mend

The city hums with electricity, the current singing through intricate circuitry. Stark lights shine on its austere gray facade, the brutish, blocky forms meeting the sky with concrete and metal alike. The spires of the power grid, laden with heavy power lines, lie just east of the artificial oni’s abode.

Tetsuo gathers his things in his warmly lit shop, readying newly repaired goods for delivery. His clawed feet, finely shaped from bioceramic, patter onto the shop floor as he rummages for packing supplies. He carefully wraps each piece in stiff paper, smoothing it into the contours of the pottery before binding it all down with simple jute twine.

He peers up into the smoggy sky from the small front window; the sun, filtered to a brick-ish red through the smoky air, is high in the sky. Plenty of daylight left.

He moves gingerly, the cautious kind of careful of one who fears their own breaking. He has lived long, yes–but not without repercussions. His mechanical joints grow strangely warm with movement, even red-hot with overuse. His battery only lasts so long without being plugged into power. His memory is prone to little corruptions and distortions, little holes in his recall–self-contained ones, he hopes.

He knows his status as a vintage model of the days long past, his hardware and ports long outdated and incompatible with the latest new tech. He’s seen what these little quirks mean, seen many older automata fritz and falter to mechanical decay and, eventually, a final death.

But, for the time being, he’s content to travel out from his little shop by the power grid, making house calls under an open sky interrupted by brutalist cyberscape.

He quietly appreciates these moments outside, a prime time to meet with customers and share brief conversations.

It’s a little marvel, one that lends a human touch to his work.

But the truth is that, deep down, he fears the image of his dilapidated mechanical body on the wayside, worthless scrap to all who pass by.

He wonders how long he has.

Junkered.

It’s a word that automatons use to describe the process of becoming junk, of being tossed aside by a society obsessed with contrived upgrades and the latest advancement. It highlights the older models’ incompatibility with the new–their being left behind by the ever-advancing step of modernity, relegated to scrap components.

They fear that their existence as aging technology destroys their value, their purpose.

It is a reality that mechanical beings come to coexist with, whether through stubborn denial or genuine self-acceptance.

He’s… he’s not really sure where he stands on it. The physicality of our nature as mechanical junk is one thing, but what of our selves, our identities and little wisdoms?

Tetsuo finishes bundling the teacups, looking to his notes to see who these belong to, where they need to be delivered.

A newer client, huh? The one who runs the traditional tea shop in one of the outlying slum districts.

Ahh. It dawns on him. This is the set dropped off by the child with the fuzzy raccoon-ish ears, one who said that they were a helper to the Fox; they were in such a hurry that day.

The oni maps the trip in his internal systems, waiting for the pathfinder finish its calculations. It’s a longer trip, one that’s still a good near hour by foot. Cybercabs are out of the question anyway; they’re rare enough out here in the outskirt districts and damn expensive when they are around.

No time to waste. He sets out, the basket of teacups in hand.

The journey wears on him, his mechanical body protesting the exertion. Tetsuo opts to ignore it, knowing that the time outside is precious; with his battery depleting as it does, time spent on breaks is lost time.

He arrives at the tea shop, its rustic shopfront displaying a wooden sign with peeling gold paint. The exterior is surely worse for wear, the dark hardwood stained and battered. The oni knocks on the door frame, peeks his head into the shop.

“Welcome, come on in.” A gruff voice answers, a figure stepping out from the back of the store; smoking pipe in hand, it’s a man with small demon-like horns, his long hair traditionally styled and adorned with a long hairpin.

Tetsuo obliges, stepping in and taking a look around.

The shop inside is homey and well-kept, a stark contrast to the hypermodern city aesthetic. The tea tables are almost endearingly small and low to the ground, with soft chairs inviting patrons to sit and enjoy their drinks.

“You’re the Fox, correct?” The oni inquires politely, raising the basket in his hand. “I have the repaired cups that were delivered to my shop.”

