Chapter Text
So, it goes a little something like this.
She gets the news a week in advance, as well as everybody else. It’s not uncommon for them to meet this way, at least once a month the mechanic and the rest of her fellow teammates would gather in the dining hall, where Nightingale would then list through the announcements of what’s to come for that month. Events, game scheduling, maintenance–which Tracy was kind of hoping for more of than the usual for some extra time to tinker with her dolls anyways, fingers crossed–and of course, new arrivals. Those had been far and few inbetween.
She’s not listening when it’s said out loud, but her eyes do widen when they catch the words on the piece of paper handed out to her listing all the details.
Dear survivors,
The Prisoner, Luca Balsa, will be joining us in the coming week. Please welcome our new guest with open arms when he arrives!
The letter delves off into a plethora of unrelated matters after that, but it’s all lost on the girl once her eyes scan over the section a second, third, fourth time. She can’t hide the grimace that forms on her face. Never judge a book by its cover, sure, but really? A prisoner? Surely someone like that must have a less than stellar track record. Not that most of the rest of the manor’s inhabitants have a clean slate either, but come on! Her eyes finally tear from the offending spot on the paper as she sinks into her chair. This time, her displeasure doesn’t go unnoticed.
A nudge to the side pulls her from her thoughts, drawing her attention up to the giddy smile of Emma Woods. “I heard he is– or, was at least, an inventor like you, Ms. Reznik! Isn’t that exciting?”
The gardener’s optimism only made her sink further in her chair. “I guess,” is all she can muster, and that’s the last she speaks of the prisoner. The next few days she spends busying herself with whatever work she can manage instead, and that's all there is to it. There is some extra maintenance, she learns by the end of the announcements, and that’s enough to keep her in a relatively good mood for the remainder of the week.
And then the dreaded day arrives, around three in the afternoon when he shows up. A full two hours late at that.
Tracy hadn’t even intended on stumbling in on things the way she did, but it’s on her way to a match that she nearly crashes into Emma, a stranger that she immediately clocks in as the new arrival not far behind her. Their eyes lock for a split-second just as she’s about to walk straight into the gardener, before a yelp of surprise from the other girl has Tracy jumping back just in time. “Ah, Sorry! I didn’t see you there,” She blurts out, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“No worries at all!” Emma waves her off, laughing with an easiness that always manages to amaze the mechanic considering the general atmosphere of the manor. “You came at a perfect time, actually. This is Mr. Balsa! I was just about to show him around, he just arrived—turns out there was a little trouble with the ride here, but all that matters is that he’s made it here in one piece, right?”
She steps aside as if to present the man behind her and almost immediately does a hand shoot out, resulting in a poorly concealed flinch from the mechanic. It’s only after he narrowly draws it back does she realize he’d only been intending on shaking hands, and a twinge of guilt pokes at her.
“Ah- pardon me,” he says with a twitch of his lips into a sort of polite half smile, though Tracy finds herself more focused on the sharp snaggletooth sticking out from his mouth. And then from there up to a bruised, painful looking half-lidded eye– but she drops the staring when he continues, seemingly unperturbed by her reaction as if it had been expected. “Luca Balsa, you’ll have to excuse me! I know my current appearance is less- less than proper, as it is.”
Admittedly, the prisoner comes off a lot differently than she expected from the title alone. He’s polite, well-educated from the sound of it, with straight posture and his feet together. It’s the sort of stance that gives off the impression that once he might’ve been brought up to be a gentleman, but if the chains and stripes weren’t enough, the way his hands twitch at his sides paint certainly another picture. The way his eyes flicker past the mechanic every so often, not-so subtly distracted—it’s just a little off.
“Tracy Reznik, just Tracy's fine.” she says a little too quickly, then looks back to Emma with an apologetic smile. “I’ve got a match in a few, sorry ‘bout bumping into you again.”
They exchange goodbyes, and from there it’s off to the Arm Factory.
–
It's a draw. Two-man escape with none other than the stubborn old man himself as the hunter, Burke Lapadura. Professor Lapadura, is what he insists on Tracy calling him as long as she’s his unofficial student, but calling him old man is much more fitting in her professional opinion. Plus, it’s partially payback for him not yet trusting her around his precious robot. Which makes absolutely zero sense–what could she possibly do that might endanger Guard 26? She works with her dolls everyday, and they’re perfectly fine. Hell, she’s the Mechanic for a reason!
