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It’s not unusual for spying eyes to lie in lurk around Nasha Town, being the beacon of the lawless city. But when the one trailing you happens to be a highly sophisticated bot with consciousness born of a power beyond ancient, a little caution would be warranted.
The Wanderer is older than most, yes, but this creation, even he cannot contend with.
The robot is already watching him with luminescent blue eyes, exhibiting no particular expression on her face as she analyzes him, perhaps searching her database on his potential identity. Not that he’s particularly worried about that at all, no. And even if she were to subsequently classify him as a threat, he would not be inclined to prove his innocence, either. It might not be entirely inaccurate, come a few weeks or months—what with the various factions in Nod-Krai, and the boundless conflicts of interests.
He lowers his cap, fending moonlight off his face—he’s opted for a beret tonight, having multiple times been recognized as “Hat Guy” simply by virtue of his… hat, even though the reasoning makes no sense—and dwells not a moment longer in the narrow alley. When he turns to see the second floor balcony once more, the robot is already halfway through the door, not paying him any more attention.
Though it’s fortunate he hasn’t landed himself on any watch list at present, that effectively ends his sole agenda for the night. Not that he was planning to walk through the front doors of the Curatorium to begin with, but he would’ve, given some freedom, spent some more time staking out the area, just to catch a glimpse. Of who? Nobody in particular. (Not because he’s concerned for anyone or anything. Absolutely not. He’s not here to play babysitter, after all.)
The Wanderer prepares to return to the inn, paying no mind to the street vendors trying to rip a huge sum of money off him—why do they always assume foreigners speak wealth? Another case of terrible reasoning—nor the bots that seem to have taken a fancy to him. It is deep into the night, and yet the town covered in steel reflects moonlight blindingly, the shadows in the back alleys constantly on the move.
He notes, but does not dwell on, the pair of eyes glaring through the back of his head.
The Fatui are always stupid; it’s in the name.
More importantly, they’re weak fools, regardless of who they work for. The Marionette’s lackeys are at the bottom of the well on this matter, seeing as how she’s all too happy to delegate all the actual fighting to bots and weapons, rather than any real personnel training. What is left of her, without that big fat scrap of metal behind her? That’s why Sandrone sits only seventh among the Harbingers—no real power aside from her aptitude for tinkering. Even then, she’s highly disposable, what with the Doctor in their ranks.
Not that he’d rather have Dottore as a colleague. Frankly, the Fatui could do away with either of them, but then they’d truly be an utterly brainless bunch, which wouldn’t be a good look on the Tsaritsa. Insanity could only ever get you so far without some ingenuity.
The Wanderer’s managed to swipe off a few playthings from Sandrone’s pathetic agents. If nothing else, she adapts well; these weapons are imbued with the primordial power from the moon—the true one, that is, and thus will prove useful in confrontation against most enemies, including the Abyssal forces prevalent in this particular region. Powerful these weapons are, yet after testing it on a couple of insects (read: more Fatui agents), he realizes these weapons have terrible functionality. He supposes such nuanced improvements are reserved only for the bots, not tools for human use. Very Sandrone-like.
He can make do, given a furnace. There should be one in town, or if need be, he can just storm in the Bureau and get himself access to all the materials they’ve harnessed, things that might make the weapon even more powerful than it already is…
“Ohoho, I see you got yourself some valuable goods over there, good sir!”
The Wanderer barely flinches upon hearing the jarring voice, which alerts the girl, if only slightly. She puts one foot back, but still manages to flash him a smile, hands raised.
“Not many can get their hands on the Fatui’s powered weapons. You must be one strong hunter, yourself! Are you with the Adventurer’s Guild? The Treasure Hoarders? Are you seeking to sell them, perchance?”
He deftly swings the hammer her way. The girl starts yelling, scurrying even further back.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on… pleeeease, hold on, hold on, put that thing away, please please please?” She’s still smiling, but there’s no doubt tears are threatening to break the dam. “There—ah—there must have been some sort of misunderstanding, sir! You know how it is in Nod-Krai, we’ve got an eye for profit, ahaha… I suppose—eek!”
The Wanderer barely taps her prosthetic arm with the edge of the hammer. “Where’d you get that done?”
“Ah—ah, are you interested in this? This… ah… uh…” The girl clears her throat. “This! The great mechanic Aino got this set up for me! For the uninitiated, that’s the boss of the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop.”
“The…” The Wanderer lets out a sigh. “Forget it.”
“Ah, ah, hold on!” She barely, just barely, holds on to one of his sleeves, just by a tiny patch between her fingertips. “Tell me what it is you want, and then maybe we can trade! Hm?”
“I’m not selling the weapon,” he drawls, drawing a line. “As a bounty hunter, I’m sure you’re no less capable of raiding the Bureau and getting these on your own.”
“Well, that’s true and—wait, how did you…?”
He let out an eye roll, leaving without sparing her a second glance. So much for formidable bounty hunter—the girl’s left spattering and kicking the ground upon messing up what could’ve been a brilliant business deal.
Apparently, the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop is a very real thing. Apparently, the robot who caught sight of him is a product of this very craftshop. Apparently, the boss of the shop, Aino, is no taller than two of her service bots. Maybe just a hair’s breadth taller than the Lesser Lord.
Is it a universal implication that those with big minds are generally vertically deficient?
The Wanderer is still somewhat processing the reality (and trying not to grimace upon the stench of rust that permeates the area) when the robot comes up to him, greeting him with a tiny bow. “Hello there. Welcome to the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop. Do you have an existing order, or have you come to make one?”
Her face, it appears, is on the default settings—as though she hasn’t been keeping an eye on him. Surely a robot would not be so quick to have a memory lapse.
Then again, could you really categorize her as a regular robot, what with her ancient core?
“I’ve come to make one.”
“Please outline the details of your request and your contact details, including name and current address. We will contact you when your order is ready. However, please do mind that there is a queue—“
Why, in the first place, would you make a robot with an ancient core, only to have her manage secretarial affairs?
“—of one hundred and twenty-six orders, and you may have to wait—“
“Never mind that,” the Wanderer grumbles. “Do you have a workstation or forge I can work with?”
