Once again, something from the kink meme~
inspired by www zerochan net 436915
I. Love. Humans.
The machines hum to life, a dull drone rising slowly the way water sinks into fresh soil. One by one, serene blue-tinted lights begin to illuminate the room — a large room, space for nothing, space for everything, space for future. First, the keys beneath his fingers, casting shadows in his palms as the backs of his hands glide over thousands of buttons. The glow is harbored underneath them, hiding, cautious but mutely daring from circuit boards and chips. The screens follow suit. There are four screens; there always have been four screens, and there will always befour screens.
No more, no less.
He sets down the coffee mug — a gift from a certain doctor — on the nearest open surface. The sound echoes. Haunting.He types like he's calmly playing the organ, something more foreboding and profound than what he actually does with his fingers. -Tack tacktack tack-. Four letters for the project, four letters.
No more, no less.
A tap on the enter key, and the main screen before him reacts by fading the words it speaks as it logs in. He's used a program to copy Namie's speech patterns for this very purpose.
Welcome, Master.
A grin splits across his features, a thin crescent that mimics the moon that has not yet fallen. He takes up his coffee again and sips as the column of thick wires descends from the ceiling.
Izaya drinks away and swallows, taking his time and waiting for it to brush the ground before raising his eyes to meet it. A carbon copy, hair for blond hair, skin tone matched to perfection, and purely as strong as the real thing. The left leg has worn away with the clothes that cover it, open-ended wires dangling like a dead animal. The elbow joint of the right arm is beginning to separate, though the artificial ligaments continue to try to hang on to one another. He embraces them lightly, ghosting over the remaining expanse of fake skin that ends just at the bicep. Four tubes are embedded in a line down its spine, four tubes.
No more, no less.
He pulls it to the sofa to sit with him, resting the legs over his lap. Its movements are as broken as its body, visible and clearly audible clicks as it hangs limply over him. His hand falls to its hip. It doesn't move. He admires the impossible creation, but finds himself frowning.
There is only one thing that was not created quite right.
This is not the first copy. This is one of many, the others before it scrapped and thrown away, parts saved for other projects or donated to Nebula. Each time he tries, he fails; no matter how much advice or aid he has had from certified engineers or robotics specialists, the eyes are never right.
Those chestnut orbs that are supposed to be honey, they stare back at him. Dead. Soulless. Dull.
This can never be a carbon copy because its eyes are so amenable, so obedient and unquestioning.
They let him do what he wants. They let his hands roam over a cold, rigid body, let him rip his joints apart until he can no longer pass for any human — as if the original wasone. They let him caress his cheek and wipe away tears that he has to remind himself are not there. Those eyes let Izaya break him slowly, agonizingly, quietly. There are four reasons why he keeps this doll of a legend. Four reasons, no more, no less.
As he brushes his lips against it and Shizuo's routinely don't respond in kind, Izaya is reminded of one.
