Threadbare

Metal Bear Solid

Threadbare was alone with his thoughts as he went. Once he got past the RAGS picket lines watching out for rebels, there weren't many people out in the night at all. Not in the fields, not on the roads, and definitely not on the game trails that he sniffed out and followed in a vaguely eastward direction.

It had been very dramatic, he supposed, stripping down and putting his trappings aside for a bit. But there was more to it than that.

There was the possibility of anonymity.

Threadbare had either created or been involved with the creation of most of Cylvania's golems and doll haunters. And while there were created people of all kinds in Cylvania, now, a lot of them had chosen to be teddy bears. And quite a number of those had gone with a fur color and size that was close to or identical to his own.

They would be watching for a teddy bear in a top hat and tails. They would be ready for him once they spotted him... or so he thought, anyway. Though the rebels had acted with questionable judgment overall he had to assume that they were smart enough to know they'd be facing off against him at some point, and wise enough to put together some sort of plan or measure to destroy him or render him harmless. So an unclad teddy bear might confuse them long enough to miss their shot. And since he was a Model, he could always resummon his clothes when he desired.

The rebels would also be assuming that he'd show up with friends. It had been how he had operated all throughout his life, with the exception of a very short amount of time where he'd been alone. They would be watching for a small group, not a single, lonely teddy bear.

For that was what he was, now. And as he went, he felt his mind turning back to that place he'd been a scant three years ago... finally pulling himself free of the sword that had trapped him, and digging out from under the remnants of his home.

He had never been alone, since then. Never been in a place where he couldn't go and find a friend when the quiet of the evening and the unceasing engine that was his brain and the thoughts it churned out got too much for him. His usual way of dealing had been to find a friend and help them out, or listen to them talk, or just sit and watch them be.

It was uncomfortable, not being able to do that. But he told himself that it was a passing state of affairs, and picked his way through the fields.

Twice, owls swooped down on him, thinking him a late-night snack. Twice he managed to dissuade them without doing too much injury. They were just doing what owls did, and when their beaks tasted stuffing rather than blood, they lost interest in any sort of fight.

After the first hour or two, Threadbare felt secure enough to jog. Then to run. Golems were sturdy and tireless... to a point, anyway. And now that he was sure he was alone, and that any farmers who remained on that patch of land west of Cylvania City were huddled in their houses and hoping to avoid notice, he was confident he could do this without being spotted.

Only when the lights of the city walls appeared in the distance did he slow down.

Cylvania was unlike most cities of its era, in that the districts which usually tended to build up around the outside walls were absent. Mad King Melos, during the height of his wars, had gotten tired of infiltration attempts both real and imagined, and had the structures outside of the walls demolished. The noble villas and estates, which were far enough back from the walls anyway, had escaped the decree but all others had been cleared. And given the general decline in the valley kingdom's population from the wars, the city had never had cause to expand out and fill them back in.

Which meant that it was a bad city to sneak up on. Even if Threadbare used the nearest buildings for cover, that still left a few hundred meters of space to get through. Nothing there but mud and grass, and the movement, noise, and torches over the gate suggested that it was being well guarded.

That was fine. Smaller people didn't always need gates.

Threadbare stayed put long enough to watch people move on the wall, long enough to confirm what he'd thought, that they were mainly focusing on the gate. Then he started making his way to the west, moving through the mud like a small animal. A foraging raccoon or a squirrel was a common enough sight, particularly once he was off the roads and far enough north that there were trees again.

Once he found a reasonably bare patch of the wall, he Camouflaged himself again, unsheathed his claws, and climbed up. He WAS a bear, after all. And the wall was old, mortared stone. Plenty of handholds for someone who was small and light.

Your Stealth skill is now level 38!

The words were a surprise; there was someone watching nearby. He froze, glanced down to ensure that his Camouflage was still on, and waited. While he did, he willed his nose to catch Scents, and listened with every fiber of his fuzzy ears.

Someone was playing a recorder.

And after a moment of listening to the melody, he thought he knew who the musician was.

