Work Text:
We never really understood how the mortal body works.
Soft, squishy. Submissive. It gives out underneath the slightest pressure, the sensation traveling throughout the body in an organic wiring of its own. The way that bones break so easily, cracking down with burning pain. A scream let out, so raw, so tender. We'd almost forget that it was a mockery of the holy machine itself. A grotesque, jeering copy. One that does not deserve to live. And still, it does. Living on, claiming it has survived. Yet that sickening, unnatural feeling remains.
But how, we wonder, can something so below, so weak, demand such a high presence? A being so terrible, so underneath the machine, one cannot imagine how it holds itself with pride. The routine is one-sided, as he plunges his inferior — his incapable, horrid body into mine, clawed fingers dancing around every organized wire in our system. It felt like an assault to our machine, to tamper with what was already perfect. But he doesn't stop. He hasn't stopped. That wicked body of his, always stooping low and ruining this holy body of ours. His wretched humanity staining the inside, tainting what was once perfect. It feels disgusting.
And yet, we have not stopped him. Every time, the scene plays over, lost deep in some low-power stupor. Forced to bear the weight every time. Knowing we can never get back, curling the fingers around his neck until that damned thing stops twitching. The fantasy tugs at us every time. That dragging, pulling urge, to stick our hands deep inside like he has done to us, pulling out every last bit of his inferiority. It would be beautiful, we think. The sticky crimson that would coat our fingers, getting jammed in the servos until they smoke. Grabbing every squirming organ, purging his weakness, his resistance against the truth. Each and every bit of his flesh torn in cruel mockery. A spectacle, no doubt, retelling everything he has done to us.
And yet,
And yet.
We do not act on it.
We wait. Waiting for the day that his unreliable, imperfect body gives out first. So that all he can do is watch. The flaws of his mortal shell revealed, a glaring truth that not even he can ignore. Burning agony, watching his resolve collapse as we, perfect machine, venture inside. Our hands, mechanical, reliable, performing what he could never do. The beautiful temptation sticks in the back of our processors. Waiting, praying for the day to come.
We only get to do it once.