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Description
How Dickens' got her replacement leg. She lost the original when a motorcycle Bradbury was tapping for gas fell on her. This put Bradbury in a position of field medic, fixing her with found parts available.

Yeeeeaaaaaaaah....

Poor Five, I'm sure he's sorry for asking.

The derp comic at the bottom was a quick sketch, I hadn't intended to include it but it tickles me too much to leave it out.

And now for something related:

"Dicky?" Bradbury pushed back the curtain that hung over the laundry basket entrance, peeking in. Dickens was just out of eyesight, he could see the curve of a lilac shoulder peeking out from behind a small pile of muslin. The soft light of the christmas bulbs overhead made her glow lightly. Her head emerged from behind the cloth, dark optics widening a bit at his intrusion, "Bradbury."
Her voice was cold, flat even. He didn't like it. Where was his playmate? The chipper, upbeat friend that had helped him scavenge so often? Awkwardly he held up a hand, showing the two broken fingers, another product of his clumsiness. Her expression softened, "Bradbury..." she shook her head, the corner of her mouth twitching a bit in the ghost of a smile. Getting up awkwardly, she clumped over towards him. The sight of her mangled leg, the false doll's foot, made him twitch inside. Guilt rose up out of the depths. It was his fault it had happened. His fault she was this way. She hadn't been the same since the accident.
"C-c-come'on you." she said, taking his arm gently and guiding him into the back of the basket. He followed her obeidently, embarrassed and pained by the new awkwardness between them. She sat him on the bed, going over to one of the many boxes lining the wall to retrieve replacements for him, "A-as often a-a-as you d-d-d-d-" she made a face and stomped her false foot, irritated, "DO th-this I should j-just replace y-your hands."
Her joke fell flat on him, busy as he was beating himself up. That trait was new too. Dickens had never stuttered before. She'd been chatty, talking faster than he did and always beating him to the punch. He bit his lip, focusing on the pain in his hand instead of the one gripping his chest.
A pair of dark steel hands came into view, taking his damaged one and fiddling with the stumps of the broken fingers gingerly, "T-two joints. R-rope, w-wasn't it?"
He looked up at her, her optics were focused on his hands, taking the new bits, joining them to the stumps to replace what had been lost. He nodded a bit, "Y-yes. Lewis was helping me tie down the dirigible, the rope got away from me, snagged the joint..."
She flinched, though it didn't seem to be at the injury so much as the mention of Lewis, "Y-you should b-b-be more c-c-careful."
"I try." he whispered softly, looking down. He'd been trying so much more since her injury. He didn't want anyone else hurt. Anyone else broken.
So many of them were broken anymore...and not just on the outside.
"Th-there." she let got of his hand, "F-f-f-f-fixed."
Bradbury wiggled his fingers experimentally, they responded as they should, with only a slight ache in the fingers as he did so. It would be gone before the end of the day. It always was. Looking up, he saw that Dickens had already gone back to her work, ignoring him.
"D-dicky?" he got up, going over to her.
She didn't look up from her work table, "Y-yes?"
"Ah...." he paused, how many more times could he say he was sorry? How many more times would it take to get his Dicky back? His friend? His sister? He faltered, unsure of what to say now that he was this far.
"Dicky I-"
"P-p-please d-don't call me that." she said softly.
The request took him by surprise, "Don't call you what?"
She looked back at him, her voice taking a sharp edge, almost angry, "My name is Dickens."
"...But Dicky-" he paused, hurt, she'd always loved her nickname. Thought it was cute...
"Y-you're welcome Bradbury...and y-you're fixed. G-go on." she went back to concentrating on her work, ignoring him again.
A sudden surge of guilt and fury rose in him. It wasn't FAIR. He'd apologized, he'd helped, he'd tried. He'd tried and tried and tried and she wouldn't wake up. It was like she was a character in one of Eve's books, taken by a spell and changed, blinded to the world around her in some way. He reached to touch her shoulder, faltered and then turned, leaving quickly, choking down a sob.
Tolstoy, Hemingway, Dickens...who else would end up like this? Who else was going to be so hurt they wouldn't come back to their senses? He took a shaky breath, leaning on the doorframe of the bathroom that Dickens' basket resided in. It hurt. It hurt to cause it, it hurt to fix it, it hurt to watch it happen. They were like dominos. Eve's death was the push and each was falling in his own time. Shaking his head, he headed into his workshop, a small part of him wondering how long it would be before he too joined their ranks...

