#comatose machine

"You're such a goddamn pussy, man," Alex snarled. Half his words were muffled by the helmet; he ripped it off his head and tossed it aside, ignoring the clatter and crack of the visor snapping. "Such a fucking pussy!"

For once he knew what had happened back there, knew enough to get a grasp of what had happened. Sometimes he got a slideshow of a run weeks after the run itself, isolated pictures marching through his head, and sometimes it was just hours afterwards, and sometimes it was like now, a ringing frustration and the whole thing bright and clear as fucking day.

Leo was staggering out of the cockpit, brown hair plastered against his temples, dripping sweat. He took off his helmet first. Alex stalked forward, grabbing the straps of the suit and shoving Leo back. "What the fuck was that?" he yelled. "We almost had it, and then you had to go and fucking botch it up because you're always, fucking hell, always—"

A weak hand gripped Alex's wrist, but the voice that followed it was pure electrifying ice, like cold water dumped over Alex's head. "I saved you," he said, and then coughed, red flecks splattering against Alex's face and chest.

"Didn't need saving," Alex snapped. "Could've killed it. If you hadn't gotten your big-ass cow of a mech in the fucking way."

"Get your hands off me," Leo replied, weirdly calm, weirdly rough. There was a little blood on his lips. A little blood in the veins of his eyes. A kind of crazy that made Alex want to shout and shout and shout until it all came pouring out, except it never fucking did. Not with him, not with anyone. "Alex. Get your fucking hands off me."

And Alex must've been slow, must've been a little too caught-up in the way the whole hangar bay was paralyzed around him, like Leo had some insane fucking gravity that stepped on the throat of time at his whims, but Alex was choking. Took him a moment to realize that the hand on his throat was Leo's, took him another to figure out that the little bit of red was still just little and this was something else, something fucking else entirely, that was holding Alex down.

"How dare you?" Leo said, scraped-silk-scorn. "If you have such a fucking death wish, I'll give it to you right here. Not out there. Get it? Never out there, get it?"

Alex made a garbled sound. Leo's eyes widened, and everything went black. Black as black. And then Alex slumped, gasping.

"Shit," he heard Leo say. "Shit. Medic! Shit, shit, shit, Alex. come on man, I didn't mean that. Don't fucking die on me, I didn't mean all that."

"You did," Alex ground out, accusatory, and pretended like Leo's relieved exhale didn't float right into Alex's lungs, like that little hint of guilt had snuck in to soothe Alex's wounded pride. "You did."

"I didn't mean it like that," Leo said. He'd pulled Alex's head into his lap, was leaning over and around him. He stank of cockpit-goo and blood and sweat. Alex probably smelled the same. He didn't care.

"You did," he said, feeling reckless, feeling hazy. "And I meant to call you a pussy. Fair's fair, hey. Don't fucking get weepy, man, it's so embarrassing."

Leo shoved Alex off his lap. "You take over," he told the medic. "I'm outta here."

"Not so fast, young man, you need a medic too," the doctor yelled after his retreating back.

yes! mechverse / comatose machine is a verse centered around mech pilots set on another planet. the planet is incredibly large, far larger than our own, and one of its most prominent life forms are known to the humans as Omicron, fantastically large aliens that are very, very hostile to humans. the humans occupy a very small portion of land on the planet, leaving the rest to the Omicron and the natural fauna and flora of the planet, because Omicron seek out and attack human settlements - making it dangerous for humans to strike out and live in undefended areas. in order to counter the threat of them, huge mechs piloted by teenagers, connected by a fluid known as lambranide, fight the Omicron.

currently we have 3(4) main characters:

willow/will: he's a young prodigy, talented at managing the software and ground control parts of fighting. he loves fashion and video games and mechs, and finds it very difficult to talk to people or make friends with them. he's essentially on his own and has been for years: he was abused by the previous director of the base he works on, and this has made him suspicious of adults. although he cares about the pilots, he feels too alienated from them to fully exercise this care, and is often the target of bullying from them. and he's very much in love with leo. he's obsessive with the handful of interests he has (kawaii things, fashion, video games, mechs, and leo) and will go to great lengths for them, but he can be bitter, jealous, and spiteful when provoked.

