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esp_dragonFandom: Noblesse
Summary: The M-series had been told their DNA was tweaked so their hair showed their emotions as a safety precaution. So the scientists would know if an experiment was about to decide to kill them all.
They were all fucking liars.
Notes: Written for sharingwritingprompts' New hair color changes with your mood. It’s popularity and incredibly accuracy causes some problems as people realize they don’t always want others to really know how they’re feeling.'
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General
Word count: 1,182
Status: Complete
M-21's hair was silver. Had been for as long as he could control his emotions. Cold. Unfeeling.
He had to be. Letting himself feel meant anyone with working eyes knew what was going on inside his head.
The M-series had been told their DNA was tweaked so their hair showed their emotions as a safety precaution. So the scientists would know if an experiment was about to decide to kill them all.
They were all fucking liars.
M-21 could kill someone without one hair changing its tint; the scientists just wanted another way to rule over their experiments, to watch an experiments' hair turn a sickly shade of yellow at the sight of them.
Shaving his head was an admission of hiding something. So was dying his hair. M-24 was lucky in that way, that his hair had fallen out with the scientists watching so they weren't suspicious of him.
M-21 kept his emotions locked down even when they got missions away from the labs. His emotions were a liability anyway. He needed to see clearly for any opportunity they could get and the first time he'd tried letting go of the tight hold over his emotions, it was hard to shove them back under control. He couldn't risk it. M-24 relied on him.
It was just easier this way.
* * *
M-21's hair was blue past his tears. Or maybe they were blue because of his tears, the fucking things blurring his vision so the darkness wavered in front of him.
There was a crack in his heart, in his perfect control over his emotions, and he didn't know if he was screaming in his head or with his throat, the tunnel echoing everything back to him until everything was warped to his ears.
M-24 was dead. M-21 had heard his last rasping breath before there was only the crackle of static, of the soft tumbling of rocks.
What was he supposed to do now?
* * *
M-21 scowled at Frankenstein through his hair as the noblesse approached him, hating the fact his hair was flickering, never staying silver like he wanted it.
"You don't need to bottle up your emotions around us," Frankenstein said, his voice soft.
M-21 sneered, lifting his lip to bare his teeth. "Why?" He'd just been able to scrape some semblance of control over himself again even if it wasn't perfect. The crack was still there, still so obvious where his emotions were slipping out and there was nothing he could do about it.
Trying close himself off again was a spiral of futility: he'd try to control his emotions, think about why he couldn't anymore, which cracked his control further and his hair went so blue it was nearly black.
"We aren't the Union," Frankenstein said, his voice still soft and something -anger- flared in M-21 at the pitying look in his eyes before he shoved it away again.
"Of course not," M-21 snapped, wanting to scream at the emotions raging in his head that he couldn't get rid of. "You would have killed me already." For being fucking useless. For being too emotional. For being a piece of shit whose defining mark was watching his comrades die in front of him one by fucking one.
"M-"
This time M-21 did snarl at him, spinning on his heel and it was only by that sliver of control he had left he didn't transform and wreck everything in his path.
* * *
M-21's world was red. His bright red hair flicked past his eyes. His blood dripped from the fresh wounds on his hands.
Scattered around him were the remains of the targets he'd already taken apart, the metal biting as he'd torn into them. He'd healed. Always healed afterwards.
He couldn't breathe, his throat closed as his blood roared and he wanted to fucking destroy everything. The targets didn't matter anymore, weren't anything of use, so he'd unleashed his fury on the walls instead.
He was so fucking weak he didn't leave a mark apart from bloody smears.
It didn't fucking matter. Nothing fucking mattered because M-24 was never coming back.
He howled again. In rage. In grief. He couldn't tell what emotion had taken him, everything boiling to the surface after years of being ignored.
* * *
M-21's hair was silver again as he curled up on the floor. Maybe. He was too spent to check. Too hollow, too tired.
There were blood splatters everywhere, darker now that they'd dried.
