Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tristan was running.

There was no time to waste. The alarm had come in just over a minute ago, he would need three minutes to get to his workshop at top sprinting speed, and maybe, just maybe he would make it there under the five-minute limit before inevitable data corruption would cause irreparable damages.

He should have known better than to retreat to his quarters while the Prince was out on a mission. He should have known that something would go wrong, he should have slept on the uncomfortable cot shoved into the corner of the workshop so that if (when) the Prince came back with critical damage, he could get to work immediately. Too little, too late.

He took a sharp turn, boots skidding on the smooth floor, nearly bumping into a patrolling guard. He had no time to stop and apologise, or to even greet him. He had to – he glanced at his watch, and relief filled his heart. He was in time. He would make it there with almost half a minute to spare.

The workshop’s biometric locks recognised him at a distance. Too many close calls had made it clear that the tedious process of fingerprint or iris identification belonged firmly in the “waste of time” category. The scanner analysed his whole body instead – the way he moved, his weight distribution, his heartbeat and breathing pattern. The door opened just in time, and he ran straight through.

Fuck, he thought, skidding to a halt next to the large table in the middle of the workshop. It was bad this time. He got to work immediately, overriding the Prince’s security shutdown and booting him up manually. Getting his base system running again was priority – if he failed to do that within those five minutes the personality chip and memory core would stand at increased risk of permanent damage.

“Come on,” he muttered, and choked on a relieved (but still utterly breathless) sigh when the Prince’s eyes flashed, bright and red, and a small jolt went through his body. “There you are.”

He started the backup process. The Prince wasn’t conscious, but he was operational. That was as good as it would get until he finished with backing him up and making sure that the bits that made him who he was were intact. Only then would it be safe to boot him up to full consciousness.

Tristan took in the body laid out in front of him. Nearly nine feet of hulking metal and delicate wiring, reduced to a twisted husk that had to have been carried back to the fortress of Auchtertool. There was no way the Prince was mobile in this state.

He surveyed the wings – one seemed nearly intact, only missing a few of his glistening metal feathers. The other wing was…gone. Not detached, like the Prince was capable of in case of an emergency, no: a mangled mess of metal stuck out from the scapular plate, cut off just above the elbow joint. They must have shot him right out of the sky.

He looked at the release mechanism, wondering why he hadn’t been able to drop the remainder of the compromised wing, and saw that the release latches were melted together into a shapeless mess of metal. This explained a few things, including the unconscious state the Prince had been brought to him in.

When the king of Auchtertool had asked the innovators working under the Order of Crail to build him a son many had jumped on the opportunity, including Tristan, who had fancied himself a young genius when it came to sentient machines at the time. He had built the Prince now lying in front of him, or most of him anyway, and it filled him with as much pride as unease even after nearly twenty years.

The king had made a strange request. Human himself, he had no desire to marry and have children the traditional way, and envisioned his heir as a gleaming, powerful machine of war – with the personality of an agreeable prince and an excellent diplomat. It had taken more than five years, but they had done it. Not only had the Knights created the most complicated artificial personality unit modern technology had seen until then, but they had made the Prince feel as much as a human.

A delicate system of artificial nerves ran through the metal body, giving the Prince not the rudimentary positional awareness that most robots built in Crail possessed, but complex tactile sensitivity, pain reflexes to damages, emotional reactions, and even symptoms of illnesses to an extent (nausea and dizziness for the most part, which were important signifiers of head trauma).

This is what worried Tristan now about the Prince’s unconscious state: the sensitive nerve endings at the base joint of the wings and running along the length of them would have all but fried from damage like this. Pain maybe five, ten times worse than a human’s limb being cut off. He could have passed out, just like that. Falling out of the sky like an Icarus of steel. Tristan felt a flash of anger towards the king.

Repairing him too would cause him immense pain. If Tristan was lucky, he would be able to do something about that, an override that he definitely wasn’t supposed to use, but who was going to stop him? He was the sole person responsible for the Prince’s maintenance, he could do almost anything he wanted.

By the time he finished his preliminary assessment of the damages, the backup was done. He disconnected the Prince from the panel and let him boot up fully, waiting anxiously to see what mental state the Prince would be in.