“That’s me, the name’s Ume.” The shopowner nods, stepping forward to take the delivery. “I need those idiot patrons to take their cup-breaking elsewhere. These traditional sets cost an arm and a leg if I want to buy halfway decent new ones.”

“Ahh, trouble in tea shop paradise?” Tetsuo chuckles. “It certainly doesn’t look it in here.”

“You’d be surprised.” The Fox raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched all over his expression. “Some drink tea with all the grace of a cyclone.”

“Such is the way of the world. Tranquility is rarely meant to last.” The automaton snickers good-humoredly. “And, if you don’t mind, take a look over the cups and let me know if they seem good to you.”

“Ah. In that case, come on in.” Ume retreats into his tea shop, taking a seat at one of the low tables. He picks at the packaging with surprising delicacy, carefully examining the repair work before softly laying each cup on the tabletop–almost reverently so.

The oni steps in cautiously, looking about in a sense of wonder. “I don’t think I’ve seen a tea shop look quite so… traditional.”

“Call it a point of pride.” The Fox derisively snorts as he turns a cup in his hand; his posture, once stiff and hostile, relaxes into a comfortable slouch. “I’m more than sick of all the new new new that’s been pushed in our faces every moment of the day. Nothing wrong with older ways; as an automaton, you understand, right?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Tetsuo nods along. “If you don’t mind me prying, what led you to this appreciation of tradition?”

“Well, I’ve been around the block.” The shop owner looks up at him, a kind of misty reminiscing in his eyes. “Sometimes I find myself mourning the changes.”

“Careful there, you almost sound like an automaton yourself.” The oni tilts his head in interest; his tone jests, but there’s a kind of guarded curiosity there.

“I may be a kind of beast, but not the mechanical kind, repairman. Takes a different breed to keep tradition alive.” The Fox laughs with a low, husky bark.

“Well, I think these look all set.” The shop owner finishes his inspection, gently bundles the cups away again. “You’ve done a great job with these; might need to call on you now and again when disaster inevitably strikes again. It might not be before long, anyway. What’s the fee?”

“Call anytime for anything, as long as it needs fixing.” The oni laughs lightly, handing him the invoice. “Though, I’d say my preference is pottery.”

“I’ll have to see what pops up. I appreciate the talk; you seem like the upstanding sort. I respect it.” Ume stares at him intently for a second, then snaps out of it; his body language grows guarded once more as he quickly hands over a sizable sum. “Keep the change.” He mutters; his demeanor shifts, growing more curt and frosty.

A peculiar sort of fellow, indeed. The automaton thinks to himself, making himself scarce.

Partway through the return journey, Tetsuo feels himself faltering, vision tunnelling as he stumbles back onto familiar backstreets. He reels, footing unsteady as he tries to keep moving forward. He tries to push down his panic, tries to remind himself that he can make it back.

He hears the tinny whine of his systems, feel the mechanics run rough like they’re going to give out.

A pit of dread sinks to his stomach: there was supposed to be enough power to make it back. I… I didn’t linger at the tea shop for long. I didn’t miscalculate the travel time that badly right?

The whine grows louder, louder, louder in his ears, growing into a pounding rattle that just won’t stop. It grates on his patience, the panic and rage rising in tandem.

He makes it to his shopfront, awash with relief. He slowly makes his way through the entrance, bracing himself against the wall, the doorframe, the edge of a table. He sinks to his knees at the back of the shop, mind bleary as he connects to power.

I can’t push my luck like this.

This cut it far too close.

He’s stubborn–for a time. He thinks that, with care, this kind of degradation can be managed; it’s a futile but self-soothing thought. He makes little half-hearted repair measures, gingerly making room for the impending change. It’s hardly straightforward, full of compromises, substitutions, and the ilk; his parts aren’t on the market anymore, resulting in a kind of makeshift muddle of adaptors and awkward converters.

In the coming months, the duration his power core can tolerate without external power grows shorter and shorter. He begrudgingly makes preparations for his customers to pick up their goods from his store instead, prepares the little store to accommodate the inevitable change.

