Another one of the pillars of the abiotic revolution, even if he despises the attention it brought him. At the final battle of the revolution, an entire city collapsed, and only a handful of the soldiers from both sides survived unscathed.
Having lost most of his 'friends', and after getting in an argument with Rivier, he left to roam the land by himself, and was seldom sighted again.
He's treated as a legend, or ghost, anything but an individual. Some fear him, but most treat him as a saviour, due to his determination to extinguish the hold that the Auvir infection has on the land, even now that the hivemind was mostly shattered.
The critters he's with here, Anzuelo (the little glider birdie) and Tachuela, are his usual assistants. Though he doesn't create new machines anymore, like he did with Tachuela, he still allows some of them to hang around him. He's a disney princess, truly.
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Original Work
After a lengthy flight and continuous battles as he's tried to find his way home, Youngblood is… Tired. His jet wings are tattered, his metal body is tied together by spare scrap, flextape, and spite. When he inevitably finds Draconis at his new rest spot, a battle ensues. However, there's no winning on either side.
Word Count: 5758
Originally published on June 26 2021, last revised June 28 2025
[Ao3 Link]
Header featuring art by @akaiitori / Cloud banners by @firefly-graphics - link
The cold was harsh. Not that he could feel it, but his lenses were frosting around the edges, and his joints and chest were making odd noises underneath his thick black coat. The metallic flaps of his wings made a ruckus with each gust, which wasn’t entirely unexpected due to the sloppy repair work he had just struggled through. Still, it was unnerving, and he could feel each of his primaries barely holding on, threatening to snap off at any moment. Can’t complain, he quickly reminded himself. You got yourself in this mess.
Still, he wondered what he looked like now. Scratches and torn pieces of mismatched skin, scratched paint and burnt clothing on areas without dermals. At least his coat was… complete enough. His thunderous modern engine had been enough to cause a scene, but this older one was somehow even louder, and seemed to sputter at random. It didn’t matter, the Youngblood was as bold and daring as he was stubborn (which was just another word for foolish), and he was determined to arrive home. Regardless of his state. He could even feel a smirk forming at the thought of his comrades’ reactions.
Flights like these were quieter than most days at the base, but that didn’t mean Youngblood ever grew lonely during them. He and the sky had grown well acquainted, one of the few things that hadn’t changed, always welcoming him as if he were a child wrapped in a thick, blue blanket. A reliable companion through the passage of time. This night it was black, a deep dark purple with changing hues all too familiar even to his compromised vision. After everything he'd seen, the countless times he'd taken to the sky above and soared over its vibrant colours, he'd never grow tired of looking at them.
The clouds were practically invisible, only appearing when they shielded the bright thin moon, or whenever he flew too close. They moved lazily, carried slowly by the strong wind currently kicking his ass. Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like for those currents to carry him like that. Not that he had thought of abandoning his course, not at all. But when he looked up softly, staring at the dimming yet everlasting splendor of the stars above him, he couldn’t help but wonder how things could’ve gone differently.
Should he have gone back to retrace his past on his own, or at all?
Should he even be alive, after what had happened? After being gone for so long?
Was he even ‘alive’ now, or at any point? Part of him doubted it. But…
…Would he have been proud of what had become of his beloved machine?
His chest ached. He frowned as he accelerated. No point in thinking of that.
The sun had begun to peek out from behind him, causing him to let out a worn-out groan. The plum colour that had previously tinted the sky, which he had grown very fond of, was beginning to give way to a gentle peach hue. His will faltered, becoming aware once again of the incessant noises coming from his chest and wings, as well as the arms currently holding them open. The tower inside him that held his resolve began to tilt a little, just by an inch, but it was more than enough for him to pull his wings back and begin a slow descent. The once-dark clouds had changed to a distractingly brilliant pastel colour, but they eventually began to clear to reveal the ruins of an ancient city.
Youngblood had been there before, he recognized the holes running around the perimeter, and even on the few remaining panels of some buildings. The tracks of an old, gigantic abiote that had once roamed these grounds and claimed them as her home. He quickly steered in order to avoid one of the last remaining skyscrapers, marvelling at the infrastructure visible through its crumbling shell. Would all of the city look like this?
