11.05.08
Celeste.
She spends a lot of time down at the junkyard. The father and son who run the place know her, and they’re more than happy to tell her all about the latest things that’ve come in. She pokes around, turning over this piece and that, spending much of the afternoon half underneath a scrapped car, and leaves with some pieces. The older man gives her most of it for free.
She doesn’t know, exactly, what causes her to pick one piece of scrap over another. Other pieces are in better repair, or would require less reshaping. But she takes the pieces that call to her, and goes back to her workshop.
It used to be a student science lab, before she was given exclusive access. There are still gas taps for the bunsen burners and weird-ass emergency showers all over the room.
She’s altered most of them.
She builds all sorts of things, from junkyard sculptures to random appliances, from simple toys for the kids at the orphanage down Ide Street to complex engineering masterpieces that cause folks from all over to hound her for days, if they ever find out about them.
She is only seventeen, and she has 23 patented inventions to her name.
She never knows what she builds until she starts, and usually not really until she finishes. And nothing is ever finished. Everything could use some modification, eventually.
She is not really sure why she is an engineer/tinker/inventor/mechanic/junkyard artist, just that she is.
She never tells anyone that she hears the metal singing.
04.10.08
Francis’ No-Good, Very Bad Day.
His sister opened her mouth to speak, but before she could draw enough breath, the wires bit deep into her throat and she dropped silently to the ground. Francis wheeled over by her head and bent down to look in her eyes.
“I am not as cruel as I should have been, Marie,” he said conversationally while pulling the wires back into his flesh. “In fact -”
An infant’s wail split the air. Francis froze, dark eyes going wide, one hand still holding a loose coil of wire. Oh, no.
Slowly, he followed the cry through the apartment to its source. No no no no...
Francis entered the small bedroom, drawing up next to a tall crib. Gingerly, he pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the crib’s rails for support.
The baby girl inside shut up and stared at this strange man. He was very odd, and parts of him were all shiny, which was interesting. Plus, he looked a little like Mama. He was okay, then, she decided, and wiggled.
Francis just stared at her.
The infant gurgled and turned red. Perhaps the strange man didn’t understand her. She tried waving her arms at him, and he finally seemed to get the message.
Francis reached down and picked up the girl. She squealed happily, and set about investigating the metal tracings on his arm while Francis unsteadily sank down into his chair. He fumbled for his touchpad and dialed a number.
“Professor O’Neill. This better be good.”
“Professor?”
“Francis? Aren’t you in California?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “What’s wrong?” Kathleen asked in a low voice.
Francis stared at the infant, who was now slobbering happily on his arm.
“Francis?”
“…I have a niece,” he responded at last.