The little repair shop’s window, once brightly lit, now glows dim.

POWER CORE ANOMALY DETECTED
CAUSE UNCONTAINED, EFFECTS PROBABLE TO PERSIST
POWER FUNCTIONS LIKELY TO DEVIATE

The internal diagnostic jolts him out of his dormant state, bolting upright in bed to process the information.

So this is it, huh?

He stares at his hands: these hands meant to endure, meant to last.

With the power core on the fritz–

… the rest would follow.

The precise engineering that breathed life into him means nothing with such a critical component failure; to make matters worse, there are no compatible replacements on the market. As it is, the core won’t properly modulate power use, an effect far worsened when off of external power. Internal issues will only give way to further internal failures, foretelling an irreversible decline.

There is no more time to waste on denying the glaring truth before him.

He plugs himself into his shop knowing the outside is no longer his to roam. He prepares to hole up here in the repair shop, forced into a recluse-like way of life by this condition. It takes a little while to adjust to the dimmer lights and pervasive hum of electricity throughout the space.

He’s forced to adapt, knowing that this is his new normal.

Though he no longer goes outside, his clients bring it inside to him, confiding with him about problems or sharing little smatters of the mundane. He invites them to sit down as he starts work on repairs, listens as they chatter about whatever’s on their mind. Though the appearance of his oni features–sleek black contrasted against grandiose gold–seems fearsome to the occasional walk-in, there is something softened and deeply sincere about his manner as he listens. Tetsuo is alert and attentive, nodding sagely along; it’s quietly comical in its own right: a beast of legend, made real by machinery, deep in conversation with whoever–be they human, robot, or creature–stops by to talk.

Tetsuo tunelessly hums along, smoothing fresh clay into shape to replace the cup’s broken handle. It softly molds under his fingertips and careful toolwork, giving way to desired shape; it’s a quietly deliberate work, one that has a kind of satisfying–even therapeutic–rhythm to it. He appreciates the nature of doing repairwork–happily obliging anything from intricate mechanics to childhood toys–but mending pottery has a special place in his heart.

He knows that he’s become more scatterbrained, that the indistinct holes in his memory are fraying at the edges, pulling, pulling, pulling until yesterdays become dust.

Yet, this kind of work always feels familiar, a kind of memory that cannot be corrupted. It is deep and ingrained, a familiarity resilient against erosion. He basks in this feeling of mindfulness, the inner peace of quiet gratitude and purpose.

With clay in hand, he feels fully present.

He clicks his tongue as he works, keenly focused on the task at hand. He doesn’t hear the shop door open, doesn’t hear the soft, padding tread of the customer.

“Repair shop or deserted cave?” The visitor clears his throat, a kind of sharp, huffy half-cough that won’t be kept waiting. “You always keep it this dark in here?” The voice is husky and low, its timbre gravelly and coarse–almost like a growl.

Tetsuo leans back from his work, sets the cup down with a respectful delicacy. He tilts his head just slightly as he sizes up the visitor, stares at his eccentrically traditional garb. Ahh, the Fox.

The oni only amicably nods. “It’s been a while since the last couple of jobs, Fox. Teasets been staying out of trouble?”

“If only.” Ume snorts in response. “I’ve had to lay low for a bit; admittedly… I got reckless with a petulant twat who tried to rough up one of the tea servers.”

“I can’t say I imagined your workspace like this.” The Fox surveys the shop with critical eyes, gaze tracking across the bundled wires running through much of the shop; as if on a cue, the lights sputter before blinking back to life. “If you’ve moved to customer dropoff… why leave it such a sorry state?”

“It’s not a looker, I know. It was better before, perhaps not by much.” Tetsuo tries to manage a smile before slipping into a sigh, looking at the Fox with a kind of softened resignation. “I’m… homebound, Ume. I can’t even unplug without risking malfunction, much less make deliveries. There’s no replacement parts on the market for me, so this is it for me.”