The robot tilts her head in a way you’d expect robots would: mechanically. “This entire craftshop belongs to Aino, and Aino is working most of the time, so Aino will be using them most of the time. If you would like, there are local workshops and blacksmiths around Nasha Town, or you could set up one of your own around the scraps of the Clink-Clank Krumkake—“
“As I’m aware, not many are capable of manufacturing tools involving kuuvahki. I don’t expect their workstations to include tools that will be required for handling objects powered by kuuvahki.”
She pauses for merely a second. “Forgive me for asking, good sir—“
“Ineffaaaaa! What have you been up to?!” The boss comes over from her workstation, stomping with her tiny feet, long pink hair blowing wildly in the northern wind. “I thought you said you were going to bake some Fontaine-style cookies!”
“Apologies, Aino. A client has come requesting your services.”
“A client?” The boss of the craftshop barely spares him a glance, before huffing dramatically. “Does it look I have time for more clients? I can barely eat my sweets amidst the forty-something orders I’m dealing with!”
The Wanderer gave the robot, Ineffa, an unimpressed glance. “I thought there were a hundred and twenty-six?”
“Seventy-two of them are modification-related orders, which the boss often ignores until she’s adequately fed with a dessert to her liking,” Ineffa explains smoothly and clearly. It’s still unfathomable to him that she harbors the core of an ancient dragon within her, and does such menial work. The Wanderer scoffs.
“If it’s sweets you want, I’ll make you some. Will you bump up my order then?”
The irritated midget pops an eye open. “… I’m liste—“
“The boss has a limited daily intake of sugar, and factoring in the cookies I’ve baked for her, she will have reached that limit for today,” Ineffa cuts, unlike how you’d expect a service robot to behave to her own master. “If you’d like, I can schedule in a time for you to discuss the details of your commission with Aino tomorrow, where you can give your offering to her. It also allows you more time to prepare a fitting dessert that will please her tastes.” She turns to her tiny boss. “Do note that given the uncertainty of the offering the client will bring, you will not be allowed to consume any desserts prior to the meeting.”
“Wha—what?!” Aino looks like she’s just heard another wave of the Wild Hunt is dawning, and the big cannon in town is malfunctioning for whatever reason. “I—in that case, let’s schedule the meeting first thing in the morning! I’ll wake up reeeeally early for this!”
“Are you also her babysitter?” The Wanderer scoffs yet again. “There’s no need for a formal meeting. I just need a workspace for a week or less. If you agree, tell me when I can start, and I’ll bring you your sweets for each day I’ll be using your workspace. Simple, done.”
Aino hums. “What do you need this workspace for?”
“What do you need to know it for?”
“Of course I need to know! If, as it happens, you’re making something that can put the town in danger, I’ll be the one responsible for providing you the tools and access to making the tool!” Aino scowls. “Nod-Krai might be beyond law, but I’ll still face significant condemnation—especially if you’re using kuuvahki for it, which I’m sure you are, if you need to do it here!”
“You’re not as dumb as you sound,” the Wanderer hums, noncommittal.
“What’s that supposed to mean?! I’m literally a genius!”
“I’m not making anything new. I’m just tinkering with a couple of trinkets.” He pulls out his spoils from the past days’ confrontations: a lance, a hammer, a rifle, all powered with kuuvahki. “They’re good as they are; I want to see if I can optimize them better for my own perusal. And, no, I won’t be going on a rampage across with them or anything—I’m not the Fatui. But heavens know a poor vagrant might need to defend themselves from, say, merciless bandits, or worse, the Wild Hunt, no?”
There’s a knot in Aino’s eyebrows, and even Ineffa’s crossed her arms in contemplation. Aino’s muttering, “If this was a commission, I absolutely would reject it in a heartbeat… but if this is merely borrowing a workspace…”
“In the worst case, a feasible contingency plan is to feign ignorance, and say the vagrant lied to us,” suggests Ineffa plainly. “Calculating risk chances: there is an 89% probability that the plan fails, and we end up bearing full blame for the incident.”
“… That’s not a plan at all, then,” grumbles Aino. “What are the chances an incident happens, then?”
“Calculation: error. Cannot identify this client’s motives. Not enough information regarding the client to accurately assess risks.”
“Don’t you think introductions are in order, big hat guy?”
The Wanderer lets out a disbelieving scoff. Even here, he’s being called that nickname. Truly a juvenile one, the more he thinks about it. “Call me Big Hat, Hat Guy, whatever. I don’t care.”
“Assessment: ‘Big Hat’ aligns with Aino’s naming conventions, which generally makes a terrible name. Assessment: client is not entirely human, but does not fall under the category of ‘robot’, either. Conclusion: it would not be appropriate to refer to you as ‘Big Hat’. Same goes for ‘Hat Guy’. Please refer us to the name you frequently go by.”
He gives her an empty stare, you’d think he’s the soulless robot here. “I usually go by Hat Guy.”
“Is that your attempt at humor, or at deceiving us? If it is the latter, I must inform you that it has a 12% chance of working on Aino, and 3% chance of working on me.”
Aino shakes her hand fervently. “Wait, hold, hold on a second. What do you mean he’s not human?”
“Scanning. Assessment: species unidentifiable,” Ineffa quickly concludes. “He does not fall under the category of any known species in my database.”
For a robot, she has so much more emotion in her eyes than robots could ever feel. Those emotions, though, should never be directed toward him. The Wanderer narrows his eyes in disgust.
“Do not think you can empathize with me just because we happen to be unique. You are nothing more than sewn scraps.”
Aino’s already standing before Ineffa, crossing her arms with all the authority of a big boss. “Ineffa is not sewn scraps! You are not allowed to insult my family!”
“Your family. Of course,” says the Wanderer, laughing, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “Far be it from a mother to criticize her child, is it?”
He does not bother appeasing the dwarf’s rage, nor does he pay mind to the robot’s silent scorn.
“Forget the request. There’s always somewhere else, isn’t there? It’s not like I’m looking for family, or home.”
A wrench lands next to his feet, and he continues walking. From the distance, he hears the faint screams: “Yeah? Well, it’s not like I was gonna let you come back here, anyway!”
After three days of letting the tiny square bot trail him, the Wanderer finally decides to greet it in the face—with a nice, friendly kick. Two bunny ears pop out the roof of the box. He scoffs.
