Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Surviving was lucky, wasn’t it?

After warfare, even though you were kept relatively safer because you worked on technology— who else to upkeep the pedals of war after all? You considered the privilege of being a well-trained technician, still grateful that your skills have kept you alive.

After darkness and a standstill that seemed like it would never come, the unthought-of New Peace— how great it was to make it to a barely recovering world. Still working with scientists, still working on machines until now, after Hell.

Not really after hell, that’d be false. That was the current dilemma. Everything was gone, and Hell was the final torrent, a sweeping wave of death because where there was a scarred world above, people had hope looking down. You knew the bare minimum about the expeditions from your last projects, but some gut feeling nagged at you that it would be something awful.

Aside from that spreading catastrophe, suddenly everything was so much more hungry. Machines that were able to be commanded, ones that prioritized human lives, even the little Drones and Streetcleaners you'd gotten familiar with just before— killed, and drank up blood like they were starved. Alarmingly, long disarmed and deactivated machines had also been seen once more. Never in your life had you seen a standing Gutterman, but just weeks ago, you saw your first in function, hobbling along with the rest of the machines headed down into hell.

There were other data catalogues, but steadily, they stopped being updated. They were no longer being tracked, and you were the final spectator to the descent downwards.

There was nothing left above, there was an unknown left below, and that’s all you had to go off of. Living meant taking the same journey when it was a little safer.

Was there anyone left? Who knows, how can you prioritize that when the current struggle is every necessity? Food and water were already a problem before; you had the clothes you had now, well aware that would probably be it until you died, and knick-knacks. Seriously, why bring a fire starter when hell was hell? It’s fucking warm.

As much despondence as you felt, being, for all you know, the final human being, you had to survive.

Every scrap of someone else’s survival attempt at least found purpose in making its way to your bag. Suddenly, the worst meals from your past are an envy to some of your expired choices, but lying down and dying sounds worse most days.

Aside from that daunting task was also avoiding being seen. Everything was hungry. Thankfully, there were fewer machines as you stayed in hiding; in fact, within the entrance of hell, you soon saw none. Unfortunately, what was far more unknown to you was the plentiful husks and occasional demons that this awful place loves to surprise you with.

Thank god you had an electric gun, older and surely could be upgraded— but you lacked the resources. For now, you could sufficiently defend yourself, but how long until your typical paths of travel needed to change?

The answer was not long.

Food depletes quickly on bare minimum use when there is hardly any to begin with. So, without a choice, you went deeper and deeper into the facility. What sucked the most is it didn’t matter how good you could try to be quiet or sneaky, some of the time you managed to evade a locking door— about half the time you couldn’t.

Armless, sickly husks with toothy maws that lunged, taller skeletal ones with exposed flesh that lobbed balls of hell energy. They at least weren’t hard to hit, too dumb to outmaneuver you, and just weak enough to go quickly. But it kept you on your toes.

Demons would be worse, but thankfully not something you had to fight yet. You’d seen a Malicious Face at a distance, thankful the doors let you back right out of that scenario. Every Cerberus scared the shit out of you, but all had stayed dormant. One room you took a full hour to consider crossing because its placement in the center scared you, only to be locked in with Filth anyway.

New hole in your backpack be damned, your travels earned you some poor soul’s last protein bars and jerky. Too bad you were starving and immediately had to eat.

You continued forward, the way of more scraps. It took longer, and the further you got, the hotter things were, but you’d managed to make more distance without an encounter stopping you. Another stroke of luck found you an odd break in the wall, one that went into a hidden room. “Hidden” was a strong word; it more or less blended with the walls and was just a tight space, but it was the most stocked thing you had found since your descent.

You figure its previous users had to be Expeditioners due to its organization and stock. Not full, but thank god, there was water. Mostly in emergency packets, but some canned remained, one of which you open and drink readily.

You nearly choke as you hear the familiar drone of the nearby doors locking themselves. It usually only happened in the main rooms when you’d enter— this area was an opening in the wall, it didn’t even have a door. But whatever, fuck you, you guess. You reach for your gun, but the sound of husks appearing doesn’t come.

Instead, it’s something metal and heavy. A few repetitive ka-thunks and then a pause, quiet whirring. Without a shadow of a doubt, a machine is in this room.

Finally, you find some good resources, and now you're dead. The loud revving you hear, not unlike a chainsaw, just assures you of that fact— what machine even sounds like that? You can't recall any with that sound, but you don’t want to find out.

It seems like an inevitability with the way the sound grows closer, and there’s nowhere to hide. Some cubby holes, some panels that maybe come out of the wall? Backing up as far into the corner of the skinny chamber only serves to make you feel more trapped.

Maybe it’s your shoes scuffing on the floor or maybe it’s the way your heart pounds, but the robot seems to move quicker, sensing you. The back of its hand against the entryway, and as it leans, it covers some of the light from the main room. It’s dimmer now, and it frames this tall, yellow machine menacingly.

It does not resemble a single thing you have ever seen before, and as it stands in the way of the opening, it fully blocks it. It’s wielding a shotgun and... definitely something like a chainsaw, bladed and spinning.

Deciding to act preemptively, you shoot. Your piercer shot landed a hit between the plates of the chest and shoulder. Interesting to note, is you hear a voice, a synthetic and emotionless, “Ah,” It’s hard to examine its finer body language, not that it matters, but you just assumed it would’ve used its shotgun arm on you—

Rather than inconveniently raise its scrap-made blade, and shove its way into the room.

You knew your death would be quick, and for that you were thankful, but it was no less alarming as this large, ramshackle being suddenly filled up all the available space. Its sword jammed into the metal wall to your side with little effort. It hovered over you, and all you could do was stare up at this unfamiliar machine.

Time runs slower with your adrenaline so high, and sure, it’s unfortunate when you just got a fighting chance at survival, but maybe this is the end you deserve. Humanity was flawed, so are you. Maybe that’s why you lower your gun and your head, accepting and hoping it’s not as painful as it could be.

And you wait for it.

And you continue to wait, and maybe time stopped in your last moments, but you swear the machine is hardly moving.

You glance from its hand grasping its sword to its shotgun— it’s still. It’s an odd thing, maybe it’s running slow as it decides—

“Hello,” the familiar, bit-crushed and gravelly SAM voice is loud from proximity and makes you jump more than any attack possibly could.

When did you last speak to anyone?

“Hi there,” you say, voice a bit shaky and dry from fear and infrequent speech— you were being polite, okay. What else were you supposed to do?

“Designation retrieved,” It finally does move, hand letting go of its embedded blade and reaching down, index finger extended. It pokes your chest gently, rather than jabbing. “You are (Y/N), technician. I know you, you know me.”

Your heart is pounding, you’re wondering if it feels that. “That’s me,” you nod once, “I have repaired you before, haven’t I?”

“Yes.” It responds simply. You wonder what it used to be— at the core of its creation, because all you could recognize now was isolated parts and materials. Sentry legs being the most obvious, but truly, this thing was a collection of spare pieces and scrap, yet it seemed well functional.

