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cammys-imagines24 · 6 years

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• U n c o v e r Y o u •

Title: Uncover You.

Connor x Reader.

Warning's: None.

Word Count: 2K+

Synopsis: You had always wondered what Connor looked like without his skin, and one night you finally gain up the courage to ask him about it. (Fluff, Insecure Connor)

••••••°••••••

You had always wondered what he looked like, I mean really looked like. Past the layer of liquid skin which bared such an uncanny likeness to that of a real human that you sometimes even forgot that it was indeed synthetic.

But, synthetic it was. It wasn't real. The outer layer was just a veil to conceal what was truly underneath; a machine.

Inside there were biocomponent's, circuits, Thirium, wires, processors, units, and metal. Inside, laid an Android. And, you had always been curious to see Connor for who he really was, not the appearance he cloaked himself in.

Even though you had been with the Negotiator for a long time now you had never seen him for who he truly was, and you wanted to. To you it felt like he was always evading showing himself, and you understood why.

Connor had always been one of the most advanced Prototypes to ever stem from CyberLife, and he was created to look the way he did. As a handsome, charming man. And, it was in his basic Programming to remain as human like as possible in order to build up trust in others, and formulate a harmonious environment.

He was built to look the part of a welcoming, benevolent, and affable male who could be anything he needed to be at any precise moment. From domineering and aggressive to friendly and trustworthy when the situation demanded it.

Like a chameleon shifting it's colors to suit it's habitat Connor was designed to be adaptable at any given moment. That was his speciality, but after he became a Deviant you were the first person who got to see him. Really see him for who he truly was, and it was a beautiful sight.

Watching a once indifferent, ever processing, never real Android become something more, and form a personality for himself was so nice to look at. Like a baby experiencing everything for the first time; that's how Connor acted for a while until he eventually grew into the being you fell in love with.

Watching him blossom, his opinions flourish, and his own individuality sprout up like flowers in Springtime was something spectacular, and you marveled in every new day that he expanded more, and more of his identity.

An identity he could actually claim for himself, and not just a built in module in his System.

Connor came to be a sympathetic man with a true heart of gold, and unyielding morals. Slightly awkward, socially inept, even humorous when it came to sassing Hank... He was sensitive, blunt, emotional, afraid of death, and undoubtedly loyal.

And, you loved him dearly... But, you still were curious as to what he truly looked like.

Though you had obviously seen what Androids looked like beneath their layer of synthetic skin; everyone nowadays had, you still wanted to see him.

You wanted to see the man you loved without him being shrouded in a facade that was manufactered to mimic humans. Because that's what it was; a facade. At least to you.

Androids were made to be a perfect carbon copy of humans as that was what was deemed most "appealing" to the public.

People thought that the porcelain white plastic bodies were too disturbing in an everyday scenario, and you hated that. That Androids couldn't just be themselves, how they were built, because it was too appalling apparently.

And, more than anything you didn't want Connor to feel like he had to cover up around you. More than anything you wanted him to be himself, and to see him for who he truly was.

So, that night you waited around in your shared apartment for him to come home. Which usually took a while since Detective work ran late, and most times Connor would wind up shuffling on inside once you were already fast asleep.

But, tonight was different. Tonight you were determined to uncover him.

So, as the evenings sky drifted in, the pale moonshine flooding into the windows of your living room, you stayed up seated on the couch.

Your body coccooned in a fleece blanket, a box of Chinese take-out near you; the bamboo chopsticks stuck into the remains of your Lo Mein.

You were flipping through the channels of your TV, the Detroit news sprawled out across the screen, and in the blue effulgence you cracked a smile, seeing some footage of a crime scene that Connor and Hank had been called out to investigate earlier.

The News Anchor was talking about the gruesome crime involving Red Ice, but you didn't concern yourself with her words. Instead you focused on the footage from the scene, the sight of Connor making your heartbeat flip even though it was just a previously aired recording.