“So? Do you have a language module, too? What’s your name, hm?”
He watches as the bot sits silently, ears floating up and down like the constant waves of tree branches. How useless.
“Is it that hot-headed kid who sent you, or some other boss? The Curatorium? Or even Sandrone herself?”
The bunny bot responds not.
“You know I can just follow you at midnight when you make your reports to see who you belong to, right?”
Still, the bot remains insentient.
“…”
…
What is he doing here, interrogating a stupid surveillance bot?
He picks up the bunny bot by the ear (it was going to follow him anyway, might as well save the poor bunny some walking, right?), returning to the Flagship, still buzzing past twelve. A party’s indulging in some drinking game; a couple screaming over a game of TCG; in the shadows, brokers very not suspiciously trading information, et cetera, et cetera… never a dull night, as he’s found. A very thin veil of normalcy covering the rising tide that threatens to flood the region, but perhaps it is the only way humanity can ever cope, is it?
The bunny bot watches, silent as ever, as he drinks his tea in patient sips, waiting for the clock to turn.
Not an hour later, the bunny bot’s owner comes to pick it up. No surprises there—it’s the bigger bot.
“Not even trying to hide it anymore, huh?”
Ineffa remains silent for a moment. Tonight in particular, it’s almost like she’s any ordinary person, a normal human being. Not that he’d know how that feels, but how it looks like—he knows all too well.
“We set up the surveillance bot simply to ensure you are not doing anything dangerous. Considering we know close to nothing about you, and given the… less than comfortable encounters we’ve had, it would be imprudent to not take a precaution against you, in these precarious times.”
“And you think I’d just take it sitting pretty?”
“You did tolerate it for three days, despite knowing from the start that you were being tailed. Hypothesis: you are willing to demonstrate proof of your innocence.”
“You never know. I might just be playing a long game you can’t read from the mere eyes of a bot.”
“I concur. Although that is all the more reason to keep an eye on you. Nothing can be learned without a minimum amount of observation.”
Leave it to a robot of intelligence to have the perfect comebacks to everything. The Wanderer rolls his eyes.
“… Actually, there is another reason for the surveillance.”
“Oh, is there, now?”
Ineffa’s eyes remain fixated on his, but they glow ever so slightly. “This might not be the appropriate place to discuss this. If you could follow me,” she suggests, already turning her body back towards the exit. The Wanderer barely has time to contemplate whether he should hear her out at all, his feet reflexively following her.
They walk a bit to the outskirts of town, in the direction of the craftshop—perhaps this, too, is instinctive on Ineffa’s side; perhaps it’s intentional. “You previously mentioned wishing to modify the artifacts you obtained from the Fatui ranks, and potentially optimize them for survival,” she reiterates. “This endeavor… although not uncommon, can be a particularly sensitive topic, given that kuuvahki is involved.”
“So you’ve said. Was that not the main reason for the surveillance?”
“Although it is a sensitive topic, it also reasonably piques Aino’s interest. She is an inventor at heart, after all, one who experiments on her machines in weird and wonderful ways. Which is to say, she has demonstrated an interest in how you might be able to modify the weapons in your possession.”
The Wanderer lets out a scoff. “It’s not like I’m modifying their cleaner robots or anything. I’m just transforming inanimate weapons. I hardly see what sort of breakthrough you were hoping to find through this.”
“I cannot, and thus shall refrain from trying to expand on the rationale geniuses have,” Ineffa says, shrugging with all the exaggerated animation of a stage actor. “Aino… it is true you offended her the other day, but despite that, and despite the general caution against strangers, she seems to hold an adequate amount of respect for you, if not curiosity at the least.”
“Ha. It almost sounds like you’re trying to make up for your child’s tantrum here.”
“I am not trying to make up for anything,” corrects Ineffa, matter-of-factly. Ha. “What I meant to say is, you can come by the craftshop and see her. And perhaps bring her the sweets you mentioned last time—she would be loath to miss out on delicacies from foreign nations. I do not think she will refuse, if you do have any request regarding an upgrade or modification that doesn’t directly involve the use of kuuvahki.”
“And even my hostility won’t be enough to repel her from that curiosity?”
“The trick is in the sweets, indeed.”
Ineffa is hugging the bunny bot, a far cry from how he was treating it earlier. The Wanderer crosses his arms. “And what reason do I have to entertain this child at all? Will you blackmail me, frame me perhaps, if I refuse?”
“There is nothing you have to do. You are not a robot, much less one of hers, so you are not entitled to do everything that is asked of you as though it is instructed.” Leave it to Ineffa to be strictly factual. The Wanderer actually lets out a groan. “However, I am positive, with a 95% confidence rating, that you may find this rapport beneficial, both for the quality of your inventory, as well as your social standing in Nod-Krai. In the power struggle between factions, it may seem logical to remain impartial to any particular faction, but realistically, your chances will still be more favorable with one faction behind you and three against you, compared to having none behind you and a maximum of eleven against you.”
“… I didn’t think there was any need to equip domestic bots with such proficiency for argument,” says the Wanderer with a smirk.
“Why, of course. How else am I supposed to deter Aino from having one too many krumkakes?”
Aino is still casting him an angry glare when he whips out the peace offering: “Candied Ajilenakh nuts, native to Sumeru.”
“A staple among Akademiya students and a household snack in Sumerian residences,” the domestic robot begins reciting. “Word on the streets are saying this dish is fancied particularly by the present Dendro Archon, Lesser Lord Kusanali. Sugar content: significantly higher than the average krumkake. Health benefit: a considerable amount attributable to the nuts, providing anti-inflammatory benefits as well as increases general metabolism. Still, overconsumption is ill-advised due to the high calorie content. Suggestion: a maximum of two pieces per day.”
“Two?! Then what happens to the other four? We can’t let all that go to waste!”
Eight pieces are sitting in the container, but perhaps Aino’s accounted for Ineffa’s portion in her calculations. How family-like of her.
“You can store them for a good amount of time.” To Ineffa, the Wanderer raises an eyebrow. “How much would you say her mood has improved?”
