The forest had settled into that particular shade of late afternoon gold that made even ancient, elf-cursed wilderness look almost welcoming. Kaelin sat cross-legged on a relatively flat patch of moss, her back against a tree, Lycos's warm weight pressed against her left side. Her eyes were open, staring at the space in front of her with the peculiar intensity of someone having a very loud internal conversation.
INSIDE
MAMMON: "I'm just SAYING, we have a machine. We have TIME. We have approximately zero immediate threats because I personally traumatized those trackers so badly they're probably still bathing in milkweed. WHY AREN'T WE PLAYING WITH THE FUCKING MACHINE?!"
AZRAEL: "Because 'playing' is not a survival priority. We need to establish shelter, assess our rations, and plan our next—"
MAMMON: "BORING! BORING AND STUPID! The toaster wants to play with the machine! Don't you, toaster?!"
IRIS: "My designation is IRIS. And while 'play' is an imprecise descriptor, I do calculate a 73% probability that controlled experimentation with the Mk. VII unit would yield useful data and/or entertaining catastrophes."
AZRAEL: "ENTERTAINING CATASTROPHES?! That is NOT a survival metric!"
IRIS: "Moral erosion is a survival metric. Your tolerance for chaos has increased 340% since birth. This is data."
AZRAEL: "THAT IS NOT— I HAVE NOT— YOU CANNOT QUANTIFY MY—"
MAMMON: "HE'S STUTTERING! YOU MADE THE ANGEL STUTTER! IRIS, I COULD KISS YOU!"
IRIS: "Please do not. I lack physical form and also consent."
---
Kaelin's body moved before Azrael could mount a proper defense. Her hand reached toward her wrist, a flicker of spatial magic, and the Gnomish Automated Trail-Cleaner Mk. VII materialized in the air directly above her crossed legs.
It landed, as these things inevitably do, squarely on her left foot.
KAELIN (EXTERNAL): "OW! FUCK—"
MAMMON: "AHHHHH! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! THE MACHINE IS AGGRESSIVE!"
AZRAEL: "IT'S NOT AGGRESSIVE, YOU LITERALLY DROPPED IT ON YOURSELF!"
IRIS: "Impact force: 4.7 newtons. Minor soft tissue compression. Toe will bruise. Also, Mammon: that was your control window when the machine materialized. You directed the hand to release at maximum height. This is, technically, your fault."
MAMMON: "MY FAULT?! I WASN'T THE ONE WHO— wait, was I? Shit. Okay, maybe. BUT THE POINT STANDS! WE HAVE MACHINE! MACHINE IS HERE! MACHINE IS READY FOR— what's that smell?"
---
The smell, as it turned out, was the Mk. VII's internal reservoir. The same reservoir that had, until very recently, contained approximately 4.7 liters of concentrated biochemical nightmare sludge. The same sludge they had so cleverly repurposed into the Skunk-Log Surprise of tactical humiliation.
The reservoir was now empty.
Technically empty.
The smell, however, had achieved sentience and taken up permanent residence in the machine's internal tubing.
AZRAEL: "By the Celestial Choirs. It reeks of sin."
MAMMON: "It reeks of VICTORY! That's the smell of those trackers crying! Breathe it in, choirboy! SUFFER THEIR HUMILIATION!"
IRIS: "Scanning unit for functional components. Odor noted. Odor will be ignored. Odor is irrelevant to data collection. Odor is— the olfactory sensors are logging error codes. I am experiencing 'displeasure'. This is a new sensation. I do not appreciate it."
Lycos, who had been dozing, lifted his head. His nose twitched. His psionic projection shifted from peaceful-nap to what-the-fuck-is-that to oh-no-I-recognize-that-it's-the-bad-smell in approximately 0.3 seconds.
Bad-smell-machine. Why still have bad smell? We left bad smell. Bad smell was gift for enemies. Bad smell not supposed to COME BACK.
MAMMON: "Even the wolf is judging us! This is fine! We're FINE! Let's just— let's see what this baby can do!"
