Future Week.

ma·chine  /məˈSHēn/ 1. Noun. An apparatus using or applying mechanical power to perform a particular task. 2.Verb. (esp. in manufacturing) Make or operate on with a machine: "a decoratively machined brass rod".

This old warehouse, once his base of operations, is now his entire world- for the one beyond should never see him again. A mirror within which he admired himself was shattered long ago, scattered asunder on the floor. A man once fully flesh and blood sits behind a rat-infested couch, shielding himself from the light peeking through the boarded windows. This man is dirty blonde- the dirty more so because of literal dirt within thick, untidy locks rather than pigment. His skin has likewise darkened with the time between the last time he dared step outside and now. Grime is smeared on his ratty clothes, consisting of a leather vest and boots; red and bloodied shirt; pants that likely used to be white. An American flag is tied to a small brass cross around his neck. God bless America.

This world is dark and cold. He can hardly feel it anymore, honestly- he's gotten far too accustomed with pain to complain when it courses through his veins. He should've been smarter. He should've gone to the hospital when that dreaded bullet destroyed the majority of the left side of his head. Organic material would respond better with other organic material far better than mechanics ever would. He shouldn't have fled and tried to fix the problem himself- it hurts. It always hurts, and his brain would eventually waste so many of its waves trying to make it work before his entire system just shut down. He couldn't face anyone like this. Not the public, not his worst enemies, not even dear Cyndia. God bless my beautiful baby sister.

But now it was far too late. He made his choice and it would only kill him to try and reverse it. Now almost half of his head- he had destroyed more than that had already been lost in trying to fix it- was mechanic. It looked and was terrible due to the rush job. He couldn't fix it without it hurting even more. The best he could do was make his machine half look more like his organic half in structure, but it didn't help much. It looked terrifying, as if one were looking at the his steel skull face with his living skin being stitched with scars. But his mouth worked, the optic that replaced his left eye worked. That was the best he could hope for. God damn me.

hu·man  /ˈ(h)yo͞omən/ 1. Adjective. Of, relating to, or characteristic of people or human beings. 2. Noun. A human being, esp. a person as distinguished from an animal or (in science fiction) an alien.

His face wasn't the only thing. Other accidents forced him to replace other parts of his body with metal. A few fingers. Part of his midriff. He hadn't eaten much- only by sheer luck were his organs still untouched, but he hadn't the guts to go out and get himself food. Just gathering the will to feed himself alcohol was a difficult task- which was a problem, as it was some of what fueled his mechanics. His depression, indeed, had taken over completely- Keith could gather no drive, no will to do any more than rot. Years ago he would've just kept going anyway- if only because he was given something to do. That something to do would eventually lead him to purpose, he believed, as the small trace of hope a sinful wretch like him had left. So much for that.

It wasn't worth it to care. He loved his sister but he wasn't there for most of her life. He tried to fix his own but he only made it worse. He even played a role in the lives of others which only pushed him down further. Well, fuck that. It was amazing he hadn't just driven another bullet in his skull- it was probably a better investment than the shitty machine parts. That said, a temporary death in the past taught him it might only make things even worse- how so, he didn't know. If anyone actually cared he would've been found by now. Some painkillers would be nice. Or weed. Or something that would have him loosen up for once, to not look like a decaying relic of a man.

He was only, what, 39? But he looked much older in his self-pity. He was damn sick of it, but there was nothing else he could do. Trying to do anything would just make everything hurt more than it needed to, and honestly, he'd given up. There was a singular reason why he'd lasted this long despite having the will to live of someone who'd been tortured light years past their breaking point. One unholy, bloodthirsty, hateful reason with a golden artifact caging his damned soul and the physical resemblance to a young adult. This was the only thing that kept his heart beating. God have mercy on that powerful son of a bitch.

cy·borg  /ˈsībôrg/ Noun. A fictional or hypothetical person whose physical abilities become superhuman by mechanical elements built into the body.

"Bakura," he croaks weakly, a dead blue eye and a flickering optic looking around for the white-haired demon that had been his only occasional company for the past several years. "Are you still here?"

(( I sort of went off an assumption here, if Erika has any better ideas I'll change this journal :'D ))