Before she could react, the machine—Number Two—lunged forward, riding nearly invisible razor wires with breakneck speed, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Mechanical limbs snapped into motion with metallic fury, a terrifying blur of aggression, and thick, dark smoke poured from its mouth, filling the air with the suffocating haze she’d only ever feared from notorious Clankers patrolling Whistletop Alley. Her mind screamed at her to move, but her legs were frozen, weighed down by terror.

In a blink, Number Two's massive arm struck her, slamming her back against the cold metal wall of the Pappy Long Legs. Her vision blurred from the impact, and she barely registered the row of ‘little Roys’ beside her, all watching with wide, mechanical eyes that flickered with concern. She gasped, chest heaving, as she felt herself pinned, Number Two looming closer with each lurching step.

Instinct took over. Her hand shot to her waist, gripping the knife, and without a second thought, she thrust it forward. The blade found its mark with a sickening metallic screech, plunging into the machine's chest—right where the heart would be on a human. Number Two’s momentum carried it forward, embedding the knife deeper, sending bursts of electric-blue sparks and viscous, fluorescent black oil laced with iridescent rainbow hues spraying from the wound. The colors danced, casting eerie reflections across her face. The collision’s force nearly crushed her against the wall, her breath coming in sharp gasps as the machine came to a sudden, jarring stop.

The little Roys around her shifted, their tiny, worried faces a surreal contrast to the chaos. They looked at each other, their expressions flickering with confusion, then made a collective effort to push against Number Two’s hulking frame, their small hands pressing against the cold metal in a desperate attempt to free her. Despite their earnest efforts, the weight of the machine held her pinned, unmoving, its blue glowing eyes still flickering with a twisted sense of amusement.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the faint hiss of steam escaping from the wound. Number Two's glowing eyes dimmed slightly as it looked down at the knife buried in its chest, the deep blue light from within it flickering in and out as though struggling to maintain power.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Then, with an unsettling, glitching rasp, the machine spoke. “You…” Number Two chuckled softly, its voice filled with static. “Sometimes I truly wonder, if I even have the privilege of dying. Too bad.”

Amelia stared, still gripping the hilt of the knife, but she could feel the machine moving—deliberately, consciously. With eerie calm, it began sliding its body further up the blade, inching the knife closer toward its face. Every inch sent fresh arcs of electricity and sprays of oil from the wound, but the machine seemed undeterred, its twisted amusement undiminished.

Suddenly, its free hand dipped into her pocket, pulling out her pendant and dangling it in front of her. The locket swung slowly, catching the dim light as if mocking her helplessness. The machine’s voice was soft, taunting, savoring every second of her shock. “Don’t miss this moment. Look at me, girl! What does a machine need with a soul?” it murmured, a disturbing chuckle woven into its words. “Ahh, your eyes. They’re full of life. I, too, am greedy!”

Its grip tightened slightly around the pendant, as though it might crush it, its flickering gaze locked onto hers, unblinking and savoring her reaction. The lingering shadows from Pappy Long Legs' outburst clung to every corner, intensifying the oppressive darkness. Fury boiled up beneath Amelia’s initial shock.

"As if a Yardrat has anything to fear in the dark!" she spat, her voice cutting through the silence, defiant and sharp.

The machine tilted its head, watching her, almost daring her to act, its grin widening as it inched closer to the blade in its chest, seeming to revel in the damage. But her defiance surged forward. Her fingers steadied, and with a sudden burst of resolve, she lunged, snatching the pendant back from its grasp. Her hand closed firmly around the locket, wrenching it free from the machine’s fingers.

Amelia struggled against the weight pinning her, her body trapped under the limp yet unyielding frame of Number Two. She could barely breathe, her chest tight with fear and exhaustion, when suddenly, a metallic groan echoed through the room.

Rick’s gaze hardened from across the room. With a surge of determination, his mechanical arm splintered as it shot out like an uncoiling piston. Bolts and gears cracked as the arm extended, smashing into Number Two’s body and shoving it off her with brutal force. The weight lifted, and Amelia gasped, catching her breath as she scrambled to her feet, her gaze locking onto Rick in awe and gratitude.

Rick’s gaze hardened as he watched the invasion, his splintered limb twitching, but he steadied himself. Without warning, his hand disappeared beneath his shirt, gripping the strange, pulsing core within—a heartlike mass glowing with blue and orange flames, wrapped in taut, mechanical threads. Amelia’s breath caught at the sight, a raw mix of life and machine, unnerving and powerful.

“Rick! Dammit! If you die, Roy dies!” she shouted, her voice laced with sudden concern.

