Chapter 1: So Confusing
Chapter Text
Sir Pentious prided himself on understanding systems.
Machines followed rules. Armies followed hierarchies. Plans, when properly constructed, produced predictable outcomes. Variables could be accounted for, controlled, minimized. Failure was not a moral flaw; it was simply a miscalculation to be corrected next time.
This philosophy had served him well in nearly every aspect of his unlife.
It did not, he was discovering, apply to Cherri Bomb.
She burst into the hotel lobby in a cloud of smoke, laughter, and someone else’s debris, and Sir Pentious immediately dropped the blueprint he had been holding.
It fluttered to the floor between them, landing in a crooked heap of paper and pride.
“-WHOOPS,” Cherri said, peering down at it with open curiosity. “That look important?”
Sir Pentious straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of his coat with two of his arms while the others gathered the scattered pages. “YES. Extremely. That was a prototype schematic and, and you just, you tracked ash all over it!”
She glanced down at her boots. One was still faintly smoking. “Yeah, that tracks.”
There was a pause. Cherri tilted her head, eyes flicking over him, sharp and unreadable in that way that always made him feel like he was standing under a spotlight he hadn’t agreed to.
Then she grinned. “Relax, Snake Boy. If it explodes, I’ll help you rebuild it.”
“That is NOT reassuring!”
She laughed, loud and bright, already moving past him toward the bar. The sound echoed through the lobby, bouncing off the walls, impossible to ignore. Sir Pentious watched her go, his tail giving an irritated flick behind him.
Unbelievable.
He gathered his papers with unnecessary precision and told himself, firmly, that this irritation had nothing to do with the way his chest felt oddly tight whenever she was near.
Nothing at all.
Later, when the explosion happened, Sir Pentious was vindicated.
It was not his fault. He had triple-checked the pressure valves, recalibrated the timing mechanism, and even accounted for environmental instability within a five-meter radius. The device had been meant to demonstrate controlled detonation, a proof of concept, elegant and contained.
Cherri Bomb had leaned in at the last second and said, “What if you turned this dial all the way up?”
He had said no.
She had turned it anyway.
The resulting blast took out half the training room wall and sent both of them sprawling across the floor in a mess of dust, ringing ears, and startled swearing.
Sir Pentious lay there for a moment, staring up at the cracked ceiling, his heart pounding. He took a breath. Then another.
Alive. Intact. Dignity questionable.
“WOO!” Cherri whooped beside him. “Okay, yeah, that one’s on me.”
“That one was ENTIRELY on you!” he snapped, pushing himself upright. “Do you have ANY regard for safety protocols?!”
She rolled onto her side, propped her head up with one arm, and looked at him like this was the most entertaining thing she’d seen all day.
“…You’re mad,” she observed.
“Yes!”
She smiled wider. “Cute.”
His brain stalled.
Cute.
That word echoed uselessly around his skull, bumping into thoughts that were already struggling to remain coherent. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then stood abruptly, dusting himself off with far more aggression than necessary.
“This partnership,” he said stiffly, “is clearly untenable.”
“Mm,” Cherri hummed. “You say that every time.”
“And yet you continue to- to sabotage my work!”
“I don’t sabotage,” she said, sitting up. “I enhance.”
“That is NOT-”
She reached out suddenly, brushing ash off his shoulder with a quick, surprisingly gentle motion. Sir Pentious froze, all four arms locking in place as if someone had hit a switch.
“There,” she said. “Can’t have you lookin’ all scuffed up.”
The touch lingered for half a second too long.
Then she was on her feet again, already walking away, humming to herself as if she hadn’t just short-circuited his entire nervous system.
Sir Pentious remained rooted to the spot, staring after her.
So confusing.
He tried, later, to write about it.
This was another thing he prided himself on: reflection. Introspection. Carefully articulated thoughts, laid out in ink where they could be examined and understood.
He sat at his desk that night, pen poised over paper, lamplight casting soft shadows across the room.
Observations, he wrote.
He paused.
Then crossed it out.
Problematic Variables, he tried instead.
That felt closer.
He tapped the pen against the page, tail coiling and uncoiling behind him as he replayed the day’s events with ruthless analytical focus.
Cherri Bomb disrupted his routines. She ignored his warnings. She treated danger like a suggestion. She laughed at things that should have been alarming and dismissed things that should have been important.
And yet.
She had shown up to help him test the prototype without being asked.
She had taken the blame for the explosion without hesitation.
She had brushed the ash from his coat like it mattered.
He stared at the page until the words blurred.
This did not fit into any known framework.
Sir Pentious was familiar with infatuation. He understood obsession. He had experienced admiration, rivalry, resentment, even longing.
This felt… sideways.
Like wanting someone to stay even when they made everything louder and messier than it had ever been before.
He set the pen down.
Unacceptable.
The next morning, Cherri Bomb knocked on his door.
