Disclaimer: Nada
AN: Believe it or not, I love 7. I really do. She's one of my favorite characters by far. Just so you know. Also, if I write a sequel would anyone be interested in reading it?
The ground here was soft. It had been covered with grass and plants once, before the world ended, but even now it was gentler, kinder than the distant ruins of the city.
The Machine had carried 9 in one of its spare arms—he couldn't have possibly made it this far in a day, especially not on an injured leg. He spoke quietly to pass the time, explaining the burials he had read about in the twins' books. If the Machine heard him through the wind it made no sign, yet when they reached the field and he was deposited in the dead grass, it followed his directions precisely. Even a stone was pulled from the earth and laid at the Scientist's head after he was covered. The stone was carved carefully and diligently with a single word: Sir.
The sky was growing dusky by the time the Machine was finally satisfied. It picked up 9 and wandered back to the city. He was half asleep by the time he recognized buildings (funny how easily he could fall asleep while suspended in this creature's claws). Slowly it lurched to a stop in front of a building he couldn't forget, the first message clearly inscribed in the midst of the elegant statues.
"What?" He mumbled, stirred from his rest.
The Machine began to lower him to the ground, but he shook his head.
"No. Not here."
He'd told them to leave. They wouldn't be here anymore. And even if they were, they wouldn't want him back. Not now. Not knowing what he'd done.
The Machine stared at him, confusion somehow evident in its optic, but it lifted him back up and continued walking. It didn't stop again until it reached the hollow of a broken old building. After setting him down carefully on a low pile of rubble, it settled itself into a corner and dimmed its lights, drifting into a hibernation sequence.
He limped to what looked like the remains of an old chair—it was soft, at least, and looked more comfortable than the cold stone he had been placed upon—and nestled into the cushion, letting himself fall asleep beside the beast.
It was a gamble, and 7 knew it.
If the Machine had made more Beasts, then going out at night would be a deadly mistake. But if it hadn't yet, then she still had the advantage—its glaring red optic was easy to spot in the dark, while she would be hard to spot against the debris.
And there was always the chance that she might lose the Machine's tracks in the dark. Not likely, she reminded herself, looking at the crater-like depressions, but still a chance.
If she was even remotely sane, she would have turned back. There was no chance he was still alive. Not anymore. But she had to try.
Who was going to throttle him if he died? The tracks circled and crossed a few times, but these looked a bit fresher than the others. She followed them closely, promising herself to return to the library if they led her to a dead end.
After more than an hour of hunting she found the trail's end: the ruins of what might once have been an apartment building. She hid in the shadows and ventured inside, past tattered curtains and the disintegrating remains of furniture. There was no sign of life, no homey hand-made mechanisms like she was used to seeing in the library or the Sanctuary, and now that made the building seem even more sinister in the gray moonlight.
It was a cave, a lair for the monster that lurked in the far corner. Its optic was dim, but still glowed with that same hellish light that she knew all too well. She prayed it was sleeping, and searched the corners for a cage, or another Seamstress, or something that might have held 9 captive while it waited to retrieve the Talisman. It wouldn't kill him without it, would it?
Would it?
Maybe it took her so long to find him because she didn't want to see him where he lay. There were no bonds, no restraints, nothing to keep him prisoner. He just lay there, illuminated from one side by silver moonlight and from the other by the Machine's demonic gaze. His eyes were closed, his limbs limp.
The Machine hadn't waited.
She was too late.
Her knees weakened beneath her—she wanted to fall down, to run away, to cry. So many people, so much had already been lost. Not him too.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair!
But she didn't move. She couldn't leave him—not yet. Not with the memory of how that thing had desecrated 2's body. She wouldn't let it do the same to 9. He'd been stupid and selfish, but he was part of her family. She wouldn't leave without him.
Hopefully the Machine was a heavy sleeper.
She darted from shadow to shadow, getting as close to the body as possible. It would only take her seconds to cross those last few feet between them—barely inches now—
The room ignited into red light as the Machine woke, its horrific eye fixed on her and 9, its claws reaching for her.
No. She wouldn't let it have him. She gathered up the body and leaped, only to find two of its smaller claws on either side of her, snatching her out of the air and prying 9's body out of her arms—
"NO!" she heard a shout. "Don't hurt her!"
