Chapter Text
¬ The Fixer ¬
Blurin does nothing and everything. One moment, she’s on the couch, picking at the colours of dried paint and peeling wallpaper in the very old apartment she shares with Immerred.
Other times, she’s working—shaky hands painting over horrible walls. Then she fixes the holes in the couch. And after that, she feels the need to fix up the wallpaper… might as well.
Blurin fixes things. She fixes everything. It’s a nice practice—keeps her busy and helpful, an amazing combo. When she’s working, she doesn’t think about what’s missing. Doesn’t think about her blaring flaws. She’s her own person when she’s doing tasks.
Blurin doesn’t mean to do it—the way her eyes glide over to the other side of the apartment, an open kitchen. Her gaze lands on a certain automaton, currently standing by the dishwasher, holding a mug filled with some liquid she can’t see from where she’s sitting on the floor of the living room. What she does know is that it’s hot because of the steam.
Then, completely unwarranted, a thought comes to mind as Blurin studies the automaton’s face, which looks… pissed off.
Immerred is upset today.
…
None of my business, she tells herself.
The next thing Blurin does is stay punctual—to keep herself aligned with the axis of time as it wraps and shifts with every task she takes on. She likes waking up early, leaving for side gigs… only to come home to Immerred waiting—ready to scold her.
“Tell me before you leave next time.” she would demand.
“Why did you take so long today?” she would whine.
And sometimes, Blurin has half a mind to ‘forget’ to wind up Immerred. But she never does. Every morning, when she opens her eyes to the ceiling and the freshly put-up wallpaper she’s fixed herself, Immerred is always there, curled at the edge of the couch.
Almost like she's watching her sleep. Creep. But that doesn’t matter—not really. The way Immerred looks at her. The way she ignores every boundary. The way she throws tantrums over the smallest inconvenience that keeps her from staying close.
And how, every single time, Blurin finds her own hand spinning the key without hesitation. Without a thought.
But she doesn’t wait. She never waits for those red eyes to open, for them to soften when they lock onto hers. Instead, she gets up, does her routine, and leaves—on time. With Immerred’s gaze far from her own.
Blurin… won’t allow herself to see that. To witness it. So she never does.
What’s different today is that when she returns, no one greets her at the door. No usual sharp words. No whining. Just silence. And it’s highly unsettling.
She only takes a few steps before realising the problem. Immerred is curled up in some corner, knees hugged close, face buried against them.
The sight is… not something the gremlin expects. And the situation is nowhere near her expertise. Blurin fixes things—not people.
Some might argue that Immerred is a thing. A body of metal and gears. Cold steel that can’t produce enough heat. No rhythm to match a beating heart—a walking corpse of iron.
But… she has a soul, Blurin’s seen it. Held it within her hands, and it was… warm. Not the warmth of flesh, but a pulse—a thrum—a faint flicker of something that could’ve been alive once.
Immerred was… inorganic—horrible—obsessive, and… a living person in the most unconventional of ways. Not living like a human, but alive in her own right. There was a hunger, a desire, a restlessness that churned beneath the cold, hollow exterior.
And… much like her, Immerred was a copy of someone else. A shadow cast from another’s life, a reflection that somehow managed to breathe.
And Blurin reasons within herself that that’s why her feet take her forward. That’s why she’s here. Because in a way, they are the same. Both trapped between what was and what could have been. Both reaching for something they can’t quite touch.
That’s why she crouches down. And with the confidence of a crumbling house—meaning, none at all—she attempts to speak.
“...You good?”
It’s a stupid question. One that doesn’t fit here, in this moment, with Immerred curled in on herself like she’s trying to disappear. But it’s the first thing that comes out, slipping past Blurin’s lips before she can think of something better.
No response. No sharp retort. No scolding. Just silence.
Blurin exhales through her nose, shifting on her heels, feeling the uneven floor press against her boots. She’s never seen Immerred like this. Not quiet, not small. It’s… weird. It makes something uncomfortable curl in her chest.
Fix it, a part of her says.
But how do you fix something when you don’t even know what’s broken?
She’s really not qualified for this. But still, she tries—really tries. Her mind is a jumbled mess of thoughts, overthinking, hesitating.
What would Immerred do?
If the roles were reversed… she would probably try to make Blurin see her. So, Blurin does exactly that.