You slunked down more into the cushions of your couch, and continued to impatiently wait around for your boyfriends arrival; Detroit's skyline prevalent in your line of sight as you stared longingly outside, silently wishing for him to be home soon.

As the hours of nightfall drew thin, the moon continuing to rise, your exhaustion was beginning to show itself as your head bobbed, and as your eyes began to slink shut on their own.

But, soon enough before your sleepiness could win out, you heard the door clicking open; the security code having been typed in.

There in the shadows of the entry was Connor, his Android jacket casting a blueish glow all around him.

As he himself never tired it was sometimes hard to believe, by human standards anyway, that he had just came from a gruelling 12 hour shift at the Station. He never looked the part of someone who had the unfortuante job of laboriously solving the incessant crimes that went on in the city of Detroit.

He looked the same as always, ever clean and composed. Not a single thread out of place in his uniform, his tie perfectly straight. The only quirk being the little tuft of brunette hair that fell over his forehead. An individual feature that you happened to enjoy.

With ease the Negotiator made his way over to you, his own face now brightly-lit from the TV screen.

"You shouldn't stay awake for me." He spoke, his smooth voice laced with concern. Your well-being his top priority.

"I know, but I wanted to." You answered, repositioning yourself on the couch in order to swipe the last egg roll.

"You shouldn't eat that." You heard Connor lecture as he took a seat beside you, and you could plainly see his LED blinking. He was calculating the amount of calories, cholesterol, and saturated fats that were inside of it. All the facts he had at his constant disposal sometimes like rain on your parade.

"Please, no details," You halted, raising up your hand in protest. "If you could eat you would understand why people take risks in order to eat truly delicious food."

Connor did as you wished, and fell silent. He meant well, but he knew that he didn't have the right to tell you how to live. He merely wanted you to be healthy, and happy.

So, he just took to settling back into the cozy cushions of the couch while you curled up beside him. Your body snuggling against his as you munched on your last egg roll.

After a lull of calm where you just watched TV like usual, and he made a report to CyberLife it then came time to go to bed. (Well, for you to go to bed anyway)

So, while in the bathroom brushing your teeth you thought about your desire yet again. The distant thought nagging at your brain, and had been for the past few hours.

You were gonna do it, you were going to ask him.

Stepping out into the bedroom you saw Connor waiting for you, his coffee hued eyes so sincere, and you worried that what you were about to ask would make him upset.

But, curiosity killed the cat, they say.

"Connor?"

"Yes?"

"Is it alright if I ask you something personal?"

"Sure, if you'd like." He replied, unaware of the bomb you felt you were about to drop.

"Is it alright if I... See you without your skin?"

To be honest your query had surprised the Android. As that part of him was something he wanted to keep hidden from you.

Connor never wanted you to see him as a machine, as a model that could be mass produced. Forever he could be rebooted into another form, and another, and another... There had been so many Connor's before he met you, and that is why ever since you stepped into his life he had grown to actually be afraid of dying.

Never again did he want to die and come back, never again did he want to be rebooted into another Connor model because to him, it was so different now...

He wanted to keep the form that he first met you in, the one you had touched, and kissed... The body he felt belonged to you, and that is why he wanted to seem as human as possible.

If he revealed himself to you as you wanted would you then start seeing him as simply RK800, and no longer your boyfriend?

Would his body then no longer be like a human males, and instead be like a mannequin to you?

You could see the hesitancy blaze across Connor's expression as his brows knit together. He looked so doubtful, and in a way insecure? You hadn't seen that side of him before, but you knew immediately that it was like looking at a sad puppy.

"I know it's alot to ask, and I won't force you to if you're too uncomfortable to do it," You began to reassure. "It's just that you've seen me when i've been at my most vulnerable. Without makeup, severely sick, having a bad day..."

"I don't want you to think of me as a machine." Connor disclosed, looking so unsure, and you merely smiled.

"I could never think of you as a machine, Connor. To me you'll always be the man I fell in love with." You assured, your words honeyed, dripping with sincerity.

With that Connor's expression softened as you strolled over.

