#steam powered giraffe fanfiction

[amuseoffirebane]

Words: 3,667

Content Warnings: Offscreen Major Character Death, foot injury

Summary:

It's a few months after the Weekend War, and Colonel Walter has been missing for three days. As the robots grow increasingly panicked, Iris descends into the cellar, where The Giraffe sleeps, to find the missing Colonel.

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Fic: Piano Lessons (Crosspost)

Word Count: 3501

Summary:

It’s 1918, and a young Hare has been sent to teach piano to Ignatius Becile, his maker’s oldest estranged son. But Ignatius is thirteen, full of that age’s anger and desperation, and in Hare he sees an opportunity to impress the father he’s never met.

With thanks to BlueSpine for the prompt and some ideas, and to Dionysus for helping break my writer's block!

　　1918.

　　“So, you and Pops was pen pals?” Hare asked.

　　The Widow Becile’s lips twitched up in a faint smile. “He’d never call it such. But yes, we initially traded correspondence while he was incarcerated. His letters were dictated, of course, due to his injuries.”

　　The Widow Becile was not, in truth, a widow. Thadeus Becile was still very much alive; Hare had seen him just that morning. But notoriety made waves, and the Widow was a quiet woman.

　　Hare didn’t know anything about Delilah Morreo beside her name, and he couldn’t have started to guess why Pops had liked her so much. But he could see why Pops liked this woman enough to marry her on the sly: she was smart, distant, and her eyes were cunning as knives, just like him.

　　Why they’d had two kids together, and what strings they had pulled to make the first one happen while Pops was still behind bars, Hare didn’t dare ask.

　　They sat in the Widow’s garden at a little tea table with a glass top. The two-story townhouse it surrounded was painted pale yellow, with little patches of decorative ivy crawling up the sides. The flowers were bountiful and the bushes long in the tooth, and Hare watched white butterflies dance above the leaves. It was small compared to the Becile Estate where Hare lived, but it was just as silent, like a painting no one could touch.

　　Hare, the Widow, and the baby Norman had been sitting there for half an hour, he judged by the church bells. Hare tried to be polite as he could be for the lady as she patiently grilled him with question after question, Norman sleeping silently in her arms. How old was Hare? Just over a year, ma’am. (That made him about a year younger than Norman.) How long had he played piano? Most of his life. Did he enjoy playing? Oh, yeah, loved it. Loved performing, too. She should come see, sometime. Was he good? Well, he liked to think so.

　　Good. The house was too quiet for a boy Ignatius’ age, a hale thirteen. He needed something to do with his hands beside tinkering.

　　The wooden gate clattered close behind a row of bushes nearby. Hare turned in his seat, already watching the space when Ignatius came around the corner. The boy was halfway into his growth spurt, a little lanky but not yet tall, features starting to sharpen under his short curls and large glasses. His school uniform was clean, if slightly wrinkled, but the bulging backpack over his shoulder was well-loved. Ignatius pulled up short, seeing Hare, and his face flashed darkly for a second before dissolving into a carefully practiced blank.

　　If the Widow had caught the piercing look, she didn’t react. “Ignatius, welcome home. You remember I asked your father to send one of his robots to teach you the piano. This one is named Hare.”

　　“Pleasure’s all mine, kid,” Hare said affably, standing.

　　Ignatius nodded slowly. There was a second-too-long pause before he said, “Nice to meet you.”

　　Oh boy, Hare thought. Hare might have been young, but he had a knack for reading people, and this boy was simmering.

　　“Go drop off your school books and change your clothes,” The Widow Becile said to Ignatius calmly. “You may have a moment to breathe while I show Hare the piano.”

　　The new stand-up had been placed in the parlor next to a large window, angled perpendicular to the wall. Hare had stuffed his vents with filters to minimize his dark smoke, not wanting to pollute what he’d correctly assumed to be a lovely residence, but he was relieved to see the window all the same. He swung the frames outward and sat down on the piano bench, lifting the fallboard and casting his green eyes over the keys. The ivory was as white as clouds and shone in a way Hare had never seen on another instrument. He tentatively pressed middle C and smiled at the bright tone. Giddy at the opportunity, Hare set his hands on the keys and began to play ragtime, improvising a riff. He almost didn’t hear the floorboards behind him creak.

　　“Mother won’t be happy if you teach me that music,” Ignatius drawled. Hare turned to see him standing in the doorway, arms folded, head slightly cocked to the side as he regarded Hare through his glasses. “She says ragtime and jazz are for scoundrels.”

　　Hare paused, then lifted a brow. “Yeah? And what do you think?”

　　“I think it’s a glaring over-generalization, and I don’t see how music could predicate moral fiber,” Ignatius said. “After all, Mother says my father prefers classical music, and he’s a bastard.”

　　Hare whistled an impressed, sliding note. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Hare said, readying himself to spar.

　　“Of course I do. If she doesn’t know I swear, she can’t know the difference,” Ignatius said, walking into the room. “All the same, I’m not interested in offending her over something so trivial, so you’d best stick to teaching me the classics.”

　　“Is that what you’re interested in?” Hare asked. “’Cause I was gonna teach you theory, first, unless all you want is to play by rote.”

　　That gave Ignatius a moment of pause. “Theory? Like science?”

　　“You could spin it that way,” Hare said.

　　“I’m surprised you know that much,” Ignatius said frankly. “Were you programmed to know it?”

　　“Nope. But I got better recall than most humans. Makes learning patterns real easy.” Hare scooted over on the bench and nodded toward the empty space next to him. Ignatius grimaced slightly, hesitating, before he sat down.

　　-

　　Ignatius was a quick study when it came to principles, and Hare could see the growing wear and tear on the study books he lent the boy, but he got frustrated when his muscle memory couldn’t keep up. Hare came back twice a week, and he tried to be friendly, tried to be encouraging. But Ignatius kept him at arms length, his gaze always calculating when he looked Hare in the eye. Occasionally Norman would toddle into the room and watch them, ever silent, often chewing on his thumb or a part of his shirt. Ignatius would pointedly ignore him.

