Scene 7: Burning Questions

Trigger warning for written description of a panic attack and self-disparaging talk. The specific action where the warning becomes relevant will state the warning again.

(Line breaker)

You come to still scrunched into yourself, hands on your antennae and face pressed into your knees. Sighing, you slowly stretch out your limbs, working out the stiffness with a wince. You know you're partially biotic, but did your creators really have to design you in a way that would mimic their aches and pains?

That will get worked out as the day wears on. You gather your belongings again, grunting as you heft the beak into your hands. You're dealing with this now so you can move around more easily. Once your lance is done, you should leave and start heading for Five Pebbles' facility grounds.

The sky is starkly clear and blue as you stumble your way back to the smelting factory, and the clouds on the horizon look marginally less angry this cycle. You briefly pause to look in the general direction of Five Pebbles' superstructure, trying to gauge what he might be doing. Given what you saw of his output, you're surprised the storm he's brewing has lightened up to any degree. You welcome the extra time though.

You tune your audio sensitivity and heat sensitivity down as you reach the door to the smelting factory. Bracing yourself on a count of five, you push the door open and slip in, grimacing at the heat that swirls around you. The extra preparedness is already helping; though still unpleasant, you can actually process what you're doing.

The layout of the factory appears very linear. Above you are numerous tracks of scrap metal, which jitter and jump as the conveyor belts shunt them towards a designated furnace. The furnaces' vivid orange glow shines brightly ahead of you, but the bulk of them is mostly blocked from view by a row of machinery. You give one of the machines a cursory inspection; they're manual operation modules for the furnaces. Whether they still work is dubious, but you're going to have to try.

>Check if the machines have any helpful controls for operating the furnaces, but if they don't, just go on ahead to the FIRE 🔥🔥🔥

You elect to ignore the flames the overseer is projecting all over the room.

It takes a few tries and a bit of shaking, but you manage to get one of the control modules powered on. It's surprisingly outdated; you expected holographic projection interfaces, as well as remote control of the furnace power levels, but at least the touch based interface responds to your fingers. The furnaces are currently running at near maximum power, and the airflow control modules are tuned to the highest setting.

You don't need the furnaces hot enough to completely melt metal, just hot enough to let you weld the pieces together, so you turn the power levels down. You tune down the airflow modules as well, since you won't need those either, and you sigh in relief as the din of the factory lessens. You'll need to turn both these settings back up again later, just to be safe. You're not sure if turning your smelting factory off will affect functioning in other areas, and you'd rather not risk it.

You still need something to weld to the beak, but the furnaces should be ready now.

If you can do it safely, take some scrap from the conveyor overhead?

You look up at the scrap tracks. They're a ways above your head. Scanning the rest of the factory doesn't reveal any possible access points; there are some stairs on the far side, but the tracks enter the furnace a good distance away from where the stairs start. You're not willing to inspect the ends of the tracks either. Your puppet may be hardy, but it's not immune to melting.

You're not certain what you could do with the scrap regardless. Your waste department is designed to support the functioning of your superstructure. In particular, your heavy metal processing facility is designed to handle any and all processing of metal products, separating metallic components and recombining them so you can use the material to repair yourself—your can, really. You wouldn't be able to do that as just your puppet. Even if you managed to get your hands on some scrap and melted them down, you wouldn't be able to find a mold to reshape the molten metal. The layout of your waste department doesn't generally allow you to detract from its original design like that.

You would have better luck searching around the facility for a loose component somewhere. Rebar pieces can be welded together, or you could maybe use a small support beam that's fallen off. There has to be something like that around here...?

Glancing up at the scrap metal tracks again, you self-consciously straighten up. You feel... small. You're minuscule compared to what you were when you were still inside your can, obviously, and normally you would be towering over this building. Now you're too small to reach something above you.

It's an odd feeling. Your puppet was always considered tall, too. It doesn't give you much help here though.

>Look around for some rebar or beams or what have you. Try not to think about how smol and cute you are right now. Fail.

