Wattson

“Another one! Well, let’s see how you fare.”

So exclaimed the matron upon finding the new hatchling that January morning. It was not the first time someone had been left in the orphanage’s care in this way, nor would it be the last, and so all the necessary procedures went smoothly: gathering the foundling up and bringing them inside; searching for a note or communication of any sort (in this case, there was not a tittle to their name); checking if they were healthy.

“A bit of a runt,” she muttered as the new arrival slept fitfully in a nest beside, “but there’s still time for you to grow. All you need now is a name.”

Fezzik, he was called, sourced as per the orphanage’s custom from an ancient tale of adventure. In so choosing the matron had hoped he would, with time, prove to live up to it; unfortunately, he remained as physically frail as he had been on that doorstep. While he was never outright shunned by the other orphans, they hardly made an effort to include him in their games or races: intentional or not, they were still children, and children can very much be selfish. The whole world, or at least the world of the Plateau, was theirs for the exploring, after all, and there were only so many hours in a day; if someone could not for some reason follow, there was nothing they could do.

That left him to his own devices, in a very literal sense of the word. Though his flesh was undoubtedly weak, his interest in all things mechanical had been keen from the start; his earliest memories were of hoarding clocksprings and gearshafts, ferrite cores and ball-bearings, tungsten filament curlicues in thin glass bubbles--just for looking at first, then, over time, for putting together. While his fellows were soaring through the air, buoyed by currents from the nearby Crescendo, the Imperial occupied himself with two things: burying his face in manuals borrowed from the maintenance staff and taking, with their owners’ knowledge or not, the toys and trinkets carelessly strewn about the building. What he built with the parts he requisitioned from these started simple: a bamboo gyrocopter, magnifying spectacles. Soon enough, though, he moved on to more elaborate projects, and by the time he had scavenged enough scrap metal to create his own golem he no longer cared very much for play; if he was bored or lonely, he could simply make his own diversions--and did.

Not everyone seemed to find his creations as delightful. “The Shifting Expanse is that way,” the matron would tell him in various flavors of exasperation. As much as Fezzik was unhappy with his current situation, however, neither did the realm of the Stormcatcher, with its monthly quotas and minutely regimented days, hold any appeal. This was not work, but art: to force what was once a mere idea into reality with just energy and a handful of delicate, otherwise useless objects.

Time passed. As his skill increased further, so too did his previous dissatisfaction. Never able to understand the attitude of his peers, that bemusement blossomed into irritation--what was the use of exploring for its own sake, of knowingly returning with empty hands? Where was the passion, the intensity, the--dirty word as he felt it sometimes was--ambition?

Besides those misgivings, there was something else: he was nearly full-grown then, which meant he was soon to be exalted. He knew it was coming, of course; all of them did. It wasn’t too bad, he supposed, to eventually serve a deity--but not now and not this one. But how would he manage to leave if he was too weak to fly?

He pondered the question for nights on end, acutely aware of how each passing second was one step closer to sealing his fate. He would need speed, first of all, for lift, and supports to steady his wings for the ascent. Eye protection, too, would be necessary, and enough power to keep aloft...

Even longer it took for him to build what was needed, but he persevered, overpowering any doubt with resolve. Even so, he finished only a few hours before the fateful day; he had no time left to do anything but go.

The first strong tailwind in the vague direction of land decided his bearings--even the web of supports about his wings would not grant him a missing lifetime's worth of practice. It was all he could do to keep steady under the fury of his own engines, willing his eyes to stay open under the roar of the wind and the inertia lurching in his guts. In truth, he did not get far, but just making it away from the Windsinger’s domain was enough; when his strength finally failed him, forcing a landing, it was firmly on unfamiliar ground.

The Imperial did not know how long he slept there, and might have slept longer if not for a sudden crack. With a jolt, he raised his head, locking eyes with a stranger that was far too close to him for comfort.

“Drat,” the other said after a moment, making no effort to move. “you’re not dead. Your tech would sell for a pretty penny.”

“...thank you?”

“So: what’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m called--”

(Indeed, he knew what he was called. But he had been asked for his name. Fezzik was a name--a name on an orphanage list, now crossed-out and ready to be used for another doorstep hatchling. It was the name of a dragon who could never dream of filling in any of the expectations implied by it.

It was the name of someone who was to be exalted.)

“--I’m Wattson.”

Bio by the ever so lovely @Passerinde