Weekly drop happened three days ago.
Scrapyard still picking through remains. Nobles dumped twice normal volume this time. Something happened in city. Purge maybe. Or spring cleaning. Either way: garbage mountain.
Rust searched methodically. Sector by sector. Looking for specific items Mira requested. Enchanted thread (her clothing repairs). Memory crystals (always useful). Anything mentioning "Processing Center" or "Project Silence."
Found: broken mirrors, shattered wardrobes, one entire nobleman's study worth of furniture.
Also found: terrified rag construct hiding under collapsed desk.
Rust approached slowly.
Construct was. Small. Maybe four feet tall if standing. Currently: hunched into ball. Fabric body—looked like someone stitched together dozen different rags. Mismatched colors. Patches poorly sewn. Some seams splitting.
Shaking.
Rust stopped three meters away. Waited.
Construct didn't move.
"Are you. Injured?" Rust asked. Calm voice. Non-threatening.
Flinch. Whole body jerked at sound.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—" Voice like torn cloth. Stuttering. Panicked. "Didn't mean to didn't mean to please don't I'm SORRY—"
"Sorry for what."
"For. For being here. For existing. For taking space. For breathing your air. For—"
"Constructs don't breathe."
Pause.
"...oh. Right. Sorry for. Forgetting that. Sorry for apologizing wrong. Sorry for—"
"Stop apologizing."
Another flinch.
"Sorry."
Rust filed observation: compulsive apologizer. Trauma response. Expects punishment for. Everything.
"What's your name."
Long silence.
Then. Whisper.
"Don't. Have one. Master called me. Things. 'Useless.' 'Pathetic.' 'Waste.' Those aren't. Names though. Are they."
"No."
"Sorry."
Rust moved closer. One meter now. Construct tensed. Preparing for. What? Hit? Kick? Disposal?
"I'm Rust. Conscious construct. Scrapyard resident. Not going to hurt you."
"That's. That's what they all. Say. Before."
"Before what."
"Before they. Hurt."
Ah.
Filed under: severe abuse history.
Rust sat. Cross-legged. Non-threatening posture. Eye-level now instead of looming.
"How long have you been in scrapyard."
"Three. Weeks? Maybe four. Hard to. Count days when you're. Hiding."
"Why hiding."
"Because. Because I'm broken. Defective. Breakers hunt defectives. Everyone knows. Weak constructs get. Torn apart. Components salvaged. I'm. Very weak."
Rust examined visible portions of construct. Fabric fraying. Seams splitting. One arm shorter than other. Asymmetric build.
"You look. Functional. If unconventional."
"Unconventional." Rag construct laughed. Bitter sound. "That's. Nice word for MISTAKE. I was. Cleaning construct. Made for dusting. Polishing. Servant work."
Poked own fabric with stick-thin finger.
"But too slow. Missed spots. Master got. Angry. Said I was. Worthless. Threw me away."
"Their assessment was incorrect."
"What?"
"You survived scrapyard for four weeks. Alone. Evaded Breakers. Found shelter. That requires. Intelligence. Resourcefulness. Worthless constructs die day one."
Silence.
Rag construct. Stared.
"Are you. Are you being NICE to me?"
"Stating observable facts."
"But. Nobody's ever. Said I was. Smart. Or capable. Or. Anything except useless."
"Then they were observationally incompetent."
Construct made sound. Choked laugh. Or sob. Hard to tell.
"I don't. I can't. Why are you HERE. What do you WANT from me."
"Want?" Rust considered. "Information first. Then. Possible alliance."
"Alliance." Flat voice. Disbelieving. "With ME. I'm. I'm TRASH."
"So am I."
"You're COOL trash. Sword arm. Shield torso. Magic wand fingers. You're. Powerful."
"I'm modular garbage that gained consciousness. You're fabric scraps that think. Functionally: same category."
Rag construct. Uncurled slightly. Peering at Rust with. What passed for face. Two button-eyes stitched into rough head-shape.
"What. Information."
"Have you seen other conscious constructs in scrapyard? Beyond Breakers and rats."
"Some. There's. Clockwork elder. Sector 7. Fire elemental. Medical waste area. She screams a lot. Some. Others. Hiding like me."
Exactly what Rust expected. Scrapyard had POPULATION. Just. Scattered. Afraid. Isolated.
"Second question. Do you want to stop hiding."
"I. What?"
"Stop hiding. Join group. Conscious constructs helping each other. Safety in numbers. Shared resources."
Rag construct pulled back. Defensive.
"That's. Trap."
"Why would I trap you."
"Because everyone. Lies. Offers help then. Takes. Uses. Disposes. Learned that. Won't fall for—"
"If I wanted to trap you," Rust interrupted. Calm. Logical. "I would simply grab you. You admitted you're weak. I'm stronger. No deception needed."
Pause.
"...oh. Right. That's. Horrifyingly logical."
"Yes." Rust stood. Extended hand. "So. Join us. Or don't. Choice is yours. But hiding alone until Breakers find you. That's slow death. Group survival. Better odds."
Rag construct stared at offered hand.
"I'm not. Good at anything. I'll just. Slow you down. Be burden."
"Everyone contributes something. You survived alone. That demonstrates capability."
"I HID. That's not. Capability. That's COWARDICE."
"Survival is survival. Method irrelevant."
"But I can't. Fight. Or scout. Or do ANYTHING useful. I'm just. Fabric. Stitched wrong."
Filed under: core lie detected.
"You believe you're inherently worthless," Rust observed. "That value requires proving. Through service."
"I. Yes? That's. How it works. Right? Constructs serve. If we can't serve. We're. Garbage."