“Hmm… a solid 27%. This is below the average amount of 61% increase sweets have on her mood. However, Aino had been in a particularly foul mood due to the unending workload, and she seems to have additionally directed a portion of that irritation towards yourself after the incident from the other day. So I would say, this 27% increase is a very significant improvement. Thank you, good sir, for the offering.” After a pause that barely lasts longer than a beat, she adds, “If I may inquire, why did you choose a Sumeru dish? Are you from Sumeru, perhaps?”
“Is this part of your collecting information on me?” The Wanderer scoffs. The real answer to that question is, of course, he’s most familiar with this dish, simple as that. As to why that is, he’d be loath to admit. “I was last in Sumeru,” he says instead.
“Hmm… Ineffa, what’s a common Sumerian name?”
“Searching database. Common Sumerian names: Ahmed, Dunya, Hakeem, Kamal, Maryam…” She proceeds to recite a bunch of names as though she’s simply reading a list of current Sumeru City residents. “Although I must remind you, this stranger being last in Sumeru does not entail that he is from Sumeru. Is it still appropriate to give him a Sumerian name?”
“Hey, don’t you think I know that?” Aino huffs, her gaze firmly fixated on the container currently in Ineffa’s hand. “He clearly does not want to speak of his hometown—he doesn’t even want to give us his true name!—so all we can do is work with what he’s given us, no?”
“And why, pray tell, is there any need for you to give me a name?”
“Be—because…” Aino’s eyes flit over his way for but a brief second before she looks away, crossing her arms. “It’s a local custom! Everyone who comes to the craftshop has to have a name. Ugh, what other name if not Big Hat Guy… Ineffa! You think of a name! You’re so much better at coming up with names, anyway!” She quickly snatches the container of sweets, stomping back to her house. The household bot short-circuits for a second, mouth opening and closing like a broken tape.
“Ah, please do not exhaust the entire container, Aino…” Ineffa sighs, turning to the Wanderer. “For the purposes of addressing you in your time here, do you mind being referred to as ‘Khen’?”
A great many names he’s been called, yet so few would have named him ‘sincere’. He almost laughs from the irony.
“Do as you please,” is all he says to that.
He comes every once in a while, bringing with him two things: a dessert from a different nation, and whatever thing he’s been tinkering with, typically something he won from the Fatui goons. Over days and weeks, Ineffa’s interrogations—his motives for infiltrating the Bureau, his proficiency in mechanics, his reasons for coming to Nod-Krai—all have dwindled, while Aino’s curiosity regarding his forging methods grow ever the stronger. She is never still on her feet, dragging him around the craftshop every other moment, trying to get him to spit out ideas on how to improve her domestic bots—she’s got just under a thousand of those bunny bots in that junkyard, all developed to various stages of functionality and aesthetic. But the Wanderer’s not a particularly creative person; most of his suggestions are of the practical and borderline lethal kind, since those were the experiments he’s used to, and unfortunately, those do not make it past Ineffa’s PG filter. (Not that they fit Aino’s experimental worldview to begin with, anyway.)
Aino keeps calling for him, anyway. And if he doesn’t come, she sends one of her recon bots to look for him… and you know the rest. Otherwise, what other incentive would he really have to keep returning to the craftshop? He’s gotten what he initially came for, and the rest will not have to do with them. If anything, in the broader scale of things, it will be best to keep them out of his business. Yesterday’s comrades may well come to be tomorrow’s enemies, and so on and so forth.
But little Aino looks at him expectantly upon each of his arrival. He pulls out the container—“La Lettre a Focalors, from Fontaine,”—and watches as her wide gray eyes sparkle with an unassuming vividness to it, snatching the container from his hands in an instant. “Ineffa, it’s chocolate cake from Fontaine!” She yells, and jumps to give the Wanderer a quick head pat, before dragging him with her to the house.
The whole thing is ridiculous, really.
“Did I hear chocolate cake?” Another girl jumps down from the pile of scraps, slinging an arm around Ineffa as they stumble into Aino’s house. Her eyes widen when she sees the uncanny stranger. “Oh—oh, that’s…”
“Have you two been acquainted?” asks Ineffa, quickly and cleanly setting up the table for them to have their evening dessert. The spoon in Aino’s hand is a mere hair’s breadth from the cake, and she’s barely holding in her salivation.
“Acquainted is a nice way to put it,” drawls the Wanderer.
The bounty hunter chuckles like her legs aren’t shaking. “Ahaha… yeah… acquainted, for sure. Remind me your name again, grumpy boy?”
“So you don’t know his name either, huh? We’ve just been calling him little Khen,” shrugs Aino.
“Right. Khen. Now, why exactly is he here, again?”
“He was the one who baked this cake,” Ineffa informs. As you’d expect of the pinnacle of artificial intelligence—one sentence is all it takes for the hunter to let down her guard, clearing her throat.
“I—is that so? In that case, I should very much express my gratitude and—“
“Half of this is mine!” Aino pulls the container closer to her. “Don’t you even think about having more than your allocated share!”
“Reasoning dictates that, since there are four of us here, the cake should be divided into four. As such, your share of the cake will only be a quarter of the cake, Aino.”
“But—but the cake was meant for us to begin with! Jahoda’s an uninvited guest, here!”
“Hey—there’s no such thing! We’re all family here, aren’t we?”
That throwaway comment seems to stump Aino more than it was intended to, that even the girl named Jahoda appears to feel a pang of guilt. “Ahaha—you’re not… angry at me, are you, Aino?”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” says Aino, pouting only slightly. Slightly meaning, very visibly, with her eyes very close to tears. “You can have a quarter… and I’ll also have a quarter…”
“Stop the childish squabble,” he says, groaning. “I don’t eat sweets, so you can have my entire share. That’ll be half the cake. Done, right?”
“Really? Can I really have it?”
Who can look at her glossy eyes and say no here? Unless you’re a monster of Dottore’s caliber, he daresay no one in their right mind can.
“You cannot, Aino. Your fault for sneaking away some gummies earlier in the day,” Ineffa comments, nonchalant. “You can share that quarter with Jahoda instead.”