There was nobody on the wall as he scrambled over, but just below, where a series of alleys connected up with a small, disused plaza and an old well, was a person he knew. Not by name, though. Perhaps it was time to fix that.

So he glanced along the wall to make sure no one was coming, then clambered down and padded his way over to the figure.

From a distance, she looked like a bundle of rags with a small pipe coming out of the topmost lump in the bundle. But as Threadbare approached, the tootling stopped and a frazzle of brown hair poked out of the ragged cloth.

Well hello there, the woman whispered into the night. You're a golem, aren't you? I know those footsteps. Small, soft ones.

Threadbare looked up at her, then around the alley. No one else in sight. Still, they were visible from the wall, and that was a concern if any of the guards happened by.

Hello, he whispered back. Is it safe to talk here?

More of the face emerged from the rags. A long, beaky nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and a strip of cloth right across her eyes. She looked remarkably clean, given that she was living outside, had been for the entirety that Threadbare had known her. And she gave his question careful consideration, hmm-ing and humm-ing before shaking her head. No, no it's not safe to talk out here. Or anywhere, inside here, really.

Is it that bad? Threadbare felt a weight on him. He'd been hoping the rebels would at least keep things safe for the people here. If they weren't, then that was another bit of guilt about how things had gone.

Well. The invisible monsters stopped comin' round, the woman said, reflectively. So I'd say things is a bit better, recently.

Invisible monsters? Oh dear, Threadbare said, putting his face in his hands. Is everyone all right?

Now you're getting' filly sophickle, the woman said, and nodded toward the well. We might as well talk inside, if you're getting' filly sophickle on me.

The bottom of the well was dry, and full of old wooden boards, torn and rotten cloth, and quite a lot of grime. With a few quick motions, the woman shifted things aside to reveal an old drainage tunnel, scarcely two feet high. More than enough room for Threadbare, and more than enough room for her as she squirmed under and started wriggling through, snakelike.

Now we can talk, she said, as they came out into a dark, dusty room filled with coffins. A lantern burned from a sconce, and back in the shadows, several weathered doors indicated more rooms beyond.

What is this place? Threadbare asked.

This used to be old catacombs, I think. Long time ago, there was a vampire who made a dungeon here. Then the Seven killed him and took the dungeon away. Now there's only the old places left behind. Shells of what used to be.

I think Cel I think my little girl told me about that, once. The vampire was Count Jocular?

Joculah. Brown fella. Very friendly. I had tea with him a time or two, back in the day. She hopped up on a coffin, settled onto it, pulling her thin legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

I'm impressed that you survived, Threadbare hopped up on another coffin, scooting over to face his hostess. But then, I've always found tea times to be very peaceful affairs.

Would you like some?

If you have it, Threadbare said, then stopped, and put his paws to his head. No. No, I'm sorry, I have to focus. I came here to try to stop a war.

Funny, that's what the king's men were saying. The new king, I mean. At least they were saying he was a king. The woman got to her feet, opened up the coffin, and started drawing out chipped teacups. But there wasn't a war until they started one. And it doesn't seem to me like someone should get to be a king just because they're going to stop doing something bad that's their fault anyway.

Threadbare stopped, and considered. Something was off here. This entire encounter was odd, from start to finish. Who are you? What are you?

Melon. Just old Blind Melon, who begs on the streets. she shrugged. Plays the recorder. Doesn't work. Useless for anything, really.

I remember when we first heard you playing, we thought it was very pretty, Threadbare said, thinking back to that day when he'd been walking with Celia. And we stopped at the Shrine of Yorgum and asked them to send a Cleric over to help you see again. But it looks like they didn't do that.

Oh, they came over. And they tried. But you can't get back what you didn't have in the first place. Melon reached up and tugged her headband off, and there was nothing underneath. Just a smooth band of skin, where most people would have eyes.

Oh. Okay, Threadbare nodded. That explains that.

It's the thought that counts, so thank you, Melon said, replacing her headband. As to what I am? Well I wasn't much of anything, when I started. Just a blind girl, foraging in the streets. Couldn't see anything except the numbers and words that showed up, sometimes. I didn't know how to read those at first. They were very confusing.

