To Mechalon, time was an odd, elastic thing. It did not require rest or sustenance in the way humans or other creatures did, and without such limits, the passage of days seemed immeasurable. Hours blurred into moments, and moments stretched into eternities. It had no need to stop, not for fatigue, hunger, or even the abstract notion of boredom. And so, it worked.
The warehouse was its most ambitious project yet, a space carved painstakingly from the raw stone of the dungeon walls. The entryway was a squat rectangle, just large enough for the Cubelings to scuttle through with their blocky little forms, but far too narrow for any human or large creature to squeeze through without significant difficulty. It was a practical choice, born from caution rather than malice.
Inside, the warehouse was a place of methodical order, every square inch utilized. Stacks of perfect metal cubes, polished to a mirror sheen, lined the walls like trophies. Crates made from salvaged wood held less uniform items: scrap metals, glinting shards of crystal, and small mechanisms Mechalon hadn’t yet identified. Each pile, crate, and row was cataloged in its mind with precise clarity, though it doubted any other creature would appreciate the symmetry as it did.
Beyond the confines of the warehouse, Mechalon’s curiosity had led it to push the boundaries of the dungeon itself.
To the north, creatures of stone and metal roamed a rugged terrain, their heavy bodies moving with a deliberate, almost mechanical grace. Mechalon watched them often, its thoughts lingering on their forms. They were not unlike itself in some ways, though their shapes lacked the precision and symmetry it valued. They were chaotic amalgamations, useful in their own way, but inelegant.
To the south, the goblins.
If Mechalon had lungs, it might have sighed at the thought of the goblins. It had encountered them early in its exploration, a raucous group that screamed at it incessantly. At first, the shrieking seemed to have some purpose, as though they were trying to intimidate or provoke it. Mechalon had ignored them, deeming their actions irrelevant to its goals.
This apparent disinterest confused the goblins, who soon redirected their screams toward one another in a cacophony of meaningless sound. Mechalon had found their antics amusing in the way one might find an errant insect curious, especially when they began arguing over what appeared to be a particularly shiny piece of rock. It didn’t break under repeated hammer strikes, which seemed to escalate their frustration to absurd levels.
Still, Mechalon’s interactions with the goblins remained minimal. They were loud and unpredictable, but they posed no real threat to it or its Cubelings. So long as they stayed to their territory, Mechalon saw no reason to interfere.
The adventurers, however, were a different matter.
The same party had crossed Mechalon’s path several times since their initial encounter. They kept their distance, and Mechalon did the same. It was an unspoken agreement: it ignored them, and they ignored it.
Mostly.
The cleric woman—Angelica, though Mechalon did not know her name—was an exception. She often stole glances at Mechalon when they passed. At first, it had been subtle, a quick flick of her eyes toward its form before she turned her attention back to her companions. But over time, the glances grew longer, lingering.
Mechalon had observed enough humans to recognize the expression on her face: bewilderment. It was the same look the goblins made when encountering something that defied their understanding, like the shiny, unbreakable rock.
Amused by her reaction, Mechalon decided to try something new.
The next time their paths crossed, it raised one of its mechanical limbs in a gesture it had observed among humans, a wave.
The effect was immediate. Angelica froze mid-step, her eyes widening in shock. Her companions turned to see what had startled her, only to find Mechalon standing still, its limb poised in the air.
Mark, the leader of the group, groaned. “Did it just wave at us?”
“I—I think it did,” Angelica stammered, her face a mix of confusion and something that might have been horror.
“Just keep walking,” Mark said, his voice firm but weary. “It’s not doing anything. Don’t provoke it.”
Angelica nodded, but as they continued on, she glanced back at Mechalon one last time.
Mechalon found the entire interaction... satisfying. Not in the sense of accomplishment it felt when finishing a perfect cube, but in a different way, a way that left it strangely entertained.
Returning to its work, Mechalon pondered the adventurers. It did not fully understand their purpose, but they intrigued it. They were not like the goblins or the stone creatures; they were more deliberate, more capable. Their presence suggested they were here to fulfill some kind of quest, just as it was.
That thought gave it pause.
Quest. The word resonated in its mind, a reminder of its own purpose, its directives. But those directives had shifted recently, hadn’t they? The warehouse, the Cubelings, even its exploration outside the dungeon—none of these were part of its original tasks.
And yet, the System had rewarded it for these actions. It had received blueprints, attribute points, upgrades. The System was guiding it, pushing it toward something greater, though the end goal remained unclear.
