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The abyss. Blanketing echoes of navy, bubbles peppered in blue, holding within them cascading streams from that huge celestial above.
All rendered harrowing. All muted, all by that agony in your maw. It hurt.
How long had it been?
Centuries, it felt so. Eons—a frightening feeling, a return to the once scarcity of what it was like to live back home.
No one to turn to. An endless state of being, wading through lengths of water, always shielded from the public. No one would expose their optics to what they thought beholden to such a heinous visage. Only crystalline colonies, not a comfort either for their lack of friendly tactile capabilities, but maybe the signs of marine life…this planet wasn't so distinctive to Machina’s ecosystems.
But. Everything was long behind, and long gone, returned to their origin of universal dust, and such a distant time ago. What brought ease? To think—of yellow. Yes, yellow. A palette of orange, black, yellows…A blur of a blob, a mech with a bulky chin and downturned eyes, yet, still so kind, so, so vibrant. His wise servos, scarred—truthfully, not at all, rather beautiful and nurturing. He had been a guide, not only in the sense of the world but also in thought...
But where? Where was he now? Had he left him, like everyone eventually would? No. He didn’t want to believe it. To believe it, it would admit that Deep Bite was, the memories of warm points of contact, of late nights out exchanging hushed talk, no, they were pointless.
The point…It had always been company to his processor, unprovoked. To live, when it was as if he were just one of those pockets of air. Invisible to life, life through which he could be recognized not for his unsightliness, but loved? Could he be someone, just like Glober, thought of so fondly…? Could they, with the heart to, think in shades of cobalt, of his stark seafoam—of his dastardly face, his unprompted tail that he couldn’t control…
Ah, another wave of pain. It was unbearable at this point. Now—now, now, now! He needed to chew on something, anything.
…and if he might’ve banged up his frame on the way, who would care?
Not that it mattered what happened to it when it was so unwanted. The countless other rivers of scarring scattered across the paint all told the same story.