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Momo’s infallible focus wavered as he stared at Zbaltazar lazily twirling the East Wind coin between his fingers.
The meditative bot was always patient with him, swapping his display from a glitchy starscape screensaver to his red smile whenever he looked particularly diffident about making a move and judging his Mahjong tiles. These games never had a time limit, Zbaltazar reassured each time Momo warbled apologetically about taking too long, and besides… he’d been in far longer matches. Sometimes lasting for days, maybe weeks. Taking a few minutes to think wasn’t a big deal.
Momo never believed him, but appreciated it nonetheless. He wasn’t a particularly clever player, and still often needed Zbaltazar to explain a rule or show the differences between some similar-looking tiles with untranslated characters he couldn’t read. None of his remaining keyboards or language settings contained either version of Chinese, leaving the intricate symbols on tiny tiles to be explained over and over again.
Despite his indecision making each match take longer than it had really any right to, it gave them both a chance to talk whenever they played these games. Each time Momo was left confused and befuddled, but nonetheless impressed, by the much younger bot and his philosophical contemplations shared out loud. His ruminations on the surface, assumptions from pictures and postcards and any sort of visual proof of what lay beyond the city’s lid. Zbaltazar’s fascination lay in the unpredictable nature above.
It captured Momo every time.
…He wasn’t sure how he liked playing on the floor every time, though. Zbaltazar always seemed fine perched on a pilfered couch cushion with perfect balance and poise, but the far taller bot could never find a comfortable position that didn’t involve some extreme slouching.
“Are you stuck?” Zbaltazar’s screen didn’t change from the idle, but he did pause in twirling the coin and looked down to the game with a flick of his camera. Momo knew that the ‘Momo is about to apologize for taking too long’ timer had no doubt gone off in the bot’s head.
He had no proof it existed, but he knew.
“No, I’m good.” Momo’s attention returned down to his tiles. “Just, you know. Thinking.”
“Mmm.” Zbaltazar rubbed the long-worn coin between his fingers instead. “Play what feels right. If you think yourself into a corner, there’ll be a wall on either side.”
Momo nodded absentmindedly, retaining none of his friend’s words, staring down at his hand. “You know my instincts are terrible.”
“Not always.”
Momo continued to stare at his tiles instead of responding.
…Did this character mean five or nine, again?
He was jumped out of his contemplation as a low, deep rumble jolted through the apartment, tumbling a few of his game pieces to the floor and audibly jittering bottles in the cabinets. Zbaltazar was quick enough to save his own hand from a similarly ill fate, but sighed anyway. The game was over.
“What was that?” Momo sat up out of his folded slouch and looked around as if the answer would manifest in his living room. Zbaltazar started sweeping up mismatched tiles with one hand.
“It’s been going on all day; you could feel it in the ground out on the street.” The smaller bot waited for Momo’s nodded permission before snatching up the toppled hand as well. “This is the worst one, I think, if it’s able to reach up here.”
“But what is it?” Momo insisted. Zbaltazar shrugged with an amused tilt to his monitor.
“The gods of the earth disapprove of our game. They knew you’d win and break my streak.”
Momo scoffed.
“I wasn’t going to win.”
“Not now, you’re not.” Zbaltazar held out his hand. “Give me the dice, we can roll for the East Wind.”
“You’re not worried?” Momo turned in his spot to find the dice. He snatched them quickly from where they’d nearly escaped into the bookshelf, and dropped the mismatched dice into his waiting palm.
“I can’t do anything about it. Why worry?” The dice clinked against each other in Zbaltazar’s hands, louder in the room than an echoing argument from outside. His display changed to a cheeky grin. “Maybe it’ll happen again and make me roll badly. Then you’d be the dealer.”
Momo grimaced. He hated being the dealer.
—
Momo was the dealer.
—
While ominous sounds did float in from the dead city outside the kitchen window, the game remained relatively undisturbed without further tremors. To tune it out, Zbaltazar had turned the radio to some garbled static in-between long silent stations. He slightly swayed to and forth with his idle as he listened to ‘the sound of space between empty places’.
Yeah , Momo thought. This might as well happen.
The static wasn’t distracting by any means, but it must have been at the perfect resonance frequency to make time seem irrelevant. Despite his internal clock ticking away like always, it seemed like he had been on his turn for just seconds before Zbaltazar quickly leaned over to turn the volume down.