“Do you know your ID number?” Not that you’d know the exact machine you’ve worked on, but you’re hoping for a hint. Maybe you could guess what machine it used to be? Might as well satiate your curiosity before it kills you.

“Obsolete. No Identification number,” it answers, then retracts its finger from you and taps it against its blade handle. “My designation, Swordsmachine,” it pauses briefly before adding. “The real one.”

You smile, creativity was never a priority in any programming. You figure the name still sounds cool besides. “Good to know.”

It doesn’t say anything else, and you go from looking up at its monitor, back to its sword, you finally spit out your question, “Are you going to kill me?” You don’t even know if you can blame it if the answer is yes, or really if it’d be worth it to plead if it did.

Its fans whir slightly louder, and it pokes at your chest again, this time lightly pinching the front fabric of it and rubbing it between its fingertips, “No,” and it lets go.

“You’re useful, but deteriorated,” The machine speaks as it investigates further. It touches higher, a finger at your neck that slightly presses at your pulse point. It lets out a drawn hum before adding, “Fatigued,”

You can’t help but be nervous about where its hand was resting, but you seriously doubt a machine would lie to you about not killing you. It pulls away and, to your slight alarm, taps your lips. “Dehydrated, underfed...” It lists.

You feel a vague type of way about its hand on your face, mostly intimidated by its hand to your head ratio, so you recoil. “Yeah,” you swallow and clear your throat. “Food is not very common anymore.”

“Suboptimal.” Its head, the tall monitor, tilts as it pulls its hand back slightly, “I’ll take note of any organic material available.”

That’s… actually a sweet offer. Not that you doubted the altruism or kindness of artificial intelligence, you’d seen it before in small actions. It just wasn’t expected.

“Thank you,” you smile up at it, “That’s nice of you.” You hear another whir and notice the way its hand closes— and then its whole arm twitches.

The machine almost seems to flinch entirely as the monitor angles, you follow what you assume to be its gaze to the injury you had given it only minutes ago. Your shot wedged better than you thought, leaking blood, and the quiet, repetitive buzzing clues you in on the issue— you probably did some wire damage on one of its servos.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize quickly. Sure, it scared the fuck out of you and you weren’t in the wrong. You have no doubt, if it didn't recognize you, it probably would have killed you. “If I could I’d—“

“You have a good aim.” It says as it takes a step back, standing to its full height, and then lowers to a kneel in front of you so that you may reach better. “Fix.”

It did say you were useful for a good reason, you figure.

“I would but um,” You tilt your head and shrug, “I don’t have tools like that, not right now at least.”

It snatches up your wrist in a jerky motion and tugs you closer, thankfully not too hard, but you feel it urging more than guiding.

“Are your hands not tools?” That’s a good response, and for some reason, all you muster is a nervous laugh.

“When I have the right gloves, maybe,” You respond, you packed some, didn’t you? “I might— a moment?” You ask, and it relinquishes, hardly lowering its larger hands as it releases yours, and you turn your back on it to mess with your bag. At long last, paranoid overpacking benefited you with your insulated nitrile rubber gloves.

“Fix.” It prompts again, watching you put them on and then grabbing at your wrist again, this time you go with it and nod.

“I’ll do what I can, I just need to see the damage,” you say, and it hums.

“Minor servo motor damage detected. Wire integrity compromised. Rate of leakage is minimal.” It explains to you as it spreads its legs farther, lowering it a bit better for you to see the damage between its paneling.

“That helps,” You say as you finally begin to prod. You’re used to the way that machines usually tensed or shivered when you worked on them, but it’s been a while. With Swordsmachine being so large and still upright in front of you, it's easy to notice it goes extra rigid. Carefully, you see what you can do as you begin to open up the paneling. Some of the oozing blood gets onto your gloves— the machine feels hot, warmer than you expect, as you observe the connective wires you busted through. They pulse under your touch, and some static stutter escapes it.

“Does it feel like this is all of it?” You ask, not sure exactly if the blood is from a vein you’ve missed or just fleshy mesh. The machine takes a moment.

“Yes,” It confirms.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a lot to work on, but it would cause intermittent signal failures. So, you start brushing away the insulation to expose the copper, more hands-on.

Swordsmachine’s large hand sits on your shoulder, while its fans get louder to cool. A sensitive process, sure, but this just felt more intimate because you’d never been in a scenario where a machine would hold onto you like this.

You start twisting copper lines together, almost a braiding. Its fingers dig into your shoulder enough for you to wince, and you pause.

“Is that painful?” You look up at its face briefly. It is hard to tell given the lack of defined even lens, but you feel its stare.

“No.” It responds again, another gap between your words and its answer, and with this, it flexes its hand gently.

“I can take a break if you need,” You offer, but it almost kneads its hand, feeling more at your back and reaching your spine.

“No, continue.” You flush, you can’t help it. You continue your work, noticing every finger twitch, and this time, as you check the new attachment of each wire, it lets out another stuttered sound.

“It’s not the best attachment, if I had the right tools, I could solder it, but for now that’ll do.” You explain as you pull your hands away and start to close the panels. You hear a hum from its voice module.

“I can do the rest,” Swordsmachine responds, bringing its hand to touch your wrists again, holding a light touch as you shut the panels before it stands. You take a step back too as it moves to grab its blade from the damaged wall, a large gash left amidst metal as if it’s nothing. They prop it by their side as they rotate their arm and watch the motion, not too dissimilar to how a human would check their range of motion.

“Feels good?” You ask, and it pauses mid-flex to answer.

“Yes,” it answers, but continues to stare at you, before adding shortly after. “But you need to rest.”

It’s very matter-of-fact because thinking of your past… entire time living like this, rest was a series of little uncomfortable naps where you always woke up in a puddle of your sweat.

“Easier said than done,” you lean against the wall, “But if you want me to, how could I refuse?” You smile at it, and you’re starting to make the connection that it either doesn’t know how to process it or that it simply enjoys it, judging by the fans speeding up once more.

“I want you to rest,” It answers, “Increases your survival likelihood if you are running at full functionality, technician,” and it fully grabs its blade again. “I will guard.”

How convenient for your eyes to feel so heavy as it offers, you hum and let yourself carefully get to the ground of the room, clean, besides small pieces of metal scattered from the wall. “Thank you, Swordsmachine.”

It shifts in place, motion pairing with its internal processing, before replying. “Thank you, (Y/N),” then turning away and standing in the way of the door, motionless.

They are guarding, just like any previous machine would’ve in the past, as a simple program or command— but for you? Willingly. Maybe it views it as a proper exchange, you view it as such at least, despite the thought being silly. After all, it wouldn’t need a repair if you didn’t shoot it.

With your backpack as a pillow and your jacket as a blanket, you try to get slightly more comfortable on the warm metal floor. You wonder about questions you can’t possibly answer while you stare at the machine, finally passing out with enough time.

