For the first time this hour, the first time today, the sixth time this week, the twenty-fifth time this month, the three hundred and fifty-ninth time this year, and the… however many times in Sister-Legate Trunnion’s lifetime, everything in her domicile was in its proper place.
The gears of the Type-17C Meditation Altar had been sufficiently lubricated and cleansed of filth. Trunnion’s maintenance workbench, worn from years of use, had been properly sanded, tools sorted in their Sabbath configuration. The stained glass that served as Trunnion’s window to the streets of Manhattan had been inspected and cleansed of microtears, and its sealants replaced. Her Standard Type-1B Piano had been tuned and dusted. Even the… thing Bumaro had insisted she keep for Hedwig, that frustrating mix of wires and silicon, had been dusted and set in its lead prison.
And that left Trunnion with little else to do.
She could clean the other rooms in the high-rise; certainly, demolitions wasn’t coming by to do that for her. She could do some more meditation, although whatever Mekhane wanted to say to her, Trunnion supposed she’d already heard. Maybe she could build something, again; doesn’t really matter what.
Or you could make more lists. You love doing doing that.
The ennui of Christmas was a funny thing. Most everyone in this city, disassembler, civilian, and Mekhanite alike, had collectively decided that the 24th and 25th of December was off limits for any sort of business outside one’s home. In theory, Trunnion could do anything she wanted today, with little fear of being caught off guard by a disassembler. But in practice, what was there to do?
Trunnion looked between her workbench, surrounded by a neatly arranged stack of clocks and increasingly more compact nail drivers, and her piano, where a well-worn book of hymns sat alone on its stand, untouched for the past four days; and as her internal clock counted minutes spent pondering, Trunnion realized that she didn’t much care for doing anything at all, right now.
And so Trunnion stood there, in the middle of her glorified squatter hole.
Alone.
Again.
…
When the sudden knock on Trunnion’s door finally broke the late-morning silence, Trunnion swore her Type-26K Cannon nearly went off on its own.
Who could possibly be knocking on the door of an abandoned high-rise apartment, let alone the outpost of a Sister-Legate of the Cogwork Orthodoxy? Had someone leaked her location? Brother-Inventor Piston, perhaps; she always knew that runt had a gut of Flesh. Or had Trunnion been careless, tagged by a disassembler or worse, some Sarkic degenerate? Perhaps they had this building surrounded; in that case, they could come up and get her, because Trunnion wasn’t coming down without a fight.
Armaments readied, mobility shifted, and faceplate activated, Trunnion kicked down the door to oh squeaking hell.
Standing, clad in a tacky sweater of painted steel wool and, disappointingly enough, not even remotely surprised at Trunnion’s display, was Saint Hedwig of the Maxwellians, smiling like she didn’t just have her theological rival’s hand cannon shoved into that frustratingly mirthful face of her’s.
“Hi Trunnion!” Hedwig’s sweater, a depiction of that bird the Maxwellians so adored, flashed with blue and gold lights as Hedwig made her way into Trunnion’s outpost. “Happy holidays and all that. WAN, you think we need a winter holiday? Nothing happens in winter.”
Trunnion was almost impressed at Hedwig’s brazen display of either bravado or ignorance.
“I mean, come on, work with me.” In any case, Hedwig marched herself straight into the room, handcombing through her (quite literally) wiry locks like she hadn’t just faced certain death. “Maybe something about furnaces? You like furnaces. We could make it about furnaces. It’d boost recruitment. Maybe bring it up with the Patriarchs?”
“You are awfully cheerful,” hissed Trunnion through a clenched jaw. “For an invader that has knowingly trespassed upon the domain of Saint-Legate Trunnion. Explain yourself, before I am forced to defend my abode.”
Hedwig flashed a disarmingly bright (literally and figuratively, it seemed) smile right back. “Come oooooooooon. We both know you don’t have the heart to kill me, Trunnion.”
Trunnion stayed where she was for several more ticks, before lowering her weapon. “You are incredibly lucky that Mekhane has seen fit to… nevermind.” What a frustratingly bright light Mekhane had chosen to shine on Trunnion. “What is your business? You can’t have tracked me to this location out of pure happenstance.”