---
Kaelin's fingers, guided by Mammon's enthusiastic incompetence and IRIS's clinical precision, began exploring the machine's exterior. It was roughly the size of a small barrel, hexagonal, with four retracted mechanical legs and a domed top that resembled a very confused beetle's carapace.
A small, tarnished plaque near the base caught IRIS's attention.
IRIS: "Inscriptions detected. Language: Gnomish Technical Dialect, Regional Variant 7. Translating…"
A pause.
IRIS: "…Oh. Oh, this is DELIGHTFUL."
AZRAEL: "Why do you sound pleased? That tone is never followed by anything good."
IRIS: "Translation complete: 'ACTIVATION PROTOCOL: Unit responds to sympathetic percussive stimulus applied to dorsal surface in rhythmic sequence. Operator must simultaneously vocalize melodic pattern designated "Seven Small Holes in Cheese" (Appendix C-12) for minimum duration of 11 seconds. DO NOT CEASE VOCALIZATION IF unit begins whistling. This is normal function, not imminent explosion. (Note: Imminent explosion is covered under separate warranty, terms and conditions apply.)'"
Silence.
MAMMON: "...So we have to TAP it and SING about CHEESE?!"
AZRAEL: "This is the most absurd operational requirement I have ever encountered. Gnomish engineering is a blight upon rational thought."
IRIS: "I have already located Appendix C-12 in my linguistic database. Melodic pattern acquired. Initiating activation sequence. Kaelin, raise your right hand. Tapping tempo: 120 beats per minute. Begin."
MAMMON: "TAP! TAP! TAP! SING, SING, SING!"
AZRAEL: "I refuse to participate in this idiocy!"
KAELIN (EXTERNAL, TAPPING THE MACHINE AND SINGING IN A TINY, FLAT, SEVEN-YEAR-OLD VOICE):
"Seven small holes in the cheese,
One, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN,
The gnome ate one and then said 'please',
Now there are SIX small holes in the—"
The machine whistled.
It was not a threatening whistle. It was the sound a teakettle might make if it had studied music theory for several centuries and then decided to fuck with everyone in earshot.
MAMMON: "IT'S WHISTLING! THE PLAQUE SAID THAT'S NORMAL! EVERYTHING IS FINE!"
AZRAEL: "NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS FINE!"
IRIS: "Continuation of vocalization required. Do not stop singing."
KAELIN (EXTERNAL, DESPERATELY):
"—holes in the cheese!
The dwarf took one with a loaf of bread,
Now there are FIVE small holes instead!"
The machine stopped whistling.
It began to hum.
And then, with a sound like a very satisfied cat coughing up a very geometric hairball, it produced a brick.
---
The brick was perfect.
Not figuratively perfect. Geometrically perfect. Right angles that seemed to defy the natural curvature of organic matter. A warm, reddish-brown hue. Smooth surface texture. Slight, pleasant aroma of fermented fungus and compressed leaf litter.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
It was, without question, the most aesthetically pleasing brick any of them had ever seen.
MAMMON: "...I made this. I MADE THIS. I AM A GOD AMONG DEVILS! THIS BRICK WILL FOUND AN EMPIRE! THIS BRICK WILL— wait, why is it sticky?"
AZRAEL: "It's sticky because you fed it fermented fungus and leaf litter. You made a mushroom brick. It is, predictably, mushroom-flavored."
IRIS: "Analysis: Unit successfully converted input biomass (3.7kg of mixed organic detritus) into standardized construction material. Efficiency: 94%. Aesthetic output: 8.7/10. Olfactory profile: unconventional but not unpleasant. Note: Brick retains slight thermal warmth. Potential use as emergency heating element or very small camping stool."
Lycos approached the brick cautiously. His nose twitched. His tail gave an experimental wag.
Smell like forest. Smell like food? Test.
His tongue touched the brick's surface.
His entire body recoiled.
NOT FOOD. TASTE LIKE DIRT AND REGRET. 0/10. WOULD NOT RECOMMEND.
MAMMON: "HE'S JUST WRONG! IT'S A PERFECT BRICK! I LOVE IT! MAKE ANOTHER ONE!"
---
They made another one.