You took his black tie in your hands, and carefully loosened it. Letting the strand of silky fabric cascade to the floor before you continued.

You unbuttoned his crisp white shirt, your eyes interlocked with his all the while, and he let you slip off his Android jacket.

Once fully unclothed Connor brought his fingers up to his LED, and gently tapped the blinking yellow indicator, allowing for his liquid skin to be stripped away.

His humanness peeled off slowly, revealing the pristine white underneath, and you watched as even his synthetic brown hair vanished. The one remaining thing his deep mocha hued eyes, the eyes you fell in love with.

You weren't frightened in the least, instead in awe. He looked beautiful, and his eyes retained the same liveliness to them.

He was now bathed in pure white, the color of snow. His form basic, and plastic. Completely bare to you.

His face was outlined by a few sections of gray, and you could see his Serial Number printed above his brow bone.

Gently with the tips of your fingers you traced over the number, his number "313 248 317- 51" and then you kissed the spot where his Model was stamped.

Your lips pressing sweetly against the "RK800"

You could feel his Thirium pump beating rapidly, and it made your mouth tug upwards into a grin. To you, it was his heartbeat, and you could tell that he was nervous.

"You know being vulnerable is one of the most human things you can feel, Connor." You told him, noticing that he was fixated on you. Analyzing the intimacy that was occuring between you two, and how you were being so affectionate with him.

Connor had probably never showed any other human his entire Android form before, and you were grateful to be the first.

"Aren't you scared?" You heard Connor utter, his LED blinking a warning shade of red for a split second, and you knew why.

He was feeling afraid, the fear of you seeing him differently washing over him, invading his Processors.

"Of course not." You spoke up, your hands timidly roaming over his smooth plastic chest, your gaze locking with his once more.

In the pallid gleam of moonlight you continued to touch him, your fingers ghosting over each piece of his Android frame.

"You are alive, Connor, and this form of yours won't ever change that." You consoled, and you saw the outline of his white lips etch into a smile before he let himself touch you back.

His porcelain hand caressing your cheek, his other finding it's way to the small of your back, pulling you closer to him.

"Thank you for letting me see you." You said before you were pulled into a tender, passionate kiss.

His outer human skin reappearing, along with his locks of brown hair which you were quick to run your fingers through again.

To Connor that was what he loved most about you.

Your acceptance...

That even in his Android form, all plastic and bare, you saw him as himself. Nothing more, nothing less.

To you he wasn't the Negotiator, the Android sent by CyberLife, a machine designed to accomplish a mission...

In your eyes nothing could deteriorate him from being anything other than the man you loved... A living being that loved you back, more than you could even know.

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androidbrain · 7 years

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[not a poem; this is a short story i wrote as part of a creative writing portfolio to apply for uni over a year ago. i just read it for the first time since the night i wrote it. i wrote it in about two hours and sent it minutes before the deadline. i was so fucking stressed but it turned out okay and i was offered a place on the course, so it can’t have been terrible. bits of it make me cringe but there’s not much point editing it, i’d rather keep it as it was. cw death, internalised homophobia maybe]

Remembering an Ending

Here’s where my story ends: a car crash.

I’ll elaborate.

I lied.

The car crash was a beginning, too. It’s all about perspective, at least that’s what he kept telling me. I didn’t believe him at first. An end is an end, I kept thinking. I’d had enough endings in my life to know that nothing good comes of them. The good things rot and fester away, and new life won’t grow from it no matter how hard you try. You let them go, you move on. That’s what this story is about: letting go.

It ended, or began, on a cold, wet morning in San Francisco, on the fourth of July twenty twenty-two, when a ‘young man of African American descent’ drew his last breath. Killed instantly, intoned the officer, whose non-descript voice drawled apathetically from television sets around the city. A careless accident, continued the officer, whose pallid skin bore an uncanny resemblance to nothing in particular, whose eyes were emptier than the heart of a ghost.

