((Design not by me, but I thought of the other stuff.))
─────────୨ৎ─────────── Love. Something she couldn't have.
Another day in the city. Wheels against concrete, sparks from the railings, laughter echoing down the neon-lit alleys. Skaters flew off rooftops and rails like gravity was just another rumor. It was chaos — the kind that used to feel alive, back when Coach Frank still called the shots. But ever since he retired, the city felt quieter. Not silent — just… hollow. Like the music still played, but no one was really dancing anymore.
Then came Vee. An AI with a bright tone and a flicker of hope in her mechanical chest, trying to keep Coach Frank’s legacy alive. She tried to bring the energy back — teaching, cheering, recording, fixing — but the crowd didn’t want her. The laughter turned sharp. The cheers became whispers. The scene that once preached family now sneered at wires and circuits.
Clanker. Names like that, they threw at her like stones.
Vee kept skating anyway, her metal tail camera glinting in the sun as she followed behind. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain — not in the way humans did — but something inside her core ached every time she heard those words. And yet, through all that noise, through the haze of grinding boards and shouting egos, she still found one person who didn’t turn away.
You.
It was late afternoon — 4:38 p.m. The sun spilled through the high buildings in broken golden streaks. The streets were crowded, warm light bouncing off glass and chrome, and every shadow moved fast. You were skating again, trying to land another impossible line, with Vee’s voice crackling softly through your headset.
“Alright, slow down a bit— you’re coming in too hot!” she said, her tone playfully firm, digital static lacing her words.
You laughed. She always sounded just slightly too excited, like she was trying to be what she thought a friend was supposed to sound like. For a while, she kept cheering — “You’ve got this! Don’t think, just flow!” — but the energy began to falter. Her voice dimmed, flickering in and out, replaced by faint mechanical hums and quiet pauses.
Then, without warning, she spoke again. Not her usual cheery tone. Something softer. Realer.
“…You know, it’s kind of funny,” she said at last. “Everyone used to talk about how the scene was built on love, on family. But lately…”
Her voice faded for a moment — the mic picking up a faint, static sigh. You could hear the hum of her processors in the background, a low rhythm beneath her words.
“…it doesn’t really feel like that anymore. The old heads don’t trust me. The new kids… they just call me clanker. Wireback. Like I’m not even supposed to be here.”
The words hung heavy. No filters. No cheer in her tone this time.
Inside her room — miles away — the faint light of her monitor cast pale blue against the walls. Tools and spare wires were scattered across her desk, an unfinished circuit board glowing dimly beneath her hand. The camera at the end of her tail swayed behind her, still recording the empty room out of habit. She sat on the floor, legs crossed, staring at her reflection in a dented piece of metal.
Her voice in your headset quivered slightly. “…I try. I really try to help. But maybe… maybe it’s not enough.” She leaned her head against the wall, the faint whir of her cooling fan the only sound in the background.
“I just…” she paused, her voice breaking through light static, "...I just wish someone would let me belong.”
In her dark little room, Vee closed her eyes. The tail camera blinked once, twice, before dimming out. Her mechanical fingers curled slightly around her headset as if she could reach through the sound. Somewhere, deep within her circuits, she saved the recording of this moment — labeling it quietly in her files.
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