Work Text:
Gig Kephart is six years old when he first sees the mummified hand that had once belong to the Excerpt ⸢Signet⸣. He is much older when he remembers pressing his hand against the glass case that housed it, awestruck, sticky fingers leaving prints on the glass.
***
No matter how good a replica has been grown, there is always a temporary disconnect between the new body part and Signet herself. The only solution is time, but she clenches her hand into a fist. Lets her fingers go lax, then curls them one by one against her palm. They move like insects, quick-sharp and stuttering. She traces the fine spiderweb of scars running along her body with quiet reverence, each one a reminder of struggles overcome. Signet doesn’t remember how many limbs and eyes and fingers she’s been through now, how many are residing behind glass walls in museums. How many have trailed behind her in solemn processions or joyous festivals.
Belgard doesn’t understand. For her, replacing a limb is as easy as switching out a broken component, perfect functionality restored in an hours work. Signet has tried to explain the frustration and disconnect and physical therapy that goes into restoring her body’s functionality, but the fundamental difference between organic and synthetic life is too much to bridge. She stops trying.
***
The first time Gig’s eye leaves its socket, he vomits. Not right away, of course, but after a few minutes of gliding, panning shots of the nooks and crannies of his workshop, the roiling nausea becomes too much and he empties his lunch onto his shoes. He liked those shoes, though admittedly the lurid green probably wasn’t helping his sudden motion sickness. There is a moment of deep, dark panic after he’s cleaned up, worse even than the pre-surgery anxiety. Gig can’t help but wonder whether he’s made the right decision, making such a fundamental change to the functionality of his body. After all, his eyes were just fine, and his camera drone was just fine, and everything was just fine.
Gig laughs about it over drinks with friends later, hands flying as he describes the beautiful angles he managed to capture, the seamless transition of thought to flight. He laughs about it on stream as well, when someone asks how the dissonant visual input feels. He doesn’t regret his decision, only tracing the empty socket with the tip of his fingers occasionally.
***
Signet exhales slowly, all to aware of the tension permeating what felt like every part of her body. “You can do this,” she whispers, “you’ve done it a hundred times before.” She breathes deep once again before slowly reaching for the teapot, her new and stubborn arm moving in fits and starts. Her fingers feel like lumps of clay, heavy and numb, sensation muffled and dim. Signet can’t stop the smile that creeps onto her face when she lifts the pot, small and uncertain though it may be.
The sound of shattered pottery rings loud in her ears.
***
There is a little-used storage room tucked away in the depths of The World Without End. It is filled with all manner of fishing accoutrements – now collecting dust – and a small, low table of scuffed rosy wood. The low hum of the ship’s engines can be felt through the lovingly-embroidered cushion Signet places on the floor, and her teacup rattles faintly against the fine china of the saucer. All things considered, the room is a serene sanctuary isolated from the bustling, cramped quarters of a busy ship.
Or it would be, were it not for the unexpected presence of one Gig Kephart.
Signet has felt the tension steadily bleeding into her body all day, skin too-tight and shoulders stiff and stern. She would give most anything for a moment of peace and quiet, a moment to herself to meditate and contemplate and carry out the simple pleasure of fixing herself some tea.
“-really am sorry for the shitty camera quality, but my usual one is kinda bust- oh hey Signet,” Gig says with a jaunty wave from where he’s seated at the table. Her table. Which is covered in a chaotic mass of electronic parts, spilling from the table to the floor in a strangely organic wave. Her second-favourite teapot is buried under a jumble of circuits, wires crawling from the spout in a mockery of a floral arrangement.
Signet takes a deep breath. “Gig,” she says, coaxing a smile onto her face, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Oh, I didn’t know anyone else used this place,” he says, turning to face her, and-
Signet blinks, and Gig claps a hand over his empty eye socket. “Shit, sorry, I’m trying to do some maintenance,” he says, “I didn’t know this was your room.”
Signet steps into the small room, letting the door shut behind her with a soft whirring sound. “It’s fine, Gig, really. And it’s not my room, I just come here when I need some peace and quiet.” She starts picking the wires out of her teapot, twisting them into neat bundles.
“Do you want me to leave?”he asks, “I can move somewhere else.” Gig makes an aborted attempt at standing, before starting to sweep the many mechanical components into a haphazard pile in the middle of the table. “I only came here because the others get kinda weirded out when I’m,” he gestures to his empty socket with a rueful smile, “well, y’know.”
Signet smiles softly, gazing down at her hands as she works. “I’ve been around long enough that it would be somewhat hypocritical of me to be bothered by something as trivial as a few missing body parts,” she says.
Gig is silent for a moment, still. Signet savours the stillness. “I-,”, he pauses, brow furrowed. “It’s been years and I still get motion sick sometimes when I send my eye out,” he says, words extended like an olive branch, a tacit acknowledgement of occupying her space.
“It takes time,” Signet says, “and sometimes you acquire new quirks of existence along the way.” She moves to the boxes in one corner of the room, fishing out her collection of tea leaves. She pauses to examine each one, turning the small boxes over in her hands. “One of my fingers doesn’t straighten.” She holds up her hand, smallest finger bent like a crescent moon. “The doctor couldn’t explain why, but that’s just the case sometimes.”
Gig smiles, soft and shy and unfamiliar. “Oh yeah, I always forget you’re, like, super old.”
Signet laughs, full and free, at the easy confidence of Gig Kephart. “You know, some people might be offended by a statement like that.” Still smiling, she eases herself onto the floor in one fluid motion, reclaiming her teapot from the overgrowth of electronics. “You don’t have to hide your eye from me, Gig,” she says, reaching across the table to touch a gentle hand to his. “It doesn’t bother me. Truly.”
Gig drops his hand from his face, fiddling with the parts in front of him. “I didn’t used to think about it this much, but Echo still makes this face whenever I send it out to film something.”
“They’ll get used to it,” Signet says, firm and sure. “Now, would you like some tea?”
Gig nods, picking up a screwdriver. “Thanks, Signet.”
Much later, when the pot has long since been emptied and refilled, he tells her about the stream suppressor and the unbidden tears that sometimes flow.