Work Text:
Regardless of how hard he scrubbed the corpse's rubbery skin, the gore caking its arms refused to be washed away so easily.
If you want something done right, do it yourself, yes, and he couldn't have possibly counted on his more bestial other half knowing how to do any of what he was about to do, but with the mess that lied ahead of him Gortash wished that just maybe, he could avoid getting his hands dirty. At least the body wasn't brutalized this time or crawling with fat, healthy maggots. Although did Durge really have to slobber all over it and cover it in.. Never-mind, no matter.
Gortash was delivered a — relatively given the circumstances — fresh cadaver to work with, mostly intact and, more importantly, lacking any blunt force trauma to the head. A brain in perfect working order, save for the whole, you know, lack of oxygen brain death thing. A minor setback, really. Was it an elf? The exacts didn't matter — its corpse bloated all the same, tiny droplets of blood leaking from its nose and pointed ears staining its leathery off-gray skin. It reminded him of spoiling food, especially so given the familiar, subtle smell of decay that made his nose wrinkle. Nothing's new.
The last dozen attempts to produce a self-sufficient auto-guard, a Watcher he'd dubbed it as — it had a nice ring to it — the first of its kind, had been entirely fruitless. At some point during the process, something would go wrong. The brain would be irrecoverable, the tadpole wouldn't take, he would solve one problem, but oh, two more reared their heads in its place! This, then that, it was always something. Not to mention stupid stupid fickle Myrkulite magics, what the fuck had the haggardly old man even been on about?
But,
It would be worth it. Not all his hard work would be a waste in the end. The scrap lying around from failed iterations could certainly be reused.
With the body cleanly enough to work on, Gortash rolled the table behind him as he went along to what would soon become the assembly line. It was barren for the moment though brimming with laden potential — it was frankly a mess, papers depicting outmoded models scattered all across the floor turned to a dingy color from the dried blood and rust speckling the floor, the plethora of sheet metal littered on the ground from failed attempts, the once-sleek black metal beneath his feet had blended into a nasty mosaic of color, neglect stemming from it serving as a shoddy area for experiments. The building of a Watcher would be the easiest done here for the time being — the more delicate psionic components just nearby along with the metal husk the body before him would soon inhabit. He'd.. "clean it up", before the Gondians moved in. It was convenient for him to do the building by hand — he wouldn't trust the rascals not to sabotage him despite his playing nice for now — though it was unsustainable in the long-term. The little gnomes would most certainly hate it here!
Gortash gave a double-check tug to each of the restraints spanning across the table. It wouldn't do to have an incident much like last time's. He'd electrocuted it too soon with too much of a charge, the blasted corpse not taking to its re-situated brain properly — and while it lead him to discover the jerry-rigged control centre was mis-calibrated and had a few cards punched wrongly — it wasn't a very pleasant way to start the work day with how it sprung right up off the table, swinging wildly for something in its disturbance of lacking any head, only to fall on the floor and crawl pathetically until it had been gifted mercy. Poor thing ruined his freshly shined shoes.
Grabbing an angled bone-saw Gortash carefully sat himself upon his newest experiment to not stumble over the long apron he wore, nearly straddling the cold elf's backside though in more of a kneeling position to get a steady grip on the back of its head. Curiously, the ends of its hair looked as if it had been lopped off in a rush — what was left of it was incredibly soft and he couldn't help but wonder if it was repurposed for some sort of woven article.
Gortash palpated up its spine in search of the optimal vertebrae to cut above. Too low and there is too much excess neck to fit into the jar, requiring a trim, which risked further damaging the specimen. Too high and well you might as well be butchering the damn thing with the amount of force required to snap through the thicker bone — potentially making it unusable. Between the second and the above third vertebrae of the neck would be optimal, according to his notes.