You glower down at the overseer, who merrily dances in place. "Are you serious?" you mutter, the question only half directed at the overseer. Your overseers? Calling you cute? How do they have the neural coding to even process that?

Whatever. You put the Miros quail beak down next to the furnace control module and look around the rest of the factory. A lot of the machinery around you here is dedicated entirely to managing the furnaces. Maybe they're more intricate than you initially thought. Not that it really matters to you, you need them only very briefly for what you came here to do.

There's a persistent rattling sound on the far end of the smelting factory. It's hard to miss now that you've noticed it, but only because of how much sharper the noise it makes is compared to the dull roaring of the furnaces and the click-clack of other mechanisms in the factory. With a bit of triangulation and a quick search, the source reveals itself to be a broken scrap metal track. The remnants of the mechanism are still trundling, exposed metal gears and pulleys scraping against each other, and incoming scrap metal is spilling onto the ground, adding to the already massive mountain of metal sitting in the corner. You turn your auditory processing down a little further with a sigh.

Thankfully, you can see the broken parts of the track sticking out of the scrap pile. You root around in it briefly, and with a grunt, you pull out a long pipe. This was probably part of the support structure of the tracks, but it'll work as the handle of your lance just fine, even if it's a little too long for you.

This pipe requires both your hands to hold, but it's less unwieldy than the beak. You haul it back to the control module with a sigh. Hopefully this makes things a little easier.

>LET'S DO THIS! LANCE LANCE LANCE LANCE LANCE YEAHHHHHHHH STAB!!!!

"Calm down," you mumble, hefting the pole higher and staring the furnace down. "I'm getting there."

It takes a bit of time, but you manage to get both the beak and the pole close to the furnace. It's hotter here than you've ever felt before; your systems won't melt, but by the stars it is hot. You don't want to think about how hot it must actually be in the furnace.

Your arms are shaking as you slide the tip of the pole into the furnace. Within seconds, the tip is glowing red hot. You carefully, slowly pull it back out, gaze locked on the glowing tip. What if you drop this? You're just barely strong enough to hang onto this; you'll adapt with time, but you don't have that time now.

The beak. How are you going to get this onto the beak? It's still on the ground. You didn't think this through. You didn't consider the actual process of making this.

Slowly, you crouch. You shift your hands closer to the hot end of the pole, letting the cool end clank against the ground. The metal is unfathomably hot.

If you just press the pole against the beak, it's going to push the beak away.

... Des would probably laugh at you for this. If it weren't such a tense situation anyway. He would be horrified if he could see you now. Maybe it's a good thing she can't tell what you're doing.

Gingerly, you lift your foot, pressing it down on the beak to keep it in place. The beak clanks against the ground; you're shaking again. You take a deep breath, trying to still yourself.

This will be worth it. This better be worth it.

You thrust the pole towards the beak before you can second guess yourself again.

The hot metal connects with the base of the beak with a violent hiss. Your next breath burns, and you cough, an uncontrollable hacking that you struggle to stop. Your systems are screaming at you to stop, to drop the pole and kick the beak away, and you just barely win against your coded instincts of self-preservation to keep pressing the two pieces of metal together. It's almost done, almost cooled enough to join the two pieces, you just need. A little. Longer—

You drop your weapon and stagger backwards, head spinning and chest aching as you noisily pull air into your lungs. You didn't account for—metal oxidizes and aerosolizes and you breathed it in—

(Injury sustained: Cellular poisoning. Severity: Mild.)

Your cells will flush it eventually. You'll be fine. But Void below you ache. Every breath hurts; your cells have already started the healing process and the initial inflammation hurts.

But your weapon is complete. Whatever you have now will have to do. You get to your feet—stumble, as your systems scramble to compensate for the cellular poisoning, and you totter over to where you dropped your lance. It looks fine. You think. You can't tell and you don't care. You're leaving.

>WHY DID YOU DO THAT? Go outside with your lance and take a long breather! And check that lance to make sure your haphazard job is secure enough! Perhaps consider finding a place to rest and recover, too.