　　“This one’s a Hare Becile original,” Hare said, placing a few sheaves of sheet music on the stand. The notes were written in sharp, inky scratches. “I made the arrangement easier than the way I play it, but the melody line’s the same.”

　　Ignatius looked the papers over, his lips slightly moving as he worked through the solfège and rhythm. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have to dumb your music down for me,” he said bluntly.

　　“Ain’t ‘dumbing down,’ Ig’, it’s adapting,” Hare said.

　　“How do you play it?” Ignatius challenged.

　　Hare rolled his head to the side in a feigned stretch, smirked, and started playing. It was a dark sound, minor and slick, with high trills and a low, continuous rumble. His hands flashed across the keys, jumping between octaves, and when it was over, Ignatius was wide-eyed and silent.

　　“How am I supposed to catch up to you?” Ignatius eventually blurted out. “I’ll never be able to play like that!”

　　“What, giving up before you’ve tried?” Hare asked. “That ain’t the Becile way.”

　　Ignatius shot him a pointed look. “You’d know better than me,” he grumbled. “But what’s the point if you’re always going to be second best?”

　　Hare thought for a moment. “You enjoy being alive?”

　　“Of course,” Ignatius said moodily.

　　“You ever feel more alive than usual? Even in a bad way?” Hare laid a hand gently on the piano keys. “That’s the point. Your ‘best’ isn’t about being better than someone else, it’s about the ride.”

　　“You say that,” Ignatius said slowly. “What about Walter’s band of robots?”

　　Hare stiffened up. “What about them?”

　　“My father made you to compete with them, didn’t he? I saw them at the World’s Fair. It doesn’t take a genius to see the connection.”

　　Hare felt the fire in his chest burning hotter. He hadn’t seen Rabbit for most of a year-- not since her conscription into the war overseas. For all he knew, she’d never return. Maybe if she didn’t, their rivalry would stop haunting him-- but then he kicked himself. Wishing for Rabbit’s destruction was a step too far. “Look, that’s… complicated. More complicated than I wanna talk about. You don’t got that problem.”

　　“Don’t I?” Ignatius muttered.

　　“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hare asked.

　　“Forget it. Let me hear the simplified arrangement so I can get started practicing.”

　　-

　　“Piano’s getting out of tune,” Hare said a few weeks later.

　　Ignatius quirked an eyebrow and stopped playing. “It sounds fine to me.”

　　“It ain’t by much, but it’s there, in the low notes.” Hare looked out the window that was directly to the piano’s left. “It’s probably from the weather.”

　　“Well, we have to keep it open for you during lessons,” Ignatius said. “I don’t want to choke.”

　　“This may be a shock, Ig’, but the temperature around windows is always a bit more like the other side,” Hare said. “Even when the pane’s closed.”

　　“Can you even feel temperature?” Ignatius asked.

　　Hare blinked. “No. I just�� know that.”

　　Ignatius rolled his eyes. “Fine. Do you want me to stop playing?” he asked, lifting his hands from the keys.

　　Hare hummed thoughtfully. “Well, now I gotta think. I don’t want you getting used to an off tune. But if you can’t hear the difference yet, it shouldn’t matter. It’s gonna drive me batty, though.” Hare performatively stuck his pinky finger in his ear, as if trying to shake out a bout of tinnitus. “Course, it really comes down to your mother paying for a tune up.”

　　Ignatius was quiet as Hare talked. His eyes followed Hare’s hand as he lowered it from his head.

　　“Hey,” Ignatius said. “Could you take off your gloves? I want to see how your hands work.”

　　Hare startled at the request. “Uh, sure, I guess,” he said. He peeled his gloves off gingerly. He never touched a piano without them on; his fingertips were too thin to hit the keys correctly and so sharp as to leave scratches. “Mind the blades.”

　　Ignatius seized his right hand first, turning it this way and that. “You don’t have a lot of plating here,” he observed. “The mechanics are exposed in places, like you’ve been flayed. Fascinating.”

　　“Flayed? Gross,” Hare said. “They’re just like that so’s they’re easier to fix.”

　　“And the gloves act as sheathes,” Ignatius mumbled. He ran an index finger along the length of one of the blade edges, then pulled back with a hiss, blood blossoming on his fingertip.

　　Hare jerked his hand away, head starting to swim in an unfamiliar way at the sight of the blood. “I told ya’!” he said, standing. “Criminy, you know where the bandages are? Kitchen? Bathroom?”

　　“Kitchen. But it’s barely a papercut,” Ignatius grumbled.

　　“Don’t care, we’re patching it up anyway.” Hare stuffed his hands back into his gloves and headed for the kitchen. “I ain’t going back to Pops to tell him you got lockjaw ‘cause of me.”

　　Hare didn’t reply when, as he stepped out of the room, he heard Ignatius quietly say, “Like he’d care.”

　　-

　　Things continued in their passable way for a few months. Ignatius’ playing improved steadily, if not quickly. He even guardedly asked for pointers on composing his own music, scrawling out fragments on scrap paper and collecting them in a folder. Hare thought they were making progress, and he didn’t think much of the occasional times Ignatius asked to look at his hands.

　　Then the Widow was invited to see Pops.

　　Ignatius’ face was dark as storm clouds as Hare helped the Widow into her coat. He sat at the piano, chewing his lower lip, glowering at the sheet music in front of him.

　　“Watch your brother, Ignatius,” the Widow said over her shoulder to his back. “If there’s any problems, the neighbors are home.” Only Hare caught the slow turn of Ignatius’ head, how he stared at her with one eye.

　　Hare offered the Widow his arm as they left the house, and she took it. He tried to keep her talking as they walked to the streetcar, hoping it would be enough to distract her from Ignatius following them. All things considered, the kid was stealthier than Hare expected, but he chose amateur hiding spots. Hare guided the Widow to a seat on the streetcar so that she faced away from the way they’d come, and he thought they lost Ignatius there.