With his saw lined up properly he leaned forward, scoring into its flesh a small mark to aid the saw's trajectory downwards. And with a deep breath, Gortash put all of his body weight onto the back of his tool — a sickening crunch echoed in the space around him as the saw dug into its neck, it sounded similar to snapping a bunch of celery or chopping carrots, how crisp they were. Blood started to pool and congregate on the table, which slowly seeped into his trousers, dingy brown turning more of a dark mahogany color. It gave him a little give now, with a wiggle of the saw, but he needed more — only halfway through, if he had to guess?
Gortash pressed down with significant force again. Only a few cuts in and he could feel the faint inklings of ache in his arms with how much pressure he was exerting onto its spinal column. It wouldn't equal a ruined corpse if the cut weren't clean, although there was little need for sloppy work. Though it wouldn't budge the rest of the way, not easily with how his saw began to slip and slide in the gore. Perhaps a more apt mind would deem the mess the 'fruits of its labor'.
So he tried again. And again, and again and again with out-of-breath growls in what little downtime he gave himself between his attempts to force through the bone.
Something always had to go wrong, didn't it? The bone was too tough to saw through or the saw too dull. The prototype of the 'neurocitor' as he called it wouldn't do its damn job, the body too mangled to do any good inside a Watcher, or worse yet the tadpoles in which he had a very very fucking scarce supply of would have some sort of dysfunction to them. Gortash was loath to have to obtain more if things continue down this path — but damn it if he could just get one functional sentinel, if he could prove that the amalgamation of technologies worked as well as they did on paper, the tadpole problem became near irrelevant. He could move onto more pressing matters knowing it wouldn't be for naught with the sentinels being capable of running smoothly — such as the whole automating the automatons thing, what a headache. Didn't mean wouldn't still dread having to procure the worms en mass, though. At least there would be little wastage at that point.
The smell of iron flooded Gortash's senses and for a moment he thought he was seeing red other than the blood drip drip dripping onto the floor — it mingled with the sickly sweet smell of subtle-rot which seemed to permeate this small area of the foundry. How awful the stink. It always seemed to follow him out. The question of what it was that one smelled was particularly challenging to answer. Some idiot believed it when he said that it was some top-of-the-line imported fragrance. One last forceful chop to the bone with a grunt and Gortash finally snapped through its neck, all resistance from it fading away as he cut past its bone, its head popping off its body like butter with a wet, meaty sound. It was severed nicely and even if a bit angular, with the muscles in its neck extending out just so and laying limp against the flesh like wet pasta.
Right. Moving on. The body could be left to drain for a little whilst he dealt with the brain, arguably the easiest though most important step in the process best tackled before arguably the most delicate and tedious part of assembly, exactly why had he made the Watcher's insertion point its neck and not, say, a removable panel in the back? Considerations for later. It might even cut down on the total weight, depending.
Gortash, carefully to not slip, stepped down from the table, grabbing the head by the hair. Most of the blood within its head had since drained out, its deathly pallor only intensified by the loss of it as what was likely the last remains of its crimson slowly came down his arm like the last gasp of rain droplets from a storm. He grimaced as some of it got past his apron and onto his shirt. He'd just had it cleaned, and for what — at least red hardly stained black. After placing it securely in a vise, he snagged a tadpole from a jar on the nearby tray. Amusingly, Gortash noted, as he got a closer look at the poor thing, although dry and cracked, the pale grey-bluish hue of its lips highlighted the dull red bruises that dotted them and trailed off to the side towards the jaw. What of its eyes, though?
Bloodshot and wide, as if they looked upon something beautiful with an ugly rust colored stripe running through them. Mushy like an apple left out for too long. The tadpole held between his claws wriggled and wriggled, making its displeasure known at being so close to what it wanted — what it needed, the slimy creature flexed and seemed almost desperate to burrow into this one's head and call it home, what a pitiful existence, being driven only by instincts.
