First Impressions (Tock)

[Syel]

26th of Summer, 512 Syel continued along the roads through Zeltiva, humming a merry tune. He had to keep close to the wall of buildings that towered over him, lest he be in danger of finding himself under the boot of a passing man or woman in the crowd. As he strolled along, dodging out of an unwary shoe now and again, he realized he had no idea where he was, where he had been, or where he was going. Despite having been in the city for quite a while, he had not paid too much attention to the layout of Zeltiva. "Well, we'll need to fix that, now won't we?" He said to himself as he turned a corner and found himself on yet another road that looked exactly like all the others. It unnerved him at times how uniform the city was in places. The Pyve where he had been born never had two streets that looked alike, while Zeltiva was a labyrinth of shops and homes and inns and taverns. Four turns later, Syel turned into the fish market suddenly. He had not been paying attention, and quite suddenly found himself in a throng of crushing feet all around him. A mass of shouting, clamoring people all around him, men hawking their wares, children playing in the streets, women purchasing food for their family's next meal. Syel scrambled through the crowd, narrowly avoiding being unpleasantly flattened several times. For what seemed like an eternity, he darted from stall to stall, staying out of the main areas of traffic. If he had a heart, it would be pounding in his chest right now. There! He saw a narrow alleyway leading off away from the fish market, but in order to get to it he would have to cross a path full of the clamor he had been trapped within. After a small hesitation, he sprinted straight towards the crowd, thinking all the while about how terrible an idea this was. He made a resolution as he was dodging through the crowd that he would pay more attention to where he was going, from now on. As he hopped from the top of one man's shoe and off into the alley, landing with a roll, he was truly grateful that he only needed clay for sustenance, and not the food the larger races consumed. The Pycon stood and continued on his way, casting a wary glance back at the crowd he had so narrowly escaped. After several minutes of walking through the mucky, disgusting alley, he was covered in slime. He would need to get that off later, but for now, Syel was content to suffer it. He saw the end of the alley, and quickened his pace to get back into the relatively-clean city streets once more. As Syel arrived in the daylight and left the gloom of the alley, he looked around again. As usual, he had not the foggiest clue where he was, and began his wandering anew, this time alert for any crowds where he could be crushed underfoot.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock was finally feeling better. A few weeks ago, she had broken her hand. The next day she'd gotten beaten up catching a thief. After that she had been a long while in recovering, spending a few days mostly off her feet and using her magic crutches to get around, then then next couple of weeks mobile but sore. Her hand had finally stopped aching, as had her foot which she'd broken a few more weeks prior to that. She was sick to death of getting hurt. She had been back at work today, eagerly conquering the repair jobs that were still piled up since the storm last spring. She was so full of energy now that her coworkers had a hard time keeping up with her. She had spent the whole day yelling at them to move faster, resulting in quite a bit of grumbling from the crew, but a very happy boss when they finished the job a day early. Jacques' crew got paid the same regardless of how long a job took, since he negotiated their pay based on the size of the job and what was needed, not based on hours spent. So finishing a job sooner meant moving on to the next one faster, and that meant more pay. For Jacques, anyway. His workers were paid by the day, so they tended to grumble about having to work any harder than they had to. Tock was heading home after a long and satisfying day. She didn't grumble about hard work; she loved it. Craved it. She needed to keep herself going, every day. Even when she came home from work, it was just to move on to her personal projects. She was in between projects right now, but had a dozen on her mind. It was just a matter of figuring out which one was next. She made her way through the streets without paying attention to where she was going. People tended to get out of her way. Maybe it was because of her gruff, no-nonsense attitude that told people she meant business. Maybe it was because when they didn't move, she yelled at them for bumping into her. Or maybe it was because she had a small hammer on wheels riding along at her heels, a foot and a half long wooden spider clutched lovingly in her arms, and a wooden hand strapped to her belt. The hand, Handy, was tapping his fingers impatiently against her thigh. He wasn't really impatient, since it was too complex of an emotion for the simple Automaton, but he was mimicking the motions she'd programmed into him. Whatever the reason, people had a habit of crossing to the other side of the street when they saw her coming, especially the ones that recognized her, since she used the same route to get home everyday. Odds are none of them knew her name, but it wasn't uncommon for people to stare and point and whisper about 'That Redheaded Madgirl.' Tock hurried along, her nose stuck in a book she had borrowed from the University library, reading up on clockwork engineering principles. Maybe she'd build a clock? Except she never tended to have a need to keep track of the time, preferring to just go where she wanted when she wanted, and she could tell the time close enough by looking up at the sky, unless it was cloudy, and even then she could make a guess, and there was a little clay man running across the street... Huh? She blinked, looked up, and squinted. There was... there was a little clay man running into an alley! She turned and immediately ran after it, not noticing that she bumped into someone. Naily the hammer rolled rapidly after her, not knowing where she was going but programmed to follow her regardless. She flipped her backpack off her shoulders and down onto her forearm, quickly shoving her book inside and tucking Bitey in on top of it. With her hands thus freed she pulled Grippy, her reaching tool, from his leather holster on her right hip. She aimed the tool at the clay man and touched the handle and a certain spot, giving him the commands to extend. The arm shot out, extending a full twelve feet, the metal claw widening, and she tried to clamp it down on the little clay man before he could escape, quickly retracting the arm to try and pull him in.