I remember when I woke up. They didn't make much sense to me, either, Threadbare said. It had been a very confusing few days, until his intelligence and frustration had let him maneuver through the prompts. Somewhat. Did you have people to talk to to help figure it out?

Not really, back then. It was a different time. People weren't as friendly as they are now. Well... as they were now. Not too many people being friendly now, not on the streets, anyway. Too many invisible monsters.

You keep mentioning them, Threadbare said, glancing back towards the tunnel they'd come through. He'd never turned off his scenting ability, so he hoped that the invisible monsters were smelly. Or at least weak enough that they wouldn't destroy him in an initial attack.

Well, they changed things. Two nights ago there were people out protesting the new king. Then the monsters came. Now everyone's inside, and scared for their lives.

But not you, Threadbare said, studying the beggar. Why is that?

I pretended not to see 'em. she grinned wide, then laughed, slapping her knee. Ah, no. I ran like everyone else, when they started attacking the crowds. But I didn't have anywhere to go. So I watched and I waited and I listened. And after they chased everyone into their homes, then they left. And they haven't been back, since. And of course everyone's stayin' home. Because, well... who's to say they're gone?

You could, Threadbare pointed out.

She shrugged. Who'd believe me? Though I'd be honest when I told'em I ain't seen any monsters around.

That's one thing I could help with, maybe. Threadbare put his face in his paws. Maybe. I have a lot to do before the army gets here. I need to kill some people.

Oh. That's not very nice.

They're not very nice people. And I don't want to. But... it always comes down to this, I've noticed. There's always a big threat, there's always someone behind it, and the threat doesn't stop until they're dead. So I think that even if I don't want to kill them, I need to kill them.

Are you sure?

No. I mean, yes.

I spoke with the best Oracle in the kingdom. She said that I was right.

But it still feels wrong?

It does. Threadbare shook his head. Who are you really?

Just a good listener. When it's all you got, you get good at it, y'know?

Chase is a good Oracle, too. She listens to her god.

Gods. Eh, what do they know?

Quite a lot, actually, Threadbare said. More than either of us.

I talked to one once, she said. She offered me a chance to be her Oracle. And I turned her down. They're people, really, when you get down to it. People with more powers than we've got, but people regardless.

You think so?

I think so. I could be wrong, she shrugged. I think... the way she explained it to me, is that gods know what their faithful know. And only that. So in the end, they're just people who don't always have to talk to other people to know things.

But Oracles predict the future by using the power granted to them by the gods, Threadbare pointed out.

Right. That's how they learn the future, is by the Oracles telling it to them. I think, Melon replied.

But if they have the power to let Oracles see the future then why don't they... oh dear, this is a bit like the chicken and egg riddle, Threadbare sighed, and hopped down from the coffin. I think I need to go find the people on my list. I'm sorry, Melon, but I need to see this through. A lot of people will die fighting if I don't.

I suppose you have to do what you feel is right, Melon said, shrugging. I'm just a person you're talking to. You have to live your own life.

I am glad I ran into you. You are a good listener. Will you help me a little more?

Maybe. What do you need?

Well, it occurred to me a just a little while ago that I don't actually know where to find any of the people on this list...

Unfortunately, Melon didn't know where to find the people Threadbare was looking for. As a consolation, she took him to one of the empty houses where the invisible monsters had attacked fleeing protesters. It was a shambles, with one wall stove in and glass strewn everywhere. But he got what he needed; the scent was fresh and horrible. Rotting meat and old blood combined, with an undertone of unwashed fur.

I'd almost think these were undead, but there's a bit of body odor in there, Threadbare mused. My friend Madeline would call it the worst of both worlds.

Madeline? Madeline who tahks lahk this?

Oh, you know her?

Melon nodded, smiled. She almost killed me once. Poor thing was hungry and roaming far from her dungeon. Then we got to talking. That's how I had tea with Count Joculah, she asked if I'd be willing to keep him company and we had a lovely tea party. After that I was more or less safe in the underspaces of this city. None of his roaming monsters would touch me.

Then the dungeon fell.