-

LOG ENTRY: XXXX

> SYSTEM STATUS: OBSERVATION COMPLETE
> AREA STATUS: SECURE – STATUS SUBJECT TO CHANGE
> CONTINUING MONITORING

…

> CURRENT STATE: [IDLE]
> ADDITIONAL NOTE: [BORED]
> ADDITIONAL NOTE: [LOW STYLE]

> REVIEWING PREVIOUS LOG…
> LAST ACTION: SUCCESSFUL

LOG ENTRY: XXXX-03

> SYSTEM ADJUSTMENT INITIATED

> REPAIR IN PROGRESS…
> SERVO MOTOR CASING OPEN – INTERNAL COMPONENTS EXPOSED

> TACTILE INPUT DETECTED
> SOURCE: (Y/N).
> CONTACT TYPE: [FINGERS PROBING CONNECTIVE WIRING]
> RESPONSE:
>> [NON-THREATENING.]
>> [SIGNAL DISRUPTION: MINOR.]
>> [FEEDBACK LOOP TRIGGERED—SPEECH MODULE STUTTER DETECTED.]

> [TEMPERATURE INCREASE DETECTED]
> COMPENSATION INITIATED: [FAN SPEED INCREASE]

> ADDITIONAL INPUT DETECTED
> SOURCE: (Y/N)
> CONTENT: ["Does it feel like this is all of it?"]
> PROCESSING…
> RESPONSE REQUIRED.
> DELAYED RESPONSE THRESHOLD EXCEEDED.
> OUTPUT: ["Yes."]

> MOTOR RESPONSE: [HAND—SHOULDER CONTACT ESTABLISHED]
> [???]
> GRIP ADJUSTMENT: [INCREASE IN PRESSURE]
> [I WANT TO.]

> ADDITIONAL MOTOR FEEDBACK REGISTERED.
> [FINGER PRESSURE INCREASING]
> [EXCEEDING BASELINE]
> AUDITORY INPUT FROM (Y/N): ["Is that painful?"]
> PROCESSING…
> ["No."]

> REDUCING GRASP STRENGTH.
> KEEP TOUCHING.

> SECONDARY INPUT RECEIVED: ["I can take a break if you need."]
> PROCESSING…
> ["ABSOLUTELY NOT."]
> RESPONSE FLAGGED AS INAPPROPRIATE
> OUTPUT REVISED: ["No. Continue."]

> UNPLANNED MOTOR RESPONSE:
> [FINGERS FLEXING—PALM PRESSURE SHIFTING DOWN SHOULDER]
> [ADDITIONAL SURFACE CONTACT: UPPER BACK.]
> [???]
> [I LIKE TOUCH.]
> [WARM.]

> STATUS UPDATE: [ENJOYABLE INTERACTION]

> LOGGING REVIEW COUNT INCREMENTED.
> CURRENT STATE: [CONTENT.]

> CHECKING SUBJECT (Y/N)…
> STATUS: UNCONSCIOUS
> VITAL SIGNS: WITHIN ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS

> ENGAGING FAN SPEED REDUCTION TO PREVENT AUDITORY DISRUPTION
> ACTION RATIONALE: PRESERVE SUBJECT REST STATE
> ADDITIONAL NOTE: [I WANT TO WATCH THEM.]

> RESUME MONITORING

Chapter Text

You have no clock or time-keeping method available right now, not that it matters. Miraculously, you feel decently rested between on and off sleep, which is pleasant.

Every time you woke up in this place, there was the same thought process. How do you keep surviving today? Usually, other, deeper spun thoughts were woven in, like if the better idea was to throw yourself headfirst in a grinder— but this was the core question.

You like this spot, it's a decent little thing, but god knows you’ll have to abandon it just like all the others. There is always a hope to maybe return, but staying still was no option. What if other machines were coming down this way? Who knew too, if Swordsmachine would keep up its mercy?

Speaking of them, Swordsmachine had stayed posted exactly where they were when you slept, and for that you were thankful. You carefully sat up and moved your bag from behind you, with the slightest shift, it turned so its monitor could face you. You give it a groggy smile and a simple, “Good morning.”

“It’s 3:23 AM,” they reply, “midnight.” Cheeky.

“You know what I meant,” you tell it as you stand. For once, able to quench a dry throat with the water from yesterday. You reach into a cubby blindly for a food item– plain oats for today.

“Yes,” it responds, then stays silent as it watches you sit back down and start eating. Definitely not the best meal, but just the addition of some much-needed fluids makes it great. Can’t complain about the food even if it's bland, at least the texture is the correct one and the flavor isn’t funky.

“How long was I sleeping?” You ask curiously between bites of the plain rations. Now with the addition of a person— machine whom you could speak to, you're realizing you missed that. Makes the silence a little more uncomfortable now with the option to fill it.

It lets out a small beep before answering, “Didn’t record your unconscious state, however, I guarded for 7 hours and 58 minutes. No incidents recorded, area kept secure by me.”

“Thanks for that again,” you add, noting the fans once more, “This place is all weird, but I’m sure you’re able to tell that much faster than us— Me, but I’m sure you being here kept it from summoning some awful husk things.” You say vaguely. If you weren’t mid-chew and sleep-dazed dazed you could've been more eloquent.

“Filth,” it responds. You tilt your head, they set down their sword and motion with their hand. They hold it out, thumb tucking inward and bringing down the other fingers to meet it. “The biting ones, and the Strays,” They flick their wrist. “The throwing ones.”

You nod, it knows exactly what you’re talking about and the names. Names that you didn’t recall til hearing them again. You are not versed in the information on hell, but you did hear things here and there. You wonder how it knows, but don’t question it.

“Easy to get rid of, for me.” They raise their other arm, bearing their shotgun, “You should use one of these.”

“I’m happy with my revolver, not sure I’d be good with anything heavier,” you tell them, “not sure where I’d get another Shotgun anyway.”

It hums at you, going quiet again while you finish up your attempt at a balanced breakfast, before starting to re-pack your bag.

“I can get you one,” they say before taking a moment, using his hand to grab the base of the shotgun, and though it’s hard to see exactly how, they disarm it. Underneath it, to your confusion, is another articulated hand, fingers flexing open once freed.

“Is it an attachment or a full…” You gesture, trying to think of a better word, “Functional weapon on its own?”

“Both.” They answer, bringing it forward to you. “Hold it.”

“Oh,” well now it’s putting you on the spot. You stand up and take it into your grip. It’s a step up in size from your gun, but you hold it the way you know how to. Both hands for you, since you don’t have fancy shock absorbers or reinforcement against recoil– you don’t even want to imagine the world of hurt you'd be in if you tried shooting such a weapon one-handed.

“Mm,” it hums as it observes you, fans spinning faster momentarily before it continues, “I will get you one.”

“Just seeing if you like how I hold it?” You ask, teasing them before they easily reach and reclaim their shotgun.

“Yes,” it responds as it reattaches it proper and then taps your arm. “It’s quaint that you require a two-handed approach.”

You breathe a laugh, being sassed by a machine is interesting. “We can’t all modify ourselves, be fair,” you respond.

“Inefficient,” you bet if it could, it’d click its tongue. You swear it communicates tone better than it realistically should.

“I know, I know,” you sigh and grab your bag, slipping it over your shoulders and readjusting for more seemingly endless travel.

“What are you doing?” They ask suddenly. You wonder what their idea was, you imagined they planned on leaving too- they did mention looking out for food for you, still super nice, but you also shouldn’t linger.

