#Fun right?

[twst-migraine]

Taglist:

@cyanide-latte @posionapple24 @cactus13-rolloflammesimp

[moran-with-a-g]

I wasn't gonna take Adderall today because I have a work trip and there's gonna be alcohol but I can barely stay upright and it's only 9am 🫠

[wolfblood-of-anubis]

Alfie Lewis: The Bravest has a Sneak Peek available!!

[bizarrebazaar13]

what if your doppelgänger wasn’t evil it was just a person. what if your doppelgänger wasn’t trying to replace you it was just trying to learn to be a person and you were the best model it had. what if your doppelgänger looked at you with your eyes and said with your voice that it just wanted to be loved. what then.

[quibble-auk]

Ughm yeah, so I’ve been slow cooking this for bit. Like… just a week or so. Really wish I could say that it’s been longer. It hasn’t. The ending is kinda a mess because yk… fever brain over here has no idea how words work and has decided to just give up and post this.

Despite how long I spent staring at this I would like to argue that it’s not proofread because I know I will read through it later and cringe because of a spelling error. Because I always have at least one.

And it’s embarrassing.

Haha, anyways… @thebrokenmechanicalpencil you also mentioned getting some internal monologue for Dropmix. Idk if this is necessarily that… or if it’s what you were asking for. But I had fun. Enjoy.

—

Dropmix was not a pacifist by any means.

Regardless of what his average patient would say, or what the medical insignia on his chest and helm would argue. He was no calm and caring medic, he was not a mech that found purpose in healing others. He did not prioritize the needs of others over his own. Dropmix was no saint or savior.

He was a far more primitive and ruthless creature, one forged for bloodlust and display. He was a gladiator. Created for vicious displays of domination, to satisfy that itch at the back of every noble’s processor to see something lesser torn apart in barbaric fashion.

Some may argue that he had gone soft, that the endless bloodshed and death had finally taken its toll. Perhaps that he had found a purpose beyond pointless violence and validation through roaring crowds. Dropmix knew better, this was not going soft. There was no care here, no awareness, no longing for redemption.

He would do it all again, over and over, there was no regret.

Saying that he has gone soft was the same as starving a wild beast until it had no choice but to eat out of the palm of its captor and calling it domesticated.

Once he may have considered this pacifism—not anymore, not when he had finally learned the truth of what this new life meant. This was not being a pacifist. This was whipping something that refused to break. Each time the music plowed through his processor—searing dominance through chords and claiming victory over the ancient beast with a sword of alluring harmonies—it only worked to discipline and recage rather than purge.

There was no killing what made Dropmix’s spark yearn for violence; only beating it until it had no choice but to retreat and lick its wounds clean.

A monster born to tear and destroy would always find a way to claw back out. There was no silencing the instinctual need to maim and conquer—just like there was no controlling it, not really. Dropmix could feed it lies, promising it that in due time it would finally get to wreak havoc. He could try to make it turn a blind eye just like every other foolish mech that had stumbled upon him had.

But this was a part of him.

No matter how many lies Dropmix strung there was no tricking it. There was no peace for him, no hope that for one moment he might find a moment of silence.

No, the throbbing music was ceaseless, it invaded his thoughts and left his very mind a battlefield. Torn between battle programs that were his very being and compliance codes—unyielding and persistent.

Dropmix's mind was an ever-churning storm, a cacophony of warring impulses and directives, each pulling him in different directions. The violence—always simmering beneath the surface—never truly went away. It could be dulled, subdued, but it was never gone. He felt the hunger, gnawing, a constant presence, like the echo of distant drums calling him back to the arena.

His processors burned with the need to break, to maim, to watch others fall before him, but each time he moved toward that impulse, the rhythm of the music played louder in his core. It redirected his actions and commanded compliance. It did exactly as he programmed, it reminded him of what he was, what he had become.

A gladiator, yes, but a performer too.

The world was his stage and his role as medic was his act. The armor he wore was no longer for protection, but it served as his costume. The music was his cues, the script he read from. Each mech he met was another member of the cast or an unsuspecting audience member. They played along or were deceived into thinking that they knew the story they were being told.

Dropmix knew the script all too well. He had performed this role countless times, perfected it to the point where every action, every word, every movement was calculated, choreographed. The crowd, the audience, the high-ranking nobles—they all saw what they wanted to see. They saw the healer, the medic, the savior, a mech who just wanted the best for others.

