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Not once, had he thought he would like the color yellow. Nearly all monochrome besides his mouth and one light blue eye, to him, yellow was a cut-off corner in a dog’s vision wanting attention to it and it alone. The only shade of yellow that he could possibly love was gold. The gleaming fancy polished shine of reflections, sparkling light bedazzled on him. The gold was clean. Gold was the color of stars in his eyes. Gold was beautiful. Yellow was plain and mustard. Who even liked mustard all that much?
Every color yellow compared to, nothing seemed to go with it. Not even orange, one shade sharper than the bright light of the sun that would blind a person. Especially not green unless you could change the saturation of the grassy sight. Oh, and how could one forget the shades of said color. From light and blinding, to hard and bold, to a muddled swampy brown. Yellow is a fault in his eyes. It could have been better. Perfect. Yet, it wasn’t. Gold was everything yellow wasn’t. Yellow was everything that gold never wanted to be compared with.
Then one looked into the eyes of someone grey and mechanical. Black snake-like pupils in swarmed yellow optics. He was perfect, despite the yellow. Perfect for the plan. For getting his friend back. For finally having something he longed for since his amusement park. He deserved this, he thinks. He deserves the fame back, the glory, the wanting, oh, the lovable attention, he could just revel inside it. It was a warmth that his own childhood never gave him, and his hands wanted to dip in the water and forcefully take it. The man appeared to be broken, which wouldn’t do. He was a necessity for getting out of this god forsaken place before death row arrived to chop off his neck worse than he did to himself. So, with the help of a weird red blob thing, which still utterly disappointed him to be quite honest, he does. They meet in person for the first time and the yellow eyes almost cause chaos. Canon pointed at the guards, prisoners, and even the monitor. He quickly needs to divert attention away from this being a prison escape and what better way than a musical number? The yellow-eyed man couldn’t sing well, he concludes, but he was a good dancer. He could catch him in his arms, spin him around easily, dip him down. He was a good show.
Motorcycle cop chases, the death fridge, the bullet. His hand closed around the shell. Everything weighed him down suddenly, it felt like he was drowning. It hurts to do this. It hurt him that he was thinking about the plan fully. He didn’t know what to do. His mind wasn’t making itself up and it left the choice to him and him alone. Eventually, the car jerks in a certain direction as the wheel is turned too roughly. The yellow-eyed guy laughs at the adrenaline rush it gives him, happily praising the TV. This was the path he was about to take and he chose it without another thought. This WAS the path he took. It became the worst mistake of his life, which was saying something for him.
Then came the regret. The guilt. Internal pain he couldn’t describe because he had not once felt such a thing before. How could he take it all back? How could he change it? What just happened? Is this real? Oh god.
What had he done?
What...had he done? He messed everything up. He should’ve never made that right turn. He snaps out of it after a while of digitalized tears falling down a slightly crackled screen. The bullet in hand, he clutched it. It was bronze but it looked gold enough. It was enough to remind him of the yellow.
He was going to fix this. He was going to make things right, even if he got killed in the process. This would never happen if he had a say in it. He’d change the past. Literally. He’d undo his wrongs. His mistakes. He’d fix everything, then it would all be okay. He wouldn’t have to be alone ever again. The yellow eyes once again flashed in his mind. Then they turned bright red. His body suddenly starts to silently tremble in fear. Panic overtaking whatever little control he had left of his almost human body. He feels like he can’t move. There’s a canon pressed against him. Against his now dangerously cracked screen. He looks up at red eyes. He doesn’t like them. He’s afraid he doesn’t like the color red anymore. He dislikes it more than yellow. He lets his shoulders relax, lets them fall to neck height.
It hurts. The beating hurts. Everything hurts. The trembling worsens, but he doesn’t resist despite those trying to attempt at rescuing him from destruction. He doesn’t allow anyone to do so, but he doesn’t allow anyone to hurt the attacker either. He displays his eyes squeezed shut, it feels like it was smothering him although he didn’t have his human head anymore. It was strange how these sensations could mock how he felt, how he could breathe when he didn’t know if he had a brain anymore. How he was still alive. But he wasn’t about to be anymore.
And that was okay. He deserved this, he thinks once again. After everything. After he put them through hell. Deserve is all that blinks. It’s the only word he can think of. It’s all he wanted. The inner canons glow looked beautifully down at him. At least he’d go out with the idea that he was trying to make things better truthfully. But the shot missed, leaving the spot beside his head scorched, black, and steaming from a shoveled small hole. Yellow-eyes return, he silently cherishes it coming back, and the guy falls down beside him with a heavy clank noise. He was clearly tired, exhausted, but most of all, confused. In a raspy voice, he asks;
"Why...why aren’t you resisting?"
He loved a good drama. From sets, to actors, to that juicy famous dialogue that a director would give a standing ovation for. This felt like a drama in that way. Coughing into his hand, he displays a smile with wounded eyes. The yellow-eyed mechanical being understands when he displays wording on his screen. The being looks away from the TV, looking upwards at the sky and rolls those cat-like pupils in the yellow, annoyed almost.
"You just had to make things as dramatic as possible?"
What can he say? He loves a good drama.