“… Hmph.” Aino gives her a glare with no venom, lasting for only the briefest of seconds before she turns to the Wanderer. “See, I knew you were a good egg.” She pats his head again, before digging into her quarter of the cake. Jahoda takes that as the green light to follow suit. Ineffa lets out a fond smile towards her boss, her creator.
And the Wanderer… he just rolls his eyes. What is he doing here, playing house with a bunch of children?
“I’ll be out in the yard,” he announces, not that any of them seem to be listening, with cake in their mouths, delight in their ears. “Call me if…”
He leaves, like always, silent as the wind.
The furnace is an old nightmare, and fire, a shackle to his wrists. Who knew there would come a day where he’ll return to the forge of his own volition?
It’s not even that he has any profound reason to use one. Modifications—especially power-related modifications—often do not require the energy of a furnace, and a simple workstation should suffice. Aino’s given him enough pointers on how to effectively manage the kuuvahki contained within these weapons without having to implement drastic changes to the technical make-up of these weapons, especially because they were already sophisticated to begin with. Perhaps it wasn’t so much practicality that brought him here, but rather, all the scrap around. The potential to breathe new life into them, as Aino so often brainstorms. To cleanse the filth, the pungent stench of rust and steel, and turn them into something of use.
Ha. Who is he kidding? Perhaps he sees parts of himself in all that.
The bunny bot tails him as he goes around, picking up scraps of metal from around the junkyard; it’s presently dedicated to him, even though not necessarily for the purposes of surveillance as it once was. Now, it’s almost like an annoying critter, like a shadow that won’t leave. Perhaps it’s meant to be a pet; not that he’s ever particularly fond of pets. Creatures of the wild, maybe; not so much domesticated ones. But at least the bunny bot, and all the clinking around the valley, makes the night less quiet.
In the borderland, the false moonlight shines all too brightly. It’s too unsettling to him. The Wanderer’s always preferred the shadows, the steel skin.
If nothing else, the bunny bot helps him carry all the scraps he’s managed to scavenge. He returns to the local furnace—automatized by Aino, as you’d expect of the genius inventor—and has it reduce the metal to liquid, purifying it altogether. He sits against a metal container and rests his head (sans the weighty hat), waiting for the fancy furnace to do its job. When he opens his eyes again, there crouches a curious girl, stars in her eyes as she scrutinizes him.
“Hey, stranger.”
The Wanderer raises an eyebrow.
“I still have my reservations about you, you know,” Jahoda states plainly. “N—not to discredit your cake or anything; it’s the true good stuff. But I know you’ve been sneaking and spying around town late at night, and if your collection of Fatui weapons speaks for anything, it’s of your prowess in combat.” She does not say it, but they’re thinking the same anyway: he, and the enigma surrounding him, is a potential danger to Nod-Krai. “So tell me, why are you here, bribing my family with sweets day-to-day? What is it that you want?”
“Ha… you tell me,” echoes the Wanderer, running a hand through his hair. “Why am I here, at all?”
“Ugh. Can’t you be any less cryptic?” She kicks a pebble, walking back and forth before him. “If you can’t answer that, then at least explain yourself. Why were you spying on us? I know you hang around the Curatorium a lot.”
“It’s a no-brainer, don’t you think?”
“Is it the dragon boy?”
“Did he introduce himself as one, now?” The Wanderer chuckles. “Now that’s interesting.”
“He did not, but his horns and wings speak for himself, don’t you think?” Jahoda clears his throat. “What do you want with him?”
“Nothing.” He pointedly ignores the unimpressed look on her face. “You can tell him I’m keeping an eye on him, so he should make sure to behave.”
“And how should I refer to you, to him?”
“Guy with a big hat—sure he’ll figure it out.”
Jahoda’s eyes are still screaming I don’t trust you, but she drops the topic for the meantime. ”Next. What are you doing with the Fatui weapons?”
“You’re a trader of secrets, right? Don’t you know to pay up before asking for such sensitive truths?”
“Ahem!” Pink tints her cheeks, clear under the unrelenting moonlight. For someone who works a lowkey job, she’s all too easily ruffled for her own good. “Fine, if you can’t reveal that. But I still must know—what do you want with the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop? Is it related to what I mentioned last time, regarding my prosthetic? Or is there some other reason?”
“Isn’t information concerning the major factions also extremely valuable?” The Wanderer clicks his tongue. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”
“Argh, you’re just—so—annoying! Listen here,” Jahoda asserts, stomping her feet—not that the ground budges. “I don’t care if you want to mess with anyone else. But Ineffa’s my friend, and I have to make sure you won’t do anything to harm them. So if you don’t speak your intentions at once—“
“What, you’ll fight me? You don’t even know the slightest thing about me, even after weeks of trailing me—“ His suspicions are confirmed when he sees her face paling—“and you still think you can stand against me? Wow, I don’t know if you’re extremely confident in your skills as a bounty hunter, or just plain foolish.”
“Urgh… forget it!”
She storms off without another word. The Wanderer lets his laugh echo her way as she clutches onto her hair, dejected from yet another failure to squeeze out any information. The mirth quickly fades, and he lets his eyes fall once more, basking in the gentle wind, the terrible yet familiar stench of metal.
“… If you need a place to rest for the night, I’m sure we can produce a makeshift bed for you in the house.”
“Only humans have a need for beds,” the Wanderer mumbles. “Neither of us have any use for that, no?”
For a while, nothing happens, until he hears the sound of shuffling, then a weight descending next to him. “Stranger… Khen. You said last time, ‘Do not think you can empathize with me just because we happen to be unique’. I… apologize if that came out as an offense to you.”
“Heh. I didn’t know robots could be hesitant, or could even feel guilt.”
“Perhaps guilt is just an expression of realizing that one has made a mistake towards another. And perhaps hesitance is just an uncertainty born of computational failure.” He hears a back and forth motion; he surmises Ineffa’s shaking her head. “But after some thought, I think a correction is due: it is not so much empathy that I was feeling, but perhaps… a longing, rather.”
The Wanderer snorts. “Longing?”
“I think, unknowingly—or perhaps in human terms, subconsciously—I long to have someone who understands half of how I perceive the world,” Ineffa admits. “Not in the way that I consider myself incapable of ever truly blending amongst humanity, but rather, to seek someone who is in a similar journey of understanding humanity better.” She admits such complicated desires so plainly, like it’s just a recipe on how to make the perfect krumkakes. The Wanderer cannot comprehend the very notion.
