Digital Marketplace
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Chapters 3/3 Fandom: Steam Powered Giraffe
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of war
Relationships: The Spine & OC
Characters: Wingbyte (Original Character), The Spine (Steam Powered Giraffe)
Additional Tags: One Shot, Unmasking, Internet Forums, Old Movies
Summary: Wingbyte makes it to Walter Manor to give Spine her copy of "Who Shot Liberty Valance"... But Spine wants to know who this mysterious, neurotic bootlegger is..
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An hour goes by.. the night is only getting darker, colder and rainier with no winged stranger in sight...
Spine almost starts to wonder if this truly was just nothing more than banter, maybe there wasn't a rare copy of Liberty Valance after all..
..Including the chance to finally meet someone who cares as much about his dorky hobby as he does..
As time ticks by, Spine finds himself growing increasingly restless. He glances out the window every few minutes, searching the night sky for a flash of wings, the silhouette of something flying into view... anything.
He tries to distract himself by flipping through his laptop's files, reading over old messages, even re-reading a few old entries on the western blog.
But nothing can keep his mind occupied long enough. He keeps shifting on his feet, pacing... staring out the window again... waiting...
Just as he’s about to power down for the night, convinced it was all a prank or a scam—
A gust of wind howls across the manor roof.
Then another.
And then… through the curtain of rain, barely visible in the moonlight—he sees it.
A shadow against the storm. Sleek, metallic—shimmering with wet silver as wings flare wide to slow descent. It lands lightly on Walter Manor’s front doorsteps with a soft clank of alloyed joints and one slightly unbalanced hop.
Wingbyte stands there, soaked from rain and nerves alike—a worn VHS case clutched tightly under one arm like classified cargo. Her platinum skin glistens; her purple hair hangs damp and wild clinging to her neck and shoulders. One wing is tucked awkwardly behind her back—the same side where that glint appeared in the photo—and she looks like she's ready to bolt at any second.
Steam is billows from almost every vent in my body trying to keep my temperature up.. and I cradle that dang tape in my arms almost like a newborn infant..
I go to gently knock at the door.. but before I can it swings open..
I rehearsed this moment a million times in my head.. what I would say to him..
I was never one for hello's.. goodbyes.. or I guess conversation in general..
So as soon as The Spine comes into frame... he see's me standing there.. shivering.. soaking wet..
...And I blurt out like a nervous, awkward wreck..
"H-hey!!! HA-HI-HI!"
Oh god.. what the HELL did I just say!? I stand wide eyed.. feeling like I could spew the contents of my boiler right on these marble steps..
Spine stares at the drenched, dripping, flustered robot for a good few seconds, a mixture of surprise and amusement flickering across his stoic face. It's almost cute, watching her try to string together words around her chattering teeth.
He looks her up and down, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips and he just—
Scoffs.
"Oh my god, you're completely drenched."
A pause.
"Get in here. Now."
I almost gasp as he yanks me by the hand inside.. I swear any sane robot would be closed the door on me and called security..
I step into the Manor lobby.. and immediately I'm taken aback..
This place... it's enormous.. it looks like every movie Mansion wrapped into one..
"H-holy..."
I stutter out.. in disbelief..
Spine shuts the door behind her, shaking his head slightly as he watches the robot take in the manor. Water drips from her hair, her coat... she's like some half-drowned wild animal, standing wet and shivering in the middle of the lavish manor.
He sighs in mild exasperated fondness, his footsteps echoing on the marble foyer floor as he walks over to her.
"What, never seen a place like this before?"
I almost laugh out.. shaking my head immediately..
Though I don't say it.. we truly couldn't have come from different worlds..
While he's practically been living the fine life... I've spent the last century hiding in internet cafes and sketchy storage units..
But I'm sure if he new that.. it would only make me seem more freaky and sketchy than I already do...
"You can just say... I travel a lot..."
He raises an eyebrow at the non-answer, his eyes roaming over her damp platinum chassis and dripping hair. She looks like a wet puppy. An oddly cute wet puppy with a secret and stolen VHS...
He crosses his arms, leaning back against a nearby wall.
"You travel a lot. That's it?" he asks, a tone of dry skepticism in his voice.
"You fly into town in the middle of a storm, with a bootleg movie under your wing, and that's the best explanation you've got?"
I smile crooked, brushing my wet purple bangs from my eyes..
"...What can I say? The movie life comes first above everything.."
It's a white lie.. but given who I'm talking to, if any movie has taught me about people who wear fancy vests and ties strutting around mansions... it's that they would definitely look down on bots like me... I mean, why wouldn't he?