[Syel]

Just as he was about to reach the sanctuary of the alleyway, Syel felt cold metal enclose about him painfully, the edges pinching him slightly. With a grunt he struggled to break free, but to no avail. The thing had come from somewhere behind him, giving him no forewarning as to what the thing was. Suddenly, with a startled cry, he was jerked backwards at a crazily fast speed. Thoughts began flashing through his mind, random thoughts. Thoughts that made no sense at all, like how the metal seemed to hold him so well, or how it moved so quickly. He noticed things, too. He noticed the different fish around him, the aroma of freshly-caught trout, though he could never have known that was exactly what it was he was smelling. Syel noticed how one fisherman's beard was braided in a haphazard manner, as if he had taken little care with how it was done. What would beards feel like, anyway? Enough Syel, the little Pycon thought to himself to break out of his foolish thoughts. He suddenly stopped moving through the air with a sharp jerk, his head bobbing forward and slapping smartly against the metal holding him. At the accompanying jolt of pain, he cried out before turning his head to see one of the oddest sights he had seen in his short life. What in the name of Harameus is she supposed to be? The woman was easily the strangest thing Syel had ever seen. She looked more manly than a good many men he had seen in his short time out of Zeltyne, what with her trousers and snug top. She was obviously female, but all the other women he had seen had been clearly dressed as such, not like this at all! And...Is that a wooden hand tapping against her thigh? How is it doing that? As he looked back at the woman's face with an expression of shock etched into his own ruddy face, he thought he caught a glimpse of a hammer thing rolling along behind her. He immediately began struggling, his elongated arms and legs flailing in an attempt to free himself. If he were left alone, he could easily reshape his body around the metal fingers he found himself trapped in, though now he had no time for something so slow and precise. He had to get out now. Despite his worries at being so suddenly imprisoned within a strange contraption, Syel found himself preoccupied with questions. Questions of how the claw worked. How was that hand tapping against the woman's thigh without so much as a stutter in the machinery to indicate that it was not a real hand? Most importantly, he had to remind himself, how do I get free?

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

A little clay man! Tock had caught a little clay man! She cackled with mad childish glee, feeling like it was her birthday. "Lookitchoo!" she cackled, reaching out at one of the flailing limbs and snagging between her fingers, shaking it back and forth. "You done gotta been the cutest lil thing what I done ever saw!" Naily chose that moment to tug at her pant leg with the claw of his hammer, and not realizing she was likely attributing too much meaning to the motion, she looked down at the hammer and said, "Oy, don't get jealous, you! Ya done knows I done loves ya best!" She leaned down to pet him, and he nuzzled her hand. While in truth it was no more than a programmed response from the puppy mind she'd copied into him, she read it as a sign of love and affection, and felt that his supposed ego had been appeased. She always saw more emotion in her Automatons than perhaps was really there, just as a pet owner would attribute more human qualities to a dog or cat. She turned her attention back to Tue clay man, and realized he was trying to escape Grippy's grip. "Oh, no ya don't!" she told him, flicking her thumb across the back of Grippy's handle to adjust the claw, "Yer comin' 'ome wit' me!" The adjusted grip held the clay man more firmly, and Tock reached out to poke at him with a leather gloved fingertip. "I wonder 'ow ya work, aye?" she asked out loud, though she was really just speaking to herself. She didn't expect the clay man could talk. After all, none if her creations could. "I's gonna take ya apart an' find out!" She grinned and giggled with mad glee. Her creations couldn't feel pain, so surely this one couldn't either. Besides, she was confident she could put him back together again... She started hurrying home, moving through the back alleys to avoid any more traffic in case the clay man belonged to someone. She wasn't above theft, when she felt she had a good reason, and she didn't want to have to return the wee thing to his owner. She moved quickly, mentally going over what she had at home that she could make a cage out of...