“All that just to describe loneliness?”
“I do not believe this constitutes loneliness,” she argues, much to his surprise. “I am not lonely, because I have my family—I have Aino, I have Birgitta, and I have friends like Jahoda, Chasca and Xilonen. Notwithstanding that, I recognize there will always be that difference in our natures—hence, more effort needs to be put into bridging that gap, and maintaining these amicable relationships. In that sense, I seek those who may understand these struggles, and potentially be a learning opportunity as to how I can improve myself, as a family and friend to others. This is also, I believe, Aino’s rationale for getting you to come to the craftshop every so often. She’s interested in your many impressive skills, but I think she is most taken with your unique nature of being, if not for the fact that you often seem a little lonely yourself. Her own words.”
Not that she would be the first to think that—a certain other midget would emphasize the same—but it’s not a fact he likes wearing on his sleeve. “And you’re sure she doesn’t mean it to be that she wants to tinker with me, too? Add duckies and flowers to my person?”
“… While that may be an effective way to increase your friendliness perception, I do not believe Aino has considered any plans of doing so,” mutters Ineffa. “Yet.”
The Wanderer laughs. Actually laughs for a whole minute, because the thought is more ridiculous than he can even fathom. “Hate to break it to you, dearest robot, but in case you haven’t already processed yourself, I’m not all too keen on integrating amongst humanity. I fight a war between gods and demons; company and community are not terms in my dictionary.” He pops open an eye, glancing her way. She is looking at him intently with those electric eyes of hers. “And just a word of advice to you: you might be chasing mortal comforts at the moment, but—as I’m sure you know better—you are a product of ancient gods yourself, bearing the power of dragons. You will not be left unscathed, come the eventual fray between the heavens and the depths. Whether you are to be used as a weapon, or should transform into the big bad monster yourself—you still have a long way to go, over the course of fate.”
“… I do not doubt these possibilities,” she calmly admits.
“Well, that’s very conscientious of you.”
“But I do not think our lives are limited to those roles. Whether I am to be used as a weapon or war, or transform into the big bad monster, or perhaps become the defender of humanity—where I head in that juncture will depend on the choices I make in the mundane present. And that mundane present, I believe, is made up of my day-to-days. My interactions with my family, my friends, the people I meet in town, and perhaps, kind strangers and future heroes such as yourself.” Ineffa is, in a rare bout of emotion, smiling. It’s a concept that unsettles him ever so slightly.
“… Hah. ‘Kind’ and ‘hero’ are not two words I’m frequently associated with, you see.”
“Perhaps the ‘hero’ is still up for debate, but I have seen proof of your kindness, if the desserts you bring Aino without fail are anything to speak of.”
The Wanderer leaves his resting spot, heading back to the furnace to obtain the purified metal. The clear silver of iron, glinting brilliantly beneath the moonlight. “I’m just putting my advance payment, for whatever favor I’ll be needing from you in the future. Don’t take it to heart, robot.”
But he knows he is fooling no one, under this thread of falsehoods. The answer to every question has always lain within himself, and he has long since revealed the hand behind his back, out of only his own sight.
Apparently, the bunny bot does have an emergency module. At first, the Wanderer considered this to be a simple I’m in a severe lack of sugar and need desserts this instant emergency, so he whipped up the quickest thing he could think of—rose custard pudding—before heading over to the craftshop. The emergency, though, happens to be a real Aino-standard emergency: Ineffa, who she dispatched on a commission to search for parts up in the north of Lempo Isle, has not been back in three days, one-and-a-half days late from her calculated return.
The rose custard pudding proved extremely useful after all, because Aino significantly calmed down upon eating it. “It’s a good thing this is soft,” she even comments, sucking on her spoon slowly. The Wanderer shakes his head.
“Don’t rely solely on your machine’s computations. She might have simply encountered other matters that take time to handle, and is thus dealing with those. But if you’re so concerned, keep in mind Lempo Isle’s typically rather populated, so someone would have noticed if anything happened to her. And if worst comes to worst, she can always beat them up to pulp.”
“But what if it’s beyond what she can handle?!”
“I doubt there’s much she can’t,” mutters the Wanderer. “You’re the one who made her. Where’s your pride as a mechanic?”
Aino’s glaring at him, the sight of which he’s used to at this point. “First of all, I’m not perfect—and, one point five, it’s not like I designed Ineffa to be some war machine; she’s a domestic robot, I’ll remind you. She’s not the kuuvahki cannon in Nasha Town, ready to repel waves of the Wild Hunt in a single blow! But second and more importantly: it’s not about whether I trust her or myself. I’m worried because she’s my family! Anyone would be worried about their family being missing for days!”
“It’s barely been two days,” he reminds.
“You don’t know what can happen in those two days! I’ve had Ineffa gone for over a month, I can’t—“
“Since you’ve felt her absence for over a month, then you should be able to last a few more days.”
“That’s not how this works! This is not a part of the plan!” Aino abruptly stands, marching up to him, apparently to grab fistfuls of his shirt. “You have to go and find her, Khen.”
“… Do I really?”
“Please!” The Wanderer only feels slightly terrible for having sent her close to tears—but then again, Aino is almost always close to tears. He doesn’t even know if he can attribute this to himself at all, given the situation.
“I mean, I wouldn’t know the first thing to do. If you’re so concerned, then maybe you could—“
“Maybe I will!”
He certainly did not expect her to immediately agree with him there, all up and ready to storm out the door. The Wanderer pulls her back by the claw protruding on her back—Kerplunk-a-tron, is his name…—which sends her into a tantrum. “Okay, hold your horses.”
“You said I should look for her myself!”
“I’m preeetty sure I said, you could… have a nice warm bath. See, this is the importance of listening to the very end, kid.”
The stupid claw, for some unfathomable reason, manages to break free of his grasp, smacking his hand away in the process.
“Hmph, you’re the kid here! And you don’t know anything! I have to protect Ineffa—“
“As if she’s not two-thousand years older than yourself,” the Wanderer scoffs. “What are you going to do to help, I ask?”