After a brief moment of involuntary movement caused by shock and panic, the now awake prince went still on the table. He knew the drill now – he spent a lot of time in Tristan’s workshop. He was quite prone to injury. (Tristan had asked to be allowed to install some additional armour or shields or any other manner of defences and had been shot down by the king – with the reasoning that it would ruin the Prince’s appearance, and anyway, there were plenty of backup parts, no?)

“Hey,” he said gently, waiting until the big head turned slightly and those bright red eyes were on him. He tried a smile. “How are you?”

There was no reply.

“I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, and I promise I’ll try to be quick about fixing you up, so it will stop sooner. Is that alright?”

Again, no answer. But there was a minute shift in the Prince’s eyes – they narrowed slightly, almost as if in reply. Concerned, Tristan launched a full-body diagnostic scan. It took maybe half a minute, and he watched tensely as the red-coloured, damaged areas on the virtual display of the Prince’s body only grew in number with each passing second. He was lucky there was no significant damage to the head.

Except – there was an error message blinking just below the head. Small, yellow, and bad fucking news. There were a lot of finicky bits around the head and neck, some Tristan wasn’t sure he would be able to replace by himself.

The voice box, he realised as he enlarged the display, the poor sod wasn’t talking because he was incapable of speech. How he had managed to get a throat shot, though, was beyond Tristan. But thankfully that wasn’t horrible. He could definitely fix that.

“I’ll get you talking in a second. Do you want me to just start picking you apart, or should we try the thing again?”

The Prince blinked. Then one arm raised up slowly and with visible effort, and the emergency light built into his palm flashed on. Then off. Tristan watched the light, the long and short blinks – Morse code. T–R–Y, it spelled, over and over again. T–R–Y–T–R–Y–T–R–Y and then it changed, P–A–I–N.

“Fuck, okay. Stay still, I’m going to poke into your head now.”

The shortcut was dangerous – it quite literally required Tristan to stick his hand into the Prince’s brain and pray he wouldn’t mess anything up. He would temporarily cut off the main sensory input hub, taking all sensation away from the Prince to relieve him from his pain. He wasn’t supposed to do it, but the Prince was suffering. And he had managed it just fine when he had tried it the last time.

He had nearly forgotten that he had labelled the thing – the little cut here sticker next to the tangled wiring struck him as odd and in bad taste now. Whatever, at least he knew what to do without guessing at it and potentially causing the Prince more pain. He severed the connection, and at once the tension drained out of the heavy body.

“Better?”

B–E–T–T–E–R.

“Good. Voice first or body first?”

V–O–I–C–E.

“You got it.”

Tristan removed the dented throat panel from the Prince’s neck, afraid of what he would see underneath – and breathed a sigh of relief. The dent had to have been caused by something blunt and not particularly effective. The voice box was merely dislodged. He righted its position with careful fingers, reattaching it at every connection point and making a mental note to figure out a way to make it even more secure. The equivalent of a throat punch shouldn’t cause even this much damage.

“Try it now?”

An artificial cough rattled its way out of the Prince’s mouth speaker unit.

“Shit.”

Tristan laughed. There it was, the darling voice of the Prince, sounding only slightly scratchy from the freshly established connection. The Prince joined him in laughter, both of them slightly hysterical from relief.

“That makes one part of you that doesn’t have to be replaced,” Tristan said when he calmed down. He held up the banged-up cover panel. “What even happened to you?”

“That one was a rock as far as I can tell,” the Prince said, “some peasants got scared when I fell out of the sky in the middle of their village. A justified reaction, I have to say.”

“Yeah, I’m not asking about the peasants. You fell out of the sky? Half of you is partially melted, the other half is broken to bits. You’re a royal title away from being scrap metal, your highness.”

The Prince shifted, about to sit up. Without thinking Tristan pushed him back down on the table, hands on his chest. The breastplate was overheated and the metal burned his palms (he had taken off his gloves to get into the Prince’s head), leaving them red and sore and covered in soot from the scorch marks.

“Fuck,” he cursed, pulling away his smarting hands, “do not move. I know you can’t feel it right now, but your body is fucked up. Stay still while I put you back together, Humpty Dumpty.”

The Prince huffed in irritation, but did as he was told and quit moving. Not many got away with talking to the heir of Auchtertool like that, but Tristan was special. The Prince had known him from the moment he first opened his eyes, and Tristan had always given him as much dignity and respect as a human deserved. Not like his own father, who had decided against even giving him a proper name. His own son.