　　They met The Skull at the gates of the Becile Estate. He doffed his hat for the Widow, muttering a quiet, “Ma’am.” He then led them up the remnants of the gravel trail to the house, pausing to take the Widow’s coat and hat at the door, and through the halls to Pops’ study.

　　After the door to the study clicked close behind the Widow, Hare grabbed The Skull’s arm and started pulling him down the hallway. “Listen, Skulls, we gotta do a sweep. Their oldest kid, the one I’ve been teaching piano, he was following us part of the way.” Hare said quickly. “I don’t know if he caught the next trolley after us, but Pops’ll have our hides if the kid shows up uninvited.”

　　The Skull nodded, and they split ways at the parlor. Hare searched one wing of the house, while The Skull searched the other. Hare could hear The Jack practicing his violin in the basement as he passed by the stairs, and he decided not to get him involved.

　　A muffled shout caught Hare’s attention. He ran to the noise to find The Skull holding a struggling Ignatius by the open kitchen window, some of the clutter from the counter knocked onto the floor around their feet. Ignatius, seeing Hare, slowed his flailing and sullenly glared at him from under his brows. He wore his ragged backpack, the straps barely hanging onto his shoulders after his fight against capture.

　　“What’s a’ matter with you? You hate your old man,” Hare said in a hushed tone. “Your mom’s gonna rake you over the coals for leaving Norman alone.”

　　“I locked him in his crib,” Ignatius said. “He won’t get out before I get back.”

　　Hare shook his head. “Cripes, kid. You gotta know Pops won’t see you.”

　　“Exactly,” Ignatius said vehemently. “I want to know why.”

　　“Ig’, we live with the guy, and we don’t know why he does half the things he does,” Hare said. “He don’t take kindly to questions and takes even less to surprises. You gotta scram.”

　　“Like hell,” Ignatius snarled. “You don’t get it. You’re just a machine. Why did he even make you? Why did he give mother Norman when he refuses to speak to me? What am I here for?!”

　　Hare stared at Ignatius for a moment, then traded looks with The Skull, before sighing, allowing a cloud of dark smoke to pass his vents. “Pops might not want you around, but your mother does. Sometimes, that’s gotta be enough.”

　　“Well, it’s not! Let go of me!” Ignatius demanded, eyes wet. “I’m going to get answers!”

　　Hare shook his head. “You got two choices-- you go home with dignity, or we carry you back like a sack of screaming potatoes. Look, I’m sorry. I know it ain’t fair.”

　　Ignatius inhaled, meaning to shriek, only for The Skull to clamp a hand over his mouth. The Skull gave Hare a confused look, obviously uncomfortable using force on a child, but held him tight regardless.

　　“What do we do?” The Skull asked Hare.

　　Hare ground his teeth as he thought. “We gotta get him outta the house. I don’t wanna gag him, but if we’re gonna carry him--”

　　“That will be unnecessary.”

　　The three froze as Pops walked into the room. The Widow hovered in the doorway behind him, looking at Ignatius with disappointment.

　　“The Skull, release him,” Pops said flatly.

　　The Skull obeyed, and Ignatius took a teetering step forward, regaining his balance, eyes locked on Pops.

　　Hare winced and said, “We tried to take care of things. Figured you wouldn’t want your visit interrupted. We can take him home--”

　　“You will.” Pops regarded Ignatius with all the passivity of a wall. “But first, I intend to reduce his reasons to invade my home a second time.”

　　Ignatius, his mouth a thin line, unslung his backpack and darted a hand into it. Without a word, he pulled a contraption out of the bag, its parts clicking against each other as he held it out for Pops to see. “I made this,” Ignatius said flatly.

　　Hare stared at the thing, not immediately comprehending what he was looking at. Then the bottom dropped out of his furnace, and he felt impossibly sick

　　Ignatius was holding a replica of Hare’s hand.

　　Pops’ brow lifted a fraction, and he held out his own metal-encased palm to take the replica. Ignatius shuffled forward a few steps and passed it over, watching Pops closely as he examined the construction.

　　“Where did you get the parts for this?” Pops asked Ignatius, testing the range of motion of a finger.

　　Ignatius hesitated for a second, avoiding his mother’s gaze, before saying, “Junkyards. Scrap metal and broken toys. A few pocket knives.”

　　“And you made this to impress me?”

　　“No.” Ignatius straightened up proudly. “I made it to prove that I could.”

　　Hare wished he could melt into the floor tiles. The Skull was avoiding looking at him, his hands nervously clenching.

　　“I see,” Pops said. He gave the replica back to Ignatius. “I’m loathe to reward you for breaking in. But I suppose if you’re going to pursue mechanical engineering under the Becile name, I would rather oversee your development. You’re old enough now to not be a nuisance.” Pops looked down at Ignatius through his glasses. “I’ll discuss a schedule with your mother. Bare in mind that you’re starting on thin ice. You will not enter this house again without my permission. Understood?”

　　“Yes,” Ignatius breathed. He glanced at Hare and grinned. Hare did not grin back.

　　The Widow cleared her throat. “I’m not exactly opposed,” she said. “But if it’s all the same, I’d like him to continue his piano lessons as well.”

　　Hare frowned and folded his arms, tucking his hands out of view. Before he could protest, Pops spoke again.

　　“There may not be time. But we shall see.” Pops looked at The Skull, who snapped to attention. “The Skull, get my guest’s coat for her. You’ll escort her and Ignatius to the streetcar.”

　　“Yes, sir,” The Skull said. He barely glanced at Hare as he swiftly left the room.

　　The Widow held out her hand to Ignatius, who slowly passed Pops to go to her. They followed The Skull, leaving Pops and Hare alone.

　　“You disapprove,” Pops said.

