Work Text:
“Something is very wrong” Sandrone thought.
An incessant muffled pattering followed her every step from the couch to the kitchen, where she briefly stared at the ever-diminishing coffee pot before starting her anxiety-fueled pilgrimage once again. Green, judgmental and slitted eyes tracked her brooding self—with the intensity of a microscope or the indifference of a felid deity, she could not tell.
Sandrone was willing to bet on the second.
She was no stranger to letting her fallen angel sleep in, yet rarely did it persist until one in the afternoon—especially since Zandik had basically begged her to come to the lab today. Something about deficient motors and an issue with positional synchronization…? Probably. She had stopped paying attention by the fourth word. Nonetheless, this all felt like a foreboding omen, drawing her away from where she should be. It was already difficult enough to face most cold mornings alone, but now…
How far she'd fallen. Perhaps their former mechanical-like existences changing into their current emotionally driven ones weren't that far off from eachother.
Regardless, the problem remained.
Solution: wake her up.
Problem: she is still recovering. Well, adapting might be a better word.
Solution: she could go back to sleep if she needs it.
Facing this myriad of circular possibilities, Sandrone simply chose the easiest and most logical course of action: pace around the living room arguing with herself until an outside force came to break the cycle. With some luck, perhaps the grey entity obscured against the equally grey fabric of the couch—also known as Pulonia—would step in and solve the issue for her as soon as possible.
A faint whisper reached her suddenly from the bedroom—had Sandrone's patrolling cadence been a half beat sooner, it would have drowned out the quiet plea entirely. Instead, a gray blur immediately darted past her, landing with a graceful thud to the hardwood floor before sprinting to the bedroom door. Pulonia reared herself up onto her back paws, beginning to claw at the wood.
Confusion lasted only a moment, stuttering her pacing before Sandrone marched over at a speed bolstered by anxiety.. “Why does attachment cause so much worrying? And what has you so—”
An incredibly weak voice called out again. “—drone…”
She immediately wrenched the door open, causing the fallen angel to be jerk forward, stumbling into her girlfriend's arms.
“Columbina?!”
Said angel was now leaning further into her, clearly not trusting her own sense of balance. Her usually pallid skin was flushed red– while her breathing sounded labored and raspy, sweat clinging to her brow.
“What's wrong? You're burning up! Is something going on with your adaptation, thing? You're usually so cold…”
Her only response was more rough breathing and a vague nod in the direction of the couch—a quickly-understood gesture. Sandrone guided her there, and Columbina collapsed onto the charcoal cushions without ceremony.
“Columbina?” Concern grew palpable in Sandrone's voice.
The fallen angel took a moment to catch her breath, sounding exhausted. “Sandrone… I'm fine… I think I'm just sick.”
“You are not ‘fine’. Since when can you even get sick? We never had to worry about this before.”
“I wasn't human before—” is all she could muster before breaking out in a wet cough.
Sandrone rushed to the bathroom, wrenched open the medicine cabinet, and grabbed a thermometer and an alcohol pad—before returning just as fast. “Open.”
“Ah?”
They waited for the inevitable beep. Sandrone took a look at the small display.
“37.9°C. That’s a high fever, especially for you. I’m calling out of work today.”
“No, please, I'm okay. I'll be fine.”
“I don’t care if you think you're fine or not. I should stay home and look after you. We don't know what could happen, you could get worse or need help, and just… it’s… it’s just, safer. It’s safer this way.”
The fallen angel reached out toward Sandrone, who in turn hesitantly grasped it. “I'll be fine. If I get worse, I'll call Lauma, okay? You should still go to work. After all, I think Zandik will keep bothering you until you do.”
The engineer sighs. “Fine. But call me if you feel any worse, okay?”
Columbina's voice seemed to fade into weakness. “Okay…”
Sandrone parted from her girlfriend. “Let me just get you a sheet and a few other things first, then I'll go.”
Pulonia hops up onto the couch, strutted the remaining distance to the fallen angel's thighs, paced in a circle twice, and claims her now-human space heater as her rightful throne.
