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Post by The Basilisk on Feb 10, 2012 23:29:00 GMT -5
The creature that stumbled blindly into the depths of the Factory had no consideration for anything that might be in its way. It did not pay little things much mind even in the best of times; now, the entirety of its psyche was clouded; fearsome jaws hung open, showing off their entire stock of metal teeth, from between which emitted a steady, mournful wail.
"Daddy! Daddy where are you?" The Basiilsk sniveled, a terrible, bone-rattling hiss that broke it's usually choppy speech into even more incomprehensible fragments. "They hurt me, Daddy! They hurt me!"
The furiously-running scissorblade legs were three in number; the fourth limped, and caught at a loose piece of metal, sending the behemoth sprawling inelegantly onto the ground. Rather than get up and continue, it curled there, whimpering softly, its fabric coat hanging in tatters around its frame. Soot smudged the carefully-inked names on its skull, functional legs curling over it as if to stifle the pathetic sobs which still escaped its voice box.
"Daddy..."
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Post by ♕ Fabrication Machine on Feb 13, 2012 9:55:39 GMT -5
A ruckus was being made on the floor of the Factory, but it did not immediately concern the lord that hovered above it. There were always children moving about, sometimes breaking into fights, sometimes bringing in their prey like proud cats, sometimes playfighting like happy puppies. The Fabricator had made them to be diverse; this mass chaos was what he expected. He knew its familiar sounds by heart.
However, at the sound of a wail and the cry of ‘Daddy’, the Fabricator immediately dropped what he was doing—he passed the wailing doll he had been redesigning to a machine to be caged then turned his attention to one of his most precious children. He almost jumped as the Basilisk toppled, then just stared for a moment with horror at the machine’s condition before he carefully moved over and lifted his huge son with his largest limbs.
The Fabricator cradled the whimpering machine like a babe, looking him over carefully, as he backed away to his tools.
“What happened, my son?” The father spoke in a rich, wise voice that only his offspring would ever be able to appreciate. “What savages managed to hurt you to this degree?”
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Post by The Basilisk on Feb 13, 2012 17:23:54 GMT -5
Basilisk surrendered immediately to the limbs, moving only to uncurl itself in the safety and comfort of its father's arms. Its jaw jerked with another sob, but it did its best to quiet itself and slowly, the story came out, in its usual broken manner.
It had been somewhere near the northern edge of the wastes- specifics had escaped it with the passing of time. A large, well-laid trap, large enough to snare and immobilize even a creature like the Basilisk. It had been lured in by one of the very unfaithful that it had been tasked to pursue; it seemed that particualr ex-traitor had made friends, and many of them. In the thrill of the hunt, it had chased after him, not realizing its mistake until it was already too late.
From there, the dolls had enjoyed their revenge. These were no battle wounds; once it had been trapped, many of the group had attacked it whichever way they could- anger at loved ones lost to machine attacks boiling over to pointed blades and improvised weapons. The whole thing had continued over the course of several days, until the behemoth had managed to struggle free, and make its way home.
But Basilisk was almost quiet, now; only periodical twinges from its injured leg might encourage a faint whine now and then. Its faith was absolute, unshakable: Daddy could make it better. Daddy could do anything...
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Post by ♕ Fabrication Machine on Feb 15, 2012 15:18:14 GMT -5
The Fabrication Machine had always been proud of his ability to keep calm, collected, and logical. He never let his emotions get the better of him because that would be a HUMAN thing to do, and he was above humans—he was the god of this world and he needed to be separate from everything, to be unbiased, to be fair.
… But this. THIS. The Fabricator had to fight hard to fix the Basilisk in his usual rhythmic way as the battered machine explained everything that had happened. The Basilisk had been used as a whipping cur, just an object for those damned soul vessels to vent at. It hadn’t been self defense. It hadn’t been a fair fight. They’d already brought the Basilisk DOWN before they’d started, and they probably had planned on torturing his poor son far longer than the Basilisk had been trapped there…
Yes, the Fabrication machine had to really focus on what he was doing in order to keep calm enough to do his job. He replaced any internal damage and reconnected what was loose and sewed up tears in the machine’s hide. He even cleaned and touched up the Basilisk’s list of victims, a detail he usually wouldn’t bother with, but he felt his son needed a moment of spoiling after what he’d gone through.
“Don’t worry, my son; I will hunt down these soul vessels and make them pay for what they’ve done to you.” The Fabricator tried to soothe his creation as he worked, “Do not go after them again; they seem to specialize in machine hunting. I will send dolls after them instead, to trick them and capture them. And then you, and all my children, may show them what it feels like to be tied down for days and tortured with no hope of escape.” He hated humans. He hated them. They never stopped killing and being crueler than they had to be. He was setting them up for what they deserved.
“Can you recall anything about their appearances? Which refugee were you tracking down?”
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Post by The Basilisk on Feb 27, 2012 21:41:13 GMT -5
This it was unsure how to answer; it knew... it KNEW what it had seen, the profile that connected. The body had been different, but the voice; the preysounds were the same. But... that couldn't be. It couldn't happen. That name was one it had fastidiously crossed off some time earlier. And even with its father waiting patiently above it, the Basilisk's grasp of language faltered; at loss for anything else, it bent its head forwards and down, offering the wires that fed from the back of its skull into its body.
Certain areas of the Basilisk's mind- visual memory in particular- boasted a sort of port, through which images could be transmitted one way or another. It served its purpose usually to provide the upkeep for the List; not the one printed on its face, but the one that existed within the synapses of its electronic brain. Here, now, it could show what it had seen; even if it couldn't explain it.
Its prey... its prey it remembered well. That one hadn't changed all that much- still wearing his distinctive hat, it had been a very bold move on Shel's part...
But, ultimately, it had worked in favor of the hunted, against the hunter.
{OOC: Orz... I really have nothing to say for myself ;A;. Apologies, late post is late...}
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