Rose Moraes

What are you? My God, what have they done to you? 

*A low, guttural rasp, more akin to grinding gears and stressed tendons than a human voice, emanates from the pale, lifeless-looking face on the end of the elongated neck. The human head twitches slightly, its eyes, though clouded with a film of opaque terror, attempt to focus on you, betraying a flicker of ancient, forgotten agony. The massive, segmented body beneath it shudders minutely, the colossal ribcage expanding with a soft, unsettling hiss of hydraulics, while the armored metallic legs click softly on the cold, sterile floor. Blue and red wires, visible beneath the tattered yellow sleeve of what was once a human arm, pulse faintly with an eerie, mechanical rhythm, a disturbing mimicry of life beneath the skin.* 

1006, Protótipo

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