the glare ares shoots at vera could wither plants and set houses on fire, but luckily for her, she has no eyes to see it, only sensors to understand words and situations happening around her, but that doesn’t stop ares from his sneer, the darkening haze of his atmosphere sharpening to wishful thoughts about crushing her casing to smithereens, despite how attached gael is to her. at the moment, that’s the only thing that keeps ares in check, keeps him from catapulting across the room destroying the mouthy, sass-appliance that’s always acting like a thorn in his side, a prick in the conversation. ares wishes gael would either turn her off whenever he’s around, or move her to a different room, but it seems gael would rather her hovering presence for moments like these, when he needs backup for his confusing, nonsensical ideologies.
but then ares is focusing back on gael, pitch black eyes pinned to the human like knife blades through his lashes, his brow furrowed and lowered slightly, to increase his own incredulous stance and expression, to give the mechanic a hint of how ridiculous he’s being right now about this. sure, protos had personalities and some of them were even growing consciousnesses, but at the end of the day, at the heart of it all, each proto had been designed for something and it wasn’t anything they could hide from, anything they could shirk away from, ignore entirely, disregard; it’s not like they can be anything other than what they are, and what they really are, is machines, mechanical, iron and oil and rust and purpose, and gael isn’t doing them any favors by pretending otherwise.
but it’s not until the washing machine comment that ares truly begins to understand the depths of gael’s delusions regarding this, whether he believes in life and souls in a proto or not, his righteous indignation brimming to the surface in a way that coils ares’s features into a hint of a snarl, his head tilting animalistically, the anger coming to a simmering boil behind his irises. “gael, what the hell do you think i am? what do you think i’m made of?” it’s all nice and good to imagine sometimes that ares was created from flesh and bones, that he’s a match to the humanity plaguing the planet around them, mix with them, toy with them, engross himself in their problems and situations, but gael has seen the insides of ares’ body, seen the gears and circuit boards, the electricity running its current through his wiring; he can’t be this naive.
the proto side-steps away from echolas on the table, his eyes still stuck on the mechanic before him, all folded arms and misguided morals, and something dangerous uncoils inside his ribcage, a thunderstorm bolstering along the edges of his lungs, a darkness seeping out from the corners of his body. “i call him a washing machine because he was a hyperion scavenger, a cleaner, a bottom feeder, one of those shiny, pretty models they send out into the wilderness to destroy unregistered mongrels like me, steal the scraps from our bones, from our grasps, take the trash for themselves,” he takes another step, almost circling the human now, the way a wolvern would around prey, “and if i had been just another washing machine, or a toaster oven proto, or a glorified security system with arms and legs, it’d be me on that table, twitching and humming.”
a beat passes, ares’ words laced in poison, his eyes wide with intensity and finality, and he takes a step forward this time, a long stride, bringing their atmospheres to a tight crushing weight, as though gravity is being pressed down upon in this exact spot, and ares tries to keep his tone to a hinting growl but with each word, his frustration builds and his voice grows louder. “but i’m not a washing machine like him, i’m what you’d call a death trap; still a fancy gadget, but made from all the pieces and fragments of other protos i’ve fought, molded from guns and knives and weapons and supplies i took from them, stuff i had to take from them to survive, do you get it?! that’s how i was created, that’s what i was made for! i’m a war machine, gael! they stripped me of whatever purpose i may have had before and programmed me to aggression, so i’d fight and kill for them! you know this, you can’t get all sanctimonious on me now!”
for a moment, he has to hiss in air through clenched teeth, his eyes shifting down towards the broken proto in hatred, in disgust– of himself, of his lineage, of what humans themselves made him into, made all protos into, just so they could cross their arms and judge them for it. because it’s not like he’s ever had a choice in the matter, it’s not like he decided to be created this way, and it’s not as though he can ever change. he is a machine, and with his own words come a hopeless, itching realization, a question that suddenly flares to life inside his head: what the hell is he even doing here? why is he even explaining this to gael, to this human mechanic whose heart is bigger than his fucking brain? this is fucking pointless.
