The World's Calling

In her hand, she gripped a piece of copper. It was cheap metal, but the carving on it was unique. A globe with a question mark hovering over hands facing the forefront. No faces, just hands pointing palms toward her. Human, Beast-kin, Mechanoid, and a few others she couldn't place. Along with the badge was a bonus for the… incident. Her experience with dead bodies, albeit limited, was apparently a major help, as the others were less than willing to touch the bodies and even more against the idea of cleaning up the mess. A few of them were in shock at the seemingly unmoved nature of her, and a few others were moving through the bits and pieces with the same attitude as getting hair out of the shower drain, but they at least appreciated her for it. The mines with how they were decorated… she’d rather not think about it. Judging by the face of the Fox that helped her, she was also having a hard time moving on from those memories. The tin can across from her was no better. Shaun, or whatever his name was. Those lights making up his head were dim since they moved out of Hickshaw, other than a few questions regarding their new status, the bucket of bolts hadn’t spoken. On that note, neither had Hartland. With the way he was moving, everyone was afraid to touch him. Even getting near him felt like approaching a father figure on the verge of lashing out. Lucia tried to talk with him, but she was met with a stonewall in response. Rhys could see the signs, but Hartland’s mind was far from here. But with that being said, she’d rather not dwell on past atrocities and look forward to new ones. With the bonus given by Hartland, there was only one way to celebrate.

"Yo Tinhead!"

"..."

"Me and Maison were gonna drink our hearts out. Repression and whatnot. I don’t know how your brains work, electric sheep and all that, but if you wanna watch the human condition at work, you can come along.

A scarlet side eye greeted the human in front of him as she held a bag that almost certainly contained all her value and the fox that was currently beside her. He would rather be anywhere else, but as she had been the one to do something while he stood there shell shocked, he really couldn’t say no.

The bar of choice was one that Rhys was highly familiar with, namely The Collard Lion. The Collared Lion was an establishment homegrown by its founder, J.L. RockenRoller. RockenRoller was more than likely not her last name and came from a list of aliases that included Finlay Devit, Doc LeRae, Natt Jackson, Karli Gallows, and so on and so forth. According to the artfully made tapestry that hung in the center, she was a woman from before the Crash, as her tapestry depicted an almost certainly dramatized version of her being kicked out of a local pub, stepping on the heads of a couple of poor drunks with a broken barstool in hand. The sight piqued the interest of Maison as to how such an…abrasive figure could own and operate such an establishment, to which Rhys gave a simple answer.

"She shot the dude who owned this place and shot anyone else who tried to tax her."

The place wasn't full, but it was certainly lively. As the trio took their spots in an empty booth, it was Rhys turn to break the awkward silence.

"So, anyone have an appetite?", asked Rhys sarcastically.

Maison looked to the side. "To be fair, madame, after all that. It's hard to want to eat anything. "

"Right, right, dumb question. Yo waiter!"

As the waitstaff came to drop the menus, Shoa could only notice how scribbled the actual menu was. If anything, it was representative of everything in this building. Uneven flooring and lamps barely hung by a thread from the ceiling. Back in another townie dump only with some coins in their pocket. A lateral move, but a move, nonetheless. It couldn’t get any worse than this.

A thud resounded from the table as the mug found its way to the table. A similar cup of ale was passed over to the fox’s side of the booth. Luck was a variable. And it was negative.

"S-so, Shoma."

"Shoa."

"Whys you so orange?"

"Because I am," retorted Shoa. " I don’t get a choice in how I was made!"

A drunken arm was put over the robot’s shoulders. "Then why don’t yoose choose a respectable colour. Color. Fuck. Like a color like purple or some shit."

"One, I rather like my color scheme. And Two, why am I the focus of this rambling?"

The arm pulled the robot in tighter. "Cause the peeps here can’t get you drunk, and Foxy is already off her ass." Rhys pointed her mug towards the fox, who was currently in the midst of a one sided argument with a passed-out patron.

"Qui est "Copper" ? Qui est "Tod" ? Pourquoi les gens se demandent-ils pourquoi je suis français ? J'ai appris dans un livre stupide quand une bibliothèque est tombée du ciel !" The argument grew in intensity as the snores of a man in a long coat continued on. Rhys redirected her attention to her metal companion, her beer spilling on him as she moved.

"See?! I can’t speak that? Can you?"

"I can do a multitude of things." The answer came as he gingerly removed the arm from his neck.

"La boîte de conserve esquive la question. Venez Métal! Montrez-moi les limites de votre savoir."

"...Oui."

"Heh! The supercomputer knows as much as we do."

"Why does every human relate us to Giant Simple Machines?"

"Cause it's funny."

"Très drôle."

The scarlet lights narrowed at the two. "Why did I even--look, you brought me here to take you back after you two got properly inebriated, so that’s what we’re doing."

Putting down the bill and a 30% tip, the so-called Supercomputer slung his two wards’ arms over his shoulders and began the process of dragging two drunks out of a bar and towards the Morning Star.

As they moved toward the outpost, the building in front of them already radiated warmth. It was a kind of cabin left on the outskirts of town. As the Runner profession would lead people to sights unknown, a place to rest in every city was always needed. And so, out of wood, spirit, and community contribution, came the Morning Star. An inn for those who needed somewhere to sleep when they were given a brief respite.

"We’re here."

As the metal man dragged the fox and their unsober hound into some respective rooms, his head bumped into the form of Hartland, and as he looked up, he saw his face. In one moment, it was a man who had seen oblivion, who would bring it. Another moment passed, and a deep sadness found its way onto his face… no. What Shoa saw wasn’t sadness, but a fatigue that ran deep. In one last moment, Hartland’s features hardened into something resembling stoicism.

"Your friend is knocked out, huh?"

"Um… I wouldn’t call either of them my friends. More associates."

"I understand that. Please tell her when she wakes up that I’ll be waiting outside. I said I would teach her, so I will. I’ll be busy soon, so I’m going to finish this soon."

Ah, yes, yes. Schedules are important." All Shoa could think about was the fact that this man was way too close, and way too inconsistent. The small smile on his face didn’t fit. It was an imprint of something long gone. And with the way his eyes were boring into him. It didn’t feel right to stay for much longer.

"Yes. Schedules. Thank you for coming along, Shoa. I’m sure you, Maison, and Rhys will be great."

"You... remember our names?"

"Search. Handle. Operate. Analyze. When you end up doing this for as long as I do, you remember everyone. You need to."

"Did I mention that acronym to you?"

The smile on Vig's face did not change. A pat on the back was the only response that he gave.

"You’ll do great."

The creaking of the wood followed Hartland outside as he looked back one more time before shutting the door behind him. Leaving Shoa with two drunks on his shoulders and the quiet of night.