Sandrone glanced back at Pulonia. “At least one of us is safe from getting sick—”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sandrone had been studying the motor a drone for the last half an hour.
Rotor? Check. Bearing? Check. Windin? Check. Stator? Check. Magnets? Check. Blades? Check. All were accounted for, yet she still hadn't located the deficiency.
Or at the very least, that was what she was going to tell Zandik when he inevitably and insufferably asked how it was going.
She throttled up the remaining motors of the drone clamped to her workbench—she needed something to break the eternal stagnation of staring at her unfound problem, and perhaps she might hear any audible cues of where the issue was? Who knows. She had already accounted for most obvious issues, so …
What she hadn’t accounted for, however, was another test drone taking off simultaneously—and heading straight at her. She noticed the whirring at the last moment, throwing up her hands in a surprised last stand, inhaling sharply as the blades approached her arms and—
She remained frozen as both drones' motors died down.
Sandrone was used to her creations betraying her in some form or another. Columbina could attest to that, with her being the usual rubber duck Sandrone explained her reasoning to (or at least halfway to one—Columbina did have wings at one point)
But an ambush from her own creations? That was a new low, and she would certainly have to lay down martial law on the perpetrator.
“Sandrone—”
She snapped out of her revenge-plotting to see her least favorite coworker holding an adhesive bandage to her.
She squinted at him—and directed what was likely the tenth slur this week at a God that must hate her specifically after she seduced one of their own.
“—I know blood can work as a mechanical lubricant, and I would like to solve the bearing issue as much as you seem to, but it'll jam the motor as soon as it dries”
Sandrone opened her mouth to retort—but soon felt a warm, wet sensation on her right hand. Shit, bleeding.
She snatched the bandage in a single aggravated motion with her left hand, walking begrudgingly to the nearby lab sink to wash the cut properly. Zandik leaned back against the connected lab bench with an expression accurately described as smug.
Sandrone shot him a glare. “You mentioned a bearing problem?”
“Oh yes, I located the fault rather easily. I included it in my third email asking about your presence, or rather, lack thereof. Some of the ball bearings are oblong due to a manufacturing error. Probably a bad batch. I've already ordered replacements.”
“And why did my children betray me?”
“Simple. You didn't disconnect the disassembled drone from the network. So when you increased the throttle, it relayed that to all connected drones… which luckily was just the two units. They tried to get into the test position next to each other. I turned them off after you had to smack one out of the air.”
“So you saw this coming and let it happen while watching me instead of working,” Sandrone snapped, her voice tight with a mix of adrenaline and irritation. “What was even the point of me coming in if you had already solved everything? Did you just want a front-row seat to my pain?”
“Consider it a form of research.” Zandik replied smoothly, not looking even slightly apologetic. “Besides, watching you fight a machine of your own making is far more entertaining than sorting through ball bearings. Also, you’re welcome for the medical intervention.”
Sandrone scowled and looked down. “And what's with this? I’ve seen more dignified dressings on discarded garbage.”
She held up her hand—revealing an obscenely yellow bandage with the most soulless-looking corporate attempt at a “cute bear” possible.
“The color matches your vibrant and sunny personality—an inspiration to us all. Besides, the color fits you well—it really brings out the murderous glint in your eyes.”
She recoiled noticeably, trying to half-hide the bandage behind her back as if that would make it vanish. “It most certainly does not. Yellow is an aberrant color that goes with nothing, and that bear looks like it’s plotting a felony.”
“It’s a morale-boosting bear, Sandrone. Clearly, it’s working; you haven't stopped talking since you put it on,” he noted, leaning back further against the bench. “Though, if you’d actually bothered to read my emails instead of staring blankly at a drone for forty minutes, you’d know I was going to ask you to debug our newest software update. But now I have to ask: trouble in paradise? I've never seen you so distracted that you let a simple test drone get the drop on you.”
Sandrone considered lying, but the mental exhaustion of this morning was catching up to her.
“If you must know—which you most certainly do not—Columbina is sick. I wanted to stay home, but she insisted I come in anyway. She was… surprisingly stubborn about it.”
Zandik let out a theatrical hum, smirking.
