A panicked thought, a broken hook, and an intrusion of metal. The metallic body began to move once more; through its rust and age, an orderless action was the cause of its feet slamming downwards and its arms raising itself up heavenwards, slowly regaining the ability to walk.
The land was as remembered: barren, dissolute, and lacking. The memories of a better time had flooded the machine's inner thoughts, that of the former wildlife, an era when the sight of trees was as consistent as the rotted things are now, yet this place was a remnant of that old age. A shack composed of old withered wood only held together by its own 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥, and the shack only held that machine in it. It took a moment, fighting against the rusted gears and slothful wires, but it was able to turn its head outwards, through the only window. The shore was gray with the faintest remains of a golden glow, each spark shining and fighting with the other over who shone the brightest.
But a shinier thing caught the machine's eye: a man was approaching the shack. A man dressed in a metal helmet that covered his face; the rest of his body was covered in a full metal plating. Not a single soul was allowed to bare his true identity. The figure lowered his head, noticing the machine, and promptly reached for the revolver strapped to his waist. Pointing out straight ahead with no room for hesitation, but slight error as he took a moment to readjust his aim.
"WAIT, DON'T SHOOT," the machine quickly yelped as it dashed away from his view; the figure promptly jumped back upon hearing the sudden tone.
"YOU CAN SPEAK!?" You're unlike any machine I've heard of them."
The figure failed to hide his shock before pausing and speaking in a well-kept manner, keeping his voice an octave lower.
"Neither are you!"
The machine joked as it began to step outside the shack, its feet cracking and creaking all across the floor as the door crumbled before him the moment he touched it.
"I'm no machine."
The figure replied in an offended voice, still not lowering his gun.
"Then what's with the steel?"
The machine was observed as it made its way to face the figure, both of them locked in a staring contest, despite the machine's lack of features.
"Protection"
The figure scoffed once more.
A brief moment of awkward silence filled the two of them, neither willing to continue the conversation, yet neither wanting to end it.
After a cough, the figure began to speak once more, being unable to bear the silence.
"So. Do you own a name machine?"
"Me- "
The machine was quickly interrupted by a loud, piercing static. An artificial voice echoed from its chest.
"MODEL TH-21007, KNOWN AS "BRUSH"
The machine paused for a moment, resting its hand on where the voice erupted from.
"Call me Brush."
The figure studied brush for a moment before lowering his guard, extending his hand, his pale skin shining brightly against the metal that he bared.
As brush grabbed his hand firmly, the figure introduced himself.
"Ereo. That was the name I was gifted."
He proclaimed proudly as he returned his revolver to his side and began to step past brush, glancing and studying the shack.
"This is taking too long; the sun will set at this rate."
YOU ARE READING
the garden within the wasteland
Misterio / Suspensothis land used to be beautiful, a land filled with life, plants, and animals, Now what's left of it is the machines, man-kind, and the final form of art and self expression, war. (inspired mostly by Elden Ring, bleach and ultra kill)