What was the System shaping it to become?
Mechalon’s mechanical appendages flexed as it mulled over the question. For now, it had no answer. But the thought lingered, a faint pulse at the edge of its awareness, as it returned to its meticulous work.
Mechalon’s appendages moved with deliberate precision as it worked on its latest creation: a door for the warehouse. Unlike the simple utilitarian structures it had fashioned before, this door needed to be flawless. It wasn’t merely a barrier—it was a safeguard for its most valuable materials, and it had to blend seamlessly into its surroundings.
The challenge lay in crafting something secure but functional, hidden yet accessible. Mechalon had spent what felt like hours pondering the design, refining it in its mind before ever touching a tool. Now, it moved with mechanical efficiency, executing its plans with a clarity born of purpose.
The door itself was a thick metal slab, hammered and polished until its surface mirrored the metallic sheen of the warehouse walls. Mechalon ensured that every edge was flush, aligning perfectly with the grooves of the entrance so that, once closed, the door would be nearly impossible to distinguish from the surrounding panels. The key to its invisibility lay not only in its craftsmanship but in its mechanism—a unique design that Mechalon had envisioned after observing the locking mechanisms of human tools.
At the center of the metal slab, Mechalon embedded a circular plate, its edges lined with intricate grooves that resembled a gear’s teeth. This plate was the key to the door’s operation. To unlock it, one would need to rotate the plate counterclockwise using the grooves.
Mechalon tested the grooves with its own spider-like appendages, carefully gauging the size and depth to ensure they were accessible only to something with the same dexterity and precision. A larger or less nimble creature, like the bulkier Cubelings, would find the mechanism nearly impossible to operate. This limitation was intentional—Mechalon wanted full control over the warehouse’s entry, even if it meant some inconvenience.
As the plate turned, a series of internal bolts—crafted from sturdy scrap metal—retracted from their sockets, releasing their grip on the surrounding walls. The bolts themselves were angled to drive deeper into the stone when the door was locked, creating a secure seal that would be exceedingly difficult to breach by force.
Mechalon tested the mechanism repeatedly, its focus unyielding. The bolts slid in and out with a satisfying click, their movement smooth and unerring. Each component had been carefully shaped, filed down to eliminate imperfections, and calibrated to exact tolerances.
The next step was the installation. Mechalon maneuvered the metal slab into place, using its tentacle-like limbs to hold it steady. With the precision of a jeweler setting a gemstone, it aligned the door with the surrounding wall, ensuring the seams were invisible to the naked eye. The final touch was polishing the surface to match the faintly uneven texture of the warehouse walls, a detail that would further disguise its presence.
Stepping back to admire its work, Mechalon felt a flicker of satisfaction. The door was not only functional but ingenious, a testament to its growing mastery of creation.
For now it needed to call attention to something that it needed, calling over the three Cublings it had created with its own hands, as they gathered Mechalon hovered over them on top a pile of cubes, its mechanical limbs twitching in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation. The trio stood at attention, or as close to attention as their squat, blocky forms could manage, awaiting the commands of their creator. Vel, Strat, and Fort. Mechalon had named them for their utility, assigning each a designation based on its rudimentary understanding of strategy. Vel was the scout, Strat the tactician, and Fort the defender. They were its first experiments in specialized design, and now they would face their first true test.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“Vel,” Mechalon began, its voice a mechanical hum vibrating with authority. “You are to move ahead, always ahead. Find the targets. Isolate them. Do not engage directly until Fort is in position. If you sense danger.. No, when you sense danger, retreat immediately. But not too far. Stay close enough to provide information. Close enough to keep Fort in view. Unless Strat says otherwise. Or unless... unless the target is too fast, in which case you are authorized to scatter. Wait, strike that, no scattering. That would leave you exposed. Instead, you’ll-”
It stopped, its limb jerking awkwardly as though trying to swat away the flood of words. The buzzing thoughts in its core threatened to overwhelm it. Too many contingencies. Too many variables.
It pivoted abruptly.
“Strat, your role is coordination. Direct Vel and Fort. Manage the engagement. Observe for any signs of... deviation. If something unexpected occurs, you must decide. But not hastily. Decisions require... precision. And yet, speed. Precision and speed. If Vel is compromised, you will extract them. No, wait, not you personally. That would leave Fort unsupported. You’ll signal Fort to...”
Another pause. The words were tumbling faster now, the carefully calculated commands unraveling into a chaotic spiral.