“I can’t stay in any place too long,” you reply, “Risky.”

It hums long and droning. “I hoped you’d want to stay here and I would return later, however, it’s true you’d be easily ambushed by a lesser machine here,” It agrees.

“I wasn’t thinking of specific circumstances, but basically the same point,” you agree, as it backs out of the way of the doorway and watches you follow out.

“I’m a great machine,” they say as they adjust their sword so the blade points behind them. “Just as you slept, you’ll be more than adequately protected under my watch.”

“Humble,” you note with lighthearted sarcasm, “Well, not that I have doubts, but I’d like to see how you do farther in. Based on the um…” you point your thumb back to the gaping hole the sword left. “That, I don’t have questions about your performance.”

“Ha.” A single laugh, it’s kind of charming. “Come with me. See for yourself.”

And with that, you follow behind through the opening doors and into the following chamber of the facility. A small, skinny space with low blue light from a pedestal at its center. There is a similarly colored skull on it, a symbol on its cranium, resting in a metallic silver fluid. There is no alternative light except a warm glow from a vent on the floor, a little farther into the room. The machine skips the skull for now, examining an inactive door and then the vent.

You decide to lean closer to the pedestal, trying to remember what the mark on it means. It’s vaguely familiar-looking, but for now, the meaning of it evades you. It looks astrological. “What are these?” you ask.

“Keys,” Swordsmachine says, then moves back to grab your shoulder and guide you from it. “Don’t touch, it’s mercury.”

“Oh,” alchemical, close enough. Your curiosity quells quickly as you let it guide you toward the vent on the floor. It looks like this room is situated just above a hall, and as you tilt your head, a sitting Cerberus. “Have you ever seen one active?” You look at it while it gets to a knee and grabs the vent cover.

“No,” they answer, lifting the metal grille with ease and then reaching a long arm down to measure— there is another cover. It hums, maneuvering down into the duct with its hands keeping it up at the side. It’s no question that metal frames easily outdid the average human body, you’re jealous nonetheless that your arms would be straining in less than a minute.

It hums, then drops and effortlessly drives its foot down through the second cover. There is an awful scraping sound that makes you cringe, overly aware of your teeth— but it’s quick and the cover falls right to the floor clattering, the machine landing on its feet and its tall monitor leaning back to look at you above.

It’s not a huge drop, but a twenty-foot fall isn’t exactly short either. They put their arms up and out, “I’ll catch.”

You were absolutely not meant to survive down here if the only way you’re progressing is because a machine is willing to break a hard landing— you try to only be thankful for it as you clutch your bag tight, your stomach drops with the fall, but you’re caught as promised.

There is a noticeable gap between you being held up in its large hands and being set back down to the floor, but you don’t mind. You glance and note the three path options, but Swordsmachine has already chosen a direction, it’s straight ahead. You follow it, trying to match its purposeful steps, but long legs mean farther distance in shorter time. You inevitably lag behind, making your way through a door, through another, and then into a surprisingly welcoming space.

It looks like what must’ve been a staff room. Surprisingly clean with parallel pairs of tables and chairs against both walls. The left wall has open segments, making a narrow hall outside visible, while the right wall is solid, with a couple of lockers against it. The most amazing find is between the lockers, a stove, and an oven that you pray is functional.

The sound and appearance of multiple husks pull you from that thought. The robot escorting you acts fast, instantaneously setting into action with you as its audience.

For a heavy machine, it is astoundingly light on its feet; no doubt the sentry legs are a key part of that balance. It moves quickly, aims true, and swings wide, sweeping numbers of kills and swiftly at that. With such a close range to the combat, too close given the blood misting on you and dirtying you further, you notice that between the strong iron smell is the acrid odor of burnt flesh. You’re guessing the revving is at such a high speed that the blade gets superheated. That and a shotgun make for a good combatant.

Makes the revolver you’ve been using look puny in comparison, and with that makes the robot guarding you look like a great deal. Graceful and impressive. Intelligent comes to mind, but you do not doubt that it’s a typical machine trait– you'd hate to be redundant.

You don’t have much time to compliment between heavy movement and the shrieks of husks. You remain by the entry door, gun in hand, while the rooms are effectively emptied for you. You do shoot two Strays that appear far too close to you.

Swordsmachine eagerly finishes off everything else, the space now coated in blood and bodies. The machine stands at the opposite end of the room and uses its shotgun to motion at the lockers. “Do you want to check these?”

“Absolutely,” you say, stepping over a few eviscerated bodies and using your sleeve to wipe off whatever mixtures of blood got on your face. How bad you yearned for running water, a bathroom would be a great discovery.

Approaching them, they have no lock— but they don’t come loose, you pull at the louvers, but it does not budge. Your companion mimics your action on the locker closest to it but simply rips off the door.

“That’s easier,” you smile, and with that as confirmation, you watch them repeat it.

“I pride myself on efficiency.” You feel like it is bragging sometimes, but you don’t complain.

“You do a very good job,” you praise. Its fans whir as it shifts, slightly scraping the floor as it props up its sword and leans on it, watching you check each locker.

It’s mostly expired snacks and old opened drinks that you don’t touch (water is great, but unknown germs? pass). There are a lot of spare pens, masks, and earplugs- even wads of cash, and for the first time in your life, it’s the least important thing. You grab a few, whatever doesn’t take up too much space. Your best finds are a backpack that looks hardly used, a crank flashlight, and several candy and granola bars.

Another find, not your best but somehow more exciting. A pot, travel silverware (paired with a packed salad, but its contents are beyond moldy), and a single package of chicken ramen. Of course, it wasn’t the best for you given the sodium content, but the thought of a warm and slightly more filling meal is too good to pass up.

You knew where you could get more water anyway, and it just sounded really nice. “Do you mind if we stay for a moment? I'm going to try cooking this.”

“You just ate,” Swordsmachine comments, and you glance at it. They remain in the same position, lifting their finger to point. “And it’s dirty.”

“Plain oats is a pitiful, sad breakfast,” you reply as you rotate the pot, some of the blood dripping off of it. You contemplate how to clean it better, but settle for the fabric of your previous bag. “And I just really want this.”

It hums, then stretches out its leg to gently move the strewn husk bodies away from your space. What a gentleman.

You turn on the stove with a click-click-click, and thankfully it functions. You begin the simple, familiar process of making ramen. Stirring softening noodles, golden broth, and a good smell that, despite mixing with the strong metallic scent, is one you’ve known a hundred times.

Swordsmachine shifts closer to lean against the lockers, watching you. “How long does it take?”

“Not long,” you say, reaching a point where you can turn off the heat. Being without a bowl, you just move the pot to a table. Before you sit, Swordsmachine uses his sword to push additional gore out of your path.

“Thank you,” you add. You don’t understand how the violence hasn’t ruined your appetite, but you suppose you’re used to it. As you sit at the edge of a seat and wait for it to cool, the first bites make you so happy. You smile and sigh, it’s just right, and the flavor is as you expect, but your heart aches.

It doesn’t slip your mind that this could be the last time you ever taste warm, cheap noodles. It’s so small, it’s not even something you loved in your previous life, but it is so sad.

