November

*Bursts out of a steaming machine* What year is it!? 2025 you say? Just in time for November's comic! Yes, I'm still making October's siblings, and they're not slowing down in intensity!

November, a Frankensteinian patchwork character smiles wryly at the viewer from their highly customised wheelchair. Wearing mismatched patchwork clothing, graffiti's leaher jacker, roughly-cut crop-top hoodie and mismatched boots, they recline between the speakers bolted to their chair's handles, themselved bedecked with spikes. Their name is sprayed behind them in graffiti fashion.

And now, a little loving mischief.

AWOOGA! A hand cranks a loud airhorn beneath a sign reading 'Crank for entry'. Poking their head into a messy garage, October, a Frankenstein-esque construct, calls out.
O: Um... N-November? H-hello? N-Novem-uh, Nova! I saw your m-message, are you he-you're coming up behind me aren't y-ooOOOH!
Indeed they were. November, zooming along on their customised electric wheelchair rams into October launching them into their air. Skidding to a halt beneath November catches October on their lap. N: Wotcha, Tobi.
O: H-hey November.
N: Kick up yer feet, why don't ya?
O: You always make that j-joke.
N: 'N you always fall for it. N: Anyway, crackin' to see ya Tobe. Now get on your feet, you lazy git.
November reverses hard, launching October onto their unsteady feet. November, gripping a bar on the wall, stands up and grabs a box from a shelf.
N: So, how's tricks? Still ripping off the corpos?
O: Umm, I mean, I st-still don't quite know what my job is...
N: Still taking their money though? Good lad.
They wander over to a box-covered desk, as November starts enthusiastically digging through the box they've just set down.
N: Right, brass tacks. I called you here for a very important meeting, cause... uh... Hang on, keep being excited.
They rummage some more before enthusiastically pulling something out and thrusting it into October's face.
N: BINGO!
O: Oh!
N: You're *so* welcome!
O: Wh-what is it? November looks over at what they're holding out. It's a golf club with a battery and some wires attached.
N: Huh? Oh, not that. Why've you got that? That's not for you, that's for pissing off the golf club by the youth center.
October, baffled, takes the club as it begins to beep, leaving November to shovel back through the box.
N: Uh, come on you bugger, you're in here somewhere. Stop spoiling the momentum.
The Golf club independently starts spinning out of control, October recoiling out of the way as it flings up to the ceiling. November, oblivious, find something.
N: A-HAH! There's the bastard! A still recoiling October looks over to November holding out a mechanical glove-like apparatus, the both of them beneath some cascading pieces of cieling from the launched golf club.
N: Here ya go mate, a belated birthday wotsit. Only two months late this year, so not too shabby.
October takes the glove and tries putting it on their right are.
O: Oh, th-thank you. W-what is it?
N: You know how pissed off you get with your arms being different length? Well I made you a longer hand! Or arm. Or whatever.
October lifts their arm, twiddling the fingers of the mechanical hand with their own, comparing it to their larger left arm. November goes digging again.
O: Oh, that's v-very thoughtful! Yhank you. Heh, it's a... it's a little b-big isn't it?
N: Thought you'd notice that, smart-arse. But yeah, right faff. So I also made ya...
November holds out a second copy of the extended hand glove.
N: Second hand! I mean another one, it's not used or nothing. Well, I pratted about with it a bit. Reaching shelves, putting out fires, the yoozh. October hold out both their newly-augmented arms.
O: Well that's d-doubly thoughtful of you. But I think we're back to the length p-problem again.
N: Nah, I worked that out 'n' all. Got somethin' for that. You'll never fuckin' guess.
They grin back towards October holding a third mechanical arm.

Don't let anyone tell you you can't do something for your loved ones 💜