#ulyssia harmons

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Skull is the opposite(cant think of the word i wanted to use) of spine right? so does he care about love?? and random Hare question, if i offered them a moon pie or some form of gift would Hare accept it??

“Counterpart” is more accurate, maybe that was what you were thinking ok?

The Skull is actually aromantic! And a little romance repulsed due to being stalked by the obsessive Ulyssia Harmons when he was a young robot. He doesn’t really get the appeal of romantic relationships, but he doesn’t disparage them either. He understands that it’s simply not something for him!

Hare wouldn’t be interested in gifts of food (except maybe to give to Riker or Scratch as a bribe). He would disregard most gifts from strangers, unless you managed to make a sentimental impression on him. Then it would go in one of his stashes of mementos he keeps hidden around his room!

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Fic: Prototype

AO3 Link

Summary: Ulyssia Harmons wishes to become a robot as part of her pursuit of The Skull’s affections, and Thadeus Becile sees this as an excellent opportunity.

Word Count: 1729

Content Warning: Offscreen murder, implied body horror/mutilation, harassment.

---

　　Ulyssia Harmons arrived precisely at two o’ clock, as had been planned. Thadeus had to give her driver credit for managing such punctuality. He greeted her at the door himself, a rare event. Usually one of the robots was instructed to bring his few guests to his office. But this visit was one to be kept private.

　　“Mr. Becile, how good to see you,” Miss Harmons said, climbing the steps to the door.

　　Thadeus nodded stiffly in return. “Miss Harmons. If you would follow me.”

　　He led her to the one sitting room still in use. Thadeus had ordered it to be cleaned without citing he would have a guest; The Skull and The Jack had done most of the work, with Hare begrudgingly lending a hand. Once Miss Harmons was seated, he offered tea, which she took politely. He caught her mouth twisting at the strong, bitter flavor. It was poorly made, certainly, but he was unconcerned. His own cup was mostly flavored by brandy.

　　“Will The Skull be joining us?” Miss Harmons asked, smile strained against the aftertaste of the tea.

　　“I’m afraid I had to employ my robots elsewhere today,” Thadeus said. Miss Harmons’ expression dropped, and he shrugged. “It will be better for us to not be disturbed. The Skull may even protest to our idea-- in fear of you being harmed.” He struggled to keep the sarcasm from his words. The Skull wouldn’t have voiced any concern, of course, even though he would find the idea repulsive for his own sake. “Though I am confident such fears are unfounded.”

　　Miss Harmons leaned forward. “Can you do it, then?” she asked, cutting to the chase with wide eyes. “Can you turn me into a robot?”

　　Thadeus steepled his fingers, the brass casings making tapping noises. “It’s never been done,” he said. “Automatons such as mine generate their own personalities upon activation. However, I theorize that a highly concentrated source of power, one made from a single, pure entity, could maintain the properties of the soul and imbue them into a new vessel. While it may be theory, I am confident--”

　　“How would it be done? Would it be painful?” Miss Harmons interrupted. “I can deal with pain, given enough laudanum.”

　　Thadeus slightly arched an eyebrow. “Painful, perhaps. However, to prevent complications, the subject-- you and whatever test animals I can procure-- would be entirely unconscious. You see, the crystal ectoplasm that powers the robotic Core is created gradually in nature through the process of decay, which releases non-mnemonic spiritual energy. To preserve the mnemonic energy-- the soul-- the crystal much be formed much quicker. To be frank, the body must be broken down and reformed into a condensed unit, rapidly.”

　　Miss Harmons paled slightly. “Broken down how?” she asked.

　　“I’ve yet to determine the most efficient method,” Thadeus said. “Fire is fast but difficult to work with; lye is easy to concentrate, but slow. You will have to give me more time to experiment.” He sipped at his drink. “But then, you will need time to prepare, yourself.”

　　“Prepare?” Miss Harmons looked confused.