He sped across the skyline, only slowing as he approached its faded border and beginning to slowly circle it like a vulture, eyes trained on the terrain. All the streets were cracked or missing pieces, and the few remaining houses lacked roofs, or most of their walls. Yikes. Strong gusts of wind kept knocking him off balance, making it hard to keep his wings’ position, and the blinding yellow colour of the morning was beginning to shine through above him. With a sharp tilt of his wings, Youngblood turned and flew into the current rather than against it, continuing to look for a landing spot without further mutilating his wings and body.
After another slow lap, he spotted it; a minor highway that wasn't completely buried in rubble. With renewed hope he accelerated, holding his wings straight and moving towards it. His coat strained against the wind, and he smiled as he heard the all-too-familiar sound of low height speed. He quickly turned to adjust his position, having gone a little too far out, but paying little mind. In a swift movement, he repositioned his arms and prepared for a rapid dive, mentally planning out the route ahead of him and bracing himself for the sheer disaster of a landing he was about to go through. With the street quickly approaching, he pulled his wings back further and opened them against the wind, thrusting his heels out in front of him and quickly making contact with the ground.
Although he regained his footing soon after touching down, his entire body snapped and stuttered. The uneven ground beneath him made his feet and landing gear groan as he sped forward in the road, and the debris had churned up dust all around him. Despite the poor control he had of them without his arms, his wings were now pressed against his body as he attempted to get a comfortable hold of his balance. Evading all the garbage and rubble was difficult, but he remained mobile enough that it wasn’t too disastrous. He guided each spin and swirl with his hips, avoiding the bits of building or the dead, fallen lamp posts that no longer sparked threateningly towards him, instead standing silently and casting intimidating shadows with the light that managed to sneak through the city's ruins. Youngblood smiled, the wind caressing his hair with the fervor of a long lost lover, its roar on his ears an accompanying mournful symphony. There was a low whistling inside his chest that worried him a little, but he dismissed it as the wind filtering through, as it had done many times before.
Finally, once the speed began to die down, he allowed himself to look around as he vaulted between the last of the automobiles, mere husks without engines. Good grief, an actual decent landing? How he wished they weren’t as rare. Bright brown eyes sparked with recognition at the scratches in the pavement, although the rest of the street was lifeless save for the whispers and squeaking of the critters (presumably rodents) that had taken over the area, and were currently sprinting out of the way. Looking around was difficult with all the dust he had picked up, but the darkness was constantly at odds with the orange beams of sunshine that were filtering through and assaulting his eyes.
He stumbled, leaning back further with a shake of his head. He quickly moved to regain control, grasping at the ends of his coat and holding open to help slow down. It was a balancing act, avoiding rubble while trying to stay steady enough for his speed to continue to slow, and even though he was skidding with a horrifying noise, it could be considered a win. Youngblood looked back, delighted by the tyre prints that seemed to dance incomprehensibly on the ancient concrete. Only a lamppost had shattered, while the rest of the ruins remained as it had been before the rude interruption of their very important activities.
Not realizing he had slouched when he came to a stop, Youngblood stood straight, rolling his shoulders back as his wings clicked comfortably into his back. Considering the last few days, this small haven was more than enough of a victory for him, and he would deal with any rain or bullshit later. The metropolis had the atmosphere of a forest, although one constructed of rotting alloys and infrastructure rather than any substantial plant life. The amount of bird calls grew after the morning call, and the moss and plants in every nook and crevice of the earth seemed to become brighter as well. He grinned as he looked around, admiring the "tree tops" that would be the remains of once-cherished structures, some overtaken by vines, others with just enough of a roof to cast an imposing shadow. The sky was a brilliant blue, with hardly a cloud in sight, likely thanks to the previous wind currents.
He reluctantly averted his gaze, turning with a huff towards the city center, stretching and feeling all his joints cry and groan as he began his stroll. It reminded him of the “good old” days, when any single movement caused a cacophony of noises. With each step, however, he realized he didn't particularly miss those days all that much. Youngblood continued for a few minutes, looking straight ahead and scanning the remaining buildings for signs of any possible shelter. Flying required too much energy and he sorely wanted to recharge, but with all the damaged cables lying silently in the concrete, he doubted anything would still be working. There were a few apartment buildings with what appeared to be stable floors at the bottom, but the tops swayed too much with the wind for his liking.
