My arm shot forward, swift as a whipcrack, grinding the slick, cunning cloth between my knuckles. Suds erupted in a frenzy, bubbling and swirling like mischievous river spirits, while water splattered everywhere, drenching my shirt until it stuck to me—clammy and uncomfortable, a second skin I never asked for. On the far side of the room, Lon reclined against the washing machine, looking every bit the king atop his idle throne.
"This is the condition you meant?" I grumbled, my tone prickly as cactus thorns. I threw my whole weight into scrubbing the shirt, while Lon just watched, as if the whole world was a stage and he was content to chew gum in the front row.
"You think it's a walk in the park doing all the chores alone?" he shot back, baiting me with a sly smile. "Think about it, Bro. There are five of us here—four busy with their own stuff, and me? I'm the laundry boy, the chef, the sweeper. Do you even realize how many mountains of dirty clothes you lot pile up every week? I could build a fortress out of them."
I fell silent, tongue-tied. Dumping everything on Lon was hardly fair, but what could I do? These past few days, life had felt like wading through mud—just breathing was a luxury.
"Why not just toss it all into that thing?" I asked, eyeing the washing machine nestled against the wall, its electric motor humming softly, spinning the saltwater-proof drum with a rhythm that was almost magical. Bioluminescent coral lights clung to the machine's surface, casting blue-green ripples across the walls, painting dancing shadows of clothes swirling inside—a ghostly parade of fabric.
From scraps of memory—or maybe from some battered book Erin once read—I knew this washing machine was no ordinary appliance. It was the very first artifact Tyan Flamino brought to the Wetlands. Back then, machines like this were the toys of Tytoal-ba's nobility; across the continent, the idea was laughable. A device that could clean your clothes for you? People scoffed, called it a fool's dream. For them, sitting on the floor, scrubbing the family's laundry was a sacred ritual—a badge of diligence and devotion.
But Tyan Flamino saw things differently. To Tyan, endless housework was the fossil of a bygone age; human energy, he believed, should be spent on things far grander.
Together with his friend and research partner, Alva J. Scopoli, Tyan rewrote history. Side by side in a cramped workshop echoing with the clang of metal, they dissected electric motors down to their very sinews. Tyan, his ambition burning bright as ever, insisted on coating every component with saltwater-proof epoxy and seafloor-forged metal—a blend of minerals dredged from the ocean's depths. He was convinced only that would let the machine survive. Alva, ever the cautious soul, thought the plan was a leap too far. He fretted that seafloor metal was untested, worried the machine would spring leaks and unleash a new disaster in every home.
That drum was no ordinary hunk of metal—it was born from a rare marine alloy, minerals as old as the tides and twice as stubborn, hauled up from the ocean's shadowy floor. The metal scoffed at rust, its surface practically daring the saltwater to try its luck. Still, the decision was fraught with tension. Tyan, driven by a near-obsessive conviction, claimed nothing else would do. Alva, forever the cautious counterweight, regarded the alloy with wary eyes—untested, unproven.
In the hush, Alva would sigh, meticulously recording every step with the weary precision of a scientist too often betrayed by failed experiments. But Tyan, like a ship that refused to anchor, pressed on with his design, brushing off doubts as if they were nothing but passing breezes.
The inside of the drum was lined with thick glass, installed with heavenly precision—every millimeter measured, every corner sealed tight, so that seawater could never sneak into the machine's core. To Tyan, the glass was the final shield, a sacred guardian protecting the heart of the machine from destruction. But to Alva, the approach was too complicated, too risky. He preferred a simpler sealing system—one that could be repaired with bare hands and a bit of courage. Yet Tyan remained unmoved, his eyes blazing with conviction, his fingers dancing over the design like a maestro who never missed a note.
The water filling system was no less touched by obsession. A small electric pump, coated with epoxy, ensured that filtered seawater could enter the drum without corroding the electrical components. Alva frowned again, imagining the epoxy cracking, saltwater seeping in, and the machine exploding in a small kitchen disaster. But Tyan, with a thin, victorious smile, considered the technique perfect—a fruit of long research and sleepless nights, poring over technical manuals from around the world.