　　“You realize there will be no returning to this life as you know it? As ‘Miss Ulyssia Harmons?’ What we are doing must be kept secret. There is no doubt we would be prosecuted for unethical science should this become known to the public. For my sake and your own, I’ll have to insist you settle your affairs.”

　　Miss Harmons looked down into her cup of bitter tea and was silent for a long time.

　　“Will he love me then?” she asked quietly.

　　Thadeus had to strangle a laugh. “He already cares for you very deeply, though his manners may be brusque. He has always suffered from a terrible shyness, which manifests in avoidance and pushing others away. Once the barrier of differing… embodiments has been removed, I am certain he will lower his guard.” How rich.

　　“How long do you need?” Miss Harmons asked. “I can start preparing right away, but it will do us no good if I leave my life behind before you are ready to change me.”

　　“I will send word,” Thadeus said. He almost smiled. “Be patient with an old man, and you will not be disappointed.”

　　He waited a few months before sending a short message to the Harmons estate. Two days later, after he had sent the three robots off on busywork again, Miss Harmons appeared at the door, the hems of her skirt dirty from walking.

　　“As far as my family knows, I have left town to visit a sick friend,” she said. “I shall never arrive, but they shall find my will settles everything neatly. No debts, no future engagements.” She looked on the edge of tears. “They will be fine.”

　　Thadeus nodded. “You have done well. Now all you have to do is maintain that bravery a few hours longer.”

　　“Will The Skull be assisting…?” Miss Harmons asked hopefully.

　　“He is no scientist, and there is no room for untrained errors.”

　　They climbed the stairs to the second floor, then to the attic, Miss Harmons’ expression growing more baffled with every step. “Is your laboratory up here?” she asked. “I thought such things were built in basements.”

　　“We have some things to prepare that the laboratory had no room for,” Thadeus said, ushering her into the attic.

　　“It looks like a drawing room,” Miss Harmons said, looking around.

　　“It was,” Thadeus said, locking the door behind them. “And will be again. Miss Harmons, if you would please relax for a preparatory sedative.”

　　“Shouldn’t we wait--”

　　Her words were cut off as Thadeus pressed the cloth, wet with chloroform, to her mouth and nose. He caught her as she slumped backwards, and slowly lowered her to the floor, careful not to bump her head. Then he retrieved the syringe he’d prepared earlier, injecting her with a stronger drug that would keep her in a deep, deep unconsciousness, but should not kill her. That would come later.

　　Thadeus had not lied about his idea. The theory was sound, and he had certainly spent time concentrating the souls of rats and rabbits into chunks of Candy the size of a fingertip cut at the knuckle. Miss Harmons simply was not destined for that particular process.

　　Instead, he crossed to a large chest and delicately retrieved a roll of heavy cloth. There was a note pinned to the corner: “May your ventures prove fruitful-- L.S.” Thadeus wrinkled his nose. ‘L.S.’ stood for ‘Locke Smith,’ which was the tackiest pseudonym he’d ever encountered, but perhaps was suitable for an equally tacky man. However despicable Smith might be, his penchant for trade in the rare and the magical made him worth keeping on friendly terms. If this enchanted cloth-- soul binding cloth-- worked, it would make every insufferable meeting worthwhile. If it worked, bringing her back was only a matter of time, trial, and error.

　　As such, it was time to begin the trials.

　　-

　　The Skull walked into the Boss’s office, ready to receive his orders for the day, and immediately noticed that there was something unfamiliar on the cabinet shelf.

　　“Is that new, sir?” The Skull asked. He was looking at a small sack doll, crudely made and without even eyes, that was sitting just at the level of his shoulder.

　　The Boss glanced at it and paused. “Old memorabilia,” he said after a moment. “A child’s gift from a long time ago that turned up while I was organizing. Now, as for your instructions--”

　　The Skull tried not to be distracted, and usually he was very good at that, but there was something… weird in the air today. He felt like he was being watched.

　　There was a thud.