　　“Am I weird for feeling weird about it?” Hare asked, a note of pleading in his voice. “He didn’t tell me he was doing it. He didn’t ask. He just copied me like, like a thing, like a piece of homework.”

　　“Hare, you are a thing,” Pops said.

　　“Yeah,” Hare’s voice faded to a whisper as he looked at the ground. “But he don’t gotta treat me like one.”

　　Pops shrugged. “In any case, I expect you to continue to be respectful. Keep your reservations to yourself, and if time allows for your piano training, challenge him.”

　　Hare narrowed his eyes. “… You got it, Pops.”

　　-

　　Over the next four years, Hare and Ignatius’s lessons became more ever more sporadic. Hare never shook the feeling of violation, and while he was not a cruel teacher, he wasn’t proud of the spitefulness that churned in his chest when he was cool in the face of Ignatius’ improvement. It was only when Ignatius formally ended their lessons and Hare felt a wave of relief that he realized just how long he’d held the grudge.

　　Ignatius seemed to thrive under pressure-- at first. He devoured the books on engineering Pops assigned him, kept his grades up in school, learned to dance his skilled fingers across the ivories. He was hard-working, prodigious. As far as talent went, he was everything a man could hope for in an heir.

　　At seventeen, he broke.

　　Hare could hear Ignatius screaming from the other side of the manor, though the words weren’t clear. When The Jack and The Skull started to stand up from their game of cards, he shook his head.

　　“You guys really wanna get between those two?” he said quietly.

　　The Jack and The Skull traded looks, and they awkwardly sat back down.

　　“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Hare muttered. He looked at his hand for a moment, balled it into a fist. “Let him burn his bridges.

　　“I never liked how he looked at me, anyway.”

[mythrilthread]

August 21 is Fanfiction Writers’ Appreciation Day! Of course I couldn’t miss the day, and the way Renegade Bindery members celebrate is by gifting authors copies of their work.

This one is a real trip down the memory lane. My dear friend Goblin wrote for the Fandom Combat 2013 as part of the Big Bang Challenge, and I drew the cover art.

The story is set in the fictional approximation of the 1920s, so I leaned on art deco aesthetics.

This is a 3-piece Bradel binding in A6 format, with double core endbands. Double sided scrapbooking paper is fiddly, but this particular one was a perfect fit for the project.

Very happy with how this turned out.

[bookwermthings]

Trying to gauge interest in a Discord server primarily focused on writing Steam Powered Giraffe fanfic and making fanart?

I know there's the official server, and I'm in that, but I'd like something more focused on creating and also where I don't feel anxious because the actual band members might see what I make lol

I'd make and maintain the server if there's at least five people interested.

[steam-powered-chaos]

War: Chapter 3 of Data’s Backstory

(WARNING: This chapter has a graphic description of death and the horrors of war, please read at your own risk)

Data hadn’t found many things to hate in their short life, only the rough sound of their gears spinning, their mother’s gasps as she struggled to go up the stairs of her workshop, and war. They hated the war. It was loud, and frightening, and mud got into their circuits.

But the worst thing about the war was the fact that their mother was there, enlisted to fight because of the tiny ‘M’ on her birth certificate. A tiny, meaningless letter which put her in harm’s way. And they weren’t even allowed to sleep in the same quarters as her! Forced to sleep with the other fellow robots, the very inspirations for Data’s own creation, yet they didn’t feel like talking to their automaton cousins, only watching silently out the window.

Then, the very worst part of war came, whilst watching just out of the trenches at no-mans-land, they saw a familiar tangle of hair. Mother

They ignored their orders to stop, running out of the trench into enemy fire, scooping their mother into their arms gently, holding them close to their chest. Her face was a still mask of horror and pain, her chest soaked in blood that could have only been her own, blood that was no longer flowing. They held their mother close, the scientist, their dearest Annabelle, ignoring the whistle, the shout and only looking up to see the missile hurtling towards them. Data did nothing, except fling themselves over their mother’s body, trying to protect her from more harm.

It was all futile in the end.

And The Jon watched an arm fly past his optics, an arm that had a golden hue.

~END~

[saym0-0]

clockwork vaudeville would honestly make such a good short story completely separate from spg lore, like a man making robots out of people who seemed interested in the robot band and actually now that im thinking about it ive definitely read a hermitcraft fic with this premise i have to find it to see if it was inspired by the song or literally is just a coincidence

[ask-the-becile-boys-vf]

Joyeux putain de Noël

Nombre de mots : 1 876

Résumé : M. Szarka prend sur lui pour faire une série de livraisons douloureusement gênantes de cadeaux.

Notes de l'auteur original : Je ne sais pas, c'est juste arrivé.

-

Noël manquait à M. Szarka.

Ou peut-être plus précisément, l’idée de Noël manquait. L'assaut des mauvaises reprises de musique, les conneries kitsch dans les vitrines, la fausse gaieté – cela l'irritait autant que n'importe qui. Mais les lumières colorées du centre-ville la nuit, le rare vent froid sur ses lèvres, l'odeur pas tout à fait réelle du pin, ces choses étaient des souvenirs sensoriels qui n'étaient pas si facile d'oublier. Le Manoir Becile était une crypte émotionnelle dans le meilleur des cas, mais cela devenait de plus en plus glacial et amer à l'approche des vacances. M. Szarka ne pensait pas que les robots aient jamais organisé une véritable fête de Noël, et ce n'était pas lui qui irait accrocher des décorations et chanterait des chants de Noël, mais…

Acheter des cadeaux était la partie la plus facile.

Les distribuer était un exercice d’autoflagellation.

-

« Qu'est-ce que c'est. »

« Euh. »

The Skull regarda M. Szarka avec impatience. Il n'avait aucun endroit particulier où aller, mais il y avait peu de raisons pour lesquelles Szarka devait l'approcher et il n'aimait aucune d'entre elles. Il était possible que The Jack ait besoin d'entretien et qu'il devait le restreindre. Ou bien Szarka avait besoin d’argent et ne pouvait pas en obtenir de Hare. Ou autre chose d'ennuyeux. Ainsi, lorsque l'ingénieur tendit la main vers un sac à ses pieds et en sortit quelques pelotes de laine, The Skull ne savait pas trop quoi en penser.

