#SHORT standaLONE

[bakatenshii]

is this the longest fic I’ll ever have written? (maybe)

[sevenines]

i saw this tweet and found it interesting for two reasons. one is that some people base how good cartoon network would be to toh by how it treated su, and despite the fact that su’s treatment by the network was considered poor at the time, now its thought to be exceptionally good in comparison to modern shows.

two is how exactly su got impacted by a limited budget. a common criticism is how characters like connie, peridot, and lapis are left out of missions. but balancing a lot of characters is not only hard but also costly (extra animation, extra voices—it’s been revealed that the show is limited to a set number of characters per episode otherwise they’re over budget). animation mistakes are not uncommon since retakes cost extra. the entire reason the original show got cut short was due to loss of funding!

[pjo-hoo-toa-freakazoid]

Waiting for the day we read Tsats and loose our shit as Will pulls out his revolver and shoots a monster right in the head before it can attack Nico.

And Nico looks at his Ray of Sunshine of a boyfriend. Stunned but beyond impressed.

“Where’d you get that?” He asks, with a hint of excitement in his voice.

“Oh! My grandfather gave me Susan before I left for camp” Will smiled. “Now that I think about it, maybe giving a nine year old a revolver wasn’t really the safest parting gift—”

“—Wait…Susan..?”

“Susan!” Will nodded as he raised the gun.

Nico gave out a chuckle. “I like Susan”

[paintpanic]

(original video)

[choices-binglebonkus]

The neat thing about Choices books is that you can always tell whenever one is someone’s passion project vs. just a Nothing Book needed to fill the release roster.

[duckdodger]

hii helloo so for tje tmnt mm request thingie maybe donnie listening 2 kpop !! with his headphones just vibin:3

kicking off the end of the year with donnie vibing 🕺🕺 !!

[deoidesign]

Hello! I just discovered your blog and I immediately became captivated by your webcomic, but I'm unsure where to read all of it. I know it's on Webtoons, but I can see it hasn't been updated for a while, and you still post about it.

Are your physical novels just prints of the webcomic? Are they a continuation? Is the story complete? Thanks in advance!

Hi there!

Glad you found me and are enjoying my comic!

It's only on webtoons, and the story is not complete yet! We're 2/3 of the way through right now. It's currently on hiatus, and it's scheduled to come back in about 2 months!

I'll explain why it's been so long if you're curious, but also for my followers who might also be wondering about it under the cut. Sorry, it's pretty much just me complaining haha

I took a month off I took 2 months to get the books printed I took a month to prepare my next comic and I took 2 months to write the rest of the series (I knew the character arcs I wanted, but not the time periods or mysteries!!!) I've been working on actual episodes since then

I had to take some time off because of some pretty extreme burnout due to the sheer amount of work it was to draw over 800 pages and write 6 complete stories in a year and a half... I was getting sick almost weekly due to the overwork, it was really really bad honestly. I was having to work 60+ hours every week just to keep up...

The nature of the comic itself is also difficult... Each of the arcs is a complete, self contained story which can be read (ideally) without context, and my arcs need to be about 10-13 episodes each... And since I have an exact number of episodes to work with, it's even harder.

It takes a ton of planning and a ton of refinement, and working week to week with no breaks I was forced to put out second or even first drafts, so I just wasn't happy with the work I was doing... And to do that for the rest of the series? I wouldn't be proud of the work I did.

Plus... To be entirely honest, webtoon has treated me quite badly IN MY OPINION... They deprioritized me before I launched (I had to beg for more promotion, I'm not exaggerating), they outright denied me the opportunity to even ask for a raise, I don't make any money on fast pass and they pay me less than my partner makes working at trader joes. My first editor left me completely hanging, my second editor (who I loved) was fired... And they told me I wouldn't get a third season before my first season even finished. So it was just repeatedly completely demoralizing.

I'm sorry it has taken so long, it'll have been 10 months by the time I come back. But I realized... I won't get promotion either way. I won't get more episodes either way. I won't get more money either way. So to finish everything, to make it feel good, to make it something I'm proud of, I chose to take longer to make it better.

I am fully aware I will lose a significant amount of my readership for this and it might genuinely affect my career moving forward. But it's what I had to do! So I'm sticking to my guns on it, and I'm confident long term it'll be worth it. It never could have been this good if I didn't take this much time.