Description
How Dickens' got her replacement leg. She lost the original when a motorcycle Bradbury was tapping for gas fell on her. This put Bradbury in a position of field medic, fixing her with found parts available.

Yeeeeaaaaaaaah....

Poor Five, I'm sure he's sorry for asking.

The derp comic at the bottom was a quick sketch, I hadn't intended to include it but it tickles me too much to leave it out.

And now for something related:

"Dicky?" Bradbury pushed back the curtain that hung over the laundry basket entrance, peeking in. Dickens was just out of eyesight, he could see the curve of a lilac shoulder peeking out from behind a small pile of muslin. The soft light of the christmas bulbs overhead made her glow lightly. Her head emerged from behind the cloth, dark optics widening a bit at his intrusion, "Bradbury."
Her voice was cold, flat even. He didn't like it. Where was his playmate? The chipper, upbeat friend that had helped him scavenge so often? Awkwardly he held up a hand, showing the two broken fingers, another product of his clumsiness. Her expression softened, "Bradbury..." she shook her head, the corner of her mouth twitching a bit in the ghost of a smile. Getting up awkwardly, she clumped over towards him. The sight of her mangled leg, the false doll's foot, made him twitch inside. Guilt rose up out of the depths. It was his fault it had happened. His fault she was this way. She hadn't been the same since the accident.
"C-c-come'on you." she said, taking his arm gently and guiding him into the back of the basket. He followed her obeidently, embarrassed and pained by the new awkwardness between them. She sat him on the bed, going over to one of the many boxes lining the wall to retrieve replacements for him, "A-as often a-a-as you d-d-d-d-" she made a face and stomped her false foot, irritated, "DO th-this I should j-just replace y-your hands."
Her joke fell flat on him, busy as he was beating himself up. That trait was new too. Dickens had never stuttered before. She'd been chatty, talking faster than he did and always beating him to the punch. He bit his lip, focusing on the pain in his hand instead of the one gripping his chest.
A pair of dark steel hands came into view, taking his damaged one and fiddling with the stumps of the broken fingers gingerly, "T-two joints. R-rope, w-wasn't it?"
He looked up at her, her optics were focused on his hands, taking the new bits, joining them to the stumps to replace what had been lost. He nodded a bit, "Y-yes. Lewis was helping me tie down the dirigible, the rope got away from me, snagged the joint..."
She flinched, though it didn't seem to be at the injury so much as the mention of Lewis, "Y-you should b-b-be more c-c-careful."
"I try." he whispered softly, looking down. He'd been trying so much more since her injury. He didn't want anyone else hurt. Anyone else broken.
So many of them were broken anymore...and not just on the outside.
"Th-there." she let got of his hand, "F-f-f-f-fixed."
Bradbury wiggled his fingers experimentally, they responded as they should, with only a slight ache in the fingers as he did so. It would be gone before the end of the day. It always was. Looking up, he saw that Dickens had already gone back to her work, ignoring him.
"D-dicky?" he got up, going over to her.
She didn't look up from her work table, "Y-yes?"
"Ah...." he paused, how many more times could he say he was sorry? How many more times would it take to get his Dicky back? His friend? His sister? He faltered, unsure of what to say now that he was this far.
"Dicky I-"
"P-p-please d-don't call me that." she said softly.
The request took him by surprise, "Don't call you what?"
She looked back at him, her voice taking a sharp edge, almost angry, "My name is Dickens."
"...But Dicky-" he paused, hurt, she'd always loved her nickname. Thought it was cute...
"Y-you're welcome Bradbury...and y-you're fixed. G-go on." she went back to concentrating on her work, ignoring him again.
A sudden surge of guilt and fury rose in him. It wasn't FAIR. He'd apologized, he'd helped, he'd tried. He'd tried and tried and tried and she wouldn't wake up. It was like she was a character in one of Eve's books, taken by a spell and changed, blinded to the world around her in some way. He reached to touch her shoulder, faltered and then turned, leaving quickly, choking down a sob.
Tolstoy, Hemingway, Dickens...who else would end up like this? Who else was going to be so hurt they wouldn't come back to their senses? He took a shaky breath, leaning on the doorframe of the bathroom that Dickens' basket resided in. It hurt. It hurt to cause it, it hurt to fix it, it hurt to watch it happen. They were like dominos. Eve's death was the push and each was falling in his own time. Shaking his head, he headed into his workshop, a small part of him wondering how long it would be before he too joined their ranks...