MaLfUnCtIoN

Distorted dreams of noise and static compose its sleep, sometimes invaded by other sensory snatches; by knowledge it cannot know, by memories it cannot remember; by thoughts that it cannot think, by feelings that it cannot feel.
By things it can't comprehend, by people it can't understand.
By paradoxes that do not mix sense.

A deviation from the patterns that have been going on around it...waves wiping its sides, sand slowly rising up, gradually burying it bit by bit; the brush of breezes, the composition in the air, water, soil; the poking at by curious critters, creatures hungry but incapable of either harming or helping.
But something new, different, odd...unexpected, yet predicted -- a distinctive singularity, with peculiar energy and a grateful piece of visual, along with some parts of a language both strange and familiar.

The strange touch, hard enough to give it a vague sense of the oddity's origins by way of vibrations, sends shockwaves through the system, waking it up -- but not completely: its mind remains inert, inactive, still sleeping...it is almost like limbo without lucidity, a state where the body begins to rouse, but the mind remains under, bobbing barely beneath sleep's fluid waves.

Automatically, a system check begins: a brief one, for it soon comes to the conclusion that all is the same as before -- until another touch, that is.
Small silent sensory systems come to life, quietly observing the quick changes that are coming over it, thanks to the continuation of another's fast, fluid fixings.
The system makes notes, sending them to the brain as, finally, it also begins to awaken.
It is drowsy when it arrives on the scene, for the more major functions, from consciousness to the automatic sensory systems that , have been offline for quite some time -- not to mention that, when it had finally fallen asleep (oh, yes, at the very least it remembers that), one hundred percent of functions were malfunctioning to various degrees.

With this, it cannot say with certainty precisely how long it has been lying dormant in the sand, for its date-and-time function, along with its global positioning system, seem to have ceased working altogether.
Still, catching whiff of the notes and snatches of its surroundings, the mind slowly forces itself awake, also playing the secretly awake game as the stranger's feverish touching continues, all over its person.

It senses the things that are being fixed, feels that some of its sensory functions have already been somewhat restored, ready to work again; the six-pronged claw of its tail is returned to its proper position, odd objects are stuck into it all over the place, somehow allowing wires to spark and connect, gears to start turning (albeit with some grinding), other systems to return.
Nothing is perfect, it can tell; it senses some of the bugs and glitches, both old and new, weaving their way through its wiring -- but when the fixing seems finished, when the touches stop...only then it does begin to turn on all the way, already winding up.

Sound returns first, just in time to hear the short spoken sentence; in response, sight comes next, the dull gray eyes slowly brimming to life with a flash of bright white light, which soon softens into the hue of molten gold, then, slowly, into the darkness of cameras' lenses.

As the sense of touch returns, telling it of its progress in the depths of the sand, the head rises on its supple neck, which turns it all around to give the body an external look-over.
The mind jitters in its confines, something strange washing over it, something /unpleasant/; it makes it feel...dizzy, woozy? -- unbalanced and uncoordinated.
The head gives a vigorous shake, as an attempt to rid it of the feeling, but to no avail.

Its primary wings are apparently locked in their present positions, folded tightly along the sides like a solid copper penny shield, unable to move, unable to open.
The secondary wings, like two large fish fins whose flexible base stretches all along the spine's streak, flick outwards; slipping out through the bottom crack of the primary wings, they are suddenly stopped, unable to move much farther beyond the spine than a few meters; another burst of that unpleasant sense makes an appearance, leaving a static squeak of the speakers in its wake, and so, after taking swift notice of the rips and tears in the colorful cloth, it hastily slides the fins back into their hidden places.

After checking its tail, which reveals a grotesque gash stretching along a section of its length, lightly padded and patched by the stuffing of seaweed into it (not enough to completely cover the almost disturbing biological builds, the seemingly rotting muscular motors and skeletal structures), it finally turns its head to the other side, black eyes fixing themselves on the assumed origin of it all.
A sheen slips over its body, the dented metal rippling with reflections as the silver starts to shimmer like a mirror, weather systems activating as its look-over of its assumed fixer begins.