Another heavy step forward, and his heavy boots made a loud cracking sound. He looked up at the light post above him, unexpectedly standing straight unlike it’s siblings around them. Youngblood slowed his pace, mentally confirming that, yeah, anything that could somehow provide electricity would almost certainly kill him. It didn't matter; he'd be found and yelled at in no time while his body was being repaired. It was bound to happen one way or the other, wasn't it? He chuckled as he leaned down to pass beneath another fallen post. Worst case scenario, he had a battery he could use on Loketh's b-
The bag.
There was a slap that probably resounded for miles as Youngblood’s hand slapped onto his backside. He abruptly came to a halt, and a tenseness settled on his shoulders. The lights of his pupils were bright, and time seemed to slow down as he stood motionless, thinking. Remembering. He slouched back and began frantically grasping at his right side, his motions causing a startling whirling of joints that drove him insane.
The motions abruptly stopped once he made eye contact with it, barely belted onto the inside of his coat, and he reached out, giving it a hesitant grope to confirm its contents. He relaxed his shoulders from their stiff position as he felt the familiar, rectangular shape. It’s good. Everything was fine, and perfect, and nothing had ever been wrong in the world, ever. He couldn't take a deep breath to calm himself down, but the calmness he felt from seeing the old handmade leather pouch should be enough. He used his better hand to tie it around his waist, instead of the broken pocket of the dark coat, and resumed his pace with a calmer demeanor but faster motions.
Youngblood was about to completely relax, looking at the animals scattering and parting way for him on the ground, when he heard glass crackling under a shoe. His eyes shot back up as he came to a halt and turned around; his tension hadn't returned, but he had seen enough. A shadow scurried behind a building, almost entirely obscured by the rubble and lamppost he had just passed, but he recognized the colours on it’s stupid jacket.
"You’re here?” He called out, irritated. “Again?”
Though his body was currently an amalgamation of old and new technologies, his voice had retained its original brash, boisterous tone. The scurrying continued, and the shadow moved through a structure to his right. He let out a groan, eyes closed, and head jerked back towards the sky. The figure continued to move around him, doing its best to appear intimidating.
“Look, bud.” Youngblood began, turning his head back to face it. It tripped in surprise, not expecting to have its location discovered immediately. It was almost funny. Almost. He lazily followed its movements.
"'I'm not really vibing with this whole... cat and mouse thing. Well, I think you're supposed to be a skink, or something." The figure began to walk faster, racing from door to door, opening to opening. Youngblood’s initial amusement faded into a neutral expression.
“Okay, reptile, whatever.” He groaned out, stopping the visual chase in resignation. “Just… Could you kindly leave me alone today? Please? We can fight tomorrow and you can beat the shit out of me then! Or anything else you want to do— Or need!"
They appeared to come to a halt somewhere hidden, but Youngblood knew better. He groaned and glanced around again. It wasn't typically so simple, but he took mental note of where he had last seen it and continued walking.
Maybe his friend would be normal and courteous for once.
There was no more noise of someone scurrying about the wreckage around him, just light footsteps on pavement. He pretended not to hear them, staring at his own shadow as he carried on forward. Perhaps he was mishearing, and the distant footsteps weren’t actively gaining speed towards him. Or maybe the exit to the area was by going past him. Everything was alright, surely—
crrrrRRRAAAAAACkle tinkle tinkle
Okay, cool.
The footsteps were sprinting towards him.
He watched his shadow on the ground closely, the lone silhouette soon joined by that of his enemy as it sprang into the air, one of its blades poised to impale him.
He hurriedly dipped to the right, allowing the blade to slide between his left arm and torso.
With a loud yelp, the figure landed over him abruptly, and Youngblood gave it no time to recover, quickly grabbing it by the neck of its coat and throwing it across the street in front of him. The blade clanked onto the concrete.
“It’s broad. Fucking. Daylight!” Youngblood roared, towering over him. His eyes were flaring brightly, engines growling in time with the snarl on his face. “You can’t even look around?!”
“I can see you, I can hear you, you are not subtle— Y-you already blew me up! A couple of days ago! I just want to. Decompress. Rest a little. Is that too much to ask for?” The figure flinched at the last inflection, and his shoulders fell. He allowed himself to exhale some steam. “We’ve been at this for months. I don’t care if you follow me, I care less if you attack me. But don’t insult me by just stepping on hazards like that.”
