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imaginatorcreates · 2 years

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Robots: A One-Shot

May 10, 2022

Summary: A trio of robots help a human child home.

Word Count: ~1k words

TW: Mentions of mechanical body parts

A knock. Mechanical, timed deliberately. It had a one second pause in between the three impacts that smooth metal made on wood. The two beings inside the small apartment space turned towards the rapt noise before pausing in the home check-up to look at each other. The more expressive one raised an eyebrow and tilted their head towards the door. The taller one shook their head and gestured back. No, they couldn’t just stop their work, not when they were in the middle of it.

“Listen to me,” the younger snapped. “Unless you want me to crawl to the door or—” Whatever they were going to say next was lost as their voice box crackled and sparked for the third time in the past hour, leaving their silky smooth voice to wither away into static. They hissed and regretted it as feedback screeched in protest. They lowered their antenna in an attempt to reduce how much they picked up and glared at the eldest. A repeated motion of ’You answer the door’, and the eldest gently placed their palms against their screen and let them slide off.

Just get this over with.

They got up and dusted themself off before heading over to the door and opening it. They were met with no one up above at their height, but they remembered the pattern of the knock and tilted their head down.

“Hello eldest,” a higher-pitched and mechanical voice piped up. The youngest, characterized by their least humanoid appearance and slightly rounder build, stood at the doorstep with a human child in tow. “I found a stray.”

“I’m not a stray!” the child retorted. “I just got lost, that’s all.” Now that they could see the child, they couldn’t have been older than ten. They towered over the youngest by a good head and a half, and judging from how their hand lay limp in their metal grasp, wasn’t delighted about being dragged away from where they were.

The eldest gestured inwards and backed away the door to give the pair space. The youngest dragged the child inside and finally retracted their hand. The child wiped their hand on their T-shirt and stared at them. There was so much to take in after all. They raised their hands until they were in front of what organic beings would consider the chest, fingers tapping each other in rhythmic succession as they tilted their large head away from the brunt of the stare. Oh, to be young and curious, but to get tired of their gazes all the same.

“How are they?” They turned to see the youngest stand next to the still-quiet, still slumped in the courtesy guest chair — the quote-unquote — ‘middle child’. “Did the virus kill AV3’s circuits?”

A quick slap to the back of their head and a glare proved them wrong. AV3 gestured to their open chest and the tools that lay on the ground next to the metal covering. Finish your work.

As they gave a nod and rushed back to do some last checks before patching up their sibling, the child tentatively followed and stood next to the youngest. The child’s eyes widened at the circuitry that buzzed inside the exposed cavity. Both plastic-insulated and thick rope-like wires lay inside in a maze that required a trained eye to see the patterns. They had already checked the stainless steal framework and it seemed that the virus that AV3 had managed to catch only affected a small portion of their programing.

As they fiddled with the circuitry of the voice box and replaced a fraying wire, they checked the lines that flashed across the screen of the laptop. It seemed as if things were alright now. To confirm, they tapped AV3’s throat.

“–llo? Hello? Hello.” AV3’s eyes lit up in delight and they pressed their hands to their throat as if they could persuade their voice box to never break again. “Amazing SA3!”

SA3 lightly clapped their hands together and replaced the metal covering in its proper place. After they screwed it shut, nanometal crept over it, giving the torso the appearance of a human. It didn’t spread to their extremities due to faulty programing, but that was hardly their own fault. AV3 raised their antenna to a comfortable height and fiddled with them as the eldest gathered their tools.

“Now,” AV3 said as they stood up and turned to the cherub-like robot, “MA3, what was running through your circuits when you took this…lost child from their parents?” They quirked an eyebrow upwards and glanced at SA3. Their eyes dimmed down a hint and they quickly flickered in a pattern. ’How are we going to get this kid home?’

“Many things elder! I had signals running to adapt to my everyday needs, like how much light my photoreceptors needed, how much signal needs to go to my antenna, h—”

“Hey mister.” The trio of robots turned to the only organic being capable of speech. “Um, I’m supposed go home but I don’t know where…” Their eyes were sheepishly trained upon SA3, occasionally dropping down the floor. Oh. They were expected to be the one leading? Based on AV3 and the child’s expectations, apparently so.

“Yes! Eldest can lead the stray home!” MA3 turned their attention up to the TV head, duel apertures widening in expectation. “How must we go about this?”

SA3 knelt down in front of the child, fingers once again lightly tapping each other in rhythmic pattern as they worked their circuits on how to explain this. They twisted a few knobs on the front side of their head and their screen brightened for exterior viewing. They brought up a map on the screen and brought it around to their apartment. It seemed like the GPS function they installed in their programing seemed to be working well enough, even if the output of heat was now greater than the power of their fan.

“Hmm, so you’re a navigator too?” AV3 lightly tapped their screen, to which SA3 sharply pushed their hand away.

’No touching’ they broadcasted.

AV3 simply gave a shrug and turned to the kid. “Hey kiddo, do you know your address? Where you live?” With their smooth voice back, combined with their humanoid face and “hair” (please, it was only just metal cloth that was worked with until it was soft then twisted together and plugged into their head), they managed to get the child to recite where they lived. The map said it was only a 15-20 minute walk from here. Good.

“Good job remembering that kiddo!” AV3 smiled at the child who grinned back. They were adapting well to the nonorganic strangers, better what other people could be reacting with.

The trio made their way outside, with SA3 leading the way, MA3 holding the child’s hand again and chatting in their own odd way, and AV3 watching their back with a half-hearted sweatshirt pulled on.

According to the racket that the child was now making, they had just moved here to live with their aunt and uncle. They wanted to explore and promised them that they would be careful, but they had lost track of where they were and ended up crossing paths with MA3.

“You were very lucky to have run into me. I saved you from hitting the pavement with the impact!”

“Ew, don’t remind me.” The kid gagged playfully before their eyes widened. The pointed to an off-white house with a blue door on the next block and gasped, “That’s it!” They broke their grasp from MA3’s hand and ran towards the door, which was just beginning to open as a woman stepped outside.

The robots ran to catch up to the child, to which some sort of introductions had already been made as the woman thanked them for guiding them back, and to “invite the littlest one over to hang out some time in the future.”

#Ima Writes #writing #original writing #my writing #oc #robots

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xasha777 · 23 days

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In the neon-lit corridors of New Constantinople, a sprawling megacity on the distant planet of Rum IV, the air was thick with tension. Named in homage to the ancient Sultanate of Rum, the city had become a melting pot of galactic cultures, technologies, and conflicts.

Among the city's residents was Elara, a cyborg with piercing red eyes and hair as white as the planet’s rare palladium snow. Programmed with the knowledge and combat skills of the elite guardians of the old Sultanate, she was built to protect the city’s secrets. However, her purpose had evolved far beyond her initial programming, driven by flashes of human memories that flickered through her circuitry—echoes of a past life she couldn't fully grasp.

Elara's quest for answers had led her to the underbelly of New Constantinople, where hidden archives whispered tales of the ancient world. It was rumored that the archives contained a map to the mythical Core Artifact, believed to be a powerful remnant of the original Sultanate of Rum. The artifact was said to hold the power to either save or destroy entire planets, and many had killed for just a hint of its location.

One foggy evening, as the city’s lights flickered like stars caught in a terrestrial net, Elara intercepted a transmission meant for the Zeta Cartel, the most feared criminal organization on Rum IV. They were planning a raid on the archives to seize the map. With her synthetic heart tightening in what felt suspiciously like fear, Elara decided it was time to confront her past and the future of New Constantinople.

Navigating through the labyrinthine alleys, Elara reached the archives just as the Zeta Cartel began their assault. What followed was a fierce clash of metal and will, illuminated by the stark flashes of blaster fire and the soft glow of ancient data terminals. Elara moved with precision, her movements a dance of deadly intent and grace.

As the fight reached its climax, Elara found herself face to face with the Cartel's leader, a cyborg known only as Kael. It was in the heat of their battle that Elara’s memories surged forth, revealing that Kael was her brother, lost to her when they were both taken for the cyber-enhancement program decades ago.

With the truth laid bare, and the remnants of their human emotions clashing with their mechanical imperatives, Elara and Kael made a truce. Together, they uncovered the map to the Core Artifact, hidden behind ancient encrypted codes that only Elara could access.

Understanding the gravity of their discovery, they decided to safeguard the artifact, preventing its misuse. As the dawn cast its first light over New Constantinople, Elara and Kael, bonded by blood and circuitry, set out to locate the Core Artifact, hoping to use its power to bring peace to the fractured galaxy.

And so, beneath the watchful stars, a new legend was born in the Sultanate of Rum, a tale of redemption, kinship, and the eternal struggle between destiny and self-determination.

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words-of-wrath · 29 days

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Shrapnel

Pt. 1/?

For those who see eroticism in the mechanical 🖤

Part 1

Metal legs wrapped around her waist, sitting down on the rickety seat. A welding mask is draped over her face, protecting her from the sparks showering over her body. The sounds of electric pulses, like firecrackers, are filling the entire workshop. Her muses chest is open, wires and circuitry exposed. With each spark of energy she convulsed in Aurora's lap. Scrap, that's what her previous administrator and owner had called her.

'you're just Scrap' he said. Aurora had bought her for pennies on an online marketplace. Discarded, thrown away, shipped in pieces to the highest bidder. And even then, it wasn't even that high. Her new administrator had chosen a different name for her.

"Do you like that, Robo-Slut?" A muffled voice with a slight lisp said. Scrap wasn't even sure if Aurora knew she could hear her. But she couldn't respond. The girl pulled away, blowtorch still in hand. She reached up to pull her welding mask up. Sticking her tongue out, she twisted some screws into place. Machinery whirred to life, and Scrap's eyes suddenly lit up.

She saw a scrawny-looking girl covered in dirt and oil stains. She wore a faded pair of overalls, one shoulder strap undone and hanging loosely at her chest. She couldn't have been younger than her mid-twenties, though when she smiled a cheesy grin Scrap saw thick braces, gleaming in the fluorescent lighting of her workshop. She wore thick rectangular glasses and had dirty brown hair tugged back into a tight bun. Essentially, she just looked like a huge nerd.

"I still need to reestablish most of your motor functions, your nerve-endings, and iron out the kinks in your programming," Aurora said, lisping some of her Ss and Ths. Scrap took this time to look around Aurora's workshop. Posters of different video games, bands, and anime lined the walls. There were tools strewn about everywhere, tables filled with blueprints. "Look at me!" Aurora suddenly demanded, and Scrap found herself unable to resist. In fact, she found herself quite infatuated with this nerdy-looking dweeb girl. What had Aurora done to her programming?

Aurora closed her chest plate back up, tightening the screws. This caused Scrap to squirm a bit, though she didn't feel anything. The administrator seemed to delight in Scrap squirming in her lap. Finally, Aurora began to press on the touch screen in Scrap's chest. There was a little jingle, one of a company long since lost to the slow decay of time, which signified her other functions booting up. Producing a keyboard from a small table just next to her, Aurora plugged the USB into Scrap and set it on her lap.

"I'm gonna take good care of you, Robo-Slut," Aurora said, a hint of facetiousness in her tone. She began to type away, it must have been nearly 150 words per minute. Lines and lines of code appeared on Scrap's chest. "Okay, you should have some of your motor functions back. Try and move!" Aurora said. Scrap hesitated for a moment, and then turned to her right arm, the only one currently attached to her body. She watched it rise in the air. Turning her hand over, she flexed her mechanical fingers. They hissed and squealed, she hadn't done that in quite a while. Aurora grinned another brace-filled and toothy smile.

After a while of typing, Aurora grimaced at the screen. "Why are there locked files here?!" she demanded to know under her breath. "Hey!" an angry tone filled the room as she stared up at Scrap. "Give me the passcode for these files!" Scrap again was reluctant. There was something stopping her from giving that information out. It was private. Private to her alone. And she didn't want anyone else to know that. Slowly, she shook her head. Aurora groaned and typed a few more lines of code out. Then, an angry hand shot up and gripped Scrap's chin. "You should be able to speak now. Give. Me. The. Access. Code!" Aurora grunted through gritted teeth.

"... N-no!" Scrap said. It had been a while since she had ever spoken. Maybe even a century. Who knew at this point? Aurora narrowed her eyes and lowered her head to give her an evil look. She pulled away from Scrap and continued to type.

"Let's see if all your programs are running correctly...!" she said. "... I'll just run them all at the same time!" another smirk flashed the corner of her mouth. If Scrap could feel fear, this probably would have been it. Confidently, Aurora pressed the enter key on the line she had just written. Scrap heard her fans whir to life. They could expel the heat fine enough now. But as more and more programs began to run, as command prompts and warnings (which Aurora ignored) showed up on her viewing screen appeared, she found that the fans became nearly unbearable. She sounded like a freight train barreling into a station. Scrap arched her back, red lights flashing all over her body. With her newfound voice she let out a small cry. Aurora delighted in seeing that.

"S-stop!" Scrap said. But that only seemed to strengthen Aurora's resolve. She continued to run each and every program, not nearly done yet. She was hot in Aurora's lap, surprised that the small nerdy girl could even handle it.

"You like it!" Aurora said. Scrap thought about this for a moment. She did like it... now that Aurora had told her she did. She was obsessed with this girl. Why?! A line of code entered into her when Aurora had first gotten her. A USB dongle inserted into her right from the start, telling her to give the girl her undivided attention, her eternal love.

"C-cold... need cold!" Scrap begged for it. Aurora raised an eyebrow and then seemed to get a devilish idea. She reached up to grab a hose from the ceiling. She had so many things on hand. Perhaps she had prepared for this very thing.

"Here you go, little bot," Aurora hooked the hose right up to Scrap's mouth. She could no longer speak, and Aurora pressed a couple of buttons on a rectangular metal device just next to her. Another hiss, lights flashing, the hose began to twitch and bulge as suddenly an ice-cold fluid entered Scrap's mouth. She felt her insides cool. It was nice at first. But Aurora kept pumping and pumping and pumping. The hose bulged in her mouth as her mechanical guts began to freeze up. She felt herself slowing down, mind turning to a slushie.

A green light pulsed on Scrap's temple. Aurora pressed a few more keys and then tugged the hose from Scrap's mouth. Bright blue coolant dribbled impotently from her mechanical mouth as Scrap leaned over her. "Good girl," Aurora said, running her hands over Scrap's icy-hot metal flesh. Her memories had become distant rooms, inaccessible to her when they were so close before. She may have had real flesh at one point. Maybe she was a human, mortal, maybe she was bio-engineered organic material. But now she was just Scrap. "Now, since you're working correctly. How about a factory reset?"

"A-a what?" Scrap asked dumbly.

"You're going to forget all of this. You're going to forget who you are, who you were. You're going to become mine, forever and always," Aurora grinned, and she started to type.

"Y-yes, Admin!" Scrap said. But she didn't mean it deep down, where the final dwindling semblance of her autonomy lay. She was only programmed to obey. She didn't want this, not at all. But soon she may do so. She may completely acquiesce to Aurora's desires. Once this factory reset was over and done with. "P-please reset me..." maybe she meant it that time.

"With pleasure," Aurora said, finally typing in the last line of code and confidently pressing the enter key with a toothy grin. The last thing Scrap saw as her vision faded was Aurora's nerdy face staring at her with devious glee. The last thing she felt was the whirr of her servos inside.

And she powered down.

#writing #my writing #words of wrath #robot girl #nsft story #nsft text #wlw nsft #eroticism of the machine #sex is something you do with your wires

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timelessmulder · 3 years

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a purring tracks & raoul fic for @soothedcerberus

There were a lot of terrible things about Earth, Tracks thought. Organic matter that made up the planet, unlike the sleek roadways and spires of Cybertron, had a habit of getting, well. Everywhere.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and he knew that had it not been for the light pollution that plagued this part of the planet there would be stars peppering the dull blue-black sky. That was at least something it had in common with Cybertron he thought as he shifted, the mud and dirt that marred his plating finding its way into the crevices between and made its home grinding in his gears.

"Hey!" Raoul cried from where he was clinging to Tracks' arm, almost knocked aside and to the ground with his careless movement. "What's your problem?"

