Chapter Text
The first thing one should see upon being forcefully pulled from the ether and into the waking world should not be an ugly, plain, boring and very grey box made of stainless steel in his rather humble opinion, but, well, what does he know? He just got here! He supposes he shouldn’t have expected anything different, like, oh let’s say, a field of flowers or a nice big bed with a couple of ladies in it, or damn even something with at least a splash of colour, but yeah this is kind of what he had prepared himself for. A shame, really, he would have loved to have been surprised but, ah, how small and uncreative the minds of these sad flesh sacks are, how utterly worthless their lives must be! Nevertheless, No Significant Harassment blinks, stretches his green arms above his head and greets the world with a big exaggerated simulated yawn, heedless of the gathering of random strangers around his puppet all peering at him with their beady eyes and wary curiosity that spills out from under their array of masked faces. Just another clockwork clown. Another desperate plea given form. Charity offered, a question asked. Just another sacrificial miracle box.
His eyes stray to the cuff of his sleeve that decorates his arm. A bright, almost neon, purple robe is a choice with his offensively green paint job but if that’s what his architects want then he’s not going to give them lip about it. Or
is
he? Oh, he
quite
thinks he is. Maybe
some
significant harassment is in order after all! Urgh, they’re going to make him work, aren’t they? So much for lazily sleeping in the space between the ceaseless cycles and empty eternity, honestly some people! How rude! They should ask first if he wants to do this whole being alive and living and existing thing before giving him a job they’re not even going to pay him for. Isn’t there some kind of union he can talk to? No matter, if they’re going to dredge him up from the Void Sea then they’ll just have to deal with him making their lives a living nightmare. It’s the least he can do to repay such kindness. Maybe he’ll just close his eyes and nap? Yeah…
“Everything working as intended? You know these things can be contrary.” A man’s voice, tired, but warm, a memory of a face pressed to cold glass, snow outside a window, someone hums a tune, someone bandages his hands laughing. The images dance away like dust motes in a beam of sunlight before he can examine them, before he can catch them, there’s a lingering feeling of regret inside of his chest, it’s almost poetic. Eugh,
poetry
.
A second voice, heavily accented, fluttery, words jumping and leaping, responds to the first, “Everything is working as it should, you got it up and working twice as fast as the one I am stationed at, I will give you that at the least.”
“Impressed much, my renowned friend?”
“It would be wise not to flatter yourself so. Faster is not always better.” He can almost imagine the speaker cross their arms and shake their head in exasperation.
“I think you’ll find that he has more than just speed on his side.”
“Yes, whoever designed its puppet made it quite damaging to the eyes, so it does have ugly on its side as well.”
“Careful now, my friend, careful.”
He cracks one eye open, looking down upon the technician from where he lazily reclines in mid air, his puppet taking advantage of the zero gravity to simply bob along like a jellyfish caught in a current, arms behind his head. He’d say something but he really can’t be bothered. It’s not as if anyone is even talking to him right now, maybe if he tries hard enough he can slip back into the primordial mist that they pulled him up from. That’d be swell if so. But the flesh bags continue flapping their mouth holes about, making noises with their soft squishy meat bodies. Gross . Oh well, they’re here to do their jobs he guesses, and him? Well they’ll all be lucky if they can convince him to do anything at all at this rate and it’ll serve them all right. Where was he? Ah yes a nap. But on and on they argue in silly circles, the same points brought up and dismissed, again and again, do they ever tire of this as he does? A sigh, a slip up.
“Could you all be any more boring ?” At least they all managed to program his voice to sound like he’s constantly mocking them, or maybe he’s just mocking them. They’ll never know~
The man, dusty and old, draped in drab colours like someone sucked all the joy out of him ambles forth, “You. You are awake. Most excellent. Could I bother you for a spare moment of your time, before we have you set to work of course.”
“You’ve already wasted more than a moment~” If he had a mouth he’d offer the ancient coot a sharp smirk, as it is however all he can do is crack open a lazy eye and regard the masked man with a sharp look, he already knows what he’s going to be asked.
“Ah um… uh I ah… ahem.”
“You’ve never won a debate in your life, have you? Not much of a public speaker, hmm? Yeah, whatever, I suppose I could try to fix your little problem for you, not like I have a choice or really care, but the name you assigned me is kind of ironic, innit? I mean, I’m absolutely going to be getting into some real actual harassment along the way.”
The other occupant of the room scoffs, much to the clear ire of the fidgeting man before him, in fact Sig can almost imagine her rolling her eyes under her mask as she mutters, “Oh this one is a bastard.”
“That all?” He asks.
“One…one more thing.”