The figure remained silent, and he huffed.
“I know you saw it.” He grumbled, feeling as if he was scolding a child. “I’m very sure, actually.”
A few seconds of silence were all that answered him. Youngblood had finally decided to continue walking, but the figure began to lift itself off the ground. It hastily knelt, jerky movements easily showing its rage. The large amount of dirt it had disturbed and picked up after its mediocre attack wasn't enough to shield either of them in shadow, and Youngblood finally got a good look at it— At him.
All he remembered from their previous encounter were the horns on his helmet, but this time he could tell it was painted a dark red with matte black details. Youngblood attempted to scan his eyes for any clues but, naturally, they were hazed out by the dark visor. The white pupils were visible, though, at least enough to identify it. Draconis.
Good fucking grief.
Whatever group the lizard was with always wore basic camo, maybe black if they were feeling spicy, but the red jacket and decorated bike helmet were very distinctive. It likely meant he was at least slightly important to them.
"We’re not fighting." He stated, gentle but stern, and did his best to ignore the way Draconis turned indignantly towards him. Youngblood simply moved to walk past him, looking on ahead towards the deserted street.
Regardless of its execution, it was always difficult to shake off the nerves after an ambush. Usually he would’ve at least been amused, would have enjoyed the hunt and the chase of battle that such a formidable foe would bring. But his encounter with the Draconid, who was apparently little more than an amateur stalker, had only served to irritate him. Even now, he could hear him shuffling and growling with the subtlety of a highway billboard.
After his initial scare, Youngblood kept his bag and his axe safely fastened to his hips. Their jingling, although loud and obnoxious, was nothing in comparison to the rhythmic creaking of his joints with each heavy footstep, or even the grumbling that escaped from his former adversary. Each step away heightened the anxious feeling of eyes boring onto his back, but he continued facing forward, barely slowing to step over a particularly large piece of concrete that was on his way.
He soon found himself stopped on what remained of an intersection. He glanced around, trying to figure out where he was. Calmly surveying the area before him, he tuned back in to the noise of the morning. Or rather, he noticed the silence around him, and turned to see what had caused the other machine to become so quiet. However, he was nowhere to be found.
Youngblood felt like prey for the first time in a long time, and it immediately set off alarm bells in his head. Draconis had gone far too quiet, far too quickly, and if this kept up it could easily grow into a problem. There was a tight lightness on his shoulders, and he separated his feet casually so as not to reveal how flighty he truly felt at the time. Concentrated on the noise around him, he kept his entire body and head still, only moving his eyes with any slight movement he detected. Every small readjustment of his posture felt much heavier than it should have. Still, as he focused more on his surroundings, Youngblood was taken aback by the giddy smile that had grown across his tattered face.
A crack on a building to his left.
He barely had time to turn and block the attack, stopping the blades with his most mangled arm. His pain sensors were turned off, thankfully, so the blow wasn't as agonizing as it would have otherwise been. Youngblood looked up into his opponent's visor, barely making out Draconis’ snarl against the reflection of his own white pupils and brown eyes. Youngblood quickly shoved him off to the side, and Draconis managed to stick the landing and slide backwards, his stance unwavering.
Youngblood lowered his head, staring him down. His shoulders rose, engines quietly roaring as a signal to back off. Draconis was hunched over, clutching the handles of his weapons and almost hugging himself, but he quickly responded with what appeared to be a glare. His helmet cast a shadow over his eyes, but it did little to conceal his irritated movements as he readjusted.
"Enough." Youngblood spoke dryly, lowering his head even further. His smile had morphed into a wide, bitter smirk, and a hand reached for his axe handle. “Let’s stop, now.”
The words appeared to give Draconis pause. He had leaned forward, possibly getting ready to strike, but had not made any move to do so. One of Youngblood’s hands gripped the handle of his axe firmly, and Draconis shifted his weight backwards, giving no answer and loosening his grip on his blades. It seemed like an eternity as the dust settled between them, staring each other down in defensive confusion.
The orange hue from the morning had faded from the city, revealing the true nature of the disrepair that surrounded them. Youngblood moved into a standing position, his hand still unyielding at the handle as the wind played with his tattered sleeve.
