Note: Looking around, I realize that the proper name for the big glowy evil thing is the Fabrication Machine, or B.R.A.I.N., depending on which part you're referring to. For the sake of my sanity and wordiness, I am going to call the collective body and mind (B.R.A.I.N. and the FM) one thing, which I shall refer to as the Machine. I hope this isn't too confusing (it is, after all, a giant hunk of metal), but I apologize to any purists who are irked by changing names. I haven't gotten any complaints yet, so all is well.
AN: I've gotten a great reception so far, and I'm honestly really excited to see the 9 community grow. So without further ado, here's my second chapter:
For a long time 9 could only stare at the Machine. BRAIN, the Scientist had called it, and a little bit besides what he had seen in the projection of his creator. Once the fear had subsided (the most of it, anyway) he was left with a new, almost more troubling feeling: frustration.
This thing was dead—the Talisman's blast had broken its joints, bent its limbs and shredded its circuits. Even if it was at all possible to revive this thing, there was no chance of him doing it alone. 2 might have been able to manage the task, or even 5, but that was impossible. The monster before him had already stolen them away.
3 or 4 might know something… but there was no way he could ask them for help. The twins and 7 had spent their entire lives fleeing the Machine. How could he explain what he'd seen—what he had to do?
They'll find out eventually.
He swallowed. Maybe, if things turned out as he hoped, they might forgive him?
And if things don't turn out as planned, will they live long enough to have an opinion?
Another swallow forced its way down his throat. He forced himself to study the corpse more closely, to find the bits and pieces that he might be able to fix. There would still be time to back out, after all—just because he repaired a few hinges didn't mean he'd have to actually wake the monster up. If it was at all possible.
Which it might not be.
After circling the body a few times, he found a reparable fragment: a hinge with a broken lynchpin. Carefully he nudged the shattered metal from its place and hunted for a replacement. The substitute wasn't hard to find, and while it took some effort to nudge it back into the hinged leg, it fit nicely.
It was a start. And in the funny way of all things difficult, the start was the hardest part. Once the first hinge had been repaired, it took him mere seconds to find another that needed attention, and another, and another. By the day's end he'd learned more than he had ever wanted to know about the Machine's anatomy, but the majority of that small, simple task was finished.
9 stepped back and wiped the dust from his face, looking over his accomplishment in the brilliant gold light of the evening. This could work, he decided. It might take him a while, but he could do it. He could fix the Machine.
Just not today.
It was getting late. If he stayed away any longer, 7 would worry. She might go looking for him, just in case there were any more machines left to hurt them. And if she found him (something told him she would) she'd find out what he was doing. And then she'd be furious, and they'd fight, and who knew what would happen then. Frustrated by the thought, he turned away from his project and began to jog back home.
He wanted to explain. He just didn't know how—he couldn't put it into words, couldn't lay it out to make sense. Not so they'd understand it.
The Scientist had made the BRAIN, just like he'd made them. That meant it was one of them—it had a purpose, like they had. It just got lost along the way. Confused.
And started indiscriminately slaughtering people in that confusion.
That sounded rather stupid when he put it into words, but the thoughts still made sense to him.
The Scientist had also made the Talisman, and designed it to fit into the Machine. But why? The Scientist didn't seem to want the Machine to hurt people, or kill them, or suck out their souls. So why build it to carry that kind of weapon?
And what about the Talisman itself? What had it actually done, and why? Was it supposed to capture their souls? Did the souls make it rain? Why would he make them if their purpose was just to die? Was the Machine supposed to have the Talisman from the beginning? Was the Machine supposed to die?
It didn't make sense. There was something off about all of this, something he wasn't quite getting. All he knew for sure is that something still needed to happen, and it had to do with the Machine.
He'd tried waiting it out, ignoring the nagging feeling and hoping it went away, but weeks passed and it just got stronger. He tried talking himself out of it—bringing up each and every painful reason why he should put as much distance as possible between himself and the monstrosity—but logic failed to persuade. This wasn't just blind curiosity; this was a physical need to approach the Machine, to fix it, to revive it. That fact frightened him, almost as much as the Machine itself did.
His mood cloudy dark as he approached the Library, but he managed to control his features: he straightened his back, kept his head up, forced an absent smile to play on his mouth. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that might draw 7's attention. More than necessary, anyway.
"Find anything interesting out there?" she called as he approached.
"I went to see the others," he said. A half-truth was good enough, wasn't it? "Cleaned up a little."
"Oh."
He could see it in her face, in her optics. He knew her well enough by now. She wanted to retreat back into silence, to watch and think and remember, to relax in the safety of solitude. She wanted to let him get on with whatever he wanted to get on with. He could also see that she was fighting what she wanted and taking charge. Because whether she liked it or not, she was in charge now.
"You got back just in time," she said. "It's going to rain soon."
"Really?" 9 glanced behind him, at the vast and relatively dry world outside the library.
"You can tell by looking at the sky," she said, a bit of the awkwardness leaving her voice as she settled on a comfortable topic. "See the clouds? They get tall and dark right before it starts raining. It's in the wind, too—it feels wetter than usual."
He knew she hadn't learned that from one of the twins' books. He nodded silently as she walked him back to the library, half-hoping she would forget what she'd wanted to talk to him about.
"9, are you all right?" No such luck.
"What do you mean?" he asked politely. No stupid stammering, no averted glances, nothing suspicious. He'd been practicing this for far too long.
"I'm worried about you," she said decisively. "We all are."
Worried you'll get them all killed. It was all he could do to suppress a shudder.
"About what?" That sounded too tense. She'd see through it in an instant.
"You haven't seemed yourself lately." She didn't use examples—there was no way of fixing his behaviors so they wouldn't notice. She just looked at him, unblinking, resolute in her concern.
"It's nothing," he said. "I'm fine." He didn't sound nearly as sure.
She said nothing, and they continued for a while in silence. He could almost have believed that she had let it go. Almost.
"I miss them too," she said suddenly as they marched between the library's looming statues. He glanced up at her but said nothing. "But they're free now. We made sure of that. You made sure of that. And I know it hurts, but we have to move on. You can't just spend the rest of your life being miserable like this."
Miserable.
She thought he was depressed. Maybe he was. Is that how people felt when they were in the process of possibly murdering their friends and family?
What are you thinking? Cried the rational part of his mind. They're all you have left. They worry about you—they love you—and you're going to gamble with their lives? She's right: move on. Let it go.
"You're right," he said quietly. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly—a sigh of relief. "You're right. I'll get over this. I promise."