Hedwig, already marvelling at the decor, didn’t even turn to speak. “Yeah, funny thing about that. You’re being bugged.”
Trunnion blinked; not that she needed to, anymore.
“Me too, bubelah. Prometheus Laboratories, looks like.” Hedwig’s speakers buzzed with a familiar disdain, vocals shifting away from that bubbly, informal tone as the drone of humming fans began to match the steady rhythm of ticking gears. “I’ll have to have another word with them.”
If Trunnion had something to say right now, it was lost in a mix of sudden panic that sent her eyes scrambling around the room in search of whatever… things might be lurking in the dark, spying on her. Had she been careless? Had that rotten bastion of Flesh finally decide to move in on her? Had… had some Maxwellian planted them? Those-
“Are you tense?” And just like that, Hedwig was back to her old energized self, a switch (possibly literal?) equally as jarring as the initial revelation. “Don’t worry about it, I fried them on the way up. Seriously, we got better things to worry about than some duplicitous technocrats. Although, I mean, I guess it’s a smaller O problem compared to the Orichalcum thing, but I’m still pretty ground over this, you know?”
Yep, Trunnion understood exactly a quarter of those words in that order.
“… I’m afraid I’ll need you to start from the beginning.” Trunnion’s clock was producing a bit too much friction to process everything at once, though that was the price one payed for acquaintanceship with Saint Hedwig. “Alright, so: my ho-outpost is riddled with spy equipment.”
“Was.”
"The distinction hardly matters when the enemy has been spying on my domain.”
The heels of Hedwig’s boots dug into the floor as her fidgeting shifted her weight into and out of the flooring. Trunnion would have to replace these with something harder. “Well, information’s got an expiration date. And, you know, I’ve blown up heretical branches before.”
That, at least, earned Hedwig a chuckle, if only one Trunnion near-immediately suppressed. “Well, then. What was your next point?”
“Yeah, so, we have… more important things to worry about than that.” And, like clockwork, the prospect of business brought Hedwig’s humming to a conspicuous drone. Trunnion braced herself for the next word to some out of Hedwig’s speakers…
… and waited for twenty three seconds, in silence, before Hedwig made any sort of follow-up.
“Uh…” despite the sudden shift in Hedwig’s coolant systems, the sound coming out of her speakers was every bit as bubbly as the sounds he made while futzing around off-duty. “… I mean, well,” words accompanied by a brief flash of her electronic eyes. “… do you want to go, well, hang out?”
If Trunnion’s faceplate had the motions to furrow her brow, she was reasonably certain she would have done so. “… I beg your pardon?”
“Well,” and still yet, the drone of fans continued to rise. “I was thinking, you know, it’s Christmas and we don’t really talk with one another, much. At least, outside official meetings and all that. I was thinking that, you know… we could have some fun today. While the streets are empty, you know?”
“… I beg your pardon?”
If Trunnion was hearing things correctly, this was the absolute most foolish idea any fellow Mekhanite had broached to her. Two saints messing around in a heavily populated city, for… what? Bonding? Trunnions could be doing so many more productive things than bonding with Hedwig, like…
The residential district was silent, empty, and cold; just how Trunnion liked an outpost. Naturally, that left it a little cleaner than the surrounding cityscape, but New York was primarily a rusted, Sarkic-ridden fracture in any case. Comparisons of cleanliness hardly said much.
“You seriously live here?” For whatever reason, Hedwig had dawdled in coming down, following behind Trunnion in an interval of nine seconds by the time she finally made it to street-level. Ironic: in terms of non-aesthetics, speed was one of the few things Hedwig surpassed her in. “I mean… you have a pretty nice view, I suppose. But…”
“It’s efficient.” And cheap. And quiet.
…and lonely, sometimes.
“You know I could set you up.” Already, Hedwig was walking on, down the backstreet sideroads. “I mean, maybe not immediately. I mostly just know Maxwellians, and I get you’re… not a fan of that sort of tech. But… you know, there’s a ton of… well, interfaith relations. Probably some second degree.”