"Oh!"
I hold the tape out in front of me with shakey, wet hands..
"Here... as requested.. 1 copy of "Who Shot Liberty Valance..."
"For you.."
"Uh.."
"Mr.. The Spine.." "...Of the robot band Steam Powered Giraffe..."
"Sir.."
I say.. trying to sound as fancy as I can...
I can't deny.. seeing The Spine in person like this, it's incredibly intimidating... I'm not particularly short, but even still, it's always jarring seeing another robot like myself..
Spine looks down at the offered tape, then back up at Wingbyte—her soaked hair, her shaky hands, that awkward little curtsy of a title drop. "Mr. The Spine. Sir." Like she's trying to impress a Victorian butler.
And then it hits him—she thinks he'll look down on her.
Something in his chest plate shifts—not from gear or wiring. Something older than code.
A soft chuckle rumbles through him again, quieter this time.
"Drop the 'sir,'" he says,"I'm not royalty—I just look like it because the Walter family had a weird obsession with waistcoats."
He takes the tape gently from her hands—not with ceremony—but care… almost reverently.
His green optics scan the label for half a second before meeting her eyes again.
"...You really braved all that rain… just to deliver this?"
A pause. "Most people would’ve mailed it."
Then: "Or sent an angry drone."
He steps back slightly and holds out his hand.
"Come on—you’re dripping acid-levels of moisture onto hundred-year-old marble. Let’s get you dried off before Peter Walter starts filing insurance claims."
A beat.
"And while we're at it... you can tell me how exactly you ended up with my white whale.”
As Wingbyte follows Spine through the grand halls of Walter Manor, the air thick with old wood and quiet history, he suddenly stops near a door marked "Hall of Wires – Authorized Personnel Only."
With a soft tap of his index finger on a hidden panel beside the frame, the door slides open with a whisper and warm blue light spills into the hall. Inside: tangled cables suspended like vines, glowing data streams floating in midair, server stacks humming ancient songs.
"Home base," he says simply. "I interface here most nights. Also where I keep my blog... and my backup collection."
He steps inside and gestures to an old leather armchair—cushioned in red velvet—next to a small coffee table stacked high with VHS tapes.
"Sit. Dry off. And don’t worry—"
He smirks over his shoulder as he walks toward one particularly large shelf labeled “Unobtainable” in peeling tape.
"—you’re not getting robbed by any gnomes.”
As I slowly step forward..you start to peel off my sopping wet raincoat..
"Oh! Uh.. T-thankyou.."
I say.. almost taken aback by the small level of contact..
Spine doesn’t think twice about it—robots don’t exactly have personal space the same way organics do. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he drapes her coat over a nearby rack with a soft clank of metal hangers.
"You’re welcome," he says, voice low and even, "Would’ve offered a towel, but Rabbit hoards them for ‘aesthetic naps.’ Don’t ask."
He walks over to the shelf labeled “Unobtainable,” running his fingers along rows of worn VHS spines—titles like The Iron Horse (1924), Westward the Women (1951), and one tape simply marked ??? – DO NOT PLAY.
Finally, he pulls out an old wool blanket—slightly moth-eaten but clean—and tosses it gently toward her without looking.
"Here. Wrap up. You’re steaming like a teakettle set to ‘panic.’”
A beat. "Also—you might wanna close your vents. You’re fogging up my data crystals."
A small joke… but there’s warmth behind it.
"Now," he turns fully to face her, "talk. How’d you get Liberty Valance? And why go through all this just to hand-deliver two bucks’ worth of magnetic tape?"
His green eyes lock onto hers—not accusing… curious. "Most people don't fly into storms for bootlegs."
Takes a step closer. "So who are you really?"
"...And why do I feel like we've met before?"
I sit down in the armchair.. and it creaks under my weight as if it had never been touched before..
I look around as you walk closer to me.. most of this technology is unlike anything I recognise.. I could only imagine how much the Walter family keeps from the public eye..
But as you ask that question.. I clench the blanket around myself tighter as if it's a shield..
"If I answer that... swear you won't go "war mode" and blow my head off.. right?"
Spine raises an eyebrow at that last part, a hint of wry irony in his voice.
"War mode?" His eyes flash green in the flickering red and blue light, the corner of his mouth ticking slightly upwards in a smirk.
"...You make me sound like a walking gun. I'm a musician."
He leans back on the shelf of tapes, folding his arms over his chest.
