(Content Warning: Contains minor gore/a gunshot to the head. Reader discretion advised.)
Welp, have another thing with Marcel.
I wrote a first version of this ages ago (2 years ago, in fact) and forgot I was gonna publish the finished version a few months back.
Whoops.
Anyway, premise for this one is that Marcel, my android/robot OC guy, is given an order to kill a human who has been deemed as a threat by the joint human-android military due to the guy working with these mutant monster things that humans made as bioweapons...but ended up just turning on humanity and driving them off-planet, and have been trying eliminate them completely ever since.
Enjoy the inner ramblings and analysis of a robot, incapable of emotion, trying to understand what it’s like to kill, and thinking about what he would do if he could feel.
(Also, this song still really suits this drabble. Ye.)
The android’s scarlet optics focused, compensating for both the artificial hair swept over the twin lenses and the movements of his target.
A human target.
If he were human, he would have been shaking now, hoping, in vain, that they would call off the order, call off the mission.
He was not human, he was not filled with hope or despair, only his usual blend of observant calm. The target let out a cough, and the android’s aim shifted ever so slightly to keep the rifle’s sights centered on the back of the target’s head.
The target was a traitor, a threat to everyone. He had been working with the enemy of not only mankind, but of the Laborers, the androids, the brethren that mankind had created when they were forced to leave Earth behind by the nameless, monstrous entity that Man had created in his petri dishes and specimen cages, the thing that he had created to end wars, save human lives, fight for them…but had become intent on taking the life of its creator in turn.
The target moved down an alleyway, still coughing. Moving across the darkened concourse was no problem for the android, his optics dimming automatically as he moved with inhuman grace, his movements not so much smooth as absolutely and entirely efficient, beyond any human faculty to even attempt. His approach was silent.
If he were human, he would be thinking about how heavy the rifle in his hands was, but to him and his perfectly-engineered, perfectly-calibrated servos, it weighed nothing. He had no tactile sense, no nerve endings or circuitry dedicated to emulating such a feeling. Thus, it meant nothing, holding an object crafted for the sole purpose of dealing death at a distance.
The target turned his head, paranoid. The android dimmed all his luminescent parts: his optics, the circuitry running down where his spine would be, the display on his arm, to absolute darkness. The target saw nothing. The android was not human, but his artificial mind pondered, debated like one:
Orders were orders.
Was it right, though? Human morality is multilayered.
Target is moving: maintain heading.
Disassembly is a possibility seldom discussed nor particularly practiced.
Target is most likely headed for plaza near Medical Bay 4.
It is a possibility.
Target is locking eyes with nearby scaffolding, cover.
I am no threat to them.
Target is running. Maintain heading.
I am assigned to medical duties. I graduated from long-range weapons handling with more than satisfactory notes.
Fire warning shot? Negative. Mission must be clean.
I was not made to kill.
I was made by humans. I am a machine.
Target has drawn weapon: estimated aim 5cm to the left of right optic, aiming for optic circuitry.
Say nothing.
Shot fired: damage to left shoulder, minor cosmetic damage, circuitry unaffected.
Aim set on target’s head, precisely 5cm to the left of right eye.
I desire humanity.
Digits of left servo on rifle trigger.
I want to know fear.
Pull trigger?
I want to know love.
Trigger pulled.
Target eliminated. Lock down current sector. Cleaning operative will tend to body.
The android tapped his communications transceiver, calling up his superior over an encrypted channel.
“Good work, Marcel. That kill was clean.”
A faint whir and a click sounded through the silent room as the android’s processor booted itself out of combat mode.
“You saw me?” inquired a quiet, computerized voice.
“Security cameras are a wonderful thing, my metallic friend. Don’t worry, this won’t go on your record.”
“…why did you choose me?”
The human voice on the other line was silent for a moment after Marcel’s question, then spoke again:
“Marcel, you are the most human Laborer I have ever met.”
“That does not answer my inquiry.”
“Marcel, buddy…”
The android turned to look at the corpse of his target, his victim, as he got his response:
“…humans don’t kill humans anymore, and if there’s one thing I know about you Laborers…”
Marcel took the still warm, fleshy hand of his target in his cold, metallic servo, made up in so many layers of cloth, false skin, and prosthetics to look human.