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 03 /// Speak

(First) / (Previous)

When the reappropriated battle-radio crackles to life— Pss-Tat-tat. It’s good.

“—ou copy? Answer! I know—” Psssat-at-at. It’s the oft-heard, impatient snap of takeout breadstick or asshole-bone. Psst-tat. One of those, at least. “—need help.

Okay?”

Boots slip to the deck in a restrained show of attentiveness; pulled through loose cablets — anxiously-chewed at the stray ends — that have hewn radio to emplaced console. That beg it remain connected, to the dropship’s comm-booster. Tsss-at-tat. Still within reach.

You want to hear this — need to, were waiting to.

But the pack — lance, she’ll be here soon to pipe-in indignant with — doesn’t need to see that, their breaths hitching as you click down on the transceiver, “Aww. Howdy pup, ya not doin’ so good right now?”

“Don’t call— Ugh. You were right!” she exclaims. “Not—” Psss— Tick!

Tsss-Tick-tick! The radio needs to be tuned to hers — its signal obfuscated before now, even with the leash hardwired between them, and the tracker buried in her bought-out frame.

It’s the hiss-click when internal-atmos sneers out through a cockpit-shield; where— Tsss-Tick! Where the sea presses on its laminate interlace which melds still, after hours sunken, the internal-external halves of its shattered, protective screen into purposed form.

Whereon the seabed her mech rests to be recovered, and indebted for the courtesy.

Tick-tsss-tick. Or the kettle that rattles to a whinesome, third climax — another pack-hound ordered to bring her tea, without notice to the possibility it’s because it never tastes how she made it. Tsss-tick-Tick-Tick!

One of those,

at least.

It takes some more dials to find her. Tick-tick—Tack! Then it locks in, and she’s yours.

“—were knocked out. So it’s just me — that’s left,” she pleads between the hiss that remains: the unmistakable whine of pilot exhaustion and shrapnel-bled coolant dripping onto wet, fizzing circuits. “Okay.”

Somewhere below, a treat rattles from tread-to-tread; out of the recesses of bounced-up combat boots, through metal slats into the underdeck — for the rats, not dogs, to feast on this time. Though one still mounts a boot-tip, bobs up into your spare hand, and “Oh. How I’d just adore making it all right for ya pup,” you drawl, wait out the seconds, to lap up each transceived pant of desperation. “But— y’know, ya gotta make it right first.”

Speakers shudder in electric anticipation as the meagre band of frequencies a battle-radio is allowed to occupy choke on two shots in sudden succession. Thhunkh. Thunkhh. Your radar flickers into range, to see the targeted blips but a moment before they flicker out.

There’s so many more than those ones, than hers — bright speckles of seawater mould on the dull, hooded monitor.

“Yeah. Sure,” she spills, spent shells in the oil-suckered muck, doesn’t have the time to mute, “can take it from my friends’ corpses when this contract’s done — like I didn’t pay enough gettin’ outta yours.”

You think it’s a shame, how she values them — valued them — over her own family, slipping her leash to leave the pack behind. “Handler,” she begs — her words huddled between the rhythmic shunts of her main-arm reloading.

You feel the way it tears itself apart each time it fires — how it trades off: so much power, but it must hurt itself too. How she didn’t know how to repair it — before you, “No.”

“Wha—”

“No more debts,” you append, in correction of her. It’d look the same on the company files but, “Ya always looked sad when ya owed me.”

“So how the fuck am I supposed to—” Her shriek suffers another’s interjection; the hull-creasing bellow of another blow taken, less glanced than the last, less her fainting gesture at leverage. “Fine! You wanna fuck me, right? ‘Cos I never gave you the chance.”

Mould pours into a brittle crescent around her, cut apart at the gridlines and nowhere else.

She must’ve backed into her prize: a vessel downed in distant memory, too much promise of precious relics to be uncontested, now the winds have shaken it from its grave. At last its rusted silvered shell bounces an invisible laser back into the rangefinder. You count down each point: two-point-six clicks, two-point-five, point-four, point-three.

She doesn’t need to know that — would know it herself, 

“Ya ain’t gotta make it right to me,” you explain, punctuate it with the loose, separation-anxious howl of the smallest of the pack’s three. It nuzzles past the mounted one, and whimpers as you tamp fingers down on radio and tongue, to tell her.

“It’s to your sisters.”

