Trudvard left the apartment in a dissociated state. He simply needed to be Elsewhere, no matter what. Doubts and regrets plagued his mind. Why was his prosthesis design rejected? Why did it seem like he was only ever called upon to act as a tool for someone else to wield?
...Why did it feel like his trust was ever crumbling?
No matter. Who worries about that? You just need to get fresh air. Soon enough, Trudvard was in an unfamiliar space in the Mezzio, streets still lit up. The distinct sounds of partying could be heard... Cabaretti territory. He's unconsciously counted 25 stabbing glares as he travelled, but no harassment yet, thankfully. That thankfulness would be repaid harshly soon enough.
A group of clearly intoxicated individuals passing by. Despite the time having passed, they could still recognize a Phyrexian when they saw one. And being of unsound mind, they decided they'd take a crack at this little robot fucker. It was all the same harassment as they confronted him.
"What a disgusting robot thing." (What about being a machine disgusts you? I haven't done anything yet.)
"Get lost, murderer! Your kind's all the same!" (But that wasn't me! Sir Urabrask fought against Norn! He housed the Vulshok who... They were thankful, weren't they? Then why...)
"Ain't like this thing's got reinforcements! We should kick its ass for daring to step up here." (But I do have allies! I mean, there was the Vulshok before they... b-but, there's also Malone, and Renaissance, and Swift! ...Right? Then why did they...)
The harassment continued and was catalogued before something broke in Trudvard from all this introspection. (If the Vulshok were our allies, why did they attack the Kuldoshan forces before the March? If Renaissance and Malone are my allies... why'd it take them two years to even begin searching for me? If Swift is an ally to me, then... what flaw could've caused the rejection? ...) A cold bitter realization began to settle in Trudvard's heart.
A moment lapsed, and suddenly the Phyrexian goblin was standing before a few meat piles. He could only remember the cries for help loosely.
"P-please, I have a family, and friends to return to!" (What about mine?! What about my home?! Did anyone even think of that before destroying it?!)
"W-woah! We didn't mean anything by it, go easy on us!" (Go easy on you? What about me? After all I've toiled away at? After every ounce of penance I have carved out, only to be chewn up and spit out? Treated as worse than garbage? ...I will give you as much mercy as has been shown to me.)
"H-hey, wait a minute, we're all friends here! It's all in good-" (Good fun? Just a joke? That's all I am, isn't it? A thing to entertain people, to clap and be pointed at? What do you call them... a circus monkey?)
And he sat there amid the piles. Thinking more. (Those so-called allies... Have they done much for me as of late? Or am I bound only to give, never to receive? Am I forever bound to be nothing but a joke, treated as a danger once I am serious? A thing to throw away once I am broken?)
A figure approached from the darkened alley nearby. "You Do Good Work. Father." Trudvard turned his attention to the figure. The Contraption, of course. Bristling feelings of disgust rose in the Phyrexian goblin. "There is something wrong with you."
The Contraption cocks its head. "What Do You Mean?" Its shell-face droops into a saddened expression before Trudvard lashes out. "Stop that! That's precisely it, isn't it?"
Again, a head cock after returning to a straight up position. "Elabor-" The sentence wasn't finished before Trudvard plunged a heavy claw into the Contraption, grasping the core that animated the construct. "I see now! I see why you disgust me. You are everything wrong that I am now! A puppet of the incompleat. You are worthless, and will be repurposed. Lay down and die." He rips the core out of the construct, and begins to assimilate its meat shell.
Trudvard would lug only the dead metal frame back to his apartment. This was an incident to keep quiet about. Maybe someone would notice the disappearances, since the bodies were already assimilated. But it was New Capenna. Such things would be chalked up to any number of events. For now, Trudvard had a new spark of flame to focus upon.
You're laying upon the floor as usual, during the night. Your eyes drift closed.
You begin to dream. You aren't supposed to. Perhaps you're evolving, or perhaps it is degradation. It doesn't matter much, as your mind now wanders.
You dream of a sky everfull with cloying smoke, a sign of eternal industrial advancement. You dream of soil, richly red with iron as a material.
You remember the new fledgelings and the Vulshok Urabrask housed, who marveled upon your ability to invent and create. They... were marveling, right? You can't quite remember the look.
You remember... the face of the Praetor. Ever-caring, even if it meant his own neck went on the line. The one that saved you from the goblin tribes that would dare tear their own savior to shred. He who brought zeal and ambition to a land utterly devoid... and that last look you got as he cast you upon the Omenpath leading to that Old Capenna Swamp. His last words echoing in this fruitless illusion.
"Go, my Liutenant. Be free of these shackles. Reinvent yourself elsewhere."
You awaken upon the cold workshop floor. Well, both workshop and apartment. Still, the distinction does not rid you of the presence of what surrounds you. Failure after failure after failure after failure after failure. Where did that flame of zeal and ambition go? Did it vanish with the sight of that Omenpath closing right before you were able to build up and reach it? All that remains is a hollow façade.
Two years since the March, and nothing has gotten better. Severed from the homeland. Creation after creation rejected if it's more complex than a simple explosive. Hateful glares, cruel words... You need some time to think. A good city wander should do it.
