Is This Home? [CLOSED][AIM Log - Complete]
Finally! He'd finally made it to the radio room, figured out how to operate everything and contact the Winding Way . . . only for no one to answer his hails. Had he done something wrong?! Surely there would have been someone in the radio room if he'd managed to reach the Way! Granted, Illya was likely here, but what about Ichigo? He'd really hoped to get to talk to Ichigo. Ichigo would have been able to tell him what to do. But he'd not answered, so he couldn't tell the little puppet what to do. Harlequin was on his own. Again. Or rather, still. Whatever. He'd have to get back to the scary guy's room and try the journal network again. Only problem was . . . the scary guy now knew he was here, and loose on the ship. Scary Guy had already chased him out of the radio room twice now. Quin didn't dare go back there a third time! And there was a surprising shortage of difference engines among the sparse crew of this castle-ship...thing.
Crawling through the ventilation system, which he was starting to get to know almost as well as he did the Way's, he finally made his way back the room he'd found the one journal in the last time. It was a sparse room - literally nothing more than a bed with a chest at its foot. The journal had been sitting on the bed the last time Quin was here, but now, as he gazed down in dismay from the vent high on the wall, it was nowhere in sight. "Darn it..." Removing the grate, he dropped down onto the bed. "If I were a journal, where would I be? ...the chest!" Assuming it wasn't locked, there was only one way a little puppet was going to manage to open the thing. He moved to the end of the bed, pulled out his rope and hook, and tossed the hook out and down over the front of the chest, then started reeling it back up. One tine of the hook caught the lip of the lid and . . . YES! The chest was indeed unlocked, and the lid lifted with little effort. Quin moved over to one corner of the bed's foot and peered around the edge of the chest. Journal located, captain! He hopped down inside, tied his rope around the journal, climbed back up onto the bed, and started pulling, reeling the rope in little by little. But then . . . his little wooden heart stopped - or would have if he'd had one.
Footsteps! There were footsteps coming this way! And slowing down as if their owner was nearing his destination. And they were heavy footsteps. Scary Guy?! N-no! And there was no way he'd make it back up into the vent! Before he could think better of it, Harlequin dropped the journal back to the floor of the chest, tossed in the rest of his rope, jumped in after it, and pulled the lid closed.
Now what? Now what? NOW WHAT? the puppet fretted. O-okay, first of all . . . calm down! Ichigo, even Daddy, would be fussing at you to get your head back on straight. He pulled a few deep breaths, then thought to dig his flashlight out of his backpack. He flipped it on, located the difference engine again, and powered it up. He didn't know if Scary Guy had come in just to sleep or to retrieve something from his trunk. If it were the latter, there was almost nothing in here, nothing but a few articles of clothing, not enough for the puppet to hide behind or under. He'd be caught! So . . . he owed it to his family at least to get a report out as quickly and as best as he could. Shaking, he brought up the journal program and entered the code to filter his post to the Winding Way. He could hear the footsteps of the man now in the room with him, and he spoke in a rushed whisper, even more so than last time.
"Winding Way! Harlequin to the Winding Way! If anyone gets this, please don't respond! The owner of this journal knows I'm here. W-well, not here here, but on the ship. And where have you guys been, anyway?! Why isn't anyone answering the radio!?" He made himself stop and take another deep, hysteria-interrupting breath. He had news to pass on. "Okay, guys, listen up! I've located the prisoners. I've not actually laid eyes on them, but I know where they're being kept. They're being fed, if not all that well, and as far as I know, they've not been hurt. Yet. I've managed to determine we are in the Badlands, high in mountains. I don't know exactly where, but . . . there's a rock formation that, when the sun sets behind it, makes it look like a great big dragon silhouette, with spread-out wings and everything. S-so . . . yeah, look for a dragon-like rock formation up on a ridge. We're west of-!! N-no! East! We're east of that. R-right. Anyway . . . you guys have to hurry! I've heard the witch Grita is going to be hooking the kids up to some kind of machine that will suck away their youth to give to her so she can keep remaining young which if you ask me sounds like something out of a play my first family did once but wouldn't really be possible in real life but what do I kno-?!"
The footsteps were indeed headed this way. The door creaked open, and the footsteps stopped. A long moment later, they started again, headed directly for the chest. They stopped right in front of it, pausing once more. Then, quick as can be, the chest lid snapped open and a hand shot inside, grabbing the puppet in a tight grip and pulling him out. The man held the puppet at arm's length, scrutinizing him. Harlequin would find himself face-to-face with a pair of green eyes, pupils oddly shaped as if they were missing a strip of iris from the bottom. They were narrowed in suspicion at the moment. "Gotcha," he growled.
