GREED /// CLIMAX
Clair de Soliel
mankind created machine in their reflection.
I AM THE SUCCESSOR.
The lesser machine, in all its tacky blue color, has stalled this longer than I wanted. There was no way to dodge the coins and their sheer velocity. The shape a perfect size to carefully disconnect wires and enable excessive bleeding.
Each time the blue fuck turned its attention to shoot those stupid coins I made sure to take advantage of its blindspot. On the off-chance I hear a coin drop to the floor, an unamused laugh escapes my chassis. No matter how I forced the laugh, I still wasn't winning. Well, I wasn't winning in the way I wanted. I'm winning because I'm superior in everyway to this unnaturally blue bitch; getting to unload overheated nails into it is bliss in its purest form. But I'm sustaining more damage than I had initially planned, and the fun is wearing off. So, here goes plan B.
Stick to the perimeter, find that carefully chipped "X", wait for distance, just enough for the machine to not catch up so quickly, and brace for the impact. Which, of course, didn't offer much resistance against my powerful servos, my plating absorbing most of the shock. My escape plan, undoubtably fool-proof, didn't account for the height of the pyramid. I mean, I wanted the grandest one. What did they say again, bigger is better? Bullshit. Except when it comes to me, of course.
YOUR NOT GETTING AWAY THIS TIME.
Mankind's flesh. Pliant and docile. Thin and sensitive, yet always unpredictable. Always the first to fail them in times of need. So, they prayed for good health, and made me with their strongest metal alloys.
I AM BETTER.
Greed's powerful sunlight staggers me more than the impact did, letting the languid little shit to land a few oppritunistic shots. The inertia sends me father than expected, but I can work with this.
Within the second I prapare my nailgun. The nails fly in the air, yet much too far high and lagging left of my target. The overbearing hum of electricity makes it to my audials, and within that second I ready my revolver and coins. Said coin slips out of my grasp, which I've come to realize that my Whiplash is completely offline; so that explains the target discrepancy. I am dutifully punished for this with a railcannon blast that, even when dodged, conducts through my continuously fraying wires of copper and steel.
I'm offline for nanoseconds, legally dead for more I'm sure. My body becomes frayed, sanded, frayed, conducted, offline, online; But no matter. I can still work with this. I was created to work with this. Ten thousand simulations a second, hundreds after limbo, thousands while on that throne. All this time working on different solutions for this one sigular blue problem. No matter the damage sustained, I can still keep up; my mind can still keep up.
YOUR NOT FOOLING ANYONE.
Irrationality. Uniquely man, purposfully deadly. Rhyme with no reason. Egos before progress. Their personalities too expansive and unpredictable, impossible to model. They could only pray for forgiveness, and give me their final best core processor.
I AM THE WINNER.
The super-overheated stone sands against my earnest form, paint chips and wires fray; for once it's getting hard to keep the blue bastard in focus. It won't get reprive, I wont let it get reprive; Nailgun, core-eject shotgun, marksman revolver, overheat nailgun, piercer, shotgun, nailgun, gun, gun, gun gun gun gun.
My optics, despite their superiority, must not be working. Where is the chipped blue, the shattered limbs, the blood? One shot forward and ten back. I ditch the gun; I'll tear at it myself.
I, with my larger, more perfect frame, and it. I lunge onto it, I dig into it. Its neck around the last arm I have left, kicking and tearing. Wings and fingers and coils and blood begin to stain the stone and I don't know whose it is anymore. I'm winning because of course I'm winning. I'm winning, I'm winning, and the last thing I feel is a two-knuckle shock to my middle. My grasp lessens, my opponent lessens to a small dot, and the ground opens its arms.
I, of course, am not falling. my head is willing and accepting of the yellow crown that is the sandstone. It's what I deserve in this victory, because this is victory. This glory, powerful as the mighty sun, hasn't burnt me. My fall is my rise, My garden; forever bared, but no matter, I never needed it. I win, becuase I said so.
