Petaltide Love Blossoms
(Petaltide Love Blossoms)
Weapons
Maker Monarch's Agony
Beneath the glimmering stardust seas of Atlasheen, the dull waters of Murkpisis harbor an island so desolate and glum, not a single cartographer has marked it. This unnamed island is the home of a small island nation born from the wreckage of ships and castaways. They were people with names unknown and acts forgotten, for they were nobodies in the grand tapestry of Thalasso. Yet together, they grew families and became everything for each other. For generations, the unnamed nation, unknown to outsiders, worked what little they had into something they could call home. Stragglers and shipwrecks amassed in the nation of waste—seeds of a brighter future.
On a bleak night with a wrathful storm and warring ships, the residents took shelter in their scrap homes and huddled by crude oil fires, unaware of the silent and shattered ship cracked on the furthest coast. With the rain pounding as cannons roared, a flicker of light spurred in the dark by a piece of metal—catching the lightning in its reflection. Few saw it, and fewer worried. However, once the storm left triumphant and the battle moved on, the residents discovered the battered carcass of a rowboat cradling something jagged and foreign under a thick titian orange cloak. The most confident of the guards mustered every ounce of courage in his body and tore the veil from the mystery. Daylight bounced off the object—furled oddly like a cocoon and a ribcage around a mass of dense steel. Before the guard could investigate further, the metal sprung into violent motion with a burst of clicks and grinds. The townspeople rushed home while the guards readied their weapons against the machine. But with each click, the machine looked increasingly familiar—increasingly human.
When the clicking finally ceased, the object showed it was no mere machine but rather a person composed of metal from head to toe. Even then, the person was bewildering in form, with various odd machines humming with life adorning its exoskeletal frame and a peculiar elongated head like that of a lizard. It stepped out of the shell of a ship and mimicked human stretching—revealing its hallowed stature, which was a good two feet taller than the tallest man. Its skull's crest sharpened into the form of a crown—housing a hollow socket where one would presume a great jewel to be. The guards immediately knew who this metal giant was once they saw the crown—The Maker Monarch. Without a word, the guards retreated, not turning their backs on the king, for their hearts harbored the fear ingrained by eons of stories. On their coast stood a paragon of artisans who forged the ships of the most dreadful captains and weapons that could change the tides of war.
Maker Monarch casually strolled through the towns, picking up loose scrap from the dirt. All the while, it was watched by the islanders through veiled windows. Parents plucked their children from the paths as Monarch passed through. It was a hushed day revolving around avoiding the mechanical monster. The people dashed between the shadows of their homes when the machine passed. When the day turned to night, people crept from their homes and tended to their fields in the dark—looking over their shoulders with torches to try and catch its reflection on Maker Monarch’s body. Yet, as they toiled through the night, the king was not seen.
Normality returned steadily to the island nation, but the lingering fear of Maker Monarch clung to everyone's backs. They asked where it could have gone and why it had ever arrived. The people whispered its tales as they worked—those it had served and the legends it had formed. When the night rolled around, and the kids slept soundly, the tales shifted to the horrors surrounding Maker Monarch. They claimed it was once a man who angered the spirits and was cursed to lose his body to his creations. Others said it was a machine from beyond the furthest heavens cast down as punishment for some cosmic crime. Then there were the rumors of the things it had made. From Linzero’s dreaded hand cannon to the battleship once known as 5335, they attributed to Maker Monarch the horrors of war that so many star-known names held.
During the latter end of a fierce day harvesting, the people gathered together to celebrate and shake loose the knots in their abused bodies. The elders sat on the esteemed seating plucked from a crashed plane while the young danced on the sand, drinking freshly pressed juices. Percussion and even a scrappy banjo blended into the sounds of festivities like the wind playing fields of grass. It was a perfect way to forget about the worries of the days before. But a single glint of metal approaching caused the warm day to grow frigid. The guards scrambled to their weapons and put themselves in between the light and the party. But the light revealed itself to be trapped in the reflection of a metal arm belonging to one of the veteran guards. She waved with the metal arm—striking fear in the villagers. They bombarded her with questions and worries, for she had lost her arm decades ago.
With her shiny new arm, she pointed to the deep, untouched wilderness on the cusp of the island and sea. With no inclination of fear or hate, she raved about the Maker Monarch’s hideaway littered with tools and beautiful carvings. She had crossed paths with the Maker Monarch the night before, but it did not strike her. With two swift movements, the machine beckoned her to follow. Then, in its den, the Maker Monarch forged her a new arm out of scrap. The arm was beyond perfect both in function and look.
The guards followed the veteran through the wild to the Maker Monarch’s den—still ready to attack. However, all they found was a hollow in the rocks and an impressive statue of the guard who ripped the cloak off the machine at first. They searched for the machine around the island, but it had vanished with no trace or where to or how. Just as easy as it had come, it had gone—a refugee turned away by the nation of castaways.
Click… Click… Click…
The Maker Monarch held the odd ball in his hand and saw his reflection in its glossy sheen. Rhythmically, it clicked no matter what he did to manipulate it. He tossed it in the air and watched it spin under the glistening violet sky. His claw clasped around the ball before it could hit the sand below—popping in his overwhelming grip. He unfurled his claw and found the mechanism within the ball to be a simplistic metronome now gone still. Why?
