Chalice // [Orville Leisure Day 6]

Very slowly it became apparent that it was just him and a body in the orange sector of the Scrapyard. He turned away slowly, letting his tarnished mech suit slide along the rorschached barrier. Blood - another part, another inch given and taken - smeared. He hobbled along, not trusting the force field to hold him, not hoping the suit would keep him safe. He needed to lie down, sleep forever and then wake, refreshed. At the very least he knew he ought to tally Wes' things, to delineate what would help him from cursed rabbit paws.

Instead he limped towards the middle of the yard.

He'd not forgotten it. Not even Cricket Antoinette herself could be so dazzling as its golden lustre. Orville came to the cornered edge of his cage and stopped to bleed a little more.

He waited.

He frowned. "I thought?" He began, voice cracking.

When he cleared his throat it came away bloody. He spit and tried again. "I thought it was for me?"

Eyes skyward, he crossed his arms. He did not have to imagine how he looked: the screens mirrored him. Orville King, mostly dead, preparing to be entombed. "If it's not for me, then who...? Oh!" He bopped himself on the forehead. "Oh, of course!"

He looked eagerly ahead. "A King cannot present such a gift to himself. One must be patient for the wisest to proffer such an offering."

He'd found the path and now he just needed to be patient. He could be patient. It was a virtue, after all. He shifted, foot to foot. He bled a little more. And then, a short time later, when he could not wait any more, he did not whistle or yell or cry out for him.

He hissed.