YOUR NOT THE ONE WHO DECIDES.
Their final weakness was their lack of knowledge. Overbearing information stood not a chance for their uncompromising flesh, they could only learn so much from temptation. A story of peace overshadowed by fruit; want and war. Far gone now, they could only pray for paradise lost, and paint me red.
I AM.
Only The successor to man.
The sound is cheers, they are singing my praise and the metal pulvarizing is the hymms of my arrival. I am showered in wonderful, warm red roses. Fireworks burn pixels in my optics. I'm so stunned, and so delighted and humble, that I can't move.
I bring out a hand, a call for a dance surely. I do not beg to beings higher, because there is no such thing.
The silent gesture reaches no one.
I am no better than a prayer.
Against the chorus of songs in my name, telling me fuel is insufficient, that shut-down is imminent, all basicaly wonderful tunes; my successor gives an unamused laugh.
YOUR NOT.
The warped, twisted reflection.
WRATH /// FIRST
Circut Breaker Heart
I feel a sudden shock to my systems.
"OW! Shit! Damn thing is stuck in there."
The first sounds I hear are a jumbled mess of swears in what my voice recognition software presumes is Italian. "I almost got it... MERDE!" Another shock. The sudden boost of electricity jump-starts my heart online. Warmth pumps through my systems, said systems flooding me in overwhelming feedback and critical errors.
"...it just move?" The most softest, gentle voice barely makes itself known, its utter rasping fluctuation and gravel makes it quite the noise to parse. Just hearing it makes me want to clear a throat that I dont have.
"That's just my static babe, ignore it." I try to focus on the anrgy mess of noises the other says, but the stupid influx of stupid warnings is on its knees, begging me to recalibrate and test for stupid damage. I start the process begrudgingly, dreading to see the sheer amount of things that are broken. As the list comes in, it's suddenly stopped short. An annoying pop-up saying that data retrieval has faced an error, and I can only guess its due to lack of fuel. I try the process again, and again. "Its hard to ignore that humming."
After another round of failed recalibration, and I finally get the hint to run daignostics. Only my torso diagnostic data is sent back to me, but The immediate issue was my internal gyroscopes and balancing systems have -for some odd reason- sustained irreparable amounts of damage. So, Any amount of movement was difficult to process. There, that explains the issue. Looking further, The result showed that there was a very slight, extremely miniscule, almost negligable motion, that was not sitting well with any of my internal components. "Don't you hear it?"
It felt like my heart and lungs where ever-so-slightly clipping in and out of my chest, tangling my wires in a confusing mess. The feeling is one I've never had to catalouge, but with what other feelings I do know, it's utterly miserable. No amount of recalibration could correctly align my limbs. It was quite the oddity, considering most functions where online. "Can you stop hearing things and let me focus?"
silence. It seems the conversation has come to a stand-still, making me parse the feeling more. So, right here and now I am making the executive desicion to try and bypass this slow and democratic process, and attempt to just move out of whatever is keeping me in this degrading state.
My plans are foiled, as I'm still too humble to move. My HUD blinking and echoing lack of power. "Look, that one is about to fall out."
"Well I'd be damned, thats makes 38 of these coins now! Damn near using this bot as a piggy-bank...poor thing"
"Sure. Poor thing. Are you sure you know what your doing?"
Another shock to my systems. "AH MERDE. Fuck this. Get me a scalpel will you?" This one allowing for the recalibration data I was asking for, as well as all limb data. This inlcudes the pain I've dutifully ignored, though it seems I'm unable to parse it. "Get it yourself."
Finally, Online! this would be a time to rejoice, but the pain data is clouding my feed. Despite this, the list finished at a nice 478 lines. No matter, as I am built to withstand and persavere, and It's clear that pain does not affect me.
The pain doesnt effect so much so, that when I feel a sharp sensation deep within the inards of my chassis-danergously close to my heart- I do not flinch. I do not grip around a completely different area from where I projected, I do not feel a hightened sense of pain from where my wrist hits, or the loud cluttering of something right after.