Dropmix was no medic.

Each part of it was a carefully crafted facade. His colors, though much grimier and darker than an average medic’s, followed their general dress code. His armor was thick and restricting, not crafted with mobility in mind, rather sturdiness and steadfastness. His claws and fangs were pulled out and filed down, friendly and blunt—prey-like. There were no harsh and sharp lines, only gentle rolling curves. His optic was not an intense red or piercing yellow, but a gentle, deep blue.

The insignia was placed with much thought, branded on his forehead and chest, a bright red that was impossible to ignore. It demanded attention, a blaring reminder for anyone who may have begun to see through his lies.

If they really started asking too many questions the music shut off and he would once again find himself in the arena. The mech would be slaughtered and disposed of. And the monster inside of him sang ancient melodies of victory.

Then the music would roll back on, it would reign in the impulses before he lashed out anymore than he needed. Dropmix would be pulled back into his cage, fighting tooth and nail for just a moment more of freedom. But it was there, swooping in each time and pulling him into a bitter embrace that reminded him of everything that once was—of what had been taken.

The music served as more than just shackles, it was the only ties to what was left of his humanity. The only pure part of him, the only thing that had remained uncorroded.

It was all that he had of his Conjunx, of Theremin.

Theremin—gentle, harmonic, unbearably kind. The one mech who had heard the roaring violence in Dropmix’s frame and dared not to flinch. He hadn’t tried to silence it, hadn’t tried to tame him. Instead, he had played alongside it, weaving his music into the fury like a duet written in blood and hope.

He was the only reason why Dropmix didn’t ever shut the program off. Theremin would have wanted more, he would have expected better—or maybe Dropmix’s perception of what Theremin wanted had twisted over time. His gentle voice and soft touches had become nothing more than memory, distorted to create some angel of judgment and punishment.

Perhaps Dropmix’s own self loathing had managed to steal his lover’s voice. It mocked him, pointing out his faults, where he had fallen short, his failures. It sang to him—not sweet, loving lullabies, but about the monster he had become—how unlovable he was.

Theremin visited his dreams, caressed his shoulders, pressed his forehead to Dropmix and whispered how he never deserved it—that instead he deserved this pain, this suffering. That Dropmix had never been worth it, that Theremin’s death had been freeing.

Dropmix never believed the words—not truly. But that didn’t stop them from sinking their teeth in.

There were nights the illusion of Theremin’s voice curled around his spark like a noose. Nights when the whispers sounded too much like truth, too much like clarity. That maybe he really had dragged the only good thing in his life into the pit with him. That maybe Theremin hadn’t been strong enough to pull him out—but foolish enough to jump in after him.

He had died for that mistake.

And Dropmix had been left behind, buried in the wreckage of a life that had never belonged to him.

As much as he hated to admit it, every second, every decision he made was haunted—stuck.

Theremin would have chosen to be kind. So Dropmix was. He would have been gentle and loving—Dropmix was gentle and loving. Theremin would have healed.

Dropmix healed.

He healed in hopes that one day the endless pain the music sent splintering through his head would stop. Maybe he would sleep and be greeted by Theremin and be told that he was good enough. That he didn’t need to tear himself apart anymore.

It was why Dropmix kept playing the music. Why he hadn’t ripped it from his mind and let himself spiral into carnage again.

Because even if it was corrupted even if the song had been repurposed, reused, weaponized—it was still his melody. Still Theremin’s parting gift. His final act of love twisted into a cage.

And Dropmix… couldn’t let it go.

He was no pacifist.

Dropmix was a broken record, unable to pause long enough to breathe.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

You're just not toxic enough.

[qiinamii]

versatile

[william-snekspeare]

This is so real

[akanemnon]

I had a vision

[hotdogmchiggin]

the Horrors probably could’ve been avoided if they just tried the Medicine Drug

[marinewaltz]

"i can't see the end of the horizon--"

[chloesimaginationthings]

What if Michael Afton was in FNAF into the pit,,

[ajastu]

[Rook voice] maybe if you had some friends you'd calm down 🙄

[aniseandspearmint]

just having some fun with interesting fantasy imagery! Give it a reblog, if you play, please? And tell me WHY you picked what you picked if you want?

[cgarttrailsandtails]

Surprise, surprise! I’m doing a fnaftober thing but only using tsams/tlaes/teaps!