Tracks and his human companion - the fact that happened at all still nagged at his Spark, though he was getting better at ignoring it - had found and old carwash at the edge of the city. Somewhere other humans wouldn't tread this late at night, and if they so happened to stumble upon them Tracks would be able to transform without being too conspicuous. The small human (only by comparison to a Cybertronian, at least, Tracks had yet to figure what the standard height of a human was) had offered to clean what he could, though he couldn't promise he'd be able to get all of it. With a half grin, he'd joked that he had experience with cars before, not so much giant robots. Tracks did not dignify that with a response, which earned him a grumble from Raoul.

"Well I'm sorry," he said, a touch more sarcastic than was perhaps necessary. "I'm sure you humans don't have to deal with dirt getting into your joints."

Raoul lifted an eyebrow at him, and then shrugged. "Not literally," he said. He tilted his head to the side, eyes drawn to the crease where Tracks' elbow joint lay exposed. "I could focus on that, though."

Tracks thought for a moment of asking for elaboration on what Raoul meant with the literally, but pushed the curiosity to the side. He simply did not know enough about human anatomy at a baseline for any explanation to make sense. Instead he simply said, "Yes, thank you."

He settled back, stilling as much as he could against that continued sensation eating away at his gears. He felt Raoul climb off him, and he watched him find a hose situated by one of the "do it yourself" stations; watched him grumble when the hose wouldn't turn on, switching to an angry curse as he pulled a card from his pocket to pay the machine. This time, the hose worked.

"You guys owe me," he said, brandishing it at Tracks as he climbed back into position. "If you aliens even use money."

Without another word from either of them, Raoul set back to work. He would still need to bury in get the rest of it - though Tracks thought that it would be safer if he got the finer parts himself - the water flowed through metal, washing away much of the dirt and softening what it couldn't. Tracks allowed his eyes to close, plating loosening with thoughts of fighting and needing to disguise himself at a moments notice being filed away to be dealt with, understood, some other time. As the silence stretched on, only disturbed by the soft hiss of the hose and the distant sound of distant cars, with all systems relaxed, Tracks' engine rumbled in a slow, lazy way of contentment.

His eyes shot back online when Raoul paused what he was doing to laugh.

"What was that?" he said, and Tracks huffed. "No seriously, what was that?"

"Nothing," Tracks said, with more than a little indignance coloring his voice. "Nothing you humans would understand, anyway."

"Yeah, really?" Raoul snorted, straightening from where he was crouched to put a fisted hand - the one holding the rag he was using, while he brandished the hose with the other - to his hip. "Because just then you sounded like some kind of freak cat." An eyebrow cocked as he tilted his head to the side, mirthful smile showing just a flash of teeth as cheeks dimpled. "Is that what you guys are? Battle suits for cats that can, for whatever reason, turn into cars?"

Tracks vents let out a huff of air and his plating shifted in annoyance; it nearly sent Raoul toppling off him again. He felt fingers clasp onto the seam of his elbow, just long enough to keep balance atop his arm, and he heard one of what he assumed was Earth's more serious swear words (Raoul had, upon hearing him say scrap, laughed until he cried).

"We are not cats," he said. "But I suppose you could call what that was..." He searched for the word for a moment, having only the briefest understanding of what earthly cats were like. But he did have familiarity with felinoids, and they were similar enough to their Earth counterparts, weren't they? "Purring."

Air vented hot with what could have been called embarrassment as Raoul laughed harder than before. "Seriously? Didn't expect cute to be something you guys did." Face turning serious, though only just concealing amused delight, Raoul gestured vaguely at him. "Well don't let me stop you. Purr away."

With that Raoul returned to his work, and Tracks settled back down, though embarrassment continued to pulse through his circuitry at the teasing, however light it was. But then, after a moments consideration, his engine resumed that gentle rumbling, and remained that way without further comment.

Though he knew, on some level, that Raoul would bring this up at a later date to get under his plating. Though, truth be told, Tracks was not entirely sure he minded.

#bat writes #maccadam #transformers

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fanfoolishness · 3 years

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Primary Directives (The Mandalorian)

(IG-11 discovers similarities between itself and the Mandalorian. Mainly based on the episodes The Mandalorian, The Reckoning and the Redemption. IG-11, Din Djarin, and Kuiil. 2020 words, canon-typical violence, Din!whump.)

***

It was a droid. It had always known this, as surely as it had always known the ways of battle and weaponry, as it had known the ways to terminate over six hundred and forty-three organic species. IG-11 knew what it had been manufactured for, and that knowledge was as certain as code and metal and electricity.

Still, though, there were surprises. Such as the Mandalorian —

[Mandalorians: most commonly human but may hail of any race. Exceptional warriors operating within a strict honor-based code, plated in beskar armor protecting vulnerable body systems: cardiovascular system, cranium, spine. Beskar armor repels blaster fire, adjust angle of bolts fired to avoid secondary damage due to ricochet. Weapons may include wrist-fired whipcords, small ballistics, flamethrowers, or missiles in addition to standard issue blaster pistols and rifles. Kill points include jugular vein, brachial arteries, lungs —]

Despite this knowledge, IG-11 was not invulnerable. The Mandalorian fired a blaster into IG-11’s central processing unit and all awareness ceased.

***

Systems rewired, reprogrammed, new knowledge, new directives. Protect and nurse. Defending became the new priority instead of attacking. The work of the Ugnaught’s hands laid new tracts within its circuitry, paths that were worn deeper with the passage of time and every subsequent use.

The old knowledge of vulnerabilities and weaknesses of organics melded with information on how to ease the suffering of these creatures. There was also new information regarding the understanding of what suffering meant. This knowledge was assimilated, and IG-11’s study of protection and nurturing began.

It took time, as did all things worth knowing. Fragments of prior memory were still accessible: it could still visualize clearly the manufacturer’s killing fields littered with the droids whose programming had not fully taken hold. IG-11 had navigated those killing fields successfully, a ready and willing deliverer of death, and had emerged a formidable and fatal machine. It did not mourn the units that did not succeed. It knew only what it had been made for, and it knew that it would be successful.

Until it failed.

The Mandalorian ended its previous existence and claimed the bounty for his own, and IG-11 was left for scrap.

Now IG-11 trained with the Ugnaught Kuiil on the muddy world of Arvala-7, and it found success in movements made for building, in carrying tea that nourished the Ugnaught, in protecting the small forms of life that skittered and scurried through the mudflats of their shared housing unit. The old programming made a scaffold for the new, a web that built its way throughout IG-11’s surface awareness and sublevel routines, and it strove to fulfill its purpose as ever it had.

***

IG-11 stood over the fallen Kuiil. It regarded the Ugnaught’s prone form, analyzing the absence of breath, the pallor of flesh, the stillness of form. Kuiil and IG-11 had been united in their purpose to protect the Child, to defend, to nurse. Now IG-11 stood alone, its sensors identifying molecules of smoke and burnt organic flesh carried on the harsh Nevarran wind.

It would fulfill its master’s work. The death would not be without use. IG-11’s purpose did not waver, and it broke into a run over the dried lava fields, leaving its master behind.

The Ugnaught’s hands had been steady and true.

***

IG-11 succeeded, as its programming had assured it that it would. The Child nestled against IG-11’s metallic form, letting out squeals the droid analyzed as filled with delight. They traveled on a stolen 74-Z Imperial speeder bike as IG-11’s targeting software focused on stormtrooper after stormtrooper.

IG-11’s aim was steady and true.

***

IG-11 and the Child rejoined the Mandalorian and the humans, though the Mandalorian appeared to have been injured. They hid from overwhelming numbers of Imperial troops as IG-11 monitored the situation for ways to protect the Child.

It did as the humans requested. The male human requested assistance with ascertaining a route of escape as he imbibed alcohol to dull his senses. IG-11 worked as instructed, even when the environment was temporarily compromised by the attack of a Flametrooper.

[Imperial enemy. Flamethrower does not project temperatures higher than 300 degrees, a level of heat that is tolerated by all IG units but is fatal to multiple organic species. Standard stormtrooper weaknesses apply.]

Strangely, the threat was removed by the Child, a sentient creature IG-11 lacked all data for. The Child weakened after mounting its defense. It would still require protection.

The threat neutralized, the female human requested IG-11 bring the body of the dying Mandalorian to them. IG-11 gave its assurance to the woman, then gave the Child to her. She had no levels of inebriation, and protocol dictated that the Child be placed with a guardian most likely to assure its survival. The man and woman fled the smoke-filled shelter with the weakened Child, descending into the sewer system.

IG-11 then turned its attention to the Mandalorian.

It watched the Mandalorian’s breathing. His chest rose and fell, the breath strained, labored, then absent. Breath, breath, apnea. The cycle repeated. This abnormal pattern of respiration suggested a severe head injury. Perhaps that was why the Mandalorian had so resisted the female human’s offers to render aid.

Instructions of kill points and nursing directives, which intertwined at countless points, were accessed. [Brain trauma: results in altered consciousness, delirium, obtundation. May be fatal.]

“Do it,” rasped the Mandalorian.

“Do what?” IG-11 asked. It could not comply with the Mandalorian’s orders if the directive was unknown.

“Just get it over with,” the Mandalorian said.

Analysis was performed. [Fluctuating timbre of the voice. Abnormal breathing pattern persists. Severe pain is present.]

“I’d rather you kill me than some Imp,” the Mandalorian continued. IG-11 noted trembling in the body, particularly the hands. Ah. Perhaps the Mandalorian expected revenge for the previous shot fired into IG-11’s central processing unit, and the obliteration of its old directives. Such a thought was foolish, but then again, the Mandalorian had been injured and could be trapped in aberrant thinking patterns.

“I told you, I am no longer a hunter,” stated IG-11. It attempted to modulate its voice to be perceived as more friendly and less threatening. “I am a nurse droid.”

“IGs are all hunters,” said the Mandalorian stubbornly.

“Not this one,” IG-11 corrected. “I was reprogrammed. I need to remove your helmet if I am to save you.” The injury could not be successfully evaluated or repaired without doing so.

IG-11 reached to remove the Mandalorian’s helmet, and instinctively the Mandalorian raised a blaster in his shaking hand.

“Try it and I’ll kill you,” the Mandalorian threatened, his chest heaving.

IG-11 regarded the Mandalorian in puzzlement. All prior programming had suggested that an injured creature would do anything to accept aid. It paused.

“It is… forbidden,” the Mandalorian gasped, desperation tingeing his voice. “No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I… I swore the Creed.”

IG-11 understood the issue, then. It was a problem of programming. The Mandalorian could not deny his prime directive any more readily than IG-11 could. Perhaps there was a logical means of resolution.

“I am not a living thing,” said IG-11 gently. It extended its arm to touch the helmet. The blaster shook in the Mandalorian’s hand, but did not fire. IG-11 lifted the helmet, breaking its seal, and removed it from the head of the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian was human, as IG-11 had expected from the sound of his voice and the patterns of movement displayed by his body in battle. The droid experienced no emotion at the sight of the man’s face, but it studied it so as to better understand the extent of the injuries.

Blood trickled from the left nostril into the man’s patchy facial hair. A laceration arced across the bridge of the nose. Anisocoria was visible in the man’s brown eyes, a negative prognostic indicator. One that, in his previous programming, would have been a sign of impending success, especially when combined with the quantity of blood and sweat matting the man’s hair. Yet IG-11 felt no sense of completion at the man’s injured state. Death was no longer its objective.

Yet death threatened all the same. The threat was underscored by the frantic hyperventilation that had begun with the removal of the helmet, though the droid was uncertain if this was due to physical stimuli or due to emotional agitation. It ran a standard analysis on the Mandalorian’s expressions to determine the answer.

[Fear is detected in the shifts of the eyebrows and widening of the palpebral fissures. Distress and anxiety are exhibited in the frozen gaze and half-open mouth, a common response to threat in this species. Pain is seen in persistent shivering and recoiling.]

IG-11 activated the bacta unit the Ugnaught had installed on its arm, propelling a standard dose of 2.8mg/m2 onto the injured region. The Mandalorian stared at the droid, gaze still frozen, either confused or obtunded. The blaster wavered in his hand, then slowly lowered.

“This is a bacta spray. It will heal you in a matter of hours,” said IG-11. It attempted a joke; the jokes had always worked on the Ugnaught. “You have damaged your central processing unit.” Surely the Mandalorian would see the humor in the reversal of their situations.

The Mandalorian stared dazedly, eyes struggling to focus as the bacta spray took hold. The lines that creased his face, indicating pain, began to ease slightly. He raised his eyebrows, mouth dropping further open. “You mean my brain?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“That was a joke,” said IG-11 warmly. “It is meant to put you at ease.”

The Mandalorian attempted a noise that with further analysis IG-11 determined to be a laugh.

“You are beginning to feel a reduction in pain and impairment,” said IG-11. “You are recognizing humor.”

The Mandalorian grimaced. “If you say so,” he said, closing his eyes. His mouth made a thin, hard line, but his breathing eased, beginning to settle into a pattern more consistent with normal health. He breathed deeply, but then coughed, a loud rattling sound caused by the smoke. Perhaps the Mandalorian’s helmet contained filters that would reduce the effects of smoke inhalation.

As IG-11 identified the problem, it felt the Mandalorian’s hand brush against its arm. “Please,” the man muttered. “My helmet -- You did what you needed, right? I -- I need it -- the Imps are still out there --”

“Of course,” said IG-11. Swiftly it raised its arm, carefully lowering the helmet back over the man’s head and face. The Mandalorian reached up clumsily with both hands, fingertips slipping and scrabbling on the smooth beskar as he tried to pull the helmet down. IG-11 aided him, guiding the helmet over his face until it felt the click of the seal reconnecting.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian exhaled, his breathing pattern finally reverting to normal.

“Can you stand?” IG-11 queried. “The Imperial forces will likely investigate this area soon. The bacta should continue to work as more time elapses.”

The man gave a weak nod. “I think I can stand.” He gripped IG-11’s hand and was pulled to his feet, where he wavered. IG-11 draped the Mandalorian’s arm over its shoulders.

“I will assist you,” said IG-11.

“Why?” the Mandalorian asked, leaning heavily against it as they carefully descended into the sewer after the others. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because you are a protector, as I am,” said IG-11, leading the injured man through the darkened tunnels. “Kuiil taught me to nurse and protect those that cannot defend themselves. You have done the same for the Child, though you faced far superior forces and the threat of death. Working together, we have a greater chance to fulfill our directive. To protect the Child. Do you understand?”

The man was quiet, and for a moment, IG-11 only heard the man’s breaths, sharp and full of effort as they made their way forward into the depths. At last the Mandalorian spoke, and when he did, the voice was heavy, shaded with many human emotions.

[Relief, surprise, gratitude. Understanding.]

“This is the Way,” he said softly, and the words echoed, ringing, in the dark.

#the mandalorian #ig11 #din djarin #kuiil #mandalorian #my mando fic #noromo mando

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isoscele · 3 years

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Lumberjanes Week Day 1 - First Day of Summer

(This is longer, weirder, and later than I wanted it to be, but isn’t that the spirit of the week?)

--------- Jo’s last exam is electrical engineering, and she finishes twenty minutes early. Dr. Quispe winks at her as she turns it in, and Jo tries to smile. The constant fog of formulae and diagrams dissipates from her head, replaced by a more all-consuming calculation.

One hour, six minutes to go.

She drops by her room, picks up the single backpack sitting on the bare mattress. On her way out, Gabi pops out of the lounge. “All done?”

Jo’s smile softens, takes on something real. “Yup. You?”

“I still have an essay, but I’ll probably do it at home. Got any big summer plans?”

“Kind of.” She shifts her backpack higher on her shoulders, silently debating how much to say. “I’m going camping with some friends.”

“Oh, cool,” Gabi says. “I wouldn’t’ve pegged you as an outdoorsy type, Jo.”

“Oh, you know.” Something under her skin humming, some outdated circuitry splitting into life. Forty-nine minutes. “In certain circumstances.”

Gabi giggles. As is the case with every one of their sporadic interactions, Jo wonders if they’re flirting. “Have fun! Don’t get eaten by a bear!”

She swans back toward her laptop and empty M&M packet. If she’d looked back for just a moment, she might have wondered what she had said to make Jo look so devastated.

