HYDRA

Stars: Experiences

Sun: Do you consider yourself social?

Sirius: Have you ever failed someone?

Rigel: Have you ever been arrested?

Deneb: When was your first kiss?

Arcturus: Have you cried out of something other than sadness?

Betelgeuse: What’s something you can never forget about?

Aldebaran: What’s something you care desperately about?

Canopus: Have you ever broken a bone?

Bellatrix: Have you ever been forced to lie/keep a secret?

Alphard: Have you ever lost a friend?

Vega: What’s something you’ve done that you wish you hadn’t?

Phenomenon: Wishes

Comet: What’s your big dream? 

Meteor: What’s something you wish you could tell, but can’t?

Nebula: If you could undo one thing in your life, what would it be?

Shooting Star: If you could bring back one thing, what would it be?

Supernova: What’s one thing you want to do before you die?

Wormhole: What’s something you wish would happen, but know won’t?

ares is a wolf beneath his skin, a wolvern monstrosity with grinning shadows and sharpened teeth, the drive in him unlike anything most people have ever had to deal with, unlike anything most people have ever seen, the compartments of his ensemble pieced together in malicious, festering ways, bloodthirsty in essence, hungry from the core of him, out to all the seams and edges, and if anyone should know this, if anyone should understand to be wary of their steps and motions around him, it’s gael. he couldn’t count how many times the proto has arrived on his doorstep in mud and muck and human remains, the marrow of their bones still scenting his clothes, the narrowed danger clinging to his atmosphere like every kind of warning sign, something abhorrent, something writhing, something evil hovering above his head like a raincloud. and he never asks for forgiveness, he never exposes shame.

but for all the times gael has witnessed him like this, for all the turbulent advisories on ares, he still lets the proto press lips against flesh, slide into his bed, graze his touch under the fabric of his clothes, whisper words of longing and promise in his ear, still lets the proto cover him in lust, in lechery, in desperation, and ares has a theory that the mechanic likes it more than he lets on. he likes being wanted by a monster, he likes the razored edge of it, likes the peril, the havoc, the way ares could slaughter men and machines for miles, all blades and bullets and red, gleaming eyes, but here, in the downy softness of this human’s bedroom, he is only hands and lips and planes of synthetic skin aching to be touched. however nervous or uncomfortable it may sometimes make the human boy, ares suspects he enjoys that hazard far more than even he himself can admit to.

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the glare ares shoots at vera could wither plants and set houses on fire, but luckily for her, she has no eyes to see it, only sensors to understand words and situations happening around her, but that doesn’t stop ares from his sneer, the darkening haze of his atmosphere sharpening to wishful thoughts about crushing her casing to smithereens, despite how attached gael is to her. at the moment, that’s the only thing that keeps ares in check, keeps him from catapulting across the room destroying the mouthy, sass-appliance that’s always acting like a thorn in his side, a prick in the conversation. ares wishes gael would either turn her off whenever he’s around, or move her to a different room, but it seems gael would rather her hovering presence for moments like these, when he needs backup for his confusing, nonsensical ideologies.

but then ares is focusing back on gael, pitch black eyes pinned to the human like knife blades through his lashes, his brow furrowed and lowered slightly, to increase his own incredulous stance and expression, to give the mechanic a hint of how ridiculous he’s being right now about this. sure, protos had personalities and some of them were even growing consciousnesses, but at the end of the day, at the heart of it all, each proto had been designed for something and it wasn’t anything they could hide from, anything they could shirk away from, ignore entirely, disregard; it’s not like they can be anything other than what they are, and what they really are, is machines, mechanical, iron and oil and rust and purpose, and gael isn’t doing them any favors by pretending otherwise.