"Fucking thank you," you snarl between coughs. "Did you have another suggestion?"

Outside. Yes, you need to get out of here. You heft the lance up into your arms and half stumble, half walk to the exit—wait, you need to set the furnace back up first. You impatiently tap on the control module's screen to turn it back on.

... you don't remember what the settings were before, but the factory sounds adequately loud now. You take your leave.

You restore your heat sensitivity but keep your auditory sensitivity low as you exit the smelting factory, tossing the lance on the ground before shutting the access door behind you. You then sink down to the ground with a sigh that turns into a coughing fit. That has to be your worst idea yet out of everything you've done so far.

Your lance... you drag yourself over to it to take a better look at it. The weld job is... well. You're certain no one with any sort of expertise in this area would be proud of this. But the lance stays intact even with your experimental wiggling of its tip, so it's good enough for you.

You don't want to waste this cycle. If Five Pebbles' output is low today, you should get a move on so you can get to him quicker. You can at least get out of your waste department.

Your cloak isn't strong enough to strap the lance to you, so you just hold it in your hands as you (somewhat unsteadily, even if you don't want to acknowledge it) start heading out of your heavy metal processing facility.

>LANCE GET!!! Head out of the waste department towards 5P and make a few practice swings with your newly acquired EIGHT FOOT MEGALANCE OF DOOM on the way.

You're glad to be finally getting out of here. Your heavy metal processing facility is nestled comparatively deep inside your waste department, but you know where you entered from, and it shouldn't take that much time to get back there.

As you exit the domain of your heavy metal processing facility, you glance down at your lance again. It's slightly longer than you are tall with the beak attached. The weight is evenly distributed across it, but it's still quite heavy. Your puppet's systems will gradually adapt to using it, so it should stop feeling as heavy over the next few cycles, but right now, your arms are already aching from carrying it. The dull ache from your exposure to the toxic metal fumes isn't helping.

Still, you have it now. You should give it a test swing at least. You fumble with it, trying to figure out how to hold it properly. You should probably keep the blunt end close to you, so you can pivot with it?

You nearly drop the lance entirely as the weight of the tip drags the entire lance towards the ground, and you stagger forward. With a huff, you readjust your grip, shifting your hand forward. You can work with this. You heave the lance up, sinking lower into your stance. Pivot point from your waist, one leg forward for stability. Other leg forward when thrusting—

The weight of the lance yanks you forward as you swing, and you topple, landing flat on your face. Your lance clatters to the ground a short distance away. You cough, pushing yourself up with aching arms. Your head is spinning again. Maybe you should try this some other cycle.

>Maybe you should go sleep? You've done so much already, and that poisoning canNOT be good for you... Rest it off, y'know?

"No. I don't know when I'll have the time to make more progress." You pick yourself up, dusting your cloak off, as a few more coughs make their way out of you. There's still so much time left in the cycle, you should use the time to make progress instead of cooping yourself up again. You may be lightheaded, but it's not severe enough of a hindrance to stop you from navigating through your waste department.

>Oooooh ur getting sooooo sleepy. Sooo sleepy. You're The Eepers. The Ni-night. get tired.

You stare down the overseer. "Whatever you're trying to do, it's not going to work."

>No you should go to sleep for health purposes and stuff this is a democracy so you have to do what we say now. Overseers are a part of you so logically they should know your needs better than you because they have a deeper connection to your soul or something. Trust me that's totally how it works.

Despite everything, you flinch. "You are part of me, but you aren't me," you snap back. "You don't—I don't have to listen to you. I'm not wasting more time here."

Your chest burns as you retrieve your lance.

>I am very sad that you are not listening to us!!! As a matter of fact I feel downright ~emotionally distraught~ (ಥ﹏ಥ) (sobbing kaomoji) Are you satisfied now? (இ⌓இ｡) (different sobbing kaomoji)

"You—I donʻt—"

(italics) I love you Iʻll say it as many times as you need. (end italics)

You take off running.