Actually, “knock” was a generous interpretation. Something slammed into the metal with enough force to rattle the hinges, followed by her voice shouting, “YO, YOU ALIVE IN THERE?”
Sir Pentious opened the door, already mid-rebuke. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT TIME IT-”
She was holding two coffees.
One of them was somehow on fire.
“Peace offering,” she said, holding them up. “Also, we blew up the training room, so I figured we should probably fix that before Charlie notices.”
He stared at the cups. Then at her. Then back at the cups.
“…Why is it burning.”
“Extra kick.”
“That is NOT- you know what,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Come in.”
Her grin was immediate and victorious.
As she stepped inside, looking around his room with open curiosity, Sir Pentious felt that strange tightness in his chest again, anxiety, anticipation, something dangerously close to excitement.
This was not part of the plan.
But then again, neither was she.
And that, he was beginning to realize, might be the problem.
-or the point.
End of Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Sir Pentious had made a mistake.
Several, actually.
The first had been allowing Cherri Bomb into his room with flammable beverages.
The second had been assuming this would not somehow become worse.
She sprawled across his worktable like it was a couch, boots knocking dangerously close to delicate components as she sipped her flaming coffee with casual expertise. Sir Pentious hovered three feet away, every muscle tense, eyes darting between her and his equipment like a parent watching a child near an open flame.
“Could you, PLEASE, not sit there?” he pleaded.
Cherri glanced down. “Why?”
“That device is extremely sensitive!”
She shifted slightly, metal clinking. “Huh. Feels sturdy.”
He made a strangled noise. “THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”
She laughed again, easy and unbothered, and swung her legs off the table at last. “Relax. If it blows, I’ll catch you.”
“That is ALSO NOT THE POINT.”
And yet.
She said it like it was obvious. Like of course she would.
Sir Pentious turned away under the pretense of reorganizing his tools, hoping she wouldn’t notice the way his face felt too warm.
They worked, if it could be called that, for the next hour.
Sir Pentious repaired circuitry with painstaking care while Cherri Bomb handed him tools he did not ask for, made unhelpful suggestions, and occasionally wandered off to poke at something that looked “fun.”
Somehow, despite this, progress was made.
It was maddening.
“You know,” Cherri said eventually, leaning against the doorway, “you’re not half bad when you loosen up.”
“I am always properly loosened,” Sir Pentious replied stiffly.
She snorted. “Sure you are.”
He bristled. “I am perfectly capable of adapting to unforeseen circumstances!”
“Yeah?” she said, smirking. “Then why do you look like you’re about to short-circuit every time I touch anything?”
“I DO NOT-”
She stepped closer.
Just one step.
Sir Pentious stopped talking.
She tilted her head, studying him again with that sharp, unreadable gaze. He had come to recognize that look, like she was trying to decide whether something was worth pushing.
“Well,” she said slowly, “you’re fun when you’re flustered.”
“I am NOT fun.”
“Agree to disagree.”
She turned away before he could respond, and the moment shattered, leaving him standing there with a dozen unfinished sentences and no idea what any of them meant.
Mixed signals. Inconsistent data. No clear outcome.
He hated it.
The problem, he realized later, was not that Cherri Bomb was chaotic.
It was that she was consistent in her inconsistency.
She showed up when he didn’t expect her.
She stayed longer than she said she would.
She mocked him relentlessly, but never cruelly.
She treated his work like it mattered, even while actively endangering it.
Sir Pentious had spent centuries surrounded by enemies who wanted something from him: power, obedience, fear.
Cherri Bomb wanted… what?
Noise? Company? Something to do?
Him?
The thought made his stomach twist.
The second explosion of the day was smaller.
Intentional, this time.
They stood together in the courtyard, watching the device detonate exactly as planned, controlled, contained, elegant.
Sir Pentious felt a surge of triumph. “HA! You see? Precision! Calculation! SUCCESS!”
Cherri whooped, throwing an arm around his shoulders without warning. “Knew you’d nail it!”
The contact was sudden and overwhelming.
Sir Pentious stiffened, heart racing, every nerve lighting up at once. Her arm was warm and solid, weight resting against him like it belonged there.
She didn’t let go right away.
“Good work, Snake Boy,” she said, genuine this time.
Something in his chest cracked open.
Then she stepped back, already distracted, already moving on.
“Hey, think we could rig it to chain-react next time?”
The moment was gone.
Sir Pentious stared at the empty space where her arm had been, feeling foolish for missing it.
So confusing, really.
That night, he found her on the roof.
Cherri Bomb sat with her legs dangling over the edge, skyline glowing behind her, explosions popping faintly in the distance like distant fireworks. She didn’t look surprised when he joined her.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
“I do not sleep,” he said automatically.
She raised an eyebrow.
“…I could not power down,” he amended.
She grinned and scooted over, making space.