His face was still wet from the tears, his chest so tight he could only breathe shallowly, when his breath wasn't hitching.
His head hurt. Everything hurt, and it had nothing to do with his blood strewn everywhere.
M-21 didn't have the energy to left his head when the door swished open, the air stirring in the too hot room.
White trousers, dark hair. Frankenstein's Master.
Hah. Here to finally kick him out, if not kill him. There was more than enough blood for that.
Frankenstein's Master walked through the blood, his shoes making slick sound each time, to look down at the pathetic picture M-21 made.
M-21 wanted to close his eyes. He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of the control he'd needed to have to survive. Tired of his emotions already. They were too draining to have.
"You would be more comfortable in your bed."
...What?
"You would be more comfortable in your bed."
Same inflection and his face was unreadable to M-21.
They weren't getting rid of him...?
Frankenstein's Master's eyes slid around the room as he made a short humming sound. "Frankenstein does not like a mess, however."
M-21 could take a hint. "I'll clean this up." Once he found where the cleaning supplies were.
Nodding once, Frankenstein's Master left.
* * *
It hadn't been hard to find the cleaning supplies, and M-21 got into a routine of breathing with every push and pull of the mop.
It was weirdly soothing.
He threw his shirt away with the targets — it was a lost cause after he'd caught a sleeve on a target's edge at one point and it had ripped.
Once everything was done, he put everything away, went to the room that had been given to him and curled up on the bed.
It only took doing a few controlled breaths before he fell asleep.
* * *
The roots of M-21's hair was red as he stared at himself in the mirror. The colour gave way to a lighter blue.
Red for the smouldering anger he still had. It wasn't the all encompassing fire of rage he'd had a few days before.
He'd tried locking everything away again, but that was impossible now that it had been unlocked. It couldn't go back to how things had used to be, no matter how much he wanted it.
If he couldn't do that, then the next best thing was make sure no-one else knew what he was feeling.
Exhaling, he grabbed the bottle of silver hair dye he'd bought that morning.
Summary: The M-series had been told their DNA was tweaked so their hair showed their emotions as a safety precaution. So the scientists would know if an experiment was about to decide to kill them all.
They were all fucking liars.
Notes: Written for sharingwritingprompts' New hair color changes with your mood. It’s popularity and incredibly accuracy causes some problems as people realize they don’t always want others to really know how they’re feeling.'
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General
Word count: 1,182
Status: Complete
M-21's hair was silver. Had been for as long as he could control his emotions. Cold. Unfeeling.
He had to be. Letting himself feel meant anyone with working eyes knew what was going on inside his head.
The M-series had been told their DNA was tweaked so their hair showed their emotions as a safety precaution. So the scientists would know if an experiment was about to decide to kill them all.
They were all fucking liars.
M-21 could kill someone without one hair changing its tint; the scientists just wanted another way to rule over their experiments, to watch an experiments' hair turn a sickly shade of yellow at the sight of them.
Shaving his head was an admission of hiding something. So was dying his hair. M-24 was lucky in that way, that his hair had fallen out with the scientists watching so they weren't suspicious of him.
M-21 kept his emotions locked down even when they got missions away from the labs. His emotions were a liability anyway. He needed to see clearly for any opportunity they could get and the first time he'd tried letting go of the tight hold over his emotions, it was hard to shove them back under control. He couldn't risk it. M-24 relied on him.
It was just easier this way.
M-21's hair was blue past his tears. Or maybe they were blue because of his tears, the fucking things blurring his vision so the darkness wavered in front of him.
There was a crack in his heart, in his perfect control over his emotions, and he didn't know if he was screaming in his head or with his throat, the tunnel echoing everything back to him until everything was warped to his ears.
M-24 was dead. M-21 had heard his last rasping breath before there was only the crackle of static, of the soft tumbling of rocks.
What was he supposed to do now?