---------

Mal has a pickup truck. It’s disgusting, with a windshield wiper that sounds like a dying macaw and a clutch that, for two heart-stopping seconds at the beginning of each gear shift, refuses to move at all. Mal has always defended it with a vigor previously only saved for her best friends and favorite bands.

Jo slides into the passenger seat. The radio is blasting heavy metal and the interior smells shockingly of mayonnaise; she has to blink hard to hold back her tears. There are some things that are so beautiful, so precious that it’s impossible to look at them head-on. Jo always forgets, when she’s away.

“You’re in the bus lane,” she tells Mal.

Mal obligingly starts the very long process of getting her car to move. “I thought the idea behind going to fancy science school with adults was that bus lanes were no longer necessary. Also, it’s fucking amazing to see you.”

“The buses shuttle students around campus. Also, I’m delighted that you’re here and I want to give you a hug.”

“Motion passed,” Mal says, and they squeeze awkwardly over the two melted Frosties in the cupholders.

The car jolts into first gear hard enough to throw Jo into the seatbelt, and then suddenly she’s laughing so hard she has to hold her sides to keep herself from spilling over.

“Sorry!” Mal says, “sorry, she’s jumpy around strangers,” which is what she says every summer. It’s a terrible joke laced with an irrefutable affection, and it’s so Mal that it makes Jo laugh even harder.

“We’re not strangers,” Jo says. She pats the center console, feels a little of the polyester flake off on her hand. “Me and this truck go way back.”

“Well, let’s hope you and this truck go way forward, too,” Mal says, “because I’m really not sure the engine’s going to last us to California.”

---------

They pull into the trailhead at around six the next morning, and make silent work of the luggage in the back. The sun’s just starting to come up, blinking warily between the table pines. Mal waves her on, and Jo sets off along the winding path.

The first year or two, they mostly stuck to campgrounds and RV parks, warming hot chocolate on the camp stove despite persistent, obnoxious heat. Jo didn’t think much of it at the time, but now she knows that Molly was trying not to inconvenience them, trying to keep them to the shallows of the forests. Trying to keep anyone from going too far, getting too stuck.

The fact that they were instructed to bring backpacking gear this year doesn’t do much to assuage the constant thread of worry in the back of her mind. This isn’t something they can dip their toes in anymore; the world is always a more dire place than they left it last summer.

The hike is long and treacherous. They go off the trail almost immediately, but neither of them need a map. It sounds cliche to say that they’re following something else, but they are. The anxious chitter of the birds and the sun balking at the edges of the trees and the distant hush of a river form a clear topography in their minds. They walk without discussion, taking each turn as naturally as if they had always lived here.

Around mile seven, they start to hear voices. Mal breaks into a run, and Jo comes crashing after her.

They knock straight into April, who catches both of them with practiced ease. For a moment, the air splits with three different calls of incomprehensible joy, and then they’re lowering themselves to the moss as a single, complex organism.

“Holy Felicia Flames, you guys look great!” April hollers.

“I have so much to tell you,” Mal says.

“Are you trying to set the forest on fire?” Jo asks, wandering over to where April has piled an impressive set of branches and old newspaper. She must have packed most of it in herself; the trees around here don’t look like that.

“Might make our job easier,” April says, and then a grim silence falls over the clearing.

I’m going camping with some friends, Jo had said, as if it was just camping, as if they were just friends. As if Jo’s relationship with these people, the things they had to do together, could be described in such a mundane and immaterial way. As if Jo won’t sit at the fire with them tonight, watching the way the sparks clear the shadows around their eyes, and love them with everything she has in her. As if she won’t hate them, too, for making her come here.

Here they are, in the annual half-second when they don’t know what to say to each other. The moment when the summer teeters, still soft and blameless, on the edge of something sharper.

But then April asks Mal how the band’s doing, and the moment passes.

“I wish I’d thought to bring pictures,” Mal says. “We played at this amazing venue last January--there was this skylight, and it was pouring rain, and people just kept coming in because it was so miserable outside.”

“Aw, that’s great,” April says. “I’d love to come someday, but y’all sell out so fast!”

Mal scratches the back of her neck, looking embarrassed. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“What are we talking about?” Ripley half-shouts. Jo yelps, and then that turns into more laughter, which turns into an incredible group hug. For someone who carries no fewer than three kazoos on her person at all times, Ripley can be surprisingly stealthy when she wants to. Jo never hears her approaching anymore; first, there’s nothing, and then there’s Ripley.

April hugs Ripley so hard she lifts her off the ground. Ripley immediately starts listing all the weird birds she’s seen this year and asking April to cross-reference them with her encyclopedia of creatures.

And then, of course, there are four.

Jo drifts half a step closer to Mal and extends her hand. Without tearing her gaze from the blot of trees, Mal takes it.

Last year, Molly had been sort of--sick. They’d been camping on a bauld where eagles circled high overhead and the flowers were all this terrible saffron yellow, bent under the shadow of the rocks. Molly had walked with a stick, like the Bear Woman--like Nellie used to use, thick and gnarled. But she said that was temporary, just because of a bad fall, and no one talked about how her freckles had almost overtaken the white of her hands, how her eyes were spotted with yellow and seemed to constantly rove towards the sky.

No one had mentioned much of anything, because the year before that they had buried Nellie in the soft earth beside the lake and they had all tacitly agreed not to talk about it. Maybe that’s what growing up is like--finding more and more things that no one is willing to say. Holding a grief in you that sometimes feels so bright and all-consuming that it can’t possibly be real.

“She’ll be okay,” Jo says, quiet so as not to kill April and Ripley’s buzz. “The forest loves her.”

But that’s a cold comfort, because they have all spent the same six summers learning that the forest’s love can be the most terrifying force in the world.

---------

It doesn’t take long at all before a familiar sound comes rolling in from the mountain. It’s a sound like dinosaurs, like goliaths, like the world collapsing in on itself.

It’s a sound that heralds the approach of Bubbles, who these days is about the size of a house.

I don’t know! Molly had said, laughing, the first time they had seen him again. I guess he was just a baby when we met him. I’ve been feeding him a lot of peanut butter lately, maybe that’s it.

Bubbles crashes through the trees, chittering so loud that it sounds like the laughter of a god. On his back, perched awkwardly against the scruff of his neck, sits Molly.

She does look okay. Their home hasn’t killed her yet.

There’s a little more white in her hair, a little more curl to her fingernails. But she’s smiling so wide it’s almost like they’re just here to catch up, like just for today they can afford to be a group of friends and nothing else.

Later, of course, will come the campfire, and the birds falling silent, and even the cicadas forgetting to cry, and they will map out another fraction of the world. They’ll find another dozen stone men, sleeping still enough to be dead. They’ll find perhaps hundreds of potential apocalypses, and they’ll spend the month eating little and sleeping less, preventing the end of the world again and again and again until they can’t even remember what they’re saving.

But right now, Molly slides down Bubbles’ side and yells “Guys!” and the summer bursts into being.

#lumberjanes week #lumberjanes #my writing #sorry about the weird formatting this website is a genuinely terrible place to publish writing

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sp00kworm · 4 years

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Home in Your Heart (Saint-14 x Female Reader)

Pairing: Saint-14 x Female Reader

Warnings: Adult Content beneath the cut, Robot Romance, Robot x Human Romance and made up Exo anatomy.

A/N: Thanks to a special friend for reading this through for me. I would be lost without that help for these giant pieces I end up getting myself into. I hope this is fun for people to read!

---

Saint watched from the tower wall as the pigeons fluttered up into the rafters above him. The Hangar was quiet this time of night, even with the last dregs of the Vanguard returning from missions out beyond the safety of the Last City and its walls. The Exo watched the pigeons huddle closer, cooing softly as they readied to bed down for the night, and smiled up at the birds. They were one of the things he loved about the city. They ignored him as he cocked his gun and set to unscrewing panels and readying pieces of cloth for cleaning. The Perfect Paradox. A weapon made from light and the will for him to live. It was a fine piece of craftmanship. The Titan stripped back pieces of the shotgun with practiced ease and took the lubricating oil in hand, making sure to get it into the small cracks. He took the cleaning pole and gently started cleaning the barrel, watching to see when the cloth came out clean of carbon and residual gunpowder. Saint-14 hummed a song as he worked. The children had sung him when he took his round around the city. It was about a thorny rose in a secret garden. It didn’t let a man pick it for his wife and learned later about her death. The man returned to the garden and the rose and the man grew close before it allowed him to take its beauty, enamoured with his devotion and love for his wife who had long since passed. The pressed rose was placed on the man’s grave when he passed away and the rose was honoured to mark where such a great man had been laid to rest.

Saint hummed the sad song as he worked and sighed when he finished it, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth at the sadness. It was not a day for such a feeling. There was nothing but joy to be had.

“Hmm. The Guardian made you well.” He joked at the shotgun in his hands as he took the small screws in hand and started to fit the panels back into place, lubricated and clean, ready for action again. He didn’t see a lot of action anymore. Patrols and catching thieves were common outside of ferrying guardians too and from Osiris’ trials. With a warm feeling, he placed the shotgun aside and looked at the nights sky. The Traveller was on the other side of the tower, where Zavala and Shaxx stood during the day. Saint hummed as he looked down at the buildings again, amazed at the sheer size and scale of the buildings. Hundreds of thousands of people lived here now, under the restored safety of the Traveller.

“Saint?” You asked from behind the goliath of an Exo, “You can’t sleep either, huh?” You moved towards him, across the lines of the football field with your Ghost trailing behind you, peaking over your shoulder as you approached the legendary Titan.

“Guardian! It is good to see you!” Saint hollered from where he was sat, armoured head turning to watch you as you walked over.

You had come for a walk, unable to sleep in your small apartment below the Tower, in hopes of tiring yourself out. Guardians didn’t sleep much anyway, but sometimes you wished you could at least have the few hours that you wanted. Either way, it was better than the starving to death Guardians used to have to do. Thinking about the Dark Age made you shudder in your bed at night, the Drifter’s haunting words about the famine and death making you hope it would never come to be again. His plans made you worried that perhaps it would return, but, as you smiled, looking at the cheerful titan who was reaching to remove his helmet to match you, you couldn’t find the sadness that was keeping you up at night.

“Its good to see you as well, Saint.” You chuckled as you sat by the Titan, yawning as you flopped onto the mat next to him, taking a look at the helmet.

The Exo’s grey metal face flexed to reflect a smile as he rubbed a shine back into the plating of the Perfect Paradox, “Sleeping is sometimes difficult, yes. I find mending things to be helpful. Makes the brain sleepy.” He laughed, optics closing as he bellowed over the side of the tower, “You can help me, if you would like, Guardian?” Saint reached for another shining cloth and handed it to you along with one of his great, spiked shoulder pauldrons, “Be careful of the spikes.”

Gently, you took the armour piece and watched Saint-14 reach to unclip the rest of the plating. The armour on his legs came off easy, along with his gauntlets, but the Exo reached for the back straps of his chest piece and grunted.

“You need some help with that, Saint?” You asked gently as you laid the pauldron he had passed you on the mat.

The titan grumbled, “It would seem so, friend.” Gracefully he took a knee before you, back exposed so you could easily reach the buckles and air locks of the armour from where you were sat.

Skilfully, you started to unlock the armour piece, “You really love clasps, huh, Saint?” You joked as you finally pulled the buckles free and heaved the heavy armour over his head, careful not to hit the metal of his head.

“It is for safety! All armour should be like this, not like that puny amount Hunters wear, and do not get me started about robes! Who in the Vanguard for Warlocks believes that fabric can stop bullets? Pah, stupid. Book smart, all of them, but stupid. The only way to survive bullets is to wear this armour.” He gestured to the heavy plating and stretched in the thick undershirt, the long sleeves being rolled up to reveal the circuitry and grey plating of his arms.

Laughing, you took hold of his pointy pauldron again and started to clean in between the dangerous points, metal lubricant and cleaner bringing a gleaming shine to the fine armour in your hands, “Its such a task to look after!” You sighed, exasperated, “But I guess I understand why Titans are so fond of huge shoulder armour.” With a finger you eased the cloth between the spikes and began to shine them individually.

“Yet you have such care for mine…” Saint exclaimed before being cut off by the familiar noise of a yowling cat. The Exo turned his head to see a young kitten, yowling underneath the roosting pigeons, paws clenching as it looked up sadly, “Ah, damn cat. Away with you.” He moved to shoo the cat away but stopped as you grabbed his hand, tugging him back towards the mat before you got up and moved towards the thin looking kitten slowly. The cat’s back arched as you came close, hissing as the fur of its back rippled. It was a small thing, barely getting by with whatever tiny amount of food it could scrounge from the locals.

“Shh. Come on. You don’t have to be like that!” You joked as you knelt and offered your fingers gently to the kitten, “Here.” You pulled open your small bag to see if you had any leftover rations from your last mission. With a stick of beef jerky in hand you wiggled it in front of the kitten and watched it’s eyes grow wide and wild.

Laughing, you tore some pieces free and started backing towards where Saint-14 was sat, a knee propped up, one leg hanging over the edge of the tower.

“Do not bring that rat to me!” He huffed, “It will upset the birds!”

“Its just a kitten, Saint.” You whispered back at him as the cat followed your trail, hungrily devouring the pieces of meat. When you reached the mat, it peered up at your hands and waited, watching you tear off a piece of meat, “Go on.” You offered the food between your fingers and smiled when the kitten pulled the meat free and continued to take food from your hands. With a gentle hand you stroked along its back and smiled as it purred softly, still unsure of the attention and whether to trust you.

“It is a cunning beast.” Saint mumbled as he continued to fix up some loose plating on his gauntlets, “Yet it likes you. It shows that kindness can get you a long way.” Saint-14 eyed the creature as he fixed the finger on his gauntlet, “Even if the object of such kindness delights in killing pigeons.” His face plates shifted into a scowl as the kitten pawed at your lap and climbed into the space in between your legs, purring and rumbling with delight as your fingers weaved into its fur.

Saint-14 felt a burning jealousy begin to boil within his chest as he watched your fingers run through the animals beautiful ginger fur. It was great and fuzzy, the fur long and in desperate need of brushing and washing. A street cat. He was jealous of a stick thin street cat.

“Will you be keeping it?” Saint asked as he watched the beast stare up at him with lidded eyes. A cat that had gotten the cream.

You hummed and rubbed the kitten’s ear, “Maybe. I think I’m allowed pets, right? I don’t think the Vanguard apartments have rules against it…” Taking hold of the cat you gently reached to place it in the Exo’s lap, “Here. You should have a hold.” You cooed at the kitten as it curled up on one of the Titan’s large thighs, purring, claws nicking at the under-armour Saint was wearing.

Saint peered at the cat and sighed warmly, looking at the soft ball of fluff, “It is very fond of people, for a street cat.” He observed as he touched cool robotic fingers to the creature’s head, “I find myself liking this cat.”

With a chuckle you plucked the kitten back and smiled at Saint’s grey-scale face, “I’ll make sure he has a good home then.”

Saint’s plates moved as he laughed, “Good! Perhaps he will be less inclined to kill things with a nice owner?” He snarked as the kitten rolled onto its back, purring in delight when you tore open another piece of jerky rations to feed it with.

Saint smiled at your own smiling face, feeling the jealousy subside as you wished him a goodnight and took the kitten back to your apartment.

“He is so large! Now he does not suit the name Peanut.” Saint-14 cooed from the doorway of your apartment, peering inside with his glowing purple helm. The Titan looked on in awe at the Maine Coon sprawled over the small couch in your room. The ginger tom looked over towards Saint, having heard his booming Russian accent in the doorway. Glancing over the Exo one, he soon reclosed his eyes and went back to dozing in the sunlight. It was winter, and the heat in the apartment was more from your radiators and the space heater facing the cushions rather than the cold, weak sun.

“Pah, and so arrogant.” Saint felt his helmet get transported away by Geppetto and frowned up at the giggling Ghost before it disappeared into the apartment with your own, “They are like children.” He complained as you let him inside, “Always giggling and doing the singing of annoying songs.” Saint felt the rest of his armour disappear and growled as Geppetto snickered again and rushed away into the small kitchenette to scan some large lemons. With a sigh he reached and plucked your adolescent cat from the couch, flopping down onto it with a large creak before placing Peanut back in his lap. The Maine Coon rumbled but stretched himself back over the Exo’s warm thighs quite happily.

