20. Your muse walks in on mine crying.
Cackle had bad days, and then he had worse days. Today was a day characterized by the latter, a very bad day. These kinds of days often happened when there was nothing to do—no bots to murder, no civilizations to destroy, no creators to hunt down—and he was left to his own thoughts. Nothing good ever came out of this Phase-Sixer when he was allowed to think for so long, since his thoughts almost always wandered over to his situation—his existence and what it meant.
To keep things short, these days usually resulted in a very destructive, very violent tantrum. Destroyed structures, deeply scored with claw and blade marks, electrical storms, and blackouts and electronic malfunctions for miles from powerful discharges.
And now, after his final discharge, the feral mech was left drained of electricity and sitting on his knees, shoulders hunched and helm rolled back, faceplates faced skyward. It was raining—had been since he first started dumbing blue bolts into the sky. He just sat there, unmoving, for some time, optic coolant indistinguishable from the water pouring down his cheek plating.
His energy level was still low when he became aware of another’s presence. Neurocircuitry pricked at his electroreceptors, mapping out an image of who it was. Someone… started with an ‘L’… he didn’t remember the name exactly. A low, threatening growl rumbled from his vocoders, optics rolling to look at the intruder. He did not appreciate being walked in on when he was throwing his fits.