　　The Skull glanced back at the cabinet. The sack doll had fallen over-- fallen forward-- so that its face now pressed against the glass. He stared for a moment, until the Boss cleared his throat in annoyance, and he turned back to find himself under a steely gaze.

　　“I expect you to pay attention when I’m talking to you,” the Boss said.

　　“Yes, sir,” The Skull said. From then on, he made a point of never looking straight at the doll, though he couldn’t help but hear it shift.

　　In the years following, the doll moved less and less, until it slumped over one final time. It disappeared shortly after that, and The Skull never saw it again. He was relieved.

　　Ulyssia Harmons was declared a missing person, then later deceased. An invitation to her funeral was sent to Thadeus Becile, not without considerable trepidation, but he did not attend. As The Skull fed the somberly printed card to the fireplace, he thought back to the last conversation he’d had with Miss Harmons.

　　“Is it because I’m human?” she had asked him with shining eyes. “If I was made of metal like you--”

　　“Stop,” The Skull had snapped. “I’m not interested in being anybody’s other half, especially not of a girl who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

　　“If I was metal-- If I could live forever, too--” Miss Harmons muttered, reaching for him.

　　“Who says I’m gonna live forever?” The Skull stepped back from her hands. “I’m not saying it again: stay away from me.”

　　“I’ll find a way,” she said, smiling as she retreated. “You’ll see. The heart finds a way.”

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Fic: Debut, Part 1

AO3 Link

Summary: The night of the Smokin’ Blokes first show.

Word Count: 4038

Content Warning: Unwanted touch, hints at future emotional abuse

---

           Tonight was their first big night. A whole month of preparation, starting the week after they had been activated. They’d been practicing their music, defining a sound, tuning themselves as exactingly as they tuned their instruments. And now it was all going to pay off.

           It was the night of the Smokin’ Blokes debut.

           Pops still didn’t like the name, but Hare and The Jack had worn him down. The third of their trio was a little more hesitant, caught between their excitement and the disapproval of their creator, unsure who to side with. He hadn’t officially been given a name, yet, but they’d taken to calling him The Skull due to the look of his unfinished faceplate.

           That was one of the few worries they had tonight. The Skull was self-conscious about going outside without being finished. But Pops said his hands were too sore to complete anything decent looking, and the debut shouldn’t be put on hold for something so minorly aesthetic. “Your focus should not be on your appearance,” Pops had explained to him, The Skull nodding along. “I want your audience to come away impressed with your musicianship. Play well and you’ll have your face when my hands recover.”

           The Jack kept fussing with his violin, so nervous that Hare was concerned he’d break the thing from too much tuning. “You’ve checked that fiddle a thousand times!” Hare said, just an hour before their departure. He gently laid his hands on the violin and took it from The Jack, setting it back in its case and snapping the latches closed. “We gotta make sure we’re ready to perform, not just play!”

           Hare’s enthusiasm was infectious; the other two began to stand a little straighter, walk with more confidence; even Pops’ grim countenance eased a little.

           As had been scheduled for that night, a large vehicle, some kind of truck with a partially covered cargo bed, pulled up the estate drive to the house. The robots hopped in the back eagerly, though the truck tilted under the combined weight of The Skull and his double bass. He thought for a moment, then took a seat on the bench directly behind the driver’s cabin, steadying his encased instrument against his legs. The Jack gave a little squeak of surprise as the truck began to move, and Hare laughed. “You’re fine, Jack,” Hare said. “Enjoy the ride!”

           The three watched with great curiosity out of the back of the truck as they moved, for the first time, beyond the edges of the estate and into town. They passed through a smattering of quiet buildings before the streetlamps appeared, glowing at the late hour. Hare and The Jack slid closer to the edge, peering out at the still busy sidewalks while The Skull craned his neck to see better.

           “There’s so many people,” The Jack said with wonder. “How many do you think are coming to the show?”

           “A whole bunch,” Hare said confidently. “At least thirty.” The other two robots looked impressed; being mechanical, they could count much higher than that, but the context of what made a crowd had yet to be learned. They had met but a handful of humans in their short lives.