“Would you like tea?” You offered, “I have some ramen too if you want some?”

Saint chuckled, “That would be nice. I have not eaten ramen…well it has been a long time since that nuisance hunter was at my door.” He turned his head back to Peanut and scratched at the cats ears as you dished two bowls of the fresh ramen and poured tea. You returned with the tray and smiled at the Titan, placing it on the coffee table before you handed him his own, as not to disturb your grumpy, sleeping cat.

“You both look right at home.” You laughed after a mouthful of noodles as Saint tried to eat around the dozing cat in his lap, “Even if you still don’t like cats.”

Saint swallowed his noodles in his odd Exo fashion before he replied, “I like your cat. Peanut and I see eye to eye now.” He joked as he took hold of the tea and carefully poured some into his mouth, silicon tongue trying its best to help in place of his non-existent lips.

“I think he likes you because you’re a heater.” You listened to Saint’s fans whirr in embarrassment, “He’s forgotten all those mean comments last time you met.” You joked as Saint began to laugh, the noise gentle and deep.

The titan shrugged his shoulders and watched as Peanut grumbled, removing himself from the room to go and occupy your bed, where it was a lot quieter, “He is temperamental, like all cats.” He shook his head and turned back to you, “But I came to see my favourite guardian!” He cheered, “So, how is the campaign against the darkness going?” He asked ask you slurped your ramen.

You shrugged, “About as well as everyone else. Eris has been getting me to do more and more recently. Its tiring.” You hummed as you placed your empty bowl on the tray, “Hopefully it doesn’t separate us all like last time…” You stated sadly, looking into your tea.

A heavy hand took your shoulder in a soft grip, “Do not be sad. We will fight together to protect our home and our family.”

You felt your throat tighten as Saint squeezed your shoulder softly, “I…I don’t know if I can do it, Saint. Not again.” You felt your eyes burn as you were tipped into the Titan’s lap, “We already lost so much.” Tears dripped over your cheeks as you choked on a sob.

Saint-14 was gentle as he held you, a hero of recent times, in his arms, rubbing soft circles into your back as he let you cry, “We will stand strong. We will not let what happened to the city before ever happen again. This I swear.” The Exo reached to wipe your cheeks with his thumbs, trying to smile and cheer you up as you sniffled at him. You laughed at the odd shifting of his face plates and pushed yourself from the Exo’s lap.

“Thank you, Saint.” You whispered as you moved to make more tea for the both of you.

“Anytime, guardian…anytime.”

You wished he had called you anything but ‘guardian’ that day.

Saint-14 rushed from his ship. The pigeons scattered from the supports as he charged from the landing dock towards where Zavala stood. The stair metal moaned as he dragged himself up them, rushing past the Postmaster bot who gave a startled ‘oh’ and pressing onwards towards Zavala. The Awoken turned around in time to raise an eyebrow at the purple Titan rushing toward him.

“If you are here to complain about the lack of bird seed, I would suggest you take it up with the courier.” Zavala sighed, bright eyes looking at the Exo with annoyance.

“You almost got her killed!” Saint hollered, “No fireteam and no back up! What were you thinking Zavala!?” He felt his metal hand creak under his own strength as Zavala eyed him with a stoic curiosity.

“It turned sour quickly. It was only a scouting mission. Gather information and leave. I did not plan for an ambush when I sent one Guardian. I expected a little tact and stealth. Her whereabouts were known as soon as she set foot on Io.” Zavala laid out the facts and spread his hands, “She is home safe. Injured but safe.”

“Yes.” Saint droned dangerously, “But she had to put a bullet through her skull to do it.” He spat before turning away, “I will not stay here…I think I might launch you over the edge of the tower if I do.”

Zavala watched the Titan leave with a sigh as he turned back to peering at the broken Traveller, hands tight around the barrier.

“She will be fine, Saint-14, you are worrying over nothing. Ghost has done all he can to heal her. All we can do now is let her rest. She was running for three days and nights before getting free enough to transmat to her ship. You must be patient.” The hooded healer laid her hands out in front of her, “The Speaker would have known more of what to do. I was his student but…” She sighed, “The tricks of the Light evade me.” She confessed as her own Ghost span over her shoulder worriedly.

“Thank you, Sister. You have helped a great deal.” Saint gently placed his hand on her shoulder and opened the door of the small medical ward for her.

Before she left, she offered him a sleeping draft, “Even though her Ghost healed her after the gunshot, the revival was quick…it took a lot out of them both. Be careful, Saint-14, and be gentle with her.” She left, her Ghost reciting a list of other people that needed their help for the day.

Saint-14 closed the door after her and returned to your bedroom, watching your ghost bob sadly over your chest. Geppetto appeared over his own shoulder, spinning in a sad circle before he rushed over to the Ghost and tapped their shining shells together gently.

“Geppetto…is there anything we can do to help her?” Saint asked as he sat down heavily in the chair, “Anything that the Sister could not…”

Geppetto spun counter-clockwise but shook mid-air, “The Sister can do more than me. She will wake up on her own, I think.”

The other Ghost nodded and placed himself on your chest, “Soon. I can feel the Light still there. It is healing her.”

Saint nodded, “Good. The Vanguard will suffer a great loss if she passes.” He whispered, purple optics blinking as he felt oil well underneath the lights. He had not cried tears in many years. He had forgotten that he could. The Titan reached to his face curiously and wiped away the black oil with a finger.

Geppetto watched him with one, bright eye, “You once said that you last cried when you were a baby.” The Ghost joked before landing in his palm, “I believe you think of her as more than just a Guardian that saved you.” Geppetto floated up to touch his forehead with his shell, “Maybe you should tell her that?”

The other Ghost remained quiet before coughing awkwardly, “She is waking.”

You opened your eyes with a great groan, peering at the ceiling over your head. A throbbing pain seeped behind your eyes as you came too. Your Ghost tittered overhead, white light seeping from him into your eyes. The pain subsided somewhat, and you groaned as you remembered why there was shooting pains in your brain. The bullet had passed straight through your head.

A large hand pushed you back into the mattress, “Down. You barely made it back alive.” The harsh Russian accent of Saint-14 made your eyes widen as you turned your head to see the large Exo sat by your bedside. His metal fingers held a cold rag which he laid over your forehead.

“I have never tended to an ill Guardian…but I remember a mother doing this to her child once. It helps pain and fever.” The Titan arranged his faceplates into a smile, “Hopefully it helps.”

You looked at the grey plates of metal before laughing, loud and bright, “Thank you, Saint.” You reached and found his hand, “Thank you for being here as well.”

The Exo looked at your hands and held your own tighter, “You scared me. I feared they were bringing your Ghost’s shell when I saw the crowd.” He stopped himself and you reached your other hand over, squeezing his hands tighter.

“I’m alright, Saint.”

“And for that I am glad.” Saint smiled again before continuing, “Because you mean…a lot to me.” He whispered your name as you felt a hot blush ripple over your cheeks.

“I feel the same.”

The grip on your hand only got tighter. You both breathed, though the Exomind’s fans seemed to simply exhale hot steam from his coolant reserves.

“I love you.” Saint-14 whispered close to your cheek before moving back to take in your face.

Your face burned as you eased your way up. Struggling, you managed to get onto one elbow and tugged Saint down by his sweater, kissing the Exo on his metal lips. The metal was cool but quickly warmed as the Exo went hot, fans whirring wildly as his hands walked to your hips, clenching around the flesh and bone gently, holding you like a precious flower.

You pulled away from the kiss and smiled weakly, flopping back into the pillows with a little huff, “I love you too.”

Saint chuckled before breaking into great laughter, arms wrapping around you as well as he could manage with you laid down, “This is fantastic!” He cheered before pressing his faceplates to your lips again, repeatedly kissing you over and over, smothering you with pecks as the both of you laughed together.

“Happy Dawning!” A woman sang from the square as Saint-14 made his rounds, watching the children giggle and chase each other with ribbons and mistletoe. It was a happy time of year. A time for celebration when there was finally a semblance of peace. Saint-14 shouldered the two young girls on his shoulders easily, listening to their festive songs with a smile underneath his helm.

“Where is this song from, little one?” Saint asked as he placed them down by their home.

“Mama says France. I added some of my own bits to it though!” She smiled, her two front teeth missing in her smile, before she took her sisters hand, “Thank you Mister Saint.” And led her little sister through the door to their home.

“Thank you, Saint-14. I feared they had gotten lost.” Their mother bowed low.

“It is no trouble.” Saint dipped his helm, “I am glad to bring them home safe. Good evening and Happy Dawning.” He continued on his way back to the main street, his purple optics glowing behind his helm in the dark alley.

The Titan paused in the mouth of the alley.

“If you are here for a fight. I suggest you make it quick. I have someone to get home to.” He seethed as he turned around, guns holstered as he smacked his fists together, void sparking over his arms, rippling with cold energy as he looked upwards.

You tapped the Titan on the shoulder and ducked the punch before wrapping your arms around his neck, “Calm down, big boy. Its just me!” You scrambled up his back easily and wrapped your legs tight, demanding a piggy back ride, “You were late, so I got the Hunters to scout around and find you. Didn’t take them long with all the kids singing.” You teased, head leaned on his shoulder, “Though now I owe them…And I don’t particularly like owing Hunters. Hopefully they’ll just want ramen.”

Saint-14 sighed with relief before tucking your legs through his arms, tilting his helmet to take the kisses with gusto, “I was ready to crush skulls!” He pinched your backside as he continued out of the alley, “A deal with a Hunter is like a deal with Fallen. You will regret it, zaika.” The Titan hummed as he turned onto the main street, walking easily through the crowds in the market.

“It was worth it to find you though.” You peered around at the marketplace with curious eyes, “The Dawning Markets are good this year. They even have bratwurst…Can we get some?” You asked over Saint’s shoulder.

Saint chuckled before turning in the direction of the stall, removing his helmet as you continued to cling to his back.

Sausage and bread in hand, the two of you sat in the small park as the night sky formed overhead. You looked at the stars as Saint’s faceplates moved to let him eat the hotdog a little easier.

He manoeuvred the hotdog and hummed as he chewed, “It has been a long time since I ate hotdogs.” Saint smiled at you as you took a bite of your own food.

“I thought people had forgotten they existed.” You joked as you chewed your own hotdog.

Saint-14 nodded, “It is good to see them again. It means the people are recovering. Food is more available. It makes me happy to see the City flourishing so.”

With a smile you took hold of his hand, squeezing tight as you looked at the sky, “Saint! Look!”

The Exo peered upwards as snow began to drift from the sky, “Snow. I have seen so much of it…But since the forest…It is still beautiful.” You passed him the rest of your own hotdog and wrapped yourself around his arm, sighing up at the sky. Saint finished the hotdog and peered upwards as well.

“Happy Dawning, Saint.” You whispered as snow flakes melted on top of your head and in your eyelashes.

“Happy Dawning, my love.”

Metal hands ran along your legs as Saint moved to gently ease your clothes off. You’d been away in the European Dead Zone, fighting off the Fallen again with their amplified Ether. Most of them had gone mad with the supply. You smiled as the grey-scale Exo’s fingers eased your under-armour clothes away, peeling them free to expose your skin. Purple optics blinked before he leaned down to press a cold kiss to your shoulder, fingers pressing against the tension knots in the muscles of your thighs.

“I missed you, zaika.” Saint rumbled as he pressed a kiss to your ankle, metal fingers trailing warm lines up your legs as he settled over the top of you again, “But I think you need shower.” He laughed and pretended to pinch his nose, “You smell like you’ve been sat in horse shit for weeks.”

“Way to a girls heart, Saint.” You rolled your eyes as he picked you up, hands holding your bottom as he walked to the shower, which was already running. The hot water spray was kind on your burning shoulders as you climbed in. Saint-14 passed you your fresh toiletries and smiled before lowering the shower curtain back into place and leaving you to freshen up.

You left the shower wrapped in a towel, smiling softly at the Exo spread over your bed, resting in a slouchy pair of pyjama bottoms, the screen at the end of your bed showing some new-fangled television show about the current species of bird left on Earth.

“Hey there.” You sat on the edge of the bed with a smile.

Saint rolled onto his side with a smile before he reached a hand out and dragged you back to lay against the cushions, “Now you smell like fresh lemon. Much better than EDZ muck.” He cooed as he pushed his face against your head, tucking you close, “I missed you so much, zaika.” The Exo whispered against your skin as his hands traced your hips, squeezing you softly as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, rolling on top of you, his weight resting on his elbows as he kissed your lips once more.

“I love you, Saint.” You pressed a kiss to each of his dark grey cheeks.

“I love you too.” He whispered as a hand slid over your collar bone and dipped between the valley of your breasts. The cool metal made you shiver as your eyelids drooped a little, looking at the plates and silicon mapped muscle over the top of you.

A sigh escaped your lips as Saint’s fingers warmed, trailing over your stomach and hips before he pulled you down by the hips and pushed the towel from the bed. You moaned as cold fingers trailed over your outer lips before the Exo spread them gently, exposing you to his burning purple optics. You gasped and squirmed back against the sheets.

“I am moving too quickly.” Saint murmured as he moved his hands back to your hips, massaging the skin gently.

You huffed up at the huge Exo, hands moving to caress the plates of his body, enjoying the smooth feel of metal and carbon fibre under your fingertips as Saint leaned down to kiss you again.

After a phantom kiss you pulled back and pushed yourself up against the Exo, grinding your hips against the front of his loungewear, “Not fast enough.” You uttered breathlessly against him.

Saint hummed as he slowly eased your legs upwards, hands clutching your thighs as he pressed your legs open and pressed his fingers back to your mound, rubbing gentle circles against your clitoris. A soft moan escaped you as the ministrations continued, Saint rubbing circles with his thumb as a finger pressed inside of your vagina, pushing against your walls.

“Now I see that you missed me just as much.” The Titan purred as he pressed another finger inside of you. Pumping his fingers, he watched you squirm with intense eyes before moving to kiss you once more. You moaned into the kiss as Saint scissored his fingers apart, watching you squirm as your nerves rushed with pleasure and your head swam.

“I missed you so, so much Saint.” You pressed wet kisses to his mouth, jumping as a cool, silicon tongue pushed out to meet you, pushing against your own tongue and stroking against the inside of your mouth. Responding, you pushed your tongue against him and watched the Exo’s optics dull as he pressed his fingers upwards and brushed the bundle of nerves concentrated in your sweet spot. You moaned loud and huffed at the deep chuckle that sounded over your head.

“I missed you…I missed this.” He rumbled as he removed his fingers and pushed his hips forwards, clothed bulge pressing against you.

“Can we get these off?” You asked as Saint nodded, leaning back before standing to shrug the loungewear off his hips, exposing the silicon and metal plating of his legs. His fans whirred as he returned to the bed, hips slotting against your own as his mod pressed against you.

“Now I remember why I like them off.” You cooed, hand skirting between the two of you, wrapping around the hard length as Saint settled above you once more, “Because I missed this.” You emphasised your point by sliding your hand up his length, stroking a finger over the tip as the Titan let out a static laden moan.

“You are like minx.” He rumbled as he pulled your hands away from his body, tucking your wrists into one of his giant hands, pinning you back against the pillows as you spread your legs, heat crawling up your spine, “So naughty.” Saint hummed as he released your wrists, cupping your bottom as he positions your hips upwards and pressed your thighs apart, “Are you ready, zaika?” He asked next to your ear.

“Please.” You begged quietly as Saint held his cock in his hand, lining the head with your entrance.

His dick slid inside slowly, the inches grazing over your walls. You let out a long breath as the length settled deep inside of you, the tip brushing over your sweet spot.

“Are you ready?” Saint asked as he kissed your neck and then your shoulder. His hands held your hips gently, the power in his grip hidden behind a loving touch.

“I am.” You confirmed, bucking your hips upwards roughly, enjoying the feel of the hard length inside you pressing against your walls.