Something flies past Aino’s gaze, and she drops the Kerplunk-a-tron, fixing him a solemn look. “Something. I’ll come up with something—ask around town for eyewitnesses, maybe ask for Jahoda’s help. Even if nothing gives, I’ll search the whole of Nod-Krai—of Snezhnaya, if I must!—for her. Because that’s what family and friends do—regardless of ages and species and whatever it is. Some of us actually care for each other, and need each other to live. Not that you would know.”
The Wanderer sighs aloud. “Why even bother asking for my help, if you were going to go at it alone anyway?”
“Maybe I cared for your opinion, and maybe I trusted you as a friend of ours. Clearly that’s poor judgment on my part! If Ineffa was here, she would have told me of how stupid that idea was.” The poor girl is actually crying now, but she stands firm on her ground. “I gave you a chance. I gave you many chances, but clearly I should have just left you alone the first time. If you don’t care, don’t stop me from looking for her! You have no right to do that!”
Aino storms off, slamming the door—only that the Wanderer catches it, tailing her in her pursuit. “I won’t stop you.”
“Stop following me, too!”
“I’m just heading back to town, since I have nothing else to do here.”
With his Anemo powers, he floats, then promptly overtakes her. Aino starts sputtering. “H-hey! That’s not fair—you can fly! Hey!” She starts running after him while he spins around, making circles in the air. “Kheeeeen! Give me a lift!”
“Hmm… why should I?”
Again, he really should have thought through his words: the ruckus of a kid—that cursed claw, specifically—latches on to one of his sleeves, using it like a grappling hook to hoist herself up to him. And the Wanderer, in a fit of impulse, dives to catch her in his arms, cushioning her landing. He nearly lets out a curse.
“Do you have any sense of self-preservation, at all?!”
“Whatever! I knew you’d catch me!”
Curse this stupid family. The Wanderer flies off, the wind currents muting out Aino’s cries, whether out of thrill or fear of the speed.
Ineffa’s fine. Of course she is. The Wanderer had absolutely zero doubt the ancient sovereign ruler—no matter that she is presently contained in a shell of metal scrap—would make it out of the trickiest craters. Regardless of that, Aino’s knees give way when they finally do find Ineffa in the gates to town, and she runs to the latter like she hasn’t seen her for a year or so, hugging her with fat tears streaming down her face.
See? At the end of the day, she’s a kid.
He’s already turned his back on them, but Ineffa calls out to him: “Thank you for being with her while I’m gone, Khen. And for accompanying her to find me, as well.”
The Wanderer just waves a hand, not looking back at them—but he feels, yet again, that demonic claw, gripping the fabric of his shirt. Suddenly, he’s hoisted into a group hug.
… It’s mildly surprising that Ineffa is warmer than he imagined. He imagines he himself would be quite colder than the average mortal, and he isn’t even your average man-made robot…
“You’re very stiff, young man. You’ll need some hardware maintenance, it appears…” Aino’s back to her mechanic mode, as though she wasn’t an absolute crybaby just a moment ago. “Perhaps we can also install that temperature module on you? Ah! O—only if you’re okay with it, of course—not saying I want to pull apart your body or anything like that, no…!”
The Wanderer laughs. Actually laughs, because it is such a ridiculous thought. “You can, if you want to. You won’t be the first, anyway.” And it’s not like that would be such a terrible modification.
Aino hums for a prolonged moment. “On second thoughts… maybe not. I like you as you are! All you need is a little massage. Ineffa’s very good at those, you know!”
He casts them a side eye that he hopes isn’t all too judgmental. “I’ll pass.”
“If nothing else, I can make some Midsommar Torte. It should relieve the tension in your nerves in an instant—or so says Jahoda. Who is approaching us at an increasingly rapid speed.”
“Did I hear Midsommar Torte?”
It doesn’t take half a brain to realize why they’re such good friends. The Wanderer scoffs, distancing himself from the girls.
“You guys have a fun reunion dinner. I’ll be on my way.”
“Oooh, up to some moonlighting, are you?” Jahoda teases, as though she didn’t storm off in a fit of embarrassment, the last time they talked. The Wanderer rolls his eyes.
“You don’t even know my main job, what are you calling moonlighting?”
“Well—it’s just—forget it.” Jahoda groans. “I don’t expect you to have a sense of humor. Man, we really don’t get along.”
“I don’t understand the joke either,” says Ineffa plainly. Jahoda blinks, twice, then slaps her forehead.
“Well, you see…”
The Wanderer moves to leave, when he is interrupted (for the third time, now!) by Aino: “Please join us, Khen! You did help me find Ineffa, after all.”
There was no finding of the sort—all he did was bring her to town, where Ineffa was already approaching. The Wanderer doesn’t say all that. Instead he says, once and for all: “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your family time.”
“There’s always a place for you in our home,” says Ineffa. Aino nods fervently.
“You’re one of my people, now!”
He scoffs. “After all that yelling and arguing, you say that?” The Wanderer lowers his hat, shielding himself from the moonlight. Enough with these ridicules. “Thanks, but no thanks. I hope I’ve proven to you enough of my innocence—and that I don’t belong, no matter how much you’re trying to fit me in.”
Not that it was a bad try at all, he thinks to himself, taking the steps back into the shadows of town. It’s a good glimpse of what could have been, in an idyllic world—as well as a good reminder of everything he’s lost, everything that’s been reduced to ashes by his own hands.
It is as they say: there are eyes watching from every corner of the lawless town. “If you have something to say, might as well come sit before me, don’t you think?”
The elusive lady lets out a graceful scoff, before presenting herself before him, accepting the invitation. “A good eye,” she teases, lifting a hand to the bartender—signalling for a drink, perhaps. “You’ve noticed since the very beginning, haven’t you? You seem to have incredible patience—not calling us out even once, over the weeks.”
Ha. “And I thought you would exercise a little more of it. Something pressing got your tail?”
“Not necessarily. But...” The lady sighs, drumming her fingers on the table. “Heh. Let’s just say it’s a good night, and I’m in the mood for a talk.”
The Wanderer rolls his eyes, downing half of the tea in his cup. “Here’s hoping that you have better interrogative skills compared to your clumsy lackey,” he drawls.