“It’s all just maintenance until it’s light out.” The oni darkly laughs, idly taps his clawed hands on the workbench surface. “I kinda miss it outside.” His eyes get a wistful, faraway look to them, the tapping on the tabletop becoming a stressful drumming. “It’s been too long since I’ve been out and about. The cool air, sights of the city… just the potential of what’s out there.”

“My sincerest condolences.” The Fox nods, a curt but respectful bob of his head. “I had no idea.” He winds his way around the shop, watching his footing to avoid stepping on wires. He places a sizeable bundle onto the repairs dropoff counter, a surprising tenderness in the act.

Ume seems deep in thought for a moment, carefully choosing his words. “Let me try something.” He taps his hands together softly.

A little confused, Tetsuo humors the teamaker with a shake of his head in response.

The Fox inhales deeply. “How about this?” He presses his hands together, then quietly claps twice.

The interior of the shop roars to life, a flurry of colors and sounds and sensation. Its four walls contain multitudes, the recreation of a raucous traditional market abundant with bustling folk, all mixed in loud conversations and hawkish yells and joyful laughter. Tetsuo himself is seated at a merchant’s stand with his cup repair still in progress, surrounded by pottery wares; Ume seems to gauzily drift among the flows of people, peering at goods and nibbling on fragrant food bites.

“What have you done?” The oni, off-guard, looks around, fully bewildered. “What are you?”

Ume laughs, a smug joviality mixed into the triumphant smirk. “Well, it’s certainly not a simple illusion, but it gets the job done, doesn’t it?”

“This… this is mindblowing.” Tetsuo stares into the vast expanse of the illusionary environment, marveling at its rich imitation. “If it’s tech, this much be expensive–the fidelity is unreal. You can afford this off your tea shop’s earnings?”

“Mine by birth.” The Fox seems surprisingly mirthful, much at ease. “And I don’t mean inheritance; well, not the financial kind, at least. Glamour and illusioncraft are innate gifts of my kind, though most kitsunes either have died off or gone into hiding these days.”

“Oh, huh.” The oni blinks, taking in the information. “That’s interesting.”

“Not impressed?” Ume snickers at his reaction. “It’s intriguing that you don’t respond to glamours, but only more dedicated illusions.”

“I can’t say I totally follow.” Tetsuo does a little shrug as he motions for the Fox to sit in a nearby chair. “What’s the difference?”

“Think of glamours as augmented reality; it builds over what is already there, working off limited parameters of what’s around. Dedicated illusions are more intricate and immersive, capable of creating what clearly isn’t there.” Ume dips his chin at the marketplace. “Case in point.”

“Ah, I see.” The automaton appreciatively nods. “This is really such a kind gesture; you’re don’t seem like someone to divulge this identity of yours lightly.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.” The kitsune plucks a skewer from a merchant’s stall, sliding a wad of money to the seller. “But I do value these chats and I… sympathize, I suppose. It is hard to lose the chance to roam, to no longer savor the sights and sounds.”

“Little freedoms are our personal little traditions, are they not?” Ume chuckles jovially; he doesn’t wait for an answer before asking: “Tell me, where else would you like to go?”

Even from the start, they shared stories in the way old friends do.

Both having lived beyond the time of a single lifespan, they cajole and reminisce, a familiar solidarity between them. They have seen the decades elapse, watched the march of progress unfold to build the current cyberscape–

Even so, Tetsuo has lived little in comparison to Ume’s centuries. The kitsune are a long-lived species, he learns; though, their lifeforce sustained by… less than savory means.

The teamaker is a curmudgeonly misanthrope, big on tradition and respect–and fiercely protective of his best tea sets. Yet, in spite of his prickly exterior, he’s a loyal friend, one who pops by for repairs and hangs around to chatter. He gladly casts illusions in the shop for Tetsuo, sharing slices of wonders from both past and present. He spins mountains, the sprawling vista views nothing short of breathtaking; brings them into lush jungles, the air filled with birdcall and rustling in the underbrush; brings forth the quiet serenity of gardens, the manicured flowers sweetly fragrant.