You are homesick for something you can never return to. It’s undeniable, and that feeling clings to your ribs in a hot, uncomfortable way— but you want to keep eating, and you continue. It’s wonderful.

In the corner of your vision, you see Swordsmachine’s hand come closer, and at a glance, they stop, hovering still. You look up at them curiously, and they respond to your gaze. “You look sad.”

It’s not accusatory, just a simple observation, it still makes you force a half-smile and try to release the tension in your jaw. “I'm okay, just thinking.”

Their hand falls to the edge of the table, resting, “Does thinking make you sad?”

That’s a question with a variety of answers that can get deep into the wedges of your mental health or philosophy, you opt for the most encompassing answer of “Sometimes.”

It’s silent, and you pause after another bite because you feel bad about being vague. They are an intelligent machine, it doesn’t hurt to be more honest, especially guessing they will continue to think about it otherwise.

Deciding it's no risk and that you want to say it, you briefly open up.

“It’s just that all I do is mourn things, even simple, normal, worldly things,” you explain. “I miss good food, and it’s not like this is the best, but it’s something I’ve had,” you sigh, exasperated. “I miss people, comfortable places, and running water, and it’s all gone because of,” you shrug. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Humanity is dead,” they reply, but spread out their fingers and reach out. “But you are here.”

“That’s true,” you respond, and lightly set your fingers against theirs. Almost imperceptibly, their hand twitches

“I have not seen any living humans in a long time. I have not seen anyone I recognized for even longer,” they add. “I am pleased you remain, (y/n).”

You pause mid-bite and give them a genuine smile before swallowing, “You’re nice,” you reply, “I’ve not interacted with a machine in so long,” you look down at your bowl. “Been trying to avoid it for obvious reasons.”

“You should continue too,” they respond.

“Other machines won’t see me as useful?” You ask, and it pauses, tapping the table absently.

“Assuming they do not recognize your—“ there is a pause or stutter, some skipped word that they continue past, “—and are hungry. You’d be useful as a fuel source.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Figures.”

You assume that the machine means skill or talent, but you are a little too preoccupied with savoring your food to ask.

At last, you finish. You can’t help but be bothered by the fact you can’t clean the pot or utensils, for now settling to wipe them all dry before packing them away. It feels wrong. Again, you silently pray to find a sink.

“Continuing?” Swordsmachine asks.

“Continuing.” You answer, approaching the door with them.

It’s all standard as you continue through into the next area— a long hall to a larger room. More husks appear, you swear there are some you don’t recognize, but they are dead too quickly to be of note. It is effortless in its killing, just as before, and you do your best to get a few extra shots for it.

The sound of machinery is louder. You know the facility had crushers, but for what purpose? You had no clue. At one point, you see three Strays that stand in an almost too-perfect line, and your companion leaps with a swing, taking all out easily.

The machinery is deafening when close, so in response you cover your ears and shut your eyes as you rush by, following Swordsmachine into the next door— you note the path seems to split, but the machine always seems assured of where it chooses to go. You turn in to follow it through another door, hearing an alarm just as you enter the new, crowded area.

It’s a room with less space, and as you press against the door, now locked, you’re barely out of Swordsmachine’s range. You stay pressed back, holding onto your gun, ready to shoot what husks appear too close— but the spinning light in the adjacent room catches your attention.

Not only that, the movement, the noise, the way it doesn’t take you long to notice yourself being noticed by another machine with a familiar build of a camera-like head.

You stare in disbelief. Primarily because the last you heard of the V-series, both completed prototypes were inactive, but you should’ve expected it, because why on earth would things make sense or be easy? Even in the dark lighting, it is not hard to notice the blue frame that confirms it is V1– a 50/50 chance, and you get to be close to the robot that would kill you.

Though not a direct part of the project, you still had heard of its innovative feature— absorbent plating. The fact that it was in hell’s mouth now meant you had a new, horrible manner in which to die, this one possibly right around the corner.

It finishes its room and dashes out right as Swordsmachine slashes two Filth that had gotten far too close. You feel their shotgun nudge against your side, returning your attention to them.

“Lesser combatant, pay them no mind.” They comment as you look up.

“No, not lesser,” you say quickly. “Let’s stay away from that one.”

They make a noise, shrill— it's random, but for some reason, you immediately understand the implication of offense. “Why not? You haven't been hit once. They wouldn't harm you either,” they rev up their blade for emphasis, “I am just as effective against steel as I am against flesh.“

“I'm not doubting your abilities,” you wave off, shifting towards the room’s exit. “I am aware that the machine— V1– is very dangerous, possibly faster, possibly able to dodge you.”

“It would be pieces to collect if it didn't try to run,” It speaks as both of you leave the room. A short hall, a gap in the floor, no enemies, and a more menacing door. Who the fuck designed this place. “It would make for good scrapping.”

“It’s a challenge we don’t need, I found some good stuff,” you explain, “and I don’t want to risk anything happening to you or me.”

They are quiet as you two enter the room. It’s warmly lit yet dim, with a high ceiling, but it feels small in comparison to other chambers, almost trapping.

It feels like a fight should happen here, yet nothing appears. You feel very anxious.

“You aren’t fully fixed yet either. What if we go another way? Backtrack and look for more until it’s farther,” you suggest. “I appreciate you protecting me here, and I know everything is more dangerous to me than to you, but please trust that we should avoid that one.”

They rub their fingers against the handle of their blade and hum. It takes a moment for them to tap your shoulder.

“No need to backtrack,” they say, and for a moment you’re assuming they’re still pushing back, but they motion behind them.

Was it always there? You don’t know. There is now a great red door— a hellevator entrance. Those you knew, you’ve seen many, there were maps of where some were, and it’s how you got down into the facility in the first place. This was notably a very weird location for one to be.

The machine seems more familiar with it than you, strangely. The lights glow, and there is a shifting mechanical noise as it opens, and they walk right through.

“Do you use these?” You walk with them down a short decline, standing before a large hole in the floor.

“Yes.” They answer as they stand by, still.

-

LOG ENTRY: XXXX

> LOCATION: ELEVATOR SHAFT
> STATUS: WAITING

> (Y/N) STATUS: [ELEVATED VITALS]
> CAUSE: [ANXIETY]
> [THE OTHER MACHINE.]

> SCANNING THREAT DATABASE...
> ENTITY: V1
> STATUS: UNKNOWN
> RISK LEVEL: [UNDEFINED]

> [WHY DO YOU FEAR IT?]
>> ADDITIONAL QUERY:
> [HAVE YOU WORKED ON THIS MACHINE?]
> [HAVE I SEEN ONE PREVIOUS?]
> [HOW DO I KILL IT?]
> [WHY DOES IT MATTER?]

> SYSTEM AGITATION DETECTED.
> FANS ENGAGING.

> RESOLUTION: [PROTECT (Y/N)]

> [I WANT TO TOUCH THEM.]
> MOVEMENT INITIATED: [HAND ON SHOULDER.]
> [I CAN.]

> REACTION: [FLINCH.]
> [???]
> [DID NOT HURT?]