but it’s not until the washing machine comment that ares truly begins to understand the depths of gael’s delusions regarding this, whether he believes in life and souls in a proto or not, his righteous indignation brimming to the surface in a way that coils ares’s features into a hint of a snarl, his head tilting animalistically, the anger coming to a simmering boil behind his irises. “gael, what the hell do you think i am? what do you think i’m made of?” it’s all nice and good to imagine sometimes that ares was created from flesh and bones, that he’s a match to the humanity plaguing the planet around them, mix with them, toy with them, engross himself in their problems and situations, but gael has seen the insides of ares’ body, seen the gears and circuit boards, the electricity running its current through his wiring; he can’t be this naive.

the proto side-steps away from echolas on the table, his eyes still stuck on the mechanic before him, all folded arms and misguided morals, and something dangerous uncoils inside his ribcage, a thunderstorm bolstering along the edges of his lungs, a darkness seeping out from the corners of his body. “i call him a washing machine because he was a hyperion scavenger, a cleaner, a bottom feeder, one of those shiny, pretty models they send out into the wilderness to destroy unregistered mongrels like me, steal the scraps from our bones, from our grasps, take the trash for themselves,” he takes another step, almost circling the human now, the way a wolvern would around prey, “and if i had been just another washing machine, or a toaster oven proto, or a glorified security system with arms and legs, it’d be me on that table, twitching and humming.”

a beat passes, ares’ words laced in poison, his eyes wide with intensity and finality, and he takes a step forward this time, a long stride, bringing their atmospheres to a tight crushing weight, as though gravity is being pressed down upon in this exact spot, and ares tries to keep his tone to a hinting growl but with each word, his frustration builds and his voice grows louder. “but i’m not a washing machine like him, i’m what you’d call a death trap; still a fancy gadget, but made from all the pieces and fragments of other protos i’ve fought, molded from guns and knives and weapons and supplies i took from them, stuff i had to take from them to survive, do you get it?! that’s how i was created, that’s what i was made for! i’m a war machine, gael! they stripped me of whatever purpose i may have had before and programmed me to aggression, so i’d fight and kill for them! you know this, you can’t get all sanctimonious on me now!”

for a moment, he has to hiss in air through clenched teeth, his eyes shifting down towards the broken proto in hatred, in disgust– of himself, of his lineage, of what humans themselves made him into, made all protos into, just so they could cross their arms and judge them for it. because it’s not like he’s ever had a choice in the matter, it’s not like he decided to be created this way, and it’s not as though he can ever change. he is a machine, and with his own words come a hopeless, itching realization, a question that suddenly flares to life inside his head: what the hell is he even doing here? why is he even explaining this to gael, to this human mechanic whose heart is bigger than his fucking brain? this is fucking pointless.

“shit. nevermind alright, i’ll just take it somewhere else, where i don’t have to put up with another human’s hypocritical, mushy bullshit.”

he burns at ares words, he sinks and smolders, resolve hardening and a hysteria rising in his throat, an indigence. he feels hot all at once, a bubbling anger and frustration so strong he feels it pricking at the back of his eyes, welling in his chest and face, and while he hates that it’s bringing him to tears, hates that his bodies betraying him and proving ares’ comments, hates that he’s so soft and so human, so visibly weak, it somehow also strengthens the argument in him, face drawing together. he tries to keep a tremble out of his voice, a noise of opposition in his throat. "don’t you dare call me a hypocrite when i do everything you ask me to and i never ask for anything back except for just a sliver of respect! don’t you dare talk down to me like that!”

his hands shake a little, a quiver in his expression as he tries to stand his ground against the glare, the intensity of ares’ face, ignoring the instant shock of fear he feels at being circled and ridiculed, calmed by only his trust, no matter how misplaced, in the fact that ares wouldn’t really hurt him no matter how angry he makes him. he believes it because he needs it to be true, because his trust in ares is one of the only things that keeps him from being lonely, from feeling empty when all other things come to pass and fall to shit. it’s not consistent nor is it something that he feels promised to on a day to day basis, but when he has it, he holds onto it, relishes it, and right now, he hopes that it holds, he tells himself he’s safe, and more so, that ares is wrong.