asphalios/leo: he's the oldest pilot on base, at the decrepit age of 18. his older brother was also a pilot, and he resented him for many reasons, until he died piloting and his father immediately drafted leo into the pilot program. he was also abused by the same director who abused will; it's how they first got to know each other. despite the fact that they killed him together, though, he has little love lost for will. leo is not a great offensive pilot, but he's an excellent tank/defender/support, diverting aggro for the other pilots he's working with so that they can score kills. as such, his kill score is very low, but he's one of the most valuable pilots on the base. being older than most, the other pilots also look up to him outside the field for the attention and care they can't receive from their families anymore. however, long-term piloting has taken a toll on leo's body, and he's chronically sick & in pain. despite this, he forces himself to maintain a calm, supportive outlook at odds with the constant crisis he's having on the inside.

alexander/alex & xan: alex is a prodigal young pilot with so many issues. he's obsessed with his kill count, with battle, and with fame, and finds it impossible to connect with anyone, even the other pilots. he's reckless and a little bit stupid, putting himself in risky situations that can have terrible outcomes for him without regard for the consequences, and in some cases because the consequences are liable to be catastrophic. he thinks piloting is amazing and easy and the best thing ever, but he's desperately afraid of people finding out that he doesn't remember a fucking thing about his own missions, because;

his alter, xan, is the one actually piloting. xan hates it, though, and finds it agonizing to kill the omicron. he does it because he doesn't have a choice and he knows it, and because when he's on the field, the path to success presents itself clearly to xan, but he hates it to the core. xan is incredible at connecting with his mech, because he's unafraid of - or eager, in fact, for the depthless surrender that syncing demands. xan is ruined by the fact that he can't do anything but pilot and he hates that thing. he's more socially perceptive than alex but keeps the majority of his observations to himself, and doesn't front unless he has to. not even alex is aware of xan's existence. xan yearns for invisibility and oblivion, freedom from pain and desire and death, but he continues to exist despite his best efforts.

mechverse / CM is a WIP, which means these characters are less than a month old and will probably change a lot over time. these aren't even all the characters we're going to have, though we don't yet know what the future holds :3

Leo was hiding something from Will; Will was sure of it. He’d checked the footage twice and gone over every one of their interactions from the past week. The evidence he’d gathered went as follows:

Normally, Leo only avoided the cameras on the base when he was mad at Will, and didn’t want Will to be able to see him. They hadn’t fought in two weeks, though, and Will had checked whether Leo was mad at him for something he didn’t know he’d done, and Leo wasn’t. And yet, he was avoiding the cameras. 

The routes he was avoiding being seen in ran from the smallcraft hangar at the ass-end of the base to Dean’s office, and then from Dean’s office to his own room, and from the kitchen to his own room, and from the kitchen to Dean’s room. And he’d taken those routes a lot recently.

How had Leo gotten so good at avoiding the cameras? When he did appear in them, he was holding something, but that something was always hidden by his body. Will disliked the reminder that Leo was letting Will see him; it was his base, and he’d kept Leo alive for so many years, which meant Leo had been able to keep everyone else alive. Leo belonged to Will. 

He also liked it. He liked that Leo trusted him so much he strolled around under Will’s gaze like he knew that he was always safe as long as Will was watching and WIll was always watching.

Leo had been very vague about what he was up to recently. He could talk circles around Will in his sleep, but Will was sharp, and knew bullshit when he saw it. And he loved Leo, loved him enough to admit for both of them that Leo was at least seventy percent bullshit by volume on a good day. And now that had risen to a solid ninety percent, and Will was getting irritated. If Leo didn’t fold when pressed, they fought, but Leo was neither folding nor arguing, and that was just not how it was supposed to be.

(Will wondered, half-habitually, if it had anything to do with Alex. He’d never seen the base’s ace pilot as a strong contender for Leo’s affection, but he still couldn’t help keeping a close eye on them, every moment they were together, just to make sure. Just to make sure.) 