So Tristan could call him names and wrestle all eight feet and eleven inches of him back down on a table if he had to. He could poke into the Prince’s brain and be trusted that he would only bring him relief from his pain. Tristan knew that the Prince liked him. And he liked the Prince as well.

He got to work, starting with the most critical damages and working his way to mere cosmetic stuff. Priorities. He was excellent at prioritising.

The wing had to go first. There was no two ways about it, he would have to remove the entire scapular plate and replace it as it was. The release mechanism was beyond repair.

The Prince was propped up on his side to allow access to his back and Tristan got to work on him, slowly unscrewing the bolts that kept the damaged panel in place. Then he disconnected the wires, instinctually ready for a twitch of pain that never came – another reminder of the severed connection – and set aside the remains of the broken wing.

“You’ll have to be the flightless prince of Auchtertool for a bit,” he murmured, a comforting hand lying on the Prince’s waist, even though he would not feel it. “I have replacements for your wings, losing those is a feature. But I can’t replace the scapular plate, I’ll have to make a new one. A day, two at most. And then you’ll have your wings back.”

“I don’t mind,” the Prince hummed. “I could use a break if I’m honest. Not having wings is a good excuse. Just please take off the other one as well. I’d be unbalanced otherwise.”

Tristan smiled. “Way ahead of you.”

And just then the intact wing disconnected. There were built in manual overrides for everything, including the release mechanism. He caught the wing before it hit the ground and carried it off for regular, low-priority maintenance. It would come later.

“I’ll get a regular cover plate on your back and then you can lie flat for me, alright? I’ll be able to do the rest that way.”

The Prince just hummed, a melodic, if slightly distorted sound. Tristan fished around for a scapular plate that had no wing joint on it, found one (why did he even have those, he wondered briefly, but they came in handy now) and attached it with a few quick and precise movements. The nerve endings usually connecting to the wing, now with nowhere to go, he connected to a kill panel within the plate. It wouldn’t be a perfectly comfortable sensation, but he figured that a slight, constant itch on the Prince’s back would drive him less mad than a phantom wing. Tristan spared another glance at the Prince’s back, noted a surprising lack of damage, and left it at that.

“Lie back now,” he instructed, nudging the Prince slightly. He went readily, his heavy body hitting the table with a metallic thunk. “Only a few big ones to go, and then I can turn your sensation back on. Tell me if it gets uncomfortable and you want it back sooner.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Prince assured him, “it’s weird. I don’t even have positional awareness. But I don’t mind it yet.”

“Good. You just float on, I’ll get you a new leg.”

Now that got his attention.

“A new leg? Do I really need a new –”

Tristan sighed and held up his hand. “Love, when I tell you you’re one wrong move away from scrap metal, I mean it. I don’t turn off a huge part of your brain for no reason. And you’re missing an arm as well. And a few bits of your torso, if you want to know.”

“…Oh.”

Tristan picked up the leg replacement he had ready – an insanely heavy thing, complete from the foot up to the hip joint – and lined it up next to the still connected, damaged leg on the table. He would have to be quick and really, really precise.

“Yeah, it’s bad. No wonder you went into emergency shutdown.”

“Not that.”

Tristan disconnected the nerves first, then separated the leg from the hip joint. Quickly he connected the nerve endings of the new legs, then moved it into position. Connecting the joint was much less urgent after the nerves were dealt with.

“Not what?” he asked, distracted by his work. The Prince huffed, a displeased pneumatic hiss, and slowly shook his head.

“You said…never mind. Can you talk to me while you work? I’m actually starting to feel a bit weird.”

“Oh, sure. What do you want to talk about?”

A brief silence.

“Anything. It would just be nice.”

So Tristan talked. As he connected the new leg (not an exact match, a slightly different build and colour but good enough for its purpose) he described his latest dream – the one that had been interrupted by the alarm signalling the Prince’s arrival. He set to work on the arm and caught up the Prince on the freshest gossip within the walls of the fortress, and asked for news in exchange. By the time he got to the chest area he ran out of news and instead talked about Crail, about the home he had not seen in fifteen years since he had come to Auchtertool to maintain the brand new crown prince of the land he had built. He spoke about the friends he had only seen for brief political visits since that time, the part of him that wondered if they were even alive still after the fall of Dundee nineteen years ago, four years before the Prince would first open his eyes. It flowed from him easily, more talking than he had done in years, and the Prince just listened. Attentive, if only to be polite.