"i know very well what you are, ares, i know what you’re made of, i’m not saying you’re a human because you’re not. i know the inside of you better than the back of my hand, i know you aren’t human, but what makes me different is that i don’t think you being a proto is an excuse for anything.” he says with difficultly, building distress coming clear, almost impossible to hide as he was never someone well versed in hiding his emotions, something ares was good at taking advantage of, skilled at ripping out of him in all forms. 

in one part, he’s angry, he’s furious and bitter at ares’ comments, but the bigger part of him is just upset. he’s hurt, brain reeling at the way he’s being spoken to, like a child, like he’s replaceable and ignorant, like his lack of arrogance makes him small. it stings, the realization that comes with how little ares actually understands him, how little he respects him and his wishes. he feels used, of course, the threat to storm off hanging in the air, the stab of pain that comes with ares’ insistence of going somewhere else, of leaving him so easily.

“you know how i see you, you know how i feel, and if you don’t like it then why are you here? why do you keep coming back? you’re the hypocrite, not me, you’re fine with me seeing you as a person and treating you like one when it’s convenient for you, when i’m telling you i miss you and that i care for you -- it’s okay for you to be treated like a person until its time for you to take responsibility for yourself! you’re the one doing this! you think you can't help yourself, you think you’re doomed, and i think you aren’t, i care about you and you know i do, and i’m not going to apologize for that! if you don’t want that then leave! if you want a mechanic who doesn’t give a shit about you then feel free to go find them, because i’m not gunna treat you like just a fucking machine no matter how much you think i should, i just wont. don't act like this is new!" 

“if you really think that way, and you’re just a deathtrap and you’re just here because you’re too lazy to find someone else then, yeah, go ahead, get out of my shop, but just stop messing with me if you do! stop coming over and having fun poking around at all the human parts of me you like and getting mad at me for the parts you don’t!” his voice isn’t even nor is low, raising to full hysteria, choked tears beginning to break through, face red in a way that’s familiar but different, not a blush but a deterrence. “have someone else bring you back from the dead and clean your systems and sit up for forty eight hours to fix the damages you get from picking fights in the wasteland and crawl into their bed at night, see if they’ll let you, see if anyone will do half the things i do for you.” he chokes on it, shoulders shaking and face wet, resolve weakening by the second, voice suddenly hollow and tired and pained, “you don’t get to treat me like i’m replaceable.”

and then it’s over, defiant and breathless, he pulls himself out of it slowly, starting with his lungs and then reaching to his face, closed off and hurt, because ares isn’t going to get it no matter how much he repeats himself, because ares doesn’t understand, and because, above all, it seems that ares really doesn’t care.

@99gael

kitts arrives at the home of gael’s father right on the dot that they’d previously set. when it comes to punctuality, she’s usually settled on the midway point of caring and not caring whether she makes it on time to something, having spent more than enough of her life living on someone else’s clock. today falls under the realm of the former because of who it is and she’d had no hesitation clearing her schedule specifically so she wouldn’t have to worry about leaving too early.

“dad… isn’t doing so well…”

when first told about the man’s failing mental health and his growing preference towards booze, words hadn’t been capable of expressing what she’d felt. they still aren’t. she’s thought over it repeatedly, near endlessly since, and can’t find a single one in her vocabulary that seems to encompass it all clearly. she’s known gael’s father since she was a child, remembers him guiding her and gael in tandem through inner mechanical workings and wires just as her own father had, how he’d helped her get her job at hyperion after her parents died, helped give her something to focus on that wasn’t grief. he’d given her the smallest boost in getting her shop off the ground too, stuck his neck out by pointing some clients in her direction. she’d happily repaid him with a flourishing business, not failing to meet his expectations of her.

how does she describe the hollow ache in her chest cavity born of concern and worry and sadness over the failing health of a man who’s like a second father to her, over the man who’s more brother than friend and has to shoulder the pain of it all?

