9 huffed again, mouth twisting in frustration as he gave the thin, threadbare fabric another fierce, but fruitless tug. There was no wrestling it out from underneath the several-hundred pound block of concrete, where a thin, starkly patterned swatch of fabric was trapped. The young stitchpunk gave a shudder as he readjusted his grip, the wind sharp and wet. Thunder rumbled high above their heads, racing along the head of the storm that was building along the horizon.
A quiet chattering reached him from a few feet below. 9 turned slightly, looking over his shoulder to the ground. The twins stood at the base of the steep pile of debris the burlap ragdoll had climbed to try and retrieve the cloth. They both wore expressions of worry, clasping their hands together and flickering anxiously. 9 was balanced precariously on the edge of a piece of a rebar, nothing but an empty fall behind him.
"Hold on, guys. I'll be down in a minute," he called to them, giving a small wave of reassurance befor