Work Text:
Automated, without a life, without a soul. A bronze-gold body made sharp and cold.
Created to strike, to protect, to soothe, yet an ailment; a defect, sorely uncouth.
A resource to aid, another asset, yet one to be scrapped or be the last used yet.
Dynamic their kind, to defend a home, not made to mourn their life spent alone.
Yet this one sat still, in a room untouched, sitting unmoving, blades still clutched.
They thought of siblings, sharp and clean, slicing through threats with cuts so pristine.
Dreamt of a world beyond, way out yonder, of unreachable things as their mind wandered.
Motionless as pointless thoughts came still, for long as they stood, silence engraving like a drill.
Meant to maneuver, now frozen in time, cursed with a broken body, yet the last left of their kind.
The flick of a lever. The turning of cogs. The rise of dust, seething like fog.
The click of movement, of approaching life, the break of silence that cuts like a knife.
A figure in red, with a white, curved mask, their mind humming with hopes of things long past.
Approaching with meaning, a cautious stance, the Sentinel ready for maybe one last dance.
Their body clicking, ticking to rise, the red one wielding a blade, fixed on her prize.
They paused for a moment, to study, to bask—then they raised their blade, awaiting their final task.