Had it ever had a home? It seemed all too pleased to latch onto the eyeball when presented it. The disgusting creature quickly got to work breaching the skull, its segments squishing down uncomfortably, the eyelid bulging in the process as bit by bit it wriggled in, appearing to grow smaller and smaller before disappearing entirely. The teeth on those things, so small, they must've felt like many hypodermic needles poking and prodding and gnawing and chewing as it burrowed deeper. Thinking about it, maybe it did not — there would be a contradiction in instincts if it were to have a suitable 'home' when its only purpose was to find a host, infect and corrupt it, reproduce, then die, birthing a mindflayer from its own wrinkly and moist flesh.
Hm, perhaps the middle-man of optical insertion could be cut out if the brain were to be cut out and contained independently. Though one must consider the spinal cord.. it still needs a little teensy tiny bit of it for optimal performance, no? From what little reading Gortash did do of the book so generously thrown at him by Ketheric, it touched on that very topic — to the Hells with it, he'd much rather do his own pioneering he got the gist of it. All the complications he'd been encountering were surely all the Myrkulites' fault.
Gortash freed the tadpoled head from the vise and carried it carefully towards to the cluttered tray between his arm and his body, feeling like how he imagined a proud parent should feel holding their only begotten son as he went
His hold on the head might've gotten a little tighter after that thought.
Definitely careful, his hold securing the head leaning against the table precarious at best, Gortash plucked four of the eight diodes and the hammer laying on the tray and hammered them into the skull a little harder than he needed to in supposedly random spots — the slightly muffled sounds of the skull cracking and fragmenting to fit the intrusions were reminiscent of a tooth cracking to expose the sensitive nerves hidden within. He imagined this pain would be rather agonizing, had this thing been any more alive oh it would certainly be wailing. How delightful — what a gift. Gortash avoided the back-most part of the head so as not to pierce the.. somatic-something cortex? It was important, this he knew.
After doing much of the same to the body itself albeit much less mindful about exact placements with the remaining four diodes, Gortash placed the head into a jar filled with fluid and a little something special to prevent ceremorphosis and wiped his hands on the back of his apron before jotting down his thought about de-braining — did it really matter if his penmanship was illegible if he could read it? Besides, it only added a layer of secrecy to it.
Perhaps it wasn't the wisest choice, keeping his many metal bangles on as he moved over to a machine he rigged up to serve as an impromptu lightning bolt spell with very questionable safety, starting to charge it up, pointing two of the discharge points towards the head and the empty Watcher, respectively. That, and it was right next to the Watcher's metal plating. Oops — although, it'd been fine before. It was more convenient than chaining up a wizard to a metal pole and keeping it fed, as entertaining as that would be to have a lab partner — one that wouldn't bite your finger off, at least.. probably.
Next, to put the body into the Watcher.
Rolling up his sleeves higher, Gortash unbound the body from the table, eying it suspiciously in case it were to say, walk off on its own or try to attack him or.. It did nothing of the sort, not even when he put a rather large clamp onto its neck where its head once was — much quicker than messing around with any 'medical' closure when a chunk of metal did its job well enough. The corpse went over his shoulder easy enough, likely in part to its headless, mostly bloodless state. Tough part was the climb up the ladder while keeping dead weight balanced, lest he end up with a cracked skull of his own. That'd be such a shame.
It was a little embarrassing how Gortash, slightly out of breath, panted not much unlike a dog on a hot day, admittedly it was a challenge to keep a good grip of a body about as slippery as a fish — with all the muscle control of one too. The hole at the top was inconveniently small for good reason, no need to have a needlessly wide entry point for debris to slip in but times like these had him rethinking things. Resting his head on the cool metal was a nice moment's reprieve, hair slightly sticking to his forehead from sweat and what blood and grime he'd gotten on his face. It gave Gortash back the stamina needed to toss the corpse up on top of the Watcher, that funny feeling of strain settling back in his arms as he tried to blindly feed the legs into the hole in a way which would facilitate contact between the diodes embedded into its flesh and the metal of its improved, perfect body.
Tedious. Arguably the worst part of the process.
Most important, though. What is a home with no one to "live" in it?