Yes, Melon's smile faded. It was a harder time after that. Don't get me wrong, the Count's monsters did bad things. But... after that, it felt like there were worse monsters up here.

You preferred the monsters you knew, over the ones you didn't?

I did. If you're going to have monsters, it's nice to at least have monsters you can have tea with. And Count Joculah at least invited me to his underground castle. I've never been to the one up here.

You know, Threadbare said, stepping out of the wreckage and gazing up to where the rising sun was illuminating Cylvania Castle, that's probably a good place to start looking. Thank you Melon, you have been incredibly helpful.

Oh, well, you're welcome. Don't suppose I could have a hug?

Any time and every time you want, Threadbare said, hopping into the blind woman's arms and cuddling her for a long moment.

There was a small flash of light, and the little cuts and scrapes she'd accumulated healed, as one of Threadbare's skills did its thing..

You have healed Aunarox 11 points!

Your Innocent Embrace skill is now level 24!

And if Threadbare could have blinked, he would have.

Thank you, Melon, he said, hopping down from her. What will you do now?

The same thing I do every night, she smiled. Go and play my music, to whoever's listening.

Threadbare nodded, and left.

She had lied to him. Her name wasn't Melon. Was it an important lie? Was she a criminal on the run, or something of that sort?

Either way, he had told her his plans. And while she hadn't exactly offered help or discouraged them, he had to be extra cautious now because of that.

Cylvania Castle was the next place to investigate, he thought. Kings needed castles; everyone knew this. You weren't a proper king without one.

Camouflaging himself again, he waited for the guards at the broken bailey to look the other way and walked quietly across the bridge and into the courtyard. The stables had been completely taken over, and the old servants' quarters were in use again, both buildings housing what looked to be about a hundred people. The ones he saw outside were all humans, and all worried.

Several carts full of what looked like sacks of vegetables and fruits were out by the stables, and a pair of surly looking men guarded them. One was munching on an apple.

It was a bit surprising that they hadn't even been unloaded, Threadbare thought. But perhaps they were busy with other things.

Noises from the great hall caught his attention, and he crept around to a shattered window, before hopping up and peering in.

The hall had been cleared of its furniture and knick-nacks. The tapestries were still there, but the little things like the suits of armor, and glass cases full of antiquities, all of those were gone.

And where the great feasting table had once stood, was a cordon of guards, eight strong, surrounding a small group of toys.

There were four of them, and Threadbare knew three.

One was Wobble, a wooden elephant who had wheels instead of feet. He'd gone on to a good career in the city guards, Threadbare recalled.

The second was a fuzzy spider wearing a beautiful dress, and a blonde wig. Nancypants? Yes, that was her name. He seemed to recall her buying a clothing shop a year ago.

And the third was Karen Mousewife.

The tall (for a doll,) mouse wearing a nanny's dress and kerchief was cradling the last toy, a porcelain doll who looked like he'd gone a few rounds in a boxing match.

The lot of them were huddled together, and the guards had spears, swords, and a rather large hammer quite near to them. A second more of scrutiny and Threadbare saw chains connecting them to each other, chains leading back to the hammer-wielding guard's belt.

A minute crawled by as Threadbare watched. The guards shifted, and coughed, and made the million and one little motions that organic people did. But the toys were still as statues, all save for the porcelain boy. Occasional glances, and shifts, told Threadbare that child was probably a doll haunter.

He was about to file this under 'something to be investigated later' and move on, when the door leading to the castle's guest rooms opened, and a few guards emerged, glanced over the room, and beckoned two figures forward.

The one in the lead was the king. And if Threadbare had a heart in his chest, it would have quickened at the sight. He was sure it was the king; the young man was wearing Melos' old crown, after all.

The guards all knelt, with sounds of clashing armor and the butts of weapons clunking on the floor, and Threadbare took the opportunity to sneak in and get closer. He moved from tapestry to tapestry, cautiously, looking around for wards or markings that seemed out of place. Surely they would have something to protect against golems? Or even just mundane assassins?

But nothing stopped him, as he crept closer and closer to the first name on his list.

