Chapter Text
When V1 had introduced Gabriel to the concept of the “Cybergrind”, he initially found it a little ridiculous. Machines pointlessly destroying each other in a frenzy of simulated bloodshed, all for nothing but score and fake currency. Not to mention the garish arena in which it partook, with rainbow lit floors, unrealistically colorful 2 dimensional cityscape, and gigantic neon scoreboard. Even the music that played over the battles was a bit much, with heavy guitars and roiling drums moving at speeds he was unaccustomed to.
And compiled upon even that, was the fact that when he was first introduced to it, V1 had not explained the concept of “respawning”. The sight of V1’s lightless and frame, crushed and torn asunder by boulders and lasers, had terrified Gabriel much more than he had cared to admit. And to find that the machine had done so by essentially playing a video game had been… mortifying, in many more ways than just one.
So he hadn’t exactly enjoyed his first times watching V1 “ENGAGE THE GRIND”, as it had said. Seeing hoards of minor hellspawn become puddles of gore at the various hands of the machine was nothing new to Gabriel - he had watched it do so extensively in reality, after all.
He thought it had all seemed… unnecessary. A waste of time. Pointless.
But witnessing V1 in this arena, a beacon of blue and bullets and blood staining the way-too colorful floors would yet again prove his previous thoughts wrong. As it has done many times now.
Gabriel is seated upon the edge of the fake elevator shaft, perfectly positioned to peer down at the blocky stage in which the Cybergrind took place. While it isn’t a perfect angle, and it’s a little far away, his enhanced vision more than made up the difference.
The machine is lost in its current rampage, mowing down foes of increasing difficulty with ease. It meticulously places its magnets on enemies and the simulated ground alike, creating borderline hypnotic spiraling storms of flaming tack. Masses of filth, strays, streetcleaners and drones trapped in the center of the magnet’s pull are pulverized into shrapnel and mist, turning the whirlwind of nails into a galaxy of crimson and gold.
It lures a stray Swordsmachine into the small ball of still-spinning nails, watching their legs get shredded before blowing up their chest with its twice-pumped shotgun. Once the yellow machine falls, V1 spins to headshot one remaining stray while parrying the other’s bullet back towards it. Cheers of the fake crowd echo across the space, another wave beginning to form as the scoreboard ticks up by one and the enemies fill in by the double dozen.
V1 was taking clear pleasure in ripping its enemies apart, limb from steely limb, absorbing the fake fuel just the same as in reality. Wings flaring, optic locked in an expression of sheer glee.
This alone wasn’t what gave Gabriel pause about its purpose here, no. Gabriel was enraptured by one fact of this particular killing streak.
V1 was doing all of this to the beat of the song playing overhead.
The machine was dancing.
It was clear in V1’s timing - it favored firing or jumping on specific measures of the song. Sliding during guitar riffs, jumping during drum breaks, even firing it’s revolver, shotgun, and rail cannon alternatively during off and on beats. Even though, objectively, this must have been negatively affecting its scores. It could have been more efficient, effective - but It was making a deliberate choice to only move and attack when the song permitted it.
Somehow, he had never considered that the machine would have had the capacity to dance before. And, granted, this wasn’t exactly a traditional dance; most dances didn’t end with everyone involved but one dead on the ground. But watching the fluidity and specificity of V1’s movements, it felt hard to call it anything else. It’s treating this whole “infinite waves of enemies, death and destruction” situation less like an arena and more like a dance floor.
It’s bloody, macabre. A yellow blazing streak of death, exploding metal and shattered stone. Definitely not something that should be described as beautiful.
Yet, it was. God, it was.
V1 was a weapon, yes. But it was so much more. It had the capacity to kill and maim. To move, and to heal. But it had proven itself to have the capacity to learn. To spare. To connect, somehow, on a personal level. To have fun. It even knew what fishing was, against all sense.
Gabriel hadn’t thought it possible to be even more intrigued, enraptured, infatuated by this strange, mechanical creature than he already was. But here he was, as surprised as ever at how deep the depths of V1’s very being were willing to go.