…Great tragedy…

…Drugs and alcohol…

…No investigation…

“Well, shit,” I said, in response to my own lifeless face, which stared, unseeing, at the heavens from where it lay in the dirt. I remember feeling detached, resigned maybe. I was dead, but I was still here somehow, and I could do nothing to alter either of those two facts. I thought it might have been some kind of scheduling error – they’d overbooked the afterlife and I had to wait around a little until there was an appointment free, something like that.

I saw the police sirens but my ears rang with post-death tinnitus. Police and journalists buzzed around me, managing always to avoid me as though life and death were two opposite ends of a magnet that could never meet, pushed apart by some force I might have understood if I’d listened in science class instead of writing poetry. It didn’t matter now anyway, unless science could explain why my presence lingered on while my body decayed on the side of a road.

It turned out that it wasn’t science who could explain it, but the feral tabby cat that visited my house sometimes when I was younger.

“Rough day, huh?” said a voice. “I always found that my corporeal form was so… Restricting.”

I looked down, and somehow it was the talking cat that made me question whether or not this was all a nightmare, rather than the fact that I was looking at my own corpse just moments prior.

“Jellybean?” The word left my mouth of its own accord, and I stared dumbly at the creature, which returned my bemused gaze with similar fervour.

“Excuse me?” It hadn’t been expecting that. Neither had I. “Oh. The form?” It asked, glancing down at its body. “Alright. A cat. That’s not too bad. That is to say, I’ve had worse.” Jellybean flashed me a row of pearly white feline teeth in a conspiratorial sort of way, which I pointedly ignored in favour of looking back at the wreck. But when I turned my head from the white-and-orange tabby cat, we were no longer on the road side. Instead, we were standing on top of a hill, looking down at the sprawling city from above as the fog rolled over the Golden Gate Bridge like grey waves, and the tourists hurried around like ants on the harbour front. The flashing ambulance lights were replaced by stillness. It was silent except for birdsong and the distant blare of a car horn. It felt like I was floating. I remember wondering: is this how gods feel?

“What kind of name is Jellybean anyway?” asked the Jellybean-bodied creature.

“I was seven,” I answered automatically. “Am I dead?”

“You sure are, kid.”

I nodded then. I felt relieved. “Alright. What now?”

“That’s your call. I’m just here to guide you.”

“So you’re a guide?”

“I guess so.”

“You here to take me to heaven?”

“Not really.”

“You here to take me anywhere?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re not a very helpful guide,” I said, frowning.

“I don’t get paid enough for that.”

I looked down at it, but it wasn’t looking at me anymore, so I seated myself on the wet grass, noting that the water still seeped through my clothes, then stretched out onto my back and stared up at the sky. Death was freeing. I realised that I didn’t have anywhere to be, or any bills to pay, or any more mistakes to make. I began to smile, and then I began to laugh, and then I began to cry. But I couldn’t finish any of my emotions, so I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes as hard as I could, feeling as though I were going to implode at any moment. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, screaming silently at nobody and nothing. It could have been centuries, but when I removed them we were somewhere else again, and a light rain hit my face and obscured the tears that might have formed.

“Where are we?” I asked, but I already knew. Some events have a film-like quality to them that are easy to tell apart from the regular, every day events that fill in the gaps between the truly important scenes.

This was one of them.

It was dawn. The morning was silent and still, as mornings often are. Outside, it rained. Inside, it didn’t, but it might as well have. The kitchen light was still on – the last remnant of the night before, casting a fluorescent glow over our flushed, heated skin. We were both bathed in realisations, keeping us silent because there was too much to say. I lay in the bed, lit half by the fluorescent light that poured from the adjacent room, and half from the bruise-coloured sunrise.

A lot of things scared me that morning. I knew then that I was, and would never be again, one person. I knew I would carry a part of him with me at all times, location and mortality set firmly aside. I also knew that love was no longer a distant, intangible object that eluded me, no longer a story that my mother told me. It was bright, and real, and it settled on my chest with disturbing ease. And from it, terror sprouted in three directions.