The machine looked to the sky and saw a flaming gash across it, oozing black sludge into the Prismatic Pelagic. All the while, his hands fidgeted with the broken metronome. His sensors scanned the glowing waves in every direction—finding no sign of an incoming ship several months into the distance. He was all alone on the pearl sand island. Despite this, he felt no sorrow or desolation. He had spent decades alone before. Sometimes, he would roam wilds untouched by man. Other times, he would sit patiently in a ruined civilization's prison. There was even a time when he drifted from sea to sea, curled into a ball for years.
He once had dreams, but time has stolen his ambitions—just as it did every piece of him. Despite his metal frame, the Maker Monarch still had a mostly human conscious and had hopes his human soul still clung deep inside his cold skeleton. He tried to think back to what he looked like before the machinery consumed him, but all he could see was his sharpened mirror face reflecting two tired blue eyes. He had become a monster so terrifying, he scared everyone away, including himself. He whisked away his thoughts and focused back on the world before him.
Three years passed in that moment.
He looked at the flaming scar in the sky, still bleeding, and then scanned his surroundings. He expected more of the same, but something had appeared directly behind him. He slowly swiveled his torso as human as a machine skeleton could hope to emulate. But partway through his rotation, a meek voice squeaked an order.
“D-don’t.”
The machine stopped immediately. In an instant, he recreated his surroundings molecule by molecule in a simulation within his mind. He saw who possessed the quiet voice. She was small, no older than 14, and with exceptionally deep blue and black skin like polished obsidian. Her ears stood sharp like knives while her amber eyes locked on him. She was barely clothed in a tattered war banner. She clutched a glowing greatsword twice her size, dancing with light and fire—Daybreak, an ancient blade whose artistry was often compared to the Machine Monarch’s own weapons. He knew what she was but could not believe it.
“A Glassister,” said the machine.
She lifted the blade up to the machine's neck, but her legs gave way—leading her and the blade into the sand. The pearl sand crackled into glass upon contact with the blade. She scurried back to her feet and tried to pull the sword from the ground, but its tip lay embedded in the glass.
“Do not fear, child,” said the machine.
“I-I’m not a child!” said the child.
The machine turned to face her and held out a small metal bird. Its wings flapped slightly with a click… click… click. The Glassister kept tugging at the blade, even propping a foot on its hilt as if that would help. The machine scanned her head to toe several times, making sure to look at each layer, both physical and more. She was malnourished and weak but had no diseases or injuries. She was a fourth-generation Glassister, as evident by her more human components. Most importantly, she was pure of blessings or curses.
She stepped off the blade and glared at the machine. Her eyes began to flood with glistening gold tears. She slouched and sobbed quietly while the machine watched. He gently placed the back of his claw on her head and presented the flapping bird once more. She lifted her head and looked into the machine's hollow reflection. She gently scooped the bird into her hands.
“Help me,” she said.
The machine grabbed the hilt of the blade and ripped it from the ground in a great swing. It sparked the sky and cast flames into the water in an arch. It was a heavy sword, even for the machine. Yet, he held it high in the air and let it fizzle its rage out with screaming embers. When it finally grew quiet, the light dimmed, and its true form was revealed—a slice of a sunrise on the sea. He marveled at its beauty and craftsmanship. It was something no mortal could ever make.
He dropped the blade onto the sand and outstretched his claw to the girl. But he quickly turned it over and clenched into a fist. If he wasn’t careful, he could tear her to shreds.
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
The girl fell onto her knees, screaming and burrowing her hands into her face.
“I see.”
The machine knelt beside her and brushed her hair with the back of his claw. He saw the first Glassisters when they were produced, and he saw the wars fought over them as though they were products. He knew the feeling of being a product all too well.
“Is she gone to paradise, or is she still in inferno?”
“They have her,” she responded.
The girl shook her head and brushed away her tears.
“I-I’m sorry.”
The machine held out his fist to the girl and laughed for the first time in decades.
“Are you not afraid of me?”
The girl rose to her feet and picked Daybreak from the ground. She flashed a fanged smile and chuckled.
“Afraid of a little tin can birdie like you?”
“It was supposed to be a dragon. See my head? It's supposed to be a dragon skull.”
“It looks stupid.”
“Stupid is subjective. And learn to treat your elders with respect, little lady.”
The machine bowed his head. She stared at herself in his reflective skull before pressing her head against his.
“Please… mister birdie… help me.”
“I have had a hundred names throughout my life. Many of which are etched into the stars I helped forge. But… mister birdie is a new one. What is your name, lil Glassister?
“Quireslit.”
“It is nice to meet you, Quireslit. Do you want to rescue your mother? I just so happen to know someone with a lot of swords to spare for the cause.”
The girl scoffed.
The machine stood tall and threw his arms out like wings. He planted his feet with two heavy stomps and raised his head to the sky. His skeleton burst into a song of clicks and clanks as it rearranged itself piece by piece. A pair of outreaching wings made of blades erupted from his back in an ensemble of metal screeching. He held his pose with the flaming scar, casting his form across the girl.
“I am the Maker Monarch! The greatest crafter of the Answerer’s Era! My ships have sailed every sea, and my weapons have felled the mightiest foes! These dreaded mechanical hands have made dreams into reality and brought nightmares upon the enemies of good! I! Am! King!”
“Ok but do you have a ship?”
The machine quickly looked around the island and realized Quireslit did not appear to have a ship.
“How did you get here?”
“Oh… I fell.”
Quireslit pointed to the sky.
“Fascinating. Traveling through the sky will allow us to avoid many of the dangers here and get us to your mother faster.”
“I was lying, you big goof.”
“I wasn’t. Come. Get on my back. This bird is gonna fly.”