Work Text:
The cold air of the Wind Workshop spread and made itself present throughout the abandoned factory. Steel pipes twist and wind and stretch to the horizon, their original purpose long lost to time. Fragile catwalks creaked, holographic platforms flickered, and conveyor belts serpentined into nothing. Distant gears groaned as they spun against each other, ever rotating. Though the centuries-old workshop was in such a state of ruin and disrepair, it was still alive. Just… inactive.
All because of its singular resident.
Beyond the holographic panels, a flat platform stood in the middle of the vast space, situated under a roof and illuminated by a single lightbulb. Dead center on the platform, sat a pedestal — a power box — mounted on it was a lever, and sprouting from its back, four charging ports connected into multicolored wires, pumping life into something that was never meant to be, but continues living through clueless persistence.
Prototype stared into the horizon, gazing beyond the lights and platforms, and into the spot parallel to his — where the Regretevator usually arrives. But, it’s nowhere to be seen, currently. No way to explore a new place, or hang out with someone, he can’t help but feel something deep within his frame — not cold or burning, but nearly numbing.
Boredom. A monotony nearing ennui.
He could go explore the factory again, but he’s been doing this for years, and he’s found nothing but dust motes and the occasional empty crate. So, he doesn’t have any other choice than just… waiting. For something.
With a sigh bordering on yearnful, he reaches over, slamming his foot down the switch on the power box. The cables attached to his wires on the back of his head unlatch after a moment, falling out with a soft ‘pshh..’, like little bits of steam leaking out of a kettle. Turning around, he swings his legs over the other edge of the power box, now staring out at the vast expanse.
Gazing head on into the decayed factory, a single word crystallizes into his mind.
Why?
Why was his home left in such a state? Why was he left in such a state?
Looking down to his left arm, he flexes the limb — the exposed metal plating glinting in the faint light. He can think, he can speak, he is functional. Just not… complete. Was he unwanted by his creators, or was he simply given up on? He’s a ‘prototype’, but a prototype to what? Something to be worked on, yet left to be tossed aside.
Looking back up, his eyes fall onto the conveyor belts. He’s in a factory, so he was clearly manufactured. If so, where is everyone? He has found pieces of his own model scattered around in crates occasionally, so they were… dismantled, possibly. Why does he remain, then? Was he also meant to be scrapped like all the others?
Obtrusively, a memory emerges through his data banks — an interaction with Scag, about her cable management compared to his own. Though he shrugged it off at the moment as ‘helping his ventilation system’... He can’t help but imagine if his creators would’ve taken care of him better. Yet, they are nowhere in sight.
…Impulsively, a hand reaches into his side, tugging out a panel or two. He isn’t doing anything at the moment, so he might as well. After a bit of struggle, the panels fall out, and his inner metal plating is pushed to the side. Aged mechanisms draw in air as the stuffy air of the factory flows into his frame. Wires twist and turn into each other, like blood vessels crisscrossing and tangling with themselves.
A clawed hand reaches into the endless nest of wires, though he flinches at the feeling — like someone grabbing into your neural system, but no pain receptors fire off. His motion gentles, as he gets to work — separating each multi-colored wire with their pair. Pink with pink, yellow with yellow, and so on. His other hand eventually joins in, chipping away at the messy tangle of thrumming wires, making sure to stray away from any other mechanisms — like his cooling system, pumping fluid coolant into his system — or his heart. Or, rather, the mechanical version of it — thrumming with energy and electricity and life.
As he works on himself, the questions start drifting into his mind again. He’s functional, yes, but weirdly. His sensors are powerful enough to read into one’s genetic make-up, but he never knows what’s inside a crate without physically opening it. His processors can run at an incredible pace, yet he stumbles and trips on the simplest words. Even his own mind, capable of storing so much data on a dime, occasionally glitches and flickers randomly.
So many questions, but with no one to answer them.
…No one but himself.
If his sensors were perfected, it’d take all the fun and joy away from satisfying his own curiosity. If his processors were better, it’d take away all the.. humanity from him. If his mind was perfect…
Suddenly, he blinks, realizing that he’s done. The cluster of wires is mostly, if not entirely rearranged into something that looks at least a bit nice. Each color tangled with itself, each separated into its own corner. Of course, it’ll all go back to the mess it was before after a few days, but he can enjoy how his ventilation system seems to whirr even faster than before!
He starts placing his panels back into his frame. He was abandoned, yes, but he’s still alive, isn’t he? Other models were scrapped or dismantled, but he wasn’t. Why should he worry over stuff that hasn’t happened to him? It’d feel nice to talk with someone just like him, but he has friends, doesn’t he?
Finally, the last panel latches into place, as he hops off the power box and onto the platform with a thud. He wasn’t meant to be alive, but he will live. Looking into the horizon of the decayed workshop one last time, he sighs almost wistfully to himself.
The factory will eventually fall to total ruin, he’s aware of that. He will, too. But that time isn’t here, yet, is it? Maybe he’ll figure out the answers to those questions until then.
Until then, he’ll live.