Every component was assembled with near-obsessive meticulousness. The joints were made as tight as a clam's shell, waterproof, defying the ever-lurking moisture. The electric motor was mounted beneath the drum, connected to a transmission system made from the same tough oceanic metal. The control panel, placed at the front, was protected by thick glass and layers of epoxy. Alva observed every step, sometimes shaking his head, sometimes holding his breath, but Tyan stood firm—believing his design had conquered every possibility.
For drying, Tyan created a centrifugal system powered by a separate electric motor. This drying motor, like its twin, was wrapped in epoxy and anti-rust protection, complete with a tiny drainage system to keep water from touching the machine's innards. The drying drum, made from the same oceanic metal, was perforated with tiny holes—each spin creating a mini storm that drove water from the clothes at a speed that would make even the sea breeze envious. In seconds, clothes emerged nearly dry, without a single thread harmed.
Unexpectedly, Tyan Flamino's work earned a flood of praise like a rising tide. Trials of the washing machine in council members' homes produced miracles—clean clothes, saved time, and satisfied smiles that money couldn't buy.
Yet, when everyone awaited Tyan to file the patent, he instead threw out an even wilder dream—building an underwater city, offering the washing machine patent as a gift to pave the way. He spoke casually, without telling his friend.
At that time, the Orcicea Dome had already risen majestically beneath the surface, a giant dome crowning the king of Tytoal-ba. Yet, thanks to a treaty that was never truly fair, the Wetlands eventually fell into Tyan Flamino's hands.
When all was said and done, Alva J. Scopoli could only stand at the shoreline of history, watching Tyan's triumph flood the Wetlands like a high tide swallowing everything in its path. There were no rewards, no accolades—just the bland aftertaste of hard work left behind. Every tension, every argument, every sacrifice he poured into the project with Tyan faded into little more than faint footprints in the shifting sands of time. In the end, he was nothing more than a tool—a tiny screw in the great machinery of Tyan's ambition.
Ironically, Tyan Flamino etched his name atop the Wetlands' glory, while Alva had to settle for a seat on the council in Tytoal-ba.
A tragic tale, I thought—all of it sparked by a washing machine.
"Fun fact: this machine can't even handle those household fabrics," Lon said, pointing at the pile of clothes I still had to scrub by hand. "Try to force it, and those shirts will tear to shreds—this beast is way too rough for anything that delicate."
"Well, that's a brand new tidbit for my ears," I muttered, half amused.
"Maybe you should help with chores more often. You'd pick up all sorts of fun facts," Lon teased, his eyes glinting with mischief.
I just kept quiet, letting my hands move automatically from shirt to shirt.
"Impressive, you know," Erin's voice slipped in from nowhere.
"Can't you take over for me? Use your black orb, do something—anything!" I whispered, half hopeful, half desperate.
"What do you expect? My black orb to turn into a magic hand that scrubs clothes at lightning speed?"
"Brilliant idea, isn't it?" I grinned.
"No, not at all," Erin replied, his voice fading like mist dissolving at dawn. "Besides… it's bedtime for me."
At this point, I was absolutely certain—he always found a way to dodge housework.
"Not tempted to help me finish up?" I tried my luck with Lon.
"Nope," he replied flatly, his hand occasionally resting on the vibrating machine, his whole body gently shuddering along with it, as if he were dancing with the washer.
Suddenly, his tone shifted—heavier, more serious. "You know, the atmosphere at home feels… different now."
"Different?" I asked, my hands never pausing their scrubbing, soap suds clinging between my fingers like remnants of a dream reluctant to fade away.
"I just feel like you all are drifting apart," Lon said, his words trailing off.
Those words struck me like a blade. My heart thudded in my chest, and for a moment, my hands froze above the pile of dirty laundry.