“you haven’t been waiting too long i hope,” kitts muses when she reaches where gael currently waits for her just a few feet from his father’s house. she’d question about arriving late but she knows she’s not, having checked her watch just moments before. she places a hand on gael’s shoulder, gaze flicking to the door of his father’s home, “ready?” she questions softly, long since having resolved to be a steady strength for him however she can.

his hands are tense, palms pressed clear with the crescent shapes of his nails, lips red from being bitten and chewed on in his wait, his anxiety seeping easily through his skin. he looks as bad as he feels and he knows it, the faintest purple tainting under his eyes, flushed paler than usual. he’d been sleeping less, the nightmares worse with the escalation of his father’s condition, a stomach churning realization after the last time he saw him, because not only is he sick, but he’s aware of it, and choosing to greet his illness and failing well-being with the bottom of bottles and unwashed skin and clothes.

gael’s afraid he’s dying, or perhaps in his own sense, already dead.

he showed up early, too early considering he refused to go in alone -- considering that he couldn’t. he paced outside the home that was his own for years and looked at it as if a stranger, face drawn dark and nervous, lines between his furrowed eyebrows likely imprinting permanently in his skin at the age of twenty three, constant vigilance tainted with fear and wonder, heartbreak and disaster, sandstorms and barriers -- he’s afraid of losing the only blood he has. he knows those things only go skin deep, dna and punnet squares, dark hair and brown eyes, and he always voices as such, knows he should be glad to have even gotten two decades of having a father but watching him deteriorate feels like two more of it’s own and in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar. yes, heartbreak.

he waits for kitts and he’s so happy he has her, he’s so glad she exists and that she cares, that he had someone to grow up beside. she is the only person who can relate to how he feels about his father, the next relative that he’s closest to in his own way, and he knows that with her, even if only by a fraction, this will all be much easier. a support system, a friend, a sister, but for the first time when he sees her approaching -- he feels dread. 

He’s stumbling through some nameless back alley street on the outskirts of the city, of society, obscured behind some ramshackle building that doesn’t have a name. The virus infecting his circuits is affecting his sense of balance, and he’s dragging himself forward, supporting his weight against the crumbling stone walls. The homeless don’t give him any mind, sitting by their respective fires and makeshift beds fashioned from the scraps that they scavenged from trash thrown out by the city’s (relatively) middle-class. Who can blame them? It’s about survival, and if there’s anything living on the streets teaches you, it’s to turn a blind eye towards anything that doesn’t affect you.

He doesn’t remember how he made it this far and the static that was in his ears is replaced by nothing, recognizes the possibility of complete auditory center shutdown but remains unfazed. Maybe if he was human he’d care a little bit more about the fact that, for all intents and purposes, he’s now deaf and also happens to be missing half of his right arm, but he’s not human and protos aren’t generally programmed to instinctively gravitate towards self-preservation.

Instead, they’re programmed to pursue a purpose, an end goal, through whatever means necessary and with complete disregard for personal cost.

He stops momentarily at the mouth of the alley, a split second that somehow seems to stretch on forever, tugging off the helmet he wears as part of his standard military-issue full-body armor, titanium producing a dull thud when it collides with the citadel’s steel floors. Synthetic eyes remain glued to the towering structure sticking out of the city center and into the sky, a monument to both human capability and human greed in its own fucking right.

He grits his teeth at the sight.

He’s snapped out of his little reverie by the WARNING! signs flashing before his eyes, vision tinted red, pace quickening as he follows directions supplied by an internal positioning system.

Gael. Gael. Gael.

“Find Gael, his name should be in the system, he’ll help you. Now go. Go!”

WARNING! VIRUS INFECTION AT 87%! IMMEDIATE EMERGENCY SYSTEM REPAIRS ADVISED! COMPLETE SYSTEM SHUTDOWN IMMINENT!

THREAT DETECTED! REASONING CENTER HIGHLY SUSCEPTIBLE TO VIRAL CORRUPTION!

There’s a click, inaudible to the human ear as he releases the latch to the 28A steel blade designed into his left forearm; it snaps open, similar to a switchblade except much longer and much, much sharper, and in one fluid motion makes a shallow, clean cut across his nape, slicing through the three cables leading up into his ‘brain’.