Before Rick could respond, a harsh, rattling cough sounded behind them. Amelia spun to see Roy bent over, hacking up a disturbing mixture of dark oil and a viscous, blood-red liquid, as if the strange fluid were reacting to Rick’s sacrifice. The iridescent drops trickled down his chin—a peculiar echo of life and machine, mixed together like some macabre alchemist’s brew.

Rick’s gaze darted around the room. Thick fog crept in, swirling low across the floor before being sucked into the Pappy Long Legs’ extensive ventilation system, vanishing with an unsettling, almost deliberate silence. Along the walls, deadly lines of razor wire unfurled, with large iron balls riding them like morbid railway cars, ready to strike at any moment.

“Roy dies anyway,” Rick said, his voice breaking into a cough. “He… has my heart. He’ll live—you’ll find a way for him too in Veranus! Look at the blasted recipe. Morsha. Bread.”

But before she could protest, Roy straightened, his face pale, eyes dull. With a shaky hand, he reached to his chest and, with an almost mechanical motion, pulled it open like a human cabinet, revealing a complex network of wires and glowing veins. Amelia’s eyes widened in shock, her hand flying to her mouth, stunned by the surreal, horrifying sight.

With a grim resolve, Rick twisted and crushed his own core, fingers digging into the glowing tendrils like a dead man’s switch. A tremor rippled through the Pappy Long Legs as gears ground louder, the ship itself seeming to wake, its very walls responding to Rick’s sacrifice.

He tossed his cracked red glasses to Amelia, his smile weary yet defiant. Through the lenses, Amelia caught his last gaze, his face etched with defiance, the blue-orange glow in his eyes dimming to darkness.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Activating. Protocol. Q8," Roy intoned, his voice flat and mechanical, as if he were no longer entirely himself.

Immediately, the ship responded. Compartments slid open along the walls, revealing weapons and defensive mechanisms that burst to life within the Pappy Long Legs. The little Roys sprang into action, manning tiny cannons aimed at the invading puppets. The red lights pulsed brighter, casting an unholy glow over the room as gears ground and twisted, transforming the Pappy Long Legs into a living fortress.

Amelia could only watch, awe and dread mingling in her gaze. With each shudder and shift, the ship seemed to come alive, exposing hidden mechanisms buried within. The little Roys moved with fierce purpose, their eyes flashing as they took aim at the razor wires and iron balls set by the Whistling Pirates, determined to protect the fortress Rick had awakened with his sacrifice.

With a swift salute to Rick, the little Roys unleashed a volley of fire, blasting through the wires in showers of sparks. Fog that had filled the room was sucked away into vents, revealing Rick standing defiantly in the center, barely holding himself upright.

But the strain was visible now—his skin shimmered with heat, his breathing labored as he channeled every last ounce of his strength into the Pappy Long Legs. The walls shifted again, crushing the remaining razor wires and slamming any pirates still lurking into the grinding gears and shifting metal panels. The little Roys continued their onslaught, their tiny cannons aiming with eerie precision, reducing the invaders to shattered parts.

Amelia’s heart pounded as she watched him, torn between awe and fear. Rick’s face was pale, his frame trembling, yet his gaze remained resolute. With a trembling hand, he tore open the front of his jacket, exposing a bright blue spark—a pulse of raw, electric energy burning in his chest. It was the same spark she’d seen in the little Roys and within Glassford, but here, it flickered with an unsteady brilliance, as if feeding on his very essence.

As the room pulsed in time with his heartbeat, the gears roared in sync, and the little Roys stood in fierce, silent alignment. But Amelia could see the toll it had taken: his body was fracturing, his spark flickering, his strength visibly fading. Yet even as he stood there, breaking under the weight of his own power, Rick remained defiant. Through the haze, her reflection shone in his last gaze—a final testament to his trust.

Amelia’s throat tightened, her voice catching as she tried to speak. She swallowed hard, fighting the rising lump, her eyes stinging as she shouted, “R-Roy, what is Protocol Q8?”

“TO CLEAR the objective. No matter the cost,” Roy replied somberly, glancing down at the dark oil dripping from his chin, his hand clutching his heart as if feeling a new, primitive pain.

“G-get me to G-G-Glassford—now! I made my choice!” Her voice cracked with urgency, tinged with desperation. “Roy! R—”

Roy appeared beside her, his expression serene despite the chaos raging around them. His human-like metallic fingers reached out, gripping her firmly but gently—a grounding touch amid the turmoil. He glanced briefly at Rick before turning back to Amelia, his gaze holding an almost otherworldly calm. “He cannot fully die until I die,” he said softly, his voice unexpectedly gentle, as if offering comfort. His eyes held a depth beyond his own understanding. “I… still live. I am… alive.”