Momo lifted his head to ask what was up, interrupted from his inspection over the quarter of a bamboo set he’d manage to acquire, when harsh rapping on the door followed immediately by furious jingling of the doorknob startled tiles right out of his hands. Zbaltazar turned to look languidly as doorknob jingling turned to a low curse on the other end and the distinct sound of a familiar rake pick scratching around the deadbolt lock.
“You’d better open that.” Zbaltazar warned Momo, evidently too little too late as none other than Clementine burst through, immediately zeroing on the two bots sitting on the floor.
With surprising speed for someone that just kicked a door down, she strode the length of room to the two bots in record time.
She and Zbaltazar held a look, exchanging some silent knowledge that Momo definitely wasn’t privy to. Luckily Clementine took pity on him, instead moving her level gaze right to him. “Your balcony would have been too slow.”
“Wh- My door! ” Momo scrambled up to a stand once he caught up to the scene, knocking the game over and leaving it a mess on the floor. “You couldn’t have waited for someone to answer?! ”
“There’s no time to pretend I’m that polite, we need to go.” She offered a hand to Zbaltazar to heft him up. The spaced-out screen of the smaller bot flicked out to a blank expression, looking from Clementine’s face to her hand before taking the offer, pulling himself up to a stand.
“Go?”
“We’re leaving the Slums.”
“Now?” Momo asked, bewildered. He intertwined his hands, fiddling his thumbs together. “ Right now?”
“Right now. I’ll explain on the way.” Clementine turned to go, but beeped in alarm as Momo shot a hand out to grab hers. She stumbled backwards as his grip held fast and unmoving.
“But what about Doc?” He searched her face for some realization, some hesitation in her unwavering determination. “We said we’d wait for him-”
“Doc is gone . We’re on a clock, we can’t wait any more.” Momo shrank back at her sharp tone. “Are you coming or not?” Clementine ripped her hand back from his hold, staring at him as Zbaltazar sidestepped around her and hovered around the door. Momo fidgeted under her scrutiny, eventually shrinking under his hat and looking away.
They stood in a tense stalemate. Delta time slipped by as Momo felt boxed in, the radio’s low sound roaring in his microphone, contained by Clementine’s look as she afforded him the few seconds he needed to gather his bravery.
“I…”
This was too sudden. There was no warning, he wasn’t ready, he couldn’t leave-
He sank into his cowardice instead.
Clementine looked like she’d hoped beyond hope he’d say yes. With the way her posture straightened and her fists clenched tighter, though, he knew she wasn’t surprised.
“ Fine .” Clementine snapped at him, turning to lead Zbaltazar out the door. “If you want to stay in the dark, go ahead.”
Momo winced at the sting, but didn’t watch as she disappeared across the threshold.
Zbaltazar, for what it was worth, hung back.
“Zar?” Momo whispered.
“I’ll see you on the other side, Momo.” Zbaltazar murmured, holding the doorframe for his exit. “In the garden of paradise.”
Out of sight, Clementine beeped at him impatiently, a low whistle to catch his attention to follow. Zbaltazar waved her off, following quickly.
Momo’s hand stayed in the air, maybe to stop them, maybe to call for them to wait as their footsteps receded down the staircase…
But he did neither.
He stood there, scattered tiles of Mahjong around his feet, frozen in time and static.
—
“Another one of the water tanks burst in the sewers,” Clementine explained as she lead Zbaltazar down the switchback stairs and out into the street, lagging just a couple steps to let the shorter bot catch up, taking the lead towards the old subway door. “The central network pumps failed, and the wave washed out a bunch of Zurk infestations.”
“Clem…” Zbaltazar glanced at Guardian as they passed, not missing how the bot stayed silent in the wake of Clementine’s determined gait, or how the clique meditating in the elevator shaft tracked their path curiously as well. Anjayla, in particular, kept her hawkish gaze on Clementine in some expression of ‘good riddance’ that Zbaltazar couldn’t read deeper into. He didn’t know these bots.
“Guardian won’t stop us. We had a talk.” Oh. That’s what the argument was. The whole group must have had front row seats to that clash.
“Clem?”