He feels no pain. After all, designing a killbot to feel pain would be rather counterintuitive, no?

A single thought occupied the confines of his artificial consciousness even as he dragged himself forward the rest of the way, even as he banged his fist against the doors to gael’s garage, once, then twice before he simply forces them open, the mechanism of the lock snapping like a twig under the strain.

I can’t forget. I can’t forget.

He remembers everything so clearly.

He barely makes it a step inside before collapsing.

it’s hot like panic, erratic like fear -- he is forever the proto equivalent to an emergency room doctor, with hurried healing and fatal breakage. 

the face through his door isn’t familiar, the torn up machinery and missing pieces absurdly plentiful and battered, a machine of chaos and destruction falling onto his floor in a heap. for a moment he freezes, a wide-eyed panic shooting through his limbs and mind, alarms ringing in his ears. it’s late, he should be sleeping, he should be undisturbed, but the nightmares kept him awake, kept him alert, only to be greeted with the same hungry jolts of fear in the real world with the pile of damage, the appearance of hopelessness. he should be used to this, it shouldn’t stutter his already broken heartstrings anymore, not after the countless times he’d witnessed such similar occurrences, but he finds it difficult to get used to such carnage, such violence.

he snaps himself out of it, tries to convert his mind, switches into work mode, into lifesaving mode. he swallows his emotions, his feelings. there’s no place for anxiety here, no room for uncertainty.

as he shoves his gloves on his hands, the ones that prevent him from getting electrocuted, the ones that stop him from feeling their burden, he’s reminded of bringing protos back from the dead. it unnerves him, the image in front of him so jarring and yet it feels familiar, something like déjà vu. he isn’t a savior, he doesn’t play god in a traditional sense, but he feels like he walks the line of life and death far too often, both doubtful and indispensable. 

he leans over the proto and takes inventory of all visible lacerations and open wounds, wires and hardware splintered, his neck and the disaster that lays there with tightly knit eyebrows and a frown carved into his features. he presses into the protos side to roll him over, to see his face, his awareness, take stock of his consciousness. the eyes that greet him are red and there’s another sharp sting of fear, the knowledge of what those mean on different builds, what they could translate into, but he remembers the neck, the severed wires. even if he was dangerous, he couldn’t do anything to gael now, not without his bodily functions.

he continues to looks for damages, not giving the eyes a second glance as he zeros in, trying to focus, to shake the exhaustion hanging onto him, the sleep deprivation giving way to attentiveness and quick thinking. yet his friends still wonder why he’s always so stressed, on the clock twenty-four hours a day, he’s barely human himself anymore.

he speaks directly to the proto, eyes shifting over the rest of his body, unsure if he still has the available brain capacity to speak as he hadn’t gotten quite that far in his assessment yet. there wasn’t time for his usual greetings, smiles and handshakes, he was too tired and it was too urgent for any sense of formalities. he spoke quickly but clearly, hands picking up different limbs, scanning, thinking, planning.

ares feels gael wrap himself around the proto and the war machine seeps down further against him, aligning their bodies like paths of water in the same river, melting together, molding together, swirling and tilting and coiling together until there is no air, there is no space, there is no sound except the thudding of their heartbeats, both half-human, half-machine, pressed up against each other in the impossibility of ares’ defection, knocking on the other’s ribcages, but the throbbing is nothing comparatively to the rest of his body. gael smells like sleep, like warmth, like skin and sweat and small smudges of oil, iron like a proto himself, but he tastes like silk, tastes like tulle, tastes like weakness, the malleable haze of his thready consciousness edging him on the point of willing.

