What would life as a bronzor be like?
That is the question to which one of the new arrivals at the guild is experiencing. This bronzor shyly "paces" to himself in an unassuming corner, levitating side to side. Lost in thoughts.
Made from unyielding, unfeeling metal. No taste. No smell. No need for sustenance. The entire body is his ear, possessing an uncanny perception to vibration. Bereft of organs, of breath, of heartbeats--only consciousness and light-sensitive convex lenses resembling eyes remain. A floating, unusable mirror. Not that anyone could tell that that's what he was supposed to be under the rust. Nothing but a floating tile.
How can such a state not lead anyone to madness? There were upsides. Psychically gifted, an ever-present extrasensorial field stretches many feet away from him as an invisible bubble. This works as a makeshift sense of touch in lieu of nerves and limbs. Through this limited omnidirectional space, nigh omniscient to human sensibilities, he experiences pain and pleasure in terms too alien for anyone but him to comprehend. Within its radius, objects are much easier to levitate.
The kinetic field is tickled. Despite the arrival facing the bronzor's back, the latter knows someone has taken a keen interest on him.
"Ain't those eyes cute," a cyndaquil's voice rings through him. "My love quest sure leads me to strange places."
The bronzor had turned around. He's heard about this one. His reputation preceded him. But... is it really true?
"...excuse me?", Bronzor 'thinks' through a newly-formed psychic thread between him and the Cyndaquil.
"Whoa! That was you!? Interesting..." Cyndaquil notices out loud, rubbing his temple as if trying to rid himself of a headache. "So no mouth. I think I can make do, though..."
"What do you mean by that?" the psychic-type relays.
"Hoho, it means you're a very special one, darling." Cyndaquil chuckles naugtily, rubbing both paws. "Maybe we could talk about it over a cup of tea. I, ahhh, just in case swing both ways... if you're nice enough to me, that is~."
Bronzor did not need a two-way psychic throughput to determine that the rumors about Cyndaquil were indeed true. Part of him is disgusted, as any normal person would be. But... if Cyndaquil really does feel an attraction to him...
"Well... 'Cyndaquil'... you really like the way I look?", his question echoes in Cyndaquil's mind.
"Hm! I mean... hm... it's an acquired taste, though perhaps not..."
"As in, like like?"
"Ah, erm, YES! Like like! I like what you're thinking!"
"So Cyndaquil, does that mean you like..."
(...)
Cyndaquil is left so perplexed that he's actually blinking. His usual heuristics have not prepared him for a scenario like this. Though he quickly recovers:
"Well, Bronzy, um... I guess maybe not too much in that sense? I mean, maybe if there was some kind of consent going on, which is a little impossible... BUT! That just makes you sexier!"
"I heard enough," Bronzor says dejected, showing his back towards Cyndaquil and floating away.
"No, don't take this the wrong way!" Cyndaquil desperately clarifies. His words do not slow Bronzor's speed. "You're still a doll! O-Or a hunk! CLEAN and NOT SLUTTY! Call me LATER!"
Even someone like Cyndaquil is different. Everyone else is different.
All I wanted was to unwind that afternoon. Work had been a bitch and I was getting tense doing the one thing that was mine to do. Is that too much of a crime? I hate my sister so much.
The room had been a mess due to my insistence. I've yet to speak to her. My day is ruined and there is no walking back what I just did. Will she ever talk to me? Will she resent me? Or worse, laugh? God willing, I don't need anyone else knowing about it. So, with nothing else to do, keeping my phone's messages on seen, I will forever spend the rest of my life inside my room.
Computer turned on. Million tabs open, but I can manage. Not switching to Edge, sounds like a pain in the ass to move all my info there. And sitting down for hours, I ask myself...
...why did I have to reveal my secret to the online basket-weaving forum?
I feel terrible, but I did it anyway. Do I secretly crave the attention that giving my secret away gives to me? No... it's that they have to understand. Someone OUT there has to understand. Please. But they do nothing but mock me in text:
AHAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK
that's enough /v/ for the night,
Oh fuck this is good.
I DON'T EVEN HAVE AN APPROPRIATE REACTION IM JUST GONNA POST
I'm getting real mad now. I typed, solved the captcha, and sent to the voyeurs:
Just stop it, guys. Fucking hell. I already feel really weird about it, and I thought this would be the last place to be judgemental to me about it.
You faggots are into way more fucked up shit. The fucking irony.
Lots of replies. Lots of (You)s. Fuck that first guy in particular:
Nigga you have a thing for tile patterns, that is extremely abnormal. I don't even know how that could turn you on.
Bronzor takes a look in the mirror. Himself being a floating, unusable mirror. Not that anyone could tell that that's what he was supposed to be under the rust.
Nothing but a floating tile.
"God must be busting a gut over this one, I'm sure."