Disclaimer: I own nothing still.
AN: I'm rather happy with this chapter. Rather.
It was easier than it should have been to leave the library's courtyard. He moved like a shadow, fast and insubstantial.
Maybe it thinks I'm the only one. The thought felt oddly reassuring, a moment of grim optimism. Maybe it won't know to look for the others. Maybe they'll be safe.
Maybe they'll forgive me someday.
He wasn't actually sure which way he was going anymore, but he didn't entirely care. Not to the grave-- that was enough for him. He wasn't in a hurry to die. He just wanted to...
You really need to start thinking things through, the rational part of his mind pointed out. This time it sounded suspiciously like 5, and that was rather comforting. A wave of relief washed through him.
Funny. He wasn't depressed anymore. Leaving hurt more than anything he'd done before, and he wanted more than anything else to apologize-- he'd done something stupid, he'd terrified the twins, he'd betrayed 7's trust-- but for the first time in far too long he felt like he was doing the right thing. The only thing that needed to be done. No more lies, no more guilt, no more pretending everything was okay. Maybe he would never get a chance to explain, but that was fine too. As long as they were safe.
He walked for longer than he cared to think about. When night fell he absently considered finding a place to stay for the night, but it wasn't that important. He could still keep going for a while. Besides, the clouds had finally dissipated enough that he could see the stars-- they were beautiful. Thousands of tiny pinpricks of light, glittering around a blood red moon.
He barely had time to realize his mistake when a long metal arm snatched him from the ground.
7 searched until nightfall.
She didn't want to come back without 9, but the twins needed her. She wasn't going to leave them alone to face whatever monsters waited in the Emptiness.
This had been easier when the others had been alive-- as intolerable as 1 was, he knew how to keep his followers hidden, and 8 had been more than capable of fighting off the smaller machines. Back then she could roam as she pleased, and occasionally glance through the Sanctuary's windows to check on the ones she'd left behind. Back then there had been nobody to answer to, no difficult choices to make. Just follow your instincts and fight the monsters.
It wasn't quite that simple anymore.
The twins had engrossed themselves in reorganizing the library during the day. The panic seemed to have faded entirely as they flipped through the endless pages and restored the order that had been disturbed by the machine's attack. They waved cheerfully as 7 trudged inside, ready to go on with their lives as they always had.
Like nothing had changed.
4 craned his neck a little, trying to see behind 7. Not finding what he was looking for, he scampered across the library floor to her side, looking inquisitively behind her. 3 followed close behind, and 7 found herself surrounded by clicks and flashes of light. Finally they turned to her, their heads cocked to the side, a question in their optics. 7 felt a pang as she realized what they were asking:
Where's 9?
She swallowed, looking for the right answer.
"9 is..." He's a suicidal idiot. He ran off to die. "He's..." He's gone and never coming back. "He's going to try to fix things."
For a minute (it felt like an hour) 9 cowered, waiting for the flash of green light and the agony of a stolen soul.
Then the minute passed and he came to his senses. The Machine couldn't do that anymore—the Talisman was far away, safe with 7 and the twins. Not that this eliminated any of the other horrible ways the Machine could kill him, but that most terrifying option, at least, was gone.
For some reason this calmed him. Not much, but enough for the paralyzing fear to recede and his voice to return to him.
"What do you want from me?" he shouted at the colossal monster. Its iris contracted into a tiny disk (smaller, at least, than it had been—the circle of crimson light was still bigger than his entire body) to focus on him. He wasn't sure exactly what he expected in reply—the blinking lights of the twins? the roar of the Beast? a voice, like the humans and the other stitchpunks? or maybe it would just rip him to shreds and be done with it.
He didn't expect to hear another deafening shriek—the grind of the Machine's steel arms against stone. Again 9's hands covered his head, trying to muffle the sound and shield his optics from the shower of sparks that flooded the air. It wasn't terrifying anymore –he already knew he was going to die—it was just painful.
"Stop," he shouted over the awful sounds. "Stop it!"
CRASH. One of the Machine's feet stomped on the newly ruined ground. Instinctively he looked down at the source of the sound, and the message beside it.
YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT
"No I don't!" Aside from a gruesome and horrible death for all living things, he was stumped. The foot stomped beside the words again:
YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT
"I'm telling you, I have no idea. I don't know—" His voice rose to a cry of pain as the screeching began again. The iris widened and contracted, and then a change: the screeching became quieter. Not drastically, but it wasn't quite as agony to hear it anymore. The gouges on the ground became deep scratches in the cement.
I WANT WHAT YOU KNOW
That… was not what he expected to hear. Or read.
"What?"
It stomped again: I WANT WHAT YOU KNOW
Traditionally, having conversations with mass murdering machines was the last thing on his mind. Still it was better than a gruesome and horrifying death.
Why not?
"So what do you want to know?"
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH. SCREEEEEEE—he cringed. The massive iris bobbed up for barely an instant, and the screeches became quieter.
WHERE IS HE?
There were a few 'he's that 9 knew of. All but two were currently dead.
"Who?"
YOU ARE NOT HIM
That narrowed it down significantly, but he had a sneaking suspicion the Machine wasn't interested in 4.
"Who are you talking about?" 9 asked, covering his ears as he waited for a response.
HIM
"Can you be more specific?" he suggested.
The Machine crackled furiously. It was getting frustrated. Besides dying, getting the Machine mad was the last thing he wanted to do just then.
YOU ARE LIKE HIM
NOT HIM
This was not working. Time for a new approach.
"Are you talking about 1?" he asked. The iris narrowed, but not in a particularly pleasant way. "2? 4? 5? 6?" That one might have been plausible. 6, at least, seemed to have known far more than he ever said. "8?" Him, not so much. 9 racked his mind for any other names he could possibly recognize. The films 3 and 4 had shown him. "The Chancellor?" he guessed. The Machine tightened its grip on him, and he could feel his tiny metal frame bend under the pressure. One last chance—only one more name he could think of. "The Scientist?"
The Machine stomped so hard the ground shook. Somewhere in its excitement its grip on him slipped, and he tumbled to the ground. The landing was hard and painful and jarred his leg cruelly, but at that moment he was just grateful not to be crushed to powder.
More screeching as the Machine scrawled eagerly on the cement. The moment it finished it plucked him up to show him its message:
YOU KNOW HIM
TAKE ME TO HIM
"The Scientist?" he asked.
Stomp: YOU KNOW HIM
"But—"
TAKE ME TO HIM
Fun Fact: My husband read through this (you know you got the cream of the crop of spouses when your husband not only encourages your writing fanfics but also reads them) and he thought that the Machine should try to speak (via voice synthesizer like the stitchpunks have) instead of writing its messages. What do you think?