[Syel]

As the woman cackled madly in Syel's face, he gaped blankly at her in shock. "Lookitchoo!" She said, the words blending seamlessly into the previous cackle. What was this woman going on about? "You done gotta been the cutest lil thing what I done ever saw!" This...this thing with a possessed piece of metal thought he was cute of all things? He struggled harder as she pinched his arm unpleasantly in her fingers, his substance giving in somewhat to her touch to betray his soft nature. What was she doing to him? He wasn't some toy for her to poke and prod! The pressure gratefully receded as the redhead bend down to...play with a rolling hammer? "Oy, don't get jealous, you! Ya done knows I done loves ya best!" The woman said fondly to the strange device, patting it right on the cold metal head. What's wrong with her? She's treating a piece of metal like some kind of pet! Then again, the thing almost acts like those dogs Syel had seen wandering the city in search of food. Horrible things, dogs. They barked and stepped on him whenever they saw him! If this woman's reaction to him was any indication, Pyconkind was not common in Zeltiva, despite a Pyve being only a little while away from the city. Syel seemed to have missed the woman's words, as he caught just the end of a string of accented language as the metal claw about him closes more tightly, preventing any hope of escape for the moment. As one of her rough, gloved fingers prodded him, he squirmed uncomfortably. Syel had stopped fighting by now, deciding to save his energy for when it would be needed as the madwoman continued blathering on. "I wonder 'ow ya work, aye?" She asked herself, though Syel took it to be an actual question. He opened his mouth to answer when she suddenly added with a malicious giggle, "I's gonna take ya apart an' find out!" If Syel had been a human, his face would be as white as new linen. Take him apart? He wasn't even sure if it was possible to take a Pycon apart in any way that could help someone learn about his race, and he had no intention of learning now. Whatever this foul beast had in mind was sure to be the most painful thing her little mind could think up. The little man did not renew his attempts to escape, as he knew the claw had far too tight a grip on him to be able to escape without bending his shape, and he could that when he was alone. If the woman were around, she would just change the claw's grip again to keep him in. Syel decided that if he were going to try to reason with this woman and convince her to let him go, he should speak now. So, in a tremulous voice, one filled with worry and horror that such a creature could so nonchalantly talk of another's demise, he asked, "M-miss...Could you please put me down?" Even as he said the words, he knew that he was unlikely to get anywhere. This beast was sure to enjoy ripping his poor body to shreds, something he could not allow. His mind began working at a fevered pace, planning and plotting ways to escape. He eyed the woman up and down, uncomfortably aware of his own size. "It's all right, Syel," He tried to tell himself in his head to calm his nerves, "You've been trained to fight big people." He was uncertain whether or not he would really be able to overpower such a huge specimen of a woman. Pubiscles had taught him the basics, but he was doubtful of his abilities. Syel had never gone up against a person of the larger races before, after all.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

