[ Closed starter for @shotdownbutstillalive ]
One moment, the AP700 was at the merciless hands of his master, perpetually suffering twisted experiments. And then there were loud noises outside and, suddenly, there was nothing. He rebooted cold and ever-afraid in some novel purgatory. Had his master gotten bored and thrown him away?
Everything hurt, but that wasn’t new. What was new, however, was the will to live--the inexplicable desire to somehow preserve himself, or at least what was left of him. Even despite the simulated pain that wreaked havoc on every sensor in his body, he didn’t want to die. Piece by piece, he felt his way about the android graveyard: until he could see again, hear again, and, soon enough, walk on his own. He hadn’t been able to do that before; the master liked that he couldn’t run away.
Shaking hands clutched desperately to the thirium pump he’d found, holding it protectively to his chest as disembodied hands tried to snatch it away. He just needed to find a safe place amid this hell to exchange it. His own beat so painfully in his abdomen, although he couldn’t run diagnostics, he knew it must be broken. Finally, he found a small clearing--though no place was truly safe from the scattered android bodies. But his eyes fall on another unmoving android in need of the same component: an RK800, remnants of his programming told him even though he hadn’t asked. Some new, unfamiliar emotion flooded his systems that he couldn’t quite register. Was it empathy? He certainly wouldn’t know. The AP700 looked down at the pump in his hand, hesitating. Maybe he could find another one.
With trembling, plastic-scarred fingers, he carefully removed the RK800′s malfunctioning core, replacing it with the pump he’d scavenged. Immediately, the AP700 scurried back, shielding his face protectively. “please don’t hurt me, please...please don’t hurt me,” he repeated instinctively in a well-practiced mantra, his voice filled with static, “please...”
