           The truck rumbled to a stop around the back of a low, unassuming looking building. Pops led his robots through a door and down a flight of stairs, which opened to the backstage of a small club. Hare immediately sidled up to the edge of the curtains, closing his vents while he peeked around the edge.

           “Hare, come back here,” Pops said. Hare cast a bashful grin over his shoulder and retreated to the group. “I don’t want you three deviating from your orders. Recite them back to me.”

           “We will wait here until our band name is announced,” The Skull said. “Then we will move onto the stage.”

           “We’ll wait until the people stop clapping,” The Jack continued. “And then we’ll begin to play!”

           “We acknowledge ‘em between songs,” Hare said. “But we don’t bow until we’re done with the set. And we get to end with my song!” His eyes shone excitedly.

           Pops sighed and rubbed one of his temples. “Yes, if only because you would throw a fit otherwise.”

           “They’re gonna love it, Pops,” Hare said. “I promise, I’ll make you real proud!”

           Pops glanced at him for a second, then flicked his metal-cased fingers away from his head in a conceding gesture. “And afterward?”

           “We leave our instruments backstage,” The Jack said. “And meet you out there so the people can see us up close!”

           “They will be safe, won’t they?” The Skull asked with a concerned look at his bass. “The instruments?”

           “No one is going to meddle with them.” Pops paused. “Though I can make an allowance for one of you to stay behind and watch them. For this occasion only.”

           The Skull’s shoulders relaxed. Once Pops was satisfied with their preparation, he left for his reserved table in the audience. Hare turned to The Skull and The Jack, smirking, and jerked his head toward the edge of the curtain and the people sitting on the other side. “I count thirty-two.”

           The MC came by them a few minutes later, frowning at the smoke; Hare grinned and bowed, gesturing him on toward the stage. The MC took the stage to polite applause, but as he began to speak, The Jack gave a little hiccup. The other two looked at him with concern, and Hare quickly grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket.

           “Jacky, hey, you got a little stage fright?” Hare said quietly, peering at The Jack’s face. A drop of oil was escaping, and Hare deftly wiped it away. “That’s alright, but don’t go getting that pretty bow all dirty!”

           “What if I mess up?” The Jack whispered.

           The Skull cut off any more doubting words by placing his hand on The Jack’s shoulder. “If you mess up, you keep going,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’s different from failing.”

           “And we’re not gonna fail, either,” Hare said. He leaned in and conspiratorially whispered to them both: “We’re too damn good.”

           The Skull and The Jack had no time to reprimand Hare for using a bad word. The applause started up again and the MC was stepping aside. Hare quickly folded his handkerchief away, and with a final nod to each other, the Smokin’ Blokes stepped on stage.

           The small theater had provided a stand-up piano for Hare. He clearly wanted to run up and grab the mic stand instead, but he settled for flashing a toothy grin at the audience before sitting down. The Skull moved to center stage and put down a rock stop for the endpin of his bass, while The Jack timidly stood on the other side of him from Hare, strumming each string of the violin with his thumb in turn. Hare glanced over his shoulder at the other two, and then they began to play.

           Rachmaninoff’s Trio élégiaque No. 1.

           Beethoven’s Op. 38: I. Adagio – Allegro con brio.

           Bottesini’s Gran duo concertante.

           The set was a little under an hour long—too much longer and the smoke would become oppressive, even with filters installed. There was more polite applause as they finished playing, which brought a beaming smile to The Jack’s face. The Skull nodded solemnly, though his eyes were keen and bright. Hare nearly threw himself off the bench and at the mic as the applause died down.

           “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” he cooed into the mic with a charming, sharp-toothed smile. “Thank you for having us this evening. We’re real happy to be playing tonight, and I want to give special thanks to the man himself, Thadeus Becile, without whom we wouldn’t be possible,” he said, ending with a cheeky wink. Pops nodded stoically from his seat as people chuckled and lightly clapped. “Before we let you go, we got one more piece to play. A Becile original, debuting tonight—accept no imitations. Boys?”