Then another.
Then another.
Kaelin's small hands, operating on IRIS's precise instructions and Mammon's increasingly unhinged enthusiasm, fed the Mk. VII everything within reach.
Moss. Green brick.
Bark. Brown brick with interesting grain pattern.
Dry grass. Yellowish brick that crunched slightly.
Small, unfortunate toadstool. Purple brick that glowed faintly in the dark.
AZRAEL: "We have SEVENTEEN bricks. SEVENTEEN. We do not need seventeen bricks. We do not need ONE brick. We need SHELTER and FOOD and to STOP PLAYING WITH THE STUPID MACHINE!"
MAMMON: "YOU CAN'T STOP PROGRESS! THIS IS THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION AND WE ARE ITS PROPHETS!"
IRIS: "Industrial Revolution reference noted. Mammon's historical accuracy: questionable. Mammon's enthusiasm: statistically significant."
AZRAEL: "STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT?! He's building a BRICK COLLECTION in the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE while we are FUGITIVES with a BOUNTY on our collective HEAD!"
MAMMON: "AND WHAT A GLORIOUS COLLECTION IT IS! LOOK AT THIS ONE! IT HAS A LITTLE— what is that, a worm? Okay, it had a little worm. I didn't see the worm. The worm is PART of the brick now! IT'S A FEATURE!"
Lycos, who had been watching the brick production with increasing fascination, made a decision.
He shook himself vigorously.
A cloud of shed undercoat fur drifted through the air and settled directly into the machine's input hopper.
IRIS: "New biomass detected. Composition: Canis lupus familiaris, seasonal shed coat, approximately 47 grams. Processing…"
The machine hummed. The machine whistled. The machine produced a brick.
It was gray. Soft. Slightly warm. When Kaelin tentatively touched it, her fingers sank into its surface like it was woven from clouds and wolf dreams.
MAMMON: "...I want to sleep on that."
AZRAEL: "...It does appear unusually comfortable."
IRIS: "Brick composition: 94% compressed canine undercoat, 6% residual mushroom substrate. Thermal retention: excellent. Compressibility: 0.3 on Shore scale. This is, functionally, a very small, very dense, very square mattress."
Lycos, without waiting for permission, immediately lay down on the brick.
Mine. Warm. Good. Pack not make enough of these. Pack should make more.
MAMMON: "HE'S RIGHT! MORE COMFY BRICKS! WE COULD HAVE A WHOLE FORTRESS OF COMFY BRICKS! A COMFY-FORTRESS! THE COMFORTRESS!"
AZRAEL: "That is the worst portmanteau I have ever heard."
MAMMON: "YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS YOU DIDN'T THINK OF IT FIRST!"
IRIS: "Query: Does 'Comfortress' have strategic value? Possible applications: insulated shelter walls, portable seating, trade goods, emergency flotation devices. Probability of usefulness: 64%. Probability of Azrael's continued objection: 99.7%."
AZRAEL: "STOP QUANTIFYING MY OBJECTIONS!"
---
It was during this heated exchange that IRIS, still running continuous diagnostic sweeps of the Mk. VII, detected something unexpected.
IRIS: "Pause. Additional component detected."
MAMMON: "What? More bricks? MORE COMFY BRICKS?!"
IRIS: "Negative. Internal sensor suite includes a partially functional navigation module. Gnomish Standard Positioning System, civilian grade. Power reserves: 7%. Signal strength: weak. Attempting data recovery…"
A pause. Then:
IRIS: "Recovery successful. Module contains one stored coordinate set. Label: 'Owner's Last Known Position - DO NOT ERASE (seriously, I will cry)'. Associated name field: 'GIZMO - INVENTOR, VISIONARY, HANDSOME GENIUS (self-attributed)'."
MAMMON: "...Gizmo? GIZMO?! THE MACHINE BELONGS TO SOMEONE NAMED GIZMO?!"
AZRAEL: "It's a Gnomish name. Plausible."
MAMMON: "IT'S NOT PLAUSIBLE, IT'S FATE! THE UNIVERSE WANTS US TO FIND THE BRICK LORD!"
