fic_promptly's theme for today was [blood]. so you know. my time to shine.
Prompt: robot fascinated by human blood / nosebleed
Ship: Robot Spy <-?-> Sniper
Rating: T for violence
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The robots ain’t fucking shit. One in the shape of Spy tries to knife Sniper in the back, trying to sneak up behind him with its lighted eyes and creaky joints so loud that Sniper can practically hear its clunky steps from two stories up. It’s a poor imitation of the real thing, and Sniper has seen some shitty imitations in the past year. Even the enemy spy can do better.
Sniper swings around, kukri in hand. The robot’s blade knicks Sniper’s forearm, a flick of blood arcing in the air. It doesn’t even sting, but Sniper’s temper flares.
The thing is—the robot don’t got that same fluidity that Spy has. None of them do. Plastic wires can’t replace the satisfaction of slicing through arteries or veins. Can’t enjoy the feel of flesh giving in to a blade or how the muscles of a panicked body tense before relaxing for a good fight. Sniper drags his kukri out of the machine and the only feedback he gets is the mundane scrape of metal against flimsy panels and brittle cables.
Even getting hit doesn’t have the same exhilarating rush. The robot’s fist is nothing interesting. As impersonal and stupid as accidentally running into a wall. Spy would’ve thrown a punch with knuckles and nails and a little laugh that can linger in the back of Sniper’s head like a broken record. It’s actually insulting how the robot even tries.
Stumbles to the ground all wrong, makes all the wrong dying sounds, makes stupid decisions like trying to switch to a revolver when it should’ve stuck with the balisong. Sniper drops down over the machine’s body, hands around a cold metal throat that he can’t crush. Can’t gasp out a breath with no lungs. No windpipe to block. No pain to make ‘em think twice about moving.
Maybe that’s the only good thing. The robot’s body is modded after Spy’s, got the same shape and weight under Sniper. Spy would’ve gone still like a snake, trying to get some air. The robot still shifts and struggles to move its arms despite all its loose strings of snapped cables and bent metal coverings.
Blood drips from Sniper’s nose. It splashes across the robot’s shoulders and face, bright red against cold shiny blue paint. The robot’s eyes flash.
Sniper looks down at it with detached curiosity. He can feel the mechanisms still whirling under him. It putters and restarts, almost like a dying breath. With his own blood covering it, it does look like its dying.
The real Spy would’ve started complaining about getting blood on his suit, and Sniper would’ve let the bastard complain.
‘Course the robot doesn’t a word. It stops its weak struggle under Sniper, gap-jointed fingers suddenly letting go of Sniper’s wrists in an attempt to free its neck.
Another well of blood falls from Sniper’s nose. It hits the robot right over the right eye.
It freezes, and so does Sniper.
Stupid thing can’t even wipe its eyes, he thinks, just as the robot reaches upwards to do just that.
Its fingers are flat and square, but it smears the blood from its eye over the painted image of its black glove. When it rubs its forefinger and thumb, the blood goes tacky, sticking the fingers together until it forces the components apart.
The robot inspects its fingers, almost with the same detached curiosity as Sniper, before it does the same careful swipe across its shoulders and face, every spot where Sniper had bled over it.
The real Spy would’ve hated this. Would’ve gotten revenge on Sniper for getting blood on his suit.
Never would’ve stared fascinated by his own blood-covered fingers. Never would’ve reached out to brush across Sniper’s bleeding nose and mouth for more.
Sniper watches it drop its hand back. It shudders before going still, the flicker light from its eyes dimming.
Sniper stares. More blood falls over the robot’s face, but it gets no reaction and the machine’s body goes quiet like real death. Sniper tips his head back and sniffs to stop his nose from dripping. He lets go of the robot’s neck, slowly sitting back with a sharp exhale that accidentally blows out another splatter of blood anyway.
also made this, it was supposed to be a gift but since it was MY idea it was based on i guess it ended up being more of a gift to myself, which is bad.