So, saw the Bastion Overwatch short this morning, and it made me want to write something about my precious, sweet dork of a robot OC, Marcel.
So have a thing where him and his buddy Deidrich are traversing a battlefield and town destroyed in a recent skirmish, and ruminating on the nature of war.
Also, a little backstory on these two, since I haven't given them (or anyone else here) proper profiles yet:
Marcel is a "Laborer," one of a race of robots created by humans to do heavy labor in extreme conditions, as well as having medical and military potential if trained. Laborers tend to get along with their creators, and generally want to become more human-like. Marcel in particular is quite fond of humans.
He was a sniper and carried out several assassinations during a war between an allied front of Humans and Laborers against a hivemind of monsters accidentally created by humans during a race to create superior bioweapons. He also served as a nurse and worked in an in-vitro fertilization clinic on a spaceship after the war.
Deidrich was born a giant on a world inhabited by fantasy creatures. He was mute, but proved his power in battle, rising to the rank of general during a bloody war to expand the territory his species had control over, leading to a clash where the gods of his world passed down judgement on his species. They were was attacked and nearly wiped out by dragons, sent down by the patron god of the giants to punish them.
Deidrich has since become human and gained the ability to speak thanks to some magic and timeline shenanigans, and him and Marcel have been roped into a war involving two conflicting gods that have control over their entire universe.
Neither of them are happy about this.
(Also, leave it to Marcel to find the most commonly-used example of wartime poetry, at least around these parts. What a dork.)
Humans often talk about war.
They denounce it for its violence and casualties, yet tell stories of valor, of sacrifice and virtue in wartime.
Humans, always paradoxical.
"You alright, Marcel?"
The android looked up from the body at his feet, his red optics focusing ahead on his comrade, a loud whir and a click reverberating through Marcel's head as his internal cooling system fought to keep up with his processor.
A thousand tasks, open and running at once: damage assessment, topography analysis, global positioning, battlefield simulations, compiling and summarizing losses, weighing primary and secondary objectives, retrieving wound treatment procedures...
...pulling up archives of wartime versus post-wartime literature. Accessing file "Dulce Et Decorum Est-Owen.txt."
"Marcy?"
Another whir and a click, the android stepping over obstacles with inhuman grace and efficiency: the others always said that Marcel had something uncanny about him, that his movement was too fluid, his canned, emotionless voice, those red, glowing optics, and lack of a complete face made him somewhat unsettling to be around, to say the least.
But Deidrich just smiled at his friend as he approached, gently taking Marcel's cold, mechanical hand in his and helping him up onto the top of a steep hill, a completely unnecessary action for a machine as deft and powerful as Marcel was.
It was little actions like this, with no fear of contact, gestures done without hesitation, just like he was human, that reminded Marcel of a simple fact:
He liked being around Deidrich. Very much.
"You see something back there?" Deidrich asked as the android locked stride next to him.
Deidrich was a towering man, well over six and a half feet tall, and muscular to boot, yet Marcel's lithe, unassuming, five foot tall frame kept pace with him easily, looking like it took no effort at all...
Which it didn't: he had been built for traversing treacherous terrain and long days of work: his kind had been named "Laborers" for a reason, after all.
"No. Have you ever heard Wilfred Owen's poem 'Dulce et Decorum Est'?"
"Sounds kind of familiar."
"I'm thinking about a specific part."
Deidrich gave a small nod: he knew the others had a tendency to cut Marcel off, so often in fact that Marcel waited for a nod or acknowledgment before speaking nowadays.
The android spoke, his synthetic, monotone voice following the cadence of the words as best it could:
"'My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'"
"Ohhhhh, that one. Yea, I've heard that one."
"What do you think about it? You were a general once."
"Well, you fought in a war too: what do you think?"
"I never fought on a battlefield: I was trained in long-range weaponry. I was tasked with assassinations and never saw field duty."
"Ah, yea. Sorry...well, you know how my war ended: we fought for our country and what we thought was our right, and we got wiped out. The gods judged us."
Deidrich took a moment, careful to step over, and not on top of, a pair of bodies at his feet.
"We were bitter, angry, full of the rage of youth and the arrogance and strength it brought. We thought we could brute-force our way to prosperity..."