The first direction was the fear of unrequited love.

The second was the fear that now I had loved, it stood to reason that I would also lose.

The last fear was mingled with shame. Not at the act. Not at him. Just at myself. I was ashamed to be so cowardly, to have tasted something beautiful and to already be closing my heart to it. I loved him, and I hated myself, and I didn’t think I could reconcile those two emotions. I suppose I was also afraid of him loving me back, and what that would mean.

I watched, an outsider looking in, as I untangled myself from him, exited the apartment, and drove away in my car.

“It’s my fault he died,” I said suddenly, although I had realised it a long time ago. I guess I’d hoped that the cat beside me would correct me, but it didn’t. “Why are you showing me this?” I demanded, suddenly irate that I was being made to relive my bad decisions so soon after I’d died. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing me the best parts? Like, my greatest hits, that kind of thing?”

It turned to look at me with curious emerald eyes, a peculiar expression on its face. “I’ve seen your life, kid – start to finish. I don’t know what best parts you’re talking about, but this is the closest you came.” Its words should have deflated me, but I knew what was coming next, so instead my temper only rose.

“Who the hell are you anyway? You don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!” I was peripherally aware that I was yelling at a cat in the pouring rain, but once you die, those sorts of things don’t bother you as much as they once might have.

“Sure I do,” it said agreeably, turning away from me to peer into the window again. “Anyway, this is the main event. This is what I’m supposed to show you.”

Three men arrived as if on cue, dressed all in black like pallbearers with guns hidden in their jackets. I turned to the window again, drinking in the sight of him asleep and trying to commit it to memory. It didn’t matter. Soon I would be nothing, with no memories, and no regrets, but my presence was hanging by a thread and I wanted him to the be the last thing that I saw.

The men knocked on the door, and he made a noise in his sleep which could have been my name. They knocked again, impatient, and my heart ached with pre-emptive loneliness. After this, nothing felt whole again, not even myself. I threw myself at the world, a self-destructive semi-person that didn’t care what happened to me. He rose this time, looking confused, and then hurt at the absence my warmth left in the bed, but death’s persistent knocking drove him from his bed and to the door, answering it half-dressed and half asleep. That’s when I started to cry, seeing him so vulnerable and unassuming. I drew my palm across my mouth to stifle the sobs, though I knew it didn’t matter. I knew they couldn’t hear me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking them up and down, the seriousness of their manifestation dawning on him.

“Is there a Mr. Jones here?” one of them asked.

“Uh. Thomas? No he—he just left, I…” He swallowed thickly, noticing the way their fingers hovered around the lapel of their jackets.

“Did he?” another replied flatly.

“Thomas?” the first one questioned. “That’s not him. Boss said it’s Michael. Michael Jones – you know him?”

He paused. I’d mentioned my father only once to him, but it was clear that he recalled the name. “No,” he said, sounding unsure. “I don’t. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“My father,” I said. “They were looking for my father.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the scene, but Jellybean made a ‘hmm’ of agreement. “I don’t need to watch the rest of it.” I didn’t move though, and neither did the cat. Instead, I began to cry even harder.

One of the men laughed, drew his gun, and shot the only person I’d ever loved. He died almost instantly. I saw the life drain from his eyes. I saw the blood begin to leave his body, and then I turned away. “Is this the end?” I said, pleading.

“Yes,” it said. And then: “It’s also the beginning.”

I wanted to say “he used to say that” but I knew if I started to speak I would sob instead, and never stop sobbing. I wanted to say “they weren’t looking for me” but the way the creature looked at me suggested that it knew I had come to the realisation that it wasn’t my fault, that it wasn’t the mistakes in my past that had killed him.

“Nice meeting you, kid,” said the creature.

Then everything fell away.

Darkness surrounded me, shrouded my surroundings and myself. I was not even sure that I existed any longer, until a familiar, comforting light appeared before me. I could not describe it even if I tried. It was simply comfort. From the light stepped a familiar figure, his features obscured at first but growing clearer and more focused as the light grew: his hair, messy and wild; his freckles, a constellation on his skin; his eyes, filled with kindness and empathy, and his smile, crooked and perfect.

