The Cutting Room Floor - Snippet 1

Title: The Cutting Room Floor; Snippet 1
Description: The odds, ends, bits and pieces I keep around. Each of 'em's a story about her.
Genre: Fluff, Fade to Black, Junkyards

= = = = = = = =

	A pile of machine parts shifted and gave way to the blue form of Rumble. He pulled himself free from the pile, clutching a bundle of wires and a small box. “New wires for Tristy and hopefully a better circuit box ought to be what she needs to stop dying on me.” He tossed them into a bin and looked to the adjacent pile of machine parts. The Bandle City scrap yard was open to the public, but Yordles rarely tossed anything useful out. Most of every scrap pile was nothing more than a jumble of wires, scrap metal and cracked circuit boards. And still, he found the odd treasure that slipped past less watchful eyes. “Oh man, is this a focusing lens?” He examined the cut glass disc. A hairline fracture ran through it, and it was extremely dusty and scratched, but otherwise was still salvageable. A gleeful grin split his face. “Hahaha, time for that death laser you always wanted Tristy!”

	“I've got Boomer, what do I need a death laser for?” said a voice somewhere behind him. Rumble nearly dropped his lens. “What's up Rumble?”

	“Oh damn, uh, n-nothing Tristana, nothing,” he said. He placed the lens atop his box of scrap. “Just uh...just talking out loud I guess.” He heaved the box off the ground and began to make his way to the exit of the scrapyard. He'd have rather avoided the unfortunate implications of what he'd said, but Tristana cut him off as he made to leave.

	“Hey, where ya goin'?” she said, an inquisitive expression on her face. “You didn't answer my question! Are you buildin' me a laser or something?” Rumble shook his head nervously. “Oh. What're you talkin' about then?”

	Rumble shifted the box uneasily. “Uh...I was talking about something else...”

	Tristana furrowed her brow. “Something else? Well, what?” Rumble could see the cogs turning in her head before comprehension dawned upon her face. “You're talkin' about your robo-suit aren't ya!” Rumble sighed – this wasn't what he was hoping for when she found out his suit's namesake. Tristy was present for one. She was also complete, shining, and an imposing suit armed to the teeth with rockets, lasers, guns, harpoons and blades. He'd always imagined he'd be in the cockpit too, and would dismount gracefully as a glass canopy flipped open to let him jump to the earth below him.

	Instead, here he was, covered in grime, smelling of rust, and clutching a box of old components some unknown Yordles had been stupid enough to toss. His usual mechanics garb was stained with oil and dirt, and his hair was completely in disarray. Still, he knew when he was cornered, and so he nodded grimly. “Yeah, you're spot on there Trist, I named her Tristy.”

	Trist laughed. “Why'd you pick that name?” The mechanic averted his eyes. “Aww, come on, don't be that way,” she said bracingly, poking his side. “You didn't name her after me now, did ya?” Rumble felt his cheeks grow hot. “Come on, don't just take this layin' down! Where's your comeback?” He looked over at her, somewhat blinded by her radiant smile and twinkling eyes and couldn't help but smile back.

	“Well, she ain't much to look at so...” he said with a good-natured sneer. “Just started copyin' ya know?” Trist covered her mouth in mock offense.

	“Hey! I thought you were just trying to stay in your league!” she shot back in between laughs. She stuck her tongue out for good measure.

	“Alright, you got me good,” he replied. “Don't got a comeback for that one.” He adjusted the weight of the box he was carrying and, somewhat emboldened by the rapport, asked bravely, “I'm actually gonna go work on Tristy some more, wanna come along?” To his surprise, she nodded.

	“Need some help with all that stuff?” she asked holding out her hands.

	“I'm small, but not as weak as you'd think ya know. I've done this more times than I can count to be honest.” And so he proved his expert knowledge of Heavy Box Carrying by tripping promptly over his own feet.