“shit. nevermind alright, i’ll just take it somewhere else, where i don’t have to put up with another human’s hypocritical, mushy bullshit.”
he burns at ares words, he sinks and smolders, resolve hardening and a hysteria rising in his throat, an indigence. he feels hot all at once, a bubbling anger and frustration so strong he feels it pricking at the back of his eyes, welling in his chest and face, and while he hates that it’s bringing him to tears, hates that his bodies betraying him and proving ares’ comments, hates that he’s so soft and so human, so visibly weak, it somehow also strengthens the argument in him, face drawing together. he tries to keep a tremble out of his voice, a noise of opposition in his throat. "don’t you dare call me a hypocrite when i do everything you ask me to and i never ask for anything back except for just a sliver of respect! don’t you dare talk down to me like that!”
his hands shake a little, a quiver in his expression as he tries to stand his ground against the glare, the intensity of ares’ face, ignoring the instant shock of fear he feels at being circled and ridiculed, calmed by only his trust, no matter how misplaced, in the fact that ares wouldn’t really hurt him no matter how angry he makes him. he believes it because he needs it to be true, because his trust in ares is one of the only things that keeps him from being lonely, from feeling empty when all other things come to pass and fall to shit. it’s not consistent nor is it something that he feels promised to on a day to day basis, but when he has it, he holds onto it, relishes it, and right now, he hopes that it holds, he tells himself he’s safe, and more so, that ares is wrong.
"i know very well what you are, ares, i know what you’re made of, i’m not saying you’re a human because you’re not. i know the inside of you better than the back of my hand, i know you aren’t human, but what makes me different is that i don’t think you being a proto is an excuse for anything.” he says with difficultly, building distress coming clear, almost impossible to hide as he was never someone well versed in hiding his emotions, something ares was good at taking advantage of, skilled at ripping out of him in all forms.
in one part, he’s angry, he’s furious and bitter at ares’ comments, but the bigger part of him is just upset. he’s hurt, brain reeling at the way he’s being spoken to, like a child, like he’s replaceable and ignorant, like his lack of arrogance makes him small. it stings, the realization that comes with how little ares actually understands him, how little he respects him and his wishes. he feels used, of course, the threat to storm off hanging in the air, the stab of pain that comes with ares’ insistence of going somewhere else, of leaving him so easily.
“you know how i see you, you know how i feel, and if you don’t like it then why are you here? why do you keep coming back? you’re the hypocrite, not me, you’re fine with me seeing you as a person and treating you like one when it’s convenient for you, when i’m telling you i miss you and that i care for you -- it’s okay for you to be treated like a person until its time for you to take responsibility for yourself! you’re the one doing this! you think you can't help yourself, you think you’re doomed, and i think you aren’t, i care about you and you know i do, and i’m not going to apologize for that! if you don’t want that then leave! if you want a mechanic who doesn’t give a shit about you then feel free to go find them, because i’m not gunna treat you like just a fucking machine no matter how much you think i should, i just wont. don't act like this is new!"
“if you really think that way, and you’re just a deathtrap and you’re just here because you’re too lazy to find someone else then, yeah, go ahead, get out of my shop, but just stop messing with me if you do! stop coming over and having fun poking around at all the human parts of me you like and getting mad at me for the parts you don’t!” his voice isn’t even nor is low, raising to full hysteria, choked tears beginning to break through, face red in a way that’s familiar but different, not a blush but a deterrence. “have someone else bring you back from the dead and clean your systems and sit up for forty eight hours to fix the damages you get from picking fights in the wasteland and crawl into their bed at night, see if they’ll let you, see if anyone will do half the things i do for you.” he chokes on it, shoulders shaking and face wet, resolve weakening by the second, voice suddenly hollow and tired and pained, “you don’t get to treat me like i’m replaceable.”
and then it’s over, defiant and breathless, he pulls himself out of it slowly, starting with his lungs and then reaching to his face, closed off and hurt, because ares isn’t going to get it no matter how much he repeats himself, because ares doesn’t understand, and because, above all, it seems that ares really doesn’t care.
he sucks in a breath, turning his back on the proto, hands pressing to his work desk and his head down, chest heaving and a palm coming to wipe across his face harshly, trying to collect himself, trying to redeem his breakdown as quickly as it happened, voice still cracked and angry, but worn out, shoulders still shaking slightly. “if you’re staying, i’m just asking you already bring me things that are already terminated by the time they get in here, and if you’re leaving then just get out and take that with you. and don’t come back tonight.”