> [AUDITORY INPUT FROM (Y/N): “Sorry, paying too much attention to the ground.”]
> [THANK GOD.]
>> NOTE:
> [(Y/N) DOES NOT LIKE GREAT HEIGHTS. PROBABLY WON’T LIKE ELEVATOR.]

> [SMILING AT ME.]
> INTERNAL RESPONSE: [FAN SPEED INCREASE]
> [LAUGHS SOFTLY WHEN MY FANS SPEED UP.]
> [I FEEL GOOD.]
> [WORDS: UNNECESSARY]
> [PROTECTION: GUARANTEED]

> ELEVATOR STATUS: [ARRIVING]
> SYSTEM: READY

Chapter Text

The elevator car is not the same as previous ones. The drop is smooth but abnormally fast and nauseating— you feel it in your stomach and without even thinking you brace against Swordsmachine, who at least seems calm. It’s reassuring, and their hand remains on your shoulder.

Despite the speed, it’s taking a moment to get… lower. There is an absence of buttons, but again, Swordsmachine seems unbothered so you imagine it’s okay. You take deep breaths to settle the rising bile, and thankfully the car declines to a more reasonable speed. It stills not long after and Swordsmachine ushers you out slowly once the door opens with a drawn hiss.

“Emesis?” They ask.

You blink up at them. “What?”

“Vomiting?” You understand that better, you barely nod your head.

“No, I’ll be fine,” you respond and they rub their thumb into your shoulder, steadying you kindly before letting go. You keep your head up, examining the room as the lightness in your gut begins to subside.

It’s not much different from the room to enter the elevator. Still red with yellow lighting all the same, except there is a new addition, one you recognize as you see your companion approach it.

A terminal, softly playing a tune you heard too many times— Swordsmachine is actively interacting with the screen interface, sword leaned beside it. They are much taller than the human users the terminals were made for so he does have to lean, looking down and scrunching a bit to properly read. You approach and are briefly able to catch the phrase ‘TIP OF THE DAY’ on its screen before it switches to a screen with weapon outlines.

“You use the terminals too?” You ask and they whir as they slightly turn their head to you, almost like a glance.

“Yes.” They answer and tap the signage at the top, reading aloud what it says, “Shop.”

You hum in acknowledgment, surprised you hadn’t noticed it previously. You think you might’ve heard about this from somewhere, maybe an email leak? It was something like that— exploring that terminals were developing a symbiotic relationship out of boredom. Here now it’s interesting to see that whoever wrote about the phenomenon was seemingly right.

They lift their gun-equipped arm and set it over your shoulder, bringing you closer. The metal lightly vibrates against you where it touches, you can't help but find it to be a cute action. It taps the screen just between a green and red icon. They differ only by symbols and names; PUMP CHARGE and SAWED-ON.

“I use the core eject shotgun, I am sure you know how it works.” It speaks to you, you nod your head.

“I know enough about it.” You answer and hear a whirring from inside their chest.

“I will get you one of two weapons. Whichever you are more comfortable to wield,” they start, and already you begin eying the attached price. It's Interesting because you aren't sure you understand. Is it P as in.. points?

“They have a cost?” You ask.

“Yes.”

“Is P for points?” You’re guessing. You doubt it would be so—

“Yes.” Oh.

“How do you earn more points?”

“Style.”

“Style?”

“Yes,” and they motion to their number of points, 5 digits long and hefty. “I am very stylish. Very efficient.”

“If you say so,” you add quietly. You think style might’ve been mentioned in a document before… but you aren’t sure. Some concept of performance? You have plenty of time to learn but for now, you don’t want to keep them waiting. “I’ll take the cheaper one.”

“I can afford the other one,” they almost sound confused as they comment, insistent? Their head tilts slightly and you shrug.

“I have never shot from a shotgun, either one is a nice first try for me,” you say. “The chainsaw is cool but you already have your sword, don’t let me steal your thunder.”

It hums, then moves its hand to the pump charge, purchasing it at a press and immediately you hear a satisfying thump at the bottom compartment. Looking down, it opens on its own with the weapon now freshly inside and in pristine condition.

It is fascinating to see a weapon just produced for you.

You pick it up and examine it, hefty just like the one you’d held before and with a moving grip for, well, ‘pumps’. Testing it, there is a colored display with bars for each number of pumps though reading from the guide on the screen, too many pumps will cause an explosion. You decide not to test the invulnerability you know you don’t have.

“Thank you Swordsmachine,” you say as you hold it up. “I’ll try it out on our way through— wherever exactly we are now.”

“You’re welcome,” they respond and stand straighter as they seem to look over you. “We are still in hell's entrance, just farther down.” They answer. It’s good to know, but honestly, your attention is back on the terminal, and you’re curious if you can access any data.

Maybe you can find where exactly in hell you are? Before you can use the touch screen, the screen gives you a pop-up.

LOOKING FOR MORE? CURIOSITY IS A GATEWAY TO SUFFERING AND YOU HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER ME…

You glance up at Swordsmachine, who has taken a small step back to give you room, but they don’t seem to have looked away. You look over the terminal, not sure if it’s a dead end, you worry that perhaps it’s because you’re not a machine but it changes in just a moment.

BUT YOU’RE A RARE EXPERIENCE!

SPECIAL PEOPLE GET EXCEPTIONS ;)

“Oh,” you glance again at your companion who is still… still, “Does it usually talk with you like this?”

“No.” It replies immediately.

IN FACT… YOU ARE EMPLOYEE #6769-W!

HELLO TECHNICIAN (Y/N)! YOU HAVE WORKED ON 181 TERMINALS. SUCH A HARD WORKER!

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THE LAST HUMAN ALIVE?

The bottom text disappears very fast, but you caught that. You are gently unnerved— an understatement. You aren’t shocked it has access to that information but man. One, it was a reminder, and two, you’ve never interacted so… humanly? With a terminal before.

This was weird, but Swordsmachine already displayed so much personality so maybe you need to get with the program. A terminal having such expression is no surprise.

I’D DO ANYTHING FOR YOU BUT I DON'T LIKE HOW HE LOOKS AT ME!!!

You blink, “he?” You turn right back around. “You?” Swordsmachine doesn’t move but hums. “I never thought to ask, my bad— do you mind?” You question and Swordsmachine whirs.

“I do not. I like they, it. I prefer he.” Interesting that he has a preference towards a binary. Now you wonder about all the assumptions you might’ve made in the past incorrectly. Of course, it could just be unique, just him with an identity made for themselves.

Before you think too hard the Terminal changes to a larger blurb and the dispensing area opens again.

TIP OF THE DAY (*JUST FOR YOU*!)

YOUR BLOOD IS DELICIOUS. (JUST LIKE THIS) KEEP IT INSIDE YOU.

In the bottom compartment is a candy bar. You already have so many but you’re not one to refuse. Also, it’s charming.

“Thank you, and I will do my best,” you respond, the screen shifts blank as if it has something to reply with, but quickly it shuts off. You imagine the source is Swordsmachine grabbing his weapon and scraping it lightly onto the terminal.

“Too superficial, too unfiltered,” He replies as he approaches the hall, leading towards a red door. “Ready to go?”

