Mem didn’t remember much. It recalled waking in the Aqueenian Needaimus vault after the last partner had apparently died. It spoke to some blue and green men in labcoats who wrote notes on their tablets. After which, despite a display of a charming personality, the blue Needaimus had been deemed defective. So, it escaped, and it ran.
It ran and ran until running into the strange human, Gwyn, a boy also doomed to a death sentence. Perhaps it was due to pity or curiosity—both dangerous traits for a Needaimus to have—it stuck around with the human. That decision took it on a grand adventure and to the misery that now tormented it.
Though rare as it was, a Needaimus could feel discomfort. Impossible to describe to a being of flesh, it was something that could not be communicated through simple propositions; it required being a Needaimus to understand, and of all the things Mem was sure of, it was a Needaimus. Maybe a bad one, but still one that would feel discomfort from overclocking—and though Gwyn was not intending to do so, the process had already started. Mem’s metal grew slightly and embedded into the human’s shoulder, fixing it into place. Brute force would be required to rip it off, and that was if anyone got there in time. Soon, it would be impossible to remove without going to extremes.
Gwyn might have scratched at the spot where Mem’s metal was growing; it had to itch at the least, but he was preoccupied with a plate of food on the floor. Hunched over it like a beast, he shoveled piles of food into his mouth, his left hand weakly dropping half of it until he tried again—each time splitting in half again. Mem had tried to reason with him, but something was wrong. Gwyn could no longer be reasoned with. That had gone out like a light bulb as his left arm was almost entirely encased in stone, the symptom of the disease.
As Gwyn finished—or maybe got tired with—the meal, he grasped for a drink, which was gone in seconds. The cup liquified and fell to the floor as he unintentionally used his ability.
In a raspy voice, he spoke. “Thirsty. Thirsty.” It was the only word that had come from his lips for several days. Mem was long past the point of worrying. It didn’t know what to do. It had wondered if partnering with Gwyn was a mistake, but things had gone so smoothly in Horizon, against Grimes, the Needaimus felt like the sky was the limit. It was on the path of destiny with a hero—a Nonpareil. Now, it was stuck on the arm of a savage.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Gwyn wandered around the room until he clawed at the wall with weak fingers. Mem wondered if any memories would have helped it in this moment. Could anything in its presumably long life, in the possible multitudes of partners that could help or explain anything? Most Needaimus considered ones who lost their memories to be lost causes—babies to be ignored and left alone in the nursery. They were beings that lived thousands of years—at least Mem presumed so, and all that history was snuffed out due to remaining attached to an arm or leg. In its short time since reviving, Mem had been fortunate to relearn several of the Needaimus secrets; Fiona’s Sun was kind enough to tell it privately. Some said the partner affected A Needaimus' personality, so Mem was sure the blue princess was an okay girl. Maybe she could help Gwyn. Or perhaps he would also be deemed a lost cause.
It couldn’t help but wonder how it was affected by Gwyn. If it would eventually go mad and writhe on the ground in an unidentifiable motion that could be confused between pain and ecstasy. Gwyn was sick for sure; Mem was confident of the assessment after spending several days silently analyzing his biometrics to determine what was wrong. It wasn’t an infection, but it acted well enough like one to explain it that way. Rock growths were the first sign. Gwyn had chosen to ignore them for a while, and Mem went along. Neither knew what to do, and both, perhaps, hoped the problem would simply go away. The Needaimus wished it had pushed Gwyn to leave the room sooner, getting some kind of medical aid before it was quite possibly too late—before discovering the mind was the last thing to go.
Gwyn had spent the last couple of days talking to the wall. From the half of the conversation Mem could pick up on, the rest happened within the nonpareil’s head; he was talking to King Whitlock. The dead king came to haunt him, or at least Gwyn believed that to be the case. Mem should have known his mind was failing then, but it could not detect anything unusual within the biometrics. It wasn’t until Gwyn’s mind finally gave out, and he began to tear things apart, that the Needaimus realized it passed a point of no return—it had made a mistake.
Mem remained silent as the madded nonpareil activated his ability. The ground began to soften, and all the trash littered across the room formed into nasty-looking puddles. Gwyn smashed his hands into the wall, and a crater formed where he made contact. The situation was getting worse, and Mem could do nothing but watch.