Clementine looked over and whistled a sharp beep to get Morusque’s attention, knocking a quick shave-and-a-haircut on the sheet metal once he looked up. The musician nodded, giving her a thumbs-up then strumming back two bits.
A contingency , Zbaltazar assumed.
“I looked ahead when the rumbling started.” She reached over and punched a quick code into the security panel on one side. “If we’re quick, we can make it to Antvillage before the Zurks can get reoriented and the emergency pumps kick on to drain the water. It’ll be wet, but this far out there isn’t enough to wade.” He gave her a hand as they pulled up the unlocked door blocking off the old subway and, further, the sewers. Clementine held up the door the rest of the way for the shorter bot. Now that they’d gotten to the point of no return, Zbaltazar decided to make his point with an uncharacteristically harsh snap of speaker hiss to get her attention.
“ Clementine.”
“What? Why are you giving me that face?”
“You’re throwing Momo away.” Clementine’s display fell into a flickering, half-lidded annoyance.
“You’re doing it too.” Zbaltazar had the gall to look away. Her eyes narrowed as he averted her unwavering gaze. “He made his choice. You’re making yours, I’m making mine. This is too much of a golden opportunity to waste on staying for one bot.” She ducked under the door, but continued to hold it open for him. “If you’re changing your mind, I’m not going to stand here and convince you. Last chance to turn back.”
Zbaltazar, for his credit, hesitated. Right on the edge of the Slums, between safety and danger.
“You wouldn’t stay for two?” It was a dirty play, they both knew it, but Clementine was quick on the draw.
“I’d go alone.”
It was an impossible choice. What she was offering him, who he had to leave behind to take it, wasn’t really fair, was it?
But, following would mean a step closer to home. A chance that hadn’t come up since…
Since…
Zbaltazar gave one last look over his shoulder, a silent goodbye to a place he’d once said such an exuberant hello, and ducked under the door to follow. Ready for anything.
—
(The emergency pumps would never turn on. The Central Network would short, leaving machines to a grinding halt and terminals to spark and crash.)
—
It felt like hours to Momo before he finally moved to pick up the game.
He wasn’t mad at Clementine, not really. He expected the same spiel he was usually given whenever she got a little intense, a not-quite-apology that she always gave with askew eyes and the unsaid ‘I mean it’ that got him to soften up every time.
She got a little… mean, so to speak, when rushed. She was used to waiting, plotting, watching as pieces to a puzzle fell in place one by one instead of in a domino-lined rush. Getting snappy and impulsive when she had to make quick decisions was typical.
He would always forgive her for the spats, of course. They were friends.
Everyone said she was a bit of a firecracker, and sure, there was merit to their claims. Momo found that once he got to know her, though, there was loyalty under there. Someone who would always come back.
He pulled the beat-up box Zbaltazar kept the Mahjong game in closer from the shuffled aside position it had been kicked to on the floor, flipping the latch and opening the lid to dump in a handful of tiles. He paused, however, when he got a look inside.
Two stacks of unused tiles sat there.
Momo laid his handful back down only to carefully pluck one of the extra tiles out of the box. The metal of his fingers clicked against the delicate ivory as he turned the piece around, admiring the flower carved and painted on the face. The green felt on the back hardly looked patchy.
Momo had never seen these before.
The rest of the set he was familiar with was mismatched, tiles carved from old wood or discarded trash. The wind seats were corroded coins, the dice random colors pilfered from miscellaneous board games. Wherever Zbaltazar got these , he’d never pulled them out for play, and certainly hadn’t gotten them in the Slums.
Momo plucked another piece from the second short pile, seeing on its face instead of a flower, red berries on a green vine.
He very suddenly got the sense he was seeing something that, perhaps, he shouldn’t. Something private and vulnerable about his friend.
He carefully put the ivory tiles back in their respective spots. With far less care, he swept up handful after handful of wood and metal pieces off the floor and unceremoniously shoveled them back into the box in his haste to get the mess cleaned up. To close the box back up and hide such treasures away from the world once more.
Zbaltazar would understand the mess when he got back.
—
Regret doesn't fall immediately.
When Clementine and Zbaltazar don't return from a failed mission, when Momo couldn't crow with an 'I was right' and get that apology from her, he starts to feel it, deep down in his services manager. The little ping of another process starting, and that was it.
A pang.