feeling gael rise up against his hips, their pelvises meeting and clashing slightly, carefully, in that oh-so-gael way, that timid, shy, adorable hesitation braided through everything he does, causes electricity, causes lightning, causes blaze and energy to spark through ares’ veins, the idea of ruining him delicious and burning on all the corners of him, kindling to a flame with every second spent in his arms, listening to his breath quickening, his sheets rustling, his bed creaking. ares’ hands begin to roam slightly, curling around the human like snakes, like ropes, like cages, strong and wide enough to sear his brand into gael’s flesh, every sensor ringing and alert, soaking up all the tiny details of gael’s body he’s not always allowed to touch, not always allowed to experience, his fingers and knuckles almost desperately coursing across the lines of his torso, his shoulders, his hips, his legs, unhurried, measured, memorizing.

he’s such a tease, ares is convinced, so goddamn tempting and so goddamn frustrating, his fingers lacing through the proto’s hair like tantalizing tendrils, the way he pulls on him, the way he presses their mouths together; everything is a persuasion, everything is sweet and hot and aching, a fun little game ares dies to play, begs for more of with every glance and word that tumbles between them in the daytime world, every touch, minor or grasping that gael is constantly rejecting whenever they are around anyone else. he closes his eyes against gael’s lips, forces his own down a bit further, angling his jaw slightly to deepen the kiss and coax gael into opening his mouth wider– he wonders how much gael is willing to take, how much he’s willing to swallow, and dips his tongue down into the heat between his teeth, licking slowly as he draws back. he eventually lets gael relax down into his pillow, the soft, demure grin like starlight gleaming between cloud cover, something luminescent, something precious, something that doesn’t belong to ares or to this workshop or to this planet.

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gael melts into the touches like candle wax, liquid and shifting and hardening all the same, breathy gasps and lingerings fingertips. he dares to explore more than he wants explored on himself; dipping under ares’ shirt, over the hard plane of stomach and abs, perfectly sculpted just how he was always intended to be, lower to his pelvis, his hips, where his grasp tightens, as if to somehow pull him closer.

his perfection is daunting, it makes him self conscious, it makes him want to hide all the fleshy, soft, human parts of himself; the imperfections that came with being born and not made, of not spending as much time on himself as others. he remained hidden away in clothes, nervous at too much attention, his bodies natural instinct to cover his stomach and shoulders and thighs despite knowing there’s nothing particularly wrong with them. perhaps the days spent staring at bodies and figures designed and made to be perfect had penetrated his psyche, but of course, how could it not? slim builds and hardened muscles, curves and edges, all statures he felt he couldn’t compete with, and yet he prevented himself from hiding by busying his hands, his arms, trailing them over ares in his entirety, finding all the stretches of silicon skin he can, hardly bothering with the boundaries of clothes except for where they hug too tightly.

he knew ares’ body like he knew like his own, inside and out from hours and days and weeks of fixing him, repairing him, advancing him. he was familiar with it in a way that was purely medical with the exception of the occasional kisses, crawling into his bed like tonight, the unfamiliar wandering of hands, usually almost innocent, but this night was different. it was intimate, it was intense, and it was unwaveringly sexual, and as he became more aware of the situation, more awake and alert to the friction and the taste, the more nervous he felt himself get, the more desperately he clung as if he was afraid of being rejected at any moment.

he wanted it, he knew that much without a doubt, and suddenly his hesitation had less to do with morals and more to do with nerves, with inexperience and embarrassment, because no one had touched him in years while he knew ares could be only hours from his last conquest. it plagued him, his own motions becoming slightly less aggressive, more slow and lagged, almost mechanical for the stiffest of moments as he presses his lips back to ares’, a returning share of his tongue, a mental precession of more, more, more. a part of his mind tells him to take what he can get, to grasp and pull and to allow him to do the same, and the other warns him to stop, to hold onto his pride. he finds himself more inclined to the latter.

