mean such an offense."
"Lies!" SUN yelled, he gripped the robot's face with his two broad veiny hands, "man is never prone to mistakes, only disobedience."
"It was not my goal to disobey, I didn't know-" Arthur sputtered before SUN chucked him sideways sending his body twirling across the ground.
"Enough!"
The brute of a beast turned his attention towards Nat, the fair lupine who liked to keep her distance from all manners of conflict. She cowered in one corner of the room, clutching a metal-plated clip-board. A bit of black blotch had stained her white shirt, but her striped red skirt and chromatic fur remained untouched.
"Any other thing you'll like to waste my time with, Miss Nat?"
She slowly shook her head.
"Did this man," he pointed to Arthur, "ever partake in our creation?"
Nat shook her head again.
"Well, for a soul with nothing to boast of, he makes plenty out of his achievements," he walked over to Arthur's near carcass of a body, "through one of my many eyes, I caught him looking at a bathroom mirror with some kind of settled peace."
Arthur didn't dare budge an inch lest SUN took it as another act of rebellion.
"He peered at his hideous gait and had the audacity to even imagine that he could be loved," SUN continued, "and I caught him right at that point of introspection."
He slammed the steel plate of his right boot on Arthur's head, causing a sludge of blackened oil to splurge out of his nasal cavity. Arthur's pain tolerance was rapidly decreasing, but he'd survive. It wasn't his intent to do so, but he'd been designed that way. In no time at all, he'd be whisked to the medical bay for emergency treatment.
"How dare you, Arthur," SUN asked.
"I'm sorry," Arthur sobbed, that is if robots could sob. His metal frame could only manage this accursed whine that mimicked defeat.
"And I'm sorry too, I'm sorry for ever wasting my time with you," he kicked Arthur's face with his other boot, causing the metal mask that covered his mental machinations to fly off and strike the wall near Nat's fragile body. Fleshy folds of organic and metal tubes were exposed, revealing his crossed pupils and steel-fused skull.
The abuse session was over.
"Give him the usual treatment," SUN folded his arms and approached the veiled photo. Nat quickly dropped her board, grabbed Arthur's heavy body, and began pulling him away.
"You can use your abilities, Nat, I'd rather you didn't strain yourself lifting that iron carcass," SUN said.
Nat responded with a quick nod of agreement. She slowly dropped Arthur to the ground and stepped a few feet backwards. She adopted a sturdy pose and stretched her hands outwards towards Arthur's position. Interconnected dark crimson tattoos on her body appeared, contrasting her chromatic fur. Arthur's body began to draw itself towards her, his limbs slid through the velvet floor creating a thin wave of creases. Nat moved towards the entrance door, pulling him ever closer. Without physical contact, she summoned his disjointed face mask and plastered it against his broken face. The medics could handle the proper reattachment procedure later.
"Did you ever get the name of any of those guests?"
"No sir," she murmured.
"Were they well dressed by any chance, like royalty?"
"No sir,"
"Despicable, I'll attend to it they are welcomed here and treated well, we can't have runts running all over the place in filthy peasant wear"
"Would you like me to send the maids after them?"
"No, I think they need a warm personal touch, I'm planning on seeing to the fox first, his current state is quite repulsive"
Nat nodded again, she'd just finished dragging Arthur's body into the elevator, she let her finger hover above one of the many buttons that would lead them to the medical bay.
"Nat," SUN said.
"Yes sir,"
"When Arthur wakes up, ask him to resume his search for the conduit,"
"Understood sir,"
"If it becomes a barrage in communications," SUN continued, "kill whoever wields it"
There's a popular variety of tea that hails from the ensemble of army-men in battle trenches. A cheap acerbic blend of bitter root and green mint, drenched in freshly squeezed lemon fruit. Victor's sensitive canine tongue couldn't handle its sharp taste, but he admired its medicinal value. The Mobian dog would carry a few packets around, along with a flask of fresh water and two blue small porcelain cups. The latter of which was for any soul he came across during his expeditions.
He pulled down his jacket's zipper, sunk his fingers into its inside pocket, and began searching for the contents he needed. The neverending turmoil of the facility left him open to his usual tremors. It was for the best he cured his ailment quickly.
Silver had left him all alone by the graphite wall. The naive fool had gone after Tails and Blaze in the ensuing collapse. Victor didn't worry much, he'd be back after realizing what kind of terror awaited him at the North. After that, maybe he'd be more willing to settle down and chat over things, with a nice cup of tea to calm his nerves.
Victor set up a small picnic site around his location, a cup for Silver, one for him. The flask acted as a make-shift jug that the duo would use to dissolve their respective tea packets. As he moved these different elements around, he sang a quiet melody to himself, a traditional poem he fancied.
Forty-five souls, forty-five deals
Quiet agendas, one pocket full of pills
Four take the plunder, one takes the fall
Who's going to stand, when the angels call