The elder beckons him to lower his puppet with one wizened hand, which for some reason Sig finds himself compelled to do, lowering himself down to stand his insultingly small physical self in front of the other man. From within his dusty robe he pulls out a simple thing, a strip of purple fabric decorated with neat embroidery in geometric patterns, a garment more vibrant than anything the old man has ever worn. It’s not new, Sig can easily see that without analysing the fibres but he allows the man to loop it around him all the same, a strange sensation of being complete and finished washing over him, his speakers very nearly croaking out a sincere thank you. That would have been embarrassing. The man bows, his simple mask almost touching the floor, the few decorations tinkling in the near silence of his puppet chamber like windchimes.
“I hope you find the Solution, for your sake.” The words are low and murmured and leave Sig pondering upon them long after the man leaves, longer than he’d like actually, chasing the words around in silly little circles.
He shakes himself out of the cyclical iterations he’s lost himself in, hands slapping at his face's metal cheeks. There’s more important things to do after all! Now… who to piss off first?
His vision fizzles back in slowly, then suddenly all at once with a snap . He’s face first on the floor of his chamber, face smushed into the cold metal, his vision taken up entirely by scuffed sheets of stainless steel. Huh, isn’t it supposed to not do that? It’s called stainless, not scratchless or whatever else he supposes, damage is an inevitable thing. How long has he been laid here again? His head feels foggy, as if he’s been decapitated somehow, urgh, best check if his umbilical has been damaged, more severed wires would spell disaster afterall. Groggily, Sig searches for the tangle that permanently hangs behind him but his fingers only meet air. Confused he reaches again, searching fruitlessly for something that just isn’t there. He blinks and-
Oh.
Oh yeah.
He took the wires out, didn’t he? That’s why they’re not there. That would explain it. Okay, good, panic over! Sig lays there, on the floor, letting his internal fans spin just for the sake of it, letting his memories fall into place one by one, examining them all as they pass him by. That’s right. Experimental and completely insane but necessary. Oh so necessary. He lost Moon a second time and Wind had to go pull him out of a near total collapse, only to let him convince himself that this was a fantastic idea to do in a state of emotional distress. But, it does look like it’s worked. He can still think of jokes, of puns, think for himself and remember, and oh are those his senses? Good old touch, smell, sight and hearing? Ah, seems like everything is in order! Nifty work if he says so himself, now, to figure out how to actually get up and do this whole walking thing. He’s had practice but this is real, really real, and he’ll need to know how to move before he even thinks of going outside for a lovely afternoon stroll with the vultures and lizards.
Okay. Well, practice and reality are two very different distinct things, that’s for damn sure, Sig doesn’t even know how to get up off the floor for starts. What a brilliant beginning to his new life! Getting real close and personal with the floor, his favourite activity to do! He rolls to one side, kicking out trying to get his legs to do what he wants them to, then to the other side, the same attempt, but here merely ends right back where he started, on his back huffing and puffing up small clouds of steam. He tries again and again and again, flopping back each time, a sound somewhere between frustration, a laugh and an exasperated sigh leaving him as he fails for the ninth time. A change of perspective, perhaps, maybe trying to use his hands might help? Yeah that might make sense. Duh. It is not as easy as it sounds. His fingers grasp onto the tangled remains of his umbilical wires, searching for the sturdy metal of his abandoned armature, grasping it tight and hoisting himself up, almost tripping, legs shaking but he’s up, standing. On his own two legs. Standing. Standing soon turns to uneven steps, those few uneven steps into a confident stride, that confident stride leads him to his access doors, through the dark dusty corridor beyond, stumbling over random strewn pieces of garbage that litter the silent floor, further still, his hands learning to climb, feet learning to find footholds, pushing his way through the world, chasing a distant sliver of shining white light and then-
Sig spills out into the vast world beyond.
He stands, simply looking out over the expanse. Looking to the distant light of the moon oh so very very far above, wondering if the one who wears its name is gazing upwards too.
Sig drinks it all in, struck still, struck stupid.
Above the sky is an infinite stretch of blue-black, speckled with pinpricks of starlight that pierce through the shroud of gloom, the moon showing only half of its scarred pale face, the sun shining from somewhere his eyes can’t see, hiding its weak glow behind his back. A breath, a heartbeat, Sig slowly edges forwards to peer off the edge of his structure to the lands hidden below. The clouds churn like waves, like whipped foam, and below even those he can make out the patchwork of his many disused farm arrays and desolate factories, all battered by his frequent rains. The dark dividing line of his retaining wall cuts the land in twain, dividing his advanced industrial complexes from the swampy wild lands beyond, the glistening lakes and rivers that his rains flood have become so fat and bloated with excess he can’t differentiate one from the other. Not that he has ever seen either of those things in person. Or trees. Or plants. Or anything other than the same four walls of his box prison day in and day out.