“That’s not up to you.”
Draconis' voice, and body, were trembling. He got back into position quickly and re-entered the fray, blades in hand with a grip that threatened to break them as he charged. The brief pause gave Youngblood just enough time to unhook his axe and almost fully open it, locking it into place with a wide swing forward.
When Draconis spoke, something heavy rang in his chest; it was the first time hearing his voice, but for the time being, he was only concerned with finishing the fight. His steps were much heavier, and he could feel his engines inside him burning like a fire in his heart.
Draconis' first move was a sharp slash forward, which was premature enough that Youngblood could simply jolt his head back. His joints argued, and he noticed a light in the corner of his eye warning him against rash movements. He didn't even need to look; he knew what it said, and he knew that he needed to act quickly before losing any ground, so he readied his axe and struck.
He took a powerful swing at his opponent and was pleasantly surprised by the immediate block. The strength was still enough that Draconis was sent flying back onto the side of the building he had just ambushed from. Youngblood moved closer to him, his steps slow and heavy as he lurked and waited for an opening. He wanted to play cat and mouse? Well, he’s game.
Draconis pounced after a few seconds, inevitably receiving the same block and shove treatment. Giving chase was simple, but getting a hit in? That was the worst part. The little fucker was too slippery, he was easily half his size, and his large axe was too slow. And the few slashes those twin blades landed on him were devastating.
In better circumstances, those swords wouldn’t be able to compete with his brute force. Even in his mangled state, he could tell Draconis was scrambling. He was using his much smaller size to his advantage. It was much more difficult to wind up for an axe swing when your enemy was practically on you, already stabbing and slashing at whatever he could reach. Youngblood’s movements were slower, accustomed to lengthy battles against larger and wilder machines. His state left much to be desired. And yet, possibly thanks to Youngblood’s quick blocks with the knob and handle of his weapon, Draconis still wasn’t brave enough to go for a real attack, reducing himself to mosquito slashes around his legs and torso.
But Youngblood wasn’t totally helpless. From his few axe swings, he had noticed his adversary’s leather jacket had started to tear, and his helmet visor was now donning a few good scratches. Youngblood wasn't sure if he was smiling or snarling, but he had long stopped paying attention to himself. He finally took his chance and went to slice the damned pest in half, his heavy footsteps ringing loudly against the pavement.
He did not expect a complete, successful block.
Draconis held the axe by the handle with both of his swords, his stubborn, cocky stance practically a taunt. Youngblood pushed, using all the strength he could muster without collapsing into himself. Draconis' legs threatened to buckle. He pushed further, knowing it'd be a miss but destabilizing enough to guarantee at least something. He didn't want the hit. He didn't even care about winning. He was just so fucking tired.
Draconis yielded, and Youngblood had a few milliseconds of satisfaction, leaning forward and putting his entire weight into the attack.
He did not expect the blades stabbing onto his chest and hip.
Though shocked, he managed to land a punch, smashing a portion of Draconis' visor and forcing him to flee. It was more of a windup than a retreat; Youngblood tried to stand and give chase, collapsing again.
The kid had done something alright; according to what he could read from all of the alerts ringing on his head. Though thankfully missing the fuel tanks inside of him, he still managed to sever some of the connections to his leg. He could fix it himself, at least enough to be able to move. It wouldn't be the first time, all he needed was some time. Time for his body to quickly rebuild the severed connections.
With the approaching footsteps, however, he quickly realized that was exactly what Draconis would not let him have. He clutched his axe and tried his best to kneel.
The Youngblood was not going out whining.
Running in, Draconis slashed one of his blades at him, a clumsy move that Youngblood quickly moved to block. As soon as the axe’s handle connected with it, Draconis swiftly stabbed forward with the second blade. It became lodged on his shoulder and tore up his coat, prompting a growl and Youngblood to pull it out with his unoccupied hand. His body yelled at him even more.
The shorter abiote drew back and ran back into the dust he had just kicked up. When Youngblood attempted to move, he was quickly slashed at, and he couldn’t find what angle the attack came from. He felt disoriented, between the dust around him blocking out his goggles and the broken lenses, the ringing noise that each slash brought out from his body, the numerous warning alerts ringing in his head. At least those were beginning to die down, as his body became more reactive.