life, as humans understand it, is a very interesting, intricate idea for ares– the term printed and defined on paper as the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding death, but there’s something else about life that humans deem necessary for objects to receive such an amendment; that of the soul as well, something even stickier, even heavier, even more brutal than the simple mechanics of operation. he’s heard it before, the arguments for and against protos having souls and thereby their abilities for housing true life, whether it is real or fabrication, whether the synthetic turmoil inside their gears and grains attain the bare minimum for the established rules on the subject, despite being able to perform all the necessary physicalities of living. from the data he’s gathered so far, he’s come to the understanding that the term is no more a real construct than that or morality, that it means something different to different people, and that most of them are batshit fucking crazy anyway.

he’s aware of the distinct divergence between his and gael’s ideas of life, aware that gael feels more than him, not directly because he’s human and ares is a machine, but also something very singular inside gael himself that distinguishes him from other humans as well; gael cares so damn deeply for everything around him, ares sometimes wonders if he’s named and deemed his own appliances as pets. he already talks to a bot all the time as it is whenever ares isn’t around, and he knows the mechanic has other protos he works on as well, caring for them with the same amount of support and attentiveness as he would for ares ( possibly even more depending on whether ares is being particularly annoying that day ).

and usually it’s amusing enough of an attribute for ares to either dismiss or overlook when he has to, a flaw in the boy’s system, a weakness of his mentality, the harbinger foreshadowing to what will certainly be only sorrow and agony in the near future, a characteristic ares finds just as frustrating as he does fascinating. it colors gael uniquely soft and succulent in a world dry and bitter, torrid surroundings to the mechanic with velvet skin and a careful demeanor, piques ares’ interest unshakably, enthralls him enough to return time and time again despite their differences.

their differences which are usually always highlighted in moments like these, when ares doesn’t compute what gael finds so obvious, or visa versa, the discoloration of the human’s face completely lost on the proto, his expression surprised a bit but yet undaunted, his shoulders shrugging, his eyes shifting between gael and the impediment he’d taken care of earlier. “i’ve brought you stuff before, what’s the big deal?” suddenly this is an issue? it’s not immobile yet? is that how gael assumes sentience, by whether or not it twists, whether or not it whirls, quiet motors humming their last notes– this is how gael determines life?

“it’s just a couple of gears there in the headpiece, look–” he balls his fingers and smashes his fist down onto the face of the proto once named echolas, trying to get the rigs and wind-ups inside it to calm and grind to a halt, but it takes two, three, four more hits for it to finally stop making so much noise, albeit something in the arm is still twitching– hopefully gael can’t see that bit though. don’t want him to start crying or anything like that. “see? it’s just like a malfunctioning washing machine.” his voice is clear and even-toned, unashamed and unabashed by his actions or what he’s brought to the mechanic; it’s a good find and he needs gael’s help. “i need the parts off it, i can make better use of them than he could.”

he was appalled, and his expression showed as such, a sort of twist of shock and disdain on his usually so soft features, eyebrows pinched, lips slightly ajar, stance frozen. his eyes didn’t leave ares’ face for a long moment, an aura of discomfort that he was sure wasn’t effecting ares at all, the absolute sociopath he tended to be.

“actually, protos, unlike humans, are much less likely to remain moving or functioning without some semblance of energy running through their brain centers. it works similarly to how blood remains much more central around the human heart.” vera crackles from her speaker and gael gestures a hand in her direction for emphasis. he feels grateful for the help in the moment, an almost wordlessness overtaking him, even with the feeling that her stepping in had less to do with helping him and more to do with her blatant distaste for ares. either way, he takes the assistance as it comes.

“you realize this is a shop to fix broken protos right? to fix them and not break them further when at all possible?” he says, running his hands through his usually well-kept hair and leaving something of a distressed look in it’s trail, a wildly dissatisfied disposition, an expression of almost pain. he wants so badly for ares to understand him, to see what was wrong in the situation, to know the difference. if ares brought things that were already immobile, gael could pretend that ares had simply found them in the wasteland, that gael himself was still virtuous in doing what ares asked with the ruined machines -- but if they showed up moving, alive, then gael couldn’t ignore it, then he could feel the guilt seeping into him. 

he could feel how wrong he was in assisting in the things ares did against all gaels morals.