When he ventures out and leaves the Mahjong game at Zbaltazar's blocked doorstep, weeks later, he gets another ping, but again he doesn’t notice. Its position was far, far down in the smallest percentages of thoughts and feelings he didn’t pay attention to.
A float in the sea of integers. Ignorable, forgettable.
When time passes and he isn’t wracked by the anxiety of being out of his flat, he feels it a little more, but what is a fraction of a percent in his processor, really?
It's unexpected and sudden, when he's looking up at the glowing lights of the elevator from his balcony, to the hints of neon color that filter down through the stale air. From a fraction of a percent to whole integers in his GPU, he finally gets it.
Regret.
Loneliness.
Mourning.
For the first time, Momo grips the edges of his monitor and curses himself for letting them all go. For not saying goodbye.
For not going with them as, one by two, he was the last left standing.
—
Too much too late, a little cat and a drone help. They come, they go, they bring the heavens with them.
Schrodeinger’s box opens to the Garden of Paradise, and to the world, the remains of humanity is both alive and dead.
It shone a bright light and revealed the truth: Cracks in a flimsy veneer amongst the small group that worked the hardest to help bring everyone to the sky.
They meet again and, beyond joyous relief, tension remains.
You hurt me.
You made me choose.
You didn’t believe in this with me.
Who are you?
—
Time passes, and things change with it.
Talking calms the festers of the scar, but a rough mend never truly heals it. Despite apologies, despite conversations late into the night looking into the vast starscape that they’d all once shared dreams of… Tension sticks like an expired thermal paste amongst the reunited Outsiders.
Momo and Clementine’s stubborn conflict.
Doc being stuck in a place years behind.
Zbaltazar left haunted by not staying, then not following.
None of them were the same bots as before, and- while echoes remained, familiar callbacks to who they once were- the once tight-knit group had to meet each other all over again. The work to span the holes carved into their relationships was worth it, of course. Nothing would get in the way of the Outsiders; not even time.
As they built new lives outside, as they took the lead in introducing everyone, everyone, everyone , to the world that was the Companions’ inheritance… the Outsiders work on it.
Momo and Clementine inching closer, hurt and regret sizing up against vindication and, yet, guilt.
Doc navigating the new landscape with trial and error, learning now who his friends, his family, had become.
Zbaltazar finding forgiveness in himself once he was assured the others had long given it to him.
Amongst the ruins and amongst the trees, they work on it.
—
“Momo, why don’t you join me?” Zbaltazar called to his friend, otherwise unmoving from his spot under the leaf-dappled sunlight and bird calls from the nest that had settled into an old dryer vent that spring. Momo perked his head up from the delicate work he was doing, weaving vibrant new straw into his favorite faded hat. He looked behind him over his shoulder, as if there was some other bot being referred to, before turning back and giving Zbaltazar a confused look.
“Huh?”
“Let’s play a game.”
Momo scooted closer with no small amount of uncertainty. Zbaltazar didn’t miss the sound of his camera servos flicking back and forth, no doubt looking for a deck of cards or some other collection of game pieces to play. With nothing around the stationary bot save for a few reverse incense burners and a plethora of beckoning figurines, the request was… well, not out of the blue.
Unexpected.
“Right now?”
“Yes. You remember how to play Mahjong?” The sly tone to his voice got Momo to huff a laugh and put his weaving down.
“Yeah, I sort of remember.”
“Good.”
“Do you, uh, have it?” He didn’t remember anyone going to grab the old game from Zbaltazar’s door. “Are you sure you want to, ah…?”
“I’m beyond material possessions.” Zbaltazar, with no small amount of physical effort, quirked his head to the side with a familiar humor. “And Baladin found a disc.”
One of Zbaltazar’s many auxiliary screens flickered, then changed; from a relaxing midnight beach it switched to a fresh set of pixelated white Mahjong tiles. Momo’s graphic blinked curiously as, amongst the sets, he spotted the distantly familiar flowers and seasons.
Another of the stacked screens followed suit, to a large graphic of the East Wind coin, obviously cropped from a memory file judging by the familiar pattern of an old rug in the background. A memory far below and long ago. “Go grab a firewire and come in. You’re still the dealer.”
“We’re not starting over?”
“No.” Zbaltazar took yet another screen to wink. “We’re right where we left off.”