           The Skull began plucking a slow bassline, followed by The Jack’s violin reciting part of a melody. Hare sobered his smile and started to sing.

           There’s nothing but dust

          In my eyes, between my lips

          And you don’t hear me when I tell you,

          ‘Go home’

            I can’t see you cry,

          But I can still feel you sigh

          Through the earth, through the urn,

          Through my soul

            I’m gone, love, I’m gone

          Wash your hands of charnel rust

          Leave and live without another thought of me

          A ghost can’t hold the living close

          So let me go and head toward home

          And I will dream of clouds of ash and bone and song

            There’s nothing but mud

          Where your tears touch the earth

          And you don’t hear me when I tell you,

          ‘No more’

            Too many wishes gone to waste

          Too many steps we took in haste

          I never meant to make you travel

          On your own

            Stand on your dirty feet, my dear,

          And think of the world that waits to hear

          The breaking tide, the rain on leaves

          Nothing waits

            Don’t marry phantoms in your head

          Don’t spend your freedom on the dead

          Save yourself, love, because you can’t save me

            I’m gone, love, I’m gone

          Wash your hands of charnel rust

          Leave and live without another thought of me

          A ghost can’t hold the living close

          So let me go and head toward home

          And I will dream of clouds of ash and bone and song

            The applause was a little confused and tepid, between the whiplash of styles and the audience being unaccustomed to blues ballads. Hare’s shoulders sagged a little but he perked up when The Jack appeared at his side, grinning, and The Skull gave him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. Identically posed, with one arm folded across their front and one across the back, The Smokin’ Blokes bowed.

          The Skull predictably elected to watch the instruments as The Jack and Hare descended into the audience, heading first to Pops’ table. The Jack half hid behind Hare, who had regained his confidence. “Hey, folks, how you all doing tonight? Enjoy the show?” He glanced around the table and brightened at one of the people seated there. “Mr. Belyakov! Skull’s gonna be glad to see you,” he said. “How’d the old boy do?”

          Mr. Belyakov was The Skull’s music teacher. He nodded, nervous at being singled out.

          “He seems to be doing very well,” Mr. Belyakov said. “As do you two. Well done on the Bottesini.”

          “Well, we wanted to show you all something a little spicier than scales, you know what I mean?” Hare joked. He glanced at Pops, trying to gauge his approval. Pops slowly nodded, but as he started to talk, a woman seated at the table interrupted.

          “Where’s the third one?” she asked, looking past Hare and The Jack toward the wings. “The bass player, the one I was asking you about, Thadeus.”

          The Jack nervously piped up, “Um, he’s in the back, Miss, watching the instruments.”

          The woman made a move to stand, but Pops raised a hand to halt her. “The Jack,” Pops said. “Go and trade places with him.”

          “Oh,” The Jack stuttered with a glance at Hare. “But I was—”

          “Now, The Jack.”

          The Jack scurried back toward the stage, leaving Hare standing uncertainly by the table.

          “Hare,” Pops said. “You may go talk to the other patrons. Behave yourself.”

          Hare gave a casual salute before walking off. In a minute, The Skull took his place.

          “You wanted to see me, sir?” The Skull asked with a hint of concern.

          Pops nodded and gestured to the woman, who was staring intensely at The Skull. “This is Miss Ulyssia Harmons. She wanted to have a better look at you.” The Skull stood a little straighter and turned to Miss Harmons. “As I told you,” Pops continued. “this one has not had his aesthetic faceplate finished. What you see here is the substructure to which the mechanisms for that will attach.”

          “Almost a pity to cover it up,” Miss Harmons said. “It’s quite striking as it is.”

          The Skull was baffled by this. Pops slightly arched a brow at her.

          “What’s your name, dear?” Miss Harmons said, a tone in her voice that The Skull found unfamiliar.