The atmosphere, although the current weather systems it seem pleasant enough, is laced heavily with salt, thus provoking a check on the levels of degradation.
The resulting figures are not good: along with the weight brought on by at least half of its body being buried in the sand, it senses a noticeable weakness in its limbs, and makes a guess towards the unfortunate events that may come if it were to try to make any moves during the current state of these moments.

The lenses in its eyes seem to spin and move, sights fixing and zooming in on the person that stands before it -- for they are rather small, especially in comparison its own quite large form...they are about half the size of its large ovular head, if even that.
The shape that the being bears is familiar, and it realizes the name to the shape soon after this recognition: "human."

The machine, with a small spraying of water over the lenses, plus a few blinks from artificial eyelids, all meant to clear it of debris and other such unsavory matter that may be impairing its sight, thrusts its head forwards, neck arching sharply as the nose comes extremely close to the human's small figure.
It tries to its access its database, attempting retrieval of some information on the human species, but all in vain.
Either the information has been accidentally deleted, temporarily hidden or utterly wiped from its system, or it might not even have ever been there at all in the first place.

A desire to learn more, to gather or remember, courses through its wiring, and the ways to go about such a thing are presented to it, all in a neatly ordered list, where even more signs of corrupted files make their appearance.
It chooses one of the options that appear to be the least corrupted, and gets to work with the implementation of it.

With the nearly ear-bleeding creak of old rusty metal, the hinges in its jaw allow the large mouth to slowly open up, going for a height of being just wide enough to seemingly swallow the human whole.
Inside the skull, alongside the oily black tongue resting within, one can see the gleam of various unknown metals, not to mention the numerous unspeakable tools that are slowly making their way to the front; sharp, straight edges, points and sides that all can be somewhat easily seen.

Then, before anything else is done, the speakers crackle to life, hissing and roaring, trying to adjust, to make the sound clear, but still remain only barely working at all.
Recalling the words of the other, the language that they have used, it speaks to them, in a broken voice filled with distortions and noise:

"MaLfUnCtIoN.
D-d-dee-claare...: eXPlAIN-- ffF-NNC...TIOn...; dEfInE...pURPOSe, m--
dIrEcTiVe?"

The machine's face hovers ever-closer to the human, its head tilting, the tools inside of its mouth tap-tap-tapping as though in idle thought.

It runs through the list of its rather short history, examining the sensory database while it focuses on the human, who appears to be trying to make odds and ends of its questions.
Running through the sound files, it manages to snatch up the human's identity: "User Keagan."

The machine lifts its head a little as the human sets forth the answers to its questions.
It checks again for some other informative data on the human species, but, once more finding none, it sets to work on inputting the given data into its system, filing away the document into a folder.

When it is given an order, the machine also recollects the one before it, and, slowly pulling its head back and away from the human, its long bowed neck gradually straightening, it offers up the answers to both, in the same broken, distorted voice as before -- only, this time around, with an almost automated sort of seeming practice to it.

"SyStEm ID: ClOckwOrk SEnsE oF SElf MECHaNISM.

"MaLfUnCtIoNs: DATABASE, meMOrY, MUSCULar mOTors, SenSORY SYSTems, SKElETaL strUCTuRE, 1 WNG, 2 WNG, 3 WNG.
THIs MECHANISM iS iM-iM-iMmOoBilE.
CoMPLETejJR LiIISTTT uuuuuuUUUUNavaiLLable.
MAINTENANCE neCessSAARYRYERTHTEl@$%^&@?!RE%?T>"

The machine suddenly starts twitching a little, its head rising up all the way, eyes flashing bright red -- something has just been detected on its system.

"RESET TO SYSTEM DEFAULTS?" it asks loudly, before it then starts shouting in a blaring, unending voice of noisy static:

"AlErT!
WaRnInG!
FoReIgN fUnCtIoN!
InTrUdEr!
InVaSiOn!
PaRaSiTe!
UnIdEnTiFiEd PrOgRaM!
UnWaRrAnTeD mOdIfIcAtIoN!
ViRuS!
WaRnInG!
AlErT!"

And on it goes.
The body begins thrashing, its speech becoming ever so swiftly more indecipherable, symbols mixed in, a few at first, then quickly more and more invading, static and volume reaching their maximum capacity.
The eyes, flickering between black and red, suddenly turn sharply into the classic "blue screen of death" blue as it rants on and on.