« Qu’est-ce que c’est ? »

« Pour, euh, tricoter ? Du crochet ? Peu importe ce que tu, euh, fais.

« Quoi, tu veux quelque chose ? »

« Quoi ? Non, je veux dire, pas vraiment. Je veux dire, tu pourrais, je ne refuserais pas, c’est juste, euh. » M. Szarka lui poussa presque les pelotes dans les mains. « Je pensais que tu pourrais avoir besoin de plus. » Il y eut une pause, puis Szarka fit claquer sa langue et commença à fouiller dans la poche de son manteau. « Bon sang, j'avais presque oublié, ça aussi, euh… » Il laissa tomber une petite boîte noire sur les pelotes et tendit la pile à The Skull.

Le grand robot regarda dans la boîte. C'était de la colophane.

« Hare a dit que tu avais une contre-basse stockée quelque part. Je ne… peut-être que tu ne joues plus, mais je me suis dit, tu sais, si tu le voulais. » M. Szarka fit une pause. « Je vais y aller. » Et il attrapa le sac et partit dans le couloir.

The Skull plaça les pelotes sous son bras et prit la boîte de colophane dans une main. Pensivement, il la retourna encore et encore.

Il n'avait pas joué depuis très longtemps.

-

« Locksmith. Euh. »

Locksmith tourna lentement la tête pour regarder M. Szarka, se tenant debout maladroitement dans l'embrasure de la porte avec un sac dans une main. « Oui, mon bon ingénieur ? On dirait que vous avez quelque chose de désagréable à dire. »

« Non, ce n'est pas désagréable », dit lentement M. Szarka en se grattant la nuque. « Juste, euh. Inhabituel. »

« Mon Dieu. Notre cher Szarka aurait-il été possédée par l’esprit des fêtes ? »

« Je suppose qu'on pourrait dire ça », admit M. Szarka avec un haussement d'épaules, avant de sortir un livre. Il fit quelques pas dans la pièce et le tendit à Locksmith, dont les "lunettes" brillèrent alors qu'il le regardait. 1001 livres à lire avant de mourir.

« C'est présomptueux de votre part de penser que je vais mourir. »

« Quoi ? Quoi, non, ce n’est pas… tu aimes écouter des livres audios, n’est-ce pas ? »

« Correct. »

« Alors j'ai pensé qu'il y en avait peut-être quelques-uns que tu aimerais découvrir. » Locksmith lui jeta un coup d'œil. « Ou peut-être que vous les avez tous lus, je ne sais pas. Voici le reçu du cadeau. »

« Comme c'est attentionné de votre part. »

M. Szarka s'en alla. Locksmith le regarda partir, tapotant du doigt le bout de sa canne, puis se concentra sur l'index du livre.

« Kafka sur le rivage, hum… »

-

M. Szarka n'avait pas vraiment offert son cadeau à Jack : il avait ouvert la porte de la chambre du robot, avait jeté le cadeau dedans et avait refermé la porte. Il se sentait plutôt mal ; Jack méritait mieux que d'être traité comme un animal sauvage dans un zoo. Mais il était dangereux, et Szarka ne croyait tout simplement pas à un miracle de Noël qui le transformerait à nouveau en ce petit automate gentil et timide qu'il était censé avoir été assez longtemps pour accepter un cadeau ordinaire.

Le sac avait atterri dans les décombres de la chambre de The Jack et était tombé, renversant une partie de son contenu. Le rire de Jack devint plus doux alors qu'il se tournait pour le fixer, le regardant sous une frange tachée de suie. Il se releva en tremblant et s'avança vers lui, non pas en ligne droite mais en biais, comme s'il risquait de le mordre. Lentement, il avança un pied et posa le bout de sa chaussure sur ce qui était sorti du sac. Cela explosa d’une manière très satisfaisante.

The Jack arracha ensuite le reste du papier bulle du sac avec ses dents, le répandant à travers la pièce et plongea dessus avec une joie maniaque. M. Szarka l'écouta en s'éloignant et pensa que peut-être… eh bien, c'était probablement juste son imagination mais son rire sonnait un peu plus léger.

-

Il s'agenouilla devant la porte et plissa les yeux vers la fissure en bas. Il passa ses doigts dessus et jura ; trop mince. D'accord, d'accord, d'accord.

« Euh, Dee ? »

Silence.

« Je ne suis, euh. Je vais ouvrir la porte. Je n'entre pas. D'accord ? »

Il y eut un craquement. M. Szarka serra les dents, saisit la poignée de la porte et l'ouvrit lentement.

Une main en tissu blanc jaillit jusqu'au coude et se jeta vers lui, le grattant de ses doigts contondants. Szarka cria de surprise, frappant la main loin de ses yeux. Il s'esquiva et brandit l'étui du vinyle comme un bouclier. La main de Dee se referma sur du vide, puis s’abaissa, cherchant, et parcourut l’étui. Elle l'attrapa et l'arracha brutalement des mains de Szarka, disparaissant dans la pièce. Szarka claqua la porte, se retrouvant avec sa joue appuyée contre la porte. Il y eut un remue-ménage à l’intérieur.

« Je prends ça ! » cria Dee de l'autre côté de la porte fermée.

« D'accord ! » Szarka répondit. « C'est pour toi, donc ça va ! »

« Je vais le casser ! Vous ne le reverrez plus jamais ! »

« C'est bon ! C'est à toi ! »

« Je déteste ça, foutu fils de... attends, c'est Ma Rainey ? »

« … Oui ? »

Dee fit une pause. M. Szarka pouvait l'entendre marmonner pour elle-même.