All your hounds whine now, except her. But that’s still good. The pilot-suits will recirculate the lost fluid — most of it. The rest will help it slip off, after she’s back, and even before that it’s little between them and the ridged, rubber toe-caps each vies to press themselves into.

“Are you not over this,” she cries, even though it’ll soak the soft trim of her head-mounted display. “I left months ago and I’m dying now.”

You retreat a wet index-finger from an eager, pulsing throat — rub the mess on its cheek, let out a soft snap. “I’m not, pup,” you turn on her, and two sub-point clicks fly past before you’re able to continue, “and you're already whining so perfectly for me.”

Each hound has stirred now, rushing to collar themselves in their owned, metal skin.

Your words echo into their cockpits, “Bark for your owner.”

It’s not even for them but— Awooo! And it must count sixty-four seconds or less, till they’re hot and grounded, “and I’ll be right over.”

If they want their reward, “I can’t believe I’m—” If there’s still one to collect.

You look at that speckled crescent, know from how it falls on her what each wretched speckle is — model, armament, pilot-temperament — and can count the seconds you’ll need to break it. Can count the second you have to break it, and are losing as drop-sirens howl and steel starts to pounce upon the earth.

“Daisy,” you bark — worried she’s silent.

But then, the radio crackles. You hear the hitch in her throat — as the dropship shadows the broken field, before her pack lights the darkness, and realise, in relief, that she is waiting — waiting to, “Speak!”

“Arf!”

“Good girl.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

written for Making-up-Mech-Pilots' prompt:

Mech Pilot who is very upset that they don't get to pick their own callsign.

technically started writing this before i made a tumblr account but i believe this will be appreciated here. it started off more playful and invariably i have made it sad but also smutty. lmk if you like it <3

[loviestoki]

echoes of us — kang haerin x f!reader

warnings: angst, breakup

word count: n/a but it's a short read !!

"Here," Haerin said, her voice barely above a whisper. She gently pushed a brown cardboard box into your arms, its contents heavy with the weight of your shared memories. For a moment, Mother Nature held her breath as the world around you slowed. Internally, time accelerated, your heart a ravenous beast, pounding mercilessly inside you, devouring every ounce of your love and hope. You stared into her dark eyes, now repulsive, like two black holes of despair swallowing the warmth you once held. Your breath caught in your throat, leaving a bitter taste of regret. One year. A year of your life that you had spent endlessly loving and devoting yourself to Haerin, all in vain.

...

"Why?" was all you could manage to say as tears streamed down your face, carving deep paths of betrayal into your cheeks.

"...I'm afraid," her voice trembled, her eyes filled with sorrow, now avoiding yours as she looked down, "of how people would react if they saw us together." You scoff, wiping the tears from your face with a shaking hand as you gather the rage from within you and morphed it into the courage you needed to speak up for yourself.

"I thought you loved me-"

"I do!" She cuts you off, her nonchalant facade now gone as her own face has become a barren wasteland, her tears like rain in a drought.

"No. You were always more afraid of what others would think than of losing me; that's not love, Haerin." She shakes her head at you, a silent plea for understanding.

"Forget it, I love you." You whisper for what would be the last time. Your heart subconsciously replays your happiest memories of her, trying to convince you to stay. But the pain was too much. You turned away from her, the desolate street stretching out before you. The wind whipped at your face, a taunting echo of the serenity that had been ripped away from you in the matter of minutes.

[iphigeniacomplex]

"prayer", ghost quartet (dave malloy, 2014) | "when i heard the learn'd astronomer (walt whitman, 1865) | "little god", octet (dave malloy, 2019)

[ Begin transcript:

Image 1: A screenshot from the Bandcamp lyrics of "Prayer" from Ghost Quartet. The text is black on a white screen, and styled in all caps. It says, "I WILL TRY TO FORGIVE MYSELF / FOR BEING ABSENT IN PUBLIC / AND BORED BEFORE STARS / FOR NOT REMEMBERING / FOR NOT BEING IN MY BODY / FOR NOT STARTING RIGHT NOW"

Image 2: A screenshot from the Poetry Foundation website, containing the full text of Walt Whitman's poem "When I Heard The Learn'd Astronomer". The text is black on a white screen, and in a serif font. It says, "When I heard the learn'd astronomer, / When the proof, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, / When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them, / When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room, / How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, / Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself, / In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, / Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars."