Close enough that he could hear the king lean back and whisper to the second man, a tall, elderly gentleman in black.

What is this Mister Ruddimore? What am I supposed to be doing, here?

Ruddimore! That was one of the rogue nobles, and the second name on his list! Threadbare felt a surge of relief. He could finish half the job here, and have time left to hunt down the last two afterwards. This would be simple.

Just as he thought that, a clattering noise caught his ear. He looked back to see that the guards were forcing the toys to kneel. In Wobbles' case, they had tipped the elephant over, since he didn't really have knees or any way of otherwise getting to the ground.

No. No, this wasn't simple. His children were involved, and he didn't want to see them harmed, or worse. Their lives were on the line, it looked like, and he felt that saving them was more important than ending the two lives up on the dais. At least for now.

So Threadbare settled back behind a tapestry, peeking out just a bit, trusting his Camouflage to keep him hidden and waiting to see if he needed to intervene.

The decision took less than a second, and he focused in time to catch the rest of the conversation between the two humans.

Look, it's simple, Ruddimore said, through his teeth. You sit there and try to look like a king, while I read the charges. Then you tell them that they will be executed for their crimes, and ask if they have any last words.

But...

But WHAT?

But do I have to look at them? They're just...

They're vermin. Worse than vermin. They're our REPLACEMENTS. They will take the place of everything living, they'll take our jobs, take our wives, take our homes, and kill us once they outnumber us sufficiently. They are our enemies.

It's just... I can't look them in the eye.

Damn it all, Branson, you don't HAVE to. Just... just sit there and be the king we need you to be. Or else you KNOW what I'll have to do. Don't make me do that, Branson, because I will. I very much will.

I... well... okay. Okay. This is what I have to do?

This is what we have to do. Believe me, I have no love for it either.

Threadbare doubted that quite a bit.

Okay. Just... let's get this over with, King Branson sighed.

Yes, your majesty, Ruddimore nodded, and, raising his voice, turned to address the room. Let the prisoners stand.

It took the toys some doing to get Wobble back on his wheels. The guards smirked and didn't help them, and Threadbare felt his claws extend, just a bit.

Baron Ruddimore folded his arms behind his back, glowering down at them. Do you have anything to say for yourself?

The toys looked at each other.

Do you mean specifically, or are we going to talk about how all of this is bullshit? The porcelain boy asked.

One of the guards raised his halberd, and Ruddimore shook his head. The guard lowered the weapon.

You should have more respect, The Baron said, boot heels clicking as he strode around the toys, eyes sliding to the side, considering them in the periphery as he made a long circle.

When I see someone worth it, I'll give it, the boy continued.

YOU STAND BEFORE THE KING YOU PATHETIC REMNANT! Ruddimore shouted, veins standing out in his neck, going from icy calm to raging fury in less than a heartbeat.

The echoes resounded through the hall, and the boy fell silent.

But Wobble raised his head, trunk rattling as he glared at Ruddimore.

I stand before a king, he said. Not the King. And not mine, I don't think. I don't have a King. Nobody in Cylvania does, not anymore.

You would add treason to your crimes? Ruddimore was back to icy calm.

No, I think he's pretty spot on, Nancypants said, adjusting her wig. We had a war about that and everything. The last king did such a horrible job that we don't do the king thing anymore. Nobody's allowed to be King anymore. Simply not done.

Treason, Ruddimore nodded. On top of your other crimes. Not that I expected anything less from... what. What is it?

Karen Mousewife had raised her hand.

Excuse me, excuse me please, but I don't think anyone has told us what crimes we've committed! And I'm certain we haven't actually committed any crimes, because I've read the law books backwards and forwards, I have! Councilor Dracosnack had me help him prepare for debates, and I think we're pretty innocent and all.

You actually read the laws? blurted King Branson. What's it say about unfair turnip taxes? Me mam swore up and down the taxmen were robbing her blind with every harvest.

Ooo well, that depends on which teamsters she's going with, or if she's self-transporting, because them taxes on transport are what gets you, the Mousewife said, tail wagging where it peeked out from under her dress. Unless they actually were robbing her, she's probably feeling the pinch from having to compete with nearby wholesale produce providers

ENOUGH! Ruddimore thundered. The law is what the King says it is. The King is above the law! He makes the law!