“You’re lucky I’m going easy on you this time, Reznik. Perhaps this will help you remember to respect your elders!” He had scoffed as the dungeon door opened, head turned up and away as if it wasn’t his idea to let Tracy escape in the first place. And even as she rolled her eyes and staggered through the hatch, she really was grateful. Burke could feign annoyance all he wanted, but they both know most hunters in his place wouldn’t trade in a win for a tie. He really does care, try as he might to hide it, and, well. It’s just nice to have somebody like that on the other side of the manor, someone who cares.
Two of her teammates are the first to greet her when she returns. The Barmaid and First Officer, both faces flushed a drunken kind of pink, instantly perk up as she enters, the pair seated in a nice corner of the room and each with a bottle of dovlin in hand. Not that she can blame them for drinking after a match full of dodging spiked walls shooting from the ground. The mechanisms were incredible, but as much as she might appreciate them for their inner workings, she despises them just as much for being a nightmare in game.
“There she is! Was hopin’ the old bastard would go easy on you, hun.” Demi muses, and though there's an evident exhaustion in her voice, the grin on her face does little to show for it. She reaches across the table, helping herself to the measly pile of cash gathered in the center. “Turns out I hoped right! Hope you don’t mind Jose and I helping ourselves to a little gambling on your behalf.”
Tracy snorts, squinting over the prize money. “I dunno, Demi. isn’t money kind of useless in here?”
Jose responds with a small, weak smile of his own. “Ah, but it’s money nonetheless, my friend.” He says, slumped back in his chair languidly with a slight slur to his words. “You have to give value to something in this place, or else it's just..” He waves his arm in a vague gesture, alluding to whatever or else is.The meaning is lost on Tracy. Still it does its job in making Demi chuckle herself, and even with the weight of the former match lingering like a bad aftertaste, things seem to lighten a smidge. Any thoughts of her earlier interaction with the new survivor go forgotten until dinner, where she lets her curiosity get the best of her and searches the room from her spot at the dinner table.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
–
There's a workshop on the survivor’s side of the manor. A neat little spot for all of Tracy’s engineering needs, and one where she tended to be the sole inhabitant of on any given day. She never minded the solitude, though. If there was anything to complain about, it would be that it’s a lot smaller than the one on the hunter’s side, though that could probably be chalked up to it simply seeing a lot less traffic. But it’s not like the size matters when it's just her and the dolls; she thinks it might even help, in a way. It’s small, but more intimate. Like her workshop from home, before Oletus Manor became her new normal.
Some days, the familiarity of the workshop isn't as comforting as it should be. On those days she steers clear and relocates to her bedroom. Fortunately, today is not one of those days.
Instead it’s the sort of day where she can lose herself in busywork, that being disassembling an old, dysfunctional alarm clock. She can’t exactly remember how long it’s been since the old thing stopped working the way it should, but she does know that there's only a slim couple of reasons it could’ve happened, and so what better way to kill some free time than to do a little tinkering with it?
She hasn’t even removed the hands, when the sudden presence of someone interrupts her train of thought.
“Do you have the time?” A voice calls out of the blue, and so she startles, whirling around from where she stood with widened eyes— only to find none other than Luca Balsa hovering at the doorway. He looks a little lost, a wavering smile at his lips that does very little to mask the uncertainty practically radiating from the man. It’s not surprising in itself, she had gotten lost plenty of times in the wide expanse that is the manor before being able to get a proper mental map of the place, but the workshop is a pretty lengthy way from the living quarters, and she had sort of figured that’s where he must’ve been the past day. But he’s here now. In her self-appointed domain.
And - once again, it throws Tracy in for a loop. She blinks a few times before recovering, takes a moment to glance at the pocket watch she had fixed a few nights ago, left behind on the desk, and manages to reply, “It’s 3:21.”
He gives a little nod, and so she assumes that will be the end of it. She turns back to the clock still yet to be dissected in front of her, reaches for a pair of pliers and waits for the sound of footsteps to signal his exit.
…Nothing. Tracy lets out a soft huff, and that draws a short, raspy laugh out of the man. “Sorry! Just- ah, well. I’m not quite sure where I am? S’happened a few times already, me being lost.”
