My Little Dirigible

"Dock, Chunky!", I say, and he whistles and chirps as he putters back into my hands in response, mechanical hand grabbing my own. I beam proudly at him, my loyal little dirigible. 

Over a decade ago I had bought him from a gnomish merchant, for two thousand aethergoops. Painted over in bright, garish shades of blue, green, yellow and orange, he was slightly larger than normal dirigibles, standing at a little over two and a half feet in length. And although the windows at the base of this blimp-like creature showed glimpses of gears and cogs that turned within his mechanical form, it was clear that he was sentient. I had realized as much from his cheerful whistles when I told him what a good job he was doing, his dejected whirrs when scolded, and his confused chirps when I made him deliver goods to strangers.

He was friendly, cheerful and a huge help. I could count on him to deliver packages, letters, baked goods and even folded origami (he would clasp them especially delicately, making sure that they wouldn't get crumpled). And he was much, much faster than the postal services (as efficient as they were). He was loyal, dependable, and the cutest, most innocent companion anyone could ask for.

Or so I thought.

Lately, I had been noticing strange things. I had tried my best to pretend not to see, hoping that it was all in my head. Maybe it really -was- all in my head.. dirigibles never steal anything, do they? No, that is ridiculous. If they did, they wouldn't be so widely popular in the gnomish market. If they did, they wouldn't be so common and widespread in cities and communes - it was hard to find someone who didn't own a dirigible these days. If they did, there is no way that a single case had not been brought to light before.

But I could not keep ignoring what I could see with my own eyes. Last week, I found a sparkleberry tart clasped tight in his painted little claw. I had never baked with sparkleberry in decades. 

"Where did you get this from, Chunky?", I asked. He chirped adorably as he puttered into my arms, whistling softly. He was obviously trying to be cute and change the subject, but I was not about to let him.

"Give me the tart", I ordered, thrusting out my hand as I knit my brows in a frown.

"Chrrp?", replied my dirigible, trying to look confused. I did not relent and he finally brought his claw over my hands and dropped it gently onto my opened palm.

As I examined the tart closely, I figured out who it belonged to. A baker friend of mine, from the Glomdoring forest.

"Did you.. umm, did you give a tart to my dirigible?", I mustered up the courage to ask the kepheran. 

"Oh, I don't think I did...", he replied, confusion in his voice.

My heart sank. "Hmm.. are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing at all."

I knew I should have done the right thing. I knew I should have told him the truth. But how would I even bring up the subject? What would I even say? "My dirigible stole a tart from you"? And then what? Would people around the Basin be warned to keep their valuables away from my thieving dirigible? Would Chunky be taken away from me to be studied by the gnomish merchants until they rooted out the cause of his larcenous behaviour? Would the newfound discovery of mechanical kleptomania cause the aethermarket to crash?

The whole situation was comically absurd and I was probably overthinking this. I was pretty sure that this was an accident, anyway - or perhaps a one-off incident that was unlikely to be repeated. So I decided to let it go.

The same way I decided to let it go when I found round little gearboxes scattered on my bedroom floor (Chunky was mechanical, after all. Maybe he just had some extra parts lying around that I had never noticed before). The same way I decided to let it go when I found shiny jewellery, clasped tightly in his tiny claw (I had so much extra jewellery lying around that I have lost track of them. Maybe this was one of the rings I'd forgotten about). The same way I decided to let it go and make up excuses instead, every single time he brought me little "gifts". Clockwork charge regulators (I have too many to count), fancy hats (I have a complete hat collection!), fortune cookies (maybe I baked them in my sleep?), a formal silken loincloth with extravagant embellishments? I didn't remember owning this, but maybe I-

(Market): [REDACTED] says, "Loincloth lost while bathing in the Shallach River. Will reward anyone who brings it back."

Well, that was a strange coincidence, and coincidentally, that was when I decided to stop paying attention to the Market aethers. I never heard anything worthwhile from them anyway.

And today I sit in my living room chair, Chunky bobbing cheerfully up and down in the air next to me, his vividly-painted ridges gleaming in the afternoon sun that seeps in through the window, little gears and cogs turning animatedly inside his cargo unit, his multi-jointed metallic arm caked in dirt and grime.

On the table in front of us both sits a large femur, long, slightly curved, and covered in darkened mud that smells of the grave.

"Dock, Chunky!", I say, and he whistles and chirps as he putters back into my hands in response, mechanical hand grabbing my own. I beam proudly at him, my loyal little dirigible. 

And then we both walk quietly to my garden, and begin to swiftly bury
the bone with the other remains.