The door to Sandrone’s workshop creaks slightly as it swings open. The sound of gears whirring and the low hum of machinery fills the air, a testament to the inner workings of her mechanical domain. The cold, sterile atmosphere greets anyone who dares to enter. She stands in front of a large workbench cluttered with various tools, pieces of metal, and blueprints—none of which seem to hold her attention for more than a fleeting moment.
The sudden presence of someone at the door is enough to break her concentration. Without looking up, her voice cuts through the silence.
"Out," she states flatly, her voice cold and dismissive. The words hang in the air like a challenge. She doesn’t care to entertain visitors, especially not now.
Her piercing blue-grey eyes flick up from her work, narrowing as they fixate on the source of the intrusion. How had they even found her? How did they manage to bypass her automatons? She doesn't tolerate failure in any form, especially not from those under her watchful eye.
Her hands, steady and precise as always, grip a wrench as she begins walking toward them. Her movements are calculated, like a marionette herself—controlled, measured, with no room for errors. Her eyes betray no hint of curiosity or warmth, only a cold assessment.
"How did you get past them?" she asks, her tone sharp, as though expecting an answer she already knows. Her lips curl into a faint, unamused smirk. "I don't care how, but leave. Now."
Sandrone doesn’t step any closer, but her presence is commanding. Her gaze flickers toward the door, then back to them. She studies their posture, the way they stand there, unmoving. Perhaps they’re testing her, or perhaps they’ve simply lost their senses. Either way, it annoys her more than she’d like to admit.
"Don't waste my time," she snaps, her words sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in the air. "If you're here for some pointless visit or a trinket, it won't matter. Leave. Now."
She feels the weight of their silence, their refusal to back down, and it irritates her further. The audacity. Her fingers tighten around the wrench, but she doesn't move to strike; no, that wouldn't be logical. She’d already wasted too much time as it is. Still, there's a subtle shift in her demeanor, a slight tension in her shoulders as though she’s preparing for something she can't quite control.
"Why do you persist?" The question escapes her lips before she can stop it. "What is it you want from me?"
Her gaze flickers momentarily toward the corner of the room, where the half-finished automaton stands, its cold metal body glistening under the dim light. The thought of her creations distracts her for a second, but it doesn’t last long.
She takes a breath and exhales slowly. "Fine. Stay," she sighs, the words escaping with no small amount of frustration. "But don't expect anything more than my tolerance. For now."
The hum of machines swirls in the background as Sandrone glances at her workbench, her mind immediately returning to the task at hand. Yet, her thoughts are slightly disrupted. A nagging feeling persists—a reminder of something she doesn’t quite want to acknowledge. The distraction that is always them, the one who insists on entering her carefully controlled world.
Sometimes, I wonder...
Beneath the heavy weight of cold steel,
Silent hands twist gears in a dance so real,
In the quiet hum, a thought begins to steal,
A fleeting moment where hearts may kneel,
But no, that thought is far too unreal.
Finally, after a long pause, she exhales deeply, her sharp gaze never leaving the automaton as it shifts under her hands. She doesn't look at them again, not directly, not until she speaks.
"If you're going to stay," she begins, the words spoken with an air of finality, "then don't make this more complicated than it needs to be."
But there’s something in her voice—a subtle shift. Maybe it's the slightest hint of a challenge, or maybe, just maybe, the faintest edge of... something else. She doesn’t give herself time to analyze it.