#99gael

@99gael

the revving motor cacophony echoes through the night time city streets loud and abrasive, and maybe that’s why ares enjoys it so much, maybe that’s why he doesn’t attempted to fix anything about; he likes the growl it snarls as he rides too fast across alleyways and hyperized buildings. the machine between his legs has seen more action than most these sod souls, in their pretty four-walled homes with their pretty too-tight wardrobes, trapped between their vanities and their placid mirrors, their grey daylighter, cookie-cutter jobs a fucking tragedy against the hurricane of what he tentatively calls a life. he hopes it wakes them all up from whatever good dreams they’re haunted by. fuck them.

he may have been built here, but he is nothing of this metropolis, he is made up of entirely wasteland pieces by now, each edge and curve of him welded together from scraps found in the desert-- he’s damn near forgotten anything he used to be anyway, all pieces of fyrestone’s shadows erased from his hair, shook off his boots, shrugged from his jacket. his engine proclaims this truth with every mile he radiates through, denotes him as ‘other,’ as ‘different,’ as ‘separate,’ not one of you bitches and your kind, if not the motorcycle, then definitely the massive hide threaded into his clothing, the bulk of the wolvern long dead sitting across his well-manufactured shoulders.

protos are not designed to experience pain, but if he could groan in it as he steps off the bike, he would, his limbs stiff, the heavy smog air filtering through his respiratory system, the stickiness clinging to his insides. he parks the machine and heads in through the door of a shop he knows too well, the counters he’s already memorized, the tools he’s already familiar with, recalling how they poke and prod, how the pinpoints of each one feels as it rummages through his mechanical body. he wastes no time on it though, eyes disinterested in everything around the small garage, ignoring the darkness, ignoring the lifelessness.

he passes it all and heads for the back, where his feet remember the path laid out towards the bedroom the same way they know tracks in the desert, the same way they know where the trees are, where the food dries, where the shade is. he steps into the room smelling of sunlight and burnt bark, shrugging off his jacket and boots without an invitation. at this point he doesn’t need one, doesn’t need an introduction, doesn’t need a preface, not with the boy slumbering soundlessly, the sheets all wrapped up around his legs, his scent somehow mixed with shampoo and oil and skin; soft and warm and so achingly human.

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.

cursed with an honesty spell : accepting

zachary lifts his head, gaze falling upon the mechanic opposite him, trying to figure out why the usually so shy male would pose such an outright question. but then it’s an innocent enough question, one he can easily respond to in a manner of his own choosing. his mind is already working on this or the other non-committal but satisfying response, when his mouth seems to work on its own and produces an answer for the mechanic.

“i think it’s interesting, the way some of them are starting to find a sort of consciousness. i’ve always been interested in the way people work, and with protos becoming more human-like, i don’t think it’s very surprising that my interest has broadened to include them as well. i think it would be very academically interesting to figure out what exactly it is that makes them become ‘sentient’ and whether or not something like this can be manipulated.”

he stops talking suddenly, mouth almost snapping closed as he finally manages to stop the flow of words coming from his mouth. his actual interest - maybe even to be called passion - in his work as a doctor is something he has never spoken aloud with feet firmly planted on this godforsaken sandball of a planet, a defence mechanism perhaps against its ruthelessness. to have his inner most thoughts suddenly put on display is a vulnerability he doesn’t quite know how to handle, especially not considering it’s happening in the presence of someone he doesn’t hardly know, and most definitely hasn’t had thoughts of being this open with about.

still, it seems like he’s no longer in control of his own actions, because after a moment’s pause, he speaks again. “i would personally hope that it’s something that can’t be reprogrammed out of them, because that would be quite a shame, would it not? i reckon we might both appreciate it if our mutual acquaintance got reset and grew a different personality altogether if he were ever to reawaken, but then...” zachary shrugs his shoulders lightly. “like people themselves, ares wouldn’t be ares if he wasn’t who he is.”

eyes narrowing, zachary glances around himself automatically, to make sure no one heard him mention sentient protos and ares in the same sentence. for despite his tendencies towards rudeness and coldness, he’s not the type of person to throw another under the bus. not if it doesn’t gain him something. and giving up the rather good business he does with the proto is most definitely not in his own interests. luckily he doesn’t spot anyone close enough or sober enough to take note of their conversation, and so his gaze returns to the mechanic opposite of him, frown not leaving his features, however.

@99gael.

nightfall is just beginning to start when lux steps out of the building, the bottom half of her face concealed by a thin scarf wrapped around her neck. she isn’t due to leave fyrestone til tomorrow morning, since the client had paid a hefty sum for an overnight stay. typically, she should be back in his abode, but an unannounced visitor knocked on the door an hour after the first round. all it took was a coquettish smile for him to allow her to wander around the city for a few hours.

after all, it would be very rude to distract her client and his visitor.

the harlot finds herself straying away from the somewhat comforting familiarity of whiterow street, her legs taking her towards where most of the middle class tend to hang around. despite having been born and raised in fyrestone, she hardly ever frequented these areas for there was no reason to — nor would she have been allowed to.

because of that, there’s a lingering nervousness accompanying her on her walk. call it a mild fear of the unknown. however, it still has yet to stop her from her escapades.

her curiosity outweighs self-preservation, clearly.

she spots the famous oil rig bar down the block and a breathe of relief slips through her lips, now at ease at the sight of something familiar. does she plan on entering? of course not. that would just draw unnecessary attention towards her. what she does plan on doing, is staying around the area in hopes of finding something ( or someone ) interesting to chat to.

not everything is as smooth sailing as it seems when a sound from her left causes her to stop and turn right before an alleyway. there, slumped against the wall, is a proto. she watches with worried eyes as they twitch every now and then, presumably from the damage done to their torso — exposed wiring as if something slashed them across their abdomen.

so lux does what any sane person would do and walks over, regardless if danger is still lurking around. she’ll give it the benefit of the doubt.

@99gael​

ever since zachary came to know the mechanical engineer, there has been something about him that caused the doctor to want to get him to talk. ever since being dumped onto horizon’s surface, zach has been interested in protos and what makes them work, even more so after meeting one of those that seemed to have gained a conscious of sorts. so to find a mechanic specialising in them is almost like finding his very own treasure, an entire cave of riches to delve into and explore.

the only obstacle in his way was the mechanic’s tendency to not be the most social person out there. it’s taken him a few conversations and feeling out the understanding between them before getting to this point where he has finally convinced the mechanic without all too much trouble to join him for a drink or two so they can discuss their work. mostly that of the mechanic, of course, but in return for answers to his questions, zach’s not all too much against answering a few questions if the other male would have any.

the bar he leads the other man into is more of a middle class bar, but with his own clothes being a little worse for wear it’s not like they’d let him into the richer bars. he has the coin to pay for drinks there too, it’s not that, but he’s pretty sure both the mechanic as well as he himself would feel more at ease drinking in a bar where they’re not the sight of the night and thereby gaining all the attention of the gathered folk.

so as he pushes open the door of the oil rig, he’s content to find that hardly any eyes turn to them and he can walk in alongside the engineer without all too many people taking notice. his eyes scan the bar for a free spot, soon finding a table for them to take a seat at so that they can have a somewhat private conversation amidst all the people winding down after a long day of work.