Sandrone swore that one day, she would find a way to strap him to one of her inventions and fly him to the sun.
“Ah, the classic martyr act. Far be it from me to tell you what you should be doing with your personal life, but—actually, no, wait. Should you really have listened to her?” He tapped a finger against his chin.
“According to your little book, aren't ‘angels’ supposed to be selfless beings? Of course she told you to leave; it’s practically in the job description to suffer in silence while being an inconvenience to no one. Did you not consult your conscience before making that decision?”
She tilted her head in confusion. “My conscience?”
“Yeah, the thing responsible for every action you do that makes you appear even a little bit human.” Zandik raises a hand a few inches above his head. “About this tall, dark purplish hair, works with animals, has a scary green wife…?”
Sandrone narrowes her eyes. “...Lauma?”
“That’s the one. I believe most people call them 'friends,' but in your case, she’s what I would call a vital source of morals.” Zandik straightened up, dusting off his lab coat. “Regardless, you’re just getting in the way here—mostly of yourself, which admittedly isn’t my problem. Just pointing out the lack of logic. I know how much you claim to love efficiency, yet you’ve spent the last hour staring at a motor and bleeding on our equipment.”
He shifted his weight away from the lab bench, strolling toward the exit with the unearned grace of a passing sage offering wisdom to a struggling protagonist.
“Check your emails, Sandrone. Or don’t. At this rate, that bear is doing more work than you are.”
Zandik was immediately added to the top of Sandrone’s drone revenge list—right under 'that annoying ginger from college’ and just above 'gravity.’
After taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off a brewing headache, Sandrone released a dramatic, exasperated sigh that echoed through the sterile lab. She marched back to her desk, ignoring the mocking yellow glint of the bandage, and pulled out her phone.
She leaned back as far as possible, testing the gravitational limits the cheap office chair could take. With her left arm draped across her eyes to shut out the world, she held the phone to her ear. After several agonizing rings, a soft slow voice connected.
“Hello, Sandrone. It’s unusual for you to call at this hour. Or call at all, for that matter.”
After a beat of silence, Sandrone found her voice. “Lauma... has Columbina called you today?”
The tone on the other end shifted instantly from playful to alert. “No, why? Is something wrong?”
“She’s sick. She insisted she was going to be fine and practically shoved me out the door to come into work. I told her to call you if she felt any worse, but I haven't heard anything.”
“And you believed her?” Lauma’s voice took on a parental edge that made Sandrone feel about three feet tall. “Are you certain she wasn’t just trying to avoid being a burden? You know how she gets when she feels she's ‘inconveniencing’ your schedule.”
Sandrone bit her lip. “Thinking about it... she was making a ridiculous fuss while I was trying to get her the essentials.”
“Essentials?” Lauma echoed, her skepticism palpable even through the speaker. “Define 'essentials' in Sandrone-speak.”
“You know... a sheet. A fresh glass of water. A trash can in case of... well, you know. I thought I was being quite thorough.”
“And with how disoriented and feverish she must be,” Lauma’s voice dropped into a dangerous, quiet calm, “I assume you made absolutely certain she had her phone within arm’s reach?”
Sandrone stared at the ceiling.
She had left the phone charging on the kitchen counter.
“...”
“I'll be there in 10.”
The line went dead before Sandrone could even offer a response. Lauma had hung up, leaving the engineer to a heavy moment of self-reflection—or perhaps it was just pure, unadulterated self-loathing. At that moment, it was honestly hard to tell the difference.
“I'm an idiot.”
“At least you’re finally becoming self-aware. It’s a milestone, really.” Zandik’s voice drifted over from a distant workbench, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Go. I’ll fix the motor. You’re welcome, by the way. I accept thank-yous in the form of Thai food—extra spicy, for whenever you decide to rejoin the ranks of the competent.”
Sandrone didn't even give him the satisfaction of a glare. She quickly saved her progress, powered down her laptop with a series of aggressive key-punches, and shoved it into its case with zero regard for cable management.