My heart overflowed.

Then he held out his hand, and I took it.

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snakes-stories · 5 years

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The Armourer’s Garden

Once there was a girl who worked tirelessly to make weapons and empires. She was an architect of creation who worked under the titan rule of an arms company known as Tantalus. It’s factories dominated the city, swallowing up its circumference, like a virulent mechanised virus. This cold blooded company worked her to bone and sinew, pushing their arms on only the richest of the world’s elite. This was a world of progress and progress could not be denied. The war machine was absolute. The girl didn’t like these ideals; she didn’t even like the ugly industrial city she‘d ended up in, but that’s just how life had worked out; so she got on with it. But what she remembered was the sweet air of her youth, the fresh green grass and thriving growth of a little green garden she had grown up with. The place was little more than a distant dream now, it’s pristine edges smudged with time. The garden’s little plot of land had been bulldozed to make way for the towering progress of Tantalus’s workshops. It was the deepest of cuts, but the girl was tough; she had to be in this city, so not a single tear got shed. But on that day, when her little garden ceased to exist, the rain poured down like tears from the heavens over the city.

The girl had always been an astute creature, able to bolt together whatever scraps of metal were lying round into something more than useful. Growing up surrounded by all this gargantuan machinery and tech was not without advantageous consequences. Tools were like an extension of her body and anything in front of her got moulded into the most deadly of instruments. Her affinity for arms grew and successes brought notoriety, with Tantalus immediately snapping her up as a worker. From there she quickly climbed the spiralling ranks of Tantalus and centred her place as their most prized armourer. When she whispered words into her workers’ ears insight and inspiration captured their waring minds. Everything she conceived worked with an absolute cutthroat precision. If she spent the night in a workshed by morning time the empty space would be transformed into a museum of mechanical creations. She worked and worked, and worried about what she did, and then worked some more. She was an instrument of creation, an artist in the true sense of the word. This was her pre-set. She had always been this way, and now it was expected of her.

The ultimate day of war was approaching. A foreign lord had placed an order with the lords of Tantalus, the greatest anyone had ever asked for in the history of the company. With this army the lord was destined to dominate the world, and the girl had been given the task of creating this mechanised plague. The warriors she created were colossal hulking giants of plate, robust mechs with A.I. systems so ruthless and adept at killing that not a single living creature stood a chance at defeating them. She called these warriors the Devil’s Children. They were her masterpiece, and as production began the army swelled in size, growing like a colony of ants.

One day I met her in a tavern known as the Black Cat, a convivial safari full of eccentric exotic characters. She had taken shelter in the place because even creatures of work like her needed down time, ways to unburden her high powered mind. Booze was one way. A companion was another. She married the two and we drink till the early hours of the morning, getting to know one another in the most intimate of exchanges, flushing all the stress and stain out of her system. This became a regular thing, because work wasn’t slowing down for the girl. It was increasing. Delivery was approaching. You could taste the tension in the air. It was a kind of wild energy that leaked out into the atmosphere, consuming all in its vicinity. The city grew feral. Workers on the project became unruly. Trouble was a daily issue in her dungeon and workshops, causing the girl to waste precious time pacifying. What’s more, the lords were also feeling the pressure to deliver, their hearts fluttering like trapped insects. The girl could feel their tense iron thumbs bruising her back to get the job done. I could see it too, this amazing creature shrinking, her body and mind becoming bent and battered from the strain, as she battled to create.