>Bitch if you don't rest right the fuck now to let your cells heal quicker I'm going to play a fucking siren sound, and there's nothing you can do to stop me other than fucking resting.

[Trigger warning: Descriptions of a panic attack, negative self-talk.]

You're running. You're running why are you running what are you running from. Your chest burns, every breath burns with the push pull of air in out as you sprint headlong towards something, what are you running towards? What are you doing? What are you doing?

You trip. You fall, lance clattering out of your grasp. Breathing hurts you can't breathe every cell in your body screams for air but you can't breathe because you're running running away from something. What are you running from, what are you doing here, why did you think doing this was a good idea? You should know better you should know you have her memories. You're a disappointment to her memory. You should have—you're—

You can't breathe. You can't breathe.

>(italics) An overseer presses itself against your lower torso. (end italics)

You scream, the sound tearing itself loose from deep inside you, and you squirm writhe fall away from the touch. It's too much too much too much you can't deal with all of this. You can't deal with this why did you even bother trying to do something, why couldn't you have just stayed put like all the other times? What are you doing what would Moon think what would Silver say Day would be disappointed—

Nooononono you're doing it again why do you always do this you promised her. You promised her. You can't do anything right you can't do anything. You can't breathe.

>Deep breaths. You are going to be ok. Follow my head. (italics) The overseer hovers near your face, nodding up and down. (end italics) Follow my head's speed, breathe, slow and steady. In. Out. In. Out.

Air scrapes in and out and in and out of you and you cough, each expulsion of breath like knives plunging through your chest. Everything is tight and painful and agonizing as you breathe, as you struggle to breathe, shuddering with every breath you drag into you, and the overseer bobs along too fast—too slow for you to keep up, but you try anyway. Air in, air out, amid the burning, scorching of your lungs with every process that fires through your neural circuits.

Everything aches. Everything aches. Everything aches and you just things to go back to when things were simple and when you didn't have to question who and what and why you are. Except you've always questioned it and you always will and that's why you're here, isn't it?

Breathing. In and out and in and out and in and out in a dizzying rush. Your chest hurts. You hurt.

>Deep breaths. This self cruelty will not help anyone, least of all you. Take the time you need to rest and breathe.

There's no time there's no time you need to—

In. Out. You're so incredibly tired. In. Out. You know better than this. In. Out. You can't keep going like this.

You're so, so, incredibly tired.

You lie on the ground, shaking and sobbing, every part of you aching and hurting, each breath easier than the last but still agonizing. But you breathe, in, and out, and in again, even though it hurts. It's all you can do.

>Uh let’s maybe. Crawl to a shelter. There may be plenty of time in the day but you need rest methinks.

... you're too tired to argue. In too much pain to even formulate a protest. You can only focus on each breath as it slices its way through your chest.

You crawl—drag, pull—yourself over to where your lance fell, and you clutch it to your chest. Still focusing on the in, and the out of air through your lungs. Stars, you ache.

... shelter. Where?

>It's probably worth taking a moment to get your bearings? See where the running before took you. Don't rush things, you'll be okay :]

You glance around you. You... you weren't thinking about where you were going. You don't know what you were running towards, or what you were running from. But you're in between the biological processing facility and the slag processing facility; biological processing is to your right, and slag processing is to your left. You're close to where you entered your biological processing facility from.

>Oops, that could’ve gone better… haha… oops… So, how ‘bout we wander into a nearby building and hope it works out? There’s one over there, right? (italics) The overseer gestures vaguely to the nearest building in the slag processing facility. (end italics)

You’re too tired to care. Lance cradled in your arms, you half walk, half stumble over to the building. You don’t recognize what this building is, nor do you have the energy to care. It has an access shaft; you drop your lance briefly to open the door.

You wander around, checking doors aimlessly, until you find a spacious enough room. Closing the door behind you, you let your lance clatter to the ground and curl up into yourself. You ache. Your chest hurts. Every breath hurts.

You can’t deal with this. You have to, but you can’t. You should have just stayed where you were. You couldn’t do anything, but at least… at least it was familiar.

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