Goretober - Metallic

Warnings: Dark fic, graphic depictions of self-harm.

Just a short goretober story I'm posting late. The Prompt was taken from a random word generator.


Gyrus Krinkle found comfort in metal.

He was an unhappy man; with a weak and ugly body, no friends, and an uncaring mother.

However, engineering, particularly robotic engineering, brought him great joy.

It was a source of comfort in the dull, pathetic drone that made up Gyrus' life, even more so than the superhero stories he indulged himself in when his mother wasn't looking.

But still, there was something about his hobby that left Gyrus unsatisfied.

He wanted to understand metal.

Oh, he knew how it worked, what its components were, and how to stick different parts of it together to make something new, but he didn't actually know it.

He wanted to know how his mother could remain so cold despite his best efforts. Why her bulb eyes never shone with affection despite his intellectual accomplishments. Why she was always able to berate him, but never praise him.

He thought about tinkering with her programming more than once, but he could never bring himself to do it. She was still his mother, despite her cruel ways, and he was determined to honor her as any good son would.

He wanted to know how the monkeys, those strange, brilliant, colorful little creatures, were so powerful. How they could take on any foe and always win. How they actually cared for and loved one another despite being robots.

Gyrus knew though that wanting something didn't mean he would get it. So he reluctantly accepted that the answers to these questions were far out of his reach, and he busied himself with building lesser robots instead.

One day, while working away in the poorly lit side of his room that made up his "lab", Gyrus had an accident.

He'd been careless, his attention too focused on the radio as the announcer prattled on about the robot monkeys' latest adventure.

Visions of robotic ears and dastardly villains danced across his mind's eye. One moment the pale man was punching an alien across the jaw, the next he was wrenching his arm back as pain erupted across his hand.

While he let himself get carried away with his daydreams, he'd struck a half-finished robot on his desk. His fist had connected with a jumble of loose wires and cables, and one of them, a thin and rigid thing made of copper, had stabbed him.

It had buried itself in the soft flesh between his fingers, and its pointed end came to a stop at the middle of the top part of his hand.

Gyrus was just about to rip the wretched thing out when he noticed something peculiar.

Besides the initial prick, not once had the wire broken through his skin. Instead, the thin line stayed in that strange area between the outermost layer of skin and the pink softness of flesh. The hypodermis, perhaps? He never cared much for biology.

The brown line stood out in stark contrast to his pasty skin, like some sort of mockery of a tattoo.

Gyrus watched, entranced, as blood slowly pooled beneath his skin and around the thin piece of metal.

A part of him was screaming for him to take it out, that the damn wire didn't belong there, that he was hurt and he needed to do something about it.

But another part told him to leave it. And yet another told Gyrus to try it again.

The brief sharp prick as he stabbed one end into his arm made his breath hitch. The pain, as he carefully dug the wire further and further just beneath the top layers of skin left his arm itching and hands trembling. And the dull ache it brought afterward, just sitting there while he went about his business, made his head buzz.

It wasn't wholly unpleasant.

It quickly became a habit for Gyrus, burying thin wires just under his skin.

He wasn't quite sure why he did it, but he knew that doing so made him feel better.

It was comforting. It wasn't as reassuring as his comics or shows were, but it brought a rush of dopamine to his brain whenever he thought of it. It wasn't the first time Gyrus used physical pain to soothe himself either, although it was a bit more intense than his usual tactics.

He liked to bite his tongue sometimes. Or the insides of his cheeks. Hard enough to draw blood, to savor that tang of metal, to focus on that dull sting that would linger for a couple of days after as he irritated the wound with the tip of his tongue.

The pain helped him calm down and focus his thoughts. Biting himself had been his go-to method when he was at work, far away from his desk or superheroes. It saved him the embarrassment of a panic attack or a nervous breakdown more times than he could count.

But the wires! The relief they brought him was on another level entirely!

The pain was worse, but not unbearably so. There was always a stinging, itchy ache to them, but if pressed down the sudden rush of pain would make him light-headed and giddy.

He could easily see the wires too, unlike the bitemarks in his mouth. Sometimes looking at them made him nauseous, but then he'd remember it was just a strip of metal, the same thing his mom and heroes and projects were made of, and he'd swallow the bile rising up his throat.

And this method was so much more intellectually stimulating than mashing down his teeth.

It felt like a game, trying to aim the wire at just the right angle so it would break the skin but not bleed. It was a marvel to him that splinters always seemed to achieve such a feat without trying, but his efforts would more often than not end with red.

And perhaps, if he did this often enough, he could finally understand metal.

Maybe he could become like Mother, cold and uncaring.

It would be so much better than the constant, nagging loneliness and sorrow he felt now.

There were downsides to his little habit, though. Gyrus found them acceptable, especially with the nagging idea that he deserved them plaguing his thoughts.

Infections were an issue. Gyrus had made sure to keep up with his tetanus shots long before he started using the wires; it was a necessity when one tinkered with metal as much as he did. But still, even though he managed to avoid the dreaded lockjaw, his skin would often swell and turn red. There were times pus would build up in the wounds as well.

To fight against this, Gyrus would sterilize the wires before he used them. It wasn't always effective, but he liked to think it helped.

Sometimes blood would pool around the wire's edges, especially around the tips, but it never leaked out from his skin. Hematomas, he believed they were called. Just like bruises, they stood out on him; the red a stark contrast against his pasty skin.

Gyrus was careful to hide them under the fabric of his sleeves or his pants or his socks. The last thing he wanted was for someone to see the lines of grey and ask him about it. They'd call him crazy, or worse yet, accuse him of seeking attention.

Nobody noticed though. No one cared to look.

He gazed at the wire on the inside of his left arm. It was three inches long and as thin as a needle. One end was starting to break through his skin and poke out into the open air. He'd have to pull it out later.

But wouldn't it be better if he never had to pluck out these fine strips of metal? If he didn't have to carefully reapply them? If he could be strong like the heroes in his stories? If he could be less sensitive like Mother? If he didn't feel lonely or sad or ashamed to be alive?

Wouldn't it be wonderful if he could truly become metal?

And that's when Gyrus Krinkle was struck with a brilliant idea.


Gyrus stood in his basement, examining his latest creations. There were five of them, and their smooth metal surfaces gleamed under the lamp's glow.

They looked plain, but they hid a secret under their silver exterior; the ability to connect together into a sharp blade that could send out powerful jolts of electricity. He was truly proud of them, but the longer Gyrus looked at them, the more nervous he became. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest and a cold sweat dripping down his crooked neck.

Gyrus sighed. The nerves were starting to get the best of him.

It wouldn't be easy, he knew. He wasn't strong enough to finish it in one blow.

It would be painful, excruciating even. But it would be worth it.

Besides, didn't heroes have to face immense odds all the time? Overcoming them is what made heroes, well, heroes!

Gyrus eyed a dingy rag on his desk.

It was an old washcloth he'd taken from the laundry. Mother hadn't noticed yet, and he planned to return it as soon as he was done. He picked it up, then checked his toes. They were a deep shade of purple. The rubber bands were still wrapped tightly around each one's base, though he could no longer feel them.

He buried his teeth into the rag and tried to focus on breathing through his nose.

In and out, he told himself. In and out.

Gyrus Krinkle swung the knife down.