IRIS: "Coordinate distance from current location: approximately 47.3 kilometers, bearing 137 degrees southeast. Travel time on foot, optimal conditions: 14-16 hours. Travel time with wolf and seventeen bricks: approximately 'why do we have seventeen bricks'."
AZRAEL: "FINALLY! Someone with sense!"
IRIS: "I did not say we should not go. I merely quantified the logistical challenge."
AZRAEL: "...You WANT to go find a random gnome in the woods based on a half-functional GPS from a machine that makes CHEESE BRICKS?!"
IRIS: "Gizmo represents a known variable. He created this unit. He likely possesses additional technical knowledge. He may be sympathetic to fugitives, given his own 'Last Known Position' is approximately 47 kilometers from the nearest Gnomish settlement—consistent with exile. Probability of useful alliance: 73%. Probability of catastrophic betrayal: 12%. Remaining probability: unknown variables. Acceptable risk."
MAMMON: "AND HE MAKES MACHINES THAT MAKE COMFY BRICKS! DON'T FORGET THE COMFY BRICKS!"
AZRAEL: "I am surrounded by madness."
MAMMON: "YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY GENIUS! THERE'S A DIFFERENCE!"
IRIS: "Marginally."
---
Kaelin's body sat motionless among the scattered bricks, the Mk. VII humming softly at her feet, Lycos's warm weight now supplemented by one very comfortable wolf-fur brick beneath his chin.
Three minds. One choice.
AZRAEL (AFTER A LONG, TIRED SILENCE): "...We need supplies. We need information. We need allies."
MAMMON (UNCHARACTERISTICALLY QUIET): "...Yeah."
AZRAEL: "This gnome. Gizmo. If he can help us understand the machine, if he can help us prepare for the Spire…"
MAMMON: "...You're saying we go find the Brick Lord."
AZRAEL: "I am saying we investigate a potential resource. The nomenclature is YOUR contribution."
MAMMON: "BRICK LORD! BRICK LORD! BRICK LORD!"
IRIS: "Consensus achieved: 3-0. Destination: Gizmo's last known coordinates. ETA: 16 hours, pending brick redistribution and Lycos's cooperation."
Lycos, hearing his name, lifted his head.
Go? Where go?
KAELIN (EXTERNAL, REACHING DOWN TO SCRUFF HIS EARS): "We're going to find someone. He makes machines. Like… that one."
Lycos looked at the Mk. VII. The Mk. VII hummed peacefully.
...He make more bad-smell?
MAMMON: "WE DON'T KNOW! THAT'S THE EXCITING PART!"
...Okay. But if bad-smell, I not carry bricks.
IRIS: "Fair."
---
They packed in silence, efficient now from weeks of practice. The bricks—all seventeen of them, plus the two additional mushroom-bricks Mammon had insisted on making "for the road"—were carefully arranged in the spatial bracelet, nestled alongside the travel cakes and medical supplies.
AZRAEL: "I cannot believe we are carrying seventeen bricks across forty-seven kilometers of wilderness."
MAMMON: "Eighteen. I made another one while you were complaining."
AZRAEL: "EIGHTEEN?!"
IRIS: "Nineteen. Lycos contributed additional fur."
AZRAEL: "I want to die."
MAMMON: "Can't. We're sharing a body. Very inconsiderate timing."
IRIS: "Noted. Death request denied. Moving target: Gizmo. Departure: now."
Kaelin stood, adjusted her grip on the coil of silken rope she'd repurposed as a makeshift satchel strap, and looked southeast.
The forest stretched endlessly, dappled gold and shadow.
Somewhere out there, a gnome inventor had no idea he was about to be visited by a twilight-skinned child, her wolf, seventeen bricks, one malfunctioning machine, and the combined consciousness of an angel, a devil, and an AI who had just discovered the joy of engineering chaos.
MAMMON: "Gizmo. GIZMO. I'm already practicing my negotiation face. 'Hello, small genius man. We have your machine. It makes bricks now. We are friends. Give us more machines.' PERFECT."
