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"FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK—"
Getting wet is not something that WX-78 is built for, and yet the rain just keeps on coming.
They were doing fine! They had their snakeskin hat and their umbrella, and they were going out in search of food while Wilson worked on stretching what they had already. Their biggest mistake was not paying attention to their condition their protection was in when they left. Gathering some berries and limpets went well, and killing a spider or two for their monster meat went on without a hitch, but their excursion quickly became a shitshow as evening came. As the rain fell heavily from above, in an instant, their hat and their umbrella fell apart all at once.
The forested area around WX-78 helped to shield them from the brunt of the rain, but it continued pelting down on them, as if the very skies wished to kill them in the most painful way possible.
And now here they are, running from tree to tree, trying to make it back to their campsite before they start short circuiting.
"—FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK—"
Unaware of their struggle, back at the campsite, Wilson peacefully stokes the coals of a crockpot. He’s just finished off using the last of their meat in a large stew to get the most efficiency out of everything they’ve collected. Rain drums against his snakeskin hat as he looks into the ocean in thought.
Sure glad we found that treasure map with the gears in it, Wilson thinks. This ice box has been a lifesaver. Hopefully they had some luck out there?
"—FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKF—"
WX-78 falls to the ground, tripping over what they assume is a patch of mud—they’ve got no processor power to spare for anything other than getting back—and they quickly scramble to get up, only to be greeted with a spider screaming right in their face.
They get up as it lunges towards them, knocking them in the shoulder and throwing them off balance. After a moment of getting their bearings straight, they slice the spider open with their spear. A chorus of hissing erupts from behind them, and that’s when they realize they didn't slip on mud, but the silken floor of a spider den. A large group of spiders crawl out of the structure to their left and lock eyes on their trembling form, which has already started to spark.
WX-78 sprints away from the den as fast as their unsteady legs can take them, doing their best to dodge the spiders leaping at them from behind. They struggle to maintain their speed, fighting against the electrical jolts running through their body.
"FU-U-UCKFUCKFUCK-KKKK-FUCK-K-K—"
"Hmm... If I make this the rocks chest, then I can have all of the animal products in this row," he mumbles to himself, doing his best to not let too much water soak into the chests as he organizes them.
The rain pours on, and he sees twigs and bamboo fly by and into the water in a tizzy.
"They said when they're back we're going to head over to a new island, so I'll get my backpack ready..." Wilson says, taking the time to decide what tools and resources he needs to allocate to it. Once he's finished, he sits underneath a little leaf hut they'd both made to protect them from the rain, takes off his soaked snake-skin hat, and waits.
They said they'd be back before evening, he thinks, eyeing the sun making its way down the horizon.
"F-PH-PHFUCKKKKFU-EUR-UCHK—"
Running. All WX-78 can do is keep running and running and running. They eventually escape from the jungle biome of the island, emerging into the unprotected rain. And they keep running until the pair's campsite finally comes into view.
They can feel their circuit bay decharge.
They can feel the water running throughout their systems, leaking into crevices they can’t access.
They can feel themself failing.
Slowing down.
But still running.
And WX-78 keeps running until they finally get to the campsite.
Without saying a word, they sprint over to the chests, knocking wildly into the first one they see and nearly toppling over. They flail each chest open in a rush until they find a straw hat and umbrella to put on, and in their desperate attempt to dry off, they throw an armful of logs into the chiminea. They simply stand in front of the fire, jittering and twitching. Sparks fly off from inside of their chassis at rapid intervals, drawing from them warbled sounds of agony.
Wilson stands up in alarm and rushes over to where they stand, forgetting his hat.
"Hey, hey, what happened?" He asks, instinctively grabbing them by their shoulders and getting zapped. He hisses, flaps his hands in the air for a second, and then pulls them a few feet back under the leaf hut (despite their protection being sufficient.) It's not enough to stop the fire from reaching them, but Wilson guesses that being under some sort of roof may make them feel safer. He has to lean down slightly to remain standing, but he looks down at them with concern nonetheless.
WX-78 follows his guidance wordlessly, their twitching and jolting having been replaced by something almost like trembling, if ever a thing was possible from them. They sit down below the leaf canopy with their legs splayed out, setting the umbrella down on the ground beside them but leaving the straw hat on. They rest their hands down by their sides, looking emptily in front of them.
"MY PROTECTION BROKE." They say, after a long moment.
Wilson nudges their arm with his hand.
"Let's get this wet backpack off," he says quietly, wrapping his hands around the straps and waiting for them to move their arms so he can take the thing off.
Putting up no fight, they let him take off the backpack and set it on the ground.
"I FELT MY CIRCUIT BAY LOSE EACH CHARGE. I FELT THE COLD WATER FLOWING THROUGH MY SYSTEMS. I FELT EVERY SPARK HIT THE INNER WALLS OF MY CHASSIS. IT... HURT." WX-78 says slowly, filled with something akin to sorrow.
Wilson puts his hat back on and walks a few feet away from them, not speaking so as to cue them to keep talking if they need it. He starts looking in the chests for a healing salve or a spider gland for them.
