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It was Valentine’s Day.
For the first time, it had made plans for itself.
It was nothing extravagant; it was just going to follow the spirit of the holiday and spend a little time with its favorite little creature, Battat. It hadn’t told him about these plans, of course, but it knew that he’d come around.
It had never found Valentine’s Day particularly compelling before, but it supposed now that it had just been missing a proper subject to direct its attention toward. It knew, of course, that it ought to keep its paws out of most matters where it hadn’t been granted prior discretion, but playing with the little pippins hadn’t been a problem before.
He was inconsequential. It could kill him, and nothing critical would need to be addressed, with respect to fate, that is. Usually, that was enough to bore it.
However, his sheer devotion made him far more interesting. He was completely enraptured by its mere existence, in a way that it had never intended for. Stumbling upon him for the first time had been a delight like no other—he was its biggest fan, bar none. Thinking about how he was probably, on some level, thinking about it right now… it was difficult to not form an attachment.
Perhaps attachment wasn’t the correct term, it supposed. It was simply fun to think of new ways to get a reaction from him, and, remarkably, it was always more gratifying to actually do it.
It was exactly that line of thought that led it to its current endeavor: engineering a heart-tipped arrow that, when fired into the pippins, would make him a little more malleable for the day.
It wasn’t that kind of love potion; it had very little interest in fundamentally altering him—it was easy enough to do that without his knowledge, anyway—it wanted to make him feel the change. It wanted to see how he’d react if the barrier for expressing affection were suddenly lowered to nil.
It had attempted to express its appreciation—and, if were being honest, affection—for him in various ways, but he was infuriatingly oblivious to it. It didn’t know how much more obvious that it could make it—it hardly ever called him by his name, instead always turning to a pet name.
There was one hitch with the project: it was more difficult to fine-tune a love potion than it had anticipated. It seemed to be an all-or-nothing venture—subtle effects were much more complicated to achieve.
Unfortunately, it took a fine touch to make the reaction both subtle and still palpable. Early tests on analogous subjects (it was never particularly challenging to find a pippins, and even easier to catch them unaware) ranged from barely perceptible effects to completely cloying ones. In the worst case, when it had released that particularly unfortunate subject back into its environment, it had attached itself to the first thing it saw (a zapper, as fate would have it) and started to nuzzle them. Based on the way that the zapper immediately pushed it away, they hadn’t previously known each other.
It was mildly entertaining, but the effects were indiscriminate, thoughtless, and worse, predictable. In Battat’s case, try as it knew he would, he wouldn’t be able to resist the effects and would nuzzle up to it and need to be taken care of.
It paused. On second thought, that didn’t sound wholly unappealing.
He’d bury himself in its fur, needing comfort. Under the effects of the more potent arrow, forgoing contact with another being would result in steep, wracking chills. He’d be driven to be affectionate through pure sensation.
Of course, it would oblige him. Maybe it’d hold him at a distance at first, until the effects truly mounted, leaving him with no choice but to beg it to let him get closer.
It sighed softly. It couldn’t let itself get distracted—that wouldn’t do a thing to measure his reaction. It was too self-indulgent. No, a milder version was better. He’d be less easy to predict. The current formulation wasn’t perfect (it was a little on the stronger side), but it would have to do.
This pet project had certainly taken it long enough—it had other responsibilities to fulfill, and while it hadn’t utterly neglected them, they hadn’t been its sole focus. It had performed on its key deliverables— there weren’t many, it suspected that it was between assignments right now, anyway—and this time belonged to it.
Not officially, of course. Officially, it was little more than an agent of fate and autonomous only in theory. That designation let it operate without much scrutiny (after some preliminary test-runs, there was little sense in double-checking that a device operated correctly each time). All it had to do this week was turn fortune’s wheel, sending the fortunate spiraling into penury while the unfortunate got rare lucky breaks.
In other words, it was simple maintenance. Usually, it was working on a project, ensuring that critical actors in any number of prophecies knew their lines, so to speak.
It was all quite simple to it; it never spent much time dwelling on the topic. It wasn’t a job so much as it was a function.
Battat’s adorable little board pointed in the opposite direction; he had latched onto the idea that it was a mastermind. It was as flattering as it was inaccurate. It often idly wondered how he’d react after hearing the truth; surely his devotion would wane.
Regardless, it didn’t see any issue in letting him spin his wheels. If he believed it were pulling the strings, it wouldn’t correct him outright.
