The Portal
08-13-2018, 05:31 AM
CONNOR
In the wake of the attack, the stranger reacts as most living things do; unpredictably. He lunges to follow the creature in haste, yet seems to think better of it and hesitates.
Connor watches him all the while, cataloguing, analyzing. Attempting to understand. The stranger displays the desire to follow, to give chase to the neon-haired not-wolf. Why? What would the end result be? What would the young stranger do once he had caught the creature? What purpose did it serve? Connor doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. Outwardly his expression remains the same, that vacant sort of stare as his LED pulses a steady, calm blue. Interesting. Passively, he tilts his head slightly to the right, continuing to watch.
The artificial Pegasus holds his ground, even as the stranger turns and regards him with a remarkable amount of uncertainty. The young stallion’s eyes, so very bright and vibrant with life and emotion, dart downwards and take in the sight of Connor’s injured leg. ’Bleeding,’ he states, as though Connor was unaware of that very fact. He isn’t. The wounds are already beginning to heal, artificial skin slowly retracting around the small punctures, hiding away the white of his chassis. Thirium coagulates and halts as the skin closes, and within moments the flesh has healed and the dark hairs of his legs have regrown. Were it not for the glisten of blue blood upon his leg and the drips upon the white snow at his feet, one would be unable to tell that he had even been injured.
The stranger, however, does not seem to like this.
Connor knows that there is a shift. His obsessive scanning gives him plenty of warning, even as the stranger begins to prowl and approach as though he were a predator. The LED flickers to yellow, processing, processing…
Caution: Potential threat level: High.
The bay’s mahogany eyes harden, head tilting downwards in preparation, rolling his shoulders as he straightened to attention. His artificial wings, previously relaxed and drooping, mirror the stranger’s sudden action and snap back as he draws himself to his full height. Still, the machine does not speak. He watches, he catalogues, and he adapts.
Then, a directive. An order. ’What are you?’ Connor speaks to answer immediately, his words firm, words repeated hundreds of times before, from his lips and those that had come before his model. “I am a machine. Serial number 313 248 317 – 51.” A pause, a brief tilt of the head, the raising of brows. A facsimile of an earnest expression. It was a dare, the calling of a bluff. “I would not advise attacking me. I cannot feel pain, and you would only exhaust yourself.”
@Virga
