My Steel, Your Rot
Rating NC17
Warnings Necrophilia, Non-Con, Non-human on Human
Author TVBOAerosmith
Fandom Matrix
Pairing Neo/Machines
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Even if his mind is dead, the body remains. Machine City treats him well.
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The One is dead. That is a factual statement. Both of them. Smith, Neo, opposites of one coin.
Were he still alive, he might've appreciated the hilarious irony of having machines modeled after one of Earth's creatures. Snakes. But a corpse cannot laugh, cannot appreciate, cannot hum, cannot think.
He lays there, unmoving, still as stone.
His head is turned to one side. His limbs are sprawled about. Were the position not stiff and he did not reek of decomposition, it might've appeared as something as innocent as a nap.
The machines continue their daily routine, even with what remains of Neo there on the metal platform. That large sentinel keeps his guard over the body, floating over it wordlessly.
Machines cannot smell. That is a human function. Even as Neo rots, even as the platform begins to be stained with the stench of death, the snakes remain poised around his corpse. They have nothing to do, they are not assigned to anything, so they stay here of their own accord, watching.
It is not everyday that a machine can see the fascinating process of what happens to human bodies beyond life.
It is another sign of how weak the design of the human vessel is. The soft pliant flesh that is so easy to rip apart looks softer than ever. Blood that would usually be red becomes purple beneath the skin where it pools. Instead of the borderline alabaster that makes Neo's skin, it is now more of a yellow.
He is rotting.
The snakes and the sentinel continue to watch.
The snakes and the sentinel wait for the skin to turn black.
They get to play for the first time.
One of them curls around Neo's neck. It does not move with the intake and output of breath. Scales brush across the bump of Neo's adams apple. As it traverses from his collarbone down to his navel, a single piece of flesh peels away with the tail that caresses his cheek.
They turn to the wound, the snakes. Humans with so many of their holes, of their little pores, of their orifices. This is different. They made this. They made him. A single snake pushes the port on it's head into the opening— Neo accommodates it without protest. His mouth is forced open as the snake wiggles in deeper, pushing apart the space in his jaw.
It resembles a wordless sigh. The leftover air from his body that rushes out. A bodily response. The snakes begin to operate faster on Neo's corpse, as if excited.
They push under Neo's woolen shirt, into Neo's pants, into Neo's mouth. The port from the first snake which invaded his jaw comes out from in the middle of his teeth and presses tightly upon Neo's discoloured tongue.
The sentinel remains immobile.
Another shifts his head ever so slightly to look up. One is on his left leg, another on his right thigh, yet another on his right foot, curling between toes. His legs are parted with the efforts of the colony of artificial reptiles.
One of them extends it's port to it's full dagger-like sharpness and punches down into Neo's belly hole. The entire corpse convulses and, if your imagination was strong enough, his midriff arched up in shock. Yet his eyes do not open. They never will again.
The snake begins to turn it's head. Fluid secretes from his navel. The machine bathes in it.
One of it's kin rubs against the corpse's crotch, humping him, rubbing open the zipper. Alloy scales catch on the zigzag of said zip. It shakes it away without a thought. It is only acting on geometric code. It does not have impulse, like a human. It does not have lust, like a human. Most important of all it does not have disgust, like a human.
It is simply registering this new domain that comes with this new supply of supple flesh. It is not encased by red syrupy goo or 'jacked in' to anything. The sockets in his head, in his arms remain for now virginal— unused.
It is recording. Documenting. Educating itself. A single chance to explore the caverns, the ins and outs of the human body, and one that is among humans considered divine at that... Only a malfunctioning virus would give it up.
It is always in pursuit for new information.
For that purpose, it makes Neo's body rock with motion that is not his own. For that Purpose, it is the reason he is even here after all.
There is no choice involved with the way Neo's body is invaded, violated. To do and not to do. A popular subject of esoteric debate, of point and counterpoint. When you are dead, you cannot consent. You do not even know the maelstrom of happenings around you.
Even with musings like these, nothing changes. Nothing is affected. The pool of snakes around him coalesce into one dark blackened mass, glinting in the extremely dark lighting of Machine City the way only lifeless steel-alloy could.
Four days ago, this oeuvre stood tall above them, an emissary, a messiah who fought his way through a blood-slicked battlefield and came to a victory some could argue as pyrrhic. Comme ci comme ça. In spite of this, it is a perpetuating cycle. As a result of balance, he will be reborn. They will be gifted with new life— Reincarnation.
Tonight, he is dead. That day has not yet come. Tonight, he is as lifeless as the metal around him. Tonight, he dies among the undead.