However, it was the least that it could do to throw him a bone, every now and again. The pippins was prone to long periods of despondency, wherein he would drag himself closer to death between his other responsibilities. It wasn’t so egotistical to believe that it was the sole reason behind this, but when his board’s progress ground to a halt, his sorrow seemed to mount.
Luckily, his breaking points were easy enough to pick up on and easier to prevent; steering his two devoted friends toward him in those moments always made him lose his nerve. If it were to venture a guess, he likely presumed that they just had especially good timing.
Personally intervening was, unfortunately, not a viable option. As much as it would have liked to pluck him from fate’s ledger itself, that kind of disruption wouldn’t be ignored. There would be a missing pippins from the day’s tally. No, it was better to involve others; a legitimately prevented death generated no paperwork.
And, luckily enough, preventing his death wouldn’t be a factor today. When it had last visited him just a few days ago to gauge his reaction, it had surprised him by grabbing him from behind and pinning him under its paws, knocking the papers in his hands to the ground. He had attempted to wriggle away so desperately that it revealed an obvious desire to live. He had squeaked about being “too busy” for this; an obvious sign that he hadn’t quite given up on the future just yet. Naturally, it had let him go only to pin him again a few moments later, making all of his efforts for naught.
He hated it, of course, but he looked so cute scrambling away that it couldn’t bring itself to care. After a few repetitions, he’d stopped struggling and just let it keep him under its paws.
“Are you done?” Battat grumbled, voice muffled beneath its paws and the floor. He seemed to be trying to crane his neck back to look at it in the eyes. It appreciated the thought.
“Not nearly, my dear. You’re so tense…”
“Oh, really? Really, I am? Could it possibly be because you- O-oh-” his voice was interrupted by a surprised sound; it had started kneading its knuckles into his back, trying to work out the knots.
“That feels nice, doesn’t it?” It purred softly, carefully watching him.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, in a poor attempt to conceal his reaction. It was familiar with what that meant—he was enjoying it much more than he would ever admit.
“Just fine?” It pressed the pads of its fingers into his shoulders, working its way up his back.
“It- m-mhm…” he sighed, finally being a little more honest.
It picked him up, deciding that he needed a small reward for his candor; it wouldn’t keep pressing him into the tile floor. He hadn’t protested, but it could see a flush cover his face—he was embarrassed. How cute…
The memory made something inside of it feel lighter. It couldn’t name the feeling.
It couldn’t remember why it had decided to start kneading his back; besides that it wanted to, and it felt good. His reactions were cute and gratifying—it was so easy to make an impression on him; he had no idea.
It suddenly realized that it had gotten horribly sidetracked. There was little point reminiscing when it could just go and see him.
It had no need to grab the arrows that it had fashioned—when it wasn’t somewhere, it had no real form. Every tangible item that it possessed—and it used the term lightly—could be readily accessed by merely conjuring it while keeping its mind fixed on the desired item. It made most of its affairs terribly convenient, bordering on completely rote.
That was part of its utility, it supposed. A good device had built-in features.
It had become very good at popping up wherever Battat happened to be, and this time was no exception.
When it appeared, it was somewhat surprised to find itself in a dim, remote corner of the studio. It hadn’t been back here in years—it was just a space to hold surplus supplies, with little else of note. Battat was back here, it could sense him, but it couldn’t imagine why.
It spared a brief thought for how it wanted to appear—it’d soften its edges, just for today. Usually, appearing as itself had much more utility—having two eyes, a mouth, ears for sensing, and very little else by way of features usually struck a useful amount of fear into those it encountered. It made them more workable.
Now, though, it wanted to push a different theme. With little effort, it gave itself a more tangible form—wider eyes and a head to hold them in, along with a neck, torso, and limbs.
It sighed softly. He had no idea how lucky he was, getting this special treatment…
Distantly, it heard a whimper that quickly pulled it out of its thoughts. Navigating around a sizable stack of crates, it saw the source of the sound: Battat had gotten himself pinned between an oversized prop of, ironically enough, Cupid’s arrow, and the wall. He was stuck in place.
This would be fun.
“Oh, my dear… you’ve gotten yourself into quite a jam, haven’t you?” With a small snicker, it made sure that he knew it was there. It expected his head to snap up, perhaps quickly followed by a light flush, showing his embarrassment about being found in such a state.