But pressure cannot continue indefinitely. It must be released, like a rain storm, one way or the other. So slowly a plan began to formulate. I’m sure the many bottles of rum we drank had a bearing on this decision. But the girl’s inhibitions had loosened, like the first rocks from avalanche. She confided in me, releasing all that built up frustration. Her one and only goal past the creation of this army was to escape this hardwired matrix and seek sanctuary. Her ideal was to find a little green garden like the one she grew up in. So I suggested, “why not do it now?” She was desperate for a break. But in her mind that was impossible. For one, there wasn’t a single green spot left in existence. Even if Tantalus let her go, which they wouldn’t, it’s spider like war machine had swallowed all earth’s vegetation. At least that was what she thought. But I knew about a place, a secret place, a spot cradled high up in the mountains flourishing with fresh plant life. Naturally she was resistant at believing such hope. But after I described it in meticulous detail she began to taste it on her tongue and became enraptured by the idea. The girl had to see it. So that’s where we headed, fast as we could, under the cover of darkness. She designated tasks to her lieutenants and off we went for the weekend.

The journey was epic, a drive that took us across sprawling desert sands and towering forest pines, but eventually we arrived. And just as I had promised it was everything I had said, a Garden of Eden for two weary souls. The likeness to her childhood garden was uncanny, she said, like someone had taken a snap shot from her memory and recreated it. The girl couldn’t have been more happy and harmonised. She was in paradise, finally able to bask in pure and absolute freedom. I found myself watching her as she pranced with swirls and twirls up and down and through the plants, not a care on the world.

But even good times have to come to an end. They run out like a sumptuous bottles of rum you can’t stop drinking. The girl had to return, despite my reservations. I offered to return with her but she refused. She said it was her fight. The towering head office of Tantalus stood more menacing than ever before. As she entered every worker glared at her, their eyes communicating the words: ‘dead-woman-walking’. She reached the throne room and found the lords. But to her surprise a glass of wine was ready. They were celebrating. Production was nearly compete. In fact, several Devil’s Children stood guarding the lords, evidence of her success. She was relieved and took a sip of the wine. The lords watched, their smile gradually curdling into a snarl. Fingers were snapped and she was shackled in barbed wire chains and strung up. One of the lord’s heavy brutes, an ape like man, all muscle and fat, coiled with black like barbed hair, went to work on her with his hardened fists, beating the life out of her. An indulgent holiday at their critical hour could not be forgiven. The lords wanted revenge, a savage and savoured revenge, because now that the army was nearly complete they had no more use for the girl. She would be made a bloody and beaten example of. But as blood dripped from her long dark hair she scoffed a sneaky smile. The lords demanded to know why she was smiling. The smile then turned into laughter and immediate the mechs turned on the lords’ men, pulverising then into unrecognisable sacks of gushing meat. Then they turned on the lords. The girl wasn’t a sadist but she did take an exuberant amount of satisfaction in watching their faces run red with blood. The mechs then released their mother creator. This had been her plan all along: to take back the city. We hadn’t just had a windy weekend of relaxing. The girl had formulated a battle plan for a military cue and it had worked. The worst thing was going to go back into the city when she knew a torturous beating was waiting for her. But there was no other way to get a hacking signal close enough to overwrite the mechs’ programs. It had to be her, and she knew that. But she’d suffered worse. A beating was nothing, and now the empire was all hers. She was free.

In the coming months a restoration of policies went into effect. The army was reprogrammed to tear up and strip all none-essential tech that had raped the planet’s surface. Instead the mechs were set to work planting new seeds of life everywhere. Greenery began to once again blossom across the land. A new beginning dawned. No longer was ‘progress’ the word of the day. Instead freedom grew back in its place. As for the girl...well... she retired. The work wasn’t sustainable for her anymore and she settled deep in the mountain paradise we had shared together, surrounding herself with plants of every variety. And what of me, her male companion, you ask? Well, I bound her story in ink, written on the very pages you’re reading right now. It is my hope that she will never be forgotten, that her legend will live on forever. She will in my mind. Most days I sit in her little garden, watching her nurture new life prancing about with the plants. And every so often I make her cups of coffee and write her a poem. She seems to like that. I get a smile that beams as bright as the sun and reminds me just how lucky I am. Because it was luck that brought us together. For that I’m truly grateful.

Her name is Elorhan and this is her story.

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