He ran out of things to say at about the same time as he ran out of things to fix. Falling silent, he took a deep breath and straightened up, judging his work. He always made sure to do a good job with the Prince and this time wasn’t different. The replacement parts were slightly mismatched and an ill fit to most of the Prince’s body, but they would both just have to accept that. He ran another scan and was satisfied when the only results were purely cosmetic fixes.

“A few more tweaks,” he said, feeling slightly awkward after having talked so much. “I’m going to turn your sensory input back on for that. Is that okay?”

“Please,” the Prince said quietly, his voice betraying his discomfort. Tristan took off his gloves and picked up his tools, bent over the Prince’s head and opened the panel hiding his brain again. Like this, the Prince’s red eyes were looking straight up at him. Tristan tried to focus on his work, but he felt pinned by that gaze.

“I’m sorry I talked so much. I hope I didn’t bore you to death.”

The Prince’s eyes shifted.

“I like hearing you talk,” he said eventually, sounding almost reluctant. “I like spending time here.”

“You only spend time here when you’re injured. Are we dealing with a closet masochist?”

The Prince laughed at that, a soft, yet hollow sound.

“I don’t enjoy getting injured, no. But I only ever see you when I’m here, so – I like being here. Even if it means I have to be in pain.”

Tristan felt unbalanced.

“Speaking of pain,” he managed, “you’re about to feel a bit uncomfortable in three, two –”

He reconnected the sensory input hub and a shockwave twisted the Prince’s body, his speaker rattling out a machine-like whine. Tristan muttered an apology and closed the skull panel back up. Absentmindedly he stroked a hand down the Prince’s cheek, placating him. The Prince shuddered.

“Everything feels normal?” Tristan asked, already moving on to right the remaining damaged bits of the Prince’s armoured body. “How’s the pain?”

“No pain,” the Prince sighed. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” Tristan muttered, and picked up his tools again. “Another hour of your time, and we’re done. And this time, you talk.”

He spent most of the hour buffing and polishing, hammering out dented metal plates and soldering small cracks and breaks in a few panels. Meanwhile the Prince talked, insignificant little topics that Tristan allowed to wash over his mind like a great wave, a comforting background hum. He knew he didn’t have to pay too much attention. Working on the Prince like this needed his near complete focus. Because he had sensation in his body again, everything Tristan did elicited a reaction. Small shifts of discomfort, involuntary twitches – just like working on a human.

He finished his job with a last scan, the machine this time spitting out only the missing wings as a problem, and got some oil on the joints for good measure, especially the newly installed ones. When he put down the rag he used to wipe his hand, he was surprised at how seemingly quickly it had all went by.

“All done,” he announced, “everything should be fully operational now, but I’d be careful. You have to get a bit of use in with your new limbs.”

The Prince blinked slowly.

“Would it be okay if I stayed here?” he asked, slowly sitting up to look at Tristan properly. For the first time since he had been brought in, Tristan had to look up at him. He was, after all, three feet taller than him. The Prince’s limited facial expressions that mostly consisted of his eye shape changing signalled uncertainty clear as day. Something strange twisted in Tristan’s chest.

“Of course,” he said. “Rest here. I’ll sleep on the cot then, and you can wake me when you want to leave. I’m sorry, I have nothing better to offer for you but the table.”

“That’s fine,” the Prince said, “the table isn’t bad at all. Will you be okay on the cot? It looks uncomfortable.”

Tristan followed the Prince’s eyes to the corner of the workshop where his makeshift little bed was tucked away. It was uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to leave the Prince alone. He wouldn’t mind spending the few hours that were left of the night there if it meant that the Prince wouldn’t have to rest alone after a traumatic injury.

“Don’t you worry about me,” he said. His hand brushed against the Prince’s leg as he passed him, and the Prince twitched again. Not in pain, just…a slight, involuntary reaction. Tristan decided not to think about it.

He lowered himself down onto the cot and curled up under his thin blanket, already mourning the aches his body would punish him with in the morning. He watched the Prince lower himself back down on the table, his crimson eyes casting two faint red dots on the high ceiling.

The lights dimmed.

“Good night,” the Prince hummed quietly, and the light of his eyes faded to black as he shut down for the night.

“Good night,” Tristan whispered, and closed his eyes as well.

He slept better that night than he had in ages.