- - -

	“I might be able to fix this if I can heat the glass enough to get it to soften up and seal together again. I'll have to buff out all the scratches and stuff too.” He held the lens over a small light on his workbench and examined it with a magnifying glass. Occasional “oohs” and “aahs” could be heard from varying points behind him, along with the sound of shifting metal and shuffling papers. “Be careful Trist,” he called over his shoulder, “I don't keep bombs lying around like Ziggs but I think I left some prototype flamethrowers and harpoon guns lying about.” There was a loud “eek!” and the sound of hydraulics depressurizing followed by a dull thud and the sound of falling drywall. Rumble's slumped in defeat. “Too late I guess.”

	He turned about to see Tristana holding a harpoon launcher in her arms and a sheepish grin on her face. “S-sorry Rumble... Um, anything I can do to uh...to help?” Rumble took the gun from her and looked it over – the fire button was faulty on it and he'd set it aside to eventually fix. Along with just about everything else in his garage.

	“Nah, no worries Tris'. My fault anyway. Invited ya back to a...eh, not a time bomb 'cos this ain't Ziggs' place, but everything here's broken or faulty.” He dumped the gun unceremoniously on a pile of scrap metal and turned to inspect the damage the harpoon had made. He let out a low whistle. “Shot clean through the roof into the floor of my...room? No, wait, I think my kitchen.” He paused, tracing the layout of his apartment in his head and laying it over the garage. “Yeah, my kitchen.”

	Tristana frowned. “I'm really sorry Rumble, I didn't mean to do that,” she began, “Look, I can get that fixed for you if...”

	Rumble waved a hand in dismissal. “Nah, not worth it. I can do it. Taught myself how to fix more than just robots and weapons.” He pointed to a shelf lined with books. “Patchin' that up'll be a breeze. I think. First time I've tried.” He paused. “Eh, second. Fixed a hole in the shower wall.” He gave her a grin, self-deprecating. “Easy to tell since the tile's too small and the wrong color.” He pulled a step-ladder from the wall climbed it, reaching out to pull the harpoon from the ceiling. The thin metal pole remained just out of reach. He frowned, color rising in his cheeks.

	“Do you want me to...?” asked Tristana tentatively. Rumble shook his head defiantly. He leapt and grabbed hold of the harpoon. His legs kicked futilely in the air – his weight wasn't enough to dislodge it. He looked down at Tristana meaningfully. “Oh!” She climbed the stepladder herself and tugged on his legs. The harpoon slowly came loose until a loud crack was heard. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling. A second crack came and the harpoon, along with a small chunk of the ceiling fell with the two Yordles. They fell flat on their backs, a large chunk of the ceiling strewn across them. “Oww... You okay Rumble?” Trist pushed the rubble of her body and sneezed. Plumes of dust billowed off the debris and out of the hole in the ceiling.
	Rumble sat up, helping toss the debris off his torso and looked up at the hole. “Well...could be worse. Could be waaay bigger.” As it stood, the hole was only large enough for him to stick a leg through, though the plaster and paint surrounding it had been torn away over a much larger area. He shook his head to loosen bits of plaster and drywall from his hair and ran a hand through it a few times, dust and smaller bits of debris flying from it as he did. He turned to look at Trist and cracked a grin. “Pffft. Looks like you were helping me rummage through the scrap Trist.”

	Tristana pulled bits of the ceiling from her hair and dusted her shoulders off. “Ugh. Can I wash my hair out in your sink or something?” Rumble nodded and led her over the stair that ascended to his apartment proper.