“A clumsy lackey indeed. Ah, but I’m not here to play detective.” He suspects she already knows more than anyone else in town, anyway. She certainly has more elegant means of getting information to fall in her palms. Her drink arrives, and she takes a sip of the ominously blue drink without batting a single eyelid. “Actually, I wanted to talk about your timid friend. The one, you know, they dropped off in our office out of the blue? And left for us to take care?”
There’s no point in denying his connection to those people, so the Wanderer just scoffs. “What of him?”
“For starters, why are you stalking him like a creep?”
That brings a laugh out of him, if nothing else. “It’s as I’ve told the bounty hunter—just keeping an eye on him. He’ll know why; you can ask him about it. Though I’m assuming, since you’ve brought it up here, that he said nothing about it either?”
The lady lets out a smirk, taking another sip. “As you know, he’s quite the reticent kid. Reluctant to even admit that you’re a friend,” she says. Her smile reaches her eyes and her voice is sweet, yet there’s something in her eyes that’s just too unsettling to ignore. “So it’s either you’re not his actual friend and that was all a guise for something more ominous, or… you’re a terrible friend, who can’t even come up to see him.”
“It’s the latter,” he explains simply, “whether or not you can believe that. I’m sure the idea that he’s some dangerous threat under surveillance is the more tempting idea to entertain.”
“Hm. I thought so, but the evidence thus far does point to the latter. In which case, it’d do me some good to advise you to play a better friend.”
“Why, had enough of my ‘stalking’?”
“And, frankly, his moping.” The boss lady sighs, leaning a cheek on her hand in exaggerated wistfulness. “Not that I can blame him per se for having baggage, but y’know. Jahoda’s not very good at the comforting business, and certainly neither am I. We just want him to feel comfortable and everything, but we haven’t the slightest knowledge about him to do anything…”
The Wanderer chuckles. “Is that how you’re trying to get me to spill information, now?”
“Not per se. I’m just saying you could drop in once in a while, you know, talk to him. Spare yourself some of the suspicion, and us, all the unnecessary wariness.” In no time, the drink in her glass has reduced to its final drops, which she finishes cleanly. “Ah, not that that’s any of my real business, right? Just words of a tipsy meddling woman.”
“Ha. And you’re sure letting an anonymous stranger into your home turf is a wise decision?”
“You see… often when rationality fails, insanity begets a breakthrough. And—“ The lady stands, hand lingering by the edge of the table. “—you never know. The home turf is also where one is most powerful, aren’t they?”
She gives him one last cheeky smile, leaving the booth with the sound of her heels clicking away.
The Wanderer sighs. What is with these people and their needless intrusions?
It is obviously not in the Curatorium where he finally meets the dragonling. In fact, the dragonling finds him, on the hill overlooking the small town.
“Well, aren’t you full of initiative,” drawls the Wanderer. “Had enough of your moping?”
Durin sits next to him, hugging his knees. Ironic that the dragon residing in the snowy mountain should feel cold at all—though, indeed, his flesh is truly fully human now. “I didn’t really want to disturb you and whatever you were up to. You said it was an important mission,” he mutters, no louder than a whisper.
“Then why are you here?”
“Maybe I just wanted some fresh air.”
The Wanderer rolls his eyes. “No air in this godforsaken town is fresh,” he grumbles. “Even my mechanical lungs are going to get an allergic reaction at this rate.” Durin laughs at that, airy and youthful. He feels an odd sense of satisfaction to have heard it—not that there was any reason to. Ugh.
“How is your progress? With your mission?”
“It’s going,” is all he says. “Nothing for a kid like you to concern yourself with.”
Durin sighs. “I hear you’ve been making sweets for Aino?”
“Didn’t know you were on a first-name basis,” the Wanderer comments, laughing. “Then again, between kids, I suppose that’s warranted. I needed her help with something, so I’ve been bribing her with them. That’s about it. What sorts of things have you been up to, there?”
“Umm… Nefer’s been telling us stories,” starts Durin. “There’s a lot I don’t know about the world today, let alone Nod-Krai—so she’s been introducing me to things: of the moon, the factions, their work at the Curatorium. It’s all very interesting, actually.”
“Good to know you’ve found yourself a comfortable place.”
“You say that so insincerely,” Durin points out, but not out of annoyance. He just sighs, regarding the false moon in all its silver glory. “You know I can never really belong.”
“Does anyone really belong, here of all places? Nod-Krai’s a no-man’s-land,” the Wanderer argues, “a place where people come from different corners of the world, old and new. A place for the faithful and reserved, the ambitious and progressive; for those in hiding and those in pursuit; where lies run rampant and truths beget profit. You don’t need to be anything to be here; everyone belongs, and not, altogether.”
Briefly he thinks of what Ineffa said: that it is not so much of loneliness—that she has her family, regardless of her unique nature. That amidst heaps of junk and wires, she has a place to call “home”—that the same holds true for the little girl, never once considering her creations any less than kin.
The Wanderer almost laughs.
Durin has been staring at him for some time now. When the Wanderer catches his gaze, he clears his throat, dropping his eyes. “You must think it’s foolishly innocent, to worry about these things.”
“Foolish, sure. Innocent, not so much. It’s only because we have sentience that…”
He doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, his breath fading into a sigh. He stands up, the ribbons of his hat swaying in the wind. Nasha Town is still buzzing, even late at night. In the distance, the rising of the Palestar Edict; further above, the false sky that threatens to shatter.
“Make good friends out of those people early on. I might not see you for a while.”
“Wanderer—“
He does not stop, steps trailing away from the moonlight, down the steep hill.
“… where would you call your home?”
He leaves, gentle like the morning wind.
What is home, I ask?
If it is a place with a roof, somewhere to rest—then to that, I say, puppets have no need for any rest. No matter that I am a sentient being—I am a vessel of godhood, and thus cannot be constrained to such simple limitations.
And if home is origin, then I cannot claim to have any. Can you trace my roots in any single place? I do not exist in the Ley Lines. I have no roots, biological or physical, to speak of. I have lived in many nations over my lifetime‚ even the depths of the Abyss. Would anyone call that a home?
If home is where the heart is, ha—can you prove this heart exists?
And if you can… then you will have already known where it is.