She rushed out of the lab after doing one final mental update: placing herself at the very top of her own revenge list, looming even higher than Zandik and treacherous drones.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Attempting to sprint up several flights of stairs proved to be an incredibly idiotic decision, as Sandrone ended up ragged and gasping for air after only the first set. By the time she reached her floor, her pace had slowed to a sluggish crawl, her legs feeling like lead. As she fumbled blindly for her keys, the door magically swung open of its own accord.
Or, as a less strain-deluded mind would have worded it: Lauma was already there.
Sandrone’s gaze immediately darted past her toward the living room. The couch was empty, no angel in sight. “Columbina?” she wheezed, heart hammering against her ribs.
A reassuring hand was placed on her shoulder, steadying her. “She’s fine. We put her back to bed with everything she needs.”
The engineer visibly deflated, tension leaving her body so abruptly she almost stumbled. “Thank you…”
She took a moment to blink the spots from her eyes, finally noticing the gathered crowd occupying her living space. Pulonia slinked out from the shadows, weaving a silent, accusatory path against her shins. Sandrone looked from the cat to the kitchen. “Wait... how did you all even get in here? Aino lost Lauma’s key last week, didn’t she?”
A nervous laugh comes from the kitchen. Jahoda stood there, scratching at her braided blonde hair with one hand while holding up a rake pick with the other. Ineffa stood beside her, looking entirely unrepentant. “It was an emergency?”
Sandrone appraised the lock-picking tools, then Jahoda, before letting out a long, defeated sigh. “... fine. Good job. This highlights the fact, however, that I need a better lock.”
Lauma held out a small cloth pouch embroidered with the image of a vibrant pink flower. Sandrone hesitated, staring at it as if it might contain a volatile chemical compound.
“What is it?”
“Echinacea tea.” Lauma explained. The confusion on the engineer's face was enough to spur her on further. “Cone flower? It has been used to treat cold and flu symptoms for thousands of years, Sandrone. It helps the immune system.”
“Uh-huh. Right. Dirt water.”
“And if you'd prefer—Ineffa insisted we stop for ‘real’ medicine.” Lauma added with a smirk.
Sandrone turned toward the younger engineer and gave her a stiff, grateful nod.
“Where’s my grateful nod? The things I do for you...” Lauma teased, though her expression quickly shifted to something more serious. “Regardless, Ineffa? I believe there was something you wanted to say?”
Ineffa marched forward until she was within a foot of Sandrone’s space. She didn't speak at first; she simply raised a hand and pointed a judgmental finger directly at Sandrone’s chest.
“Ineffa?” Sandrone asked warily.
“You figured everything would be fine. Clearly, it was not,” Ineffa began in a flat, clinical monotone. “We have zero baseline data on how Columbina’s physiology reacts to human viral pathogens. In any field, 'no information' is 'bad information.' You are well aware of her propensity to avoid being a burden; therefore, her protesting against your care was a statistically guaranteed outcome. She had as little evidence regarding her own condition as you did. To assume she would be 'alright' was a leap of faith, not a calculated conclusion.”
Sandrone opened her mouth to argue, but Ineffa was just getting started.
“Ultimately, your greatest failure was a total lack of contingency. No safety net, no failsafes to protect her in your absence, and failing to ensure she was in possession of any kind of communication device.”
“T-this isn't an engineering problem!” Sandrone hissed, her face heating up. “It's... it's complicated!”
“Correct. It is not an engineering problem—it’s a logic one. Failing grade.”
Sandrone's shoulder slumped slightly, dejected. “Yeah. You're right. I… failed as a wife here.”
“Acknowledged. Do better tomorrow. It is imperative that we continue to monitor her condition. If she truly was an angel and is now becoming human, we have no roadmap for how her immune system will react to pathogens she has never been exposed to. The variables are too high for negligence. That is all.”
With her assessment complete, Ineffa stepped back, returning to Jahoda’s side.
Lauma moved back into Sandrone's line of sight while her right hand gestured toward the closed bedroom door. “It looks like our work here is done for the most part. We'll stop intruding for now. Call us if you need us. I'll leave the tea and the medicine in the kitchen.”
“...Lauma, Ineffa, Jahoda. Thank you for being here. And, sorry you had to be here.”
