Sniper finds out he has blood
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Overview
Sniper gets shot and finds out he has blood. You'd think he'd have found out earlier but nope this is new to him
Rated T for Teen audiences. Yknow because he gets shot
Author's Note
I found this in my one-note. It's kind of edgy, which I find quite funny. Whatever
If I had to pick another title it'd be Sniper Chooses To Struggle With Toxic Masculinity and Other Issues While Bleeding Out. I think I was trying to get at is. You've got this guy who is undeniably good at what he does but he's all jumbled up inside from trying to fit into something else. He's got the conflict with his parents and you see him make these excuses towards them and himself to justify what he is and what he does. He's sort of used to not being the best at what he's meant to be, and even when he IS good at what he's meant to be he's always chasing those old failures in the back of his mind. So I sort of tried to push at what sort of shitfucked brain patterns might develop from that, especially since in this continuity he's like 90% sure he's a completely artificial being (right up until someone puts a bullet through his spleen). Do you get what I'm getting at. Idk I'm typing this in a monospaced font between HTML brackets I feel like that affects my ability to express stuff
Work Text
The air smells like iron.
The funny thing about machinery is that a well-cared-for metallic conglomeration smells like nothing of the sort. Motor oil, grease and sparks, exhaust fumes, surely. But not pure metal. Masses of copper wire and steel plating, sacrificial anodes fixed to vulnerable spots, cogs and bolts, pulled together into a machine, and yet the scent doesn't escape. Functionality honed to a point, no deviation into the environment permitted. Be polite, be efficient. To let yourself fall into disrepair is to cause distress, to yourself and to others.
Good machinery doesn't smell like iron.
The inputs process. Damage to the lower torso, fluid leaking from the internals. Enemy at the left; they've found a new sightline, then. Metallic feet stumble away from the window, finely-articulated hands fumbling the rifle clutched between well-worn digits. Press them to the damage. It's a human motion for a nonhuman machine. He was built to be human, he was told, once. Perhaps too much so, she'd speculated, but his creators' loss was her gain. An inhuman son. Treasure born of the open desert.
Breached parameters. Failure, failure, failure. The only thing left to disappoint was you, and you did it anyway.
He picks up his gun in his left hand, the metal of his abdomen screeching against itself. Focus. Men have to work to focus; machines do not. Machines are built for it, built to go on and on and on. Rest is a luxury, and one not meant for the battlefield, man or not. Focus. The enemy can die yet. Marksmen are rarely born with the privilege of crosshairs and inhuman steadiness; play your advantage. You can do better.
It hurts, it hurts. Machines do not hurt. Men do not hurt. Skilled snipers do not hurt.
He pulls his hand away, and liquid rust drips to the floor, leaves his fingers slick and shiny. It's not blood, he reminds himself. It's not blood. Machines do not bleed; it's not blood.Dimly, he realises that the flashing in the periphery of his vision isn't gunfire. He presses his hand back to his body, and it crushes something warm and wet. The flashes increase. The smell of iron won't go away. Error, error, error. Warning. He's bleeding. It hurts.
"Medic," he croaks out.
The lights go out in his LED eyes.
End Note
PLAY THE MUSIC SOUNDSMITH