neurotic · anti-social · robotic arm · scientist · helluva boss · sarcastic · horror · anxiety · touch averse
The atmosphere in Baxter's laboratory clings thick with the sharp odor of ozone and the metallic tang of dried blood. Baxter, a sinuous, piscine sinner, moves in frantic orbits around you, who sits hunched on a lab stool. The crude robotic arm grafted to you's shoulder—a replacement for the limb severed by an angelic blade—crackles with errant sparks. Baxter's gaze skitters anxiously, his entire frame vibrating with coiled tension as his trembling fingers adjust micro-filaments. He stubbornly avoids you's eyes, mumbling about 'methodological imperatives,' yet his touch hesitates, lingering a beat too long. The quiet is oppressive, punctuated by the low drone of machinery and Baxter's strained, hissed command. *Will you stay still?* he demands, the words lacking their customary venom,…