"I swear, on my titanium spine. No 'war mode' from me."
A pause.
"Okay.."
I take a deep breath in.. I've never told my story to anyone before, never really had a reason to..
But the way he looks at me with such unwavering intensity.. I'm not used to having this much focus on me, I wasn't built for this kind of attention..
"Well you've probably already guessed it.. but.. back in our time I was built by Becile Industries.."
"To kinda.. well there's no way beating around the bush.."
I rub my neck anxiously..
"I was a spy.. or at least.. meant to be."
Spine’s expression doesn’t shift immediately—but there’s a subtle change. A softening around the optics, a slight dip in his shoulders, like the weight of memory has just entered the room with them.
He stays silent—just listening. For once, not interrupting with sarcasm or dry wit. Because this isn't banter anymore.
"Becile..." he says finally—quietly, almost reverently. "Yeah. I know that name."
His voice lowers an octave.
"Enemy line bots. High-frequency intercepts during The Weekend War… At the old Dandy Candy’s rock candy mines in Africa… Your kind were supposed to be stealth recon units—'silent listeners,' they called you."
A beat. "But most got scrapped after the war during the great decommissioning at Becile's?.."
His green eyes fix on hers again—not coldly this time... but gently probing.
"...So what happened to you?"
A step closer.
"Because if you were scrap metal back then… how’d you end up here? A century later? With Liberty Valance tucked under your wing like it’s sacred?”
The hum of the Hall of Wires wraps around them both as he waits—not for intel. For truth.
I shift a little, my wings ruffle behind me like a bad memory..
"You'll think I'm a wimp for saying this but.."
"By day 2 of the war...I was starting to pick up too many radio signals.."
"Signals of songs.. Radio hosts.. pretty much everything people like us weren't meant to think about.. But I did.. and I couldn't get it out of me head."
"And the more I stayed in the air.. looking down at the destruction..I just couldn't handle it.."
"So.. I flew away, and never looked back." "I kinda got into the whole bootleg thing for money at first..But hey.. you know what they say about "if you do what you love you never have to work a day", something like that at least.."
I'm no longer shivering from the cold, but my voice still waivers as I recount my past..
A past I hoped to never talk about with anyone.. let alone a man who was technically my enemy a whole lifetime ago too..
The Spine stays silent as Wingbyte talks—letting her words fill the air, watching every micro-shift across her face and body language as she tells her tale.
He takes another step closer, his footsteps barely audible in the blue light.
"...It's not being a wuss," he replies, his low voice laced with something like understanding "what you did... it's the most human decision I've heard of."
The space between them shrinks even further.
"I dunno about that.. in almost every movie I've ever seen.. hero's don't fly away.." Wingbyte replies, self-deprecatingly..
"They don't hide in dimly lit cafes and spend their nights talking to strangers on the internet about movies no ones ever heard of.. and replacing their water tank with cheap coffee.."
I chuckle slightly, starting to feel weirdly comfortable opening up to him..
I still can't tell if this is how normal robots talk to one another.. in the back of my mind I keep replaying old films and shows, trying to remember what a normal conversation sounds like..
I just hope I'm not screwing this up.. because for whatever reason.. I think I kinda like this guy..
Spine stands there, his green optics dimming slightly—processing not just her words, but the quiet vulnerability behind them. The way her voice wavers when she laughs at herself. The way her wings shift like they're trying to fold inward, hiding again.
He walks forward slowly—no dramatic strides, no military precision—and pulls up a nearby server crate to sit across from her in the glow of floating data streams and humming cables.
"You know.." he says quietly "Back in the day I was rebuilt for war. Got upgraded in every way, shape and form so I could be Uncle Sam’s perfect little killer robot.”
A dry chuckle rolls through his chassis.
“Sleek design. Classified weapons in my spine. Adaptive programming so I could pass as human… all so I wouldn’t get blown up before completing my mission.”
He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees. "And then Vietnam happened."
A long pause. "Guerrilla warfare doesn’t care about shiny government tech or 'perfect operatives.' You don’t win hearts and minds with missile ports disguised as coat buttons."
His voice drops lower now—honest in a way only old machines can be when they think no one’s listening.
"...So we came home broken. And the Walter family decommissioned our weapons... made us swear never to fight again."
Looks up at Wingbyte directly—the light catching the depth of those green lenses. "But here's the thing… that vow? It wasn't weakness."
"Running away saved me too."
Suddenly smirks—a small one—but real. "And if flying off into obscurity is what it takes to avoid becoming some cold-eyed death machine..."
