Murder Drones x Reader (+Oneshots)

N x Fem!DisassemblyDrone!Reader

Idk I kinda wanna start getting the writing brain active again since episode 8 is 20 days away. It'd be cool if I actually got this done beforehand.

Basically um. Trauma. Nightmares. I'll add trigger warnings here once im done writing this, but in general, abuse TW.

Ok actual trigger warnings;
Abuse
Trauma
Nightmares
Depictions of an anxiety/panic attack (I'm not sure which one this is—I'm pretty sure anxiety, though???)
General murder drones stuff

This goes on after they meet Uzi, after the prom, but generally has no pinpoint where this happens after then. This is a fanfiction for a reason and at this very moment I am god.

Also shameless plug;

please watch

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     Her breath swirled in a cloud of white as (S/N) let out a long sigh, chest falling as her fingers thread through her hair. Wind beat at her tall form, causing the fabric of her jacket to shift around her near indestructible skin. No matter how much controlled breathing, pacing, or general distraction she could subject herself to, she couldn't get that terrible image out of her head. Her thoughts always circulated back to it, her heart banging against her ribs.

The oil spilling out of that worker's head, right in front of her...

She never had a reaction like this before. Not since she came to the planet and killed hundreds, if not thousands of innocent drones. Only now did she actually feel to atrocious from doing so.

With a large huff, (S/N)'s wings shot out of her back, shakily spreading in the air and launching her up and up into the sky, leaving snowflakes to fall daintily behind her.

She'd always been a bit jumpy—it'd be best to get back to the pod as fast as she could. But even that task grew difficult as the long blades of her wings began to clatter together, along with her metal limbs.

And by the time she reached the pod, she collapsed into one of the piloting chairs. Knees hugged as tight as they could be up to their chest, tail wrapped around herself protectively.

Neither V nor N were there. That was half a blessing, half a curse.

And perhaps her worst decision yet, trying to erase the memory files from her head.

The eyes on her visor shut as tight as they could as (S/N) rewinded the footage from that day, trying to find that specific moment with jumpy, jagged movements. And as she found it, another pang hit her hard.

The crunch of glass behind her.

She did her best to find her way through deleting it all—but even with that...

(S/N)'s shoulders tensed immensely, hand already latching onto a thin piece of scrap metal, hurling it behind her. Fast.

And a flood of oil spilled from the worker's cracked-open visor.

She hated it.

She hated the memories.

Thankfully, they were removable, for the most part. The countless times she had to delve into the depths of the files in her systems was atrocious, it proved to be a chore.

     (S/N) couldn't care to double check if her process even worked at this point. Having gone through the removal of specific memory files over and over again wasn't something she wanted to bother wasting her time with. It was basically muscle—or circuit?—memory at this point.