When he tried to stand, he barely had time to see Draconis lunging forward, aiming for his chest and forcing him to block with his own arm. Youngblood attempted to swing, but Draconis dashed to his side quickly, throwing out another slash. Pushing himself backward was enough to avoid the hit, even if it made him stumble.
Examining his coat sleeves, Youngblood groaned. He didn't enjoy playing defense, but there is not much else to do when your opponent is acting like a mosquito. Draconis charged in again, quickly met with an axe swing and sent flying back. This was not going to end well, but throwing him back into rubble might buy him some time.
He was excited, in a way. This was the abiote he remembered fighting. But, unfortunately, his body begged for rest. He couldn’t let him stab through his engines, but dodging direct hits to his chest was growing more and more difficult.
A second passed, and Draconis pounced. Youngblood used his axe to stop one of the blades, allowing the second to pass through and sending sparks against the axe’s handle. His skin ripped and the titanium scratched as the blade barely impaled his neck, and Youngblood used a hand to choke the draconid before it could pull back again. He could see the white pupils widen through the missing glass off the visor, long since shattered, and he was delighted at his surprise as he smashed him against the concrete and threw him away like a ragdoll.
His leg was still mostly unresponsive, but stepping on it was possible, so he used that to sprint (or limp) after him. He gasped with each step, exhaling steam and making a raggedy sound as he tried to cool down. The clarity was blinding as he finally stumbled past the dust cloud, and he quickly found his target, attempting to stand and gather himself.
Youngblood struck again as soon as he was within range. Draconis scurried away, avoiding the blow, while the axe shattered the ground and remained stuck on the concrete. His eyes darted around, and he oblivious to the huffy snarls escaping him. He wouldn’t be able to pull his weapon out in time, a fact that spun in his head as he struggled to locate his adversary.
The crunching of glass revealed him once more, this time from a broken windowsill above and behind him. Youngblood turned in time, grabbing the crossed blades poised to end him. They both fell, Youngblood onto his back from the strength of the attack, and the weight Draconis pushed onto him as he tried to free his weapons. He was abruptly kicked off, and Youngblood threw the blades away.
He could hardly stand, especially in comparison to Draconis, who appeared to have landed on his feet. They had come to a new halt, and all Youngblood could do was sway in an attempt to stay upright.
The wind blowing through the streets was soothing. The area was now in shambles, as if that was a possible new descriptor for the ruins, and the dust was settling quickly. The sun on top of them was now allowing the city to show its true colours of white and grey, and the birds had long since quieted. The only melody that rang through the empty street was the harsh sputtering of Youngblood's engines.
“Why?” Youngblood broke the silence. His tone was neither demanding nor questioning. If his words could be classified as one, it would be more of a breath.
“You’re my assignment.” Draconis only received a dry chuckle, which prompted a barely noticeable head tilt.
“So impersonal… Am I— Am I your thesis, Draconis? Do you guys get a grade on it?”
“Don’t stall. Talk is pointless.”
“This whole fight is pointless. I thought—” YB coughed out a plume of steam, finally succumbing and falling on a knee, using his right arm to hold himself up. Still glaring at Draconis. “I thought I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”
"Well, I can see why. Shockingly enough, you’ve lost." Youngblood cackled, reveling in the frown he could barely make out on Draconis.
"I haven't, yet." And now it was Draconis' turn to laugh, albeit with more of a contemptuous snort. Youngblood was satisfied enough; at the very least, they still gave the new kids some emotional freedom nowadays. He remembered the days he spent as an emotionless killing machine, completely under human control. And, as he thought of his pursuit of freedom from them, he moved his gaze to the handkerchief tied to his hand for the final time, sadly smiling to himself. At the very least, you can't say I didn't…
try?
The green fabric was torn.
Draconis said something, but it went unnoticed. He'd kept his hand closed for so long, but there was still a visible gash in the center of his palm. It was his fault, wasn’t it? He knew the last block was dangerous, but he still did it.
Youngblood cupped it in both hands, huddled against himself. It could have been lost, it could’ve been completely mangled and irrecoverable. It was his fault. From the corner of his eye, he saw Draconis begin his approach, and his movements appeared angry.
