Chapter Text
𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬:
𝐀𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐞, 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞, 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
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She knew what people thought of her.
Because when Amy stood above the battered body of none other than Lord Diansu Vulkarch, splayed disgracefully on the cobbled path of Oceana, whose painfully screwed eye flickered and bored right through her skull as her sword lined its solemn way, she knew: a two-timer would not be welcome anymore, not between the walls of his disillusioned city.
In all honesty, her time spent working on whatever project of Diansu’s had been quite pleasant — would it be the Lathes, anything of Elysium, the Invictus Assembly, and other, discarded plans. Perhaps her hands lay even in the shaping of those Soul Moulds, though it was just for a little bit, for Diansu would have rather not taken her in in the first place — evidently, he dreaded her presence around the things. Why, she had not been privy to such. Privacies were meant to stay behind teeth. She knew hers: under the respect and clean cut Diansu held, an embarrassment stirred — embarrassment of help in any form, even in machines, manufacture, handwork. The man was gravely insecure.
In the crook of a barely nudged-open door, she saw Boolean, whose silhouette bowed down above a machine’s back with a screw in hand, fingers deft and dark against the lamp-lit desk and walls. The room, even from afar, reeked of petrol. She stood there for longer than she ever should have — the machine of bronze plating turned, and with it, its head. A cracked, chapped screen gaped where an eye should have; Will’s arm wilted and a curious look befell her. An intruder. That night, Amy left.
Maybe his fall would have meant something to her; maybe his rise should have meant something to her. There was nothing more inane than to aim the same gun she had created back at her at the World’s Fair and pull the same trigger she had timelessly pressed. Freebird a dupe — she would never forget the way RAT’s whiskers always twitched at the mention of the expedition. There came a pattern: people liked to abuse the creator.
Yet she did not really care. It was no more than a couple of deaths, no more than a price to pay for the work of her hands, for the use she had no say in. The world was obliged to punish the creator, not the user, for him, there was an inherent accountability to be held.
By dark, as she trudged towards the cabin, exhausted, two silhouettes stood out in contrast to the star-strewn skies and the moonlit rooftop. After then, through the second-story windows of the firefly conservatory, the faces of Astron and RAT came into view — they looked content, talking among themselves. There, she remembered the withdrawn Astron she knew; there, she remembered the snappy RAT she knew. Stark contrast to how they seemed without her. An intruder. That night, Amy left.
Amy did not care how her inventions were used. It was not supposed to be her problem, not supposed to be her fault, not supposed to be a sign of a contract, a promise, an admission. However, people, for whatever reason, had the audacity to feel entitled to her collusion — they glared at the way she stood by the side of whoever the fuck they despised that week. Like there would be any reason she had to cut others off for them especially.
Winsweep was, oddly enough, the one who simply did not have a care in the world. Amy had taken his offer, Amy had done what had been wanted of her, Amy had left. That was it — there had been nothing else to it. And Winsweep assumed nothing more. He did not bat an eye when she was seen with RAT, or Diansu, or whoever else. And yes, he had killed her, but that was to be already expected. Next case, please.
Amarite dust under nails, she waltzed right out of Rattenheim with the intention to inquire a thing or two about the discs’ finish she had been tasked with — she had left fairly abruptly, respirator still on. The forest then was quiet, without a Blake in sight (although he had said to “be around”). So, she shot up a firework, and waited.
Two longswords clashed right above her head. The din billowed and reverberated the wood around it, swelling with time, filling anyone’s skull full. Over the crash, two faces stared each other down: Nox, Blake. Between them, the spark of fight, of ego, of besting.
It had taken only a speck of a second for them to then part and dash away, leaving only her in its wake. The intruder. Amy returned, polished the rest, and left the same day.
Perhaps she would be left to face disgust. And perhaps she did not care.
Since she really knew what people thought of her.