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thebastion2013-06-17 01:01 am
clockworknazi) wrote in thebastion2013-06-17 01:01 am
Entry tags:
The Broken Tin Soldier
Who: Stein and Kroenen, possibly nosy peepz
Status: Tentatively open
When: Day 78, early morning
Where: Initially behind the apartments, likely to move somewhere less open.
What: Kroenen is struggling to repair the damage done before he arrived at the Bastion, and during the core retrieval
Format: action
Warnings: Possible body squickiness.
The emotional tolls on everyone were high. Some more than others, Kroenen noted as he absconded to the Skyway and back several times through the previous "night" after their return. He needed supplies, bits of metal and screws, pieces of old clocks and debris from pulleys and winches. Anything that might be useful and re-purposed.
As he came and went, he could see the grief in others. He didn't feel it himself - wasn't even sure he could if he wanted to - but he could recognize it in the Children of New Eden. They had lost one of their own, gone in search and ended up losing two more. Three people in as many days? It did not bode well for the continued survival of the people expected to be the new master race. Whatever that was, considering he'd seen a blue deer-man recently, and the young girl was apparently some sort of kin to Anung un Rama.
Despite his own lack of emotional investment, the loss affected him in other ways. It meant more work spread among fewer people, it meant distractions and prolonged grief. No matter how one looked at it - practically or personally - it was a sour situation. And to make matters worse, he'd been critically damaged.
He had taken a solid thrashing out on the Skyway, and while he had hidden the worst of it from the others, the damage was severe. Now, he was trying to repair himself alone, sitting on a crumbled bit of stone wall with his coat and jacket over his lap, a selection of gizmos and gadgets cradled there with tools borrowed from all around the Bastion. He didn't dare fully expose himself, trying to work over his shoulder with most of his uniform still on. His shirt was pulled down enough to expose one shoulder where the unitard was shredded, the skin pallid with thick scars and the puckering of long healed stitching.
Under his clothing and beneath the black one-piece his skin was split, spilling sand instead of blood and exposing bone and metal beneath. The highly complicated clockworks mixed into his body around organs and bones were badly compromised, some of them crushed beyond repair. The trouble was, Kroenen couldn't lift one arm enough to work over his shoulder.
Normally he could twist and bend and do his work alone with a good mirror and fine tuned tools. Here in the Bastion, with so few tools and materials available, and no one he believed could help, Kroenen wondered if he wouldn't be out of commission permanently. Granted he was dangerous even with only one arm, but the damage was making it difficult to move his head and even walk. The longer he waited, the more the damaged pieces started grinding against the pieces that weren't, causing even more problems. It didn't help that the lenses of his mask were spider-webbed with cracks, obscuring his vision. He would have switched to one of the other masks, but they weren't finished being fixed either, and now he could barely use one hand.
Mercy, but how he longed for a tool-kit and free-standing mirror.]
Status: Tentatively open
When: Day 78, early morning
Where: Initially behind the apartments, likely to move somewhere less open.
What: Kroenen is struggling to repair the damage done before he arrived at the Bastion, and during the core retrieval
Format: action
Warnings: Possible body squickiness.
The emotional tolls on everyone were high. Some more than others, Kroenen noted as he absconded to the Skyway and back several times through the previous "night" after their return. He needed supplies, bits of metal and screws, pieces of old clocks and debris from pulleys and winches. Anything that might be useful and re-purposed.
As he came and went, he could see the grief in others. He didn't feel it himself - wasn't even sure he could if he wanted to - but he could recognize it in the Children of New Eden. They had lost one of their own, gone in search and ended up losing two more. Three people in as many days? It did not bode well for the continued survival of the people expected to be the new master race. Whatever that was, considering he'd seen a blue deer-man recently, and the young girl was apparently some sort of kin to Anung un Rama.
Despite his own lack of emotional investment, the loss affected him in other ways. It meant more work spread among fewer people, it meant distractions and prolonged grief. No matter how one looked at it - practically or personally - it was a sour situation. And to make matters worse, he'd been critically damaged.
He had taken a solid thrashing out on the Skyway, and while he had hidden the worst of it from the others, the damage was severe. Now, he was trying to repair himself alone, sitting on a crumbled bit of stone wall with his coat and jacket over his lap, a selection of gizmos and gadgets cradled there with tools borrowed from all around the Bastion. He didn't dare fully expose himself, trying to work over his shoulder with most of his uniform still on. His shirt was pulled down enough to expose one shoulder where the unitard was shredded, the skin pallid with thick scars and the puckering of long healed stitching.