« Ouais, je, euh, si la platine là-haut fonctionne toujours, euh– »

« Ferme-la ! »

« D'accord ! »

« Tu vas regretter de m'avoir donné ça ! »

« Je… ouais. »

« Je vais le jouer jusqu'à ce que tes oreilles saignent ! Et quand tu viendras le reprendre, je t’arracherai les yeux. »

« Ouais, tu sais, je vais te laisser jouer ton disque, et euh, ne jamais revenir. Tu m'as eu, j'aime vraiment mes yeux, euh. Ouais. C'était agréable de discuter. »

M. Szarka descendit rapidement les escaliers et tourna dans le couloir, sortant en tremblant une nouvelle cigarette de sa poche. Le pire était passé. D'accord. D'accord.

Il y eut un léger grondement tandis que Dee traversait le grenier. Il y eut une légère égratignure d'aiguille sur le vinyle, et le blues commença à couler dans les escaliers. Dee ferma ses yeux de verre et se balança sur son support.

Plus tard, dans un accès de colère, elle pourrait très bien fracasser le disque contre le mur et le briser entièrement. Mais pour l’instant, elle serra l’étui contre sa poitrine et laissa la musique la bercer.

-

« Eh bien, eh bien. Le petit assistant du Père Noël a été occupé aujourd’hui, n’est-ce pas ? »

M. Szarka leva les yeux au ciel. Hare avait les pieds sur la table de la cuisine et le regardait paresseusement.

« Ouais, ouais. C'est stupide, je le sais. »

« Awww, l'autodérision n'est pas très Noël, Szarka. Où est ta joie ? Tu vas gâcher mes vacances. »

M. Szarka lança son cadeau au visage de Hare. Il l'attrapa avec une bouffée de fumée, les yeux brillants, et le retourna pour l'examiner. Quelque chose comme un rire échappa au vieux robot.

« Des gants. Comme c’est attentionné. »

« Ouais, eh bien. Les tiens ont des trous. »

Hare plia les doigts, comme s'il les voyait pour la première fois. « Eh bien, bon sang, St. Nick l'a remarqué. »

« Ça se peut. » Szarka leva les mains. « Ils ont des coutures doubles. J’espère qu’ils dureront, parce que je ne t’en achèterai pas une autre paire. Cela a été misérable, d'accord ? Et je comprends que vous aimez être difficiles, mais bon sang. C’est comme si vous étiez allergiques à la gentillesse. » Il se dirigea vers le réfrigérateur et en sortit un carton. « Je prends le lait de poule et je vais me coucher. Bonne putain de nuit. »

« Ho, ho, ho, Joyeux Noël, Szarka. »

M. Szarka sortit en trombe de la pièce. Il ne remarqua pas que Hare avait enlevé ses vieux gants et passait ses mains dans les nouveaux, remuant ses doigts.

« Ce n'est pas un mauvais choix, » dit-il doucement. « Pas mauvais du tout. »

-

La maison était sombre, mais M. Szarka connaissait le chemin vers ses quartiers. Il ferma la porte de sa chambre derrière lui et s'y appuya, penchant la tête en arrière et en soupirant. Plus jamais ça, pensa-t-il. Même pas pour sauver ma vie. Désolé, maman. Je suppose que je n'ai jamais compris l’esprit de Noël.

Il but une gorgée de lait de poule et traversa la pièce, connaissant les marches, un, deux, trois, quatre – il heurta quelque chose avec son pied. Szarka fronça les sourcils, tendant la main vers la lampe et l'allumant. Il laissa tomber le carton de lait de poule sur la table d'appoint et s'agenouilla près de son lit, tendant la main en dessous. Ce qu’il a sorti était enveloppé dans du papier journal et scotché maladroitement. Il pouvait sentir que c'était doux sous l'emballage ; pas très lourd. Les lèvres de Szarka se serrèrent. Il pouvait deviner. Oh, il pouvait deviner. Il n’arrivait tout simplement pas à y croire.

Il déballa le cadeau et rit.

« Des chaussettes. Je serai damné. »

-

Et cette nuit-là, le blues chantait depuis le grenier, et doucement, depuis le sous-sol, une contre-brasse le rejoignit.

-

AO3 Link

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[ramenwithbroccoli]

A story of ice cream and the defeat of the Necrostar

And just when they all thought the battle was lost, that's when the man in white appeared. Rusted around the edges with a navy hat upon his head, he began charging towards the enemy. While he wasn't as strong as Commander Cosmo or blessed with divine powers like the Equinox band, he knew that he was something different from anybody else.

He was the Ice Cream Man.

And he will win this battle.

1. Ice Cream Man, give him a hand

He wasn't like other people. Not because of his personality, although he certainly thought of himself as an interesting one, but because of the freezer that took the place of his chest and a pair of never-melting ice cream cones instead of eyes. It wasn't a big problem, as he could still see just fine, but they were quite uncomfortable when he tried to sleep on his stomach.

Still, his quirks guided him to his destiny of being an Ice Cream Man. He brought joy of cold deserts to the world and kids would go crazy whenever they saw him. He was their favorite and it didn't even bother him that nobody remembered his name. He was the Ice Cream Man. And everyone loves ice cream.

2. Fastest scoops in the west, his ice cream is the best

And he loved his job. He knew he was made for it, with two scoops replacing his hands. A terrible disadvantage in any other environment - maybe apart from competitive soup eating with no other utensils available. But being an Ice Cream Man meant that his scoopy hands could deliver happiness in the form of ice cream twice as fast as any other merchant would. Seeing the amazement on kids' faces was worth all the fuss of trying to get through everyday life with an uncooperative metal excuse for fingers.

3. Might I suggest, it's his ice cream to ingest

He noticed that something was coming days before the Necrostar's attack. There were a lot less children in town, many families suddenly going away despite it still being a school year. Fewer and fewer kids he could make smile with his tricks, and finally he noticed that noone was left. That's where news about evacuation hit him, so he decided to go to the outskirts of the city, where some sentimental people decided to stay despite the warning. He brightened their days by giving them customized desserts as they smiled in gratitude, wondering why ice cream tasted exactly like their favorite foods.