Image 3: A screenshot from the Genius Lyrics page for "Little God" from Octet. The text is black on a white screen, and says, "We traveled into black holes, into quarks; we slipped through time backwards and sideways; we created new life forms, living suns; we watched the universe multiply, invert, spiral, disappear. We beheld an infinity of wonders---and yet we sat at our desks in stoic calculation, paralyzed by the unforgiving relentlessness of our intellect." The text from "We beheld an infinity of wonders" to "stripped of awe" is highlighted in yellow.

End transcript. ]

[marsupials-of-mars]

Synopsis:

Since the events of episode 6, Duck has picked up on a change in the red one's behavior. Specifically, towards him. While the beast's internal workings befuddle him, he's intrigued by the prospect of developing their relationship (whether Red wants to call it that or not). But how is romance meant to be properly navigated? Maybe he can get some guidance from a couple new educational friends?

@sherbetyy @bicon-crange @oswaldepic @its-mayo0

[fivefootoh-andtrains]

Emmet is suddenly seized with old sibling instincts. Hopefully Ingo remembers his own.

Word count: 990

[an-ruraiocht]

one of my annoying medievalist traits that i don't usually voice because it makes me sound like a snob is that i find it funny when people refer to a single medieval text as a book

[generic-sonic-fan]

Old Time's Sake

Summary: The robot once known as "Metal Sonic" attempts to ask Amy Rose for a favor.

TW: suicidal thoughts

---

It crashed into a pot of petunias on the porch, ceramic shattering against the wooden panels of the house. Shredded pink blossoms settled against purple, yellow, and blue plating, only to be shaken off by the onslaught of shudders that battered its frame. 

Neo pulled itself to the door just as the knob twisted from the other side. Amy Rose stared down.

“Metal? Oh my goodness, you look- what happened?”

It grasped the frame of the door and pulled itself upright.

“No, it’s okay, stay right there. Or actually, I’ll bring you in!”

Amy Rose grabbed its arms and pulled it through the door. It simulated her gripping hard enough to damage its plating. A reprimand shot down its spinal strut response. She did not lose or even tighten her grip, however, as she led it to her couch.

She sat it down. “Stay here. You’re going to be okay. I’ll get Tails on the phone and he’ll make you right as rain!”

The name switched its self-preservation programming from hostile to cooperative. Calling Miles “Tails” Prower would result in Sonic’s arrival, so it must not allow Amy Rose to reach her cell phone, so it must attack her, and she would summon her hammer and then-

It lept off the couch and embedded its claws into her shoulders. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open to match the exact ratios of panic it had recorded from her on Little Planet. In an instant, her hammer was in her hand.

The force dented its torso plating. It crashed into a wall. It waited for more blows, simulated the damage from other instances in which she’d demolished Badniks, anticipated, anticipated. It looked at her to find her stationary despite her vitals being elevated beyond even what might be registered in ordinary combat.

It pulled itself out of the wall and approached.

“What is going on with you?”

It scratched at her, but only pierced air as she stepped away.

“Would you stop that? I can’t help you if you’re going to attack me!”

Neo recalled her being more intelligent than this. It pointed to her hammer, then pointed to its own frame. 

Her panic unfroze and dripped down to a facial expression that would be unrecognizable if it were not for the events of the past two weeks. It was an expression of Sonic towards hurt Flickies. Of a young “Rosie” uncovering a broken robot on a snowy day. 

Her hammer disappeared. “You want me to hurt you?”

Neo gave an affirmative ping before the shudder of a reprimand could stop it.

“No. I’m not going to.”

It lunged forward, piercing the skin of her arm, the tips of its claws coming away with blood.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” Amy Rose shouted. “Don’t do that again or I’ll call Sonic!”

Neo froze.

“Not that I don’t think I can smash you to pieces myself, but that I don’t want to. Tails tells me that you’re not working for Eggman anymore.”

That was the point. Without Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s interference, Neo was without purpose. Neo should be destroyed. Neo should be destroyed. Neo should be-

“Did you ever want to work for him in the first place?”

Neo looked at her.

“Did I. . . make a mistake, that one time in the snow?”

It lowered its gaze.

“Because you just seemed so sad, sitting abandoned there. Like you’d given up.”

It could not feel ‘sadness’. It could hardly recall the memory file; data input from that time had been minimized to best preserve power. It had been out of standby mode for only a minute, knocked back into active mode when she had saved it from the path of the falling tree. 