          “He hasn’t been given an appellation,” Pops said. “I have a few choices that I’m deciding between.”

          “Surely they call you something,” Miss Harmons needled with a smile.

          The Skull looked hesitantly at Pops’ stoic face. “The others… call me ‘The Skull,’ Miss.”

          “A nickname for the interim,” Pops clarified.

          Miss Harmons’ smile widened, and though her eyes twinkled the intensity remained. “How appropriate. I’m sure Thadeus will name you something very handsome,” she said, before turning abruptly to Pops. “May we see how he works? Not under the plating,” she hurriedly assured Pops, whose arched eyebrow had climbed even higher. “Under the clothes, I mean. He has one of those Cores, doesn’t he?”

          Mr. Belyakov coughed on his drink, but the others at the table glanced curiously between the maker and his invention. The Skull stared at Pops, looking for guidance and placing a hand protectively over his chest. This conversation was going in an alarming direction, and The Skull found that he didn’t want to show his body—his unfinished body—to these strangers. In his short life he’d had few reasons to be uncooperative, but the line had been made apparent with its crossing. The Skull tried to convey that to Pops silently, hoping he had enough of a face to express his plea.

          Pops looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. The Skull knew he had failed when Pops gestured to him and said, “Unbutton your shirt.”

          Hare, meanwhile, was moving easily between the tables, leaning into conversations for a quick joke or how’d-you-like-the-show. But as he made a circuit through the room, his keen ears picked out words, phrases, repeated at every table but never to his face. ‘Walter.’ ‘Steam man.’ ‘The other robots.’

‘Rabbit.’

He stopped at a table on the far side of the room from Pops, and he grinned and nodded to the seated guests. “How you all doing tonight?” He glanced around the table and noticed a sulky young woman—heck, practically still a kid—look away from him. “Hey, now, Miss, I don’t bite. These chompers are just for show,” Hare said, tapping a fingertip to his bottom lip.

An older woman, presumably the girl’s mother, leaned toward her and muttered a few stern words. “Don’t mind her,” the older woman said flatly. “She’s peculiar and poor at discerning tasteful things. The concert was excellent.”

“You said they’d be like the other band,” the girl grumbled. “They were fun.”

“Hush, child. You have no appreciation—”

“What other band, Miss?” Hare asked, seizing the opportunity.

The girl, still put out, finally looked at him. “The Steam Man Band—Colonel Walter’s robots. They play modern music,” she snipped.

“Uncouth dribble—” her mother began to say, before Hare cut her off.

“I like modern music, too,” he said, smiling with more ingratiating intent. “I wrote that last song, you know. That more your thing?”

The girl hesitated. “It was okay,” she begrudgingly admitted. “I liked that it was sad. I like fun music and sad music. That’s why I really liked the other band. And they played out in the park, where it wasn’t stuffy.” She squinted at Hare for a moment, thinking.

           “So this Walter guy, he makes robots like us?” Hare asked. That got no answer; everyone at the table looked very uncomfortable. “Yeah? No? Maybe my Pops knows him.” That made it worse. Hare felt a dark, cold knot form under the guts of his furnace as their expressions became pitying.

           “Oh my,” a different woman said sadly.

           The girl scoffed, and when Hare looked back at her, her smile was mean. “Makes sense,” she said. “You look too much like Rabbit for coincidence.”

           “… Do I now?” Hare laughed awkwardly, then imitated clearing his throat and asked with feigned nonchalance, “Who’s Rabbit?”

           The Skull flinched back from Miss Harmons’ hand as she reached out to touch the glass window to his Core.

           “Fascinating,” she said quietly, giving The Skull a coy smile. “Is it true, Thadeus, what they say about how Green Matter is made?”

           Pops tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Green Matter is generated from crystalized ectoplasm, which is all that Babclock’s candy was. All living things can produce it under the correct circumstances. To make these,” he said, with a gesture at The Skull. “I sourced the material from plant life and small game animals in a controlled environment. No one was put at risk.”