The Machine jerked her violently, but she twisted to see the source of the voice.
It was impossible.
"Don't hurt her!" 9 cried again, awake and alive in the monster's other claw. "She's my friend."
That demonic eye narrowed on him and glanced again back to her for a moment.
"Please, you have to put her down. Gently!" he added, almost as an afterthought.
The sound from before filled the air—that horrible screeching of steel on stone—but it was quieter this time. Softer.
"No, she's not dangerous. She's trying to help me. Isn't that right, 7?" he called to her.
"…That's... right," she said, floundering in her confusion.
"See? So put her down."
This had to be a dream. It had to be. She was slowly lowered to the ground and released, falling the last few inches to the floor. 9 was deposited a few yards away, closer to the Machine.
"9?" she called, her voice shaking. "What's going on?"
"Long story," he mumbled. "I'll tell you later."
That was it? 'I'll tell you later'? She'd risked her life looking for him, and that was all she got? Some dream this was.
"You'll tell me now," she corrected, not bothering to hide her fury. Above her head, the Machine's claws clicked menacingly.
"All right," he said, half panicked. To the Machine: "It's all right. Just… um… excuse us a second."
Since when did people talk to the Machine that way? And since when did 9 walk with a limp?
He touched her back and led her around a corner, to the remains of what had once been a bathroom in the ruined building. It wasn't much of a hiding place from the Machine, but it seemed to satisfy him.
She wanted to ask what was going on. She wanted to ask why the Machine was listening to him, how he'd gotten hurt, what had happened. But somehow, those weren't the questions that escaped her mouth:
"9, what did you do?"
A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between them as he looked at everything but her. Finally he mumbled his reply: "I…woke up the Machine."
"No you didn't," she said, taking his shoulders in her hands. "You woke up one of the Beasts. They woke up the Machine. Not you. It wasn't your fault."
Now he looked her in the eye. "I fixed it," he said slowly, firmly. "I woke it up. Not the Beasts. Me."
"Why…?" she whispered, uncomprehending. The words didn't make sense. She understood them, but they weren't right. She'd misheard him. She was confused. It couldn't be right.
"I had to."
"Why?" the whisper had become a shout, and this time it was punctuated with a metallic slap. Not enough to hurt him—just enough to hurt. He needed to hurt as much as she did. "Do you—do you have any idea what you've done? What that—that thing—has done? It killed the others! 2! 5 and 6 and 1 and 8! This entire city—this entire world is dead because of that monster! And you—" she seethed, unable to form the words in her fury. "And you—you woke it up? Do you want to die? Do you want us all dead?"
"No," he said quietly, holding up his hands. "No, that's not it, I promise." His eyes flickered above her for an instant, and she turned on her heel, ready to run or fight. She only glimpsed the last of the Machine's feet as it meandered back into its corner. It had been creeping up on her. Ready to attack her, before 9 called it off.
"That thing is dangerous, 9," she hissed, pushing back the wave of sickening fear that welled within her.
"I know."
"It murdered the others right in front of us. Don't tell me you've forgotten that."
He cringed at the memory. "I haven't. And… we've discussed that."
"You've 'discussed it'," she repeated, her tone acidic. "Well, that makes it all better, then. I'm so glad they made for good conversation." She turned again and walked away. If he wanted to live, he'd follow her.
Even in her fury she listened for his footsteps. They didn't come.
"The Scientist made it," 9 said softly. "Just like he made us."
"The first one was a mistake," she said bitterly.
"He didn't—" she could hear him swallowing, even from so far behind her. "It's one of us, 7."
It was the last thing she ever wanted to hear. "You woke it. You keep it."
...
Fun Fact: I thought about what to call the Scientist, considering that we were never given his name. And I realized how rarely we call one another by name when we talk to each other—only when singling out one person in a group or in moments of strong emotion. Most likely the Machine would have heard the Scientist referred to by pronouns: you, he, him, etc. And since he was the lead scientist in this particular project, I imagine that the other scientists in the group would have frequently addressed him as 'sir'. Thus, I have decided that the Machine mistook that for his name.