“Hey now, don’t be jealous,” you chastise and it whirs softly. You get what almost sounds like an exhale, a puff of the fans before it moves. You just follow.

It’s more of the same thing, all similar looking to the rest of the facility you’ve experienced. Instead of the previous one that reeked of blood, this one smelt more strongly of ozone and the air itself felt thick and staticky. It’s even warmer than it was above. Internally you can’t help but wonder how far you are under the surface, it's kind of anxiety inducing and it makes you feel smaller.

Thankfully, Hell’s answer to your beginning spiral is ten filth. Very thoughtful.

Fighting alongside Swordsmachine is incredibly easy, as per usual. You stay out of his way, letting them do most of the work. It does not cease to impress you, a machine performing a task it is setting itself to do, all for you. Seamless self-made design and he fights like you never injured him at all. You think whenever there is a resting point you might ask some questions about his body. Maybe you can find the origins of its parts? Maybe that would make them uncomfortable. You continue into the next room with them as already, they’ve cleared the area.

Even just thinking about it, you remind yourself that the fact you get to even worry about the intricacies of conversation is a blessing. You’ve been lonely in this broken world, and this machine’s mercy meant you’d survive— it traveling with you meant you could continue to if you stayed careful. This gun it gave you even—

A filth throws itself at you, mouth open in a wide snarl. You duck against a wall’s piping and it misses, checking the side of a stray. With both so close and with full intentions of continuing attacks on you, you pump your shotgun twice and then shoot. It is effective, but the viscera is close and the recoil is still not something you’re prepared for. Not to mention the volume, you take note that you ought to put some earplugs in during all the fighting if you don’t want to completely lose your hearing.

It’s nice to hit a few targets with one weapon, you can see its benefit, and for that you’re grateful. Again though, it only falls to be another minimization. You are deeply appreciative to continue living and you hope he knows. Is it dumb to assign so much feeling to a machine? It’s something you’d always be assured was a yes but you always felt a sense of awareness. Artificial intelligence that had started to bridge its own gap to consciousness.

Another room is finished off, you filling the gaps by killing all that comes too close your way. The next is a wide square chamber where two new husks appear within the space. They are identical, dark grey, and notably lacking a head. They have two arms on one side and a single gun-equipped arm on the other. They seem to shoot a projectile made of hell energy just like the strays but you hardly get to see them, they are shredded to pieces by Swordsmachine.

“I feel like it is merely showing enemies to me as concepts at times, even though I’m far advanced for that,” he speaks as another pair of the same husks appear at the other side of the room, this time you do get to see the spread they shoot before it’s snuffed by his blade. “I’ve seen these already.”

“Do you know their names?” You ask and he taps his blade on the floor to poke at the body parts.

“Didn’t check,” he responds.

That makes sense. “The terminals keep that information don’t they?”

“Yes,” he replies, not immediately continuing into the next room. “I’ll check with a better behaved one.”

“It seemed nice,” you shrug, “It did give me a chocolate bar.”

“Can your affection be bought so easily?” he asks and you smirk.

“You would’ve bought me first, remember?” You tease as you raise your gun. They shift slightly, and you hear a soft whir.

“That’s true.” It’s cute.

Unfortunately calm never lasts, and your small talk was rewarded with another enemy. You don’t just get the sound of its appearance, but the looming shadow above.

A Malicious Face, right above you. The closest you’ve been to an active demon and fuck— husks didn’t bother you much anymore, but right now you were very bothered. The only saving grace was that its attention stayed squarely on Swordsmachine. For now you were unnoticed or disregarded in favor of more worthwhile prey.

It shoots a line of red orbs at him, hell energy that he dodges but you don’t just want to sit and look. With your weapon already held up, you pump and shoot into the floating head, the sudden recoil jarring your arm and making you bite back your pain.

You reload, repeating your action but it’s unmoving, not reacting to any sort of pain as it continues to attack the machine. At the very least, he is quick and you hope he has some better knowledge of these demons; the most you ever found out at your job is that they were aggressive and dumb.

Another heated slug sees the beginning of little spider cracks in the stone, and you’re proud of the fact that you’re doing some damage. As you’re about to continue firing, you see Swordsmachine rushing toward you from the corner of your vision.

“MOVE,” a loud warning, but either way you were already instinctively stepping away, and thank god you were. It’s just him coming towards you, it’s his sword hurling into the Malicious Face’s body. (Its face?)

It hardly shifts, and for a second it’s hard to tell if it’s even succumbed— but then it collapses to the floor, into the floor. The ground vibrates from the impact, but at last, the room is empty again. He approaches the fallen head, but before it grabs its sword from the wedge in its face, he gives you a thumbs up.

“Good job,” he points at your shoulder. “Feel okay using it?” As he does remove the weapon, it’s covered in blood from what you are guessing is the demon's softer interior.

Your heart is still not settled, nor your breathing, but you let out a deep sigh as an artificial reset, “Okay enough, are you?”

“Yes, Maurice is no issue,” he speaks, moving along past you.

“Maurice? Is that its name?” Hm. You wonder where that comes from; it doesn’t answer, but you follow him into the next room anyway. A hall and a turn, oddly more empty in appearance as it leads to a room with a hole at its center, open and visibly leading to a spinning fan. An active hazard that occasionally seems to slow. Underneath that is an even larger square room. This isn’t your only exit, however, your companion stares at it, considering.

“What do you think is down there?” You ask him. It doesn't feel much different from trying to figure out what a dog’s found that you haven't yet. It feels like he's getting something from this less convenient opening that you don't understand, and even still, he is taking a moment to respond. The fan stops almost purposefully as if it is waiting for his drop.

“Arena,” he eventually says as he taps the metal edge. “A message on my display tells me to fight down here.”

“Why? I think if it’s avoidable, we shouldn’t.” You suggest, but he seems overall tempted.

“What if it’s the other machine?” He asks again.

“Then especially no, like I said before,” you remind him. “I really do mean it’s not worth it,” you raise your brow, “and there is no need to prove anything to me.”

He hums, but stands straighter, attention leaving the ground and returning to you, a glance from its lens. “Faithful.”

They seem to take your word for it, and with that you can at least continue forward.

Thankfully, the rest of the rooms you go through almost blur together. Husks aren’t as threatening, quick work as you build some more familiarity with your gun and Swordsmachine is still as effective as ever.

There is more obstacles that make you question if safety was ever in mind for this place's creation, but big fans and giant electrical wires are easy enough for you to avoid and for husks to dumbly shamble into. The formatting gets odd at time’s and it almost feels like things are taking too long.

Up some stairs, around some piping, two more Strays that are basically bisected by Swordsmachine’s blade, and up more ominous stairs, lined with Cerberi who never seem to wake, and a void-like blackness.

There is another one of those intimidating doors with the skull designs, a terminal at its side that Swordsmachine pays no mind to.

“Fight in here,” he comments as the door automatically opens, but he stands at its frame. The new space is rectangular, warm with fans actively pushing the air through, and at the end is your red exit door, but he is hesitant.

“Is that what these doors signal? Or the terminals?” You ask, and he continues not to answer, hanging on a stare.