Everything was in place probably. Hypothetically, all that remained was the pull of a lever. Things were never that simple. The reason Gortash took his sweet time climbing down the ladder certainly was not dread, no, certainly not. And maybe there was something akin to uncertainty swirling around inside him — although accompanied by excitement — as his fingers wrapped around the lever, his hair standing up as he yanked it down. Gortash's eyes shut as a blinding light and a loud sound ripped through the room, only hoping that it hadn't fried the body inside the Watcher — the smell lingered for weeks. He gagged even thinking about it.
Gortash opened his eyes to much of nothing. No movement. But also, no explosions.
So he waited.
And waited. For a few minutes.
Still nothing. No, the waiting had to be the worst part. Did it work? What had gone wrong, what could he do differently next time? So many uncertainties. A slew of questions were floated and until he investigated, no answers were to be found. First order of business, check the 'neurocitor'. Something had to change if it was so consistently being a pain-point.
The short walk to the control centre felt too long and the foundry too quiet despite its near-constant state of tranquil thus far, anticipation bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin, Gortash was unsure if the manifestation of an electric feeling inside him was because of his wanting to fix whatever popped up this time or, quite literally, a bit of lightning. Claws come off next time.
Everything looked normal at a glance. The neurocitor didn't seem to be fried, nothing was loose or disconnected from it or the controlling interface — Gortash checked both twice over — and he didn't smell something burning nearby. The gentle thrum of something distinctly else around him was a sure enough sign everything was still on, so..
Gortash kicked the control interface and slammed his fist down on it. Then kicked it one more time, a little harder, for good measure. It was supposed to be motivating. "Come on you piece of shit. Work." It didn't seem to hear his grumbling.
Hm. It could've been a problem with the—
There was a loud crash and tumble that came from the assembly room. That was something new, that hadn't happened before. Gortash grabbed the portable input tool sitting just nearby just in case and made a mad dash back to the 'operating room'. It had moved.
And knocked over the tray of which he'd been operating out of for the past who-knows how long but the mess mattered little. It could be cleaned later the thing was alive. Alive! And stable seeming, not simply up for a moment down the next with no clear explanation as to what went wrong, genuinely a functional Watcher, his creation. Ignoring that of which he, not stole, but politely borrowed and graciously improved upon.
Gortash allowed himself a moment of awe, and to feel proud of his creation. Not born of his flesh or bone, but certainly his sweat and blood, the culmination of the best from every technology he could dig his claws into stood before him, glorious in its radiant, shiny armor. Blindingly bright as the future now was, what a beautiful jittery little thing, what a wonderful sound — the clanking of living metal against itself. He couldn't and wouldn't hold back his slightly crazed smile.
Not when he, with a hint of apprehension in his trembling hands, sent a signal for movement, and it did as it was told. The body communicated with its tadpoled brain properly, which was bound to the neurocitor exactly as it should be, and it interpreted external input as hoped. Exactly as it was on paper. The ground shook as it took its slow first steps, he could feel the rumble deep in his bones. He could tell it was heavy enough to kill someone with just one leg if stepped on and that wasn't even factoring in any munitions that it could be armed with. Gortash was giddy at the thought of it being able to toss him clear across the foundry if only it were to try.
It was not perfect. Gortash didn't need perfection for now — the transmitter was horribly inefficient, someone needed to control the Watcher at all times for it to function, but damn it this was workable. And it is in its new life as its pilot was in death, relatively headless, lacking a helmet. Matters for later. Gortash took a quick listen to its chest like a doctor, if not to check its health then for an excuse to run his clawed fingers along the metal to hear the grating sound. The engine ran and sounded perfect — as anticipated. A well-oiled machine. Simplest part of the thing, really. He picked up his notebook from the filthy floor, giving it a quick brush-off before darting off to the closest solid surface to make note of all the recent developments and findings.
Great. All that was needed was a form of intelligent input. Something to control an entire army of Watchers simultaneously, autonomously, exactly how he needed them to be.
However the fuck he'd be pulling that off.