One who wanders far, curious as they are, may find someone who won’t admit they are hurt.
Bass sits deep in a junkyard, the only tell of his presence screams of frustration. He had dug for hours, quietly stealing away tools and scrap, tearing apart any machinery or technology he could find. Most of it old–though some managed from the main building. Whoever owns them won’t miss them for a couple hours, right?
To an extent he could repair himself. But his temper was short, and his inner workings complex. Even for Dr. Wily, repairs were a struggle due to his impatience. At it’s worst, he was reluctantly shut down. Then, hopefully, nothing really changed for the worse when he woke up again.
Hooked up to a small generator, he focuses his hand again forward. Wrist guard open, he focuses on the sounds of the machinery inside. Chk, chk, chk, chk, chk, chk. The hand writhes, struggling to retreat itself. It’s supposed to fold, give way to the buster cannon inside.
“C’mon…the parts are all there. Just…tranform…c’mon…THERE’S NO REASON YOU SHOULDN’T WORK, YOU STUPID ARM!!”
The engine struggles, crackling, smoking, trembling. Bass keeps aim at a car’s broken mirror, staring into the reflection of refusal. He holds it steady with his other hand. Just make the shot. It should blow to shreds. It should!! It will!! He’ll MAKE it!
Someone’s here–on reaction he redirects, and his entire lower arm blows apart. Curled out, parts spread in shrapnel. Bass falls onto his back from the force.