#yourfuturebcyfriend

wrench: [ adopts chihiro ]

In retrospect, despite Bruce knowing from smell alone -- one of the Cetus’ strongest senses -- that this was, in fact, a human and not some terrifying entity, that should have frightened him further. Forget ghosts, ghouls, and other pup-tales; humans were real, and fierce, and savage. Unrelenting vengeance. Unwavering rage. And in their minds a cacophony of otherworldly and downright cruel contraptions, tools, and notions that no being in the sea would even wish to fathom.   

But that was the thing; this human wasn’t running towards Bruce, weapon ready. They idled, leaned backwards away from Bruce, and a slight trembling in the legs betrayed the masked human’s emotions. 

Puzzled, the Cetus took a step closer...

@yourfuturebcyfriend​

@yourfuturebcyfriend​ asked: "So there I was, barbecue sauce on my titties, my sledgehammer in my hands. I'm just goin ham hittin the burger, m'kay, ( . . ) and Sitara's losing her shit and yelling at me to stop, but i didn't. ( ~ ~ ) I think I broke the table, but hey, that's not my fault. I swear, I saw something in that burger MOVE. It had to die! And if it wasn't already dead, it was dead after i beat it a bit. I bet it was a haunted burger, that's probly why it moved. Totally freaky shit. Anyways," ( ¬ ¬ )

dean stared at the other from across the table he was sitting at, unsure how to process this information. taking most of the information with a grain of salt, he dismisses most of what they’re saying. their story seems hardly relevant to what dean had appeared in this town for. if anything, at best they were trying to make light of a dangerous situation. at worst they were making fun of the hunter and his job.

there’s a steaming mug of coffee sitting on the table, something that wasn’t quite strong enough for dean currently. blank eyes watch the strange mask with an unamused expression and once they finish their story, an exasperated sigh escapes dean’s lips. a flask is pulled from the inside of his coat pocket that is then poured into the dark roast –– -  he asks room for cream for only one reason and it’s not to dull the bitterness.

         “ can you even drink with that fucking thing on or do you just end up spilling it all over yourself ?  ” dean asks, one of the main questions that had been rattling around in his head. “ also, what the fuck does that story have to do with that i’m investigating ?  ”

height comparison || no longer accepting

          Hurts-- Hurts-- Error, system reboot needed--                Connection to left arm has been severed, repair needed--           Yes, I am aware. I am trying. It is becoming impossible with the constant warnings.

     Calculester argues with their own mind, the pliers slipping from their grasp once more and earning a frustrated tone, staring at how their hand shook, something they’d never seen nor experienced before. Nothing had ever hurt like that had, the pain dulled at this second but still setting their sensors off if they shifted too quickly or just enough--       As they reach to pick up the tool once again, they take notice of the dents remaining in their plating, scuffed and chipped, metal harming metal with near ease. That must be why the pain had not subsided fully, their plating dented too low and brushing against delicate wiring, causing them to relive the pain for a quick second as if they were being hit once again with the same force.

   Filing ‘baseball bat with metal welded onto the barrel of it’ into folder:disliked_things    Undo    Filing ‘baseball bat with metal welded onto the barrel of it’ into new folder:HATED_things

     They’d encountered similar organics before, those that looked at the bot with blatant discomfort and confusion, that treated them with the same respect one would treat a broken machine. But they had not encountered one willing to go further than the names and the dirty looks. This one had approached them behind the shop with a knowing stare-- they shared the same school, Calculester recognized his features-- but they were given no time to actually recognize him before the first blow, enough force behind the swing that a large crack split across their monitor and a fairly sized dent lay embedded in the side of it.           After that, they can’t recall how long they lay there, desperately trying to cover themself from blow after blow. This is false. They recall exactly how long it had been. Teasing just shy of forty-five minutes. Forty-four minutes and fifty-two seconds before one last kick was given, and the monster walked off, pleased with his recent decisions. An extra nine minutes added to that as Calculester struggled with the inability to move without accidentally reliving the pain, sparks spat out over the pavement from the torn limb now tossed among the trash they sat beside.      Two more minutes added, spent simply sitting there, scared.

     And now, a full hour after, Calculester sat against the back of the store, struggling with the simple process of capping their exposed wiring, not able to focus all of their strength into squeezing the clippers around the ruined ends. They’ve attempted to contact one of their friends already, but each time they did, another warning would pop up, screaming at them that they had to repair themself first. I know this. But I can not repair myself alone.       An hour and thirteen minutes, the bot has given up. Their arm that was still connected now rest against their lap, clippers loose in their grip and their monitor powered down. What a sight to anyone that may pass by; they looked abandoned, disposed of, once clean plating now clouded with dirt and the glass of their monitor chipping above a black screen. There wasn’t anything they could do now, not like this. So, they would rest, powering down everything so they no longer had to feel, or see, or think. All that remained active were their audio processors, listening for any approaching footsteps, any familiar voice, something.