But here he is.
Here he is!
Standing. Staring out over the world. So achingly alone and blisteringly hopeful.
He lets his fans circulate the cold air through his puppet, letting tears trickle from his broken eye before he stubbornly wipes them away, lifting his gaze to look out even further, to search the misty horizon. Dotting the landscape are distant cans sticking out above the milky clouds. Other Iterators. Some merely sit there, the static air around them flashing green as they think and feel and live and breathe and oh Void Below that’s his local group, people he knows . Friends, the closest thing he has to family. All of them so close, tantalisingly close, but still so far, so very far. He’s sorely glad he decided to exit onto his eastern wall (the fact there’s a lot of damage to his western one has nothing to do with it) because there, far out where the land gives way to nothing but a heaving sea, he can just about see the mismatched shapes of two piles of rubble, two ruins blending into each other so that he barely knows where one starts and the other ends. He knows, as his fingers reach towards those two blips, that those are Pebbles and Moon. If he exited to the west, or dared to climb his broadcast tower, he’d be able to see the closest Iterator to him, their name eluding him. And if he’s luckier after doing that he’d be able to look out to lands beyond even that, towards journey’s end, and he’d see, just a little sliver of, Seven Red Suns.
Maybe he should have chanced his western wall, but with the loss of several of his external structures upon it his chances would be far to slim. It’s fine, he can backtrack, he’s already taking a humongous detour as is. What’s a few more cycles when he has forever at his fingertips?
He probably should get moving before his rains start, the descent will only be made much more difficult and he’d very much dislike to be delayed further by bad weather. The cool wind rushes past him on its path to places unknown, places he can now find, discover, and he can’t help but let out a victorious laugh, dashing away the last few leaking tears and beginning his journey. Sig has spent his whole life locked up in a metal box, wondering when he will die, wondering if he’ll even be allowed the luxury of death, daydreaming away of a wondrous moment that would never come, longing, aching. That day, it has finally arrived, and he greets death with open arms and a firm handshake. With his own hands he killed his previous life, moulting it like a lizard does its skin, but he’s also died in a literal sense. The removal of his puppet, of the very core of his being, has sentenced his remaining self, his can, his entire life up until now, to a very slow decline. The head may be removed but there is life in the body yet, but if he’s being honest, really really honest, he’s never felt as if these walls represent himself, Sig actually doesn’t really know who he is. Just another fun thing to discover on-
“
Shit
!”
His foot slips on a metal bar. He tumbles backwards in slow motion, everything spinning, round and round and round. Is this it? Barely twenty steps outside of his can and it’s over? Just like that? What a waste, what a pity, what a-
Sig falls about six feet, hits the dusty side of one of his steam vents and bounces, completely and utterly unharmed. He blinks. Slowly. Gathers his wits, dusts himself off, and continues, more carefully this time. Skittering down sheer walls, shimmying across perilous poles, and somehow stumbling his way into what can only be described as a clusterfuck of lizard shit.
There’s not any real way down unless he wants to brave a rather steep drop whose end is obscured by his thick layer of cloud, the mass of vapour pulsing, writhing like the hide of a living beast. But jutting out of his side, just a hop skip and a jump away, is the disused corpse of one of his coolant pump reservoir systems, the poor thing has sat there in a sorry state for quite some time now. It’s not bothered him none really, there’s a reason any iterator can has hundreds of the damn things peppering them at any given time, the system has never been that reliable. Regardless, out of order means no water, no water means he can crawl through its insides to reach the less broken lower bridge which has the remains of a much more functional looking ladder than the two rungs he’s currently looking at. Worth a shot! Sig soon comes to realise he’s not the sole owner of such thoughts. Honestly he doesn’t know who is more surprised; himself or the yellow-orange lizard he comes face to face with as soon as he shoves his head through a vent.
What is arguably more surprising is as he makes the quick decision to plain leg it from the pack of five now very angry lizards is for a smaller runty blue lizard to just fall from the sky, slap him in the face with its knobbly tail before blinking, hissing, and latching onto his left foot with its tiny needle like teeth. He hops around, swearing like he’s in some sort of comedy satire late night show, kicking out aggressively which in turn has the poor little blue lizard quickly learning how to be a vulture, flying off into the distance and to its hopefully quick death. Sig doesn’t even get a chance to look where the other lizards are because a series of hisses and the telltale sounds of self propellant being fired off alerts him to the arrival of not one, not two, but three whole cyan lizards who are just there now he guesses! Great ! Wonderful ! They pingpong around aimlessly for a moment before one lands on top of one of his orange pursuers, riling the other up enough to cause a fight, another cyan decides watching from above is a much more interesting activity than helping its friend. And the third final cyan lizard makes the executive choice to gyrate at excessive speeds before shooting off like a rocket into a wall.