It is a sweet gesture, one that brings them both comfort.

What’s striking about the Fox is his wealth of memories, his many lived lifetimes rich with abundant time–

… and the accompanying loneliness, the dull ache of mistrust and fear pervasive in his life course.

He can see the yearning in the Fox’s eyes, can see the feelings strained in the way Ume watches him, speaks to him.

… we can’t.

… we can’t, right?

… we shouldn’t.

It would be cruel to hurt him for my own solace, for a meager peace of mind. I’m a timebomb, the countdown ticking down in its final hours.

The oni rebuffs him gently time and time again; the tortured longing in his eyes twisting the knife in his heart. Above all, he is sweetly protective of the Fox, the kind of affection fettered by hope and dread alike.

They remain drawn to each other, both too accustomed to basking in the familiar comfort of the other’s companionship. The hours together don’t quite feel like enough–

And Tetsuo, too, wishes to believe that it could be possible.

His inner workings hold steady for a while, lending a comforting sense of stability amid dreadful uncertainty.

It’s a stability not meant to last–not even with the most meticulous of care.

MEMORY COMPROMISED: 58%
CAUSE UNCONTAINED

The internal diagnostics seem dour enough. He thinks sourly to himself, a derisive sneer on his lips; he can’t resist inwardly mocking this somber state of affairs, this inevitable breakdown of the body.

The oni curses, frantically rechecks the power supply ports. He knows these metrics too well; the internal diagnostic doesn’t trigger without some sign of something getting worse.

As he wiggles the connections to be snugger, his power core grows hot, adjoining wires spilling a cascade of bright sparks.

In the dark of the shop, it looks almost beautiful–

If only it weren’t such a grim tiding.

It happens again and again, the deterioration quickening with it. It was initially occasional, but grew to become commonplace.

The memory corrodes and corrupts, the technological compromise fraying ever more bits and pieces. He struggles to recall the past, even failing to retain bits and pieces of recent conversations. He scribbles down notes to remember, trying to stay grounded even as his disintegrating memory is lost.

It is a kind of loss of self, memories blown away on a fickle wind. He holds on to what he can, but the wind is sly and quick, steals ever more from him.

All he feels is a bone-deep humiliating shame, one he hoped that Ume would never have to see–one he would have much rather hidden from view. It is never quite the right time to share how bad his mechanical state had become, how bad his own personhood had deteriorated…

He dreads how it will affect the Fox, worries how he will react. He cannot ask more of Ume, not without crossing the precarious boundaries of their much-treasured friendship, not without giving the Fox some hope that together could happen.

With every declination, it becomes less feasible, crueler with the loss of self and time alike.

The hardware glows hot, his garb wafting smoke into the shop air. The smell is acrid and singed, the fabric blackened and riddled with holes.

The bright orange is stark against his sculpted black exterior; the color reflects off the gold, making the accents shine with that burnished hue too. The sparks shower off in bursts, continuing to spill onto the cool concrete floor. They fizzle out with a sharp hiss, leaving the slightest wisps of smoke.

He cannot hide it forever.

But he hides what he can, masks it behind clever but temporary tricks; the kitsune sees some glimpses of the damage, but never the full state of the power core’s dysfunction–

–a state that overheats the oni’s systems, his body glowing with the molten gold like a well-wrought kintsugi.

He recognizes the kitsune’s padded footsteps as soon as the door opens.

The fox storms in with a shattered tea set, huffy and flustered. The rage in his demeanor is thinly veiled, every exhale quietly fuming.

Tetsuo wordlessly takes the basket from him; each piece in the set is roughly wrapped into its own individual bundle. He rummages through the shards to assess the damage, mumbling a good-natured quip as he fits the porcelain shards together. “Go easy on them, fox. Customers are ever so much in a hurry.”

“Too much of a hurry for tea.” The kitsune curls his lip into a derisive grimace. “What a thought. They have no appreciation for the traditional; it’s all cyber and machinery and what’s the new mod.”