And it could not give up. Its prime core directive demanded as much. The reminder triggered reprimands, and a shudder up its neck joint rattled it out of the memory. 

“Here, can you write?” Amy Rose retrieved a pencil and pad of paper from a table at the end of the couch. “Let’s sit down so that you can tell me what’s going on instead of barging in and being rude.”

It shook its head.

“Then I’ll go get my phone so you can type.” 

She walked backwards, keeping her eyes fixed on its frame until she slipped behind a door. She returned with her cellular device, cased in pink with charms dangling from the corner. She unlocked the screen and extended the device in its direction.

“You’re either telling me what’s going on or you’re leaving.” She said.

Neo took the phone and typed, “this unit cannot give up.”

“Seems like that’s what you’re doing right now, huh?” She smiled with only half of her mouth. “Back then, I just couldn’t leave you there to die. Or deactivate, I guess. I thought at the time that you might miss Eggman. He gave you more headpats back then.”

“This unit did not wish to be left there.” To fade into nothing. It could not be nothing.

“But did you want to go back to Eggman?”

“No other beneficial course of action.”

“I could have brought you to Tails.”

“The result would have been deactivation.”

“He could have reprogrammed you, like he did just now.”

“Exposure to Tails increases likelihood of exposure to Sonic by 94%. Deactivation would have followed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Negative. This unit-”

She did not wait for it to finish typing. “That’s not true. Sonic isn’t just some bloodthirsty monster out to get you. He just wants to protect people. Every time he beat you up it’s because you did something to deserve it.”

“Define: ‘something to deserve it’.”

“You don’t know what you did wrong? I thought you wanted to be good now.”

“Define: ‘good’.” Neo stepped forward. “Define: ‘good’.”

“Good! As in, not hurting people!” Amy Rose pointed to the scratches on her arm. “Or kidnapping them!”

“67% of this unit’s missions did not involve hurting or kidnapping sentient organics.”

“Or animals! Not hurting or killing plants and animals either. Really, it’s not that hard and you missed the bar. That’s why Sonic fought you so often.”

“24% of all encounters with Sonic the Hedgehog did not involve other organic beings.”

“Because he knew that you were going out to hurt people, or to help Eggman get things to hurt people with.”

“Why did you return this unit to Dr. Ivo Robotnik?”

“I-” Amy Rose held her breath for two seconds. She directed her gaze to Neo’s foot plating. “Because I thought it was where you’d be happiest.”

“Incomprehensible. Elaborate.”

“Did you like it, when you kidnapped me?”

Neo was prepared to repeat its prior statement before its optics swiveled to the same angle as Amy Rose’s. It stared down at its body, the remains of lines and hues of purple, shaped in a way that it did indeed ‘like’. And it compared the sensation to that of returning to Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s lair with the then-little girl in hand. 

It remembered depositing her in the cell, before turning to meet its creator. It remembered a soft hand on its forehead plating. It remembered his words.

“Excellent work, my finest creation!”

Even the review of this piece of data in its memory banks brought an echo of euphoria in its processor. That it was once finest. That it once completed excellent work.

“Yes.” Neo answered. “This unit liked when Dr. Ivo Robotnik praised it.”

“But did you like seeing me afraid? Did that make you laugh or make you happy?” Amy Rose asked.

“That data was irrelevant.”

“And did you like hurting animals?”

“That data was irrelevant.” 

“And do you like hurting Sonic, or do you just want to be praised for it?”

Neo generated fifteen different responses, but only five made grammatical sense and of those, three were non-sequiturs and the other two were objectively false. 

“That’s what I thought.” Amy Rose said.

“This unit must destroy Sonic.” It snapped. “If it cannot destroy Sonic, then it must cease existing.”

“You don’t have to do either. You really don’t. I know you will never believe me. . . but you don’t.” Amy Rose stepped forward. She then sighed, before gesturing further into her house. “Follow me.”

Neo followed her past her main living area and into a room covered in decorative scraps affixed to the walls with a bed against the far wall. She opened the door to the closet and retrieved a roll of red ribbon. She retrieved scissors and snipped a scrap off the end. She then manipulated the scrap into a bow knot, before turning to face Neo.

“Here. This is the ribbon I gave you that day. I’m giving it back to you.”

This was not the ribbon that Amy Rose gave it the day she returned it to Dr. Ivo Robotnik. Dr. Ivo Robotnik had seized the fabric and thrown it into the incinerator before Neo had shut down for repair. This new ribbon was, however, of the exact same color and material composition ratio as the previous, suggesting that this roll of ribbon was the common origin of the two. 

