Bastian Bostel
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DST-21-EAST: Vitrum Apartment Complex #341Bare human arms flexed and bent, next to propped knees, spread and drawn with a body balancing on his toes as opposed to the flats of his feet. The subtext of the mechanical exercise quivered a blue dim light exuding from his goggles, strapped ominously around his head. The lenses flickered and disfigured with screens rearranging themselves for precision and accuracy as codes trickled information together. Analyzations and quickly stored researches scanned and re-routed program fixes for the limp creation in front of the male and his work.
Slinking in the air with a constant pace above them, the beaten and outdated ceiling fan spun its blades carelessly in a jagged circle, causing a repetitive crook to pulse the silence of tinkering thoughts and petty calculation in his living area. The scraping blades casted repetitive, moving shadows in the dull, morning view as invisible specks of dust, caught like small gnats, stirred in the motion and floated weightlessly under the shabby, hesitantly vibrating light, cascading over Bass and his work. They had nested themselves in the middle of his one-roomed apartment, pushing aside his nubbed mattress, now pressed against the paint peeling walls of the apartment. Dirty laundry had been shoved into the dented and cobbed corners of the place. The upkept mess was completed with a rusted sink and its occasional, abnormal drip.
It had been almost two weeks since she moved into the apartment with him, now, and he had yet to make the transition of trash to treasure with this newest member. She was a decent scrap that was found in the city’s large dump and currently attempting to become Bass’ personal favorite, aside from his babies, his fabulous goggles. He could never cheat on them, replace them. They had a very special spot and place in his mind, and she’d be a stupid cunt to think otherwise. She did have a running chance against his web crawling, Konchu, though. As much as he adored his suicidal Konchu, she appeared to have a completely different take on, ‘Till death do us part.’ She was also only capable of doing so much. With this new girl, on the other hand, he was starting to put a lot more effort into her than he originally had planned, and his efforts were already beginning to pay...
Electronic muscles on the gray radio began fidgeting and murmuring.
Any second, now. A quick needle threaded a thin, faint line of white noise through the small, humid apartment, momentarily diffusing the weight of the atmosphere and causing Bass’ long, toying fingers that were tracing the outline of robotic flesh, to pause in their arthropodic rhythm and to web as his palms smoothingly over the machinery when he shifted his attention to the charismatic snark of The Locker’s personality who was parroting the news of EuroCorp’s shitfest.
Right on time. It was the usual anti-propaganda squabble, but generally pleasant to hear, especially, this time around the clocks.
To help you relax, here's a new tune from Palmer's Medic to mellow out to.
Static simmered through the shoddy radio when The Locker shifted its entertainment method. Electronic music waves washed discreet tranquilization through the apartment, masking the broken sound of the ceiling fan’s motor fighting for significance.
“Tsss,” the tip of Bass’ tongue pressed mockingly against the back of his teeth, feeling the uneven nature, before his lips slowly parted and widened themselves into a peculiarly indulgent grin, “Who needs motives?” A scoff jovially squeezed in his chest. He was frustrated, but it was rude to show such negative emotions when introducing himself to new gadgets. It was just not polite by any means. And, of course, the newest addition to his family, although, not quite his taste and having already been with him for several weeks, was a dainty thing. Her outward appearance was easily tarnished. It was obvious by the look of her, and she did owe him, now. If she had been left in the dump any longer, she might as well have been left unrepairable, which, of course, would have been such a damn shame; her inner workings were so new and intricate. It was as if they had never been touched.
But, upon further investigation, the reason they had never been fucking touched was because they were so goddamn complicated. He was making progress, though, especially with the recent acquisitions of learning tools. She appeared to be some mid-range priced cyborg who failed to gain any popularity on the market due to needless wiring and costly upkeep. She wasn't even close to being a good investment. It should have been obvious to the manufacturer. Bass was tossing around the idea that she was a failure for a reason. EuroCorp's stealth was notoriously clumsy when trying to bury their skeletons where nobody could find them. The Locker was proof.
“Maybe, you, hmm?” His smile shrank into something more pleasant at the prospect of his question. He nudged her leg, thrusting and observing it sideways. She could blink smoothly, now. Her chest could even press inaudible flushes of breath like humans but only when in resting position. Her mouth was still cranky, but the material used for her lips made a nice accent on her features. She should have been made as a low-range cyborg. She had a decent outward design, but it wasn’t exactly high-end or ultra-chic. The inner-workings didn't connect well, either, and it was the internal engineering parts that evidently pushed up her price.
His fingers, balancing thin silver tools, crawled into her thigh. Her mobility was a bit of a nuisance. Her previous owner had managed to destroy her lower half, which was a shame because Bass really hauled her for mobility’s sake. He really couldn’t be mad at her nor her owner, though. Her moderate appearance seemed more timeserving; she wasn’t unappealing if her wear said anything; and her wiring, if properly altered, would make her quite the commodity. She was already paying her debt and managing to give Bass a good mental workout despite any of her annoying tendencies. She was actually pretty close to being a cheap hack’s dream girl. Golly-fucking-willikers, whomst've'd guessed he would be the lucky one to pick her up?
The silver pick in his hand suddenly dropped, and his shoulders slouched. The glare on his goggles beamed a low vermilion.
Right on time, again. A low grumbled sigh drifted from his falling smile. His goggles flashed back to a turquoise color. “Unfortunately,” he paused his vain announcement, bringing his hand towards his face to remove his goggles. The gadgets rattled with cords as they scraped over his blond hair, dark and damp in cold sweat, “I…” His bare eyes studied the pale, waxen doll in front of him. The dark bionic lines outlining and fitting her joints and muscle pieces together weren’t as easy on the eyes as Konchu’s spider design, but he wasn’t about to tell her that, “... have to go to work.” Pushing his attention towards his goggles, he fiddled with several of the switches and drives, and the illumination from them faded into a dormant fixture when he helped the plugged wires release themselves, “I’ll tell you what, though,” his body stretched backwards, reaching and twisting his wiry, half-naked frame towards the radio, “I heard there’s a nice Lacey’s Lingerie store in the 7th, which is--,” his finger pressed the off-switch, and the music died, “exactly where your
new owner is headed.” She deserved something for her patience. At least, she was allowed to think she was deserving. Her bare necessities would be needed in her future, after all. It was a win-win scenario.
She made no response even though her owner patiently awaited one as they both laid separately, in opposing directions on the unswept flooring. The ceiling fan’s groan was made noticeable, again, and the sink dripped, but the metal marionette offered only silence in return. Bass closed the window of opportunity for conversation after only several seconds. He tightened his body and contorted it upwards, “You’re much more open when I’m inside of you,” his indulgent smile slithered back on his lips, and he rose from his position. He had some packing to do before he left, and was feeling irritably impatient with her, now.
But first, his dark eyes, lethargic from lack of rest and over-stimulation skimmed the grimy hole:
Where, oh where, are my shoes?