Tonight, he lays amongst them and shares his body, his territory.
It is nothing new.
Just another human body to be conquered. He may not be in the fields, but he is here in Machine City all the same, he rests in this coffin of a platform all the same.
He dies here for his other.
He dies here for the Machines. For Purpose, for peace. For teaching them—what is free will?
More plugs are unsheathed. Some glide across Sleeping Beauty's skin gently, afraid to tear, afraid to rip, a calculated reluctance to it's movements. Others cut into it rowdily, searching for red, finding blue. One, unlike it's peers, digs deep enough where the uncirculated blood lies.
It bursts out of him. Once again, the body twitches and remaining energy in the muscles make it flex. Fluid is expelled. It can resemble climax, almost— The exiting of the liquid through a hole, a slit, gushing out and pooling around him, making a mess of everything. The only difference is the red instead of the white.
Fittingly, it gathers around his legs. The blood. A handful bask in the captivating crimson. Blood. Machines have nothing like this. It stinks the way only a human can.
His pants are stained. If he were with us, he would have been annoyed. That cute boyish face of his would have scrunched up, beautifully so, displaying emotion. As he learned, perhaps that was not exclusive to humans. Simply a word. And that made all the difference.
Did it really?
Snakes did not have eyes to squint when irritated. Sentinels did not have noses to bunch together, to create microfolds in to express bother. All they could do was observe. They were not programs. They did not resemble humans. They also did not work the way a human did. They had no predilections, they had no idiosyncrasies, they only acted with objective and not thought.
They were not alive as Neo was.
But then, how in Zion would that explain this self-indulgence they so freely showed, as they frolicked in His blood, as they nudged against every little crevice, every little nook and cranny in his body, as they acted upon a desire?
Did it really matter?
Tonight, they were together. Tonight, Neo was theirs, Neo belonged to the Machines, linked with them not through Negative One, but with physical meaning.
What would Neo think if he could see himself now? Dogpiled by far more than just a couple of machines, overwhelming his personal space, though a dead man did not have any. How does one subjugate someone post-mortem, when there is nothing to control?
He is a doll.
But subjugation is not the point. Control is not, nor is choice. It is free will.
The last wall of defense crumbles when that charge on their heads that resemble a cattle prod press against the opening between Neo's rotting thighs.
See, there is no heat to be gathered. Like the machines, he doesn't feel. He cannot. There is no emotion as a foreign object begins to stretch and intrude his most private area. He is like a machine. He is like a doll.
He stays peacefully 'asleep', angel face showing no human reaction. Blood doesn't rush down. Blood doesn't rise to his cheeks. There is no blush, there is no frown, there is no smile, there is nothing.
Skin rips again. They are not careful enough with him.
No matter; It only makes more openings for them to play with.
The snake shoves it's head in completely. It pierces, not fully, through that special spot inside.
Where there should be a shuddering gasp, a holding of his hands close to his mouth, his body simply accepts it with no retort. It is mechanic.
It sends an electrical shockwave through Neo's corpse. Now, there is a reaction. His body shakes with the electrical convulsions. Air, carbon, is pushed through his other holes again, another windy carefree sigh, a type of reaction only the machines can elicit from him.
Another, and another is sent. Neo continues to react, to shiver, to seek, to tempt. He cannot want, he does not want, but his partners want enough for him. Finally, a conclusion is pulled from him.
White leaks from the head of his penis. There is not enough energy remaining in the body anymore to shoot it out as is usual protocol.
It is more like a leakage. But a machine does not complain.
It cannot taste. It does not have tongue. The only senses it has are artificial ones who perceive things differently than the human body. It simply scans the ejaculate and goes on with it's day.
Tonight, the game is temporarily finished. They are done playing.
The snakes, having reached this finale, finally slide off Neo's body. They are done despoiling him. Neo's corpse is a treasure chest waiting to be opened, to be delighted in, but until now, they have had their fill.
Tomorrow, when decomposition truly begins to take it's toll, when the vomit-inducing fragrance of death cannot be masked even by the stale smell of fresh metal, they will go deeper.
They will rip him open to find the fascinating inner workings of a human. What little blood The One has left will clot into lumps. His skin will become as if charred. It will turn completely black.
He will be more of a machine than he ever has.
They will be more human than they ever have.
A delicacy such as this can only be appreciated properly with time. The body will age like wine.
The snakes will be back. After all, all work and no play makes them dull machines.
Perhaps tomorrow, the sentinel may join too.
This is Neo, fulfilling his Purpose after death.