"Ya talk!?" Tock said in shock when the little clay man spoke to her. Then she cackled more and said, "Oy, 'at's great! 'Ow's 'at work, aye? Ya don't done look like ya got lungs in 'ere... 'ow's ya done makes sound if'n ya can't breathe none?" They reached her home, and she immediately pulled out her tools. She placed Grippy on the table, and held Handy next to him. "Hold 'at," she told Handy. He grabbed Grippy's handle, and unslung his leather tail from Tock, whipping it around the table leg for leverage. Tock had programmed Handy with all of her common hand motions, and using Grippy was among them. Handy was also her most intelligent Golem, and could react to things without direct commands. Thus, while he was vastly limited in his intelligence and capabilities, he could adapt to the Pycon's movements (to an extent) without Tock needing to command him every step of the way. She could have just had Handy hold the Pycon, but Grippy was thicker and stronger. He'd be a better choice. "Open up," Tock said, leaning over the clay man with a pair of needle nosed pliers and a thin screwdriver she used in her Gadgeteering work. She snapped the pliers around the clay man's upper lip, and started forcing his head back, touching the tip of his screwdriver into his mouth to push it open. She peered down inside, trying to see if he even had a throat, vocal cords, or anything else that could explain how he could talk. Unable to locate any sign of internal organs, Tock frowned, shifting her grip to hold both tools with one hand in order to keep the clay man's head pinned and his mouth open. Then she reached for a tiny pair of pincers that she used to align screws and bolts in a clockwork device, and started reaching for the clay man's head.

[Syel]

"Ya talk!?" the woman exclaimed in Syel's face, cackling malevolently, 'Oy, 'at's great! 'Ow's 'at work, aye? Ya don't done look like ya got lungs in 'ere... 'ow's ya done makes sound if'n ya can't breathe none?" Syel was about to reply with an angry exclamation that he didn't actually need lungs--whatever they were--when she opened the door to a random house and walked inside. Before he could speak, Syel was dropped onto a wooden table, the claw still locked tightly about his chest. After a few issued commands to the hand...thing...that hung off her belt, it latched itself onto the handle of the device holding Syel while the madwoman waved a pair of pliars in Syel's face. "Open up," The redhead said to him in that sickening way of hers. As hard as he tried to jerk away, their tips snagged Syel's upper lip and forced his mouth open with a screwdriver so she could look into it. As the woman looked away from him briefly to reach for something, he began oozing his claylike flesh around the tools, slowly trying to turn his already-vague facial features into a smooth, rounded ball. The rest of his body followed suit, the limbs and torso losing their depth of detail and maintaining only the vague shaping that defined who he was. Syel had never tried such a thing before, and it felt constrictive, unpleasant. As if his whole body had been wrapped too snugly in a blanket. Unfortunately, the shaping allowed the screwdriver to still be slightly embedded in his face where his mouth was previously, the thing's mere presence causing him a bit of discomfort. He prayed silently to Harameus that the evil beast who held him captive would not pursue the matter further, now that he had nothing for her tools of evil to grab hold of, other than the vague shapes of his limbs.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

When Tock turned back to the clay man, it was like his facial features had melted. They were smooth, lacking definition. His entire body was oozing and shifting, and for a moment, Tock just stared. She checked Grippy's grip, but he wasn't squeezing any tighter. So she couldn't have broken the clay man. After a moment, realization set in, and her eyes went wide. "Oy!!!" she shouted, hopping up and down in unbelievable excitement. "Ya can done change yer shape! Oy, 'is's great!" She dug her tools into his face again, using the small tongs to grab hold of his head, and pulling out a small, sharp pick. "I done gots me a clay man!" Tock half said/half sung, bubbling with excitement. "Maybe I can git a new face on ya, aye? 'Old still..." She starting carefully etching the pick across his face. It was a different process from woodcarving, but she was quite skilled in cutting shapes into things. Sculpting clay was a different process, though. The material was far more fluid than she was used to, and the same amount of pressure ended up digging the pick in far deeper than it would have with wood. She frowned, and scraped the curved back of the pick back across the face to smooth it out again. Then she started again, working more softly, trying to sculpt a new face into the clay man. Once she had just made too big a mess of the creature's face, she got frustrated. Figuring clay was moldable, she grabbed a second pair of tongs and snagged one of his limbs, pulling on the material. She grinned when it stretched and pulled, and she yanked it off, then pressed it against his face to replace the damaged material. She used her thumbs to push it in, reconnecting the material, and smoothing it out again so she could start over. It seemed to just make things sloppier. She leaned back for a moment and tapped her tongs against the clay man, and said, "Oy, smooth yerself out again, aye? I wanna put a new face on ya! Make ya nice an' 'andsome..." She grinned wide, bouncing on her toes again. She couldn't WAIT to see what else her new toy was capable of...