There wasn’t much else to do but follow her. “I… suppose I appreciate the offer.” Even still, Trunnion scanned from side to side for any sort of ambush. “But I’m fine.”
“I… guess?” Hedwig had regained her ‘lead’, almost skipping along the empty streets with the confidence of someone who didn’t grow up in snow-ridden territory. “Sounds like it gets lonely, though. Whole tower to yourself, no one else.”
“Company is a liability.” And surprisingly hard to find on this side of the city, unless one counted hummers. “I benefit from the solitude and quiet.”
For a moment, Hedwig stopped to look back at Trunnion, and the hum of fans steadily increased.
That moment passed quickly.
Barney’s Deli II (why can’t people here be normal) was, inexplicably enough, the first “stop” on the duo’s “hang-out”. What exactly Hedwig wanted to accomplish at an eatery that quite literally prided itself on Flesh was anyone’s guess, but Trunnion supposed she might as well play along for the ride.
The decor was… awful. Wooden, mostly, which was already a troubling development in Hedwig and Trunnion’s bizarre misadventure. Not helping this were the displays of… flesh, mercifully hidden behind glass but cruelly conspicuous from any angle. The thought of meat particles just floating through the air was enough to send a shake down Trunnion’s supports. Even the wall decorations, mostly photographs and documents, felt… foreign.
The two sat at one of booths (read: Hedwig dragged Trunnion to one of the booths, which was admittedly better than the wooden tables and chairs) faster than Trunnion could vocally question such a decision, so that was off the table. Didn’t stop her from reflexively squirming at the decor.
“Trunnion? Are you okay?” That much should have been obvious. “Don’t worry, this place’s… accepting. And, well… most of this place is processed, heh. Wouldn’t want to, well… yeah.”
Was Trunnion that visibly shaken? Eye contact was a bit too hard right now. “Did… did we have to stop here?”
“Oh, uh, no! I… look, I’m sorry, I was running on empty and I thought you-”
“Happy holidays~.” In Trunnion’s anxiety, she somehow missed the (unaugmented) server sneaking up to their table. “How’s your holidays going? Can I start you two off with anything, or do you need some time to decide?”
Hedwig didn’t miss a beat. “Probably? We’re ordering from the anvil.”
“Oooooh, that’s always fun. Be out in a bit.”
As quick as he came, the server left.
“Sorry.” Somehow, Hedwig was either prepared for… this, or exceptionally good at improvisation. Knowing her, the former. “This place is, uh, Mekha friendly, but I think it’s mostly popular with Maxwellians. I feel like I should have, uh, mentioned that. Beforehand.”
The gears in Trunnions head were, quite literally, still turning until several seconds of silence later. As it turned out, their output was a firm, fresh “… what?”
“Yeah.” Trunnion hadn’t noticed the music playing inside the deli (showtunes) until Hedwig’s fans were loud enough to cut through it. “I don’t know, I thought you knew and… we don’t have to stay here, if you don’t want to. We can leave.”
That would be ideal, of course. Trunnion wasn’t much a fan of any kind of eatery, much less one where meat was the rule of the day. Indeed, what did it matter if they served fuel? It was refined in the same establishment that served flesh. Even if people like Hedwig were happy to come here, she…
… watched Hedwig face gradually dim as she waited for an answer.
“… I’m fine.”
“Hey, sorry for the diner thing, you know.” Hedwig’s plastic bag swayed gently from side to side as she meandered down the street. “I should’ve asked, you know how it is, all that.”
“Again, it’s quite alright.”
“No, like… really, thanks for putting up with me.” If they were supposed to be walking somewhere, Trunnion wasn’t sure where. “I’ve got a lot of processes on my mind, right now. Whole purge going on, we’re still shooting for the Anvil, those… sapphire people…” Briefly, Hedwig’s eyes cycled through colors. “I don’t know if I have the RAM for things, and…”
Hedwig stopped.
“I…”
Once more, Hedwig’s fans were beginning to cut through the distant sounds of traffic.
“I…” Hedwig turned to Trunnion fast enough that she expected her leftover filings to fly out of her hands and careen into the nearest window. “Well, what do you want to do?”
