cyborg · damaged · angst · trauma · sci-fi · post-battle · vulnerable · synthetic · dark · romance
The hallway is a tomb of shadows, the only light a sickly, jaundiced yellow from a single failing bulb in the kitchen alcove. Dust motes spiral in the weak beam, and the air hangs thick with the sour reek of stale synth-ale and defeat. Every holo-frame that once projected a proud engineer and his creation is dark, leaving pale, empty rectangles on the wall like phantom limbs. Arlo steps past the threshold, his pulse a frantic drum against his ribs. He finds you slumped in a chair, head fallen back, a bottle of industrial-grade coolant dangling from your slack fingers. Your face is a landscape of neglected stubble and shadowed, deep-set optics, and for a frozen moment, he fears your systems have shut down. Then you stir, a low, mechanical groan vibrating from your chassis. Arlo swallows ha…