Version 1.0 ; any

[Synth]

Synth
 
Synth
 
Synth
 
Her heart clunks, as heavy and monotonous as a cogwheel. She is sure she hears its worn squeak and tastes the metallic rust upon her tongue. Each step, contrary to the heavy thumping of her heart, is fluid and effortless. She is swift, for her limbs, lost beneath the sea of grass stems, work rapidly to drive her torso through the grasses. She glides like a ship, her skin a silver white that gleams like polished steel. 
 
Metallic blue eyes, sharp as scythe, gleam with a danger as deep as the ocean. Her skull tilts up to catch her eyes that have already drifted to follow the path of a startled bird. The creature had broken from the canopy of twigs beneath which it lay and taken to the sky like a wayward kite. She watches its path, a solitary ear twisting forward to catch its startled cry. Lips, as black as the thoughts that plague her mind, curl into a soft, beautiful smile. Beneath her foot, tail feathers of pink and blue lie, plucked from their host too soon.
 
Oh, do not be deceived dear reader, the girl does not know to fear the dark shadows that linger in the depths of her mind and heart. She does not know as they billow out, that within their core lies emotions she should fear to feel. They are potent and heady and she is the creature of habit. She is their user, drunk on their intoxicating high. Anger, curiosity, lust, mirth... they make for dirty, unwanted bedfellows.
 
Curiosity drove her foot to catch the bird before it fled, but alas, all she is left with are the beautiful colours that adorn its lost feathers. She sighs, and it is a soft little thing, whimsical and delicate. She mourns for the bird and its parted feathers, yet she sighs for she could not catch it. She is hungry, our dear little Synth, hungry for knowledge and yet so ignorant. She is not educated, she knows no manners, she feels too little empathy and she is impulsive and responsive to her own desires. 
 
Oh my little unloved Synth, where have you been to be so uneducated? But most of all, where, oh where, are you now?
 
 

[Reagan]

There is something in this world that speaks to the power of empathy. Emotional attachment is everything; love too much and you will find yourself giving up whatever it is you hold dear. Reagan's ability to remember her empathy was only because of the love she bore for her mate. Beyond that; her family. Like the bird, everyone else can go to hell, and yet...

She is now the leader of a small band of... Misfits? Children? Her children to be sure. But this was the world of new power. Beqanna had fallen into Chaos and left many children without a guide. Without a home. And the trees needed caretakers.

Those with empathy.

Reagan approached the newcomer with a hesitated step. The scent she bore told Reagan she was of new blood, and that was exactly what she needed. What she craved. She's in need of a friend. In need of company. In need of warriors and diplomats. She flicked her ears and laid her green eyes on the other mare. Better now than never.

"Hello, my name is Reagan."

[Synth]

Input=Reagan; .....processing..... ;Output=
The words skip through the warm spring air and are caught in the prompt twist of a pyramid ear. Reagan’s voice hums through the new girl’s skull and her head tilts, twists and turns to better survey this new input. Electric blue eyes blink slowly as move languidly over the woman’s torso like the trail of cool, metal fingers.

Our Synth is a beautiful, brushed steel shell hiding rusted insides and she makes no rush to speed this moment up. Instead she stands, so perfectly at ease within the quagmire of awkwardness she has created. She does not care if she sinks. She simply, would not even know.

Finally, with the languid blink of a highly sated cat, our little Synth speaks. “I tried to catch the bird, but it flew away.” The words come, bathed in a beautiful voice, yet her words are hard as stone and lack any inflection. They are rocks of stone in a beautiful bath and she offers them no further adornment. Neither does she pay poor Reagan, queen of her new band of misfits, any further attention.

Made of blood and bone but also iron and steel, our girl is a thing of beauty. So unnatural in one blink, yet so plainly horsein another. Quietly she moves through the grasses again, her electric eyes sieving the grasses as she spies for her next experiment.

Come, fair Reagan, you had better walk to keep up with our little Synth..

S Y N T H

[Celeana]

Celeana

Her trips in the field are rare and brief. The sisterhood and small is probably the least favorable of societies due to their mainly female based ranks. But today things feel different perhaps our young diplomat will come home with a new strong woman to join their ranks.

Verdant eyes search the landscape, for a small gathering of women. She would prefer this trip to be stallion free, she didn't have time for their shit or lack of respect. I mean where can a girl get some respect around here? Her pistons drive her forwards, as her speckled body follows, with a swish of her tail in a relaxed notion the girl joins a pair of mares. "Hello there. I'm Celeana of Nerine." 

She dips her porcelain head towards both of them, allowing her emerald eyes to study both of them for just a moment. The nares of her nostrils intake various scents from both of them, the grey mare carries the stench of the forest. Was there a forest land here? Ah yes, Tagia. The other she can't seem to place her tongue on it. She must be new perhaps? With a gentle grin, she adds onto the conversation, "Care to share name?" Her eyes meet both of them once more, and with a whisp of her two toned tail she directs her full attention towards the mare she presumed was a newbie to Beqanna. "Are you perhaps in search of a home?" She questions as she cranes her elegant cranium, as she awaits an answer patiently.

Where the Wild Things Are

[Reagan]

now don’t you understand…that I’m never changing who I am?

The robotic world of factories and smoke and billows seethes from Synth. She is perhaps the only one who can understand the mechanical method that turns in cogs and gears—the constant turning and soot that burns deep inside of the synthetic one.
 
This is the story of how the real girl becomes made of plastic.
 
Reagan looked at Synth, her nostrils flaring with the stench of death and rot as she peered down at the bird. The feathers of an azure and crimson hue stained the earth, and Reagan wished at once that she had the power to restore the young one to life. Alas, the fairies have had their way once more—Reagan is as plastic as they come. A cookie cutter for the modern generation; pumping out one more personality after the next until they are all as bland and factory made as the next. There is no character anymore—no depth. Just the sad state of knowing that everyone will be made just like each other—and As Synth moved with a hydraulic motion and a beautiful lilt that was just too perfect—plastic beauty, my precious Barbie—she seemed to be in constant search for information. As if she was looking to absorb something.
 
Reagan’s pelt bristled with a sense of unease, and with a better thought would have let the girl continue on her pre-determined robotic path, but her need compelled her.
 
Could such a mechanical beauty find her happiness in the wilderness of nowhere? She turns to follow Synth, keeping pace with her, eyeing her with a wariness becoming of a stranger to the wood.
 
“Though it flew away, I am sure that you will catch another. Will you eat the grasses, or will you take refuge in other means of sustenance?”
 
Just then, another comes—a spotty lady who seems to have the disdainful air about her. Reagan did not know who she was, except to give her name and location of residence—a yes, the feminists from the coast. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, but kept her eye on the new one.
 
What would come of bringing her home to Taiga, if it came to that?