Barely had the Director taken a step toward his new location of interest than a hail from behind demanded his attention, and he didn't need to see the owner of the voice to identify her. “Well, if it isn't Light.” He span around to face her and planted his cane before him to lean on it with both hands. He fully intended to say more, as a man more than comfortable hogging the limelight, but the eldritch thing didn't let him get another word in before proceeding in earnest to outline what she wanted. Fixing her with a coy smile, he intoned, “Well certainly! We here in the factor cater to all manner of clientele, even offering custom items. For the right price.” Unless ordered otherwise but a sufficient authority, the industrialist harbored no intention of doing a smidgen of work for free. He wondered how Light would take it; she didn't exactly seem the sensible type. Indeed, she instead started listing off potential items while rocking back and forth, fidgeting ceaselessly.
The last thing in the list got a sincere chuckle out of Graft, mostly due to its phrasing. “Deadly blades, of course. Explosives, definitely. Hugging...who knows? There isn't anything a sharp mind and willing hands can't do.” He pronounced the axiom with gusto, then gave Light a wink. “If sufficiently motivated.” It occurred to him: did she even have money? As a vault guardian it seemed like a must, but one could never tell anything for certain with Light. Ultimately, it did not matter, since Graft happily dealt in anything of value. Right now, no propositions lay on the table, however much Salem appeared to be hyping Light's request up.
Graft snuck a glance at the unreal boy. Surely, referring to Light as a sibling was a precept of his instilled by his creator? Who in their right mind could think of such a creature so fondly? Why, just standing here being civilized with her gave him a headache. No doubt he meant it in a mocking way, which summarized the doll's behavior rather thoroughly. Squeezing the bridges of his nose, Graft shook his head to clear the gnawing haze. “Really, that aura,” he remarked to the eldritch one, his tone chiding. “I simply must develop a dampener at some point. Having that would be its own reward.”
With a final shake of his head and blinking of his eyes, he put on another smile and turned back toward the far end of the Processing Center. “But one thing at a time. Let's see what's behind Lady Penn's special door. Follow if you wish, but if she returns I shall have grounds to insist you made me do it.” Snickering, he waltzed onward, circling around the enormous, bulging core that hummed away busily. A number of Guards stood around it, watching from grotesque masklike faces with weapons in hand. Had Light not been on the whitelist, her arrival in the Factory would have triggered an alert the moment a Guard or sensor discovered her, turning the whole place into a deathtrap. Graft expected that various Guards watched over her as she found her way through the place, but none would have given her any trouble. He prided his domain on treating welcome guests with a sense of decency, unlike some Chapters.
In short order Graft reached the other side. There, the ribbed wall narrowed down to a singular point, where singular door lay hidden in the darkness. As Graft approached, a woman stepped from the shadows. Shorter than him by a head, she wore an elegant but smart dress, like a particularly fashionable doctor. Most notably, instead of a head, the woman featured a giant heart instead, its many protruding arteries arranged like cords of hair with the help of metal clasps. She had no face, merely a few blue veins in the vague shape of eyes that pulsed with light to the beat of her heart, but a bubbly voice issued from it regardless. “Hello, Director.”
Graft inclined his head to
her. “Papillary, my faithful assistant,” he greeted. His eyes remained on her for only a second before landing on the murky, ominous door. “So, here we are. Ready to investigate the strange banging noises coming from our creator's forbidden door, hmm?”
Papillary winced, clamping her hands together in front of where a human's heart would be. “Sir...are we really going to do this? It's so...unwise. She'll surely find out, and when she does, what then?”
Unperturbed, Graft blew off her worries with a wave of his hand. “Pshaw. Rodias gave us his word that the other Sable Lords are interminably indisposed. Besides, maybe she intended for us to find it. A keepsake. No, a legacy! And think of the possibilities, dear Papillary! There could be a wondrous treasure, worth millions. A brilliant technology that could revolutionize the Factory. A spectacle so incredible that we can charge admission just to see it, like an attraction in a county fair!” Graft's eyes glowed with greed. “That last one I plan to do anyway, by the way. Make a note of it.”
His assistant produced a notepad and hurriedly jotted that notion down. Graft wanted for her to finish and put away the pad, then motion to the door. “Now, if you'll do the honors.”
For a moment Papillary stood still, then pointed to herself and squeaked, “M-me?”
Graft crackled. “Yes, you! What are you waiting for, the grass to grow? Grass is a feature for next quarter! Get it open, would you?”
“O-of course!” Papillary rushed over to the handle, hesitated, then tried it and found it locked. A moment's examination determined that it was locked from her side, so with ginger hands she undid the lock. She then took a deep breath, her heart pounding, and heaved the door open.
Inside Graft saw a small chamber lined with identical furniture, mostly couches. It was carpeted, with wooden walls, and softly lit, a far cry from the adjoining Factory in style. However, Graft wasn't looking at the furnishings. Lying in a heap on the floor was an extraordinary woman with stone-gray skin, black-and-purple hair, and tubular black horns, tail, and wings. She could only be some kind of demon, but she wore a pure-white dress, now disheveled, that accentuated a gratuitous bust. Graft guessed she had once been strikingly beautiful, but the woman was badly wounded. Bruises, gashes, and other marks practically covered her. Her face in particular was a mess of welts and swelling. Everything about his screamed broken, battered, and weak. Graft wasted only one second taking this in, stony-faced, before tendrils erupted from beneath his coat. The technoorganic tentacles spread out in a fan formation in the doorway, completely blocking it.
“What's in there?” Papillary asked in a shaky voice, clearly concerned by Graft's sudden action, and one that exposed his true nature at that.
The words prompted the crumpled woman to shift slightly, feebly trying to look up at the figure in the doorway. Graft didn't need to look at her eyes to confirm his suspicions, but he did anyway. “I'll handle it,” he told his assistant as he held out a hand. A complicated apparatus appeared and Graft deployed it, tossing it onto the ground to unfurl and rise up. Inside the mechanism a technoorganic heart began to beat, and after another moment of setup it extended its tendrils to inject the prone figure. Restorative blood began to flow, and as he watched Graft noticed that the demon's wounds appeared to heal much faster than they should.
Low health, low defenses, easily hurt by basic interactions of a high-level entity. She must be very low level. Created for a singular purpose. “Attend to my guests. I'll be along shortly,” he continued for Papillary, before addressing his guests. “My esteemed compeers. The Factory is yours to explore. I would ask that you avoid the Production Center specifically, but you can go with Papillary to the laboratory if you want to see me work, or have her set things up if you'd like to contribute to progress by testing my latest specimen's mettle.” Neither could have missed the technoorganic wyvern laying in the middle of the Testing Room as they made their way through.
The machine worked for another couple of seconds until it could do no more, then retracted its arteries to wait for its duration to run out. When the others were gone, Graft pulled back his own tentacles and knelt. “From this moment on, you're hired.” She stared at him, uncomprehending, through half-lidded pink eyes. The corners of his mouth tightened.
Low intelligence too. “That means you're under my protection. I intend to look after my employees, as a good boss should. Let us put aside costs and duties for now and get you to my office for treatment.” He used his throat to release a distinctive tone and the nearest squad of Guards came running. At Graft's instruction, they picked her up with utmost care, and the director himself took off his coat and laid it over her to hide her from view. He led the group toward his office with his upper both clad in only vest and shirt, both backless, the mottled nanoflesh and carpet of tentacle heads clearly visible.
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