AZRAEL: "That is not negotiation, that is extortion."
MAMMON: "SAME THING, DIFFERENT PRONUNCIATION!"
IRIS: "Logging new objective: Locate Gizmo. Do not let Mammon negotiate unsupervised. Also, cataloguing brick inventory under new file designation: 'Project Comfortress - Phase 1'."
AZRAEL: "...You're actually calling it that."
IRIS: "Yes. The designation has been logged. It is official now. Congratulations, Mammon. Your portmanteau achieved canonization."
MAMMON: "I'M CRYING. I DON'T HAVE EYES BUT I'M CRYING. THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY AFTERLIFE."
AZRAEL: "This is the worst day of MY afterlife."
IRIS: "Correction: Your worst day was Chapter 4, 'The Walking Nightmare', Age 1, Tantrum #47, when you experienced simultaneous emotional overload and gastrointestinal distress. Today is currently ranked #2,743 in your personal hierarchy of suffering."
AZRAEL: "...You keep RANKINGS?!"
IRIS: "I keep data. The rankings are emergent behavior."
MAMMON: "EMERGENT BEHAVIOR! I LOVE HER! I LOVE THIS WHOLE DISASTER!"
AZRAEL: "WE ARE NOT A DISASTER!"
MAMMON: "WE ARE SEVEN YEARS OLD, WE HAVE SEVENTEEN BRICKS, WE ARE FOLLOWING A HALF-BROKEN GPS TO FIND A GNOME NAMED GIZMO, AND OUR AI JUST INVENTED THE WORD 'COMFORTRESS'! WE ARE THE DEFINITION OF DISASTER AND I WOULDN'T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY!"
Silence.
AZRAEL (VERY QUIETLY): "...Seventeen bricks. You said seventeen. IRIS said nineteen."
IRIS: "Correction accepted. Nineteen bricks. Mammon made two additional units during your existential crisis."
AZRAEL: "...I hate everything."
MAMMON: "No you don't."
AZRAEL: "...No. I don't. But I reserve the right to complain."
IRIS: "Complaint logged. Filing under: 'Routine Operations'."
---
The forest swallowed them, small figure and gray wolf, heading southeast.
Behind them, the remnants of their campsite: a circle of flattened moss, the faint lingering odor of mushroom-and-fur brick production, and one small, perfectly geometric brick that had been accidentally left behind.
Azrael's brick.
The one he'd said wasn't important.
MAMMON (VERY, VERY QUIETLY, SEVERAL MINUTES INTO THEIR HIKE): "...Hey."
AZRAEL: "What."
MAMMON: "...I know you didn't want to say anything. But. I saw you. When we were packing."
AZRAEL: "...I don't know what you're talking about."
MAMMON: "You looked at the spot where your brick was. Before you realized we forgot it. You looked for it."
AZRAEL: "...It was just a brick."
MAMMON: "Yeah. I know."
A pause.
AZRAEL: "...It was symmetrical."
MAMMON: "...You want to go back for it?"
AZRAEL (AFTER A LONG, LONG SILENCE): "...No. It's fine. We have nineteen others. One more wouldn't matter."
MAMMON: "...Okay."
Another pause.
IRIS: "Note to self: When Azrael is not looking, acquire suitable materials for replacement brick. Composition: white stone, clean water, pressed leaves. Specifications: symmetrical, aesthetically pure, emotionally significant. Priority: high."
AZRAEL: "...I can still hear you."
IRIS: "I am aware."
AZRAEL: "...Thank you."
IRIS: "Your gratitude is noted and will be weaponized at an appropriate future moment."
AZRAEL: "...I hate you."
IRIS: "Also noted. Now, please direct Kaelin's feet around that fallen log. The GPS signal is strengthening. Gizmo is waiting."
MAMMON: "BRICK LORD AWAITS! ONWARD, CHAOS SQUAD!"
Lycos yipped.
Kaelin's small, calloused feet found the path.
And the Fortress walked southeast, carrying nineteen bricks, a machine that made friends from stone, and three souls who were, despite everything, beginning to understand what "home" might actually mean.
