The thunder sounded like laughter.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Even glazed in red behind the glass of his visor, her flesh illuminated by the occasional sparks bursting from his ruptured skin, she was beautiful. He slowed his pace and fell into step behind her, watched the way she moved through the trees. She was almost soundless, fluid, as if she danced to a tune only she could hear. Untouched by the snags and clawing undergrowth, dodging around the falling leaves; he fancied even the storm was afraid to touch her as she walked between the rain. Just the gentle kiss of the wind on her skin, running its fingers through her hair.
To be the wind . . .
He thought of her beside him on the prow of the Thunder Child, her face alight with joy and wonder. The way she had taken his hand, her flesh on his, the first time he could really remember touching another human being. The way she had spoken to him without fear, even after she knew what he was; the way he imagined regular people spoke to each other every day.
He found it hard to watch the girl and his footing at the same time, and so he stumbled, clumsy, crashing through the greenery like a drunken shredderman. His boot finally twisted among some roots and he fell, crunching face-first onto the ground. The dead leaves beneath him smoked and smoldered in the shower of sparks from his skin. He looked up and she was standing over him, one hand extended, a small smile on her face. He wrapped his fingers in hers, feeling nothing but the press of his gauntlets against his flesh. His hands were shaking. As she struggled to pull him to his feet, she spoke, and her voice sounded like it came from underwater.
He didn’t hear a word she said.
The beast would glare at him occasionally over its shoulder, radiating disdain. When they stopped to rest he would catch it watching him, tail extended and curling upward, and he would feel like something small and furry, making a desperate dash across a wide empty field, the shadow of wings blotting out the sun above.
So he kept his distance, ten or so feet behind them, and simply watched her move.
And so he began to notice it.
Small things at first. The way they changed direction simultaneously, the way the rhythms of their pace were mirrored, one step for another. Around noon, they both came to an abrupt halt for no apparent reason and stood, still as statues for two full minutes. Not a sound passed between them. Not a glance. He hovered, uncertain, as heavy seconds ticked by to the beat of the pouring rain, almost ready to open his mouth and speak when the spell was shattered and they began to walk again as if nothing had happened.
Once, she looked at the beast and laughed as if it had said something amusing. But it hadn’t breathed a whisper. Not a growl or a purr, let alone something approaching words. Yet she smiled and touched it briefly on the shoulder, and beneath a vague sense of jealousy, an impossible thought took seed in his brain.
Could it be?
By late afternoon, Kin’s ruptured breastplate was spitting out fingers of blue current with alarming regularity. Yukiko noticed he was having trouble keeping pace, shuffling and stumbling in the undergrowth. Even the eye in his mantis mask seemed to be dimming.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He started, as if she’d woken him from a daydream.
“The rain is getting into my skin.” The voice of an angry wasp. “Your friend ruptured the internal seals. The moisture is frying my relays.”
“Can you fix it?”
Gears sang as he shook his head.
“My acetylene tank is ruptured. My cutter and welder won’t work.” A metallic sigh. “An Artificer who can’t even fix his own skin. Although I suppose I should be thankful. He would have killed me if I were naked.” He touched his brow, a now familiar gesture. “Skin is strong, flesh is weak.”
An arc of raw current spilled from the rend above his heart, cascading in a waterfall down his breastplate. It skirted the pipes across his ribs in fingers of bright blue-white.
WHAT IS HE SAYING?
His suit is damaged. I think you broke it.
Buruu flexed his wings, fingers of stuttering voltage spilling off the mutilated feathers.
HE SHOULD LOOK ELSEWHERE FOR SYMPATHY.
The mountain stream was a constant babble on their eastward flank, growing gradually wider, white breaks flowing over submerged teeth of smooth river rock. Though drinking did little to ease their gnawing hunger, the water was wonderfully cool compared to the forest’s cloying humidity.