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The Trashscarf Tales
Chapter 27: Speak to Machines in the Voice of Humanity

Chapter 27: Speak to Machines in the Voice of Humanity

Time seemed to slow down, as he pawed at the loops of scarf over his face; swamped in the past, he rather wanted to face the present, since the option of a future seemed to be rapidly diminishing. In fact, Trashscarf was sure he could hear the clock of his life running out-- a series of tock, tock, tock, tocks echoing through his ears and his aching head.

He managed to get one half of his face loose and glared at the glowing runes on the metal sphere that served the construct for a head. In this tock-tock countdown he could almost feel that he'd slipped into turn-based mode, which was never a good sign. But... there was something recognizable in the monster before him. He'd tried to tell his companions-- it wasn't just a construct, that is, a nonliving object brought to motion by machinery and magic. There was something else in there, a twisted and tortured something, a memory... a soul.

"Wait," he wheezed. Still being held upside-down by one leg, his voice came out strained. "There's something in you, isn't there? Some part of a person, trapped inside."

The construct halted, its glowing runes flickering. Trashscarf could feel the tension, the hesitation, in the air. He took a deep breath and continued.

"I know what it's like to be trapped, to be lost in the darkness. But you don't have to stay this way! There's still a chance to find your way! I can help you," he added quickly, hopefully, as the tock-tock sound seemed to slow portenteously. "It's what I do!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the runes on the construct's metal sphere pulsed and dimmed. The claws around Trashscarf's leg flexed as well, as though it was considering the offer. Even though it was a glint of hope, it made Trashscarf wince-- there was indeed something more in this creation; the shredded, tortured remains of what had once been a human soul.

Then, with a great creaking and cracking, the tree that the Woodstrider had been chopping down fell on top of it with a mighty crash. Trashscarf met the forest floor once again as the monstrosity tore apart under the weight of branches. The metal spherical head was stoved in like a defeated basketball as the thing went down in a shower of purple sparks and snapping bones, sticks, and bits of metal.

But at least there was also a blast of coldness, a chill that was unnatural in the humid dank air of the forest, a faint hissing wind that possibly only Trashscarf could feel. Whatever scrap of spirit had been trapped inside the thing, it was gone now-- destroyed or dispersed, he wasn't sure and didn't care to speculate. It hissed and groaned, and fell still and silent.

"All good?" the Woodstrider asked, coming out from the treeline with her axe over one shoulder.

"You dropped a tree on us, so I think maybe not exactly?" Trashscarf snapped, struggling beneath the press of twigs and needles (it was a pine tree) and getting covered with sap, much to his fury.

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"That was amazing!" Garbleday yelped weakly from where he was stuck in the blackberry bramble like a fly in a spider's web. Any motion seemed to result in numerous painful points of penetration, so he'd opted to freeze and hope for extraction. "How could you aim it so that--"

"It's just math," the Woodstrider said with a shrug.

"My own math says we need to seriously recalculate our chances of survival," Trashscarf said weakly, looking around-- there didn't seem to be any more of the things visible, but that didn't mean great clanking armies of them were not on their way here at speed.

He moved gingerly over to Garbleday's aid, and with a few tugs and twists, managed to extricate him from the bramble. His skill with strings and fibers was able to come into play, and he not only coaxed the brambles to release the Watchman, but also to tie themselves into a rather pretty carrick bend. But even the Waywalker's weaving magic didn't prevent him from getting a couple of pokes and a nasty scratch; blood sacrifice to the great spreading Himalayan horror.

"Thanks," wheezed Garbleday, picking leaves and thorns and tent caterpillars off himself. "Should we loot the--- thing?"

"Help yourself," snorted Trashscarf. "I want no part of it, nor parts of it. That-- thing was an abomination. Constructs, fine. Undead? Not exactly fine but while I don't see the appeal, I suppose I can understand why someone might. But that--" He shook his head gloomily. "That's not right."

"You sound like you know something about it," the Woodstrider put in. "Got some backstory to dump?"

"Well, in fact--"

"--Well, in fact you can skip it," the Woodstrider interrupted. "Not interested. And if you're going to go to a cutscene, can we at least get out of the immediate area first? I don't feel like having another one of those bearing down on me while you're having an existential moment."

"Good point, good point," Trashscarf had to admit. "Could you help me with Offswitch, please?"

The Woodstrider was able to pick up the unconscious assassin and throw him over one shoulder, and it was a shame he was missing it, really. They fell back from the valley, scrambling back up the slippery hill and scooting along a small ridge until they found a place that overlooked the area before them.

Just in time, too-- they saw another construct, similar to the first but this one walking with a spidery motion of clusters of articulated legs around its base, and a rusted windmill blade for a head. It passed the remains of its fallen fellow without hesitation or reaction, and vanished into the darkness of the rotting woods.

Trashscarf had propped Offswitch up against a rock, and quickly determined he wasn't too badly injured. Trashscarf splinted up one of the man's arms, not because it was broken but because he needed to do -something-, and then looked to the Woodstrider.

"He needs to have his brow tapped gently with a damp cloth," he explained, holding out a handkerchief and a waterskin.

"So do it. What do you want, my permission?" she snorted.

"It'll work a lot better if you do it. Trust me." Trashscarf smiled winningly.

The Woodstrider rolled her eyes but took the items, splashed some water on the handkerchief, and pushed it into Offswitch's face. The assassin woke up, spluttering, and blinked up at her with gooey eyes. Her expression wavered a moment, then she chuckled, and slapped him across the face with the cloth, and leaned back with a grin as he matched her grin and sheepishly cleaned the blood from his shaven scalp and ears.

"I don't want to interrupt," Garbleday interrupted, "But there's something you guys should see--" He pointed.

In the valley below them, great thick clouds were billowing up from a place in the center-- they couldn't see the source through the trees, but it was less than a mile away-- and the prevailing winds were pushing the clouds directly towards them.

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