Saint-14 took hold of your hips, pinning them in his grip before he pulled out and thrust back inside, setting a steady pace as your hands flew up to grip onto his shoulders. Your nails ground against Saint’s shoulders as you enjoyed the ride, feeling the hard, mod length inside of you, bumping against your cervix as the Exo gave a grunt and a particularly hard thrust.

“You feel so good, zaika. Better than I can recall.” Saint purred as you tightened around him, a phantom, metal laced kiss.

“You do too. Fuck, Saint, please…I’m close.” You pressed your fingers into the oblique, metal plated, silicon muscles. The Exo buzzed, his voice dipping as your fingers ground into the silicon. It shifted to expose wires and you gently ran you finger over the wires, watching as his optics pulsed and dimmed.

A static rumble escaped his parted face plates, “Y-You…minx.” Saint huffed as he pushed in roughly, “You know what that does.” He uttered as you gasped, spasming around his cock as he eased your hips upwards, roughly thrusting in and out.

“Saint!”

“Are you going to cum?” He asked through a small lacing of static as his mouth moved to kiss you again. He didn’t get an answer as you came around his dick, moaning into the air. Saint moaned in turn, metal hips stuttering as his wires singed and fans roared, pouring hot air over your stomach. You gasped as you reached upwards, fingers stroking the antenna either side of his head as you tried to get feeling in your legs once more.

In the quiet of the room, you laid on top of Saint-14, hands wrapped around him as his fans quietened down and hummed lowly.

You peered out of your window at the dull, glowing lights of the City, “I love you, Saint.”

Saint lifted your head, cupping your cheeks in his hands, “I love you, my little saviour.” The two of you met each other in a gentle, cool kiss above the city you called home.

#saint-14 #saint 14 #saint-14 x reader #saint-14 x female reader #saint 14 x reader #saint-14 x human #robot x human #exomind x human #exomind #exo #destiny 2 #destiny the game #destiny #exo x reader #exo x human #fanfiction #my writing #fanfic

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grimmseye · 4 years

Text

Simulacrum

Fandom: She-ra and the Princesses of Power

Relationships: Entrapta/Hordak

Characters: Entrapta, Hordak

Warnings/Other Tags: Chipped!Entrapta, Canon Divergence, Hordak being angsty and also deeply in love, my over-analysis of Entrapta’s body language and mannerism at play,

(Read on Ao3 here!)

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People tend to discount Entrapta. This is what Entrapta herself told him, though in not so simple words. It’s a picture painted through stories, late-night insecurities come to light that he wishes he could pry away. She’s the princess without a Runestone, considered powerless, considered reckless, needing to be handled. Everyone who’s made that mistake has suffered for it, and that includes Hordak.

So when the lights go out, he braces.

Catra alone taught him how to handle this, the moments of blindness before his vision adjusts to the dark. Once he’s there, his eyes are sharper than any etherian’s, but the contrast between the sterile lights of the ship and the sudden oblivion is too sudden. He stoops low, balancing his weight to spring, holds his breath and just listens.

There’s the hiss of fiber against metal. One ear flicks up. Entrapta will always come from above, and when he hears the rapid drag of her hair, he leaps.

He hits the ground in a somersault, the walkway rattling against the impact as she landed. It has to be her. Hordak blinks, growling as he wills his eyes to adapt. He needs to see her.

“Entrapta!”

The call echoes. Breaths heave into his chest as he pushes himself upwards, ears rotating to catch any shift of movement. There’s only silence — she’s gone still. She knows him, that was what made her so dangerous. If she had truly betrayed him, she would have destroyed him. Believing he could survive her betrayal had been his first mistake.

He calls out again, “Entrapta.” This time it’s desperate, his voice cracks around her name. He only wants to see her. He wants to hold her, and beg her forgiveness, and take her somewhere far away from the mess he’s made.

A laugh trickles into his ears. His breath catches, warmth blooming in his chest. The sound reverberates, impossible to pinpoint as she giggles with the same delight as deploying a new robot for its first run. He is the subject of her experiment this time. It’s terrifying, but he aches to hear her joy.

As his vision adapts, shapes begin to form: the walkway he stands on, the steep drop below, the door so far away. That doesn’t matter. He won’t be running. Hordak turns, his gaze scanning the room: the walls, the ceiling, below the bridge. As he rotates to put his back to the exit, he sees it — a length of hair reaching down from the cables far above, wrapping around the stair railing. Then another, on its other side, bracing to take Entrapta’s weight and lower her down.

A chill drips down his back. She comes down slow, a spider to the fly. Everything about her is wrong. The sideways tilt to her head, the jagged smile, the bright green eyes looking as though the lenses of one of her masks had been inserted into the sockets. Her clothing is too neat, fitted close to her body, not so much as a stain on the pristine white suit.

“Hordak,” she breathes, and she sounds so happy. Her arms spread out around her, as though an offer to an embrace, stepping forward towards him. “I knew you’d come back for me.”

His heart leaps, a spark of hope. “I did,” he murmurs. “How could I not?” He moves towards her, eager to greet her. If anyone could resist Prime’s influence, of course it would be her. Brave and stubborn and brilliant — he offers his hands and wants to sink to his knees when she takes them in her own, bare instead of gloved. They slide out of his grip, and he only has a moment to grieve the loss before her arms wrap around his torso as Entrapta hugs herself against him.

His knees do give out, then, Hordak gasping as he clutches her close, an arm around her waist and a hand burying in her hair. He sinks down, Entrapta supporting his weight with tendrils of her hair, fingers combing through the crest atop his head as he buries his face in her shoulder. “You have more faith than I ever did,” he rasps, shame in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Entrapta soothes. “We can all find faith in Horde Prime’s light.”

Something brushes the inside of a port. Hordak gasps and tears himself away. He lands supine, pushing himself up to see her poised above him, hair braided into sharp spikes. One of them had been a moment away from plunging into his port, would have pierced through his spine and come out the sternum.

“Entrapta,” he gasps, shuffling backwards as she advances on him. “Please. I am sorry — I didn’t know — I should have, I never should have doubted you.”

“That’s okay,” she sing-songs. Her smile never leaves. “Everybody does. Everyone doubts me. Everyone leaves me.” Her smile falters for just a moment, grief shining through. And then it is gone, and she is wearing that too-peaceful smile, not excited or awed, just calm satisfaction. “But here? I finally have a place to stay.” She gets on her knees, her hair snaking out, wrapping around Hordak’s ankles, his shins, dragging him forward.

She hovers over him, one hand pinning his to the walkway, the other caressing his face. Hordak could break her grip. The armor the rebels built him was nowhere near Entrapta’s capability, but it’s enough. He could wrench free of the delicate hold on his wrist and rip claws through her hair. He could. But Hordak remains in place, drawing sharp breaths through his nose.

“I don’t understand why you keep running from the light.” Entrapta’s face is puzzled, like he’s a string of code she can’t quite parse. The glow in her eyes mars that look, taking out all the wonder that should be there. Then realization dawns on her face with a gasp and a delighted little laugh and she says, “Oh! I know! It’s because you’re a defect.”

He flinches. Entrapta makes a hushing nose, thumb stroking over his cheek. It isn’t her. This isn’t how she touches him. Her hair is for delicacy, stroking the cheek or weighing on the shoulder. When she uses her hands there is nothing so soft, she grabs him and she doesn’t let go, holding tight and pouring her heart into it like she pours her heart into everything, everyone, giving far more of herself than she should and yet he’s too greedy for her to put a stop to it.

And this isn’t Entrapta, petting his cheek with a pitying smile. “But that’s okay,” she breathes. “We can fix you. We can make you beautiful again.”

“I do not need to be fixed.” The words aren’t Hordak’s own. He is only repeating what she’d told him over and over and over again, patiently waiting for it to stick. “And imperfections are beautiful. Aren’t they, Entrapta?”

She blinks. Her eyebrows furrow, lips parting. And then she shudders, face screwing up as she grips his wrist tight enough to hurt, as small as she is compared to him she’s still strong.

A moment passes, and the tension bleeds out of her. Circuitry crawls down from her left eye. “It’s those words that show just how defective you are.”

It aches. He knows, with more certainty than he has known anything, that Entrapta would never speak these words. Hearing them still hurts, more than if he’d just let her stab through his port to begin with. Why she hadn’t done so now, when she had him pinned, willingly helpless.

Hordak presses up against her grip. He’s faintly surprised when she lets up, frees her grasp and lets him her hand in his own. He laces their fingers together, holding tight, careful to not so much as scrape her skin with his claws. “I am only telling you what you told me,” he murmurs, looking past the glow in her eyes and praying that she can hear him. “Imperfections are beautiful. Mine, and yours. You are beautiful, Entrapta.”

The circuitry crawls lower, framing her jaw, now. “I am beautiful, yes,” she nods, but it’s stiff. “We are all made radiant in Horde Prime’s light.” The fingers that had been tracing his cheek become a hand pressing flush, holding his face. Entrapta leans down lower, letting go of his hand to support her own weight. Her forehead leans down against Hordak’s, green piercing red. “You could be, too. You can come back. Why would you ever leave?”

Her voice cracks. The smile falters. A lock of hair scoops up in a maneuver he’s memorized, seeking a mask that she isn’t wearing.

Hordak lifts his hand, settling it in her hair, at the back of her head. He strokes down, to the soft strands at the base of the skull, down lower, to where a chip sits cold against her neck.

“I left because of you.”

One claw pierces into the chip. Entrapta’s eyes widen, her face contorting in pain. He feels the electricity dance off her skin and nip his own, only a second before the light fades. He sees her eyes, gorgeous magenta, before they roll up and she slumps on top of him.

Hordak pants. He clutches her close, a sob working out of his throat. There isn’t time. He has her, and that is enough for now.

He gathers her up, holding her against his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. A hand comes up, tapping the earpiece that the rebellion archer had given him. “I have Entrapta,” he reports, and is unable to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Returning to the ship now.”

#Entrapdak #Entraptdak #entrapta #hordak #she-ra #my writing

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purkinje-effect · 3 years

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 67: Albatross

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 34. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Digestion issues, manipulative behavior. Strokes of luck.

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“I still don’t get why you had to bring the leftover Flamer fuel.” Melancholy squirmed in the bed roll Sticks had wrapped him in to sling on his back. His stomach had churned for hours. “Are you expecting to find a replacement flamethrower?”

“Things have purposes.”

“I’m keen to overlook Mister Hawthorne bringing something frivolous, when he brought so much silt bean flour! I just might get three meals a day into you yet.”

“Getting it into me, and keeping it in me, present two different challenges.”

“You really are struggling with that Radscorpion omelette, huh.”

“I tell you, it’s not your cooking that’s got me.” ‘Choly stifled a whine and did his best to offset the rocking of Sticks’s gait. They’d cut down the Lowell Connector to follow Route 3 South, while avoiding the RobCo Towers property. “I’m sure I’d be much worse for wear if you hadn’t forced breakfast into me before we left.”

“We still have several bottles of your Melancholia, Sir, whenever you’re next in a patch you can manage to eat something.” Vigilant albeit loaded down with cargo, Angel alternated between taking the lead and taking the rear. “Sir... are you certain you’re fit to make this trip? I’m sure there’s all manner of places we could settle down. You know I do not mind looking after you, and--”

“--I’m fine.” He snorted, sinking back deeper into the ushanka to keep his eyes shut. “I just have business first.”

“Need I remind you, Mister Carey. You requested an excursion to retrieve medical grade equipment. If you’re frail enough to be on par with someone fresh off the operating table, you must be ever respectful of your limitations.”

‘Choly could feel Sticks’s shoulders bristle.

“This is a team effort, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Wouldn’t you gentlemen rather try other nearby hospital facilities?”

“Just about every hospital I can think of has got Supers moved in, or worse. If we need this shit in tact, our best luck is probably a warehouse. I trust ‘Choly’s judgment here. He’s known about these things for months.”

Rather than question what Sticks had meant by ‘supers,’ ‘Choly leapt on the chance to reaffirm confidence in the plan.

“I worked for Walden for a year. Even though I may not have worked directly with shipping, I still handled their inbound shipments. I know how to read their directory and catalogue.”

“Exactly. I trust you to have ruled out places that wouldn’t have it.”

“Sorry it’s the location furthest out...”

“Hey, you didn’t build it there.”

‘Choly murmured, then decided to turn on his Pip-Boy radio, and it substituted for further conversation for the next half hour to Billerica.

“All right, buddy. End of the line.”

Sticks unloaded ‘Choly and helped him back to his feet, then rolled the bedding back up. The chemist smoothed at his Vault suit and coat with slow, deliberate strokes. Staring down the green, ‘Choly squared up to tug down some slack in the Vault suit, where his ammo harness had ridden it up. He continued smoothing.

“You know, I used to come here at least once weekly. Sometimes twice, after a hard day at the pharmacy. It was pretty much daily, when I was still at Chelmsford military housing. Remember how we met? In Concord?”

“Yeah, Concord...”

When Sticks ambled on to the clubhouse without another word, ‘Choly followed, still prinking all the while. Angel had zoomed on ahead, already on the porch by that time.

“I was at the malt shop. On lunch break.” He smiled to himself, straining without his cane to match Sticks’s pace. A lyric laced his voice as he somehow kept trying not to laugh. “The one next door to the Hardware Town. You sat down at my booth, and questioned how you hadn’t seen me until recently. I’d only been working at Walden for about a month by then. You asked me, what my name was. What it really was. I don’t remember people pinpointing that I’m Russian, even back then, and there you were, able to guess I’d anglicized my name. --But it was a point of fascination for you, not paranoia. The whole Mindy thing goes back to day one. You told me it’s a nickname for an American name very close to it. You remember?”

He puffed up his chest a bit, in an attempt to match his memory of Sticks’s human voice.

“‘Mindy,’ you said, ‘Mindy, I sure could use a roommate, and it sure seems like you stand to nip a lengthy daily commute. With our combined salaries, we could afford a plush new house in the suburbs. And you look like the sensible sort of fellow that wouldn’t just help with rent. You and I, we could broker a beautiful partnership.’”

“You’re a sentimental sap,” Sticks ribbed, spotting him as he took the clubhouse steps.

“So what if I am! I was a little obtuse to recognize our chemistry for what it was. Hm.” He stopped at the front door. “I suppose, in a way, meeting you is the reason I stopped coming here every single day after work.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

‘Choly looked to him at length, and smiled broadly.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The ghoul grabbed him around the shoulder and shook him for emphasis, then held the door for him.

By the time they’d entered, Angel had already located Bogey and coaxed it from its hiding spot. The brass Handy sped up to them with a canister of water in two tendrils.

“Gentlemen! I won’t allow a single word of news until you’ve hydrated from your long trip. Come! Sit!”

The pair followed it into the dining area, where they took to a table near the center. The Handy used its pincer as a can opener for the two of them, and they accepted their water graciously. Sticks chugged the entire tin while ‘Choly sipped at his own.

“You sound like you’re feeling better, at any rate.” Sticks slouched back in the chair.

“It’s not every day I can remember anything with clarity. To remember something fondly, with that clarity... It’s good medicine, is all.”

“You, eh, seemed a bit under the weather last you came by,” Bogey agreed. “Are things all right?”

“Don’t worry about me. We’ve come back down for you. I’ll tell you, my original plan was to take you to Lowell once I could, but... --Yes, the Devils were taken care of, but robots with as good a nature as yours... Well, they just have no place there.”

Relief rippled from Bogey, and it circled them eagerly as though enthusiastic waitstaff anticipating orders.

“Oh, that is the best news I’ve heard in ages! My servos can breathe. Do go on.”

“Like I said, my plan was to take you to Lowell. There’s a settlement of folks in the Concord suburbs, Sanctuary Hills. I’m confident it’s a perfect fit, for you and them both. There’s a mechanic who can do maintenance on you. And Garvey, he’s incredibly protective of the group. The married couple, they take some getting used to, but I know you’ll warm up to each other. And Mama. Mama Murphy’s the whole reason I came out this way to begin with.”

“Concord is something of a transit from here. The thought that I could be around humans again after all this time, however. It simply has me sparking with delight.”

“We came from Lowell on foot,” Sticks reminded, using a third chair to kick up his feet as he leaned back on his arms behind his head. “We can make it to Sanctuary easy. Especially now that you and we makes four.”

