Mable: It's a change for me and just a small fic to get me to start updating more again. I won't say anything about the fic, except please read the second author note at the end, after reading the fic. I don't own 9, I own a few dolls though, and a new computer. :) Enjoy!
His life seemed to go on forever in this endless cycle of repeating days. Sitting in this almost completely dilapidated house on the floor with a shred of cloth being used to drape over his shoulders. The fabric wasn't enough to keep him warm though, but did feel nice and soft on his burlap. He absentmindedly played with the zipper that dangled from his front and softly sighed. Someday they would come back, and he would be waiting for them, for him. Until then he realized that he would have to find something more to put on and looked around to gather some cloth to attempt to sew into something. The long time he had been here he picked up sewing somewhat and was able to stitch a little bit, even though not perfectly.
The cloth he gathered was mere scraps, but there were needles and thread in on the table nearby, he always knew where they were. Then he suddenly found his thoughts going back to him again. If he was here then he could help him stitch something to keep him warm. He could keep him warm. But he wasn't here. No, the Stitchpunk was all alone, and he hated it so much, as much as he hated waiting. Going back to work was the only way to keep the thoughts out of his head. Eventually he found enough long scraps of fabric and climbed onto the table so that he could stitch them. Something was there, it only reminded him of him, and so he didn't look in its direction as he sat himself down on a book and tried to thread the needle.
It took a few tries to get the thread to cooperate and then he began to sew the cuts of fabric together. They weren't all the same color, but were mostly shades of brown and dark greens that seemed to at least tolerate each other. He liked green a lot, it was his favorite color, but he wasn't sure why. At least it would work and would help ease him from the icy cold coming from outside. That thought turned his attention to the open window behind him that had its shutters slowly easing more and more open. The Stitchpunk sighed, sat his work down, and crossed to the window to peer out. He looked out into the dilapidated world and let out a small almost soundless sigh as he saw nothing but an empty world. Also, he was looking for him.
He still wasn't here, and neither were the others, and the Stitchpunk was stuck standing on a window edge looking out for him. Though the chances of being seen by anything other than a beast were slim so he moved back and slowly, careful not to fall, closed the shutters and erased the outside world completely. He didn't need it if he wasn't there. Then he turned around, stepped across a couple of books, and headed to his spot where he began to once again sew his scrapes of cloth. It was then that he remembered how lonely he was here. Sometimes he thought out loud just to hear a voice and have the silence be broken apart. Sometimes it caused him to have moments of fear when he believed that he'd be alone forever.
He knocked those away; he was coming, soon. The Stitchpunk decided to take another break from sewing to find something to calm him down. That's when he actually decided to look through the books scattered about. The problem was, saving that he had seen through them before, he had trouble reading them. They were all written in a way he didn't understand and weren't like how he wrote. He could write though and once practiced in the bottom of a book, scribbling something among the lines of 'the sun is hot' or something. In the books though, it was as though it was backwards, the words were scrambled to mean different things that he couldn't understand. So instead he sought out pictures that he could stare at and smile from seeing them.
The pictures were perfect, but usually didn't have color and there weren't very many of them. They caused the Stitchpunk to have more questions, such as; "Did the world used to look like that?", "What is that thing?", and "Why did he leave me?". He closed his optics to smother that one thought that he smothered repeatedly. Though it was an honest question; why did he, and the others, leave him forgotten? They left him behind and now he was destined to wait for them as long as it took before he came back. But he would be back, eventually, and the Stitchpunk knew it. He flipped through one of the books a little but found it to have no pictures and decided to again return to sewing as he was getting colder by the second.
It turned into something like a cape that would drape all over his body instead of just in the front. As he was on his last few stitches he stopped when he thought he heard something, his audio receptors attempted to hear it again as he went still. The noise didn't occur again and the Stitchpunk assumed that it was his mind playing tricks again, especially when he heard his voice raising into the room and circling him in a haunting manner, it couldn't be true though. What was the real luck of any of them returning to him as he waited here at the place they were born? Looking over he saw what had held them, he saw it in the notes left behind, and felt a rising feeling of sadness. Then the voice returned and he even heard footsteps.
Closing his metal hands over his audio receptors, the Stitchpunk blocked out the fake noise as his thoughts screamed at him. He just couldn't understand and just wished that he was here to comfort him and save him from this reality. That was when he tugged his hands away and listened as the sounds began to grow quieter. Only then did he realize, in hope and horror, that they weren't in his mind. Everything was dropped and discarded as the Stitchpunk let out a soft cry that could only be known as joy. He had finally come back for him. The Stitchpunk ran to the door and slipped out to head downstairs, only to hear the noises were gone, he had left. There had to be a way to reach him. He didn't want to be alone anymore.
Running back inside the dilapidated room, he climbed back onto the table. The Stitchpunk ignored the cloth he had sewn, the needle, nearly tripped over the thread, stumbled over the books, and flew to the window where he pushed the shutters open to look down and see.
It hadn't been in his mind. There were the Stitchpunks walking away right now. In the back, behind them, lingering behind, was him. He could clearly see his number.
It was him, it was Nine, it was his twin.
The Stitchpunk cried out and attempted to reach them, but his voice was quiet from so long without use. They were walking away and he couldn't do anything but watch as Nine left him again. When they were born, when his rope snapped before Nine's and he fell off the table, was the first time he was left behind. Then he wasn't in the room the second time Nine came. Here was the third time, and Nine was forgetting him again, his own twin, his other half. The Stitchpunk thought he saw Nine stop or turn around, but was already stumbling inside with sobs wracking his frame. The Stitchpunk couldn't understand why he was made like this, why his brother kept leaving him, or why he was to be alone forever. It didn't make any sense to him.
He stumbled over a book and hit the ground roughly only to let out another cry of angst and curl into himself. Because he knew the truth now; he was nothing to Nine, nothing to the others, unnumbered nothing.
Nothing but forgotten
Mable: Short, I know, but I didn't know what else to add and wrote it late last night. Perhaps cliché too, but I just wanted to post my own version. I was just thinking of a 'what if' and wasn't planning on adding more unless someone really wants more. If not, I'm just going to leave it like this. I would also like to add that this fic too goes along with the 'Life Giving Rain' in which the Stitchpunks are returned to their body and doing pretty good. ^-^ Enough of me, I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, please review!