WC: 576 || Ship: Screwtio (prerelationship) || Rating: G

Concept: Set during the first Mechanical War. Screwllum, the consort of Rubert I, makes an escape attempt, which lands him destroyed on the main planet of the Laurel Wreath Galaxy. He took nothing but the mechanical child he had been creating, hoping that if anything, they would save the child. Dr. Veritas Ratio, the leader of the Virtues of the Laurels and next in line to the Scholar's Throne, finds him.

He tries not to show his unhappiness as he steps over the rubble of broken marble and stone. Around him, the other Virtues work diligently to rebuild the area, while the architects and the builders work on fortifying the new structures. He, however, cannot join, not at this time. Even if he wanted to, he cannot.

For he has nothing left. He is…utterly depleted. Each step feels like another ton of weight on his shoulders, threatening to collapse his knees and push his face into the dirt. But he cannot let that weight win. He takes a moment to survey the area, mouth downturning ever so slightly at the sight of all the broken Molds. He is used to it by now, after having suffered through years of this war, the broken and cracked marble features of him. There, by the broken tree, is his arm. There, by the river, is his torso and leg.

He thinks perhaps the worst of it all is seeing his mighty Pillars broken on the ground. So rarely does he use them, preferring his more breakable, imaginary infused pillars, but desperate times…

His Pillars of Truth, the foundation of his very name, lie in the dirt like old forgotten relics. His true power, unbreakable, unshakable truth, broken.

Because that is what they have become.

Lies.

Half-truths.

Fiction.

Or perhaps it is only him that has become that. He swallows the thickness in his throat as he continues to move forward. Move forward away from the rebuilding, away from people who still have the energy to fight.

He moves toward a potential enemy.

Or perhaps nothing at all.

The walks for what could be ten minutes, twenty minutes. The sun moves, but not by much by the time he sees the first sign.

*Oil*.

Perhaps he should turn back, find Comitas or Auctoritas. Perhaps he should turn back and find no one.

But—something drives him forward. So he must move forward.

He walks and walks, each step harder than the last. His wounds have mostly healed, it is simply the mental weight of what has happened, what he has done, and the exhaustion that settle heavy into his bones. He walks and walks, following the oil trail.

He walks and walks, body screaming and mind howling, until he comes face to face with the enemy.

With perhaps their second biggest enemy.

*Mechanical Consort Screwllum, the consort of Emperor Rubert and the Mechanical Empire’s Master Strategist. *

His gold body is mangled, riddled with cuts and burns. His faceplate is cracked, one of his eyes is shattered. He is dripping oil onto the lush greenery he lies on, the puddle growing larger by the second.

The second biggest enemy of the Laurel Wreath Galaxy lays possibly dying in front of him, but he finds that is not important.

For cradled in ruined arms, wrapped in a pure white cloth somehow free of oil, is a machine child.

An inorganic child.

He draws his gaze away from the dimmed eyes of the child, back into the flickering eye of Screwllum.

It seems that perhaps, he will be making another mistake.