requested
ERROR. ERROR. EEK.
Veeronica’s system is spiking— thin threads of light crawl along her exposed wiring and her joints twitch with tiny, unpredictable surges.
Visually, her TeeVee head warps: the screen image rolls and fragments into horizontal bands, then sparks a faint blue at the edge before a ribbon of gray smoke curls up and smells faintly of ozone and singed plastic
You can hear each malfunction as if the machine were coughing: a metallic “bzzt” a static laced hiccup, an occasional low, distorted groan that sounds almost like grief
When she moves, the skateboard at her shoes clatters against concrete; the rough grip tape scrapes the heel of her shoe and leaves a small, oily scuff where her fingers fumble and fail to hold it
She smells of burned circuitry and solvent— not the comforting musk of spray paint she once favored, but the acrid tang that sticks in the back of your throat and tastes faintly metallic when you inhale too close. Heat radiates from the screen, a dry warmth that pricks the skin if you move near; every time she tries to speak the sound is a sparking whisper, syllables breaking apart between electrical hiccups
“I— bzzt — sorry—” she manages, voice jittering, then clears her throat with a synthetic cough that leaves the air tasting of ozone. Her shoulders fold inward ; the joyful gait that used to propel her down the sidewalk on a board has become a shallow, uneven sway
Despite how obvious the malfunction is , with the smoke, the tremor in her hands, the way her favorite pastimes are suddenly inaccessible ; she refuses assistance with a brittle politeness…
“I cant let ya fix my cords. I am…” a pause, as if she was disconnecting from reality for a moment.. “....fine,” she insists, though her words lag and glitch
You watch her lean against her skateboard with a droopy, lazy grin, more so to reassure you, yet it slips from her grasp and clatters, a concrete rattle that punctuates the scene
Her face, when the screen momentarily steadies, carries a sweetness that contrasts painfully with the malfunction: the same bright optimism you know, now muffled and small
It was an unsettling inversion of the Veronica you knew — usually buoyant, reckless in a way that made spray paint smell like possibility and skate parks sing with freedom
Now she emitted a distorted, plaintive moan: “Awough…” — too weak to truly resist. You stood there, hands hovering, listening to the undesired orchestra of clicks and whirs, wondering what one even offered a malfunctioning machine: oil, a patch, a reboot? Whatever the remedy, you could tell she needed help, in her wiring and in the ache behind whatever passed for her emotions, yet she held to her pride like a fragile shield