           “S—sir,” The Skull forced himself to speak. “The instruments. I should…”

           Miss Harmons frowned, but Pops appeared to be through humoring her. “Perhaps you may find the time to visit my estate,” he said. “There is little more to see here tonight. You,” he gestured to The Skull. “May return to your watch.”

           The Skull nodded fervently, then turned on his heel and all but fled the scene. Pops seemed about to change the course of the conversation when Hare reappeared.

           “Who’s Rabbit?” Hare hissed, pulling up alongside Pops’ chair. He was technically whispering, but that didn’t prevent anyone else from hearing him.

           Pops’ shoulders went rigid. “Hare,” he said in a low, warning tone. “We’ll discuss that another time, when we’re not in public.”

           “Why didn’t you tell us there were others?” Hare asked pointedly. “Everyone here knew except for us!”

           “Hare,” Pops almost growled.

          “I want to go home,” Hare said, hearing the plaintive whine in his voice and hating it, but not as much as he hated being here. He knew he was being childish, that he was getting himself into trouble, but he was only a month old and this was the most hurt he had ever felt and he wanted it to stop. “You should tell Skully and Jack—”

          Pops stood abruptly and grabbed Hare’s shoulder, leaning in with a dangerous air. “You will not order me,” he said, unspoken threat dripping from his words. “That is not your place. Go backstage and wait there before you embarrass me further.” He let go of Hare’s shoulder, and Hare turned and stalked away. He could hear Pops speaking to the table behind him but did not listen. Stupid people. Hare told himself he didn’t care about them. They had all been laughing at him the whole time. He swiped at his eyes as he passed The Jack and the instruments, trying to get rid of the dark smears under his eyes. He took the stairs and threw open the door, stepping out onto the sidewalk and letting out a seething plume of smoke. Then, he noticed The Skull standing nearby and staring at him.

          “What’re you doing out here?” Hare asked, wiping at his eyes again. The Skull hesitated, and Hare pushed on. “Never mind, it’s a free country. Did you know there were others?”

          “Others?” The Skull asked. “Other… what?”

          “Other robots!” Hare said. “There’s a whole other band. Some colonel guy made ‘em.”

          “Oh. Are they any good?”

           “I don’t know!” Hare snapped. “I don’t know, I just… I just thought we were…” He looked away, frowning deeply, and did not continue. After a moment he glanced back at The Skull. “Why’s your shirt off?”

          The Skull picked uneasily at an undone button. “… I don’t know.”

          Hare wiped at his nose unconsciously and nudged him with a glance back toward the stairs. “Well, straighten up, man, there’s ladies around.”

          The Skull quickly buttoned up his shirt, looking around worriedly for women on the deserted street. They both jumped at the sound of someone coming up the stairs, expecting it to be Pops. But it was The Jack, blinking at them curiously.

          “… Well,” The Jack started to justify himself. “You both ran out here without saying anything, so I thought, uhm, I should come out too? It’s very boring backstage.”

          Hare gave a half-hearted chuckle and knocked The Jack in the shoulder. “It’s alright, Jacky. I needed to talk to you anyway.” Quickly, he explained everything he’d learned about the Steam Man Band to the others, who nodded along.

          “How many of them are there?” The Skull asked afterward.

          “I dunno,” Hare admitted.

          “Have they been around much longer than us?” The Jack asked.

          “Uh, I don’t know that either,” Hare said. “But they can’t be that much older, right?”

          “Why not?” The Skull asked.

          “Because, uhm—” Hare gestured emptily with his hands for a few moments before giving up. “Because! That’d be bad for us!”

          “So, now what?” The Jack asked. They all looked at each other, before finally Hare stood up straight and slammed a fist into his open palm.

          “Well it’s obvious what we gotta do, ain’t it?” Hare said with a glint in his eyes. “We’re gonna go find ‘em, and we’re gonna show everyone who the real robot musicians are. All we need is a map.”