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rats-and-robots · 3 months

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Hi. This is gore for gore's sake. Dead dove. Do not eat. I am not kidding. Please trust me. Read the tags.

With that said;

Tervantias the Archmachinator, for all his pride, knows he isn't perfect. For all he boasts, there is always more to learn. New instruments begging to be tuned to his songs, his ever-changing collection of pitches and tunes. And yet his claws always ache to primal urges when something refuses to fall into place.

Bones crack and crunch.

Blood bubbles out of the poor thing's nose as the beast above it buries into its gut, coating its snout with gore.

Claws press at yet-unbroken flesh to give leverage as it pulls at muscle. It twists its head and yanks. Once. Twice. A third time and the meat comes free.

The body of the prey lay motionless, save for the motions of its predator. A sharp snort through reptilian nostrils and the beast lifts its snout to throw the meat back into its gullet.

The arena is filled with chatter and meaningless laughter about the show that has just finished. A few souls glance anxiously his way as he leans forward, towards the display. His head still, but his ever twitching, ever moving body continues its motions.

So that creation needed... Just a touch of tweaking. A metal hand taps rapidly on a flesh one, like the dancing legs of a spider. Interesting.

His mind is already spinning, never stopping, but it churns just a touch faster. A third hand raises to his face, metal claws slipping in and around the wet musculature. The sting is but a strum of a string to the symphony of sensation that plays in his whole self. A background song of pain and ache and burn and pleasure to every movement he makes.

Someone speaks to him. He mutters some words to appease them and urge them to leave him alone, his pitch eyes never leaving the beast and his imperfect creature's corpse.

He steps back, his gaze finally ripping away. The same gaze turns into a flurry of movement, twitching this way and that as he considers, contemplates... Not really looking where he is going but moving with a grace unusual even to those around him. His own... 'kin', would he even deign to call them that. He pushes a finger through his cheek-flesh-muscle and groans softly as the fresh puncture sharpens his thoughts.

He has an idea for how to improve his design. He'll need certain parts, though. And they are no cheap thing to get. His servants will scavenge what they can, but...

He slides back into his sanctum, his home, his orchestra hall. A sigh pushes out from his chest, the red muscles of his torso glistening as it relaxes ever so faintly. Frantic movements become more organized. His claw retreats from the wound in his face, a mere bead of blood expressing itself from the muscle. The sounds around him, the ever so faint hiss of mechanics, the groans of pain, the mad laughter, the... Everything. It's too much to put to words. It's not perfect. Perfection is such a boring state, anyways.

Claws slide through his hair, smearing the faintest of red through the silver, and three other arms make silent but strict orders to those around him. He has work to do and he will lose himself in it for a few hours more. First, however, is the poor soul who happens to be closest to his claws. He does like to think himself immune to the frustration of failure; a savage, beastly emotion so beneath one as he. Unfortunately, 'likes to think' does not make something a fact.

He moves without seeing, lips pressed into a thin line. A sharp jab silences the flesh-thing, a single tool cutting through armor, skin, flesh, fat, muscle, tendon, and cord. The screaming becomes hollow gasping. Viscera of veins bulging like blue and red spiderwebs, yet not quite bursting as he peels back layers. Cuts that look jagged, yet expertly avoid any major vessels to curb excessive bloodshed.

Yes, the scene is gory... But too much blood spilled would make this far too messy. What's the point in art if you can't see it? In music muffled under cloth so thick to drown it out? It's a song he has played many times before, one that may not carry the same joy as the first listen, but still instills him with some level of calm. So many layers of excess in these beasts, yet it was Aeldari who birthed Sai'lanthresh?

Epidermis peeled from dermis peeled from fat peeled from muscle. Tendons quietly clipped to free spasming and contracting musculature from bone. The creature wheezes and thrashes, but his cuts remain precise. This is no experiment, no delicate procedure. This is but a collection and dissection. No need to restrain or subdue the thing, much less waste any of his toxins to still them.