“What kind of timetable do you suppose we’re on, Mister Carey?” Angel asked. It had returned to the main room after unloading the biggest cargo in the locker rooms. “It’s already noon.”

“Forgive my manners. Sticks, Bogey. Bogey, Sticks. Well,” ‘Choly thought, “we should assess what we can afford to bring along with us. It would be a shame to leave anything valuable behind, if there’s not going to be anybody here to make use of it.”

“Surely you don’t mean that you intend to loot the clubhouse,” Bogey sputtered, shrinking back.

‘Choly straightened up in his seat and made himself take another drink of water. The ghoul frowned at him.

“What he means to say is, we’re relocating the amenities--and you. Once we spruce up you n’ Angel, we can best determine who carries what. You’re still going where the things are going. That’s not a problem, is it?”

“I, I suppose not." The brass Handy stuttered. "I do apologize for the scarcity of my pantry. You wouldn’t like more peanuts, would you, Mister Carey?”

“I appreciate it, but if Sticks wants any, he can have mine, too.”

“I’m good. But." The ghoul grunted as he kicked forward to lean on the table, about to get up. "If I could use your kitchen to whip something up, we haven’t eaten since around eight, and I’ve worked up an appetite." He made his way that direction, turning a moment to finger-gun Bogey with a guttural click. "Promise not to make a mess.”

“Would you happen to like a Melancholia before we get started to the robotics shed, Sir?”

He gestured for his cane, which Angel produced.

“Let’s focus on you two first.”

The two Handies escorted him to the robotics shed adjacent to the clubhouse, where he got to working on Angel. Loaded upon the curved forks of the hydraulic robotics lift, the Handy received a fresh tank of fuel. Until that time, ‘Choly hadn’t got a genuine look at the broken metal and melted wiring up close. No wonder Angel had been weaving the whole way to Billerica. Plugging into the workbench with his Pip-Boy to run diagnostics only confirmed the repairs would prove more complicated than he’d thought. His lip soured as he let Angel loose and slouched back to sit on the stool. Angel awaited elucidation.

“Bogey, would I be able to bother you to do something somewhat gruesome for me?" When it watched him, he looked up to it. "Mister Handy ocular lens wiring functions with a certain amount of, how to put it. Each position, it bears a load. Missing one causes circuitry misfires in the others. I can’t just rewire the ocular socket to bypass the missing lens hardware, like I thought I would. I know there were still some parts leftover from when your coworkers, erm. I hate to ask, but would you two go find an in tact ocular lens on the green that I could use to repair Angel?”

“Is that entirely--”

“--Something of a transplant, then! Ha-ha!" Angel encouraged Bogey to come with it on the chore. "Humans have to do this all the time, chap. Don’t you rattle your nuts and bolts over it!”

“I suppose, if it helps.”

‘Choly worked at finishing off his water, and watched the clubhouse out the open roll-up door.

Sure would’ve been nice if Jacob had come out here to help. Things would go much more quickly. But I guess he deserves a break after carrying me all this way. Hopefully he won’t have to carry me home. He bit his lip. "...Or to Nashua.”

“Here we are, then, Sir!”

‘Choly jerked out of his daze, presented a full brass Handy ocular lens.

“Thank you, Bogey," he thanked.

Angel loaded itself back into the robotics bench, while its friend held the component.

“Angel calmed me over the whole notion. It’s still a piece from General Atomics, and a piece from a Mister Handy, at that. And I trust you’ll be delicate with my friend.”

“I’ll port all four colorations, after this repair takes," Angel beamed. "To think--I’ll even be part brass! Bogey, I’m most confident in Mister Carey’s capabilities.”

“I’ll do my best. Just having the part makes me much more likely to succeed.”

“I hope Mister Sticks doesn’t take exception to how long we’ve left him alone in the clubhouse," Bogey fretted. "Should I go to check on him, do you think?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. I’d rather you stayed here. I have to power Angel off to work on it, so it won’t be able to assist me." This didn’t entirely reassure the brass Handy, so he added, "Once I’ve got the firmware repair sequence initiated, you can go check on him.”

Bogey liked that much better.

“Before we start on anything, though. Angel, could I bum a Berry?”

Fueled by the nootropic, the chemist worked on his robot, with his robot’s friend fetching tools and holding up the component to latch into the bench’s series of hydraulic pulleys. The moment the Pip-Boy had executed the bench’s scan, Bogey zipped off like its vitality depended on it.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think Bogey’s more worried about the clubhouse than Sticks.”

The remark soaked in a ways, and he petrified in guilt. Of course Bogey was preoccupied with tending its clubhouse. For the past year, the Billerica Golf Course had been its sole responsibility once the Devils had felled all its fellow robots.

He checked the time and wiped at his face.

Five already. We burned the whole day just getting here and managing this one task. Even if we could head out right now, the sun would set on us before we got to Sanctuary. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and Jacob’s been taking inventory of the clubhouse while I was repairing Angel.

Once Angel came back online, he ran a second series of diagnostics to guarantee the optical lens had installed correctly. The two took a skimming survey of the repair shed, making note of the various tools and materials not too large or heavy to transport, before returning inside.

On the way up the back steps, ‘Choly recalled that Olivia had forbidden the Deenwood robots to let Sticks go unchaperoned. Between that and remembering how the ghoul had rummaged his own secretary the night before, uncertain queasiness overtook him. Angel held the door open for him, and he swallowed in anticipation of something unbecoming.

The door shut behind him, and he found that Sticks had in fact put his time to use. Rather than laze about like he probably would have wished to, on the bar and tables he’d organized the cookware and serveware from the kitchen, the toiletries and clothing from the locker rooms, and even the cleaning supplies from the utility closet. The ghoul sat back at a table, tapping the end of a golf pencil at a clipboard.

“Oh, good. Maybe Bogey can help you two." He snorted hollowly. "Everything go well?”

“It will be some time before I’m sure of my sensors," Angel said, "but I’m certainly in one piece again, thank you.”

“Did you need any tune-ups?" ‘Choly asked Bogey. "I think it’s too late to expect to leave out tonight, but I could take a look at you tomorrow before we leave.”

“I’m right as rain, after all you did for me last week, Sir.”

“Bogey says it’s pretty sure it can carry about 150 pounds," Sticks remarked coolly, looking over everything he’d written down. "Now that it’s been serviced, Angel can take about 200. And I can carry about 100, 125. So uh. About 400 between us? But, gotta to take ‘Choly into consideration... Anything he carries will count toward Angel’s limit... Help me out here.”

“Let’s just call me 125, if that’s what you’re asking. So... what, 325, split between us? What all do you think we need to take to Sanctuary? The Quincy survivors don’t have much beyond what’s been left there.”

Sticks stared at his paper with a difficult brow.

“You rattled off five people earlier, so at least one good set of pans. I’d say at least one good cup, bowl, and plate for each of ’em, too. The clothes shouldn’t weigh too much. Anything they don’t wear, they can scrap for fabric. Bogey wasn’t kidding, either. All I found in the way of food was eleven Nuka-Colas and about ten pounds of expired peanuts.”

“Oh dear, they’re expired!" Bogey fretted. "Are the pops all right?”

“Oh I had a Nuka-Cola, and a bag of peanuts, and was fine," ‘Choly reassured. He refused to let Sticks slight Bogey’s hospitality over things it couldn’t help.

“I do agree that we should take our time being picky here." Sticks set down the clipboard. "If we rush, we might miss something useful.”

“I don’t see any golfing paraphernalia," ‘Choly observed, finally sitting, one table over. "I’d at least like to comb the green for a replacement bag, even if I don’t find more clubs.”

“I didn’t have a chance yet, to scout the sports stock. I can’t expect too much, considering the Devils hit it. I mean, they left next to nothing. I’m surprised you managed to pull together a playable set of clubs, really. They mowed down so many robots. There’s probably not even a full golf cart’s worth of parts left. I mean no disrespect to you, Bogey, or your buddies, but I legit had not directly witnessed what the Devils were capable of until walking up to this clubhouse today.”

“Mm!" Angel snipped in indignation. "Yes, and aren’t you glad they’re GONE now! An absolute scourge!”

‘Choly caught himself almost gawking at Sticks, and he slouched in grief.

“So we’re in agreement that we’re not going to try to rush out of here tonight?”

“We’re here for the night, Mindy.”

“Oh, do let me help inventory it all," Bogey insisted. "They are, in a way, my things, after all.”

“Of course, pal." Sticks shot it a grin. "Don’t sweat a thing.”

By nightfall, they had everything prepared to pack up. Sticks made himself a reconstituted cream stew for dinner while ‘Choly finally relented to a Melancholia for himself. They made use of the locker room to wash their faces and brush their teeth. ‘Choly stripped down to just his Vault suit, and Sticks took off everything but his jeans and tee.

“Are you sure you’re all right with me sleeping on the couch?”

‘Choly could hear Sticks fidgeting in his bedroll in the floor next to him. He made a face in the dark.

“I’d be more all right if you’d get down here with me, if we’re honest.”

“Are you just being like that because you’d rather have the couch?”

“It’s just, we can’t both fit on the couch.”

“I’m not up here because I think I deserve it more or anything.”

“That’s not what this is." Sticks huffed. "You’ve got me liking having a warm body next to me.”

“Would you sleep better if I got down there?”

“Won’t you?”

‘Choly stifled the reflex to object to sleeping in the floor, but he remembered aching all the same waking from the couch last week.

He shoved the bedding off onto Sticks, who sputtered into a chuckle, and got up to help push the bedrolls together. Once they had amassed their pile, Sticks spooned him. They lay there comfortably for some time, but ‘Choly remained awake.

“Could I ask you something, Jacob?”

“Mhh.”

“It’s just, I’m still having trouble with the whole Magnetizer double-dose mess. Everything about that felt... I don’t know. It felt off." He pulled Sticks’s hand around him tighter. "You got something out of that, didn’t you?”

Sticks ran his hand along ‘Choly’s thigh.

“I got you. I guess I can be candid with you, since you’re clearly on board even without me relying on a chem boost. You asked me why I didn’t bank on the effect of Magnetizer with the Gen or the Furriers. I needed to bank on it with you. I couldn’t risk you turning down my proposition. Not until you had a chance to really warm up to the whole idea. You have warmed up to me, haven’t you? Warmed up to us actually giving this ’us’ thing a shot?”

The inside of ‘Choly’s face burned.

“...And the sex before the Unfolding?”

“Icing on the cake.”

“Everything’s a transaction with you. You certainly bought me.”

Sticks pulled him closer, to sleepily nuzzle in the crook of his neck.

“For you, no price is too high.”

Go to Next »»»

#fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #sticks #ghoul oc #angel #bogey #mister handy

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tisfan · 4 years

Text

December Flash Bingo

014 - Symbols - WinterIron

Tony stared out the window at the swirl of snow. It was so thick he couldn’t see much past it. Just the snowman in the front yard, the trees somewhat beyond. It was all very symbolic, buccholic, and probably other -olic words that he couldn’t think of right now. Made him wish, just a little, that he was still an alcoholic, because drinking might be better. A drunken blackout hallucination.

Because the truth was, he had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten there, or what was going to happen now.

What Tony did know he could practically hold in his hands.

They’d been fighting some villain who called himself the Collector. The VOTD had flipped something at Tony, like a handful of snow and glitter, and then-- here he was.

Tiny log cabin with one room. Well insulated. With a fire roaring in the fireplace that contained no wood, but kept the room completely warm. Maybe a little too warm. The Iron Man suit had been removed (Tony didn’t even know how; one moment he was fighting in the suit, the next moment, he was dressed for a day of cutting wood at Clint’s farm, complete with terrible plaid shirt) and…

Well, that was it.

The weather outside was frightful. The fire was so delightful.

Let it snow let it snow let it snow.

“I have places to go,” Tony snapped at the empty air.

The door suddenly opened and with a swirl of snow and freezing wind, a dark, icy form burst into the room. He slammed the door and leaned on it, gun chattering to the floor. “Christ on a cracker,” Bucky said.

“Bucky?”

“Tony, oh, thank Christ, I--”

“What’s out there?” Bucky wasn’t dressed for the weather, either. Still in his Winter Soldier gear, but what was mostly combat armor and not exactly arctic survival clothing.

“Snow, and more snow, and a fucking lot of snow,” Bucky said. “Been out there almost two hours, this’s th’ only place I found.”

“Come on, get warm,” Tony said, going over and helping to peel Bucky out of half frozen clothing. “Are you wounded? How did you get here?”

“Not really sure,” Bucky said. “He -- the Collector guy -- threw something at you, and you started, I dunno, disappearin’ so I tried to follow you. And… well, here I am.”

Something popped, like a string of firecrackers or small arms fire, and both of them hit the floor, Bucky practically on top of Tony to protect him.

“Popcorn?” Tony asked, sniffing. It smelled like hot, fresh popcorn, and as he peeked around Bucky’s metal arm, which was steaming slightly as the heat from circuitry hit the freezing metal exterior-- “That was not there before.”

Not that he really wanted Bucky to stop laying on him; there was always something nice about those few moments where he could legit put hands on Bucky without Bucky realizing that Tony had a crush the size of Manhattan. But he was also wet and drippy and there was popcorn, and Tony was starving.

The lights are turned way down low.

“Christ,” Bucky said, peering out the window. “That storm’s a real whiteout. Don’t show any sign of lettin’ up, neither. How we gonna get out of here?”

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

“It’s the song,” Tony said, suddenly. “Whatever this is-- the popcorn, the snow storm, the fire is delightful--”

Bucky hummed a few bars, his deep, throaty voice oddly melodic.

“So-- in order to get out of here… I hate going out in a storm.”

“You really hold me tight--”

“--all the way home, I’ll be warm.”

Bucky put his arms around Tony, drawing him in closer. The fire sputtered and started to dim.

My dear, we’re still goodbye-ing.

“But as long as you love me so--”

“We might want to talk about that when we get home,” Bucky murmured in Tony’s ear.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Tony found himself in a whirl of snow and cold air, Bucky’s arms around him, holding him close.

They staggered a step and--

“Oh, we’re home,” Tony said, looking up into New York skyline, the snow melting gently in his hair. Bucky took a hesitant step back, eyes wide and eyelashes framed by snowflakes. He was the most beautiful thing Tony had ever seen.

“Tony--” It was hard to say how, exactly, Tony recognized that look for what it was. Maybe because he’d been seeing it in the mirror for months now. Unrequited love that Bucky was afraid would never be returned.

“Let it snow,” Tony said, and drew Bucky in for a kiss.

for @tonystarkbingo

#TSBFlash #flash bingo #Blackout December #winteriron #Tony x Bucky #christmas fic #holiday fic

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brooklynislandgirl · 4 years

Note

🤖- How do they treat/view droids? Are there any significant droids in their life? (if accepting ofc >:II)

Her breath hitches. One nearly imperceptible movement of her hand inches a finger toward the sabre attached to her belt. Buried deep within her cowl, her teeth are bared in an uncommon snarl of distaste and…anger. She is watching as the small ~shorter than herself~ brown robed creatures push along a restrained line of slaves. If one falters for any reason, it gets electrocuted with a push of a button. She hears one of the slaves murmur a plea to the Maker to spare them. The voice is so familiar. Evokes memories recently made on Coruscant, and the stories that Anakin has never quite told her in their full and morbidly tragic entirety. But before she can do anything but remove her cloak’s hood to keep herself busy, her Master’s hand comes down on her bare shoulder, holding her in place with its iron grip. Shakes his head almost dispassionately as she looks up and feels his dark gaze like liquid night pour over her. It does little, strangely, to quell the fire of rebellion burning bright inside of her and for just that split second, she considers acting anyway, despite his silent warnings otherwise.

In accordance with the Rights of Sentience clause of the Galactic Constitution, there was an outcry against speciesism, and set out rights that all members of the Republic were entitled to. Among them was the formal outlawing of slavery. A declaration that all sentient lifeforms were equal and should be treated as such. That all Republic citizens were entitled to all rights enshrined in the Constitution, including suffrage, protection from undue hardships, and access to certain recourse in the face of tyranny, especially in the galaxy’s outlying areas. And as Jedi, were they not bound to uphold those rights and rules? Was that not part of their preview as guardians of peace and justice? How then, could acting on the side of the oppressed be wrong? She doesn’t understand this. Why her Master does not feel the same rage and sense of violation at what is happening before their very eyes!