“Well, Ume,” Daubing the edges with glue, Tetsuo presses the shards together, gently blowing on the delicate seam. “I can’t agree that husking another civilian was your soundest call.” He wiggles a smaller fragment into the crack with a careful touch. “That’s your second this week, right?”

“His soul tasted like shit anyway.” Ume grumbles, outright ignoring the last question. “Filthy and subpar.”

Tetsuo tilts his head to glower at the kitsune halfheartedly, his gaze good-humored but critical. “So what’s the lesson here?” Waiting for the glue to dry, he places the half-repaired cup into a mold for stability.

The Fox snorts in response; only his third eye blinks: an arrogantly dissatisfied blink. “Don’t eat shitty people. Stick to the good ones.”

They go back and forth, poking harmless fun at each other. Tetsuo motions him to sit beside him, gives him a cup to reconstruct on his own.

“Few things are broken for good.” Already curing the lacquer on the first cup, the mechanical oni smiles, his grin innocently joyful. “We repair what we can to be better than before.” He dusts gold onto the lacquered seams, looks at his handiwork delightedly. “Healing comes from connection, not perfection. What’s done is done.”

Inwardly, he curses his own hypocrisy. These are foolish, foolish words, ones that are utter madness in the face of my own decline.

I am irreparable.

An internal warning flashes in his system. He suppresses it, tries to manually reconfigure settings to modulate the dysfunction, to hide it–

His efforts fail.

MEMORY COMPROMISED: 86%
CAUSE UNCONTAINED
INFORMATION DAMAGE TRANSPIRED: DATA IRRECOVERABLE
POWER CORE FAILURE: IMMINENT
ESTIMATED TIME TILL FULL FAILURE: 53 HOURS

The heat rises, the core in his chest growing blisteringly hot. An arc of electricity crackles out of the hardware, its bright flash sudden and haunting. The sparks spill, his body glows–

… The mask falls.

Ume watches on in shock and horror, demands to know how bad it’s become… how much time there still is.

The kitsune stays by his side, spinning his illusions to provide a quiet sort of comfort to them. They sit together talking, the conversations long and winding.

There is a disquieted distance between them, the air of something unresolved–

Something that can’t be resolved.

Yet the Fox seems to understand, a sense of genuine care in his manner–there are no expectations, no strings.

Only two dear friends making the most of their time remaining, knowing what tragedy lies ahead.

MEMORY COMPROMISED: 98%
CAUSE UNCONTAINED
INFORMATION DAMAGE TRANSPIRED: DATA IRRECOVERABLE
POWER CORE FAILURE: IRREVERSIBLE
ESTIMATED TIME TILL FULL FAILURE: 2 HOURS

He takes a breath–one he doesn’t need, yet one he eagerly wants.

The illusion is a lie–a beautiful, comforting one. The air smells of sweet tea, the aroma warmly fragrant; the Fox’s shop bustles with murmured hubbub: an esprit wash of indistinct conversation.

On this precipice of oblivion, he grasps at straws to feel alive, to feel that this is real, to place it in the right contexts, the right feelings–

He tries to hold the moment in his fingers, tries to keep it from crumbling–

… his memories are dust on the wind.

He grapples with himself, futilely struggling to remember what it is to feel. He vainly grasps at this feeling in his heart of hearts–a heart that does not beat, but rather hums.

This…

… this sweet company of the Fox, a man of tangled, bitter pasts–

… let it be enough.

Let it withstand this wretched state: let it remain his, even in these final moments when all sinks into black.

He pleas to the empty wind, a wind with no song–a wind that whisks away the shape of his self, that leaves the contours of his personhood warped and gnarled; it has already left him hollow, humbly pattering about collecting ghosts of feeling and stray thought.

He begs that he can hold onto this.

He begs that this present can be crystallized, made permanent–

To hold onto a love never meant to be–

… as he fades to nothing.

profile code by FallenSamurai

all art, overlay by atempause

story by Tribe

background pattern from transparenttextures