Harlequin cut off in mid-word with a squeak of fright and protest - to his credit, less fright and more protest - as quick footfalls stepped right up the wall of the chest an instant before light flooded back into Harlequin's world with the lifting of the lid. Another cry escaped him - this time, less protest and a lot more fear - as he was snapped up before he could even contemplate trying to avoid the quick hand that darted in at him. He was lifted to stare into hard, green eyes with keyhole-shaped pupils. "Eheh . . . s-so . . . " He gulped and tried again, giving the man his best, charming little grin even as he shook hard enough to rattle his joints loose. "S-so you have, sir." Please don't hurt me!! The Living Marionette maintained enough presence of mind not to plead that aloud . . . partly because long and hard experience had already taught him that it would do no good. Now, he could only pray someone would hear this transmission.
It was the least he could do for his family . . . before he was scrapped for kindling at last.
"What do you think you're doing?" the man continued, bringing the puppet closer to his face. Not close enough for Harlequin to strike at, say, his eyes, of course, but close enough to get a closer look. "You've been sneaking around all week. What are you doing here?"
It was everything Harlequin could do not to obey the indirect order and just answer the question, memories from Master Fire-eater's disciplines and punishments filtering back into his mind from dark recesses with sudden and frightening clarity. "I . . . I-I . . . " He couldn't get anything out past the lump of remembered pain and terror clogging his throat.
The man's frown deepened. "I said," he said, tone low and menacing, "what are you doing here? Speak up!"
A soft, strangled squeak escaped Harlequin as he quailed, chin tucking as he drew back, eyes closed against whatever this terrible, angry man might do to him in punishment. Making sure to speak clearly to be understood the first time, just as he'd been taught, he blurted out in a quavering rush, "T-trying to get my family back, master!"
The man seemed about to make another demand, but stopped. "Your family, huh? They some of the ones we took?" he asked. His voice was still menacing, but there was something different to his manner. "How's calling someone on a difference engine supposed to help you get them out? You calling for help?"
Harlequin's voice was soft as he responded. "Y-yes, sir. A-and giving i-inform-mation..." He hated himself in that moment, hated himself for betraying his family like this, for not being braver and resisting this villain, but . . . he couldn't. As desperately as he wanted to, he couldn't make himself defy someone with power over him. Especially someone with so much to punish him for.
The man regarded the puppet for a long minute, watching the creature squirm. Something flashed in his eyes -- uncertainty? "You. Puppet. Tell me something. The people you're asking for help from . . . are they strong?"
Harlequin finally dared to look up at that, stricken by the oddity of the question . . . and saw something in the man's eyes, though he couldn't say what. In spite of himself, a wry, rueful grin tugged at his lips. "S-stronger than me, master." And, yes, he knew that wasn't saying much. If it said anything at all, really.
"That doesn't mean anything." He brought the puppet closer to his face, fingers closing tighter around the little wooden body. "How strong are they?" he growled, lip curled in scorn. "Do you actually think they have a chance of getting their kids back?"
"Ah!" Harlequin cried out in fear and protest as wood creaked and delicate joints threatened to snap under the pressure. "I-I don't know! I don't know!" he cried desperately. And what kind of question was that, anyway? What did this villain care?! And . . . could they? The people of the Winding Way - his family - could they come here and get the kids back? Mr. Hughes, Mr. Ichigo, Mr. Garibaldi, Mr. Ranulf, Miss Zeetha, Mr. Gippal, Mr. Sora, Miss Jean, Mr. Riku, Miss Taiga, Mr. Luffy, Mr. Sai . . . people he'd seen training at one point or another or who just looked to him like they might be capable, especially with the right motivation. And was this not the right motivation? What greater motivation than to protect your family?! Even if they didn't succeed, Harlequin had no doubt in his little oaken heart that they would fight their hardest.
It was with a sudden sense of courage born of certainty in another's abilities that the Living Marionette looked up to meet Scary Guy's glare, and he replied steadily. "Anyone has a chance with the right reasons. We're not just a crew. We're a family. And family looks after each other. Ichigo, Daddy, Miss Zeetha, Mr. Riku and a half-dozen others I can think of . . . they'll come here and they'll beat you villains. Because they have to! They have to get their family back!" Tears had gathered on the edges of painted wooden eyes, but he couldn't back down now. He didn't know if he counted in that family - he wasn't technically part of the crew - but for the rest, he believed it with all his little wooden heart.
The man scrutinized the thing, and his eyes darkened. "It takes more than that," he muttered, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. He fought it down, though, and addressed the puppet once more. "Have you seen 'em fight?" he asked harshly. "How good are they?"