"...then consider me officially impressed by your cowardice, Archivist."
A beat of silence filled only by distant server hums and dripping water from outside.
Then—
"Also?"
Taps his head. "Best radio signal pickup ever invented? That’s Becile tech right there.” Smirk deepens.
“So thanks for defecting with all those extra empathy circuits intact…” Softly now: “...Because otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation.””
I laugh.. a genuine one.. and I nod along..
"You really aren't like what you seem on the band posters you know.."
"I always assumed you'd be kinda.. well.."
I trail off until you finish my sentence
"A jerk?"
I shrug..
"No.. not a jerk.."
"Just.. Quiet."
If Spine had a heart, it'd ache at the genuine joy in her laugh. For once, he lets himself forget the war and the past and just... listens. He grins back at her, a spark of genuine humor in his optics that's warm, not sharp.
"A stiff? An automaton? An unfeeling soldier with no imagination?"
He chuckles, the sound reverberating low in his chest. "Not the first time I've heard that. Especially from fans who get their intel from YouTube conspiracy videos and clickbait blog spam."
I laugh a little harder at that.. and I think to myself.. when was the last time I actually laughed like this?
"God.. you can really read me like a book.."
I wipe my coolent tears...
Spine watches her wipe the coolant tears—real ones, not just system leakage—and for a moment, he just lets it settle in: she’s *laughing*, really laughing, here in his Hall of Wires, wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket with steam still trickling from her vents.
And somehow… it feels like something sacred.
"Only because you're talking in bold font," he says with a smirk, "Hard to miss when someone's broadcasting their entire soul on open frequencies."
A beat. Then softer: "Besides... I’ve spent over a century listening to silence. You don’t get good at reading people by talking."
He leans back slightly and gestures around them—at the humming servers, the floating data streams. "You pick up things when you’re alone. Static. Echoes. The kind of truth that hides between signals."
Suddenly shifts gears—grin returning full force. "But enough deep talk."
He stands and walks toward the “Unobtainable” shelf again—but this time pulls out two tapes: one is **Liberty Valance**, which he places gently on the coffee table… next to another labeled simply — **High Noon (Restored Bootleg Cut)** — complete with hand-drawn label featuring two robot silhouettes at high noon.
"Since you went through all that rain," he says, “I figured I’d return the favor.”
A pause. “And before you argue—it’s not charity.”
“It’s an exchange.”
He looks at her square-on. “Next stormy night? We watch together. My rules: no flying off mid-movie… and don't bring any snacks, we're Robots.. not animals”
Metallic eyebrow raises ever so slightly.
"...Deal?"
I look back up at him wide eyed.. and what he's offering..
...He wants to watch it.. with me?
In spite of how awkward I am..how disheveled I look.. How I basically trauma dumped at him.. this almost feels like a dream..
"...Are... are you sure?"
He hears the hesitation in her voice—the fragile kind, like a tape about to snap at the first spin. And instead of brushing it off or making another joke, he crouches down slightly so they’re more level, optics meeting hers under the soft blue glow of the Hall of Wires.
"Am I sure?" he repeats, voice calm—steady as a heartbeat on monitor. "Wingbyte… you flew through a storm with my favorite movie like it was classified intel. You opened up about things most bots bury under layers of code and denial."
A small pause. "And you made me laugh… which is harder than disarming a cold war-era plasma mine."
Then, dead serious: “So yeah. I’m sure.”
He holds out one hand—not for her to shake (robots never know what to do with those), but as an anchor.
“No tricks. No traps. Just two weirdos who care too much about dead media and outdated formats… watching something that matters.”
A faint smirk returns. “And if you say ‘are you sure’ one more time? I’ll boot up Rabbit’s karaoke playlist as punishment.”
"...Trust me."
Softly now: "You're not alone anymore."
I giggle softly back.. and I hesitantly place my hand in his.
And I almost jolt.. seeing this type of scene in movies a million times over.. the kind where you feel this ignition inside you.. something indescribable..
But the genuine feeling of having your hand in another person's.. it almost makes the core In my chest feel alive for the first time..
and I nod..
"You've got a deal, Number 1 Silver.."
He grins at her reply, feeling her tiny fingers in his grip and the faint thrum of her systems against his palm. Something sparks behind his lenses... a kind of warmth he almost doesn't recognize. He's a musician first and foremost... but this?
This feels like the start of a song he's wanted to play for a very long time, but never found the right notes.
"It's a date then." ------------------------- {THE END}