he feels the cold drop in his stomach as he witnesses the rather brutal assault, cringing away from it, flinching at the display of both violence and strength. “ares, stop it, what the fuck!” his voice barely raises above it’s normal volume, more hysterical than angry with the use of vulgarity that is the most uncommon from gael’s lips, a usual avoidance of foul language at any cost. it was a slip, unintentional, but the best possible descriptor for the sensation that came with ares’ actions. he was disturbed by it, frustrated.

he takes a moment, eyes closed, a deep breath, a clear tension in his face and body, attempting to wind himself down as if speaking to a child. he tries not to let himself get upset, eyes slowly reopening and focusing on ares, arms crossing over his chest. he feels ages older than his twenty-three years in that moment, trying to convince himself not to get more agitated than he already was, not to lose his temper.

“a malfunctioning washing machine? is that what you think? ares, what do you think you are then? are you a washing machine too? i do a lot of work on you, way more than i’d ever do on a washing machine, so just let me know now so i can fix your spin cycle and send you on your way.” he says, almost insulted at the connotation, not quite sure if he’s more upset about the living aspect or the work that went into poor echolas, though he supposes it’s a good mixture of both. he can sense himself getting abrasive, feel the heat rising to his face both angry and sad, bottom lip subconsciously jutting out subtly in almost a pout despite his serious tone and disposition. 

kitts remains hunched over the proto as gael pulls away, eyes scanning over the repairs they’ve made, checking and double-checking to be sure nothing is loose or placed in the wrong spot. it’s simply her being somewhat anal rather than her doubting either of their abilities. they work in sync, two parts of one whole, when it comes to their work and she’s always confident that everything they do together will be successful no matter what bumps in the road may arise.

“is that you subtly admitting you doubted me about that?” kitts asks, a tinge of amusement in her voice as she finally straightens up, back popping some in protest of the singular position she’d kept for so long. as she stretches out, the kinks in her muscles, she observes him, remembering back to when those dimples were accompanied by a smile that held a missing tooth. she’s known him for so long and she considers him as much a brother to her as boone is, one of very few that she trusts and cares for dearly. she wipes away the sweat from her forehead with cotton band on her wrist and offers him a smile, one that’s soft and warm, “we learned together, gael. you’re as good as i am. how else did we accomplish patching him up today, hm?”

her gaze falls to the proto in front of them then, brows creasing slightly as her mind re-creates the image of the shambles he’d been in when she’d first come over. she could theorize all day over how he’d wound up in such a condition but none of the reasons matter now. he’s on his way to recovery and that’s what counts the most. “why don’t we take a break for a few and we’ll come back and finish up? i’ve got nothing pressing that needs my attention back at the shop unless you have other plans?”

“me? doubt you? impossible. i’ll never forget the amount of times you’ve entirely saved me from my own disasters, without you correcting me half my life i’d probably be the least reputable mechanic in all of fyrestone.” he countered with a laugh, only partially joking. her corrections throughout the years had definitely made him a better worker, but he knew the sentiment was mutual, at least in some sense, as they had, just as she said, learned together. he was grateful for that, especially considering how much her teaching methods and his father’s differed. it was good to have multiple sources, more eyes to look over predicaments, even if the latter pair were becoming less and less helpful these days.

he looked up at the clock on the wall, nodding at the time and pausing to think over his schedule, his appointments. “uh, yeah i think that should be fine. no one’s supposed to come in for a few hours still and i can close down walk ins for about a couple without it being a problem.” his face cracked into something of a smile. “i really hope there aren’t any emergencies around here because this neighborhood is down two mechanics for the moment.” he was mostly kidding, the ring in his voice showing that above all else, but he did have a short, sharp sting of anxiety over the idea. he worried about his patients, the times they come in seemingly beyond repair and make him do the impossible, always concerned he wouldn’t be able to help. it took a toll on his mental health, surely, but if it wasn’t his patients it was something else, consistently, often irrationally, stressed out.

most people call this workaholism, he just calls it necessity.