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Humans bleed red.
It hits you as the man slumps forward, and you have to take a hurried step back to avoid him falling on top of you. Your sword is coated with it, your clothes splattered with every violent blow.
You’re pretty sure some of it got in your mouth.
Why does it surprise you?
He’s like any other dead man that you’ve seen in these past few hours, you think. Now a crumpled pile of bloody clothes on the bridge, this man is indistinguishable from the countless corpses you’ve passed. Broken, bloody things, oozing rusty red liquid from pulpy flesh, unmoving on rain slicked cobbles.
Why does it bother you?
You did this.
You look at your hand, the one made to look like human flesh and blood. It’s splattered with his blood, already tacky on the skin as it begins to dry. You know that if allowed to dry, it will flake away if you scrub hard enough.
It’s under your nails.
You’re just like THEM.
Sophia said you were different? You were going to help people?
How can y ou help them if yoU’RE KILLING THEM?
There’s a hand on your shoulder and you startle out of your reverie. The man in front of you ( father/maker ) gives you a kind smile.
You lower your hand. It was shaking anyway.
“My son,” Geppetto breathes, almost in reverence. Now that you’re paying attention he’s taken a step back, removed his hand and given you space, but you can see he wants to be closer. Inspect you perhaps. Make sure his creation is in working order. You’ve taken a few hits, damaged the clothes that Antonia gave you so kindly. You stand up taller, straighter, and try to pretend that that your mechanical elbow doesn’t click uncomfortably when you move it and that the third rib on your left isn't slowly oozing oil onto your undershirt.
“Father,” you say formally.
“I’m so glad you made it,” he says, smiling again. “I was worried…”
He trailed off uncertainly, chewing at his lower lip. You nod in what you hope is a reassuring way and he stops worrying at his lip, taking a half step forward. He wants something, so you offer your flesh hand.
YOU KILLED HIM.
You try not to jerk away as Geppetto takes your soft hand in his hard calloused ones, stroking long wrinkled fingers along a flesh facsimile.
“People blame me for what has happened,” your father says as he flips your hand over and moves the sleeve of your jacket up so it rests just above your bony wrist. He strokes the knobbly protrusions of your ulna and radius, seemingly fascinated with the way your fake skin moves over fake bones. As expected, the blood flakes away as he rubs at the skin.
“I’m sure you have questions,” Geppetto finally says as he releases your hand and it takes all of your self control not to snatch it away and instead lower it like a normal goddamn person.
You’re scared of him, you think.
You could kill him so easily.
You’re scared for him.
“But I have to fix what’s happening at city hall. Once that’s done, we can talk.”
He looks at you, right in the eyes and his gaze is so intense you have to look away. The bridge is very quiet, you realise.
“Something the matter?”
You killed someone.
He’s still looking at you.
“I killed someone?” You make it seem like a question. You clear your throat as if it would do something tangible. “I killed someone.”
Geppetto hums and tilts his head enough that it no longer feels like he’s trying to inspect your mechanical brain without tools.
“You’ve destroyed puppets, yes?”
You nod.
“What, then,” he says, leaning against the carriage he’d just exited. “Is the difference?”
You’re not a big fan of this “conversation” thing that Geppetto is trying to have with you. You much prefer it when people just talk at you.
“They’re not alive,” you say.
“What about you then? Are you saying you’re not alive?”
You are not prepared to have a philosophical discussion with your maker on the subject of whether or not you’re alive.
“I’m a puppet,” you say instead.
Geppetto shook his head.
“Something can walk, talk, make simple decisions and wield tools. What have I just described?”
“A person,” you say, but you can’t help the uncertainty that creeps into your voice.
“It could have been any puppet you encountered today,” Geppetto says and while you expect him to look disappointed, he can see the curl of a smile on his lips. “Or it could have been dear Antonia at Hotel Krat. What makes something alive is quite nuanced.”
Geppetto reaches out and takes your hands, holding flesh facsimile and cold metal with palms facing upwards.
Your elbow clicks but you ignore it.
“Do you want to know why I’m not upset that you killed that man?”
He should be scared of you.
Imagine what you coULD DO TO HIM
You nod.
“It’s about intent, my son,” he says, running his thumb over the hard plating of your mechanical hand. “Those puppets, and that man, were intent on inflicting harm. But you were intent on protecting, on doing good. Yes?”
You look at your hands as if they hold the answer.
You’ve just been following orders.
“Sophia said I was different.”
“You are,” Geppetto says fondly. “The fact that we are having this discussion is proof of that.”
You’re not sure you believe him. Humans can lie, that’s what makes them human.
“Come, “ Geppetto says as he stands properly. “Once the situation at city hall is handled, then perhaps I can prove it to you.”
He tugs at your hands to get you moving and you follow haltingly behind as he leads the way to the edge of the bridge, fumbling in his pockets until he finds a set of keys.