“This time, though, you get to choose what to do with yourself. You get to go wherever you’re happiest.”

“Even if this unit is happiest when determining how to destroy Sonic?”

“If that’s where you are happiest, then I’ll beat the crap out of you with this.” She summoned her hammer again. “Because I am happiest when I’m making sure my friends aren’t getting hurt.”

“And if it is unknown where this unit is happiest?”

“Then keep going until you figure it out.” Amy Rose deposited the ribbon into its hand. 

She clasped her palm against its fingers. It loosened its joints, allowing her to curl its fingers around the fabric. She then let go. 

“You should go.” She pointed to the door. “You don’t want to be here, and I don’t want you here.”

Neo cocked its head. 

“Because I’m still really mad at you.” She gripped her hammer tighter. “But that’s something we can talk about when you figure out if you want to be better or not.”

Her statement was illogical. If she was mad at it, then she would not be giving it a gift. It could not understand. But it could understand her command, so it left her bedroom, walked through her living area, and passed through the exterior door of her house.

The door shut, and it heard two locking mechanisms engage behind it. 

Neo stood in the darkness looking at the bow in its hand.

[yumenosakiacademy]

[machine-herald-archive]

Ensemble - Rayla Heide

The plump belly of the Rising Howl looms before me, churning with its endless gears and elaborate ironwork. Some say the Howl is named for the wrought iron wolf that cries atop the apex of the hexdraulic descender; others swear the ghost of a black-veiled gentle-servant haunts the cabin, and when the Howl lifts him away from his lost love in Zaun, the sounds of his moans reverberate and shake its metal core. Many Piltovans, convinced as they are in their own sound judgment, are sure the name refers to nothing more than the cold wind whistling between the crevasses below their city.

But to me the Howl is not a single lone cry. It is an orchestra of noise, a melodic blend of a thousand unique sounds. It is why I am drawn to the machine.

The multi-tiered elevator, supported by three vertical structural beams which span the height of the city, descends to the Promenade level and slows to a lurching halt.

“Disembark for the Promenade!” the conductor announces, her voice magnified by a bell-shaped sonophone. She adjusts her thick goggles as she speaks. “Boundary Markets, College of Techmaturgy, Horticultural Center.”

Passengers pour from the descender. Dozens of others board and spread throughout its floors: merchants traveling to Zaun to trade in the night bazaars, workers returning home to sleep, wealthy Zaunites visiting night blooms in glass-domed cultivairs. Then there are the unseen riders who have made the Howl their home. I spy them scurrying in the shadows: plague rats, shadowhares, and viridian beetles.

Sometimes I climb down the crevasses to descend to the Sump, but tonight I long for the harmony of noise I know the descender will create.

Instead of entering through the doorway, I swing around the outside and lock my grip on the bottommost bar where ridged steel brackets frame the glass windows. My metal plates clank as I clamber onto the Howl, drawing stares from the passengers and what looks like a grimace from the conductor. My knowledge of facial expressions grows each day.

Most passengers ride within the compartment, away from the cold and soot, but outside, in the open air, I can hear the satisfying click-clack of mechanical parts snapping into place and the soft hiss of steam releasing as we sink into Zaun. And besides, I don’t easily fit through most doors.

A small boy clings to his sump-scrapper father’s hand and gapes at me through the window. I wink at him and his mouth opens in what I estimate is surprise. He ducks behind his father.

“Going down!” says the conductor. She rings a large bell and adjusts the dials on a bright red box. I can almost feel the commands buzz as they surge through wires into the descender’s engine.

Below us, the iron pinnacles of Zaun’s towers and green glass cultivairs glitter like candles in the dimming light. The Howl whirs and creaks as its cranks spiral down against the three towering beams, weighted down with iron, steel, and glass. A blast of steam whistles from the topmost pipe.

Inside the cabin, the sump-scrapper and his child look on as a musician tunes his four-stringed chittarone and begins a sonorous melody. His tune synchronizes with the clacking gears and whirring machinery of the Howl. The father taps his foot to the rhythm. A beetle snaps her pincers as she scrambles away from the man’s heavy boot. A gang of chem-punks lean against the wall in soft repose, a pause so unlike their usual frenzied jaunts through the city.