Under his clothing and beneath the black one-piece his skin was split, spilling sand instead of blood and exposing bone and metal beneath. The highly complicated clockworks mixed into his body around organs and bones were badly compromised, some of them crushed beyond repair. The trouble was, Kroenen couldn't lift one arm enough to work over his shoulder.
Normally he could twist and bend and do his work alone with a good mirror and fine tuned tools. Here in the Bastion, with so few tools and materials available, and no one he believed could help, Kroenen wondered if he wouldn't be out of commission permanently. Granted he was dangerous even with only one arm, but the damage was making it difficult to move his head and even walk. The longer he waited, the more the damaged pieces started grinding against the pieces that weren't, causing even more problems. It didn't help that the lenses of his mask were spider-webbed with cracks, obscuring his vision. He would have switched to one of the other masks, but they weren't finished being fixed either, and now he could barely use one hand.
Mercy, but how he longed for a tool-kit and free-standing mirror.]
no subject
It didn’t suit Stein whatsoever.
Easily going unnoticed, he slipped out of the back of the apartment building, taking little time in lighting up his first cigarette of the day. Ahead of him was a rocky path that meandered down what might have once been an alleyway. Having no real destination in mind, he followed it, at a pace no more than a casual saunter.
All around were buildings in various states of disrepair. Most were structurally compromised beyond feasible salvage. Some were even on the brink of collapse. No wonder most of the town’s inhabitants seemed to all reside in one location – there wasn’t exactly a plethora of safe housing to choose from.
Followed only by a trail of smoke from his cigarette, Stein continued down the well-traveled trail, pausing only when something truly peculiar caught his eye.
Atop a small rubble pile, he caught sight of a figure he hadn’t seen before – humanoid, and clad in black. Though at first glance it looked rather menacing, further inspection revealed it wasn’t in any shape for a viable attack. In fact, it appeared to be attempting to somehow repair itself.
Whatever the case, Stein had no business with it. He paid it no further mind, fully intending to simply continue on his way.
…Until he caught sight of skin.
Human skin, marred with scars that matched those that his own face and body bore. Undoubtedly, the handiwork of a skilled surgeon. Beneath a deep laceration, the doctor could see traces of bone as well…though for some reason, the wound itself appeared to be more akin to a rip in fabric than torn flesh.
That was simply too interesting for Stein to pass up.
Intrigued, he turned toward the figure, eyes scanning over it – no, him -- inquisitively. It seemed the primary difference between the two of them was that as where he himself was still flesh and blood, this man had gone so far as to replace entire parts of his body with machinery.
Then again, he could relate with that as well, couldn’t he? As a man with a self-implanted screw through his temporal lobe, perhaps he had the obligation to offer his services to this stranger. He did look like he could use some help, after all. And a few new cogs.
A hand snaked up to his temple, gripping the cold metal on the left side of his head and giving it a slow, clockwise twist. The familiar, rhythmic clicking reverberated through his skull just as prominently as it carried through the air. Stein thought it the most appropriate greeting he could offer.
"Obligated"? Who was he kidding – it would be his pleasure.]
no subject
He had thought to ignore the approach. While he wasn't exactly body shy, he didn't like the idea of children watching him work. Still, they needed to grow up at some point. So he continued to work, or at least try, until he heard the familiar click and whir of something inorganic.
Slowly his head raised, staring forward in silence. Holding his breath, he cocked his head, straining to listen as the sound faded. Head twitching - an annoying tick brought on by his damage, couple with his own often avian/reptilian movements - the German finally forced his body to swivel his head enough to see over his exposed shoulder.
Not a child at all. In fact, a grown man. A man with old scars, stitched skin and - meine gute - a massive bolt through his skull?
For a moment they just stared at each other, both through broken lenses, silence stretching. Eventually Kroenen allowed himself to breath, and the gurgle-crackle-wheeze broke the magic moment. He turned away, staring down at his tools - garbage really, if he couldn't use it - and sighed, a visible rise and fall of his shoulders.
He didn't know what the man wanted, other than to gawk at another less than human member of the Bastion, but he didn't indicate Stein ought to leave. Instead, his good gloved hand pawed through the supplies and withdrew a screwdriver.
Reaching over his shoulder, he works at angling his hand into a position that would allow him to unscrew the stripped screws from the gears in his shoulder - a task further complicated by the fact that his "good" hand is a hand replaced by a mechanical replica years before and not exactly as precise as his real hand, which was decommissioned by the arm that refused to cooperate.