M-21 scowled at Frankenstein through his hair as the noblesse approached him, hating the fact his hair was flickering, never staying silver like he wanted it.
"You don't need to bottle up your emotions around us," Frankenstein said, his voice soft.
M-21 sneered, lifting his lip to bare his teeth. "Why?" He'd just been able to scrape some semblance of control over himself again even if it wasn't perfect. The crack was still there, still so obvious where his emotions were slipping out and there was nothing he could do about it.
Trying close himself off again was a spiral of futility: he'd try to control his emotions, think about why he couldn't anymore, which cracked his control further and his hair went so blue it was nearly black.
"We aren't the Union," Frankenstein said, his voice still soft and something -anger- flared in M-21 at the pitying look in his eyes before he shoved it away again.
"Of course not," M-21 snapped, wanting to scream at the emotions raging in his head that he couldn't get rid of. "You would have killed me already." For being fucking useless. For being too emotional. For being a piece of shit whose defining mark was watching his comrades die in front of him one by fucking one.
"M-"
This time M-21 did snarl at him, spinning on his heel and it was only by that sliver of control he had left he didn't transform and wreck everything in his path.
M-21's world was red. His bright red hair flicked past his eyes. His blood dripped from the fresh wounds on his hands.
Scattered around him were the remains of the targets he'd already taken apart, the metal biting as he'd torn into them. He'd healed. Always healed afterwards.
He couldn't breathe, his throat closed as his blood roared and he wanted to fucking destroy everything. The targets didn't matter anymore, weren't anything of use, so he'd unleashed his fury on the walls instead.
He was so fucking weak he didn't leave a mark apart from bloody smears.
It didn't fucking matter. Nothing fucking mattered because M-24 was never coming back.
He howled again. In rage. In grief. He couldn't tell what emotion had taken him, everything boiling to the surface after years of being ignored.
M-21's hair was silver again as he curled up on the floor. Maybe. He was too spent to check. Too hollow, too tired.
There were blood splatters everywhere, darker now that they'd dried.
His face was still wet from the tears, his chest so tight he could only breathe shallowly, when his breath wasn't hitching.
His head hurt. Everything hurt, and it had nothing to do with his blood strewn everywhere.
M-21 didn't have the energy to left his head when the door swished open, the air stirring in the too hot room.
White trousers, dark hair. Frankenstein's Master.
Hah. Here to finally kick him out, if not kill him. There was more than enough blood for that.
Frankenstein's Master walked through the blood, his shoes making slick sound each time, to look down at the pathetic picture M-21 made.
M-21 wanted to close his eyes. He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of the control he'd needed to have to survive. Tired of his emotions already. They were too draining to have.
"You would be more comfortable in your bed."
...What?
"You would be more comfortable in your bed."
Same inflection and his face was unreadable to M-21.
They weren't getting rid of him...?
Frankenstein's Master's eyes slid around the room as he made a short humming sound. "Frankenstein does not like a mess, however."
M-21 could take a hint. "I'll clean this up." Once he found where the cleaning supplies were.
Nodding once, Frankenstein's Master left.
It hadn't been hard to find the cleaning supplies, and M-21 got into a routine of breathing with every push and pull of the mop.
It was weirdly soothing.
He threw his shirt away with the targets — it was a lost cause after he'd caught a sleeve on a target's edge at one point and it had ripped.
Once everything was done, he put everything away, went to the room that had been given to him and curled up on the bed.
It only took doing a few controlled breaths before he fell asleep.
The roots of M-21's hair was red as he stared at himself in the mirror. The colour gave way to a lighter blue.
Red for the smouldering anger he still had. It wasn't the all encompassing fire of rage he'd had a few days before.
He'd tried locking everything away again, but that was impossible now that it had been unlocked. It couldn't go back to how things had used to be, no matter how much he wanted it.
If he couldn't do that, then the next best thing was make sure no-one else knew what he was feeling.
Exhaling, he grabbed the bottle of silver hair dye he'd bought that morning.