The Howl whirs in its perfect fusion of sounds during our descent. I marvel at the symphony around me and find myself humming along to the deep buzzing tones. The rhythm thrums through me and I wonder if those around me feel it.

“Entresol!” the conductor calls out as the descender slows. A pair of couriers carrying parcels wrapped in twine disembark, along with a crew of chemtech researchers and a crowd of chem-merchants. A merry crowd of Zaunites from the theater district steps aboard.

“Down we go!” she says, ringing her bell, and the Howl responds with a whir. The descender sinks and the windows mist as vapor pours from pipes above. Beads of water spread across my metallic chest as the harmony of clanking machinery and whooshing steam begins anew.

A discordant murmur interrupts the pattern of sounds. The vibration is subtle, but I can tell something is off. The descender continues as if all was normal, until a jarring clunk breaks its perfect rhythm.

Though I have never dreamed, I know a break in the pattern this abrupt is a machine’s most frightening nightmare.

The spiralling gearway is jammed, and the cabin’s iron brackets grate against it with a horrible screech. Many lives are at stake and I feel the machine’s pain as it braces desperately against the support beams. The entire weight of the Howl heaves against its bending columns and the cabin tilts at a lurching angle. Rivets burst from their seams as metal is pulled away from itself.

We wobble for a moment, then drop.

Inside the cabin, passengers scream and grasp at the nearest railing as they plunge. This is a different kind of howl.

I tighten my hold on the cabin’s bottommost platform. I extend my other arm, launching it toward one of the three vertical structural beams. The iron column is slippery in the mist and my grip misses it by inches. I retract my arm and steam blasts from my back as I try again, whizzing it toward a second beam. Another miss.

Time slows. Inside the cabin, the chem-punks cling to a ledge while the viridian beetle flies out an open window. The sump-scrapper and his child brace themselves against the glass, which fractures under their weight. The boy tumbles out, scrabbling at the frame with his fingers before he slips and falls.

I reach up and catch the boy in mid-flight, then retract my arm.

“Hold on,” I say.

The child clings to the plates on my back.

I fire my arm up toward the support beam once more, and this time my hand meets solid metal with a resounding clang as I secure my hold. My other arm is forced to extend as it’s wrenched down by the plunging cabin, so much that I feel my joints might fracture. Suspended in midair, I try to steady my grip.

With a great jolt, my arm jerks as the descender halts its freefall. It shakes from the sudden stop, now supported only by my arm. The boy shudders as he tightens his grip on my back.

The Howl is still fifty feet above the ground, hovering over the Sump-level buildings. My overlapping metal plates groan as they strain against the weight and I concentrate all my efforts on holding myself together. If I fall, the Howl falls with me, along with all its passengers.

While locking my arm onto the support beam, I slide my arm down the pillar. We drop ten feet and the cabin sways precariously before stabilizing again.

“Sorry about that!” I shout. Statements of empathy can be reassuring to humans in moments of crisis.

I must try again. I must be strong.

I release my grip on the support column ever so slightly, and with a piercing screech we gently slide down the remaining forty feet to the ground. My valves sigh as they contract.

Passengers echo my sighs as they stumble through the doors and broken windows into the Sump level, leaning on each other for support.

The boy on my back breathes rapidly as he holds my neck. My arms whir as I retract them and lower myself to the floor, crouching down so the child can touch the ground. He scrambles back to his father, who embraces him.

The conductor emerges from the descender and looks at me.

“You saved us. All of us,” she says, her voice shaking from what I think is shock. “Thank you.”

“I am simply fulfilling my purpose,” I say. “I am glad you are not hurt. Have a good day.”

She smiles, then turns to direct the crowd of Zaunites who have gathered to offer their assistance to the passengers and begin repairs. One of the chem-punk girls carries the musician’s chittarone for him as he crawls from the descender. Several of the theater-folk comfort an elderly man.

Two Hex-mechanics stumble toward me and I direct them to a medical officer who is setting up a tented repair station. The murmurs of the passengers and the hissing groans of the wounded descender blend with the whirrs and churning of the Sump. The steam-engine within my chest murmurs along, and I am moved to whistle a tune.

The boy turns and waves shyly at me.

I wave back.

He runs to catch up with his father, his heavy boots tapping a rhythm on the cobblestones. Shifting wheels sing and gears click-clack within the belly of the Rising Howl. The viridian beetle snaps her pincers in time with the beat as she zooms away into the Sump.