Kroenen is nothing if not stubbornly determined. ]
no subject
Or at least it appeared this man had done so, at some point. That seemed to be a bit of a struggle for him at the moment. Stein could see where impact of some sort had mangled critical, intricate elements within the clockwork, making basic functions a challenge, if even possible at all. Try as he might, with such extensive damage, there was no way this man was going to be able to make his own repairs.
But Stein could help.
He didn’t know if the stranger would be able to hear him even if he did offer to speak. But then again, if this man had enough human parts left to be considered such, then assuming he could hear the scientist's voice wasn’t an impossible leap to make.]
Impressive implants. [He commented coolly, though his lips would have been curled into a wolfish grin if not for the cigarette placed firmly between them in one corner.]
Mind if I take a look?
no subject
Tempted to tell Stein off, the German freezes at the question, head jerking up to fix hidden eyes on the other man before Kroenen could stop himself from reacting.
Take a look? Take a look?
There was another silence, then the slow, painful wheezing returned with an equally slow nod. Even with only one hand, Kroenen was terrifyingly deadly. Reasonably certain he could kill Stein if it came to it, the German was willing to focus on the compliment. Impressive implants. That they were, and Kroenen had an ego fluttering beneath all that scar tissue.
So he set down the screwdriver and gestured flippantly, as if to say "Oh, if you MUST." ]
no subject
Nevertheless, he took what was begrudgingly allowed and crouched before the stranger at his feet, all the while acutely aware of exactly how well-armed his “patient” still was. The scientist was equally so, and could be prepared to defend himself in a less than a moment’s notice, though he hoped things wouldn’t come to that. As the onmyoji had not-so-expressly stated, fighting amongst each other was useless; at this point, in this place, they were all allies. It would behoove them to behave as such.
Stein adjusted his half-broken glasses with one hand and narrowed his green eyes curiously as he examined the man’s injuries more closely. The wound was far more severe than he’d originally seen at a distance. Flayed skin gaped at him; and where there should have been blood, he instead found…sand? He pinched a bit of it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it between the two. The texture was fine – fine enough to not hinder the gears and cogs, clearly – though the damage to those pieces was severe.
The doctor glanced to the various tools and replacement pieces strewn throughout the stranger’s lap. Most of them would be of little use in repairing damage so extensive. And though Stein’s mind was abuzz with ideas of how replace and perhaps even improve upon this man’s already spectacular implants, the supplies and technology needed to do so weren’t heard of in this place. A scalpel would be hard enough to find, let alone the other tools he’d require – a fact that saddened him more than his face could express, especially at the moment.
But there was one thing he could do.
Retrieving the screwdriver the man had previously discarded, Stein loosened a critical gear that had been bent inwardly. Angling the tool a bit, he was able to obtain the leverage he needed to counteract some of the bend. Sure, it wouldn’t function like new, but perhaps it would help give the stranger back a bit of his former functionality. He tightened the screw once more and returned the driver to where he’d taken it before pulling the cigarette out of the corner of his mouth to speak.]
Most of these can’t be repaired. [He exhaled, wisps of smoke trailing upward across his face as he met gazes with lenses spiderwebbed with cracks not unlike his own. That was going to need to be addressed as well.] But if you have parts, I can swap them out.
no subject
Only in those flickers did he ever have a sense of regret - in his endless struggle towards perfection he had given up things that were satisfying in other ways. Lost sight of his only other means of distraction. He had given up pleasure for science, and eventually pain had filled the space in its absence. Yet over time, he lost that as well. Deadened and adrift in a world he could not conform to, the German had convinced himself he had never needed or wanted any of those things anyways.
Then something would happen and throw his composure completely out the metaphorical window.
Stein bent the gear, Kroenen groaned; just a faint sound, barely audible, sharp and short. The screw twisted and he could feel something like static race across his skin, up his spine and neck, tingling on his scalp and making it itch. When was the last time anything had itched?
Stein would only see anything register as twitches and jerks, but to a skilled man like him, it was no doubt like a seizure to someone without the understanding of a creature like the soldier beneath his screwdriver.
When Stein set the screwdriver back down, Kroenen's masked face swiveled enough to stare at it, glaring behind black lenses accusingly as if the tool could be held responsible for the jolt that still had him puzzled. He nearly missed the professor's words in his distraction.
That familiar frustration welled up once more, gaze tilting down to the gears, cogs, screws and other bits of flotsam and jetsam in his lap. Teeth ground audibly this time, followed by a low, wheezing growl.
