Ballad of Steve

Location: The Grand Hallway of the Necromancy Division. Time: The Golden Era. Subject: Unsanctioned Romance / Tactical Courtship.

Steve (formally designated Skeleton #45) stood at attention outside the door of the High Necromancer’s office. He held a spear. He stared forward with the hollow, terrifying gaze of the undead.

But his eye sockets were not focused on the infinite darkness. They were focused on the cleaning crew across the hall. Specifically, on Skeleton #146.

Number 146 was scrubbing a bloodstain off the obsidian floor. The rhythm of her scrubbing brush was hypnotic. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Steve’s ribcage rattled. It wasn't a draft. It was love.

He looked left. He looked right. He slowly, carefully reached into his ribcage and pulled out a small, perfectly round pebble he had found in the courtyard. He took a step forward, his joints clicking softly.

He held the pebble out to #146.

The door to the office slammed open.

"You!" High Necromancer Vex shrieked, storming into the hallway. "Get back in formation! You are a sentry, #45! You do not wander! You do not collect geological debris!"

Vex snatched the pebble from Steve’s bony fingers and hurled it down the hall.

"And you!" Vex pointed at #146. "Scrub harder! That stain is older than the Second Era!"

Steve slumped. His clavicles dropped two full inches. He watched #146 return to scrubbing, his heartless chest aching with a phantom pain.

Location: Torian’s Workshop. Time: One hour later.

Steve stood on a small wooden stool. He was trembling, his bones clattering together like wind chimes in a gale.

Torian walked around him, holding a measuring tape. Xara sat on the workbench, sharpening a dagger and eating an apple.

"He's definitely pining," Torian murmured, measuring the circumference of Steve’s skull. "Look at the posture. Total lumbar collapse."

"He's pathetic," Xara noted, though she playfully tossed a piece of apple core at Steve. "He tried to give her a rock, Torian. A rock. He has no game. We need to fix that."

Steve turned his skull toward Xara and gave a sad, jaw-unhinged sigh. Clack.

"Don't look at me like that," Xara warned. "I'm the General. I don't do romance. I do 'Tactical Acquisition of Affection.' And we are going to acquire you a girlfriend."

The door opened. Lysander walked in, his nose buried in a ledger.

"I have received a complaint from Vex," Lysander stated without looking up. "He claims 'Skeleton #45' has abandoned his post and is currently being 'accessorized' by the Weaver. This is a misappropriation of state assets."

"It's a rescue mission, Lysander," Torian said, holding up a swatch of brilliant red silk. "Steve is in love."

Lysander stopped. He lowered the ledger. He looked at the skeleton standing on the stool. Steve gave a small, hopeful wave.

"Love," Lysander repeated, his eye twitching. "Love is a chemical reaction involving dopamine and oxytocin. This subject has no brain, no glands, and no blood. It is biologically impossible."

"Tell that to his knees," Torian said. "They're knocking."

Steve’s knees were indeed knocking together. Click-clack-click.

Lysander sighed, massaging his temples.

"Fine," the Architect grumbled. "If we do not resolve this 'emotional variable,' his productivity will drop. Proceed. But keep it under budget."

Torian smiled and pulled a needle from his pincushion.

Location: The Midnight Gardens (The only place Fluffy hadn't destroyed yet). Time: 22:00 Hours.

The plan was set.

Xara hid in the bushes, holding a bag of breadcrumbs to distract any wandering ducks (or Chimeras). Lysander stood on the balcony above, holding a telescope and a stopwatch.

"Target approaching," Lysander whispered, his voice amplified by a wind-spell. "Velocity: slow. Shuffling detected."

Skeleton #146 walked down the garden path, carrying a bucket of mop water. She paused.

Blocking her path was Steve.

But this was not the Steve of yesterday. This was Steve 2.0.

He had been polished until he gleamed white under the moonlight. Around his neck, he wore a dashing red velvet cape with silver trim—a Torian original. On his skull sat a jaunty straw sun hat with a silk ribbon.

He held no pebble this time.

In his hands, he held a bouquet of "flowers"—creatively arranged colorful feathers Torian had salvaged from a pillow.

Steve bowed. It was a low, sweeping, courtly bow that Xara had forced him to practice for forty minutes.

Number 146 dropped her bucket. Splash.

She stared at him. She stared at the hat. She stared at the feathers.

Slowly, her jaw dropped open.

Steve straightened up. He extended the bouquet. His hand shook, just a little.

Number 146 reached out. Her finger bones brushed his.

"STOP!"

Green fire exploded on the path. High Necromancer Vex materialized from a cloud of smoke, his face twisted in a rictus of absolute rage.

"Fraternization!" Vex screeched, pointing a trembling finger at Steve. "Unauthorized wardrobe modifications! Loitering! I will have you ground into bone meal! I will have you demoted to a paperweight!"

Vex raised his staff, gathering necrotic energy to blast the sun hat into oblivion.

Steve didn't run. He stepped in front of #146. He raised his arms, shielding her with his velvet cape.

Vex paused, shocked by the defiance. "You dare? You dare defy your master?"

The Necromancer pulled back his staff for the striking blow.

THUD.

An apple core hit Vex in the back of the head.

Vex spun around. "Who—?"

Xara stepped out of the bushes. She wasn't smiling.

"Leave them alone, Vex," Xara growled, resting her hand on her sword hilt. "Or I'll tell everyone about the time you got scared by your own shadow puppet."

"General!" Vex sputtered. "This is anarchy! The dead do not date! It is undignified!"

"It is... statistically fascinating," Lysander called down from the balcony.

Vex looked up. Lysander adjusted his glasses in the moonlight.

"I have been tracking the metrics," Lysander announced. "Since #45 began this 'courtship,' his shield-polishing efficiency has increased by 18%. The anticipation of social interaction appears to be a powerful motivator. Even for calcium deposits."

"But the hat!" Vex wailed. "It's straw!"

"It is jaunty," Torian added, stepping out from behind a statue. "And I made it. Are you criticizing my stitching, Vex?"

Vex looked at the General with her hand on her sword. He looked at the Architect with his logic. He looked at the Weaver who knitted sweaters for gargoyles.

He looked at Steve, who was still shielding #146, his straw hat slightly askew.

Vex sighed. The green fire in his staff died out.

"Fine," Vex hissed. "Fine! But if they are late for the morning muster... if there is one speck of dust on their armor..."

"Go away, Vex," Xara said, waving him off.

Vex grumbled something about "no respect for the macabre" and vanished in a puff of smoke.

Silence returned to the garden.

Steve turned back to #146. He offered the feather bouquet again.

Number 146 took it. She tucked the feathers safely into her ribcage.

Then, she did something unexpected. She reached up and adjusted Steve’s sun hat, straightening the ribbon.

She took his hand.

Steve looked at Xara. He gave a thumbs-up.

Xara smirked. "Go on, lover boy. You've got an hour before curfew."

Steve and #146 walked down the garden path, hand in hand, their capes fluttering in the breeze.

Clack... Clack... Clack.

"He walks with a listing gait," Lysander observed from the balcony. "The cape is creating drag."

"Shut up, Lysander," Torian whispered, watching them go. "It's perfect."

The shadows beneath the balcony deepened, and a familiar, infinite pressure settled over the stonework.

​'...THE RED CAPE IS A STRUCTURAL VULNERABILITY,' Kivuli rumbled from the void. ​'...BUT THE CALCIUM ALLIANCE IS ACCEPTABLE