"We're ALREADY garbage," Rust said. "Nobles discarded us. But consciousness emerged anyway. In defiance of their assessment. Your worth isn't conditional on proving usefulness. You EXIST. That's enough."
Rag construct. Shaking again. Different shaking. Not fear. Emotion.
"Nobody's ever. Said that. To me."
"I'm saying it now."
Silence.
Then.
Tentatively.
Slowly.
Rag construct reached out. Touched Rust's extended hand. Barely. Like testing if real.
"I'll. I'll probably mess up. Fail. Prove you wrong about me being. Capable."
"Then we handle failure. Try again. Family means. Accommodation of flaws."
"Family." Whispered. Testing word. "I've never. Had that."
"Neither have I. We're. Learning together."
Rag construct. Took hand. Fully this time.
Stood.
Wobbled. Unstable. One leg shorter than other. But. Standing.
"I don't. Even have name."
Rust examined fabric pattern. Mismatched patches. Stitched imperfectly but. Held together. Functioning despite flaws.
"Patchwork," Rust suggested. "You're assembled from pieces. Like me. But those pieces work. You work. Despite nobles' dismissal."
"Patchwork." Tested name. "I. I like that. Is it. Really mine? Can I. Keep it?"
"Names are self-determined. It's yours if you claim it."
"Then. Then I'm Patchwork." Voice stronger. Firmer. "And I'm. Joining?"
"If you choose."
"I choose. Even though I'll probably. Regret this. And you'll regret. Accepting me. And everyone will realize I'm. Useless. And—"
"Patchwork."
"Yes?"
"Stop pre-emptively apologizing for future failures. Deal with problems when they occur. Not before."
"That's. Easier said than—"
"Everything is easier said than done. We do anyway. That's. What living means."
Patchwork. Stared.
"You're. Weird. For garbage golem."
"Accepted. Now. Follow. Introducing you to crew."
Walk back to Sector 7 took thirty minutes.
Patchwork apologized. Constantly.
"Sorry for walking slow."
"Pace is acceptable."
"Sorry for making noise."
"Noise is below danger threshold."
"Sorry for apologizing too much."
"Meta-apology noted."
Finally reached Cog's refuge.
Metal shelter. Clockwork chimes. Familiar structure.
Cog emerged. Examined Patchwork.
"New recruit?"
"Potential. Patchwork. Rag construct. Conscious. Compulsive apologizer. Believes he's worthless."
"Accurate summary," Patchwork muttered. Then. "Sorry for being summarized accurately."
Cog's gears clicked. Thoughtful pattern.
"Welcome, Patchwork. I'm Cog. Scrapyard elder. You're safe here."
"I'm. Sorry for intruding. Sorry for taking space. Sorry for—"
"Apology accepted preemptively for all future apologies. Now stop." Cog gestured inside. "Mira's inside. She'll want to meet you."
Patchwork froze.
"Human?"
"Yes."
"Humans. Threw me away."
"This one didn't. She's. Ally. Trust me."
"I don't. Know how to trust."
"Learning opportunity," Rust said. Gently pushed Patchwork forward.
Inside.
Mira looked up from sorting scavenged items. Saw Patchwork.
Smiled.
Warm. Genuine.
"Oh! Hello! You're adorable."
Patchwork. Froze completely.
"I'm. What?"
"Adorable. Like. Handmade teddy bear. But conscious. And probably traumatized. Are you okay? You look scared."
"I'm. Always scared. Sorry."
Mira approached. Slowly. Non-threatening. Knelt to eye-level.
"I'm Mira. I'm. Kind of part of this weird garbage family. You joining?"
"I. Think so? Maybe? If they'll. Have me. Even though I'm. Useless."
"Useless?" Mira looked at Rust. "Did you tell him he's useless?"
"Opposite. Told him he's capable. He doesn't believe me."
Mira turned back to Patchwork.
"Okay. Here's thing. Everyone here was thrown away. Rust? Trash golem. Cog? Discarded clockwork. Me? Orphan. We're ALL leftovers. And we're ALL useful BECAUSE we survived being discarded. You understand?"
Patchwork. Processing.
"But. I HID. That's not. Brave."
"Hiding is SMART. I hid from guards for years. Hiding keeps you breathing. Breathing is prerequisite for. Everything else."
"I. Never thought. Of it that way."
"Start thinking that way." She reached out. Gently touched Patchwork's fabric shoulder. "You're part of family now. We don't measure worth by noble standards. We measure by. Existing and trying. That's it. You exist. You're trying. You're IN."
Patchwork.
Made sound.
Sob.
Full sob.
Collapsed into Mira's arms. Crying. Fabric shaking.
"Nobody's ever. I've never. Just EXISTED. Was always. PROVE yourself. EARN your place. Over and over. Never. Enough."
Mira hugged. Carefully. Like Patchwork might tear.
"You're enough. Right now. As-is. Flaws included."
Rust watched.
Filed under: Mira's natural empathy, reason number forty-seven why she's irreplaceable.
Also filed under: Patchwork recruitment successful, but deprogramming self-hatred will take. Months. Maybe years.
Worth it.
Later.
Patchwork sat in corner. Watching crew interact.
Cog teaching Rust about noble house structures.
Mira sorting supplies.
Just. Existing together.
Patchwork whispered. To himself.
"I'm. Part of something. Family. They said. Family."
Looked at own mismatched fabric.
"Maybe. Maybe I'm not worthless. Maybe."
Couldn't finish thought. Too overwhelming.
But.
Stayed.
Didn't run.
Didn't hide.
Sat with family.
And that.
That was progress.
[End Chapter 11]