This is just a little something I did tonight. When I write fics I usually put my own charries into the world created by the author, and I've had this girl rattling around in my head since I finished Code Noir. She's as yet nameless, and this is more of an intro to her than an actual story, but I'll probably give her a story as soon as exams are finished. Now, I'm totally going to steal Chirugal's listy thingger...
Word count: 529
Feedback: I love it, please give!
Distribution: Take as you wish, just let me know where you’re putting it, and give me full credit.
Disclaimer: The Tert and Dr Del Morte belong to Marianne de Pierres. Not me. As much as I might wish it were otherwise...
Summary: Never been good at these. Read it and maybe you'll figure it out.
If anybody had ever asked me what I hated most about being a mish-mash of bio and mech, I would have said not having a heart.
It’s stupid I know. A heart is just a lump of muscle. But for some reason, knowing I didn’t have one made me feel inhuman. I could have been totally mech on the outside, but having a heart would mean I was still a human being. A person, not a machine.
As it was, most of my modifications were internal. The outer bits—my left arm to the elbow, the right to the wrist, my right leg from hip to knee, and the maintenance panel beneath my breastbone—were easy enough to conceal if I felt like it. Which I rarely did… what was the point when inside I was a writhing mass of circuitry?
The one grace Del Morte did me was leaving my brain be. Knowing I didn’t have a heart was bad enough. Knowing I didn’t even think like me anymore would have made it unbearable.
I stared at myself in the tarnished mirror I had found in an abandoned apartment building. It had become a morning ritual—get up, wash, look at myself in the mirror and mull over what I was.
I ran my fingers over the seam where soft flesh merged into hard metal just beneath my breasts. It seemed stupid to have an access panel when there was nobody in the Tert who could even start to make sense of Del Morte’s insanity. And believe me, I’ve looked. I’ve looked with a single-minded intensity you could only understand if you were me. Or if you were one of
Every day I felt the corrosion in my body spread a little, become a bit more pronounced. I hated it. Not the breakdown itself, not necessarily, but how helpless it made me feel. How desperate. Most days I’d do anything if somebody could fix me, and I didn’t appreciate that kind of vulnerability.
I’d thought about doing it myself, instead of waiting for the corrosion to run its course. I’d even found a knife once, with the full intention if cutting my wrists with it. Of course, when I actually went to do it I’d been forcibly reminded that my wrists were no longer in any condition to bleed. As an experiment I’d tried cutting my upper arm, but it only bleed for a moment before clotting to a scab in minutes. I gave up on the suicide idea that day. If I was going to die, I was going to die kicking and screaming every inch of the way.
There were plenty of people looking for hired help around the place, so I let myself out for pretty much any sort of work I could get. In the process I learnt a lot of interesting things and made a few contacts, but nothing ever lead me to salvation.
I sighed, shaking the thoughts from head and pulling on my shirt.
I didn’t have a heart. Del Morte had taken my soul, and without it salvation would always be just out of my reach.