Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Egomechanical ❯ Egomechanical ( Chapter 1 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Seto Kaibaman 
A reflection of self from the failing inner circuitry of a well-oiled machine. Such emotion is new to him. Origin unknown; does not compute. Please enter a new command.
Anime/Manga: Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Psychological / Drama | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 07.27.2012 | Updated On: 07.28.2012 | Pages: 1 | Words: 625 | Visits: 606 | Status: Completed
A reflection of self from the failing inner circuitry of a well-oiled machine. Such emotion is new to him. Origin unknown; does not compute. Please enter a new command.
Anime/Manga: Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Psychological / Drama | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 07.27.2012 | Updated On: 07.28.2012 | Pages: 1 | Words: 625 | Visits: 606 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I make no claim to Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters - they are property of Kazuki Takahashi and the crapload of companies that hold whatever licensing rights.
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He wished himself anything but the cleaning bot. His cogs had long since acquired the grit from a number of unclean affairs with man and devil, and would now not turn save for when indulging in the most poignant of whines and work-horse whinnies.
The girl is a well-maintained unit for which I will reserve some small amount of envy. By virtue of her unavoidably intimate relationship with the mutt, she is always clean, and her work produces delight and satiation in him. I am only noticed when I malfunction, an increasingly-frequent circumstance given the poorly-maintained nature of my parts and the dismal myopia with which I pursue my bleak and pathetic desire.
Chasing after dismal and erroneous concoctions of all possible kinds, he would maintain the lazy and hypothetical musings that settle over all who spend their time spending time. The more he cleaned, the less clean he became, and his intent came to mirror this so much that eventually it would be the physical foulness that would reflect from the more fundamental and true foulness of his inner circuits.
She was made to have it made, I'll tell you that right now. She elicits both joy and celebratory fluids from him, which is a privilege I can only hope to one day dream about during the sleep that I never get because of the mess she makes all day, draping herself over him and making herself so petulantly appealing to the lack-witted pervert of a man she has attached herself to. Oh, I just ripped the crotch of his favorite and thus always dirty jeans...
He will, without will of his own, turn the tracks that rest on yesterday's back. A curious chirp or perhaps a deep, deliberate stretch of attention for a seemingly clean deal is, for a time, all that will betray the non-routine rage rising in his subroutines.
His model is outdated, and the once-pristine-turned-rust mettle of his frame is faded beyond even his own ability to maintain. The shine of his sensors sulks under the hard-earned sediment of years of unfamiliar and heretofore undiscovered grime. He is a pitiful and marvelous little gem, worthy of much review in comparative branches of almost every scientific and philosophical discipline that has ever mattered.
Perhaps if I cultivate the correct bacteria over several months in the pit of my ineffectuality and insert it into her business hole while she is sleeping (which she won't even notice due to the frequency with which she fills it with anything she can devour with that hungry little princess pit, and even if she does, she will no doubt welcome the intrusion, no matter how perilously filthy), then the next time he makes to lie with that harpy, he will contract a very serious disease that is so difficult, painful, and time-consuming to be rid of that he will scrap the dirty little slut. Look, now I have mangled the dog repeatedly with my contempt. What a bloody mess.
He wished himself anything but the cleaning bot.
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A short piece written when I had nothing better to do. Yes, I know it has a lot of big words. I intended for it to be inhuman – even, heh, mechanical - in language, but I suppose it could come off as being more pretentious than anything else.
Thoughts and impressions are appreciated.
________________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________________ _________
He wished himself anything but the cleaning bot. His cogs had long since acquired the grit from a number of unclean affairs with man and devil, and would now not turn save for when indulging in the most poignant of whines and work-horse whinnies.
The girl is a well-maintained unit for which I will reserve some small amount of envy. By virtue of her unavoidably intimate relationship with the mutt, she is always clean, and her work produces delight and satiation in him. I am only noticed when I malfunction, an increasingly-frequent circumstance given the poorly-maintained nature of my parts and the dismal myopia with which I pursue my bleak and pathetic desire.
Chasing after dismal and erroneous concoctions of all possible kinds, he would maintain the lazy and hypothetical musings that settle over all who spend their time spending time. The more he cleaned, the less clean he became, and his intent came to mirror this so much that eventually it would be the physical foulness that would reflect from the more fundamental and true foulness of his inner circuits.
She was made to have it made, I'll tell you that right now. She elicits both joy and celebratory fluids from him, which is a privilege I can only hope to one day dream about during the sleep that I never get because of the mess she makes all day, draping herself over him and making herself so petulantly appealing to the lack-witted pervert of a man she has attached herself to. Oh, I just ripped the crotch of his favorite and thus always dirty jeans...
He will, without will of his own, turn the tracks that rest on yesterday's back. A curious chirp or perhaps a deep, deliberate stretch of attention for a seemingly clean deal is, for a time, all that will betray the non-routine rage rising in his subroutines.
His model is outdated, and the once-pristine-turned-rust mettle of his frame is faded beyond even his own ability to maintain. The shine of his sensors sulks under the hard-earned sediment of years of unfamiliar and heretofore undiscovered grime. He is a pitiful and marvelous little gem, worthy of much review in comparative branches of almost every scientific and philosophical discipline that has ever mattered.
Perhaps if I cultivate the correct bacteria over several months in the pit of my ineffectuality and insert it into her business hole while she is sleeping (which she won't even notice due to the frequency with which she fills it with anything she can devour with that hungry little princess pit, and even if she does, she will no doubt welcome the intrusion, no matter how perilously filthy), then the next time he makes to lie with that harpy, he will contract a very serious disease that is so difficult, painful, and time-consuming to be rid of that he will scrap the dirty little slut. Look, now I have mangled the dog repeatedly with my contempt. What a bloody mess.
He wished himself anything but the cleaning bot.
__________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________________ _______________________
A short piece written when I had nothing better to do. Yes, I know it has a lot of big words. I intended for it to be inhuman – even, heh, mechanical - in language, but I suppose it could come off as being more pretentious than anything else.
Thoughts and impressions are appreciated.