Before she could react, the machine—Number Two—lunged. Nearly invisible razor wires hissed as they snapped taut, propelling it forward with breakneck speed. Its metallic limbs blurred a whirlwind of aggression and smoke, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Thick, dark fumes poured from its mouth, swallowing the air in the acrid stench of burning oil—like the Clankers that haunted Whistletop Alley. Amelia’s mind screamed to move, but her legs stayed rooted, frozen by terror.

A massive arm struck her. The impact sent her crashing into the cold metal wall of the Pappy Long Legs. Her vision flickered, the edges darkening, but the sight of the ‘little Roys’ beside her burned clear. Their glowing eyes blinked wide with concern as she gasped for air, pinned by the machine’s weight. Number Two loomed closer, its joints groaning with each lurching step.

Instinct seized her. Her hand shot to her waist, finding the knife. She drove it forward without thinking.

The blade struck true. It sank into Number Two’s chest with a metallic screech, the machine’s momentum forcing it deeper. Sparks erupted—electric-blue flares mixed with fluorescent black oil laced in rainbow streaks. The viscous liquid sprayed in arcs, reflecting eerie patterns against the walls and across her face.

The weight pressed harder. Her breaths came fast and shallow as the machine froze, shuddering under the sudden impact.

The little Roys sprang into action, their small hands pressing against the cold frame, shoving in a desperate attempt to free her. Their efforts barely moved it. The machine’s weight held firm, its glowing eyes flickering—not with defeat, but amusement.

For a moment, only the hiss of steam escaped the wound. The machine’s light dimmed, pulsing erratically, but it did not collapse.

Then it spoke.

“You…” The voice rasped, glitching with static, and then chuckled—a sick, distorted sound. “Sometimes I wonder… do I even have the privilege of dying?” It paused, its light flickering again. “Too bad.”

Amelia froze. Her grip on the knife tightened as she watched it move—deliberately, consciously.

With unsettling calm, it slid further up the blade, forcing the weapon deeper into its chest. Each inch sent arcs of electricity crackling outward, spraying oil in rainbow-hued bursts, but the machine didn’t stop. Its glowing eyes burned brighter, reveling in her horror.

Suddenly, its free hand darted into her pocket. Before she could react, it yanked out her pendant, holding the locket up like a prize. The chain swung, catching the dim light, mocking her helplessness.

“Don’t miss this moment.” Its voice softened, savoring her shock. “Look at me, girl! What does a machine need with a soul?”

Its fingers curled around the locket, metal joints creaking as if ready to crush it. The glow from its eyes flickered, locked onto hers, unblinking.

“Ahh,” it murmured, almost tenderly. “Your eyes—so full of life.” Its voice dropped lower, twisted with greed. “I, too, can be greedy.”

The words sank like hooks into her chest, but anger snapped her back.

“As if a Yardrat has anything to fear in the dark!” she spat, her voice sharp and defiant.

The machine tilted its head, a cruel grin carved into its motion. It leaned closer, pressing harder against the knife, almost daring her to act.

But her fury flared brighter. Her hand shot out, wrenching the pendant free from its grasp. The chain snapped as she tore it away, shoving it into her pocket and sealing it closed with a fist.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She pushed against Number Two’s frame, straining against its weight, but it didn’t budge. Her chest burned, pinned by the limp yet unyielding mass.

Then—a metallic groan.

Rick’s voice cut through the chaos. “You didn’t think they’d take out all my security forces that easily, did you?”

Before Number Two could react, Rick’s mechanical arm splintered outward like an uncoiling piston. Bolts snapped, gears cracked, and the impact smashed into the machine’s body. Number Two staggered back, freeing Amelia in a burst of movement.

She stumbled forward, dragging in gulps of air as she scrambled to her feet. Her gaze locked on Rick—awed, terrified, and desperate all at once.

Rick steadied himself, his splintered arm twitching, but his eyes burned with focus.

Then, without a word, his hand disappeared beneath his shirt, gripping something inside—a pulsing core of blue and orange light, wrapped in mechanical threads.

Amelia froze at the sight. It was alive. Or something close to it.

“Rick!” Her voice cracked. “Dammit! If you die, Roy dies!”

But Rick didn’t stop. Instead, he gritted his teeth and yanked the core free.

Before he could respond, a harsh, rattling cough cut through the chaos. Amelia spun.

Roy hunched over, hacking up a vile mixture of black oil and dark, blood-red fluid. The iridescent drops trickled down his chin—an unnatural blend of machine and life, tangled like some macabre alchemist’s brew.

Amelia’s stomach churned. “Roy?”

Rick’s gaze darted around the room. The fog thickened, curling low across the floor before being pulled into the Pappy Long Legs’ vents—silent, deliberate, like the ship itself was breathing. Along the walls, razor wires unfurled, and massive iron balls hung poised on their tracks, ready to strike.