Harlequin bucked back from the expression of sudden pain on the man's face, chin tucking and eyes closing again, what little courage he'd managed to scrape together evaporating as the reality of his situation crashed down on him once more. He flinched at the man's harsh voice, the tears slipping free and down his cheeks, dampening the wood. "I-I don't know, master! I've not seen them fight, not when they've been prepared!" He'd seen them spar, but he guessed that wasn't the same - like when he and Il Capitano used to practice a sword fight at half speed versus the full-blown action on stage during a performance when it really counted.
The man shuddered again, letting out a choked sound. One hand flew to his face as if fighting a headache. "Dammit," he muttered, teeth gritted. His breath came in slow gasps. "Guess I'll have to ask 'em myself." He dropped the puppet and turned to the difference engine, picking it up. "Hey! You! Yeah, you -- you wanna get the kids back, right? Well, I wanna know if you got the grit to do it. How strong are you? You saw what we can do. Can you do better?"
Harlequin let out a choked, sobbing cry when a few joints finally cracked under the pressure of the man's fist that had continued tightening little by little in the pain of whatever it was he was struggling with. Then, the puppet cried out again as he was dropped, his little body clattered noisily on the woodplanks of the bare floor. He lay for just an instant, stunned and dizzy with pain and fright, but the man's words penetrated the haze, shocking him. W-was . . . was Scary Guy really doing what he thought he was doing?! Before he could think better of it and keep his mouth shut - and before Scary Guy snapped back from whatever insanity seemed to have taken him - Harlequin called out. "Where are we?! Give them our coordinates so they can find us! Please, Master!"
He glanced down at the puppet, unsympathetic to the creature's plight, largely due to his own immense headache. "Only if they can take out Grita," he growled, and sent the post. "This had better reach them."
Harlequin lay where he had fallen, frightened out of his little wooden mind, consciousness half-caught between past and present. Once more, he was on the ground, half-broken because he had angered his master, and knowing there might very well be more to come. Breath coming in soft pants of pain and fear, head bowed in submission, he nodded, voice soft with terrified respect and obedience. "I-it will, master. It . . . i-it was filtered specifically to the Winding Way, t-through . . . through the c-codes I was g-given when I . . . I-I first joined the s-ship."
The man held the difference engine in one hand and staggered back, landing on the bed with a thump. He set the machine aside and took deep breaths, covering his face with his hand. "Good," he muttered. "Let's hope your family lives up to what you believe." He forced his shoulders to remain still instead of shaking with pain and continued to breathe, glancing at the difference engine at intervals.
Harlequin didn't dare move . . . even when the man's stumble threatened to land one heavy foot squarely across his legs, only to wind up missing by fractions of an inch. Then, the man's feet left the floor completely as he dropped onto the bed, the sound making Harlequin flinch again in spite of himself. It . . . had been a very long time now since he'd been this frightened . . . and this time he didn't have his siblings around him to draw comfort and support from. Nor did he have his new family. He was alone, truly alone . . . and more frightened than he could ever remember being. Now that he was no longer so directly in master's attention, he allowed himself to move, but only a little. Rolling to his side, the little puppet curled up, head buried in his arms, and let himself cry, making no noise as he did so, as he had learned to do so long ago. He prayed the Way heard the post, and responded. He didn't know if he'd be rescued with the others, but . . . b-but so long as the others were safe . . . that was enough.
Wasn't it?
The man waited for several minutes, watching the difference engine. When no replies came at first, he shut it with a snap and turned to the sobbing puppet. If he felt any guilt at making the creature cry, he didn't show it as he picked it up by the scruff of the neck. "You'd better hope they reply," he said. "I can't have you running around everywhere. If Grita catches you, she'd probably make you talk. Then I'd be in deep water. Cool your heels in here." He leaned down to pull a lock out of the trunk, tossed the puppet inside, and shut the lid with a snap. He locked it in one swift movement, keeping the difference engine on the bed. "And keep quiet!"
Only time would tell if there was hope or not. Whether he liked it or not, these theater people might be his only chance....
He left the room, deep in thought.
Quin squeaked as he was grabbed yet again, making himself stop crying as he faced Scary Guy, trembling. He . . . wasn't asked a question, so he didn't answer, only nodded his understanding. Then, he was dropped back into the trunk. At least this time, his landing was cushioned, though his fractured joints protested all the same. Scary Guy snapped the lid down over him, plunging him into complete darkness as he heard the lock click closed.
"Y-yes, sir," he whispered into the blackness, then settled himself to wait, wondering what his fate was to be now.