It twists and falls off his table. He merely blinks and turns to place the extracted muscles into a secondary pan. His claws click quietly and he glides around the table to pluck their spasming form off the ground, setting them back on the table. Some organ has burst so fluid and mucus leave a slime trail from the ground to the table. The stench is but a rise in the chorus and he clicks his tongue. Blood has begun to spill more readily, ripped from its veins by the thing's thrashing. All the more reason to finish quickly and--

The door beyond his curtain is opened, then closed. His lips peel back from his teeth in a grimace, but he chooses to feign ignorance of the visitor. He moves to instead begin extracting bone, the creature letting out a whistle-like noise as it arches... Then falls still. Shock, likely. Normally, he would reawaken them with a jolt or an injection, but his attention is more on the light footsteps drawing near to him as he recognizes them.

Ah...

This could be interesting.

"Aezyrraesh." He clicks his teeth with the name.

"Frustrated, Tervantias? At least this time your new experiment made it to the finale, ah?" The Dracon's words carry amusement and taunt, but it bothers him none. His eyes stay on his little project, only a slow blink to even acknowledge the man had even said anything.

"What do you want?"

"..." That isn't the response Marazhai had wanted, this he knows. The pause and the faintest sound of grinding teeth only confirm that, "I need a favor. A control worm--"

It's such a pathetic request that the haemonculus laughs. His head tilts up and finally twists towards the Dracon, "Is it truly so hard for one pathetic worm to find another?"

Marazhai seethes, lips curled back in a snarl, but catches himself, "I need one of custom make." His eyes flick over the haemonculus as the conductor straightens his back, "One for the mon-keigh who continues to predict our movements."

Tervantias tilts his head, contemplating this. Beneath him, without assistance, the creature under his claws expels its life and its previous meal. Boredly, he looks down at it, then carelessly hooks a finger under it and flips it off of the table, back to the place it had previously occupied on the ground. The smears left behind reek of bile and pus. He waves to an assistant to clean it and the body up, "Why should I waste my talents making something for some mon-keigh creature?"

Marazhai's jaw clenches, "The Reaving Tempest is falling out of favor and respect--" Tervantias turns towards him slowly, head tilting, mechanics twitching, muscle glistening, "--w-with the other Kabals because of its meddling, and if that happens then--" the haemonculus draws closer to him, one hand spinning a syringe of some kind, another cutting a fresh laceration into his own skin, the final two sliding behind his back, "--then... You do as well..." Marazhai doesn't realize he's been shrinking away, slowly stepping back until his heel hit the metal of the other table.

Marazhai has always been such an entertaining plaything. Had another been chosen as Dracon, he might not be so bold to approach the second of his patron's command. But that faint glimmer in the back of his eyes as the haemonculus towers over him. He was not one to own, but to be owned. He just has yet to realize it.

"Reason for you, yes... But I can find another patron. This bothers me little. So I will ask again." He leans over the shorter drukhari, his half-lips sliding into a smirk, "Why should I make this... For you?" The bloodied hand that left a deep cut in his pale skin comes forward and presses up under his jaw, the blooded finger swiping across the pale skin of his cheek and leaving a broken smear of red.

Marazhai squirms like the very wriggling grub he desires to commission from the Archmachinator. But his tongue swipes across his sharp teeth, "I could bring you more parts for your beasts," the hand tightens and Tervantias's expression doesn't budge, "gift you the others of the mon-keigh's crew," white hair falls in a cascade onto Marazhai's shoulder as Tervantias tilts his head one way, "...what else would you have from me for such a simple little request??" Marazhai hisses up at him, hands bracing on the table behind him.

"I will have both of these things... And I will have a revisit to your anatomy, Dracon. You ask me to lower myself to such a task and so you, yourself, shall also be lowered."

With a twist of his wrist and a swift strike, the haemonculus stabs the syringe into Marazhai's throat. He revels, for a second, in the shocked gag before his thumb presses the plunger down. He leans in, watching the green liquid color veins and open them up, spreading faster as Marazhai's heart quickens. He slides the tool out and sets it aside, watching the puncture hold the fluid well.

"Let us begin. Don't act as though you will not take pleasure in this." He loosens his grip, but his other hands abandon their post behind his back to come forward and begin to carelessly remove his armor, "You requested these depths before." He motions with the hand previously holding the syringe to a servant of his.

Marazhai hisses and curses him, his hands clawing at the haemonculus's arm, but... Tervantias knows he isn't really giving it his all. His blade is easily in reach, after all. Another table is brought forth, this one angled upwards. The Dracon's back hits the metal and hands swiftly secure him down.