She lifts her arms, hands moving with hesitation—weary but firm as they settle against the automaton’s cold shoulders. And slowly, carefully, she lifts.
When Immerred’s face tilts up, there’s a staring contest of sorts—but not with Blurin. Red irises flicker erratically, darting from the floor to the walls, to the space just beside Blurin’s head. Anywhere but her eyes. A small twitch at the corner of the automaton’s eye, the quiet tension of someone refusing to be seen.
Blurin watches, waiting for something—anything. A snarky comment, a glare, a roll of those red eyes. But Immerred just sits there, stiff and unreadable in a way that unsettles her more than any tantrum ever could.
The silence drags. It’s heavy, pressing down on the space between them.
Blurin sighs, her grip adjusting slightly against Immerred’s shoulders. “C’mon, at least pretend to look at me.” The words come out lighter than she feels, an attempt to pull things back to something familiar.
Still, no response. But Immerred’s jaw shifts—just barely. A tiny, almost imperceptible motion, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Or maybe, like she’s afraid to.
Blurin isn’t sure what to do with that. She doesn’t know how to handle silence that actually means something.
So, against her better judgement, she stays.
She watches Immerred’s face—the way her jaw shifts, the stiffness in her posture, the way her hands curl slightly against the fabric of her own sleeves. Like she’s bracing for something.
What else? What else would Immerred do?
If their roles were reversed… she wouldn’t stop at just getting Blurin to look at her. No, she’d keep pushing, prying, poking at the problem until Blurin cracked under the pressure. Until she spoke.
Blurin clicks her tongue. “Alright, fine. If you’re not gonna say anything, I’ll just keep guessing.” She tilts her head, watching for even the smallest reaction. “You’re mad at me, right? That’s usually your thing.”
Nothing.
Blurin exhales sharply, tapping her fingers against Immerred’s shoulder, thinking. What else?
She tries again. “Did someone piss you off? Not me this time, I mean.”
A pause. A flicker of movement—Immerred’s fingers tightening, just a little.
Blurin hums, leaning back on her heels, watching her carefully. “Oh. So, not mad, then. Sad?” The word feels strange in her mouth, like it doesn’t quite fit with Immerred’s sharp edges. But there’s another twitch, a small shift in the automaton’s expression.
Bingo.
Blurin doesn’t know what to do with that. She’s never had to comfort Immerred before—hell, she’s not sure she’s ever seen her need comfort. But now, Immerred looks like she’s been kicked down, like something heavy is pressing her into the floor.
And, against all logic, Blurin finds herself speaking again.
“Well. If it makes you feel any better…” She shifts, scratching at the back of her neck. “You look really dumb sitting like that.”
For a second, Immerred doesn’t respond, her gaze flickering up cautiously. Then, without warning, she pulls Blurin into a hug, knocking her off balance. Blurin stumbles back, landing on her butt, with Immerred’s thighs on either side of her, trapping her in place. The cold metal of Immerred’s body presses against her like ice, sending a shiver through her clothes, though the faintest warmth pulses through her—barely enough to notice.
The only sound is the soft hum of Immerred’s gears, a rhythmic ticking that fills the silence. Blurin holds still, unsure of what to do next.
Then, almost too quietly, Immerred speaks, her voice muffled against Blurin’s shoulder. “Do you think I’m broken?”
Blurin stiffens. The question isn’t what she expected—hell, she’s not sure she’s ever expected to hear something like that from Immerred at all.
She exhales sharply, tilting her head back like this whole thing is just an inconvenience. “You’re annoying as hell,” she mutters. “Clingy. Loud. Bossy. And weirdly obsessed with me.”
She feels Immerred’s fingers twitch slightly against her back, but the automaton doesn’t budge.
Blurin huffs, shifting slightly, pretending not to notice how Immerred’s weight presses against her. “So, no. You’re not broken. You’re—” She hesitates, clicking her tongue. “—functional. Just… wired wrong.”
A beat of silence. Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought—like she doesn’t want to say it at all—she adds, “Not wrong to me, though.”
Immerred doesn’t answer, just stays there, pressed against her like a damn parasite. The rhythmic ticking of her gears fills the space between them, steady and oddly soothing.
Blurin doesn’t move. She could. She should. But for some reason, she lets Immerred stay. Lets the coldness press and linger painfully.
She figures—if Immerred isn’t letting go, then maybe… just this once, she won’t either.
She’s really not good with words.