(Because he knew Leo would die for Alex, and he wasn’t always sure Leo would die for Will. Maybe he was tired of having to be ready to die for people. Maybe he knew that between the two of them, Will was the needier one, and therefore the one who would be happy to die for the other.)

Leo had visited the city thrice in the last week. He could be as vague as he wanted, but Will had access to every record on the base, and knew precisely what to look for. The trips were a few hours long, and two of them had been conducted back to back.

(Secret girlfriend in the suburbs, an ugly part of Will’s mind whispered.)

(But no: if Leo was cheating, Will would have found evidence of it by now. Leo was smart, but not that smart.)

(Will had snooped through his phone, just to be sure, before Leo snatched it back and kissed the top of his head and asked, snide and cocky and so obnoxiously hot, “Found what you’re looking for?”)

Armed with the facts, Will knocked on Dean’s door and asked, “Do you have a moment?”

Dean was doing pushups. His metal arm turned into a metal shoulder, half a metal torso, and a machine heart. But it all worked together seamlessly, as graceful as the mechs the pilots flew. Will’s fingers ached. He’d wanted to be a pilot when he was a kid. He’d wanted it so badly. But his mother wouldn’t enroll him in the program no matter how much he begged.

“Sure,” Dean said. He rose to his feet and stretched. “What do you need, Will?”

The words failed him suddenly. It sounded so ridiculous. All the facts and faced with another person’s scrutiny there was only the squeaking bleat of Will’s dumbest animal brain. He couldn’t bring himself to say Leo’s name out loud in front of this man. He couldn’t even get the first letter out.

“Will?”

“Nothing,” Will muttered. He started to withdraw. “It’s… Nevermind. Nothing.” His cheeks felt red.

“Wait,” Dean said. “Isn’t it your birthday soon? Do you have plans?”

The question was so mystifying, Will almost forgot his embarrassment. Almost. “Why would I have plans for my birthday?” All that day was for him was his mother’s simpering facsimiles of joy and, later, watching Leo tirelessly organize parties for kids who’d be dead in a week and wishing, wishing, wishing he could do anything at all to ease that pain. Oh, he bought himself things, but he bought himself things anyway. There was no point singling out a day for it and pretending he was special.

Dean was staring at him. “Okay, then,” he said. “Anything else?”

(set in the normal AU where Leo was doing sex work. Dean is a lawyer)

Most nights ended like this, but Fyrsil never got the hang of the hours between four and seven. The sun, if it bothered finding him, caught him sniffling blood on the rusted metal stairs at the back of the club, clutching a drainpipe for balance and shivering because a tight mesh top and a skirt made everyone want to fuck him but did nothing against the chilly pre-dawn air and the sun never bothered bringing him any warmth.

He wiped the blood off his nose and upper lip and wiped his hand on his skirt, already dusted with white and glitter. Sucked on the nib of the vape pen like it would bring him any inspiration. 

He only got a vision of white, a raw hunger for a little more snow to protect him from the cold.

At least he hadn’t lost his phone this time. He’d sucked off a bouncer for help finding it last time he’d dropped it somewhere partying, which was whatever, with his head in the clouds nothing could dent his mood. But the thought of doing that now made him ill. Except, except if someone dangled a bag under his nose right now he’d have done it anyway. 

Fyrsil didn’t cry, except when he was sad, and he was never sad. He’d been a happy kid and a happy teenager and a happy adult until that weird night in June when Dean started shouting at him and then he left and now it was always weird. And Fyrsil was never sad, except when he was sober, and these days he was never sober.

He was now. 

He pulled out his phone. Opened it. Stared at the wallpaper. One happy kid and another kid that hated the first for being happy. Bit his lip. Tasted salt and sweet and vomit. Felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere inside him, a shaken-soda-can laugh that started out fizzy and ended up exploding everywhere, just everywhere, and him with a dry throat afterwards and nothing to drink.

Stared at the phone. Stared at the phone. Stared at the phone.

The sun edged over the grey city skyline. It passed glowing approval over all the office buildings and banks and schools. But the metal staircase kept digging coldly into Fyrsil’s calves.

Make the call. Make the call. Make the call. Make the fucking—