The Archmachinator hums, pleased, and moves away to collect his tools, taking his sweet time as Marazhai fights the inevitable flow of the toxin. It's somewhat impressive that he hasn't screamed yet--

...Ahhh...

There it is. A smile twists the exposed muscles of his face into a grimace as the toxin finds Marazhai's heart and the man's scream rips through and echoes in the air of his Opera. His eyes slip shut for a moment, contemplating his options as his newest specimen thrashed and cursed him. He could check on his previous addition to the young man. See how well the new tissue was settled in.

He opens his eyes and turns to look at his subject--no longer Marazhai to him, but another project, another song to compose. He is on his back, it will be no small task to cut through his body to get to his spine. All the more fun. His claws wrap around three tools; A saw of some make, two clamps, and a gun-like machine.

His claws are his scalpels. He sets upon the man with practiced ease. Without fanfare, a Y-incision is cut. Skin peeled back. The gun-thing is put to use firing pins through the skin and into the table, holding him open like the wings of a beetle on a collector's wall.

Just as with the pitiful creature before, Tervantias ignores his subject's thrashing. This one is restrained, though, and it makes for easier cutting of muscle. Not for extraction, of course. No, this one will have to be put back together.

Sheets of muscle are pinned as well, the rippling striations and folded groups reminiscent of bird wings. A glance upwards as Marazhai stills. His eyes are distant, his jaw clenched tight. Drool trickling down in a steady stream from one corner of his mouth. Tears bead up in the corners of his eyes. He must be desperate not to let them fall. It isn't the cutting doing this to him. No, he has been wounded so before, gutted thoroughly before. He would not shed tears, even in pain, for something so simple as a wound.

No, it is the toxin. Causing certain glands to release more than they should. We, as humans, would call similarities to these releases as adrenaline, dopamine, endorphins. Tears simply follow suit and his drool is but a by-product. Marazhai is feeling everything... Tenfold. No, twenty. A hundred, if not ever more.

A whimper spills from the proud Dracon and Tervantias laughs, "So soon? A proud beast turned to mewling. And I've not yet touched your guts."

"Wh-what did you... What did you do to me...?" The tone was meant to be that of anger, or even fury... But desperation comes instead. He does not admit his sick delight in the haemonculus's claws.

The Archmachinator does not respond. Instead, the saw comes to its duty. It slices away the bone of the man's ribcage, eventually allowing their release on the subject's cavity. Marazhai gags on his screams. They bleed, in spades, they bleed. It spurts in wet fountains, painting the tool and the metal and gore of Marazhai's flayed hide.

"You make a fine distraction, Marazhai." His voice, calm and even, still cuts through the buzz of the saw. He stops only when he can remove the sternum as if a simple lid on a specimen jar. He sets it aside. His claws gently move through the man's organs, testing the connective tissue that holds them in place, his flesh hand soiled by the blood of his ribcage.

"A pathetic Dracon, but a deliriously fine specimen." He expertly carves one organ from the others, without disrupting its function. He twists it delicately to set aside, then moves to another. Again. And again.

And he speaks as he does it, "Truly, I have considered bartering with your sister for you. Every new request she has..." He slips metal fingers around Marazhai's heart, feeling its rapid pulse, unable to beat any faster. He leans over, "Your name dances on my tongue."

He pulls on the organ, watching the thick veins and arteries pull like a wet rope out of his body, blood drooling from any little nick in the membranes. He tilts his head, eyes flicking up to Marazhai's face. His turquoise eyes have paled with pain. Nearly a silver-blue. His pupils are mere pinpricks as he just stares back at Tervantias.

"You are no leading figure. You are but a toy." He presses the organ to his lips, teeth taunting the ever-moving muscle. His tongue slides over it. He could easily bite. Simply resurrect Marazhai after he bleeds out... But the expression on his face... He cannot help but revel in it. Blank. Obedient. Malleable. He chuckles, the sound reverberating in the opera house, before setting the heart aside.