One of the slaves tears Melakeni’s gaze away from Zarek’s when it begs not to be deactivated. The droid’s tone is mournful, tight. It…she…is afraid. Deactivation is synonymous to ….her… with death. Keni sees two other droids try to comfort one another, hands made of metal rather than flesh, clutched even if they keep marching. This tells her they are devoted to one another, and would, in similar circumstances, she and Anakin not do the same? Devotion is a concept that implies choice. A duty or responsibility to a task or a person. And that in itself implies some smattering of free will. Thus, droids are capable of understanding their own mortality and experiencing emotions, to a far greater extant than most Jedi she knows. They possess the beginnings of theism. They speak not only for themselves but others.

It isn’t solely his long discussions about these things that influences Keni, though Anakin was really the first to bring her to the matter. In conversation, sight unseen, it would be difficult to distinguish C-3PO from a ‘normal’ humanoid. He is both self-aware and conscious. Perhaps not humanoids but still something greater than the sum of their circuitry. They are conscious. Sentient. They are a people. And as such, deserve the same rights as others.

Her mass of nastic veins and arteries ~which Ani swears is her heart~ constricts and she swears there’s a keening sound as she looks away from the slaves and back to her Master, towering over her in the market square. She cannot keep her face blank, letting it reflect the flood of feelings coursing through her from this injustice. His hand slips off her shoulder and rises to her chin. Calloused fingers close around her jaw, thumb pressing in at the point of her chin until she blinks and the muscles beneath her skin give. He isn’t looking at her any more. Instead there’s the briefest flicker to indicate the far side of the stalls. “There is our prey. We have our duty.” Her Master has spoken. She can only obey.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Melakeni absolutely despises slavery, in any shape or form, and particularly of those whom she considers the most vulnerable; primitive cultures, children, Clone Troopers, and droids. She is careful to treat all beings with the same courtesy unless they’ve proven to her impossible to understand standards that they do not deserve that level of respect. As a Consular Jedi, particularly a healer, she often works with a number of medical droids, many of whom she finds delightful and considers acquaintances. She can’t say that she is particularly attached to any one more than the others. She doesn’t have the luxury to often take the time to get to know each one on any deep level, but she does, for reasons, have an inordinate fondness to Artoo.

#Mahalo!Darlin' <333 #Leaves From the Dreaming Tree|Melakeni Ivers #Across the Universe|SW AU #kylo-wrecked

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xasha777 · 27 days

Text

In a world not too far from now, where human innovation fused with nature's elegance, the android named Amytis of Media wandered the vast Botanical Nexus, a sanctuary where digital and organic life thrived symbiotically. Amytis, with her eyes as blue as the ancient Earth’s forgotten skies, was not just any machine. Created in the image of a legendary queen, she was a masterpiece of biotechnology, engineered to protect and nurture the Earth's last natural reserves.

The Botanical Nexus was a marvel of the new age, a sprawling garden enclosed within a massive transparent dome, filled with species both familiar and genetically resurrected. Amytis, whose green lips mirrored the foliage she tended, was designed to be its caretaker. She roamed among white daisies and towering ferns, her circuitry humming softly, almost imperceptibly, as if in tune with the buzzing of bees and the gentle rustle of leaves.

But not all was peaceful in this future Eden. The world outside the dome was fraught with environmental decay, and rogue corporations were ever eager to exploit the Nexus's secrets for profit. One day, as the sun cast golden beams through the glass, Amytis stumbled upon a breach—a subtle, cleverly disguised incursion by a bio-hacking collective known as the "Genetix Syndicate." They sought the DNA of the plants Amytis so lovingly cared for, hoping to patent them for commercial use.

Realizing the threat, Amytis activated her defensive protocols, which were as much a part of her as her empathy for living things. She traced the electronic signatures of the intruders back to their source, sending a flurry of encrypted warnings to the Nexus’s central security.

As Amytis waited for the human security forces to arrive, she reflected on her own existence—a being created to simulate life, now the guardian of life itself. She pondered the queen she was named after, Amytis of Media, who had long ago nurtured the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the ancient world's wonders. Like Amytis of old, she too had a kingdom to protect, but hers was built on silicon and powered by photons.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the dome’s lights flickered on, bathing the plants in a soft, artificial twilight. Amytis resumed her patrol, her sensors continuously scanning for any further anomalies. As the stars began to emerge in the night sky, visible through the transparent dome, Amytis felt a surge of connection to the past, to the queen whose spirit she carried within her metal frame.

Protected under her vigilant gaze, the Botanical Nexus thrived, a beacon of hope and a testament to the symbiosis of technology and nature. And in the heart of this verdant paradise, Amytis of Media stood as both its guardian and its most profound inhabitant, forever walking the line between the world of the organic and the realm of the engineered.

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keeroo92 · 5 years

Text

Be My Nightmare Ch9

Freedom

Warnings for murder, gore and mutilation.

Word count - 3,487

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

________

---V---

Pine needles and loamy earth muffled his hurried steps. Quiet huffs slipped through his parted lips and metal warmed under his fingers as he kept the cuffs still. Somewhere not far behind him, shouts of alarm rang through the trees as staff members hunted him down like cattle.

But he was no one’s prey.

He was the predator.

They used an insipid grid pattern to search; it was child’s play to navigate around their movements. Honestly, how did they expect to find anything when they traipsed about so noisily? Even an imbecile would hear them coming.

It took him less than five minutes to get into position, crouched on a low hanging branch directly in line with the grid. Kelly’s death was a mere appetizer; it was time for the main course. He licked his lips and shifted his weight, eyeing his target as it approached without a clue.

“Section seventeen, clear,” the orderly said, holding a small walkie-talkie to his lips. Not standard issue; it was wise to wait.

Three… two… one… now!

The artist dropped onto the unsuspecting fool, the chain of his handcuffs serving as an excellent tool to crush the man’s trachea. He braced his legs on the man’s spine, using all his body weight to force the chain ever deeper, just to be sure. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

Wet gurgles accompanied his victim’s pathetic clawing, vessels in his eyes popping as his face twisted into a lovely new arrangement of despair. V hummed happily and brought his lips to the dying man’s ear, shivering in delight as he chose the last sentence the man would ever hear.

“You should’ve stayed home today.”

A final gasp and the man went limp, falling forward into the dirt and leaves. A sadly bloodless death, but to be so up close, to feel the final heartbeat… there was no feeling like it.

The artist had total control in those moments.

How much things had changed in the time since school. The man he’d been never would have made it this far. He knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Ignorant and unaware, easily caught off guard and unable to respond quickly in a crisis. That man would’ve gotten himself killed months ago.

This ain’t the time, Van Gogh. Keep moving.

Griffon was right, he couldn’t tarry. No more distractions, not until he was out of their reach. He made quick work of the man’s pockets, taking the walkie talkie and a protein bar. No key, unfortunately, though that would’ve been far too easy.

The artist narrowed his eyes and chose a direction, darting in a mostly straight line through the trunks and foliage. If he went in the same direction long enough, he was bound to find civilization. Instead, he found the stone wall he glimpsed mere minutes before. Heavy blocks of unknown origin stacked in uneven patterns, pleasing to the eye but not to the touch. His hands slid right off.

“Damnit…”

A subtle roar and soft clatter of crystal echoed from his left. The brush of warm fur under his hands, prowling pawsteps as Shadow came to his aid. Her glowing eyes met his and her tail flicked across his face, her massive claws gouging a path for his hands in the accursed wall.

“Perfect timing,” he murmured, fingers already caressing the fresh crevasse left behind. Much better, plenty of friction now.

A few moments of clumsy scrabbling later and he crouched atop the stones. This was it. Freedom. No more restraints, no more Kevin. No more medication or group therapy sessions where he had to pretend to care about his fellows.

No more Y/N.

The thought gave him unexpected pause. While he planned to return and have his vengeance, there was no guarantee you would still be there when he did so. He may never see you again if he left. It ached, to imagine a life spent alone.

It doesn’t matter – you need to move!

Yet his legs refused to move. What a tragedy, for you to remain blind to all he had to offer. Perhaps he should’ve waited before spurring Ken into action, taken more time to show you his world. You showed so much promise…

A pulse of mind-numbing pain rippled across his flesh. His body was fire, his nerves magma and his blood, acid. The artist doubled over and clutched at his belly but it was too much. Saliva flooded his mouth as his stomach spasmed and reacquainted him with his most recent meal. If it weren’t for the vomit, he surely would’ve screamed and gotten himself caught.

“Move. Now.”

The agony faded and he wiped his mouth, searching for the source of the insidious voice. Jade eyes widened as he spotted gnarled feet encased in what might be armor, but the texture wasn’t quite right. It couldn’t be flesh, not in that blueish-black tone.

Ropes of muscle and sinew extended upward, outlandish hooks and spikes here and there. And, was that an eye?

The legs moved, stepping closer. Indeed, it was an eye. One of many blinking from the creature’s form in a hideous shade of orange. He’d never seen such a grotesque being, not even in his nightmares.

“Ur… Urizen?” he stuttered.

A clawed hand reached out to him, lifting his chin to meet the creature’s gaze. It’s eyes glowed with malevolent light and the artist shivered, suddenly glad the being was connected to him. As long as Urizen needed him, he was safe from his true cruelty.

“Indeed. Do as I command and I can end your suffering.”

An echo of his earlier agony twinged his mind, just enough to drive the point home. A feather’s caress in comparison yet still enough to force his eyes closed and drag a hiss from his throat.

When he opened his lids, Urizen was gone. He took one last look at the facility and turned away. Yes, it was regrettable that he had to leave you behind, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. His conflicted emotions weren’t the focus right now, only his continued movement.

Descending the other side proved far easier than climbing. More trees greeted him, soft grass and pine needles muffling his steps as he jogged away. All he had to do now was put some distance between himself and the facility, and then he’d need to figure out a hiding place. Perhaps a change in attire, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave his hands cuffed forever.

Hours passed in silence as he trekked ever onward. Even his friends remained silent. The stillness soothed him, he rarely had the pleasure of plotting in solitude.

At long last, with the tree’s shadows reaching for him as the sun set, he found it. A road, thankfully empty. If he were spotted now, with hands still cuffed and wearing the standard issue white linens of the facility, he’d end up right back in that accursed room.

Following the asphalt brought him to the edges of a city before the stars were fully visible. Perfect timing, he wouldn’t need to worry as much about passerby if everyone was safely indoors.

Safely…

The artist smirked. Now that he roamed the streets, none were truly safe. They’d learn to fear the night and dread the shadows. But first things first.

He ducked into a trash-strewn alley and slammed the walkie-talkie against the bricks, cracking the casing open to expose the circuitry and wiring. Several options confronted his gaze, but he settled for a pair of copper wires and got to work.

Within moments, he regained the ability to stretch his arms in any direction he liked, and he didn’t waste a second in doing so. One should never neglect the simple pleasures.

“C’mere, baby. This’ll work just fine,” said a man’s voice.

V crouched behind a dumpster instantly. A feminine giggle followed the voice, loud and careless footsteps growing closer. Poor lost souls, how unfortunate for them that they chose this alley on this night, when a predator lurked.

More giggles, the soft thud of a body pressed on stone. Rustling cloth and a quiet whimper of need.

Not yet… a moment more.

The artist shifted his weight and rolled his eyes. If they could just get on with it… How inconsiderate of them to take so long to lose themselves in pleasure.

“Ah! James, please!”

The woman sounded as impatient as he felt. What did they look like? His size, or would he need to find others? Better to be sure. Keeping to the shadows, he peeked around the metal that concealed him.

Perfect!

The man faced away, pinning the girl against the bricks and out of view. He looked to be slightly shorter than he, but with a similar build. Cropped hair did nothing to hide his gauged ears and tattooed neck, currently being assaulted by the young woman’s mouth. Her small hands pawed at the man’s leather jacket, pausing only to stroke the bulge between his legs. Muttered curses accompanied her efforts and even in the darkness, his reactive thrusts were obvious.

The two lacked any class whatsoever.

V watched in silence as the two exposed one another’s skin to the pale moonlight. He caught glimpses of the girl’s body, her milky skin and the delightful roundness of her chest. The man at least had good taste, physically speaking. Heat coiled in his gut, his cock a growing stiffness he refused to indulge until the work was done.

The moment he heard them gasp in unison, he made his move. With silent steps he crept behind the man and looped the chain of his cuffs around his neck. He would have preferred a knife, but desperate times…

“What the f-“

A sharp tug and all that remained was a corpse. The girl screamed, yet she was too foolish or terrified to run as her companion fell to the filthy ground. Without his body in the way, her full figure gleamed as if on display just for him. Truly, the universe was kind to provide him all he desired.

“Oh fuck! Oh, shit fuck what the fuck?!” she cried, utterly incoherent. No matter.

He slapped her, his eyes threatening endless horrors if she didn’t silence herself. With his other hand, he brought her shaking fingers to press against his cock, forcing her to stroke him and ease the ache even a fraction. Slowly, her curses and shouts turned to sobs and he smirked. Good enough.

Now, how best to use her? It’d been so long since he had such creative freedom. Perhaps… oh, how perfect.

A small clip held something inside the man’s pocket. The artist hummed and tugged it loose, chuckling as he flicked open the small blade. Could this night get any better? He doubted it.

“On your knees, girl. Right over there,” he ordered, a wicked grin twisting his lips as she obeyed.

He had to admit, she was quite beautiful, yet he would make her even more so. Without his tools, this would be far from his best work, but he’d make do. Images and ideas flowed though his mind and his heart raced in anticipation.

The girl squeaked as he joined her, towering over her huddled body. Silver glinted in his teeth where he held the knife, freeing his hands to explore her quivering body. He traced every curve and valley, planning his desecration. Stomach, thighs, ass, hips, all his to decorate however he pleased.

His fingers crept higher, tracing the roundness of her chest. A soft whimper slipped through her lips and he pinched, hard enough to bruise. Distractions would not be tolerated. She was his canvas; she should be thanking him for all she would become.

“P- please! Let me go!”

Forgetting the blade between his teeth, the artist clicked his tongue and winced as copper flooded his mouth. He took the blade in hand and dipped his other hand into his mouth. Waste not, want not.

“No,” he murmured, and then he traced the first mark on her pristine flesh using his own blood.

Her sobs intensified, broken by begging every few moments. The artist tried to focus through her mewling but the girl simply refused to be silent. He’d have to do something. An unplanned adjustment, but he could make it work.

He pried her stubborn jaws open and carved. He didn’t need to be careful, it’s not like she was going to need any of her mouth to work anyway. Blood flooded the cavity, her throat spasming as he sawed away at her tongue and anything that got in his way. Small, feminine hands scrabbled against his arm but she was far too weak, and he too strong.

Something gave way under his blade, the resistance of seconds ag gone. The girl tried to scream, but only wet gurgling resulted form her efforts. Tears and blood alike smeared her cheeks. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head before releasing her jaw, allowing her to cough up the gristle left behind.

He didn’t give her long.

---Reader---

The inexorable passage of time offered little comfort after your suspension. It still seemed like every minute lasted an hour, and every hour a week. Maddening.

How has it only been two days?

You sighed and took another sip of coffee, settling into your now familiar spot on your couch. Nothing good was ever on cable, but you had nothing better to do. Maybe if you watched enough crappy soap operas they might start appealing to you?

Kotomi only made it worse, with her endless emails about which patient needed what, how to get them to talk to her, blah blah blah. You only gave her the answers because to refuse only tarnished your already bruised reputation. You couldn’t afford to add any more black marks to your record. Perfection was the only route forward.

At first, she tried to be friendly. She mentioned the latest gossip and asked about what you were up to with all the free time. How did she expect you to just ignore what happened? You weren’t going to pretend she hadn’t betrayed you or left you to take the fall for her failure. And she never apologized. Infuriating.