Rick wheezed. “If you die—Roy dies anyway.” His voice cracked, raw with effort. “He… has my human heart. But I damn well wonder… if that’s all he has.”

Amelia froze.

“He’ll live,” Rick rasped, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “You’ll find a way in Veranus! The blasted recipe—Morsha Bread!”

Before she could speak, Roy straightened. His pale face was waxy, his eyes dulled to faint embers. Slowly, with an almost mechanical motion, he reached to his chest for the heart still beating.

“No—” Amelia started.

Roy’s trembling fingers hovered, hesitating for just a moment. His gaze flickered toward her, and something human—fear?—surfaced behind the mechanical glaze.

Rick’s voice cut through. “It’s all right, Roy.” His voice softened, raw but steady. “You’re still here, son. You’re still here.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

But Roy’s fingers moved again.

Rick’s own hands mirrored the motion, tearing into his sternum. Sparks danced as his chest split open like a cabinet. Wires and glowing veins pulsed beneath the surface, twisting and writhing in a fragile, alien web.

Amelia stumbled back, her breath hitching. The sight hollowed her stomach—both horrifying and mesmerizing.

Rick’s eyes burned with resolve. Without hesitation, he gripped his core—a heartlike mass glowing blue and orange, wrapped in taut, mechanical tendrils—and twisted. Sparks erupted as he crushed it in his palm, the raw energy bleeding through his fingers.

“This is what happens…” His voice faltered but didn’t break. “When you make the wrong deals… for the right reasons.”

The Pappy Long Legs shuddered. Gears groaned to life, pistons churning with thunderous force. Walls shifted, snapping into place, and the ship itself seemed to wake, trembling in response to Rick’s sacrifice.

Amelia screamed. “Rick, stop!”

But it was too late.

Rick turned to her, his cracked red glasses catching the dim light. He tossed them her way, the reflection of the burning core dimming in his eyes. His smile—faint but defiant—froze her in place.

“Live for something better, Crowny,” he said, his voice breaking. “Promise me.”

Then the light flickered out.

“Activating. Protocol. Q8.”

Roy’s voice rang out—flat, mechanical, hollow. The words echoed in the silence, sealing Rick’s fate.

The Pappy Long Legs roared to life. Its walls twisted, gears locked into place, and compartments exploded open, revealing weapons that snapped into position. The ship shifted as if breathing—its massive bulk pulling inward before exhaling into motion.

And then Roy moved.

His eyes, once dull embers, blazed with a sudden, unnatural fire. Metal veins beneath his skin pulsed to life, glowing with the same eerie blue and orange light that had burned within Rick’s core.

The mechanical groan of the Pappy Long Legs amplified, its vibrations rumbling through the floor as Roy’s body stiffened. His voice deepened, distorted.

“Command recognized,” he intoned. “Veranus destination locked. Objective—unwavering.”

Amelia’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“No.” She stepped forward, reaching for him. “Roy—wait—”

But Roy didn’t move. His gaze—calm, mechanical—was already locked forward.

A pulse of energy rippled through the ship, rattling the walls. The razor wires unfurled, snapping into place, and the iron balls on their tracks lurched forward with deadly purpose.

Amelia’s breath quickened. She clenched Rick’s cracked glasses in her fist, her knuckles white.

The Pappy Long Legs wasn’t just awake.

It was alive.

The Pappy Long Legs responded with a mechanical roar. Compartments hissed open along the walls, releasing weapons and defensive systems that snapped into position like waiting jaws. The little Roys sprang to life, scrambling into position. Tiny cannons locked onto the invading puppets, their glowing red eyes blazing with purpose.

Red lights pulsed brighter, bathing the room in an ominous glow as gears ground and twisted. It felt alive—awakened not as a ship, but as a fortress. A beast defending its wounded heart.

Amelia barely breathed as the chaos unfolded. Awe and dread tangled inside her, tightening her chest. The ship revealed hidden mechanisms—gun barrels sliding from panels, spiked rails lining the floors, and iron traps snapping shut.

The little Roys fired first. Their tiny cannons spat fire and lead, tearing through wires and limbs. Sparks rained as the fog was sucked away through vents, unveiling Rick—standing, barely upright, at the room’s center.

He was fading. Amelia saw it—the heat rippling off his skin, the unsteady tremor in his hands. Yet, even as he teetered, Rick’s eyes burned with focus, his determination holding the ship together.

The walls shifted again, crushing razor wires and slamming invaders into grinding gears. Panels snapped shut, sealing paths. The Pappy Long Legs moved like a living machine—relentless, precise, and terrifying.

Amelia’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t tear her eyes from Rick. His jacket hung open now, exposing the raw blue-orange glow pulsing in his chest. It flickered, struggling, feeding the ship even as it devoured him in return.

The room pulsed with him. Each breath. Each beat.