“There should be an Astralgazer up ahead,” he says as he unlocks the gate and begins pushing at it. It shrieks on old hinges but barely moves, so you move forward and shove at it with all of your might. No matter how strong Geppetto might be for a human, you are definitely stronger than average for a puppet and it squeals again before opening enough to let the two of you through.
Your elbow pops and then audibly clunks with the movement and you have to stop yourself wincing at the discomfort.
You gesture for Geppetto to lead but he looks at you again, really looks at you, as you try to hide the fact that you’re holding your left arm weirdly by angling your body away from him.
“You’re hurt,” he says. There’s something in his voice that you can’t quite place. Disappointment probably. You’re not meant to get hurt.
“No I’m not,” you lie. Feels weird, but you do it anyway.
What did he do to yOU?
His face splits into a broad grin and you can’t help but try to take a step back as he steps forward and takes your mechanical hand, again- boy he sure likes doing that- and begins tugging you down the street.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he rambles as he walks. “But that’s the point! A puppet given the ability to lie like a human wouldn’t really know how but with practice… oh with practice I could turn you into a lawyer, a politician even!”
You have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Lying is bad,” you say instead as a particularly forceful tug makes your arm thunk again. It’s gone slightly numb so the connection has probably come loose. Once Geppetto lets you have your arm back you’re pretty sure it’s an easy fix.
What if he takes it from you?
What if it’s punishment?
YOU KILLED THAT MAN.
You’ve reached the Astralgazer now and he begins fiddling with the device, powering it on and reaching into the blue aether it produces and pulling out a well worn leather bag. You try to tug your arm away from him but his grip is like a vice.
You could hurt him.
“Why did you lie then?” He asks as he rests the bag on the ground and tugs you forward and down. He crouches also as he begins pulling things from the bag. A screwdriver, a small socket wrench set, a set of tweezers, setting them carefully on the damp cobbles.
Oh, you think dimly. He’s fixing you.
He makes a small noise and an expectant gesture when you don’t respond, lost in your thoughts as you are. He’s fiddling with the screws that keep the casing of your elbow together and the sensation is unpleasant.
“If I had told the truth,” you say, trying to ignore the fact that he’s unmaking you while you watch. “You would have been hurt.”
“How so?”
“People get sad when people are hurt. Sadness is a type of hurt.” Somehow you know this.
“So you lied for a good reason then?”
You don’t really know how to respond to this, but Geppetto doesn’t seem to mind.
Your outer elbow is lying on the ground and he’s inspecting the inner workings carefully, using the tweezers to gently probe and prod at it. Once he finds the spot you know is loose he taps at it a few times before taking the screwdriver to fiddle some more. The sensation is like electricity and it makes your hand spasm uncontrollably.
“So very human,” he muses as he tightens a connection and feeling fully returns to your arm. It burns unpleasantly for a moment before settling into a taught feeling, like a spring under tension.
“Too tight,” you mutter quietly and your father mouths an apology as he carefully loosens the connection to a comfortable degree.
With your arm fixed he carefully restores the casing and stows his tools back into the Astralgazer. You haven’t moved from your crouched position as Geppetto moves about, clearly readying himself for the next leg of the journey, but not making any moves to start without you.
Now that your arm is fixed, you’re very aware of the oil leaking through your clothes.
Tell him.
TELL HIM THE TRUTH.
“I’m still hurt!” You blurt out, curling smaller into yourself as you do.
You’re not sure what you expect as he comes over to stand in front of you, but he crouches to your level again and holds his hand out. Doesn’t take anything this time, just holds it out.
“Let’s take a look at it then,” he says gently.
--
(Later, when Geppetto returns to Hotel Krat, he finds the boy perched on a stool staring intently at the gramophone near the front desk. Music fills the lobby, sad crooning and minor piano echoing off the high ceiling. The boy has changed his clothes, now wearing the soft ruffled shirt he would have woken in rather than the crisp uniform that Geppetto had met him in, and he can see flecks of oil and a dark stain where he has bled through his bandages. The wound had been worse than the boy had wanted to admit.
The gramophone grinds to a stop as the record finishes and the boy quickly moves to restart the song. As the singing starts again, Geppetto notices the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the boy’s shoulders as he breathes.
Turning, he makes his way over to Antonia’s usual spot, but she isn’t staring at the painting on the wall. Instead, she’s carefully pulling needle and thread through the crumpled jacket the boy had been wearing.
“He was so apologetic when he came back,” Antonia says instead of greeting him. “But I told him that I could fix it and that seemed to put his mind at ease.”
Geppetto watches her clever hands as she sews, skilful and sure despite her failing eyesight.
“Did you put the music on?” Geppetto asked.
“No he brought that back with him,” Antonia replies as she critically inspects the hole she’s sewn shut. “I told him he was welcome to use it whenever he wanted.”
Geppetto hummed.
“He’s very human,” she states as she expertly snips and ties thread, moving onto a small cut on the sleeve. Geppetto knows Antonia wants more out of him, some kind of explanation, but sometimes even he’s not quite sure himself.
“That he is.”)