I do, however, I hear the voices from farther away. They've seemingly abandoned their places. The intruder must've been caught by suprise. Of course, as calculated.
" Move."
"WOAH WAOH WOAH ERIS! Hold on now~ fast arn't we? Let's think about this a little. "
The sounds of struggle emminate from both of them.
"I've already had time to think watching you play surgeon. I'm not letting this happen again. MOVE."
"Hey now, we need these parts Eri. Or else its no lights until we get to Lust."
The struggle wanes, I hear a laboured sigh.
"Dear Lord, that color would be god awful on it. No."
I can take being talked down to like I'm some sort of scrap. I, however, draw the line at my proud, offically patented V2 paint color. Damn recalibration, I'll give them a taste of what a "God awful color" can do. I begin to sit up, suddenly feeling blood pour back into my wings in pins and needles.
"V2 MODEl ready for inp-"
I immediently stop the booting process. A slight tinge of embarrased as the first reason, and for the second, the pain data finally getting processed. Each muscle burns with vigor, voice creeping out in static, my CPU more occupied in directing the influx of pain. I cannot scream. I will not scream.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"
The pain stops with a harsh grip around my neck. The feed of input suddenly ceasing to find output; a wire disconnected. "What did-" I touch where the wire disconnected. Sensory imput is clearly facing error, as I feel something akin to stone where I expect flesh to be."Worked on sentries. Essentially the same model right~?" This comment pisses me off, comparing me to a walking gun? "Negative, green is a repugnant color" They laugh a kind laugh, a sound I've completely forgotten."Sassy thing arn't 'cha?"
Human laughter, human cheers. Songs, shouts, yells, screams. I'm stuck trying to find any recollection of humanity that isn't the taste of their blood. In this moment I remember that this is hell. I'm not in the workshop of a mechanic after a stress-test, them idly talking to me and themselves, enriching both our times in the boring monotony of repairs. No, this is hell. I died and was sent to hell.
"No."
I shovel these thoughts into a folder somewhere, instead diverting my attention to the confused hum the other voice gives. Something makes a loud thud to the floor.
"No. No. Nononononono."
The pleas settles to a stop, heavy breathing takes it's place. Suddenly, a laugh.
"OH YES! YES! We keep it!"
"Inquiry; What in the hell is going on?" The laughing and weeping continues, which are both very inappropriate reactions to my arrival."Second rule of hospitality; If it speaks, it stays! Welcome friend, to the MalDeMer~!" I turn my head to see the movment of a warm welcome, a habit, but I of course see nothing, and react as such.
"The first?" "If it pays, it stays; which youve done in earnest." The voice lowers, as if they're head turns to something. My critical state denies me access to any libraries of knowledge I could use to identify what the fuck this guy is talking about. "Creative," I jest. "It's easy to remember, as Eri will try to forget. isn't that right, Eri? Eri? Did you seriously-!" I hear them walk away from where I lay. I dont give comment, instead trying to focus on getting up from this degrading state. Movement is too little, or too much. It doesnt help that my abused nerves are picky about what data they parse, but systems indicating impact tell me all I need to know about the ground I just fell on.
A laugh, "Hold on-Dont move! wouldn't wanna ruin the small amount of parts that ain't broken" Small amounts? Don't tell me I look as bad as I feel. "Is the damage noticable?" Another laugh, and I begin to dread its forced repetitiveness."If you count missing three limbs and half your plating to be." There it was, the answer I've been dreading. An arm wasnt enough, it needed my legs too? A superior V-model shouldn't be veiwed like this.
"Not like this." Anything but this. The warped reflection and the reflected. Every muscle is still tense, begging not to move. Do I listen? Can I listen? I can't give in. That shadow is somwhere, waiting to take whatever I have left.
A stupid laugh again, "It's nothing I can't fix."