The little Roys moved in sync, falling into rows, their red eyes glowing as they pressed forward, cannons still firing. Amelia swallowed hard. It wasn’t just Rick’s creation anymore—it was his body, his blood, his soul welded into the ship.

But it was breaking him.

Her throat tightened. Her voice cracked as she shouted, “R-Roy, what is Protocol Q8?”

Roy, still hunched and dripping oil, straightened. His voice emerged hollow and mechanical, yet laced with something too human to ignore.

“To clear the objective,” he said, staring ahead. “No matter the cost.”

“No!” Amelia’s voice sharpened. “Get me to Glassford—now! I made my choice!”

Roy’s eyes flickered as if something inside him heard her desperation. He stepped closer, his movements calm despite the chaos. His metallic fingers gripped her arm, steady but gentle—a touch that grounded her.

He glanced briefly at Rick, then turned back to her. “He cannot fully die until I die.”

The words hung between them, heavier than the grinding metal around them.

Amelia’s breath caught. “What does that mean? Roy—what does that mean?”

His glowing eyes softened—just for a moment. “I… still live,” he said. “I am… alive.”

The words struck her harder than the chaos around them. She bit back the lump rising in her throat and set her jaw.

“Roy.” Her voice steadied. “Toss me—now.”

Roy’s grip tightened. With a smooth, powerful motion, he launched her through the air. Amelia soared, her arms outstretched, before crashing onto Glassford’s massive frame. She grabbed hold of the tangled cables hanging from the Quadrant Leader’s body, her breath ragged, her determination blazing.

“This ship’s still heading to Veranus, right?”

Roy’s voice rang out, loud and certain. “At all costs.”

Around them, the Pappy Long Legs came alive again. The little Roys adjusted like soldiers, their cannons spitting fire into the retreating pirates. Iron tracks groaned, sending massive balls of steel careening through the remnants of enemy machines, flattening them in bursts of sparks and shrieks.

The room shifted—walls folding, gears grinding, stairs unfurling from hidden compartments. Narrow windows slid open, slashing beams of light through the swirling steam. Vents hissed, releasing clouds of heat, and the ship trembled, its full strength finally unleashed.

Roy’s head snapped up. “Amelia!” His voice rose above the chaos. “The Whistling Pirates’ ship—its magnetic grip is gone. Rick’s protocol broke it!”

Amelia’s fingers dug into the cables. “And the Pappy Long Legs?”

Roy’s eyes brightened. “It flies again.”

A thunderous groan shook the room. The ship parted down the middle, gears, and pistons grinding as it pulled itself free. The wind howled through the gaps, carrying the scent of metal and rain.

The sudden rush of air sent Amelia’s hair whipping back as debris from the destroyed machines scattered into the horizon, disappearing into the swirling clouds.

Her gaze darted upward. A colossal airship loomed above, casting its shadow over the chaos—a polished galleon fused with sepia-toned metal, its rotors humming like thunder. The hammer-and-flame insignia of the Whistling Pirates gleamed against the hull, flickering in the light.

The Pappy Long Legs trembled but held firm, its walls and beams locking into place with a final, resonant snap.

Amelia’s grip tightened. The ship wasn’t just fighting—it was claiming itself, reborn in fire and steel.

The little Roys pressed forward, dismantling the last of the pirate automatons in bursts of sparks and shredded metal. Weapons folded back into their compartments as the room settled, its hidden defenses ready for the next assault.

Amelia climbed higher, her hands stinging from the jagged edges of Glassford’s frame. The light in its chest pulsed faintly, beating in time with the Gigarock in her locket.

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, whipping her hair back as she lost her grip. Her fingers slipped against the cold metal, and her body began to slide. Panic flared in her chest, but before she could fall, strong metallic arms caught her.

Roy’s hands shot out, clamping down around her wrists. Metal scraped against metal, his joints creaking under the strain. For a moment, it felt like he might buckle, but then his grip tightened—unyielding, solid. Amelia gasped, her breath shaky as she clung to him. The hum of his inner mechanisms vibrated through her arms, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if she could feel the faint echo of Rick’s pulse still beating inside him.

“I’ve got you,” Roy said, his voice softer now—mechanical, but steady.

Her heart pounded at the certainty in his words, even as faint sparks flared along his elbow joint. She tightened her grip on Glassford’s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Roy’s expression flickered—something unreadable passing through his dimmed eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he nodded.

Amelia’s heart pounded at the certainty in his words. She tightened her grip on Glassford’s massive frame, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Good,” she said, her voice raw but steady. She let out a shaky breath, then grinned—just barely. “By the Goblet and Green… we’ll get through this.” Her fingers tightened on the jagged edges of Glassford’s frame. “One piece at a time. And if we don’t—” Her grin sharpened as she braced herself against the wind, “—then let’s make it loud enough they remember we tried.”