… Trunnion was beginning to realize how little she thought this excursion through. What indeed was she looking to get out of this? It was a question she never spoke aloud, but even Trunnion knew it wasn’t rhetorical. As trusted to Mekhane as Hedwig was, Trunnion hardly considered their ideas regarding leisure as compatible. So what was she expecting?
“You okay, Trunnion? I mean, I don’t want to put you on the spot.” Hedwig’s words snapped Trunnion out of an embarrassingly long train of thought.
You know, thinking on it, there was that one thing…
… no, she couldn’t do it. It was… undignified. Undignified for a Sister-Legate, undignified for a fellow Saint of Mekhane. Just undignified. She wouldn’t do it. She… really, really wanted to do it, didn’t she. But what would Hedwig think of her? Chosen of the Maxwellians, the Saint who argued silicon into the Schema, the woman currently fiddling with the lights in her sweater…
Try as she might to steel herself, Trunnion’s clocks were kicking into overdrive as she approached the… place. Oh, Mekhane, what if someone saw her?
Behind her, Hedwig was almost slipping across the frosted pavement. “And honestly, I don’t think it’s there to harm us.” Referring, of course, to some abomination of Flesh that lurked behind the moon. “Seems pretty content with its webcomics. I don’t think we gotta worry about that.”
The place. That place she knew of. That nobody went to and that’s a good thing. The… well, sure, Mekhane didn’t quite say this was taboo, after all it was manufactured, completely analog, but… Trunnion’s gaze swept the streets of the… place, and even as she saw naught but Saint Hedwig, the feeling of a gaze, like someone was… was someone spying on her? Some Sarkite, looking to inform the Patriarchs of her degeneracy? No, she-
“Trunnion, you’re steaming. Is something wrong?”
Alright, deep breath, pressure valves. “… yes. Apologies.”
“Right. You… if you’re uncomfortable, we, uh, you know, you can go home. I’m not gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to.”
Deep breaths. Accordion lungs fanning her inner flame. Ticking back to the second standard.
Without another word, Trunnion pressed through the doors of Village Vinyl and Records.
Albums from all over. Punk rock, jazz, electronica, all in the form of plastic disks. Delicate plastic. Plastic. The very act of music, confined to a single disc of pressed vinyl, to be interpreted by machine but it’s plastic and… she collected them. Listened to them. Sometimes she even played along. Her, a Saint-Legate of the Cogwork Orthodoxy.
Deep breathing exercises were for naught as Hedwig followed her inside. This was a mistake. Trunnion waited for her admonishment.
Admonishment that never came.
“… huh. Didn’t peg you for the kind.” Hedwig strolled past Trunnion, and her lungs weren’t sure whether to sigh in relief or seize in anticipation. “You’re a nerd, you know?”
Sigh it was, then. “Right.”
Still, this didn’t feel right. This wasn’t a place she’d want to go, wasn’t it? Hedwig… well, her music was all digital, wasn’t it? Trunnion hadn’t thought this through enough. Of course. Records were too acoustic. Oh Mekhane, why was this so hard? Damnit, Trunnion was supposed to be a leader, of all things, and… oh fuck it. Trunnion could pretend all she want that her nails weren’t bending the sheets of her palm. Who cared? Trunnion was ruining what was supposed to be a fun day off for her and her theological rival with unnecessary mental hangups, as usual, and-
"Trunnion?"
She'd seized up again. Trunnion looked up at Hedwig's inexplicably comforting stare and knew for a fact that she'd seized up again. "Yes?"
"Do you… wanna talk? Outside, if that's alright."
Trunnion liked tin furniture. Tin was smooth, and felt good to run her fingers across in stressful situations. Not that Trunnion would have ever admitted it, and not especially to the frustratingly… frustrating(?) theological rival who sat to her right on a courtyard bench.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence was unbearable, certainly, but what of breaking it? This wasn't a speech, or a sacred communion, or a performance. Mekhane never coached her on a girls' night out. There wasn't a schema for these things, and if Trunnion had to venture a guess, Maxwellianism and the doctrine of the Broken Church offered similar nothingness.
Hedwig spoke first. "So, uh…