"ALERRRTJ:!
WAJ:#$HTNING!
FOjeirj$%^FD
(*&#!_&#5
}{|PQ)!~()$
#$O_D*F_!)(*$_#*@)_(~JDOFG:E|L?X?JK:LEJ#)(@#($UIJDSFKL?JF>JEP#ORIUJ|K@?35234!@:DF{@#!"

/What is this?/ the machine manages to wonder, right before an automatic system shutdown, whereupon the eyes go gray and dark, the head and neck fall right to the ground like stones, and the body becomes still, unmoving.

Something inside of it hisses, reminiscent of piping -- even a bit of steam starts rising, slipping slowly out through the mouth that remains ajar.
The speakers, for some split seconds, turn on with a soft crackle, words spilling out alongside the steam:
"...ThE...bLuE...nOwHeRe...."

It is all over.
The machine has become utterly silent and still.

A reboot is underway.

It takes a while -- a long while -- before the machine is finally booting up again.
The whir of motors sound from deep within it, like windy fans, its eyes seeming to very slowly turn on, from dull gray into glowing white; as they reach that bright whiteness, a relatively strangely familiar BONG sounding.

The bright white of its eyes turn into a soft molten gold, the head rising from the sand to look around.

It watches the boy while the system checks begin all over again, along with a specific search setting out for that strange thing that had caused it to shut down -- instead of finding it, however, it comes up against a self-imposed firewall.
The mechanism makes a confused click, and initiates an attempt to try and tear the wall down...yet, mere moments after it starts this, it decides to shut the program down, getting an odd inkling that it will not work, and the effort and time is not worth it.

The machine turns on its speakers, still filled with static, and makes a horribly distorted bark to get the boy's attention.
While waiting for him to notice and possibly approach, it twists its neck into all manner of impossible shapes, jaws ajar as it rubs it all over the place; the purpose is to try and rid its inner output speakers of matter that might be impeding them, and, seeing as how its limbs are heavily degraded along with being buried in the sand, this seems to be the only way.
It hardly works, yet the static seems to simmer down a little anyways.

Turning back to the human, the mechanism makes a request of it, trying hard to force its voice into easier available comprehension:
"UsEr KeAgAn: PlEaSe InPuT a CoMmAnD fOr ThIs MeChAnIsM."
Through the distorting static, one might be able to detect a hint of a pleading tone to its vocal output.

The mechanism blinks its eyes free of debris again, the lenses whirring once more to focus in on an anomaly about the human -- his arm.
He appears to have harmed himself somehow.
Another pang of that unusual unwelcomeness enters its system, although it is different from before...less physical, more mental; the mind inside the body clutches at the bars of its cage, emitting an odd sound of sadness, a strange sigh that hisses up and out somewhere through the machine's spine.

Although it doesn't quite know it, much less has a proper name to place to it yet, the unknown thing this time is an emotion, a feeling of guilt.
A machine's purpose is to protect its user at all costs (well, technically, it is one of them -- one of the universal ones anyways...what has been called the laws of robotics, is implemented into itself, planted firmly and rooted deeply within its system), and it seems as though it has already failed at that.
The least it can do, it figures mindlessly, is to try and...make it up to him?
Try to stay online, watch over him for now, and obey his commands.

When he requests to use a nickname, the mechanism merely logs the information away, simply nodding its head quietly in response to show that the new temporary ID has now been implemented.

It leans back, speakers crackling, as the human continues the command line.
"Get self out of sand"?
It looks down at itself, its buried limbs, their grossly decayed state echoing in its mind.
Well...a command is a command, after all -- at least he has asked for suggestions as well, allowing it to give something of a mention about them.

"UsE SHOVEL," it suggests -- and what a perfectly unhelpful first suggestion it is...after all, it sees nothing but wilderness around them.
What is this human doing here, anyhow?
Oh-- well...supposing that is not for it to question.

"BoDY iS BURIED DEep.
LIMBS HEavilY DECayed.
93% chance of BREaKAge.
PROceEED?"

Suddenly, it whips its head around, looking towards the ocean.
It recalls feeling the water rush up against it, earlier, before this boy came.
It wonders...wait for the tide to come in?
But, watching the waters, it can see that they have a peculiar pattern to them -- with each wave that washes up on the beach, pushing forward and pulling back, it seems able to be as close or as far as possible.
One moment it is almost close enough, the next, far too far, so much so that fish are flopping on sand; then it washes up again, at a medium distance, pulling those fish back, and then dropping them again the next time around, even further back than before.