Lauma smiled. “Please, Sandrone. We’re your friends. And hers.”
“It is what those are for, you are not required to thank us for basic social behavior.” Ineffa added.
“Anytime.” Jahoda chirped, offering a small wave with the hand not currently holding a lockpick.
Sandrone opened her mouth to argue, but paused. She let out a sigh. “How about… when Columbina gets better... we all get dinner together. My treat. Not necessarily as repayment, but just because I want you all to understand that I… appreciate… you?”
Ineffa began walking past Sandrone toward the door. “It is obvious that you wish to balance the mental ledger and settle the debt you have created in your own head. However, we will accept regardless.”
Jahoda stood frozen for a moment, looking just as stunned as Sandrone. She turned to Ineffa with a look of pure disbelief. “You didn’t have to kill her. You aren’t supposed to say that part out loud, Ineffa.”
“Oh.”
After taking a moment to fully "reboot," Sandrone took a long, shaky breath in and a sharp one out. It was an involuntary spasm, one that was almost—but not quite—mistakable for a laugh.
She finally turned toward the bedroom, the noise of the outside world and the presence of her friends fading behind her. Pulonia, an ever-anxious mess who would never admit to such an insulting description, darted through the crack in the door at the last possible second. The cat took one look at Columbina’s restful state, noted her steady breathing, and finally relaxed her hackles.
Sandrone wasted no time crawling into the bed. She pulled her girlfriend close and simply held her for a solid seven minutes, the silence of the room only broken by the faint whirring of her own thoughts.
“Sorry,” she finally creaked out, the word barely a whisper.
She eventually loosened her hug, propping herself up on one elbow to stare down at the angel as if she were the most precious, fragile pink gemstone on the planet.
As far as she was concerned, nothing in that sentence was false.
“I love you more than anything,” Sandrone murmured to the shadows. “I won’t leave you alone when you’re sick ever again. I promise.”
Columbina didn’t necessarily look ‘fine’, but she looked better than she had that morning. While sweat still clung to her forehead and her skin was still radiating a feverish heat, her expression was peaceful. Her breathing was steady.
Perhaps a little too steady. As Sandrone watched, the corners of the angel’s mouth began to betray her.
“Columbina...” Sandrone’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How long were you awake?”
A raspy, sleep-thickened voice replied from the pillow. “...Since you squeezed me...”
Sandrone’s face went a shade of red that rivaled Columbina’s fever. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to hear you say sweet things to me,”
“I would have said them anyway,” Sandrone huffed.
Columbina broke out into an almost silent giggle, which quickly devolved into a rough, rattling coughing fit. Sandrone helped her sit up, rubbing the fallen angel's back until the fit subsided.
As Columbina settled back into place, the engineer made a startling realization: Pulonia was not on the bed with them. That was an incredibly unusual, especially since the current occupant of the mattress was essentially a living space heater.
She scanned the room slowly—ah. Pulonia was standing stiffly by the bedroom door, staring intently at the wood. Sandrone’s eyes widened. Hesitantly, she pulled out her phone and prepared the creation of a group chat.
Sandrone: Testing a theory.
Immediately, two very distinct text notifications chimed from the other side of the bedroom door. One was a melodic, high-pitched ring that sounded like chimes; the other was a less discernible but chaotic burst of energy that could only belong to one person.
Sandrone: Note to self, use my intense genius to develop attack drones that protect my apartment against unauthorized intruders with lethal force. Leave. You already said you were
Ineffa: In my defense, I warned them not to.
Sandrone waited an indeterminate amount of time—certainly more than enough for her future targets to flee the premises—before she finally slumped back into the pillows, covering her face with her hands.
“What have I gotten myself into?” she whispered into her palms.
A notification ping brought her out of her thoughts.
Lauma: A life that includes other people
“You're still here?!” Sandrone yelled toward the door.
A second ping.
Jahoda: …No.
“Leave!”
Sandrone deflated, releasing what felt like the largest, most weary sigh of her life. She finally looked down at her partner, who was listening to the entire display with a weak, yet very amused face. Even through the fever, Columbina’s expression sparkled with a quiet, triumphant joy.