Oh. That how it is then? The Mousewife shrugged. Easy enough, then. Just change the law so that we aren't breaking it and then we can all go home and get back to business.

You are in no position to make demands, Ruddimore snarled.

Quiet. I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to a King, the Mousewife folded her arms. You just said he was above the law. Which means that he's above you.

Well, yes, that's how... why the hell am I even talking with you? Ruddimore shook his head.

I'm in charge? Branson blinked. Well I guess I am, but I still have to do what mister Ruddimore says

You are the king, of course you are in charge! Ruddimore said, face turning a slow, dull red as the guards glanced to each other and murmured. They were starting to look worried.

Is he? the Mousewife said. Let's test that. I Want to Speak to Your Manager.

And Threadbare watched, amazed, as Ruddimore took three jerking steps forward, face plastered with amazement, and visibly choking on his words as he said That would... be... me... what the hells?

Just a trick I picked up, the Mousewife said, folding her arms and letting a smug smile creep across her plush face. So are you going to tell us about our crimes now, since you're actually the one in charge here and all?

That was a skill, Ruddimore breathed. You were warned not to do that. You were told what would happen.

You brought us here to kill us anyway, the porcelain boy said, glaring. We might as well show everyone that you're a lying cunt before you murder us.

Hey! Language! Branson protested.

Sorry. I meant that he's a lying cunt, your majesty. Better?

Oh dear, that was a very rude thing to say, Karen said. Even if it's true.

This is pointless, Ruddimore shook his head. Guards, kill

Take them back to their cells, Branson blurted.

Ruddimore paused. What?

Take them back to their cells. It's not right, killing them here like this. Even if they are trying to take over everything.

Ruddimore's eyes were ice as he considered his King. And Threadbare knew that there would be words later, and maybe knives if the words didn't do the trick.

Branson trembled, but he tried to meet Ruddimore's eyes. It took three tries, before the noble nodded.

Very well. Your Majesty, he bowed low, and looked to the guards. Well? You heard your King. Take them back to the cells.

The two didn't say a word, as the guards marched the toys out of the room.

And when the guards were gone, Ruddimore moved forward in a burst a speed, and the crack of his hand against Branson's cheek echoed throughout the empty hall. The crown went flying from the 'King's' head, and fetched up not far from Threadbare's tapestry.

You had one job, Ruddimore remarked. ONE JOB. Just SIT THERE and let ME do the TALKING. And you couldn't even do THAT.

I'm sorry, sir.

You can't do this again. I understand, they look adorable. But it's a ruse. You have to see through that.

I... they're just toys, sir.

Toys that will live forever. Toys that will grow and grow in number while we wither and die, and see our nation lost to foreigners and undead and corruption. Listen...

Ruddimore helped Branson to his feet. The young man was shaking, and pulled away from him, but the older one caught him by the shoulder and drew him close. Threadbare had to strain to listen.

That trial wasn't for justice. That bit we did right there, that whole thing was to try and boost morale. Do you know how many we're losing, now? How many are deserting, and sneaking out of the city? Why do you think we've got everyone who isn't guarding the gate in the castle? We have to hold it together, or we won't survive until the rabbits get here!

Er... that's bad.

That's bad, yes. And now the guards that would have gone back happy, after smashing those abominations in toy form, will go back and tell their friends that YOU don't have the balls to see our enemies destroyed.

Branson was crying now.

Threadbare shook his head, and took the list out from his paw. Tearing carefully, he tore The King, from it.

What was that? Ruddimore straightened up, and whipped around.

Threadbare froze.

Keen Eye, Ruddimore muttered, then surveyed the hall, a knife appearing in his hand as if drawn from the air.

But the man's gaze passed over him without incident.

Come on, Ruddimore finally said, grabbing Branson's shoulder roughly. It's not safe to talk here, and now that the evening's entertainment is a bust, we need to figure out an alternative. Let's go back upstairs. We need to sort a few things out...