As his core trembled, his eyes raced over the surface of the torn cloth on his hands. Youngblood's mind raced, a sensation he was all too familiar with. It was his fault. Sorrow engulfed him, flooded him. It consumed his entire being.
It was his fault. He had no business leaving in the first place.
It was his fault. He could’ve, should’ve turned back long ago.
It was his fault. He’d lost before, he’d allowed part of himself to be blown up and he still kept fucking going.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
A blade was against his neck. Youngblood tiredly looked up to Draconis’ broken visor. Something was said, but Youngblood could only focus on softly caressing the frayed cloth in his hand. And soon enough, he realized. The rage began to build inside of him, the tide of sorrow that had washed over him began to rise, its waves driven mad. As a snarl took over his face, the engines began to roar once more. Youngblood saw Draconis step back, saw the sword falter, but he paid no attention as he abruptly stood up, grabbing his neck and lifting him. He couldn’t hear the clang of the blade hitting the floor.
His hands were trembling, but he quietly tucked what was left of his handkerchief away while the other figure struggled.
Youngblood was wrong, but at the same time, he was so right.
He fixed his gaze on Draconis as he tried to wiggle free of his grasp.
It was entirely his fault.
Youngblood slammed him to the ground with incredible force.
He slammed him down once more, before throwing him against a wall. Draconis tried to scurry away, but was quickly met with a knee to the face that sent him falling back. The pathetic display only made the Youngblood angrier.
Youngblood could only feel the hatred roaring inside in his chest as the assault continued. He was deafened, he was blinded, and he was seething. Draconis tried to fight back but couldn’t hold him back any longer. He simply charged and tackled him again, not giving any time for him to get back up and maintaining the upper hand.
He was blinded by rage, terrible wails and screams escaping him as he slammed his fists against Draconis' helmet. It was his fault. Everything that had happened.
His right fist connected, fully breaking open the helmet. It was his fault.
His left fist collided with an audible crack. Draconis could barely even try to protect his face. It was his fault.
He could see the brown eyes that kept slamming shut and desperately pleading him to stop, he could almost hear yelling, but he could not, would not stop. It was his fault.
And as he continued, his screeches turned into sobs as he maintained the onslaught.
He didn't know what he was doing when he closed his eyes, but it was easier not to see as he heard horrible cracking and felt hands attempting to stop his own.
His punches lacked power. His body was exhausted. And, eventually, he stopped. Draconis wasn’t moving anymore, and his own chest ached with unbearable grief. When he opened his eyes, he saw the helmet's chrome shell splintered into pieces all around him.
Rivier is the leader of one of the major factions in 'present day' Beep Thing, TBD. Named like that because she did not want to lead it originally. However, as one of the 'pillars' of the abiotic revolution almost a century ago now, community tends to gather around her. And she doesn't push them away. Even through her followers' nonsense.
Unlike the other 'pillars', her body is not too upgraded. However, the way she processes things makes her capable of short-term precognition. And this, in turn, maker her aim almost infallible, except when it comes speedsters like Carlos. She also has a grappling hook!
Aaidan, from the Wayfarers! Back before it was more fleshed out (as if it is now LMFAO) and he was just the rainy hood guy from my dream.
The Wayfarers now are a set of characters set in my headworld, from all around the world. They're mostly young adults or teens who communicate over what's left of the internet, and run a digital newspaper/blog. Aaidan posts as 'Cobra', and is often monitoring data and posting leaks of one of the major factions. (COI, the Coalition of Instinct, which is against machines)
Honestly idk what I was on in 2022 but this style was so fun to do, this is still one of my faves.
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I think that song rewired my brain completely, it certainly got my headworld rolling. Like a snowball down a hill, or a domino falling and setting things into motion. Thank you Puppet for my life.
I've always pictured the ending of the song like this.
Made this guy LONG ago, and then edited it with Clipdrop Relight some years later to get the colours more accurate to my brain. Sketch and OG under the cut!
Another old redraw! (OG probably from 2018ish?)
Dalmar was a spliced consciousness from beep thing's big bad evil guy (TM), purified by Loketh.
He used to be one of the higher up in Rivier's Hangar, somehow. He was very gruff and off-putting, all things considered. I don't remember exactly what he was meant to do, just that he and Loketh ended up beefing, and he left the Hangar eventually and was reinfected.
