The Professor's Pet

Whirring slinked through the dark, empty library, trying to be as silent as his large body would allow. He felt nervous in this situation; As much as the dark woods scared him the idea of intruding on the property of others did not sit well with him either. Hexagon seemed to be scanning the area, and as soon as she gave the clear he found the lightest corner of the library, illuminated by the moon, and sat next to a messy stack of books.

As soon as his body relaxed he saw the dust rising in the air. He figured this library must be fairly old, especially considering the condition of the books. Ahari said it was still publicly used, though, and he didn’t doubt that either. The rooms themselves were in good condition, and other than the unsorted book stacks and the deeper corners the library was mostly clean and well-kempt.

With a pang, he suddenly remembered the Professor. What a great man the professor had been… he would love this library, Whirring thought sadly. The Professor was the man who created Whirring, so many years ago, and not only taught Whirring the art of metalwork and steam, but was also Whirring’s first friend. He sighed, thinking of the decade he spent as the Professor’s assistant; he had felt so valued, then, and there was nothing quite as fulfilling as curling up in front of the old man’s giant, roaring fireplace. Whirring had never really been aware or conscious of just how large he was, and while this seemed to grate the nerves of most the professor never, ever minded.

But all the memories all came back to that day, the day when Whirring’s Forget began. He knew, in retrospect, that he was in stasis, that the key the Professor had installed on a whim had been brought into play. But it didn’t take away the hurt the day the old man petted his head and said “Oh, Whirring, don’t forget me.” At the time it felt so over the top and out of place, but in hindsight it was probably the saddest day of his life.

It wasn’t that he was unhappy, or that he hadn’t found a place or purpose; he just felt sad sometimes, because it would, without fail, happen again someday. Maybe the gods were right, and what the professor had done was wrong all along; perhaps a beating heart was not meant to sleep.