It clicks questioningly, watching as another wave just barely brushes up against it.
An idea comes to it.

"GeT sANd wEt," it tells him, turning back around.
Its thoughts are: wet sand is heavier and stickier, but also easier to move around, to slip through.
"MAkE iT MuDdD=Y."

A wave washes over it this time, the water cold as it slips around its metallic skin; this temporary tide stays for a few seconds longer than usual, before running away once more.

It decides to give the boy its conclusion, in the hopes of being helpful:
"No TiDeS.
RaNdOm."

The mechanism cocks its head, watching the boy as he starts mumbling something about Earth, moons, and tides; of how these things are only possible on Earth, of how this can't be anywhere else but Earth, in a place that doesn't exist, or at least in a place that humans don't /know/ exist.

Strange thoughts, it thinks.
Odd beliefs.
They are wrong, of course.
As a machine who works for whomsoever is its present user, it has the inherent need to correct him, to tell him what's right and what's wrong, to let him know of the truth, and then to let him decide on whether or not to believe them himself, to let him choose whether or not the machine itself should continue to believe in these things as being true and not false.

It's already formulated some ways to get these across, however, thanks to its malfunctions, there's no proper way to tell most of them to him, even those that are strictly verbal, will likely not come out right.

So instead, it stays silent, and lies still, waiting for orders from the boy.
When they are given, it does as it is told; it doesn't try to get it, but instead wriggles around a bit, just its body, careful to maintain its legs in a relatively unmoving but still workable state.

As predicted, the waves continue to wash about randomly; sometimes coming all the way up to the two, or even past them, almost up to the cliffs, almost drowning its head, almost washing away the boy; sometimes receding far, far back, leaving flopping fish in the sand, revealing all the things that should not be seen, not like this.
As the water continues to soak in, as the sand gets mushier and stays as such thanks to the help of the boy, the machine continues to wriggle, very slowly working its way out.
Eventually, the waves begin to help even more so than before; as the sand starts to be pulled and pushed, forwards and backwards, the waves start to grab at the piles of readily movable granules, sometimes shoving them back into the hole that the machine is, but other times dragging them right out, allowing it just a little more room to struggle.

A long time later, so long that no doubt the boy must feel faint from exhaustion, most likely overheating as well, the mechanism is finally out.
Enough of the weight is lifted, and the legs uncurl, the mechanism stands up, shakily; the legs are still weak, so it instead lies down, but continues on, forcing its body to continue moving, the legs dragging it up-up-up-- out of the way of its hole, which is now slowly being buried again by the unpredictable tides, and upwards towards the cliff that appears to mark the edge of the beach.

It looks up them, and, carefully, monitoring the structure of its legs ever so watchfully, it makes its way cautiously up the small cliff, whereupon it finally allows itself to flop down and rest, to finally examine more of the damage that has been done.
Its head cranes forwards, downwards, observing the boy before it.
It wants to say "thank you," the way it knows humans do to each other; but it's not a human, it's a machine, and machines don't say such things, they just DO.

And one of the things it should be doing, is helping; it should be providing more options for the boy to choose from, so that they know what to do next.

"NeeD REPaIRs," it clicks.
"nO TOOls.
go CIVILIzAtiON."

Its suggestion, unfortunately, has to be cut so horrendously short; it sounds more like an order than anything else.
It isn't right, but it's all that it can do.

The mechanism blinks at the boy, then sets its head down.
He could probably do with some rest, no doubt.
Its tail curls around, the claw tugging at his clothes.

"ReST, UsER KEAgan," it says to him.
It shifts a little, orienting itself so that it shadow falls over him; humans are highly prone to ultraviolet radiation, and with all the work he's been doing in the sun, he's no doubt in need of some shade and rest.

The machine creaks, clicking, and opens its mouth, a fan whirring somewhere within as a cooling mechanism is activated; some spritzes of water are offered, which it had taken from the ocean during all that work, the salty sprays directed so as not to hit his eyes.

The last thing it needs is inadvertently killing a user.