He sat beside her, careful to leave a respectable distance between them. The silence stretched, not awkward, just quiet.
“You ever get tired of planning everything?” she asked suddenly.
Sir Pentious frowned. “No. Why would I?”
She shrugged. “Dunno. Seems exhausting.”
Planning was safety. Planning was certainty. Planning meant you knew what would happen next.
He looked at her, hair catching the light, expression unusually soft.
“Doesn’t it scare you,” he asked slowly, “not knowing what comes next?”
She thought about it. Really thought.
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But it’s also kinda freeing.”
He didn’t know what to do with that.
They sat there until the night grew colder, shoulders brushing just barely when the wind shifted. Sir Pentious was acutely aware of every inch of space between them, and how small it felt.
When she finally stood, stretching, she flashed him a crooked smile.
“Same time tomorrow?”
His answer came too quickly. “Yes.”
She laughed and disappeared down the stairs, leaving him alone with the city and a feeling he still couldn’t name.
Back in his room, Sir Pentious stared at his blueprints, then shoved them aside.
He opened his notebook again.
Conclusion, he wrote.
Then stopped.
Crossed it out.
There was no conclusion. No resolution. Only variables spiraling out of control and one very loud, very confusing girl who made his carefully ordered world feel brighter and far more dangerous than before.
He closed the notebook without finishing the sentence.
Whatever this was, it was accelerating.
And Sir Pentious had the sinking suspicion that the next explosion would not be so easy to contain.
End of Chapter 2
Chapter 3: It Makes Sense Now
Chapter Text
Sir Pentious had never been particularly comfortable with admitting mistakes.
And yet, here he was. Sitting in the wreckage of what used to be the training room, staring at Cherri Bomb with the full awareness that he had no idea what he was doing.
It had started as a plan, careful, methodical, precise. A plan to test new devices, enforce safety protocols, and maybe, if he was lucky, not get blown up by a girl who clearly enjoyed chaos a little too much.
Somewhere along the way, the plan had changed.
She leaned casually against a half-mended wall, smudges of soot on her cheeks and a grin that could ignite just as fast as the explosions she left in her wake.
“You’re… quiet,” she said, tilting her head. “Not like you.”
“I am… processing,” he said carefully. Four arms crossed, tail flicking with unusual nervous energy. “Processing is… necessary.”
She laughed, low and easy. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
He swallowed. There it was again: that tightening in his chest, the one that had nothing to do with explosions and everything to do with her.
Cherri Bomb stepped closer, tilting the cup of coffee in her hand in a way that could have been flirtation, or a threat. Pentious wasn’t sure which.
“I think you’re finally getting it,” she said. “You know… me.”
“I-” His mouth opened, closed. He tried again. “I do not understand why you do half the things you do,” he said carefully, “and yet… I am compelled to follow your logic anyway.”
Cherri blinked, amusement flickering across her features. “That’s… weirdly romantic for you, Snake Boy.”
“I AM NOT-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she cut in, grinning. “But, also… you kind of are.”
He looked at her. Really looked. And he understood, for the first time, why the world felt so loud when she was near. Why chaos suddenly seemed… exhilarating. Why explosions, once terrifying, now felt like a kind of music when she laughed over the noise.
Cherri Bomb was the variable he couldn’t control. The fire he couldn’t extinguish. The problem he didn’t want solved.
And somehow… he didn’t need to solve it.
“Sir Pentious,” she said suddenly, stepping close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her, “do you… like me?”
The words hit him like an unplanned detonation. He froze, four arms twitching, tail stiff.
“Do I-” He began. Then paused, because no word in any language adequately conveyed what he felt.
“Yes,” he said finally.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Yes,” he repeated, firmer this time. “I like you. In ways that… do not follow conventional logic. In ways that-”
“Yeah?”
“In ways that make no sense!” he admitted, gesturing helplessly at the mess around them. “And yet… in ways that are impossible to deny!”
Cherri Bomb laughed. It was bright, infectious, and somehow tender all at once. “About time you said it, Snake Boy.”
Then she kissed him.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t in any schematic or procedure manual he had ever written. It was messy, chaotic, and perfectly, entirely Cherri Bomb.
Sir Pentious froze for half a second, then responded, carefully at first, then with growing confidence. Four arms wrapped around her, tail curling protectively, heart thundering like a hundred small explosions.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them were laughing. Out of breath. Soot-covered. Alive.
“So,” she said, grinning, “think we can keep testing new devices together now?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling, finally, freely. “Together.”
And for the first time, Sir Pentious realized that some chaos was not only tolerable… it was necessary.
Some variables could not be controlled. Some explosions were meant to happen. And some girls, so confusing and bright and loud, were worth every unpredictable second.
He had no idea what tomorrow would bring.
But for the first time, he didn’t need to.
Because she was there.
And that made everything make sense.
END