ilia_ium_cisum (ilia_ium_cisum) wrote in asile_de_fous,

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

[Cisum & Shem]

came the MAD sir's goodly geegaw, with the good SIR's godly gifts.

A sweetandsticky in one hand and a lowslung belt loop buckle pocket
hem waistband seam seem siim sime sine oh oh oh ANYTHING
in the other.

(because it was fresh and ripe and perfectly puckered tight like
nineteeneightyseven prom night around skinthetics that skipped and
prowled and ambled just like the very realest most glitterous glamory
100% ANTIFLAMMBÉ 100% PROFLAMBUOYANCE thingyou'veeverseen.)

Marginally inflammable, sort of some flesh, some clothes and some hair, the Doll had stayed in the fire for a moment too long. There had been others to seek, people called "friends" that spurred the ideal of preserving life, only to find the ones she thought of first were saved or vanished--more than likely fled ahead of her. So Cisum, in the very center of it all, turned to flee from danger, the heat which radiated the idea that it should be painful--but these impulses were shut down with a thought.

What could not be stopped, however, was the motion of a falling bit the tents structure--the tent that she herself helped to maintain--at a trajectory to match the location of her head. Had she not moved a little to the side at the last moment to escape what she spotted too late, years of work and research and pain might have gone to waste as the armor protecting the immortal doll's consciousness (her skull, of course) was put to a sudden, clanging test. Then she knew nothing, laying docile in the midst of fire and smoke and burning cloth that fell like rain from her home.

While it was only a few moments before she could come to awareness once again, her senses and back-ups and nanites over-clocking in the face of danger, it felt as though she had been gone for quite some time--and was awakening in hell.

"No..." Cisum groaned and rolled onto her stomach, artifical limbs quick to twist and adjust, to push and balance to bring the Doll somewhat steadily to her feet. While none of this made sense, this horrid fire, the sight of the things that she had rebuilt her existence around turning to ash beyond her control, some part within her (perhaps some program of self preservation) sent her on her way past burning piles and around walls of flames--and quickly through a few that left no other path, and out into the night with little more than singed limbs, red skin, and smoking cloths that had now seen days far better than this. Pieces of her costume, meant for flying, meant for her dance on the ground and up high, were blowing away as she watched.

"I believe my head hurts..." The Doll murmured, reaching up to touch the wound hidden under her hair--though poorly, with the blood that was leaving tracks down her face.

Shortly forward fell the splinter's steps.

An emperor, his new clothes, and his sugary reward for quick repairs
struck the fair Princess's sphere of space all at once. Crescent moon
grins seemed to be all he knew, and it was then as it was always and
forever, hardwired into the sere Sir's shipwork.

"..Princess!! I've received your kingdom save unsound and a steed is
swift to comeby!"

As close to chivalrous as a freak show fool could be, he knelt down
with his back to Cisum's facecard. He shuffled the deck, pitpat-- an
invitation to piggybacked salvation.

"You're pants..." Cisum noted absently (not at all surprised or currently unable to be) "...are very reflective of what’s in your head." It was, at least, a great relief to see one of her friends safe and sound, and as wild as every it seems. It was good enough to see him for a string of reasons, and oddly enough high on the list was that he, so courteously, was to give her a ride. Normally she would wave off such silly behavior, but when she next thought to take a step (the order seeming quite dim and far away, compared to the norm), she wavered in concentration and slipped.

Dabbing at the blood on her cheek it was interesting to realize that her fingers, perfectly modeled constructions of science, shook as a normal human might. "Sir Shem, or Sir Horse, I think...I need some help. Shock, I think, a standard reaction to overwhelming events..." She murmured as she slipped onto his back, her artificial arms loose around his neck as she carried on. "...or pain, as reported in medical study, where the human mind and body surpass the standard level of a swifter rate than they can properly adapt..." All this murmured into an artificial shoulder, for lack of want to keep her head lifted...or to look at the fire she had somehow emerged from.