He didn't need to look to know that Marcel was staring intently at him, wanting to hear more.
"I think it's pretty true: patriotism is great until it blinds you to what you're doing. There's nothing noble about fighting and dying for a country that's in the wrong. We got too caught up and did horrible things."
When Deidrich didn't say anything further, the android tilted his head, answering:
"I don't like war, Deidrich."
The man smiled, chuckling.
"I know you don't, Marcel."
Deidrich reached over, resting a hand on top of the the android's head, Marcel staring up at him, silent.
Where others saw aggression, danger in the way Marcel would occasionally stare, intently, into someone's eyes, Deidrich knew better. He gave the android a second to gather his thoughts...
And there was the whir and click, this conversation logged for later analysis and continuation. Deidrich may not know the first thing about machines, but he had spent a good chunk of his life sitting in silence himself, watching people, figuring out how they worked, and Marcel wasn't that different from them at all.
Marcel grabbed Deidrich's arm as he began to pull it away from his head, speaking at a slightly louder volume than usual:
"You have three spots of minor internal bleeding, two lacerations on your right shoulder, and a blunt-force injury to your lower back."
Deidrich rose an eyebrow and chuckled.
"Can it wait until we're back at base, doc?"
Another whir and a click.
"Yes."
Deidrich smiled, watching as Marcel strode out ahead of him a bit, the android's gait slightly faster, bouncier than before: he simply couldn't understand how anyone could think of Marcel as anything other than alive.
Here he was, practically skipping, talking about war, worried about minor injuries, and quoting poetry...
Deidrich looked behind him, staring at the ruined, burned-out buildings, charred and dead landscape, and the bodies strewn about, left like so much debris on the ground.
If there was anything in this forsaken place Deidrich was willing to fight for, delve back into war for...
(Content warning: Contains mentions/implied parental neglect, favoritism, and other such uncomfortable topics. Reader discretion is advised.)
Hmmmm yep, writing about these guys again.
Basically this is the day that Orelus was born from Tairn’s perspective (he’s roughly about the equivalent of a 5 year-old here) and then jumps forward a bit to the day that he finds out what him and his brother’s names mean and...well, let’s just say that his parents were showing favoritism from day one.
Still have no idea what else I’m going to do with these guys or what story they’d fit into, but have some angst, I suppose.
Like always, he was on his best behavior: not talking, not complaining, not fidgeting.
He was a good boy, and would never go against his parents' wishes.
And even if he did, at such a young age, he already recognized that all of his behavior, good or bad, wouldn’t be recognized by his parents anyway.
Regardless, he would be good.
Tairn looked up from his book as a servant approached him, bowing to the royal child as she quickly uttered:
"Master Tairn, the King and Queen want to see you: your baby brother has finally joined us!"
A bright smile crossed Tairn's face, rosy pink and red eyes bright with excitement as he took the servant's hand, and although he would have normally noticed the slight hesitation she felt in taking a hand made of cursed, ivory white flesh like Tairn's, the young giant couldn't care less.
He had a brother now.
The servant gently pushed the door to the main bedchamber open, Tairn releasing her hand and dashing across the room to stand next to his father, next to the bed where his mother lay.
Her usually curly, well-kept locks were drooping, usually warm, bright eyes half-shut, from both exhaustion and the tears of joy that had left streaks down her face. In her strong, scarred arms, limbs as battle-worn and staunch as she was, was a very small, feeble creature, wrapped in a blanket.
Tairn tilted his head at the baby, noting his wispy brown hair, his quiet breathing, his closed eyes.
"Tairn," his mother cooed, "this is your baby brother, Orelus."
He leaned over the edge of the bed a little, smiling as he chirped:
"He's pretty small, huh?"
"Yes," Tairn's father chimed in, resting a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder, "small and strong."
Tairn laughed a little, filled with joy. Certainly, his parents were happier than he: Orelus was, after all, not born with the white flesh of death that had cursed Tairn’s existence, the putrid color of the frost-bitten mountaintops and the frost dragons that were the only creatures strong enough, vicious enough to hunt and kill giants.
Tairn was an omen, and Orelus would be their blessing.
“Can I hold him?”