4. He has all your favorite flavors

At quite a young age he discovered that his freezer chest could grant him an ultimate supply of ice cream of any flavor known to man - and a few new ones. Not only that, but the ice cones on his face could make him see what the person needed most at the moment. Was it Neapolitan? Wonderful cheesecake from the party in fourth grade? Taste of peaches from your friend's garden? He could grant all of this request in a blink of an eye, sometimes handing a person their ice cream cone before they even opened their mouths.

5. He has ALL your favorite flavors

People stopped coming after a while.

Wandering through empty streets, Ice Cream Man wondered why it was all still going on. Commander Comso slapped a giant whale across the galaxy, shouldn't he just be done with that guy?

That's when he learnt what the Necrostar was - a being of death, hatred and darkness. How could you kill something that is not alive? How can you stop it when diplomacy fails and violence only feeds the monster you're actually trying to fight?

It was a tough dilemma. There was nothing he could do except wander into the city center to see the thing for himself. Maybe he could scoop something for the heroes fighting it, cheer them up. It's not like he had anything to lose.

Just as he almost reached his destination, a girl stopped him. She introduced herself as Olly, told him that he shouldn't be here while trying to ignore his odd facial structures. He was about to explain everything to the heroine when Commander fell from the sky, his cape half burned. Right behind him, the Necrostar rose from debris, looming over the group.

Ice Cream Man knew what had to be done.

6. HE HAS ALL YOUR FAVORITE FLAVORS

He charged straight for the alien.

Was it stupid? Reckless? Probably. What made him think he, from all people, could defeat the creature while the real heroes couldn't even get close to winning?

Was it his scoopy hands and unlimited supply of ice cream? Was it his navy hat? Love for people and the city they used to live in? Sense of purpose? Ultimate battle between destruction and creation?

The first ice cream scoop he threw at necrostar was an almond one. Second was mint with chocolate chips.

Third tasted of revenge.

One after another, he scooped as fast as he could, burying the Necrostar under layers and layers of ice cream. They were melting quickly in contact with the alien's skin, making it sticky and slowing it down while the Ice Cream Man emptied one container after another. To the surprise of all, the Necrostar started to retreat under this weird attack, folding into itself as if it wanted to run away. Why was it acting hurt when lasers, fire and blunt force didn't do a thing?

Ice Cream Man got through at least thirty containers before he looked around, and upon seeing a smile on other heroes' faces he knew, once again, that he did his job well.

7. Platypus surprise

"I'm sorry sir, can I ask you something?"

Ice Cream Man turned around to the red haired girl from before. "Sure, go on," he said while handing her a scoop of strawberry ice cream. She accepted it despite being a little surprised.

"I just need to know - how did you defeat the Necrostar? What was your secret?"

Ice Cream Man smiled to himself. "You see, Olly, the thing is…" - he took a dramatic pause in which he would consider winking, if only he had eyelids -

"The Necrostar was lactose intolerant."

[thecrappyportalmaster]

Dark Virus Masterlist!

Masterlist for my evil SPG story, Dark Virus!

Plot: Compass (my fanbot) returns back to Walter Manor after a weekend fishing trip, only to discover that a virus has infected the other bots, turning them dark and evil. Can Compass escape and save her friends? Or will she fall to the dark virus?

Chapter One: Something is Different

Chapter Two: Do You Trust Me?

Chapter Three: The Puppet show

Chapter Four: Keep you:

[ao3feed-spg]

new women

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/NvVXrT7

by Kirjavi

Viv can't remember the first time she saw Delilah Morreo. The Delilah Morreo. The woman herself. Whip-smart and just as beautiful. It is something she should remember, surely, but it is gone from her mind just as surely as her rationality.

But what she does remember is the first time she realized the woman was patently, truly, diagnosably mad.

New Woman, noun: a feminist ideal emerging in the late Victorian era initially referring to independent women seeking societal change, and transforming over time to refer to the slowly-growing number of educated, independent, feminist women becoming active in a theretofore-male dominated society, seeking freedom in their own determined and ferocious ways.

Words: 7834, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Steam Powered Giraffe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Delilah Morreo, Viviana Broodwell

Relationships: Delilah Morreo/Viviana Broodwell

Additional Tags: everyone look out sophia has found a minor character and taken her over again, Victorian Attitudes, Fake Science, laboratory romances, Canon Lesbian Character, No Lesbians Die, spg lore allusions, delilah morreo IS trans it doesn't come up though but she DID invent hrt just for her in like 1894, becile & pw1 are mentioned but they are not important, Canonical Character Death, Temporary Character Death, (i mean we've all listened to the ballad of delilah morreo right), No Beta We Die Like Thadeus Becile

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/NvVXrT7

[bonesybonez]

Well…I know what I’ll be writing for the next few days

Gonna probably post it on Ao3 when it’s done or when I finish Chapters

[amuseoffirebane]

Summary: Ignatius makes inter-dimensional leaps once a year to visit his great-grandchildren as they grow up.

Chapter 1 of ???

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Word Count: 3501

Summary:

It's 1918, and a young Hare has been sent to teach piano to Ignatius Becile, his maker's oldest estranged son. But Ignatius is thirteen, full of that age's anger and desperation, and in Hare he sees an opportunity to impress the father he's never met.

With thanks to BlueSpine for the prompt and some ideas, and to Dionysus for helping break my writer's block!

[bookwermthings]

Top Ten Steam Powered Giraffe Fanfics I Would Recommend

(in no particular order)

These are ten fics or short series that I absolutely adore and would recommend to anyone trying to get into Steam Powered Giraffe, or any fan.