Up up up and out, down the path around the vandalism to the train cars.
But none too quickly, for fear that the princess might be unsettled
by an unprincely pace. Difficulty in action was, of course, a moot
point-- there were no muscles to strain, just hydraulics and
fiber optics to facilitate the venture.

"Wear to whither? Your clockworks are close enough, if it's the right
suit to play," mused the faux pas d'vie, steps steady toward the
suggested destination.

"I would room, I think." Cisum agreed quietly, watching the scene go by over Shem's shoulder. The gentle pace was well appricated, and she held a little tighter to be sure she would not slip---though with her grip being completely at her command, the gesture was credited to instinct over need. "My s-senses should not be restrained for long. I-If I am correct to the results of my damage, I would like to lay down first."

Shem nodded in quiet salute to the doll's collection. The steps up to
the train car were made with careful consideration of impact absorption
and turbulence.

And then there was the door. Two arms to take the weight of royalty
and no hands for function. Alternatives were considered: mouth, feet,
other. All bypassed.

With a hint of a pout," manifest can't be replaced with mandibles
or metatarsal trickery. Could you..?"

Simply answered, one artificial arm reached out to perform the simple task of opening the door. "Adjustment met. Proceed, Sir Shem." A pause, as she concluded analysis of her own condition and moved to the next line of inquiry--the option to consider the condition of the circus was overruled and moved to better things, immediate things---things that did not confuse her controlled persona. "Are you damaged?" Cisum asked, rubbing her face like one trying to wake up (though she could feel nothing for the time being), and shifted in his arms to better look up at him. "When I have....collected myself, I should help tend to those who have attained injury."

Knees bent smoothly, lowering one scientist to her bed. About face,
he gave her a deft gesture of assurance-- two fingers to a smooth
temple and a standard issue grin.

"What befell me was shed with one layer of exoderm and the good Sir
provided reparation of the grievances! I believe benevolence was
fate's byword, tonight!"

From a stern expression, some new ease and relief was present to be read on his behalf. "That is good then, to know you are in prime order." She sighed, adjusting to her mattress so that she ended up on her side--all the more able to reach under her bed for one of the many kits that she always seemed to have within reach. The lid of a the kit was thrown open and some supplies withdrawn--disinfectants and a very specially moderated form of painkiller, designed for herself. And just as they were attained, her connections to Self were reestablished--loading onto her a fantastic headache that pounded enough to drown out what sound there was in her room and border on turning her small stomach.

She did, as one might expect, cease to move for a moment of five, but continued her efforts to simply shrug it off---though she did little more than simply hold her supplies, staring in strained focus at Shems feet and overly bright pant legs. "Welling...though I am..." She murmured thickly. "...I would rather...there be no fix you."

"Fixing being the trend," he murmured, kneeling at bedside, "Assistance
is permutable if provided with apropos directives."

Though he wondered if the mad good godly SIR was capable and
competent with his own hands and his alone, free will deemed the
seat he saddled clearly superior.

Pants or no pants.

Flat out stubbornness in nature had an amazing way of combating with reason, even to Cisum, who would naturally despise demeaning her build by appearing weak of faulted. But with the volume of interference her magnificent headache provided against defiance, Cisum sank into her pillows and held out her selected treatment. "I will advise the means of application--what remains of my biology is sensitive to such things." She agreed at last, the comfort of her bed offering temptation into rest--which was high inadvisable, so she noted precautions a little further. "If you would be sure that I do no loose consciousness in the coming hours, I would appreciate it."

Always happy to lend a helping hand, Shem took his post as the
autosurgical assistant.

"Should directives turn to derelictives, I can talk for hours," came a
confident summary of a capability that was one of many. "My hands are
steady, ever ready for you, your highness~"

A wink that wasn't half as ill-intended as it was eager to please.

Simple truth in the smile of a manmade lie.
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