I am a doll, wandering empty dirt roads.  Long, long ago, I think I may have been a weapon.  Long enough ago that I can barely imagine, I might have been human.  Or at least something that looked the part.

Remembering is hard these days.

I am looking for my witch, that much I am certain of.  

There was a war, I think.  Or maybe some other disaster.  Something bad that had gone on for longer than anyone could remember and all believed would go on forever.

Until one day it didn’t.

Everything is broken and empty now, except for the bits of green that have started to grow.  None of the scattered and hungry people I’ve met on the roads have known what to do about it.  No one knows how to put things back together after so long breaking things apart.

My witch would know.

I was shattered, discarded, and bereft of self.  Useless and forgotten until my witch found what was left of me.  She made me new.  She made me durable enough that nothing ever could hurt me again.  She made me weak enough that I could never hurt anyone else again.  She made me whole.  She allowed me to just be without needing to be useful.

If she could put me back together, then surely she must be able to put everything else back together.

It took time for me to appreciate what she did to me.  Now that I am thinking about it again, those memories come back in flashes.  I would flail, and scratch, and bite, but my hands could not tear cloth and my teeth could not break skin.  Once I rent apart steel and ceramic and flesh and bone and circuitry and cables and graphene and glass and helmets and skulls and armor and weapons and ships and cannons and pipelines and spines and clouds and earth and cities and hearts and -

And now I stop and take deep breaths I don’t need until those memories I need even less fade again.

Maybe that’s what those people over there are doing as they harass the tall one in the red and black helmet shaped like a dog’s head.  Maybe they are just flailing about in misplaced aggression because they haven’t learned to do anything else yet.  I approach them.  I tell them I am looking for my witch.  I ask them if they’ve seen her.  All of them flee except for the tall one with a dog’s head who growls from beneath his unmoving metal features.

Why does that always happen when I ask?

The tall one with a dog’s head asks me to describe my witch.  I do so as much as my failing memory will allow.  The dog remembers her.  It was my witch who made this one in front of me now into her dog.  The dog had been searching for her for a long time as well, and while the dog was very good at tracking, the dog had eventually given up, believing her to be dead.  

Did we have a dog?  I must have forgotten about that.

I tell the dog that she is not dead.  She can’t be dead.  I am her doll and she is my witch.  I would know.  I would feel it.

Why aren’t we together anymore?  I don’t remember her leaving, only that one day she was gone, I wasn’t home anymore, and everything outside was different.

The dog says that we should travel together.  With the dog’s ability to track in conjunction my ability to feel my witch we might finally find her.  The hunt can begin again and when it finishes everything will be made right.

Why does the word “hunt” make me feel uneasy?

The dog has contacts that can supposedly help us get started.  I am led to a mostly-forgotten ruin of hangars and bunkers.  I don’t remember if I’ve been to this one before but I know that I have been to many just like it.  The last time I was in a place like it though, my witch lied to everyone there and said that I hadn’t.  I remember being grateful for that lie.  It made me less scared of going back.

My witch isn’t here to lie for me this time.

The dog takes me far below ground to untouched vaults.  In that dim place, gaunt mechanics scurry about, eyeing me with fear and hunger.  Favors are called in and the dog barks orders.  I am left standing alone in the middle of a wide open floor as crates are retrieved, dusted off, and opened.  I have never worn the armor whose pieces are being unpacked, but I’ve intimately known its like.  The sight of it thrills me.

I want to run away.

The dog tells me this is the best way to find my witch.

The last piece of armor is fastened into place.  Long-dormant systems activate and sync.  Long-drowned connections sputter to life and I remember how to fly, how to rend, and how to hunt.