Tairn’s mother looked up to her husband, nodding, making it clear that she wanted him to help Tairn if he faltered, and then very gently transferred the tiny child to his older brother’s arms. Tairn held him just as gently, smiling down and marveling that he finally had, after all these years, a friend, a comrade in arms.
He would be there, in this very castle, alongside Tairn, another royal child, someone he could teach all his secrets to, show all the hidden nooks and crannies in the palace to, share his favorite books with him and tell him his favorite stories…
“I promise I’ll protect him Mother, Father.”
Tairn said it with such confidence, with such a strong tone and certainty that both his parents looked from one another in silence for a moment, then smiled at their eldest son. From their response Tairn was certain that they had seen beyond his skin, beyond his pale red eyes and the curse he was, seen his hopes and dreams for his brother’s future…
He could not have been more wrong.
“Thank you, Tairn: you do us, your brother, and our people proud with such a promise.”
Tairn smiled, bubbling up with pride and happiness, and looked down at his brother, who made a small, seemingly content gurgle.
Yes, he would protect his brother, protect him always…
---
It would take many more years of book-reading, seclusion, and time spent helping to raise his brother for Tairn to realize the truth.
By the time most giant children were learning the basics of their trades, working in the fields, slaving over a blacksmith’s stove, preparing to become soldiers, Tairn had already mastered basic swordplay, diplomacy, and foreign languages, all on his own volition.
With his knowledge of his native tongue finally reaching its peak, he went through the royal library, a young man who, despite being of age to begin working, already stood almost as tall as some the smaller soldiers in the army.
His strode in long, confident steps, his wispy white hair resting on his shoulders, his rosy red eyes filled with a fire, a determination to live up to his royal blood that only grew each year as he watched his brother grow and his parents fade.
They would need a successor, and as the eldest child of the royal family, he had much to learn and much to live up to, especially with skin such as his.
He looked through the books, compendiums of words and phrases, history of his people’s language and culture and sighed with relief when he finally found his and his brother’s names. His parents had never explained to either of them for reasons he and Orelus simply didn’t understand…and he quickly realized why.
He felt his heart drop, cold and heavy like a stone.
Tairn: Void, Nothing.
Orelus: Unrelenting, Unyielding, Unstoppable.
…he should have been crying, yelling, doing anything but just sitting there, staring at the words, but he was unmoved. He should have expected this, perhaps.
His parents, from the first day of him and his brother’s lives, had chosen their successor, chosen him and had not even had the courage to tell their eldest son that he, burden that he was, curse that he was, pale omen of death, would not have the throne, that he, in fact, was NOTHING to them.
A giant’s name was a badge, an honor they wore throughout their lives, something that their parents hoped they would live up to, become.
They had wished for Orelus to become strong, unstoppable, as unrelenting and powerful and they had been.
And they had wished for Tairn to become nothing, a cold, bottomless void.
Sitting the empty library, unmoved by the howling wind and frigid tundra outside the windows behind him, storming, swirling snow as white as his flesh, unable to cry, to scream, to do anything but simply sit in hardened, learned acceptance, they may have already succeeded in making Tairn what they hoped he would become...
*throws loaves of bread into the OC pile* EAT. CONSUME. GROW STRONG. totally not making you fight for my amusement nope.
There are mostly loud yells of confusion/general swearing as they all try to tangle themselves out of the pile…that is until one of them starts screaming that they have a wheat allergy and need to get to the hospital now.
5 minutes and Sarah clawing her way through the pile later and she’s carrying the poor fellow off the hospital…and once she’s done there she’s coming back and patching up everybody she hurt.
*frees your OCs from the trash* go. be free. no lords, no masters.
Well, now there’s just a mass of people, monsters, demons and other things all over the floor, and I’m pretty sure someone just broke a rib because they ended up at the bottom of the pile...or maybe that was their spine. Huh.
This is what happens when you try to unleash that much pent-up trash at once.
Working on another little drabble for Tairn and Orelus.
Basically it’s the day when Orelus was born from Tairn’s perspective.
Aaaaaand then it skips forward in time to explain the fact that their parents basically named Orelus “unrelenting/unstoppable” and Tairn’s name translates to “void” or “nothing.”
Ouch.
Why do I feel the need to make my characters’ lives Hell right from the start?