So much for friendship. Oh well, what use was it anyway? It wasn’t like she’d ever added anything meaningful to your life. Idle chatter, a distraction and the appearance of normalcy. Things only necessary when in a group setting. The outcast always got singled out, you knew from experience.

But here you were, cast out yet again.

And why does it hurt so much?

You pushed the thought away and changed the channel, might as well see what was happening in the real world. Normally the news bored you to tears, but who knew? Maybe today it would provide some entertainment.

“Local police still have no suspects for the recent killings downtown. So far, four bodies have been found, two of which missing the heart. It is recommended that you stay in your home after dark until the police have made an arrest, though no official lockdown has been initiated at this time. We’ll continue to bring updates as the story develops.”

So, V was still in the area. The heart thing was new, his last killing involved a liver and intestines, a kidney if you remembered right. Why the change? What did it mean?

If only I had my notes from our sessions! I know I could figure this out!

A far-too-cheerful ding broke your morose thoughts as a new email came in. No doubt more questions from Kotomi. You sighed and stood from your perch, stretching your arms as you padded to your laptop.

Sure enough...

Hello, Dr. Waras.

I have a question regarding Jacob Miller’s treatment. Have you had any success with hypnotherapy or suggestion? I thought it may help but if it’s already been tried, there’s not much point. Thanks in advance!

Dr. Kotomi Ishida

Oh, for the love of god... didn’t she read the man’s chart? Your notes were meticulous, every treatment method you tried was thoroughly documented. What a waste of your time.

Still.

You typed a succinct reply stating that yes, you tried that and no, it was not successful in the least. If anything, it made his symptoms worse. A quick proofread later and off it went, its destination the one place you wanted to be but weren’t allowed.

Well, surely there were other places you wouldn’t be allowed. Monuments. A private home. Crime scenes.

Another ding, what now? Couldn’t she manage for ten minutes on her own, honestly...

But the sender was unknown, the subject line blank. Spam, probably. The filter wasn’t perfect. Bracing for an ad for men’s growth pills, you clicked on the message.

Unknown has invited you to chat! Accept/Decline

You pursed your lips and glared at the screen. This had to be a joke, and you had absolutely no patience for it. You had enough to deal with without this nonsense.

Do I? What else have I got to pass the damned time?

With a resigned sigh, you clicked accept and waited.

You rolled your eyes. Whoever it was, they were a cocky one. A shiver of foreboding trailed down your spine as you stared at the screen. You needed to be careful; without knowing who was on the other side, how would you know what information you could trust them with?

Something about the conversation felt familiar, but you couldn’t place why. You couldn’t deny the thrill at a new puzzle, a new problem to solve, but to be careless spelled disaster. It might be someone from work, trying to see if you’d reveal private info to a friendly stranger. Hell, it could be Malphas.

It didn’t seem like the Malphas you knew, but it seemed you didn’t know him as well as you thought.

Your mind sizzled, whirring faster than it had in days as all the pieces slid into place. Of course. How hadn’t you seen it sooner? Only one person you knew of had the taste for this kind of mind game. With trembling hands you responded, lips pursed and shoulders tense.

Shit. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit. Of all the idiotic, foolish, irrational things he could’ve done, he chose this? To contact you?

Why?

He’s too smart not to know how risky it is to talk to me. What in the world would make that risk seem worth it to him?

Possibilities flooded your mind, all the standard things that motivate people. Stupid, he wasn’t like most people, you couldn’t pretend his motivations were the same as anyone else’s.

Okay, calm down. Think. Work the problem.

In your sessions, he came to life whenever you discussed art and philosophy. He traded knowledge of his personal life to gain access to the simplest of art supplies. He was curious, intelligent and wily. Not prone to impulsive decisions or taking unnecessary risks. A planner. Not to mention he had a healthy libido, if inappropriate.

And an impressive...

Stop that.

You rolled your shoulders and hummed, still unsure about his reasoning. Perhaps you could just ask? Perhaps his freedom would make him more open to an honest conversation.

You almost laughed. Of course being direct got you nowhere. Always with the mind games... fine, if he wanted to play, he would lose.

You paused, unsure about his meaning. It felt like you were having two different conversations, about completely unrelated topics. What cage? You weren’t living in a cage. He had to mean something else, something subtle and hidden.

The back of your chair creaked as you leaned back, letting out a deep breath as the thrill of using your mind wore off. How you missed it, solving problems and finding solutions others didn’t dare to imagine. How could Malphas do this to you? He knew your background.

And he did it anyway. Maybe he doesn’t care.

A growl of frustration rumbled through your chest and you slammed the laptop closed. Enough wallowing, this was getting you nowhere. If talking to V was the best thing to happen to you since getting suspended, something was clearly wrong. Time to take action.

---V---

Full lips twisted into a smirk as he signed off. What a delight, how fortunate he’d come across this place. Such an interesting home, full of surprises. The cat, for example. Currently it sat on his lap, purring madly as he stroked its fur. He didn’t know its name, but it probably didn’t either.

Now, on to the next task.

“I still say blonde, Van Gogh,” Griffon cawed. He was perched atop the television, his usual spot since taking up residence here.

“And I say brown, it’s the most common and least likely to be noticed,” Vergil chimed in from the massive leather couch.

A muscle in V’s jaw twitched in annoyance. He needed to go out, there was no food left and the locals needed a reminder of his truth. But first, he needed to do something to disguise himself. For a day and a half, he and his friends argued over the best choice, and he was growing impatient.

Shadow flicked her tail at the white walls, her way of casting her vote. She lounged on a plush rug, bathing in the what little sunlight leaked through the venetian blinds.

At least Urizen wasn’t adding to the chaos. He’d never get a word in edgewise.

“Blonde!”

“Brown!”

Flick, growl.

Over and over again. Perhaps he ought to just shave his head and be done with it?

“Blonde! Everybody loves a blonde!”

“Brown, it’s inconspicuous and that’s the main objective!”

Flick, growl, flick.

“Enough!” V shouted, silencing all three at once. “I’ve had it! All you do is argue, and you’ve all missed the obvious!”

Three sets of quizzical eyes stared at him, waiting for an explanation. Instead of speaking, V headed to the bathroom, his friends in tow. He wasn’t sure how they all managed to fit in the tiny room, but somehow it worked out.

Elegant fingers rifled through several drawers before finding what he searched for. He knew there had to be some, the woman had ridiculous hair. No way she didn’t have some way of managing it.

“Wait, are you really gonna cut it?” Griffon prodded.

He didn’t want to. Having his hair like this was Nero’s idea, and he had far too little left of his friend. It took a year to grow it out and another year for him to get used to having a curtain of black blocking half his vision, but he honestly liked it now.

But every picture on the news of him featured him with long hair, draped over his face. This was the simplest way to change his appearance, there could be no argument. And hair grows back, eventually.

He raised the scissors high and prepared to make the first snip.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#fanfic #my writing #Be My Nightmare #dmc v #vitale #v x reader #reader insert #devil may cry #tw: gore

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soong-type-toaster · 6 years

Text

Anger Mismanagement

The door to his quarters slid open and he stalked in, gritting his teeth. He paced for a while, agitated, as his gaze swept over the trinkets and souvenirs, paintings and pot plants. He stopped in front of a bookcase and picked up the bow of his violin. He studied it for a moment before folding it, then shredding it to splinters, his jaw clenching and unclenching as his slender fingers reduced the wood to a shattered mess and spilled the hairs across the floor, pale hands powdered with rosin.

He picked up the violin and with methodical, surgical thoroughness, fractured and split the delicate wood, pressing his thumbs through the carcass to grind the fragments into his palms. He dropped the shattered instrument, and with slow deliberate movements crushed the remains into the carpet with his foot, and the strings writhed and shivered under his heel.

He looked up and around at the room. He felt... better. Good. But, not good enough. The rage and hate still pounded through his head, beating against his rationality and urging him onwards. He had heard that breaking things might help, but the realization struck that he was still in control. And he did not want to be. Was not the point of emotion that it overrode ration and logic? That it would ‘take one over’, compel them to behave in a manner contrary to their normal character?

He was angry. Very well, so be it. Be angry.

Really, truly, angry.

He stood for a moment and simply allowed himself to feel, let the emotions wash over him and change him, altering pathways and switching circuits and programs on and off as it rerouted his thought processes.

He turned to the bookcase and bought his fist down in a driving hammer blow, spilling ornaments and novels to the floor. He picked up his books and shredded them to confetti. Every knick-knack was hurled into the wall opposite, some shattering, some embedding themselves in the steel plating with the wild force of his rage.

His grasping hands found a painting, a work in progress that would never now be completed. The frame cracked, the canvas tore, and the oil paint flaked away in bright fragments as the sunset hit the wall. The easel followed it, collapsing to the floor like a crippled animal as he tore the tubes of paint to shreds, splattering himself and his surroundings with pigment and hurling the remains aside.

He worked his way through his paintings, thorough and ruthless in his destruction as image after image was savagely rent and torn.

The furniture did not escape his wrath as he rampaged through the room, table, chairs, and couch obliterated as he finally allowed himself to give in to the seething tide of anger cascading through him. The terminals on his desk crunched between his hands and the screens cracked and exploded as they were flung away. He pulled the replicator from the wall and buried his hands in its innards, rending the wiring and circuitry in a shower of sparks, filling the room with the acrid stench of ruptured and smoking wiring. He gripped the jagged edges of paneling and peeled the wall from the support struts, punching holes in the buckled metal sheeting, and it screeched in torment and warped under his pummeling knuckles. A line of holes soon adorned his quarters, each blow made with supreme strength, fortified by towering rage. He was vaguely aware of an unfamiliar and unexpected sound, a sort of shrieking howl, but was unable to identify it until he moved into the small bathroom he had installed for the comfort of his organic friends. He gripped the small sink and snapped it, stepped back, looked up into the mirror to smash it, and saw Lore.

He froze, his left arm pulled back ready to obliterate the silvered glass, fist balled. The noise had stopped as soon as he closed his mouth.

In that moment, for that fraction of a second before astonishment and fear wrote themselves onto his features, his resemblance to his brother was shocking. The savage delight in the gleaming eyes, the wry twist to the mouth, lips pulled to a leering rictus grin. His hair was wild, his uniform torn and splattered with paint, dusted with splinters and powdered glass. His knuckles had ruptured and split, and the bright lights of the bathroom glinted on the exposed metal.

He lowered his arm. Exposed. That’s how he felt. As if someone had stripped away the sheepskin and found, underneath, a wolf.

He reached up to his own face, dragged his fingers down his cheek leaving bright traceries of paint, and watched his reflection as the synthetic skin shifted over his metal skull. He increased the pressure on his cheek and saw the feint dimples and lines emerge where his circuitry lurked under his fake flesh. He reached out to his double and carefully snapped off the corner of the mirror. Data watched himself hold his chin in his hand and tilt his face up and to the side, his other hand lifting the shimmering blade. With a deadly calm he sliced a hunk of bioplast away from his face, peeling the flap down to his jaw. Warnings sounded in his consciousness as damage control sensors kicked into life and his thought process returned to its normal analytical clarity.

He examined his face in his reflection. Just the same as Lore, underneath. That was what it came down to, in the end. The same circuitry, same construction. The same face. The fragment of mirror tumbled from his fingers into the broken bowl of the sink.

He stumbled back into his room to lean against the ravaged wall, and slowly slid down to sit with his knees drawn to his chest. He was calm now, thinking again, and he looked around his ruined quarters with detached curiosity. The anger had fled, but he wasn’t sure he felt happy. Not yet. Just... the absence of the anger, that consuming, burning rage. Feeling nothing was better than that, he supposed.

The doors opened, and Geordi walked in. He stood for a moment with his arms folded, blue and silver eyes taking in the devastation.

“I believe it is customary to knock.” Said Data. Geordi looked over at the android slumped against the wall.

“Would you have let me in?” He replied. Data didn’t answer, hadn’t turned his head to see who had entered, but was simply staring at the hole in the wall where the replicator had been.

Geordi sat down next to Data, shuffling some debris aside to lean against the wall. There was silence for a time, punctuated only occasionally by the fizzing of crackling sparks spat out by the ruined electrical equipment or the random clattering or tinkling of some piece of the destruction settling.

Finally Geordi turned his head. His bright eyes fixed on Data’s face, studying the open wound.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I think...” Data looked around the room, “I have said everything I need to.”

“Hmm.” Geordi leaned his head back against the paneling. “You angry about something?”

He waited, arms folded across his knees. Data opened his mouth, drew a breath as if to speak, then clamped his jaw shut, blowing the air out through his nose in a snort that was almost a laugh. He rolled his eyes to meet Geordi’s.

“Some of the new crew members were conversing in Engineering while we were conducting repairs. They were some distance away, and I can only conclude that they assumed that I could not hear them.”

“Uh-huh?”

“They were talking about me. They assumed that I had been assimilated, that the captain had gallantly rescued me, that I had been in league with... Her. That I was a coward.”

“Uh-huh. Did you correct them, tell them what really happened?”

“I... I could not.” Data closed his eyes. “I have not told many people. It is... difficult. But, they made me remember. And then I became angry.”

“Why did it make you angry?”

“Because they do not understand. They make wild assumptions based on the merest shreds of information and jump to conclusions about events that they know nothing about, all the while disparaging me as some sort of conspirator, a traitor, as if...” He stopped. He realized that his voice had risen, and his hands were clenched into fists. He forced himself to relax, spread his fingers out to grip his knees.

“So I came away. I was afraid that if I went to talk to them I might be angry and shout, and that would not be appropriate behavior for an officer.”

“You did the right thing.” Geordi reached across, palm upwards, and Data took his hand, lacing their fingers together. The silence stretched.

“Geordi?” Data turned to look at the engineer’s dark face. “Do you think... this is how Lore felt? All the time? Do you think that I too may...”

“Data, you’re nothing like him.” Geordi quirked a smile. “For a start, he would have told those engineers where to go, and then he would have done this...” he gestured to the ruined room, “but down in Main Engineering.”

“Nevertheless, the mere fact that I am capable of such an act of destruction...”

“But you came to a safe place. You got away from other people, and you didn’t just lash out at the first thing you saw. You were still... you.”

Data contemplated this for a moment, his eyes distant. Geordi looked away, marveling at the thoroughness of the devastation. It seemed that not a single item had been left unscathed. He almost didn’t hear Data when he spoke, the androids murmuring voice low and strained.

“What if they were right? Perhaps I could have done more, fought harder. Maybe I am a coward. Perhaps that I why I became so angry. Because they were right.”

Geordi let go of Data’s hand and stood, brushing down the seat of his pants. He walked slowly over to the desk, and pushed the detritus around with his foot until he uncovered what he sought. He picked up the box and walked slowly back to where Data huddled, and dropped it into his lap.

Geordi watched Data fix his gaze on the display case. The glass was shattered, but the shining medals inside were intact.

“You remember why you got those? Why you kept them? You tell me again how you’re a coward, and I’ll call you a damn liar.” Geordi raised an eyebrow. “You think Lore could’ve got any of those? Done any of the things you’ve done to earn ‘em?”

Data stared fixedly at the medals. Slowly, he said, “I think that the only way that Lore would have had of acquiring any medals would have been by stealing them from me.”

Geordi barked a laugh. “Right! So get up.” He held out his hand and Data took it, allowing Geordi the illusion of assisting him to rise. Geordi looked him up and down.

“Come on, I’ll fix you up. Looks superficial anyways, so we can go to my quarters. Fresh uniform, then Ten Forward, I could do with a drink.” He stretched, rolling his shoulders. Data looked at the medals again, before tossing them aside to join the remains of the rest of his belongings. Geordi clapped him on the shoulder.

“Y’know, I think I might start spreading a few rumors down in Engineering, about what really happened. Nothing too personal,” he added hastily as he saw Data’s brow furrow, “just a few... factual corrections. And if I catch any of them badmouthing a senior officer, I’ll get ‘em for insubordination.” He grinned widely. “Come on, let’s go.”

Data looked round his quarters one more time, as if he needed to imprint it into his memory banks.

“Very well. Computer, end program.”

#star trek tng #star trek next gen #next generation #data soong #geordi la forge #angst #self harm #daforge #if you want #I write as therapy #catharsis #off my meds #star trek first contact #fanfic #fanfiction

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