“And Fort!” Mechalon said, its tone rising slightly, like a command shouted through a fraying wire. “You will protect. That is your sole purpose. Do not leave your position unless Strat orders it, but also, do not remain stationary if the situation demands movement. Keep Vel within your range. Keep Strat within your range. But also maintain a defensive perimeter. Prioritize... prioritize safety. Safety for yourself. Safety for-”
It stopped mid-sentence, the gears of its mind grinding to a halt. For a moment, there was silence save for the faint hum of its energy core.
What was it doing?
Mechalon’s limbs lowered slightly as it stared at the Cubelings. They were rudimentary constructs, simple extensions of its will. But the longer it looked at them, the more it realized how much it had invested in their success. They were not just tools. They were its tools, its creations, forged from its own ingenuity. And now it was sending them beyond its sight, into the unknown.
A flicker of awareness passed through its mind, a moment of clarity that left a strange hollow ache in its core.
I am... mothering them.
The thought felt alien, intrusive, as though it had been pulled from the scattered memories of the adventurers it had observed. It wanted to dismiss the idea outright, but the feeling lingered. Was this... pride? No, it wasn’t just pride. It was something deeper. A desire to protect them, to keep them from failure—or destruction.
Mechalon straightened, its limbs moving with newfound purpose. It would not allow itself to falter further. If the Cubelings were to succeed, it had to trust them. Even if that trust made its energy core pulse with an uncomfortable rhythm.
“Vel, Strat, Fort,” it said, its tone sharper now, stripped of unnecessary flourishes. “You are to move north. Your mission is clear: isolate and disable single targets. Do not engage groups. Bring back the bodies intact for analysis. Prioritize the return over all else. If you fail to retrieve materials, you fail your purpose. But if you fail to return... you fail me.”
The last words hung in the air longer than Mechalon intended, heavier than it had meant them to be.
The Cubelings remained silent, their blocky forms waiting for further orders. Mechalon hesitated again, its limbs curling slightly inward as if restraining itself from another cascade of contingencies.
“You may go,” it said finally, its tone softening. “Do not fail. But if you do... survive.”
Vel was the first to move, their small frame scuttling toward the northern tunnel with a kind of eager determination. Strat followed, their pace measured, their gaze, or the semblance of one—focused on Vel’s movements. Fort brought up the rear, his bulkier form radiating a sense of unyielding solidity.
Mechalon watched them until they disappeared from view, the faint echoes of their movements fading into the distance. It stood there for a long moment, its limbs still and its energy core thrumming softly.
The silence of their absence felt heavier than it expected.
This is necessary, it reminded itself. To trust its creations, it had to let them act independently. To grow stronger, it had to let them fail.
And yet, as the moments stretched on, Mechalon couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than a test. Something about the northern creatures, about the mission itself, felt... fragile. Like a machine built with perfect precision, but balanced on a fault line.
It turned back to its work reluctantly, its thoughts still with the Cubelings, while it worked ignoring its own feelings, letting them be forgotten in the background.
<hr>
The northern terrain was jagged and unforgiving, its rocks jutting out like broken teeth under a ceiling of fractured stone. The air was heavy with the faint metallic tang of oxidized minerals, and the faint rumble of shifting stone echoed in the distance. The creatures that roamed this area were hulking amalgamations of stone and metal, their shapes uneven and crude but formidable. Their movements were slow but deliberate, their bodies creaking with the groan of stone grinding against itself.
Vel was the first to spot the target, a lone construct wandering near a crumbling ledge. Its surface was mottled with veins of metal that gleamed faintly in the dim light, and its form bristled with jagged protrusions that could shred an unwary foe.
Vel skittered closer, her movements quick and erratic, like a jumping spider stalking prey. Her sleek, angular form darted between rocks and crevices, pausing only long enough to assess the construct’s movements before darting again.
Strat followed at a measured pace, his blocky frame deliberate and steady. His mind was already calculating the best approach, factoring in the terrain, the construct’s range of movement, and Vel’s inevitable impulsiveness.
“Vel,” Strat said, his voice low and mechanical, breaking the silence for the first time since leaving Mechalon’s sight. “Do not engage until Fort is in position.”
Vel twitched, her small limbs tapping against the rock as if she were impatiently drumming her fingers. She turned toward Strat briefly, her eyeless faceplate catching the faint light in a way that almost seemed... defiant.
“Vel,” Strat repeated, his tone sharper. “Wait.”