“You’re at the workshop right now, we get tools ‘n stuff to work with if we need it. I’m a watchmaker, so I’m fixing this,” she gestures at the clock, then looks back up to the man glued to the doorway. The brief explanation seems to catch his interest, however, and so he steps inside, peering over her to all the various parts and pieces scattered around. His eyes brighten with what Tracy can only assume is fascination, and. Oh, screw it. She’ll indulge him a little; she can’t help herself!
So she takes a breath in and continues, “Basically, I've invented all sorts of watch parts, and I plan to use some of those parts to fix this thing. There's only two reasons it's not working anyways: either the battery died, or it needs to be rewound.”
The girl scoots aside, making some space for the man to get a closer look, which he gladly takes advantage of. He steps in, looming over her workspace with a sharp focus. He gives a little hum in acknowledgment as she speaks, though somewhere along the way his brows furrow together, lips twitching to a frown. Huh. That’s not the reaction she was expecting. Soon, he's mumbling, “Battery... Rewinding, mm…”
If there was a window to Tracy’s brain, one could literally see the gears turning. “What?” She sputters.
It seems to do the trick of snapping the prisoner out of his haze, at least. He blinks, then straightens his posture to cross his arms and tuck a hand under his chin, contemplative. “Well, to be frank..” He says, “It’s not really an invention, per say. Th- the.. Parts. They only extend the life of the pre-existing device. And there are better ways to fix it, better than the analog bits and batteries.”
What?
In her stunned state—shocked that this man, The Prisoner of all people, just took it upon himself to walk into the middle of her work, stick his nose into it, only to blabber about how her inventions aren’t technically inventions?—Luca seems to take her silence as a reason to continue, and so he goes on, “You know, if you were to make the clock run auto.. Gah, what’s the word? Autonomously! Without batteries– that would work much better, in theory. More efficient, y’know? Than.. Th-than the batteries. More permanent of a solution.”
Oh, Tracy knows full well to what he’s alluding to, a clock running without batteries. Her face suddenly feels very hot, and it’s hard not to laugh because—seriously? An idea as ridiculous as the idea of a clock running entirely on its own, perpetually? It’s a cock-and-bull notion. Entirely unrealistic.
“Right.” Her nose scrunches up. “Well, thanks but no thanks. I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got, I know what I’m doing here.”
Luca’s face twitches, shoulders faltering for just a moment before as if a lightbulb has gone off, a grin returns to brighten his expression.
“Speaking of which, would you mind if I worked here as well?”
“What?!” She blurts out an octave higher than she intended, whoops.
“Yes! Well—” All of the sudden he reaches to his side, digging into the tool belt resting at his hip before yanking out what looks to be paper torn from a journal, folded and crumbled numerous times, and flattens it out against the desk. “I have this invention of my own, you see? It's- It's still in its early stages, but.. I need the tools. A-And the space! Have you heard of perpetual motion?"
“Yes. As insane as that might be.” She mutters, gaze flickering to each corner of the paper. It’s messy, madness without the method, and yet she can still pick out a few legible notes, here and there. Some sense, emphasis on some. A few beats go by before she finally groans, “Okay, okay! You can work here too, I guess. Just quit being so nosy, got it? I know full well what I’m doing. You’re not the only genius around, Balsa.”
“Just Luca is fine! Though Balsa is alright, too. Just not that title, ugh. The Prisoner,” he says it with air quotes, grimacing at the word as it rolled off his tongue. “I asked if they could change it, but.. Where were we? Right, right. And you are?"
“We just met.. Like, yesterday.” She crosses her arms across her chest, eyes narrowed.
“Ah, did we? Sorry, you’ll have to forgive that. My memory’s no good, you see.” He taps his forehead, the grin on his face taking a sheepish note.
Go figure. “Tracy Reznik.” She says. Then, pausing to hesitate, adds on, “And don’t you forget it this time!”
“Ms. Reznik! Reznik, Reznik, Rez..” He mumbles the name under his breath a few times, dropping his gaze to the ground as he goes over it. He goes on with this for about ten seconds before finally lifting his head again. “Ms. Tracy Reznik, understood.”
She visibly cringes at the title, “Tracy, just Tracy’s fine.”
“Tracy, then!”
There’s an audible sigh. This would be interesting.