Finally, Kroenen jerked his head in the direction of the attic. There, he had ferreted away a number of things from gizmos and junk to pieces of metal that could serve as tools in lieu of the real thing. With the borrowed tool-kit and the mess he had collected, certainly there had to be enough there for his shoulder? And he could replace the broken mask with one of the good ones.
Using his good hand to scoop up his coat with all of the pieces in it, Kroenen stood and faced Stein. For several long moments he said nothing, simply staring, eyes flicking up and down over the other man with intense scrutiny.
At last he nodded, inhaling deeply despite the whirring and clicking of his compromised breather, and introduced himself.
"Karl Ruprecht Kroenen. You may call me Kroenen. Follow me."
His voice was deeply distorted by the mask, but the German accent was unmistakable to anyone that knew what it was. Coupled with the distinct uniform, the clockwork man's position as a Nazi was all but confirmed by the source. And so Stein was led into the apartments, up and up if he chose to follow, until they came to the attic, bypassing every normal place of residence in favor of an open floor-plan, silence, privacy and a view of everything around the entire building.
Kroenen had managed two long tables and a chair - he had no bed because he rarely slept and when he did, he could do so in a chair. One table was littered with his collection of junk being pulled apart for pieces, the other was covered with neat piles of materials separated based on size, strength and level of adjustment required, as well as screws, bolts, bits of wire, springs and spools. Everything he could salvage in a few days.
Standing in the middle of the space near the door, the German looked over his shoulder, waiting for Stein, not willing to admit he wanted more of the man's compliments; wanting to know if Stein found his newborn laboratory sufficient. ]
no subject
He also wasn’t aware there was an attic.
At the sight of it, a twisted smirk curled the corners of his lips. Through the eyes of the average individual, it likely looked like an old, eerie workshop of some kind; maybe even a macabre toolshed. But for Stein, it was fondly familiar; some semblance of a world “gone”, as others had said, (though he personally still wasn’t sure how – or if - he’d stomach such facts). In this attic, he could see traces of his old laboratory - minus the sutured walls and angular, barren trees looming outside, of course.
Stein stepped out from behind Kroenen to take in the space further. While the long wooden tables wouldn’t make for a sterile operating environment, the provisions here were still far superior to any alternatives he’d seen thus far. Most certainly better than he’d hoped for, given this half-demolished town did not appear to have any sort of hospital or lab. Needless to say, the workspace would more than suffice for what needed to be done.]
Oh, this is lovely… [He commented, grin turning toothier and more wolfish with every spoken word.] Simply lovely.
[The scientist pivoted on a heel to face his new acquaintance, pulled a hand from a pocket of his white lab coat and extended it out of pure instinct. Blame it on his medical training, leaving him with the nasty habit of offering handshakes to his patients.]
Stein. [A small pause.] Doctor Franken Stein.
no subject
He hadn't realized the disapproving glares and scrutiny had made him irritable, nor that he'd needed at least one person's approval for something he did. He hadn't even heard gratitude for his work in getting the core. At least Rasputin had always appreciated his skills. People here had expectations and offered no reward.
All he needed was a little appreciation for his gottverdammte work. Just a bit.
Of course, never in all his life would he have expected it of someone who, until two seconds ago, he was fairly certain was little more than a fictional fabrication of a macabre woman's mind. ]
Frankenstein? [ He asked, head tilting. He turned it into a single name, of course. That was what the books said, at any rate. He found himself holding his hand out, leather-encased fingers gripping Stein's own digits firmly, respectfully. A military shake given to a person of interest - of envy, even. ]
Not ZE Frankenstein? Zientist, doktor. Master of anatomical study? [ He asks, speaking more in the last few...well, years, really. And why shouldn't he? He was speaking with a colleague, albeit one he hadn't believed to exist. At least he had to sense to end the handshake appropriately. ]
Zis vorld is certainly vull of unusual sings. It is...a pleasure meeting you, Herr Doktor.
no subject
It certainly is. [The doctor gives a pleased expression to his new acquaintance.] Likewise.
[The sentiment wasn't meaningless flattery, either. The man before Stein was just as believable as the rest of the circumstances the scientist had been thrust into. Stein didn't have a clue how such a marvel existed...but he was dying to find out...
Again, his eyes turn to the tables in the attic. He'd just have to clear one off, and then he could have Kroenen lie down on it while he got to work. His expression hardens, however, as he realizes one key element is missing: An overhead spotlamp. For a brief moment he misses his old stitched lab, but tries to toss that off quickly to bring himself back to the situation at-hand.]
