gorobo | Memory Tape: Goro's Capture

CW: Death, blood, dehumanization.

Static gives away to a shaking camera following a harried robot as he runs through what looks to be a countryside town. Goro, the anti-shadow suppression weapon, looks like he’s got the devil on his heels. He’s not in disguise, and it is dark, but it is not the dark hour. He passes by a local pharmacy, and on the sign the date flashes by; May 23, 2013,

Perhaps he does have the devil on his heels; the footage skips a little, and what appears to be a few minutes later, men in uniforms pass by the same pharmacy he just did. They appear to be carrying something like a gun, but it’s not quite that. They look, to an outsider, like they must be on official business. One of them curses audibly as they all look around.

“Where’d that rowdy thing go?” one of them hisses, emphasis on thing, before another one waves and points into the direction Goro ran off to. They’re quick to follow.

The camera goes back to Goro, as he skids to a halt nearby a group of screaming people running away from a building, hurriedly looking around for something. Someone? He looks horrified, scared, sirens blaring and gunshots sounding as people run. There are police vehicles, parked outside what, upon closer inspection, appears to be a bathhouse; the battleground of a shootout between two gangs, and the police trying to gain control of the situation. There’s dead bodies on the ground, people shouting, and general chaos.

Goro’s face hardens in determination when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, dashing past the police, who try to stop him, not quite realizing what he is, and likely too busy to really care. While some of the gang members shout out threats as he approaches, there’s a subtle change in demeanor from some of them as he rushes past anyway, and into the building, knocking aside those who are in his way. There’s a nod from one of them, and another one pulls out the same gun-looking thing as the costumed men earlier. Goro, however, has not noticed any of this, running deeper into the bathhouse, skidding into the women’s side. There are dead bodies, but he appears to have no time for anything more than a glance, the panic on his face intensifying. His lips tremble as he pushes into the actual bathing area, and-

It's a bloodbath. The steaming water is dyed a horrifying pink, the surprised guests shot at their most vulnerable. Death permeates the room. It’s a massacre.

And there, draped over the side of the bath, her body limp and blood dripping on the floor from her hand, lays a certain brown-haired woman. The same brown hair as Goro’s, and his entire face crumples in disbelief.

“No- nonono-“

He rushes over, falling to his knees, his pristine black-and-white mesh getting covered in blood as he lifts her out of the bath, trying to shake her awake. It’s no use, of course; bullet wounds riddle her naked body, and her eyes are open, yet unseeing. There is no life left in her.

She’s dead.

“M-mom-“ he stammers, “please- please no, wake up- please-“

She doesn’t. His face crumples some more, a wail leaving his lips. If he could cry, he clearly would be, hovering over the corpse of his mother, oh-so-human grief clear in both his body language and expression. He lets out noises similar to sobs, but nothing drops from his eyes.

It all abruptly comes to an end when something impacts him, causing his entire body to seize, visible arcs of electricity sparking from everywhere. He makes a glitchy, distressed noise, but it’s unclear if he’s actually aware of himself doing so, because soon, his eyes go dull, and he slumps over, smoke rising from the cracks in his mesh, his mouth, and his nose. His eyes twitch a little, but he doesn’t move anymore.

The men in uniforms, alongside the gang member, walk up to the smoking body. One of them fishes out a phone as they unceremoniously pull Goro off the body of his mother, one of them grumbling how the bitch should’ve just handed the tincan over when she had the chance. Could’ve just built another one, if she cared so much.

“Cargo acquired,” the man speaks into the phone, “time to move on.”

The tape fades to black as someone complains about how much effort that was for one single weapon.