Battat gave no indication that he had heard it. Instead, he stared ahead with half-lidded eyes, his breaths reduced to short, shallow gasps. His body jerked and he whimpered again at the involuntary movement.
Its gaze flickered down to the prop (which, on closer inspection, was just a steel pipe painted red). It quickly saw the issue.
It went straight through him.
Its smile fell as it stared down at his shivering body. The pipe’s red color hadn’t made it immediately obvious, but it was now apparent that it was a catastrophic injury. Blood bubbled up around the wound in his gut, quickly pooling beneath him on the concrete floor.
“Oh, mouse…” it murmured, leaning down to get a closer look.
It could see a bloody streak that spanned just under a foot of the pipe. With no satisfaction, it realized that Battat had managed to drag himself a short distance back, trying to get himself free.
It was never going to work; the pipe was flush to the wall. It supposed that he had already discovered that.
“My dear, you ought to be more careful.” It was right in front of his face now, trying to get his attention. It needed to know how aware he still was. If he had any sense left, he’d snap at it for not taking this seriously. Maybe it’d even ask it to help him.
Battat’s eyes flickered feverishly in its direction, though he was looking through it. He just kept sharply gasping for breath, though it seemed entirely involuntary. His face, always pale, looked especially so now.
“Can’t you hear me?” It tried again, leaning in closer.
A shudder rippled through him, making the muscles in his core constrict around the pipe. He whimpered in obvious agony, seemingly too weak to actually cry out.
He had nothing left of his senses, then.
“Nobody knows where you are, do they? Don’t you usually…” it trailed off, spotting his usual headset lying a few yards away. He had no way to call for help, not that he’d even be able to.
It didn’t matter—this injury was too severe to simply direct his friends over and have them patch him up. He’d bleed out long before then.
“How did this happen?” It murmured, tracing the path of the steel pipe into the jerry-rigged container that they had been haphazardly stacked into. Rows of steep pipes, many jagged at the end, were stacked atop each other. Some were themed, much like the heart-tipped arrow that had made short work of the pippins before it.
This one must’ve been knocked loose and, propelled by gravity and the other pipes quickly filling its former slot, barreled right through him.
“You ought to know better,” it murmured quietly. A gruesome picture was beginning to make itself evident; he obviously knew better. He had no evident reason to even be back here; his adorable little ‘Mike’ suit that would have granted him clearance to enter this room was nowhere to be seen.
It didn’t strike it as foul play, either. There were far simpler ways to kill someone.
It was almost as if he’d been struck down by fate itself.
“Gored by Cupid’s arrow. I’d thought of that first, you know,” it spoke to him, even though he seemed to have even less capacity to answer now. He seemed unable to even hold his head up. It tilted his head up for him, with a gentle finger on his chin.
His head lolled freely in its hold. His sharp gasps were no longer quite so rapid. His time was coming to a close already.
It was a terribly fitting end for him. A creature far too small for the weight it attempted to carry, pinned to the cold floor like a fallen clipping from its hopelessly misguided ‘theory’ board. Killed just before it could stick him with its own arrow, no less. The timing was impossibly apt.
It was suspiciously heavy-handed.
For the first time, it considered the possibility that it had gotten too comfortable. Perhaps this was a correction from fate itself—its little distraction hadn’t gone unnoticed, after all.
It was becoming incredibly difficult to ignore his pathetic, agonized whimpers. It wasn’t sure if he was even aware that he was making those sounds.
“I’d pictured a better ending for you, my dear,” it murmured softly, not trying to disguise the disappointment in its tone. It stroked his cheek, in a poor attempt to give him some comfort. It was sure that he couldn’t feel anything other than the explosion of pain in his gut. The pool of his blood on the floor was becoming alarming—at this point, there was more outside of him than there was within.
The idea of saving him entered its mind. It would be incredibly simple—it had done innumerable clean-up jobs of a similar nature before. It would just have to pull him off the beam and quickly knit his more essential organs back together.
If he died, that’d be a separate issue. It wouldn’t be able to bring him back without authorization, which it knew that it couldn’t get; not for someone as inconsequential as him.
And, of course, there was the risk that this was a test. If it were as impartial as it was designed to be, it would leave him to die. Or, perhaps more accurately, it wouldn’t have visited him at all.
“What do you think, hm?” It asked him softly, knowing that he wouldn’t answer.
Battat’s breath stuttered in his chest; it was little more than a reflex. His eyes had ceased their desperate flickering and were beginning to dull. It didn’t suit him.