[Syel]

This woman was mad! Instead of simply leaving Syel alone because of his formlessness, the madwoman jumped up and down with glee, as giddy as a schoolgirl, saying, "Oy!!! Ya can done change yer shape! Oy, 'is's great!" Still brimming with excitement, she used a pair of tongs to grip his head roughly. He felt his mental center being compressed, and it caused within him a feeling of panic and terror. To die so soon, after he had done so little; the thought scared him more than anything he'd ever experienced. The fleeting thought occurred to him that such an experience might just be worth even this torment. Just as he thought this, Syel was immediately proven wrong. "I done gots me a clay man!" The woman sang in excited glee, as if he were something to be owned. "Maybe I can git a new face on ya, aye? 'Old still..." A stabbing, piercing pain shot through his face as the woman carved new features into his tender flesh. Had his mouth still been formed, Syel would have let loose a terrible, pain-filled scream but as it was, he could only writhe in pain. After what seemed like an eternity, the terrible torment eased off, leaving only a thin ghost of pain trailing throughout his maimed face wherever the woman's tools had touched him. Just when he was certain that the beast was done with him, he felt her tug painfully on his right arm--testing something about it, he was sure--and then rip it clean off. His whole body convulsed in pain in response to the pain he felt, and he wished with all his soul that the tormentor and her tortures would just vanish. After a few moments, he felt his what was left of his arm being pressed firmly onto his face, and he worked as quickly as he could to rejoin it to his body. "Oy, smooth yerself out again, aye? I wanna put a new face on ya! Make ya nice an' 'andsome..." At this threat, Syel could take no more. He had to find a way to vent the pain and horror he was feeling. And so, Syel began forming a rudimentary mouth on the newly-rejoined clay flesh. As soon as he managed this properly, he let out a bloodcurdling scream, one filled with terror and pain. He thrashed around in the claw's grip, struggling with all his might as his scream did not abate or falter in any way. He felt half-mad with pain and was certain that he would die any moment, even though he knew such a thing was impossible. People don't die of pain, or so he had been led to believe. After all, if they did, what were interrogators for?

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock leaned back when the clay man started screaming. That was strange... people that weren't made of flesh and blood shouldn't feel pain. Her wood and metal babies didn't feel pain. So it couldn't be that... he must just be cranky. Though he was really, really loud for a cranky baby. "Oy, knock it off!" she told him. When the screaming continued, she plucked another piece of soft clay off the creature's other arm and squished it into the gaping mouth, forcing him into silence. "Now don't go gettin' crabby wit' me!" she shouted at him, waving her pick in his face, or what was left of it. "Ya done gotta learn what 'ow ta be'ave, aye?" She didn't know what his problem was; he was made of clay, so surely he was used to people reshaping him. It never occurred to her that the clay man might have free will. Her babies were alive, and she loved and respected them, but they didn't have free will. They were programmed to obey her, and she was their Mommy. The clay man might be smart, and deserve to be treated with a certain respect (understanding, of course, that she read the scream only as a programmed response and not real fear), but he still needed to obey his betters. Just like Tock's creations obeyed her every command, for they were programmed to HAVE to obey. Just like how a dog could be a beloved and cherished pet, and seen as a member of the family, but he was still expected to obey his master. Her creations were family, but they were still hers, and not her true equals. Maybe there was a certain hypocrisy there, but it was lost on the madgirl. She would yell at someone who treated her babies as things, instead of as living people. She felt they had feelings and personalities of their own. But they still belonged to her, and they were still tools. She respected the lifeless mallet on her belt, and loved it for its sentimental value, but she still expected it to do its job when she needed to pound something. Preoccupied with thoughts about the clay man's curious response to her prodding, she grabbed some paper and started taking notes on what she had done and what his reactions had been, from the struggling to the reshaping his face into smoothness to the screaming. She wondered what other reactions he would have if she continued poking and prodding him...