	It was a dingy place. There was still more scrap metal, half-finished designs, blueprints, and tools scattered all about his entryway and living room. Tristana had to watch her feet as she walked to avoid tripping on the myriad pipes and boxes. Rumble seemed to have memorized the insanity however, and pulled a blueprint pinned to the wall among several others and began to mark it with a pen he had in his pocket. He crossed out several portions of the design and stopped for a moment to sketch what seemed to be a missile pod on the paper before drawing an arrow between it and what seemed to be a sleek chassis for a quadrupedal robot. He rolled up the blueprint and tossed it onto his almost completely hidden coffee table where several others and still more tools and metal boxes sat. Tristana peeked into his kitchen and noticed it was largely void of items – the hole from the harpoon sat under the table, and upon it was a single blueprint, pens and a compass lying upon it. She glanced at the design – it was Tristy, though she had been completely redone. The body was a clean, smooth chassis featuring a glass canopy over the cockpit and proper mechanical legs instead of giant suction cups. She scratched her head. A drill?

	“Hey Trist! Bathroom's this way. Sorry the place is so messy, I don't have much reason to keep it clean.” He looked apologetic. “Bathroom's 'k though.”

	Trist made her way carefully over to him and said, astounded, “Nothing's really that dusty though. I'd've figured with this much stuff lying around it'd be...dirtier?”

	“Nah, I move stuff around way too much for it collect dust,” he explained, “So everything's a mess but it's organized. Uh...sorta anyway. To be honest I keep moving stuff around so people have trouble stealin' from me. Only thing that gets to stay in the same place is on the kitchen table, since she's my pride and joy.”

	“How d'you remember where everything is?” she asked.

	“Dunno. Just do? Always done it this way so...” he trailed off. Trist had a look in her eyes that he'd never quite seen before. A blazing sort of gaze fell upon him. “Tris'?”

	Perhaps she knew where her visit to the junkyard was going to lead her. Or rather, hoped it would lead her. He hung around it, she knew that, several Yordles she had asked had told her he spent most of his time out of his garage in piles of scrap. Most importantly, she knew how much he pined for her. “Rumble, why'd you name your suit Tristy?” The tilt in her head communicated curiosity, but the spark in her eyes said something more. Rumble popped the cap on his pen on and off anxiously, averting his gaze down to his feet. Hands came up and pulled the pet out of his hand and tossed it aside. She took a step forward. “Well?” Rumble shrunk away, trying desperately to dodge the question, only to find himself collide with the door frame. Her face drew closer and split into a dirty grin.

	“You. I named it after you,” he said at last.

	“'Bout time you spit it out,” she breathed. She kissed him. He had half a mind to push her off, to ask her in a punch-drunk haze if he was dreaming, if this was some kind of sick joke, but instead he settled for enjoying this vivid delusion as the two slunk to the floor. He could feel her hands running across him, pulling articles of clothing off his body before they came to an abrupt halt. He felt her breath tickle his ear as she whispered, “Hey, how big is your shower anyway?”

	“P-pretty small Trist...this apartment's tiny.”

	She got to her knees and pulled him up towards her face, cheeks betraying a slight flush.

	“Perfect.”

- - -

	It was awkward. He lacked any form of experience, his shower was cramped and the two kept slipping about. Twice he nearly tore his curtains off as he struggled to keep himself from falling completely out of the shower. The floor was soaked and wet, and she had left him alone in the bathroom with the sound of fading giggles as she made her way to the bedroom while he dried himself off. “Stupid di...di...ugh, whatever the hell that traitor called it.”  He still felt damp as he trudged to his room and found Tristana staring at his bed with a small frown. “What's wrong?”

	She turned to face him. “I, uh...don't wanna touch your stuff in case I break something else,” she said sheepishly. “Mind moving it?”

	He'd forgotten that he left most of his bed covered in blueprints, writing instruments and smaller designs – protoype guns and miniature models for mechs he had in his head. He gathered all of it up and dumped it unceremoniously on a creaking table nearby (inviting ominous cracks.) He turned back to her and said nervously, “Uh...heh, um, done.”

	Tristana grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him atop her as she fell back onto the bed. She brought a hand up to his cheek and said quietly, “Stop bein' so nervous already. You've been inside me Rumble, act like it.”