“Well, mouse, there’s no need to beg. I’ll help you,” it tutted, letting its paw fall from his face. If it simply yanked the pipe out, he wouldn’t last long enough for it to fix the damage before he died.
No, it would have to do this incrementally. As it dragged the jagged steel out from his gut, it would have to coax the exit wound shut.
It wrapped a paw around the pipe in front of it, tugging it back experimentally to see how difficult the process would be. As soon as it shifted just a fraction of an inch, Battat shuddered, a pitiful noise leaving his throat.
“I know, mouse…” it cooed, unhappy with the result. It had hoped that he’d be too far gone to still feel everything so sharply. Still, it had no choice but to keep going. It wrapped its arm around him, attempting to stabilize him.
It pulled the pipe again, steadily easing it out of the pippins. This time, as it felt the jagged end recede from his body, it pressed its paw onto the exit wound, pinching hard.
“S-stop,” Battat suddenly gasped, shaking hard. His eyes flickered up to it, evidently having gained a little bit of awareness. “S-sorry, I’m sorry, just-”
“Shh, my dear,” it murmured, continuing to slowly pull the pipe out of him. It stopped short when it felt Battat’s bloody hand desperately grab for its own.
“Stop, please, just-” he begged, involuntary gasps of pain making it difficult for him to speak. “What- what do you want-”
“I want you to take a deep breath,” it interrupted him. He was clearly under the impression that it was torturing him. It was an unfortunate assumption, but, it supposed, not an unfounded one. As it pinched his flesh, it yielded to its touch like clay, making it easy to smooth over the gaping wound.
If he'd even heard it, he hadn't been able to successfully take a deep enough breath to calm himself. He'd stopped begging though, and that wasn't nothing.
The hardest part was over. As steadily as it could, it eased the rest of the pipe out of him.
Battat watched, clearly terrified, as the pipe exited his gut.
It couldn’t take that look on his face. Using one of its other paws, it grabbed Battat’s hand and squeezed it tightly. After a moment, Battat squeezed back, his eyes flitting up to it, something much softer than terror in them.
Once the jagged end was fully out of his torso, it pressed a paw over its wound and pinched it closed. A trickle of blood squelched around its digits. Just like the other wound, it smoothed his flesh over until only smooth skin remained.
He wouldn’t bleed out. With its help, the heavy internal damage he had sustained would quickly knit back together. Unfortunately, the pain would remain. There wasn’t nearly enough blood left in him, and it would take time to regenerate.
It listened to him gasp for breath, slowly realizing what had just happened. He looked down at his smooth, unbroken skin, and hardly believing what he was seeing, touched it.
“I-I’m alive… I’m alive?” Battat gasped, looking up at it. His eyes were blown wide—this sudden bout of energy wouldn’t last long, it guessed. Soon enough, the adrenaline would wear off and he’d need to rest.
“I’d say so, my dear.” It realized that he hadn’t let go of its paw yet. Seeing an opportunity, it leaned down low, bringing his hand up to its mouth. It pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand.
It watched as Battat flickered through a few expressions: shock, confusion, and then something softer. It couldn’t place the expression. He didn’t pull his hand away, but it had already started to tremble again. The adrenaline was already waning, it seemed.
“I-I’m, I don’t… feel good,” he admitted, blinking quickly.
There it was. The little period of lucidity was over. With so little blood left in his body, keeping him warm was critical. As gently as it could, it lifted him up and held him against its chest.
To its delight, he leaned into the contact, undoubtedly seeking out its warmth. It obliged him, a low rumble emanating from its chest.
Soon enough, it’d deposit him back in his room. If this was a test, lingering here for too long would be an obvious giveaway that it hadn’t just happened upon him. It had to prove that it hadn’t let sentimentality cloud its priorities. He was just a distraction, after all, and this affection was a mere indulgence.
Besides, his friends would surely be looking for him by now, and it trusted them to insist on his recovery. There was no reason to stay.
But, for just a moment more, it was content to hold him close. It hadn’t been the Valentine’s Day that it had pictured for itself, but it supposed that there was always next year to debut its own formulation of Cupid’s arrow. Or it could always pop up unannounced as soon as next month to stick him with one. Yes, it was much better to catch him off-guard…
A shudder from Battat knocked it out of its thoughts.
“You’ll be okay, mouse,” it murmured. It gently stroked his back, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
It’d just stay for a little longer, just to make sure that he was alright.