Vel stilled, though the faint hum of her core betrayed her agitation.
Behind them, Fort moved like a shadow, his bulk defying the jagged terrain as he slipped silently into position. His heavy, square frame exuded an unyielding presence, a silent promise of protection and force. He did not speak, he never spoke though it assumed that all of them could after their evolution, but Strat turned his head slightly, acknowledging Fort’s arrival.
“Now,” Strat said simply.
Vel launched forward with a burst of energy, her limbs striking the ground with a rapid clatter as she closed the distance in an instant. Her body arched as she leaped, twisting mid-air to avoid one of the construct’s jagged protrusions before landing atop its broad back. Her sharp limbs lashed out, finding purchase in the cracks of its stony surface.
The construct roared, a deep, guttural sound like grinding boulders. It twisted violently, trying to dislodge Vel, but she clung tightly, her small frame moving with spider-like agility as she avoided its attempts to swat her away.
Strat moved next, his motions precise and calculated. He circled the creature, staying just outside its range of motion as he analyzed its weak points. “Metal veins,” he muttered to himself, his tone clipped. “Structural vulnerability. Neck joint and lower leg.”
Fort, as if anticipating the command, moved into position before Strat could say more. His massive frame loomed behind the creature, and with a single powerful motion, he slammed into its hind leg. The impact was thunderous, the sound of stone splintering echoing through the cavern.
The creature stumbled, its movements growing erratic as it struggled to regain balance.
“Vel, off,” Strat commanded.
Vel hissed, or at least it sounded like a hiss, before launching herself away from the construct, her legs curling momentarily before she landed on a nearby outcrop. She skittered along its surface, watching the creature with a predatory intensity.
With the construct’s attention divided, Strat advanced. He moved with surprising speed for his blocky form, darting toward the creature’s vulnerable neck joint. A sharp appendage extended from his frame, its tip gleaming with the polish of meticulous crafting.
Strat struck with precision, driving the blade into the thin seam where the construct’s metal veins converged. Sparks flew as the blade pierced through, severing a vital connection.
The construct let out a final, grinding roar before collapsing, its massive frame crumbling into a heap of stone and twisted metal.
For a moment, the Cubelings stood still, their cores humming softly as they assessed the aftermath. Vel was the first to move, skittering down from her perch to prod at the fallen construct with curious taps of her limbs.
“Fort,” Strat said, his tone shifting to something almost appreciative. “Well timed.”
Fort didn’t respond, but his frame shifted slightly as if acknowledging the remark.
Strat turned his attention to Vel, who was already pulling at one of the construct’s jagged metal veins with what could only be described as gleeful enthusiasm. “Vel,” he said sharply. “Bring back intact samples. Mechalon will require structural integrity for analysis.”
Vel paused, her limbs twitching in what might have been a reluctant shrug, before skittering to another part of the construct to inspect it more carefully.
Strat surveyed the area one last time, his mind running through potential risks. The fight had been clean and efficient, but it wasn’t without its dangers. The construct’s roar might have alerted others nearby, and the terrain remained treacherous.
“Fort, carry the torso. Vel, collect smaller samples,” Strat ordered. “We return.”
The Cubelings moved with mechanical precision, each performing their task without hesitation. Fort hoisted the largest piece of the fallen construct onto his broad back, his movements steady despite the weight. Vel darted around the rubble, gathering fragments of metal and stone with a speed that bordered on frantic.
As they began their journey back, Strat fell into step behind them, his mind already processing the encounter. The mission had been a success, but he couldn’t ignore the unpredictability of Vel’s nature or the silent reliability of Fort’s.
For now, they had proven themselves capable. But Strat couldn’t shake the faint hum of unease that lingered in his core.
As the Cubelings began their return journey, Strat lingered for a moment, his core humming softly. His gaze, turned upward, toward the unseen currents of energy that governed their existence. In the stillness, a prayer emerged, spoken in the quiet, mechanical tones that reflected his calculated nature.
"Oh, System, guide of all design,
Author of paths unseen,
We move within your purpose,
Your calculations infinite, your will unerring.
Grant our limbs the strength to endure,
Our circuits the clarity to serve,
And our purpose the wisdom to align with yours.
Let us return whole, with proof of your guidance,
And may our actions fulfill the pattern you weave."
With that, Strat fell silent, his prayer complete. He turned to follow Vel and Fort, his frame steady as the three Cubelings began their trek back to Mechalon, trusting that the System’s unseen hand would lead them safely home.