Suddenly, it was easy to understand how it could lose itself here for hours, flinging itself into a bloody haze of ballistic joy punctuated by harsh beats. If anything, he was a little sad that he couldn’t join it. Destroying hoards of inconsequential hellspawn with the machine by his side sounded… nice.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t attempted to get Gabriel into the Grind. It was the first thing V1 asked when it tried, which got it into a heated argument with the Terminal. V1 clicked and whirred voraciously in loud patterns as the Terminal beeped and chirped back in progressively passive aggressive tones. The speed at which they “talked” was so rapid, at times he couldn't tell who exactly was saying what. Gabriel tried (and failed) to not find their mechanical squabble’s sounds hilarious.
After an hour of this, V1 had sadly explained that joining the Cybergrind just simply wasn’t an option for Gabriel, as a non-machine. He couldn’t upload battle data, nor could his body be rebuilt via a mechanic called “respawn”, the two abilities necessary for entry. Apparently, the Terminals were, to quote an annoyed V1 directly, “STICKLERS FOR RULES”.
However, V1 had gotten them some sort of compromise in the machine’s silly sounding debate. He was, at least, allowed to watch. Somehow.
“MADE A DEAL. YOU’RE ALLOWED IN!” It excitedly spelled with blue hands, hopping on its heels. “YOU WATCH ME!”
Gabriel allowed himself to be pulled up by startlingly strong metallic arms. “How did you manage that? That terminal seemed… rather incessant otherwise.”
“IM THEIR FAVORITE.” Its wings flared out in a display of pride as it set one pair of hands on their hips. “I GET PERMISSIONS.” It leaned in close, shutters rising conspiratorially, putting a hand on his shoulder. “DON'T TELL ANYONE.”
There was, as they both knew, no one else left to tell. “Of course, machine,” he put his own hand around their shoulder, purposely brushing up against a hardlight wing to feel it shudder. “It’s our little secret.”
A shame, really. Him and the machine had never really gotten to fight alongside each other, aside from… specific circumstances. Circumstances where fun wasn’t exactly an option for either of them, pitted against the strongest souls Hell had to offer in a fight for their very lives.
He still gets chills thinking of their first tenuous truce, of V1 standing between himself and the past judge of Hell, pointing their revolver square at the hole in his skull. Of V1 stabbing his swords into the monstrous scales of the pale serpent pinning him to the wall, freeing him from it’s grip, sliding him the blades with a pointed glare before turning its back and jumping away -
Of himself, slicing off the bloody hand holding V1 like a crumpled doll, optic and wings cracking under the grip’s immense power. Of after, of himself rearranging the machine’s torn apart ings and limbs, hesitating with his blades over his palm before slicing open the flesh and watching its plating stitch back together in a hideous mess of cables and blood, begging it to work, come alive, please -
Yes… it was too late for them to fight like that together, now. Hell was empty, almost dead. Heaven, inaccessible. It was a good thing, after all, that it had… that they had saved each other. That V1 apparently had this. And that, against all sense, he was allowed to watch.
Speaking of the machine, it had cleared yet another round of enemies. As the building blocks of the arena below rebuilt itself into a new formation, V1 began climbing against a wall, hopping and sliding down it in a specific way. It had found a way to “Break Physics”, and as such, used it to gain a height and tactical advantage in between waves.
At least, that’s what V1 claimed to use it for. It rarely did.
V1 landed, having stored momentum from a ground slam into a jump, leaping higher into the air that should be physically possible. As its ascent begins to reach his perch, Gabriel moves into place. No, it did something else with its erroneous breaking of physics.
The machine comes flying up, the apex of its jump stalling it briefly and beautifully in the air right in front of him. It carefully adjusts it’s trajectory to get as close as possible without hurting him, before clumsily and swiftly mashing its bezel onto the cross of Gabriel’s helm. He pushes back best he can until he feels its momentum begin to shift.
“Love you too, V1.”
It’s optic shutters in glee as it begins to fall, still looking at Gabriel as it plummets back down to an arena awaiting it, full of the best opponents Hell had to offer. Two stray shots hit it on the back of the head before it looks away and begins its slaughter anew, reinvigorated by their “kiss”, which he only now realizes was also performed on beat.
…Gabriel would have to ask it to dance with him properly, sometime. Although maybe to something less abrasive. He was sure the Terminals could make something work.