If we can clear one of these tables, that will give us the space we need.
no subject
If there was anything Kroenen enjoyed, it was being a subject of interest. Awe, fear, envy. It didn't matter so long as someone wanted something from him, or wished they had something he did. Stein was pleased by the lab and fascinated by Kroenen's work - so far as the German was concerned, it was the equivalent of genius in another field looking upon him as a wunderkind in his own.
Stein was a God in the world of fringe science. Passing up an opportunity to work with the man would be on par with turning down a drink with the Devil; just because it was dangerous didn't mean you shouldn't take the opportunity to pick the mind of someone with all the answers.
Of course he wasn't entirely certain what Stein planned, but any help from someone with a resumé like Frankenstein's was foolish to turn down. He needed his arm fixed, he needed full mobility and if it meant sating the curiosity of one of history's greatest geniuses, so be it.
Then he notes the soured expression, forcing him to look around curiously. ]
Ist somesing ze matter, Herr Doktor?
no subject
He needed to be prepared for his operation to proceed long past sunset; possibly well into the evening. But without spotlamps - let alone the electricity to power them...]
If we run out of daylight, what will we do then?
no subject
[ Reaching up overhead, the German pulls a small chain attached to a simple pulley. A plain iron ring - formerly on a wagon wheel - is attached to the central a-frame and affixed with five glass-window lamps. In a short moment, Kroenen has each one lit and the attic is bared for Stein to see in its entirety; it was beyond spartan, no bed, no personalization beyond the work area.
Gesturing vaguely, he paces around the tables, showing that the wide arrangement of the lamps keeps the amount of shadowing around the table low. ]
Zere ist anozzer lamp zere on a piviot arm attached to ze table for closer vork. Vill zat be sufficient?
no subject
Yes, that will work.
[He answers finally, walking over to help finish clearing off the table. The blank walls of the attic are comfortable; perhaps even a bit familiar. Stein's lab was the same way, after all - no personal touches, just the essentials. (Of course, said "essentials" were not anywhere close to what the word normally implies...) That was the way he liked it. And apparently, he and Kroenen shared that in common, as well.]
no subject
At least the German's system iss simple; everything arranged by size, common use and alphabetized. The latter only problematic because German is his first language, so most things aren't precisely English oriented.
At one point Kroenen stops, hands hovering over the tools neatly lined on the table, gloved fingers weaving to music only he could hear as though each item were keys on a piano. Once, he might have moved lips, forming quiet words to accompany the concert, or let his eyelids drift slowly closed in satisfaction; those days were long since past, but body-language read just as well as facial expression to the observant - Kroenen is excited.
Here is someone equally - or more, if possible - qualified to do the work Kroenen so enjoys. Someone with a very specific set of skills that the German admires more than most, able to create works of art, or tear them apart and find precisely what made them tick.
The danger, the thrill of allowing someone rumored to be quite as...unhinged, as Stein to know his secrets? It is precisely the sort of challenge and recklessness Kroenen needs to distract himself from the blind, bland, banal monotony of such simple life that he was doomed eternally to, in this place of "community" and cooperation. ]
Zere, zat should be everysing. So, Herr Doktor...If you are satisfied, are ve ready to begin?
no subject
Oh yes, he's more than ready.
But before he answers he stops and stretches; cracks his neck, then his knuckles; and finally, adjusts his glasses. He doesn’t bother to hide the morbid glee on his face; surely a man as intuitive as Kroenen could see it in his eyes, anyway.]
I’m ready if you are.
no subject
They might have been talking about sex for all the sudden tension of the two men standing on either side of the table cleared for Kroenen. The image is only further impacted by the German's slow return to life, a reptile sluggishly slithering from its den as one hand goes to his head, sliding off his hat and setting it aside neatly on one corner of the table. The hand rises once more, tugging loose his tight collar like a man loosening his tie. The medallion is removed and folded, set atop the hat. All the while those cracked black lenses stare unblinking at Stein.
The hat and medallion are soon followed by his leather vest and gloves, black uniform shirt and ornate breastplate. The lycra one-piece beneath all of his clothing was shredded beyond repair, so in the course of a few deliberately drawn out minutes, the professor is soon offered a fully exposed torso.
Low slung pants and the mask cut off the expanse, leaving the work space confined to everything in between hips and throat, but it is enough to get a very good grasp of the sort of person he is dealing with. Stein's scars are neat, his stitches refined. Kroenen is put together carelessly, all the attention to detail underneath the flesh, within it. His body a road-map of agony, and he wears it as proudly as a cock wears its comb.
Ready? Oh, he most certainly is, and with his clothing all set aside, he simply waits to be directed to the table in a position the professor finds satisfactory. ]