Work Text:
Regardless of whatever anyone, veiled or not, had thought of Vanguard, the organization was far from hopeless. Quite the opposite. It seemed to be genuinely working. In contrast to what could have been predicted, Varis' outreach and diplomacy were doing wonders at uniting communities, bringing beliefs together, and centralizing nälkä. Saarn had not seen such growth since her rebirth thousands of years ago. Even the more hostile groups were simply charged and integrated. Many had their relics, or members, returned from Foundation containment. He was charming, as was Lovataar. Saarn could not, would not understand why, why, why her sister had taken up his deliration.
And yet, she had come to this factory anyway. Agreed to diminish herself in such a way. Agreed to speak with whom Lovataar, above all, should have hated.
The show of an entrance was no more welcoming than the face of metal before her. Metal beams creaked with each step she took, a mesh pattern allowed her to see just what she would fall into should they make well of those threats. People—at least formerly—all metal. She could not sense even a single piloting mind; they were more artifical than the last machines she had interacted with. They all wore slight alterations of the same outfits. A style she had not seen in a century or more.
The room she sat in now only reinforced this stagnation. A bookshelf held countless titles; not one did she know. A book sat atop, opened by a golden easel. Decoration was sparse: not a picture or painting, no textiles nor carpets. Concrete floor, metal sheets of walls. Simple. Standardized. Saarn couldn't bear it.
The desk was the only cluttered area, and even so it was an organized mess. Stacks of paper and pens strung along the edge, a clock, and copper hands ticking at just the same pace as they flipped through a collection of handwritten sheets.
What a horrible view this thing was. A skull like shape with embedded, sparkling teeth. A clock instead of a left eye. It suit was black, a blue collar hardly visible past it. Unlike the others, it wore a helmet like shell of gold and chain. Saarn had considered Derdekeas an eyesore, but having to stare at this thing… Maybe she could give the older machine some grace.
Its personality was worse than its appearance. A hissing, bratty, smoker of a woman. She didn't understand why they gave such an "important job," as Varis had called it, to her. She was horrible at diplomacy, and their conflicting interests did not make these meetings tolerable. Last time she had prompted, the man had explained that Trunnion (what a name) was the snarling guard dog they needed to cull to get to the owners. She had tried to convince the small meeting table that it was pointless, but the only one who agreed was the excommunicated Mekhanite, who—for as much as he weighed—was not much leverage.
The machine exhaled a mix of water vapor and smog, the very same coating Saarn's own lungs from the journey through their never ending factory. Slowly, very slowly, did it take those sharpened fingers and puncture the paper. Each hole led to a tear, fibers and ink alike dripping down onto the wooden desk. It did not speak until the paper Varis had spent night and day on was peeled apart, not even the dignity to rip by the seams. Saarn's eyes twitched.
"Denied." Its voice was empty, grating. A horrible attempt at mimicking the human it had once been. If it had been one at all.
"Why?" No smile was kept along her face. That never worked for her sister during her many attempts. The only emotion in the room was annoyance, why pretend that it was anything but for the sake of unreturned pleasantries?
"The Patriarchs have better things to attend to," the metal hand scratched against the wood polish, and the shreds of hand written cursive vanished under it. Saarn had told Varis that they would deny it even if he avoided the printer.
"And what is more important, exactly?"
"Internal affairs."
Saarn didn't bite down her scoff at that, "Internal? I think the resolution of your little spats are far less vital than your permits," She referenced the room itself with a flick of her tail.
"Feh, we'll keep them regardless. Your kind has no power here."
"The Vanguard does."
It paused for a moment. A very long moment. Perhaps even a minute. For all that time, it just stared at her.
"… Vanguard?"
What.
"Yes? It said that a million times on the paper." It just stared at her, feigning a form of convincingly genuine confusion... ah. This was so stupid.
"Didn't you read it?"
"Feh."
"'Feh!'" Saarn repeated in disbelief.
"The patriarchs have better-"
"'Things to do,' I know. You've been wasting my time! You don't even have the courtesy to read the notes!"
Trunnion waved its hand and stood.
"I will forward this. I thought the Vanguard already had an agreement with us to avoid conflict…"
"They do with the others."
"I'll forward it. You may go now." As if it had to give her permission! Months, months of sitting through useless missions all because this fucking ticker never cared to read!
Saarn couldn't tell was she was doing till she was across the table, metal hand wrapped round her throat. Her boots marked up the polished desk, the knees of her jeans already torn from the angle; denim ever the fragile thing.
Blood trickled down onto her jacket, and with great effort did she inhale around the sharp, finger shaped blades in her airway. The machine looked at her, eye just as wide as her own. It looked… angry. In its own way. Nadox could tell Derdekeas' emotion just fine. Saarn never understood how, but she had not gotten this close before… Perhaps she would've felt vomit rising if there wasn't currently copper in its way.
A hiss forced itself out as she spun, tugging down then up to jerk out the hand. Trunnion backed away and turned to the shelf behind her. In a moment, the shadow sprang from the desk onto its back.
The machine was far heftier than she thought, and herself much lighter. Instead of dragging it down with her, Saarn slipped forward off the bent over Cogworker and landed directly on the top of her skull. The cold tile was a firm, still force below her. Her spine felt like a shivering spring as she slumped to the side.
Water vapor spilled from the jaw of the Legate in a hiss not unlike her own as claws resorted to slashing the tubes in its ankles. Her scaled hands were dragged up along with the constructed limbs.
Saarn remembers, as 300 pounds of force comes down on her ribcage why she doesn't fight head on very often.
"And for the behavior of one Saarn, Klavigar of the Nälkä, I am dreadfully sorry. For any further negotiations you may contact me directly. I look forward to our collaboration. Regards, Karcist Varis of the Nälkä."
Varis set his pen down, folding the envelope and handing it to an assistant of his. The young man hurried out the wooden door. It swung shut with a pattern of quiet clicks. The meeting had gone horribly. No surprise, but a disappointment none the less.
Something shifted behind him in the dark corner of the otherwise empty office.
"Your willing incompetence has worked, Klavigar. Congratulations."
"Surely," A hiss came from a partially formed mouth, "You expected this."
Varis rested his head on the fingers at the bridge of his nose, "The Orthodoxy is hardly willing to work with the governments it functions under, let alone th Vanguard. Further yet the nälkän. You decide to attack as we step through the door."
"Perhaps we should reconsider our approach." He could hear the grin on her face, "If that is their head Legate, they are clearly incompetent enough for us to find alternative methods of 'peacekeeping'."
"'We'?" the man about scoffed, "You are off of this case. Talk to Klavigar Lovataar—I won't keep you under my jurisdiction anymore."
"Perhaps she should fire me."
"In hopes of what further job?" Something along that wall dripped and bubbled. Only was it long after the small woman disappeared did Varis turn his head to look. His head met the desk with a thunk.