"I GOT COCONUTS, LIMPETS, CARROTS, AND BERRIES,” they say, turning to find their backpack. "THEY ARE IN HERE."
Wilson hums in response, retrieving some spare spider glands. They have plenty of ash from when they forgot to set down a lightning rod, and rocks are easy to acquire too. He sticks them under his shirt and jogs over to where WX-78 is. No time is wasted in making three healing salves—it's all they have resources for—and Wilson pauses, almost about to apply it to their body himself.
Instead, he hands it over and grabs their backpack.
"I'll put the food away," he mumbles, walking off to do so.
"OKAY."
WX-78 has learned that spider glands work differently for them than they do for fleshlings. Somehow, they provide permanent repairs to their damaged internals. Wilson isn't looking, they open their chassis and apply the salve to themself. Although their circuits have been mostly repaired, the feeling of dread they harbor remains. WX-78 lies down underneath the canopy, still shaking.
"I DO NOT LIKE THE RAIN."
Wilson returns shortly after with some of the limpets in hand. He roasts a few of them in the dwindling chiminea and refuels it just as the sun sets. The rain is lessening, it seems, and he hands WX-78 half of the cooked food. He then stands there awkwardly, waiting for what they might say.
WX-78 sits up and takes the limpets from him and begins to eat, slowly and silently. They don't feel like themself at all; their posture, their ego, their hubris, all of it has all been washed away in the rain, leaving behind someone scared and sad. After realizing Wilson is looking at them, they repeat themself.
"I DO NOT LIKE THE RAIN."
"Yeah," Wilson says. "I wouldn’t either."
He sits next to them, giving them about two feet of space, and he watches as the rain lessens its torrent. If their stuff had only broken a little later…
"I'M COLD,” they say, and if Wilson didn’t know any better, it would sound like whining. "I WANT A BLANKET."
Wilson stares at them in thought for a while, listening to the rain relent in its intensity against the leaf hut they reside under. After a few minutes, he pulls his backpack forward and rummages around in it for some bamboo. Wilson takes his machete and starts peeling away at the layers, and when he’s got three or four sheets of fine woody stems, he starts to lay them out on the ground in front of himself to strip them into thick threads.
He hasn't responded to their statement, too startled by whatever is happening to them to come up with some witty comment. Not that he'd do it right now. He knows what it's like to be made fun of after something like that... although the reason for that is sitting next to him, trembling like a leaf. Despite this, revenge isn't what's on his mind, nor is pity, but concern is.
So, concern brings Wilson to begin to weave some cloth from the fibers of the bamboo.
WX-78 looks over at him, at what he’s doing, and their face shifts to a small, frail smile despite themself. The expression feels foreign on their faceplate, and even when they realize what they're doing, they do not stop. Knowing that he is focused on what he's doing and won't look up, they don't hinder themself. Instead, they just watch him weave away.
When he's done, he doesn't announce it, he just puts the thing around their shoulders and sighs. It's not the largest, nor is it the warmest, but a straw roll wouldn't be much better. At least this feels somewhat like a blanket and not a wheat field.
"...Do you need anything else?"
WX-78 lets out a small buzzing drone in lieu of an answer, turning over on their side and wrapping the blanket around themself. They almost curl into a ball. Still shaking, they close their receptors. The rest won't fix them, but right now, they don't want to do anything outside of it.
Wilson looks down at them carefully while they do so. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"I'll go out and get snakeskin, and we'll make you a jacket. You won't be able to carry a backpack, but I can carry a little extra," he says quietly. The rain's given them a reprieve, and all that can be heard is the ocean on the other side of the island and a distant battle between some spiders and snakes.
WX-78 lets out a small noise of discontent. “DO IT TOMORROW," they say. “STAY RIGHT NOW.”
If this was any other day, it'd sound like a command, but right now it just sounds like a plea.
"...Sure," Wilson offers lightly.
Where's all the hatred? This is getting weird.
"LAY,” WX-78 says, looking up at him with a look in their eyes that he cannot read.
"Um," Wilson begins, a bit uncomfortable. Alarm bells are going off in his head, but he's not sure for what. "Come again?"
"JUST LAY." WX-78 says. "I AM NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING. JUST LAY DOWN."
Wilson lies down next to them hesitantly, staying as stiff as a board.
WX-78 lets out another quiet noise before going silent. After some time passes, a very light sound similar to snoring comes from their still form.
Wilson slowly turns his head to face them. They didn't…?
...Huh.
Wilson relaxes a little. A bit of sleep wouldn't kill him either, and what else is he going to do if he's not allowed to get up?
Well… he could try getting up. Maybe he could go out and collect the snakeskin from the fight he's hearing. He shifts ever so slightly to test the waters, to see if they're really asleep and will let him leave.
WX-78 does not stir. Even though they told—asked?—him to stay, they aren't making sure he does.
Are they just that tired? Did they trust him?
They were probably just tired.
Wilson looks down at them with a guilty frown.
Wouldn't kill me to stay, he thinks, laying back down with a soft thump. He turns his head to the side to look at WX-78, leaving about a foot of space between them. He turns his head back up to stare at the ceiling of the shelter.
Beside him, WX-78 rests. Their shaking remains, but as does their faint smile.