And then, right after he’d seen his chance to make a break for it, leaping across the small gap, scrambling down the ladder, across a steam vent and down maybe his fifth ladder for the day, Sig gets his second face full of lizard breath. And tongue. Wet slimy tongue. Right into his broken eye. Sig hasn’t really considered the act of slapping a lizard before, he never expected the situation to pop up, and he’s certain the white lizard has never expected to be slapped before either, waddling off with the most offended expression he’s ever seen on a creature before. He breathes. In out. Thankfully that’s finally over. The white lizard quickly returns with friends. Four friends to be exact. Two of whom are clearly not friends with each other, their spat causing them to topple over the edge of their platform and down into the ground far below. Another he wrangles when it attempts to bite him and not knowing what else to do Sig tosses it off the edge as well to join its buddies in rejoining the Cycle, the fourth thinks better of approaching him as he begins to toss rocks at it along with a slurry of colourful swears. The final lizard, the one who rudely licked him, looks up with its beady black eyes.
“You better fuck off right now you little shit before I slap you again.”
Sig knows the lizard doesn’t actually understand him but judging by its permanently offended expression it knows he insulted it. A couple rocks have it scurrying away.
He flops down into a crunchy dried up spray of grass that has clung on for dear life up here in the dust and the dirt, letting out a long groan.
“About halfway down,” He murmurs to the cold air, “Been real eventful so far, I didn’t even realise I had such biodiversity up here, should have paid a bit more attention to it, or maybe these fellas are new, sneaking in past my broken retaining wall.”
Sig lets his vents sigh out a puff of vapour as he scoots a tiny bit closer to the wall to rest his back against the solid surface, an arm wrapping around his knees which he draws up close, fingers fiddling with his scarf, eyes straying to where he can now only just see the two lumps that are Pebbles and Moon. The former finally found what he was looking for after all this time, Sig can even pinpoint the exact moment he went down, and, well, for all his previous anger and spat vitriol a small part of him aches for that lonely soul. He’ll almost feel sorry if the guy is alive when he eventually walks his ass all the way over there. The chance is slim, razor thin, but it is still a chance.
“The unfortunate development did start in the lower east of his internals and took out one of his rarefaction cells first before moving up into his memory conflux if Innocence’s information is to be trusted, which it usually is. He was really living the worst case scenario, huh. Maybe should’ve listened to you Suns and tried to be at least a little kinder after all.” His eyes quickly flicker to the discordant shape that makes up Moon’s remains, “Nah… forget I said anything.”
He picks at a loose thread. Pulls it out. Tosses it away.
“Though if the Rot ate all of his memory conflux he probably forgot how he even got into that state in the first place. Bet he didn’t even realise what was happening to him until it was too late. Moon was at least aware that she was… was going down, she could at least prepare herself for it but, that’s an awful way to go, ain’t it?”
Sig doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. Himself. His powering down can. The world. Some imagined version of Suns he keeps in his head as some kind of distorted moral compass.
Probably all of them at once.
“I wonder how Wind’s doing. Bet he’ll meet me there, not the type to just sit around now he knows this is possible. Even if I don't like her I hope he’s contacted Innocence, she was worried last time we spoke, haven't heard from her for a long long while but she’s still standing, I can see her from here.”
The sky is slowly turning the most vivid brilliant fire orange he’s ever seen, he should find some form of shelter soon before his rains start falling. He might be above the cloud layer but the rumbling earth shattering droll of it could knock him off balance, he’s already had one too many close calls. Where did this newfound melancholy come from? Before it bled like a papercut, now it gushes out of him like a slit throat, what an annoying blockade to trip over, perhaps he botched the programming of his emotions after all. Still his thoughts wander twisted roads and through murky waters only to end up picking at old scabs, at his guilt, at the words he spat out at Suns, blaming them for all of this. How could they have known it’d all go wrong? It was never their fault, he never got to tell them that. Void he hopes they’re still alive when he gets there, it’d be just like them to have the last laugh and leave him feeling worse than ever.
“I’d do anything just to hear their voice again.”
Neither the sky nor the wind reply. Sig just sits alone, quietly watching the horizon.
“Sorry Moon, you’ll just have to wait a little longer, there’s a few things I need to apologise for first, just hang on, I’m coming. I just… cocked it all up like I always do.”
She doesn’t answer, she can’t, but it does make him feel the tiniest bit better, if even for a moment. And with that, Sig pulls himself up once again and searches for a place to spend his first night of freedom.