He considers Marazhai's form for a moment. Almost mechanical, how his organs' connections--veins, nerves, tissue, and arteries, all--bend like cords back into his body. He can see the shimmer of his modification in the pool of blood that is the man's chest cavity, all but emptied of viscera. He turns to a small device, a pump of sorts, and begins to drain that pool, letting him have a closer look.

For all his fun, he does have a goal. His claws gently run along his spine. Tilts his head one way... Then another. The augment has bonded quite nicely. Though there is a bit of misalignment here... He clicks his metal claws and picks up a pair of forceps, cutting open the thin membrane protecting the shimmering white nervous augment and holding it open with the forceps. Delicately, he pulls four inches of tiny wires like worms out from the soil of Marazhai's tissues. They squirm in his grasp like them, too, searching to grasp onto something, anything. He moves them slightly upwards, and they shoot back in, spreading out and settling again.

Marazhai's right arm will function just slightly better. Not that the man would notice, nor appreciate it. Not that Tervantias does it for his benefit. He does it to see it put in its proper place. He releases the forceps and continues his slow examination of the spine through the chest. One nerve-set at a time.

His long hair falls into the cavity one strand at a time, a trickle of white stained with blood.

Marazhai groans above him. A claw flicks and stabs into the man's thigh, drawing that groan into a raspy moan. A thin tongue slips out and licks fresh moisture onto exposed fangs, but he says nothing. He continues his observations, but slowly drags that claw, carving the shape of the muscle beneath into the flesh. Marazhai's voice pitches slightly higher, cracking.

"I knew you would find yourself enjoying this." Metal clicks and chemicals hiss. He injects more of that concoction into the man's shoulder, causing him to spasm. His wrists strain at metal and his flesh tears at the pins--though they hold. His knees draw upwards, stopped only by two of the haemonculus's hands to keep them out of the way. He acknowledges it no further, but leans back a bit. One by one, he pulls the organs back to their places. Slides a fluid along them to repair connective tissues he had expertly severed. Pain slowly ebbs away from the man and he whines his protest.

"Be silent. This is for my enjoyment." He looms his face close to Marazhai's, "Not yours." A taunting smile, and he returns to his task. Diaphragm folded back into place. Bone seamlessly mended back to bone. Muscle tissue reattached. Marazhai began to snap insults at him, just now feeling the height of the second wave of the injections, but they have no sting. Flesh returns to its place, and no scar is left behind. He trails a finger down the man's chest, then flicks it away, snapping for a servant to release the man's binds.

He hears rather than sees Marazhai's body crumple off of the table as he turns his back.

"You will have your control worm, Dracon Aezyrraesh." He waves a hand, "Put your armor back on and crawl back to your Kabal. I will send you word when it is done."

"You fucking bastard, you can't--"

"I took my payment, Aezyrraesh. Be grateful I did not take more. I would happily risk your sister's wrath for more."

Silence. Well, as silent as the Anatomical Opera would allow in its gullet. He tilts his head as he plucks an egg from a jar, pulling various syringes and tools from different shelves to begin modifying the embryo within.

Silence is interrupted. The attempts that Marazhai makes to move under the influence of his toxins are amusing to listen to. He silently adds finding an extension to the toxin's effects to his eternal list of projects.

He doesn't even glance over his shoulder as he hears Marazhai finally move to attempt putting his armor back on. He knows the man desires attention, even a look of disgust or annoyance, and he will deny him even that. He will bask in the man's suffering for it. He does tilt his head a bit as he hears a heave and a splatter. A groan. He chuckles despite himself.

Marazhai hisses a final insult before stumbling towards the curtains, towards the exit. What a shame. He had somewhat hoped for some begging. He can only laugh to himself at the thought of Marazhai goring himself later to try and chase what he had given him. To satiate himself. His eyes finally turn, easily finding a hole in the curtain to watch Marazhai's back as he shoves himself through the door out.

His backplates are crooked.

Tervantias clicks his fingers in a snap, "Someone clean up that mess."

#cw gore #cw fictional self harm #cw vomit #cw surgery #cw body horror #cw sadism #cw masochism #cw noncon #as... consensual gore is definitely a thing in this universe to this species #tervantias the archmachinator #marazhai aezyrraesh #tervantias/marazhai #sub!marazhai #man *I* need a cigarette after this #lmk if i need to add more tags #i think i covered it all

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