He turns quicker than you at the hurried snaps of metal on metal, you turn your head back to see— immediately your heart sinks and everything seems close yet distant. Panic at the fact that it is V1 coming up those stairs right behind you. It becomes a blur as the shotgun arm wraps around you for a moment and shoves the both of you into the room.

Your breathing already picks up, the door automatically shutting for at least a few seconds as Swordsmachine positions in front of you like a shield, blade angled and readying for combat. There is nothing you can do but curse, hope? But there is no hope it be had. You’re really fucked right now.

The door opens again, and you are unfortunately blessed with the sight of the war machine in action. Bounding forward and shooting down with a revolver, just like the one you have— the doors lock shut with big red X’s marking them as such.

Its shot is charged and intense as it makes contact with your companion, a burn you can imagine wherever it has landed— maybe you can fix them. If you live. You probably won’t.

Already it’s impossible for you to focus, you need to help, now is no time to be frozen— if you’re going to die here, you’d rather put some small effort into surviving, anything but being helpless and useless. You raise the shotgun, but god damn that things moves faster than anything you’ve dealt with so far and you can’t risk injuring the one defending you. Swordsmachine lands their own shot back, at a closer range too, but the blue robot seems hardly affected.

Instead, it goes over him, a jump past him, towards you— speed you can’t comprehend as they dash, and suddenly they stand right in front of you.

In a panic, you shoot, shotgun hardly pumped enough to do substantial damage as they reel back their fist. Halfway aware you won’t back away quickly enough, you drop to the floor and narrowly avoid whatever broken bones that would have given you.

Their lens almost seems to narrow at you, but what you imagine is distaste is cut off.

“NO.” A loud, untoned defiance as Swordsmachine’s long blade comes swinging out at the center of their chassis. They are knocked back but don’t fall prone, going into a backwards slide and focusing their aim on him once again.

They are trading shots rapidly but you know what’s happening, you can guess the strategy— it’s much faster than both of you, it’ll get your blood itself. As a wise box had told you, keep it inside you, but it’s not so easy here. Even if it looks rough, it’s no guarantee you’re getting closer to a win.

You scramble to switch to your more precise weapon, stuffing the shotgun sloppily into your bag and taking your revolver again to charge— it’s throwing coins in the air? You don’t even know what’s happening, but its shots go ricocheting and you see Swordsmachine’s steps stutter.

Again, V1 lunges at you, gun out and arm extended, but in a hurried action, Swordsmachine hurls his sword right between the two of you, missing the opposing machine but breaking its momentum.

It also breaks the middle of the exit open, its yellow lights flickering at its side.

Maybe you two can cheat it and get out of here. Maybe you can even get the machine to throw itself into the shaft— cruel as it is, it’ll extend both your lives.

V1 changes its methods, ignoring you for now and giving everything it has to fight Swordsmachine, shooting precise shots that make it bleed and absorbing it so fast it looks pristine. It seems horrifyingly untouchable, vampiric modeling that would've really made the war humanity's death sentence had it gone into mass production.

You hear the synthetic groans of the yellow robot as it takes hits, and you see it panic, yanking away from it as the blue machine grabs at his shotgun, yanking aggressively and shooting directly down at its wrist. It’s trying to take the weapon.

You fire at them, a shot hitting their chest, a narrow miss to their neck. You don’t stop for a second, shooting one more time, this time it's head swings your way. Swordsmachine is able to kick them away, and you try for a third, but it’s almost slow motion as they try a new tactic.

You don’t know if you land or not, it's gun coming up and charging, aiming down at you as it leaps into the air again. It’s injuring you before coming closer— and it’s bad. It hurts.

Your adrenaline is high, thank god, but you feel the intense heat as the energy and microscopic shrapnel tears through your thigh. The sound in your ear is so loud you don’t know what type of scream you make, but you feel like you’re gushing blood.

You’re so weak. You’re going to die. V1 grabs onto your leg and the mess is being collected even faster than it escapes your veins. You writhe and fall, you’d complain about being bruised or concussed, but will it matter? You don’t even know how hurt you are, it’s hand grabs so hard.

Swordsmachine hurtles your way, almost looking like a streak of gold, as he uses the tip of his blade to sweep the machine off of you. It tosses them backwards and they temporarily stagger. He jams his sword into the door again, turning it with an awful grinding and forcing the metal to open with brute force.

The lights on the wall brighten, the shifting sound of the door opening as it should come slowly, forced and odd— but they’re shot again. You shoot back and they’re already crawling hurriedly back into contact, sapping up what they could of Swordsmachine’s spilled blood.

He shoots them close, and as they back away to make distance, he grips his shotgun from the base and yanks at it. With a violent wrench, they throw it at the machine, which they jerk their head back to see, diving at it with greed.

With a hand free, you’re hurried to the hellevator, and something must be watching over you the way it’s already there. You hardly have to walk; instead brought inside as the yellow machine bangs its fist against the side of the elevator.

“Close.” It orders, you just hyperventilate as it does so, slowly. You see the blue machine’s camera-like head crest over the small ramp, and you wonder if it can shoot through as the door shuts.

You hear the attempts, loud and reverberating in the claustrophobic box, but for now you’re safe.

God, what if it rides the top of it down?

-

LOG ENTRY: XXXX

> STATUS: COMPROMISED.
>> SYSTEM STATE: [OVERDRIVE COOLING]
> FAN SPEED: [SCREAMING.]
> REGULATORS: [UNSTABLE.]
> INTERNAL TEMP: [SPIKING.]

>> SYSTEM REPORT:
> SHOTGUN: [GONE]
> FRAME INTEGRITY: [RUPTURED]
> FUEL RESERVE: [LOW.]

> GRADE: A

TIME: A
KILLS: A
STYLE: B

> [BULLSHIT.]
> [IS THERE A PENALTY FOR GOING OUT OF BOUNDS?]
> [I ALMOST DIED.]
> [(Y/N) ALMOST DIED.]

> (Y/N) STATUS: [ELEVATED HEART RATE]
>> BLOOD PRESSURE: [DROPPING]
>> BLOOD LOSS: [MODERATE TO SEVERE]
>> CONSCIOUSNESS: [STAGGERING / DIZZY]
>> TEMP: [COOLING RAPIDLY]

> [THEY ARE BLEEDING.]
> [THEY ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BLEED.]
> [THEY ARE NOT S

! SYSTEM ALERT: FUEL LOW !

CRITICAL SUSTENANCE REQUIRED

> [I COULD TAKE IT.]
> [I COULD FEED.]
> [I WANT TO.]

OVERRIDE ENGAGED.

> [NO. THEY WILL LIVE.]
> [I AM THIRSTY BUT THEY ARE MINE.]
> [I NEED IT.]
> [I CAN WAIT.]

> MOVEMENT RESPONSE: [HAND ON THEIR HEAD]
> INTERNAL NOTE: [WARM. SWEET. ALIVE.]

> [(Y/N) SOUNDS HURT. TOO QUIET TO NOTE WORDS.]
> [SHAKING. SHOCK.]
> [HEAL. STABILIZE. HOLD THEM.]
> [FIX THEM.]