1. Hearts Refilled by starship aurora - (series, incomplete, 11.,7K words, beautiful and cute and touching at different times, 'focused on the relationship between wanda walter, norman becile, and the human family behind walter robotics'!! :D)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/3636820

2. The Pact by InterNutter - (fanfic, complete, 8.7K words, a story about the Vice Quadrant that gave me a whole new understanding of the human characters involved and actually made me care about them. Made me emotional)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782044

3. Mirrors by jaysayheyyy - (fanfic, complete, 14.8K, a story where after Peter A Walter the First died, Iris had to give Rabbit to the Beciles and she is Not having fun. Bonus, written with she/her pronouns for Rabbit! (which I wish was the standard but lots of fics were never revisited after she came out))

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321380

4. War Machines by SongOfErin - (fanfic, complete, 88.3K words, and goddamn this one made me cry. I don't know MASH, the crossover fandom at all, but this fanfic made me love those characters for the first time and the SPG characters even more. It is a wartime story, and not everyone likes the robots or thinks they are worthy of care at first, but they grow to love them.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096453/chapters/60795982

5. Goodbye, Old Man by TheTetrarch - (fanfic, complete, 5.1K words, Jon centric fic that is sad and meaningful to me where the bots have to make a tough decision during World War One)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/672760

6. The Chance I've Got by raven_aorla - (fanfic, complete, 2.9K words, The Spine and The Jon centric fic about running out of Crystal Pepsi and only having enough to bring The Jon up to functioning for a few days every few years.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573587

7. Steel Plated by easternCriminal - (fanfic, incomplete, 25.8K words, crossover with the Avengers that I'd argue works even if you're not into Marvel. I love the way that The Spine gets to bond with different characters and I really wish it was finished but I recommend it anyway because I remember it being really good!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282524/chapters/55758373

8. Photographic Memories by Marcus_Gantry - (series, incomplete, 29.6K words, mostly The Spine focused, absolutely amazing and touching writing!! Touches on love, the war, trauma, being upgraded without consent, and Rabbit being trans)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966084

9. Tender Souls by Whistler_Ren - (fanfic, complete, 66.7K words, another crossover between MASH and Steam Powered Giraffe, and I adore this one as well!! It's a little happier overall, I think, and similarly characterises the MASH characters and SPG characters so that I love and care about all of them. I really got invested in the story, and although I felt the ending happened a bit fast, I remember I loved it a lot.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17184035/chapters/40403657

10. Abandoned Station by Slytherinwolf16 - (fanfic, complete, 1.5K words, just a short atmospheric piece that has an eerie abandoned station and some cute kittens. Good characterisation, too)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52953451

[steam-powered-chaos]

Hide and Seek

[Jay here! It’s been a while since I’ve written anything with Data, so I’m changing that! Enjoy the fic, thank you for being so patient my friends]

Data leant back against the couch, tapping their fingers against it in a faint rhythm, boredly watching Rabbit, Hatchworth and Spine play what appeared to be a combination of chess, Uno and DnD. After The Spine listened to the final roll of dice, he stood, brushing himself off with a rough sigh and glancing around the room of extremely bored robots. It wasn't as if they could go outside either, due to the heavy rain and prospect of a storm, so they were stuck, inside, with nothing to do at all.

The Jon looked up at his brother, before twiddling his thumbs, blanket wrapped around his and Data's shoulders in a little bot huddle, and he began to smile, an idea appearing into his head. "What if we played a game? An inside one!" He piped up cheerfully, Zer0 and Rabbit quickly looking up in interest and nodding eagerly at the suggestion. Data smiled slightly, holding their best friend slightly closer. The Spine hummed at the suggestion thoughtfully, nodding. "Good idea Jon, but what game? And don't say tag, this place doesn't need all of us running around like last time." Hatchworth smiled slightly, finally putting his dice down.

"What ab-ab-about hide and seek?” Rabbit suggested, and the idea immediately got appreciative murmurs and nods, apart from a very confused looking Data, who stared down. “…What’s hide and seek?” They piped up slightly, and the room seemed to fall silent as they shrunk in on themselves, trying to hide under the blanket, before The Jon gently pulled them back out. Spine tilted his head. “You’ve never played?” They shook their head slightly, shuffling their legs slightly and tapping their finger slightly faster. He sighed. “It’s ok, Jon will explain the rules to you.” He smiled fondly at Data which quickly fell when they stuck their tongue out at him.

“D-Dummins seeks first!” Rabbit called out, slapping Spine on the back of his head and getting an annoyed look in response once Jon had explained the rules. He didn’t get a chance to respond, as all the other bots quickly ran off to hide, and Spine was left to count to 100. Data immediately made a beeline to the quietest part of the manor, the washroom, and quickly slipped into the drier and curled up, giggling at first but falling silent after hearing The Spine’s shout. After a while, the little bronze robot slipped into brief stasis, only waking up to the boom of thunder outside. After checking their internal clock, it had been a good few hours.

Oh.

They’d been abandoned again. Left behind, this time with a game to excuse it, and the only thing they could do now, was climb out of the dryer, hide under the table and cry. And so they did, holding their ears with each boom of thunder and whimpering, their chassis shaking with each sob. They didn’t respond when they heard metallic footsteps nearby, dismissing it as their own, foolishly hopeful imagination.

“Data? Data you can come out now! You wo-“ The Spine was cut short as the group of searching robots, stopped outside the washroom, Jon immediately running to Data’s side to shake them gently, before silently curling around them, holding their trembling body close to his chest as their sobs calmed slowly and Data looked up at their brother with oil streaks down their face.

“Y…You’re back, you came back for me…” they whispered, and The Jon nodded, hugging them a little tighter and Rabbit kneeling down to wipe their tears, smiling fondly at the two. “Of course we did, we wouldn’t have left you Data!” They sniffled, a smile beginning to return as they clenched Jon’s shirt in their fist with another boom of thunder, whimpering. “Promise?”

“We won’t ever leave you Data. We promise.” And Data was scooped up by Rabbit, and carried back to the living room, where a small fort had been made, giving them a little kiss on the forehead to calm them down.