Amelia’s breath hitched, her eyes locked on Roy’s face, torn between the weight of Rick’s sacrifice and the quiet, almost tender certainty in Roy’s words.

Amelia’s expression hardened, the grief in her eyes replaced with fierce resolve. “Roy! Toss me—now!” she commanded, her tone steady and unwavering.

Without hesitation, Roy tightened his grip. With a powerful, fluid motion, he hurled her over his head like a metallic catapult. Amelia soared through the air, her body arcing toward Glassford. She landed with a firm grip on the mangled long coat draped over the Quadrant Leader’s massive frame, determination blazing in her eyes.

“This ship’s still heading to Veranus, right?” she called back, catching her breath as she steadied herself on Glassford’s torso, grabbing onto the thick wires protruding from his body.

“At all COSTS,” Roy replied, his tone calm but resolute. “It was programmed as you were waking up on the airship.”

Around them, the sharp, jagged sound of little Roys firing metal pellets at the remaining Whistling Pirate automatons filled the air, each shot echoing off the walls with fierce intensity. The Pappy Long Legs shuddered violently, as though the entire structure had come alive in a frenzied response. Gears ground and clanged, and metal plates clashed as hidden passages began to emerge from behind shifting walls. Staircases unfolded from unseen crevices, twisting upward toward new vantage points, while narrow windows slid open, casting fragmented beams of light through the swirling steam. Hissing vents expelled clouds of scorching, acrid haze, making the room feel both expansive and alive.

Suddenly, Roy’s head snapped up, his eyes brightening. “Amelia,” he called over the cacophony, his voice edged with excitement. “The Whistling Pirates’ ship—its magnetic grip on us has been dealt with. I… I believe that to be the work of Rick’s protocol.” His voice softened, almost hesitant, as if grappling with a strange, unfamiliar feeling. “The Pappy Long Legs… flies again.”

A thunderous rumble rolled through the room as if to confirm Roy’s words. Without the pirates’ hold restraining it, the Pappy Long Legs shuddered and, with a deep, resonant groan, began to part in two. As the massive gears and pistons worked in sync to pull the halves apart, an intense gust from the open sky outside cut through the room, filling the air with the scent of steel and storm. The force of the wind whipped through, sending Amelia’s hair flying back as debris from the downed Whistlin’ Death machines was hurled into the horizon, scattering far into the clouds.

Amelia’s eyes followed the spiraling pieces, only to catch sight of Rick’s body, lifted by the same relentless wind, tumbling through the air until it vanished into the distance. She gripped Glassford’s cables tightly, steadying herself against the oncoming rush, and looked around in awe. It’s like it gathered its energy to fight, she thought, ready to move in ways I didn’t know it could.

Above, a colossal airship hung in the sky, casting a shadow over the Pappy Long Legs—a mix of awe and menace. The vessel resembled an ancient English galleon, though it was equipped with intricate machinery only New Dwarden’s best minds could envision. A massive cog adorned one side, its bronze sheen catching the light, while several helicopter-like rotors thrummed steadily, holding the ship aloft. It was a haunting fusion of polished wood and sepia-toned metal, an unmistakable blend of traditional New Dwardian Akiyoma architecture, modified and armored for the skies. Sleek yet rugged, it seemed both crafted and weaponized for life above ground.

Etched boldly into the hull, the Whistling Pirates’ insignia gleamed: a hammer fused with blazing fire, an emblem that flickered menacingly against the shifting lights and metal surfaces—a reminder of the force that held them captive only moments ago.

The Pappy Long Legs trembled and shifted again, its walls and beams settling back with a renewed force as if claiming its autonomy once more. Amelia tightened her grip as sections of the floor tilted, sending debris clattering across the space. Freed from its binds, the Pappy Long Legs moved with a vigor and power she’d never felt, each part alive and purposeful.

The little Roys adjusted seamlessly, their cannons trained on the remaining pirate robots, dismantling them in a shower of sparks and shredded metal. Every wall, panel, and hidden mechanism around them seemed to be mobilizing, twisting, and shifting to repel any threat left in the structure. It was as if the entire ship, unburdened from the pirates’ hold, had awakened to its full might.

Amelia’s voice softened as she climbed, moving carefully from one mechanical rib to the next toward Glassford’s chest. “Roy! We're family now! Got it!?" The wind surged, and she lost her grip momentarily, her fingers slipping against the cold metal as she struggled to steady herself. Just as she began to slide, strong metallic arms caught her from behind, holding her firmly. She gasped, feeling Roy’s supportive grip, his presence grounding her amidst the chaos. Roy’s expression flickered with a quiet resolve as he nodded. “WE. ARE”