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gripefroot · 2 years ago

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Crooked Ways [19/22]

“Bulma.”

She moaned, turning her head away from the sound, too deeply entrenched in the soft blackness of slumber to care who was talking or why.

“Bulma.”

Again? This time a sharp shake of her shoulders sent her head flying up, almost banging it on the lamp of her desk. Cussing, Bulma rubbed her sore head and whirled around in her seat, giving Vegeta’s scowl an even better, blacker scowl.

“It’s two in the morning,” he said. “Go to bed or I’ll put you to bed.”

Two in the - no, it couldn’t be. It had been ten p.m. just a few minutes ago, when she’d been putting the finishing touches on her giant robot design. She’d had the brilliant inspiration to install some gravity sensors to pull things towards it - a fantastic challenge that Vegeta would no doubt enjoy.

“It is not,” Bulma protested, her voice thick. She picked up her watch where she’d taken it off to work on her design. Squinting, she gasped aloud when she saw that Vegeta was right. It was two in the morning. “I can’t go,” she said, grabbing at the papers around where she’d rested her head to gather them together. “I wanted to get this done and start working in the morning. I mean, I’m close, but I - ”

Vegeta started spouting off better cuss words than she had. A second later her chair was kicked away from the desk and she was hauled straight out of it, tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“This is for your robot!” Bulma fumed, but didn’t bother fighting. She had no chance.

“If you make me a robot without a proper night’s sleep, you’ll probably end up killing me,” he said. “You are going to bed.”

“Ha! You want to have sex this bad, don’t you?”

Outside of the lab, the Capsule Corp hallways were dim at the late hour, oppressively silent after their echoing voices. What had Vegeta been doing up, anyway? Training, probably. Or eating.

“This isn’t about sex, Bulma,” Vegeta intoned. “You are going to bed.”

“Mine or yours? Because if it’s yours, I’ll know for sure you’re lying.”

“Fine, then. Your bed.”

She grumbled, tempted to kick out her legs to make the journey more difficult for him. He’d probably slap her bum if she did that. Tempting, and she was about to start kicking when Vegeta jostled her violently with a,

“Don’t squirm.”

“Hmph!” Bulma wriggled her hips, but half-heartedly. “Are you going to tuck me in, too? Or is that beneath you?”

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Nothing that involves a bed and you beneath me is beneath me,” but she couldn’t be sure. “Only to ensure you don’t get up and start working again,” Vegeta said.

“Why were you awake, anyway?”

Silence. She heard the whoosh of the door opening to her bedroom, then it closed almost on her head after he stepped inside.

“You had a delivery,” he told her.

Bulma found herself lowered to the ground a second later, facing her bedroom in the dark with a frown. The shapes all looked to be their normal, chaotic selves. Then she saw Vegeta’s finger point towards her closet where a dressmaker’s dummy stood with a dark blue gown draped over it.

“Oh, my gala dress! I’m going to try it on right now - ”

“You absolutely are not!”

Bulma whirled around, meeting his furious gaze with her own. “I want to and I will!”

“You need to sleep!”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead!”

Vegeta’s head jerked back, eyes wide with surprise.

“Hello?” She snapped her fingers. “Remember? Androids? We’re all doomed anyway. Let me try on a pretty dress while I still can.”

“You are not doomed.” His voice went icy-cold, sending shivers up her spine. “I am the one destined to die that day.”

She hated the reminder. Stomach twisting in miserable knots, Bulma lifted her chin. “Not if I can help it. Why do you think I want to get that robot design finished tonight?”

Vegeta crossed his arms in front of his chest, armor fully patched over his expression. “Go to bed, Bulma. I’m not leaving until you do.”

She smiled a pretty smile, tugging out some curls from her headband with a twist of her finger. “What if I want you to stay?”

He blinked, mouth twitching. “Then I’ll leave until you go to bed,” he decided.

“You’re no fun.”

“I was awake because I was trying to put on those blasted garments.” Vegeta nodded at her gown, implying that his tuxedo had been delivered as well. And that it had been a struggle.

“Oh,” Bulma said. “Well.”

“Must I strip you and tie you to the bed?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Even in the dark she could see the shade of his face deepen. “How utterly vulgar,” he said, clearly meaning to be disapproving.

“You’re the one that said it,” Bulma laughed. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll go to bed but you have to stay with me all night.”

Vegeta waved a hand in agreement. Likely he’d had a mind to stay with her, anyway, if only to keep her horizontal. Smiling, she unzipped her jumpsuit to wriggle down her hips, stepping out of it enough to kick it in the general direction of her dirty clothes.

“Good enough,” she chirped. “Come on.”

“Woman,” he warned. “If you start this, you will not sleep at all tonight.”

“I had a nap! I’m ready to go!”

“It negates the purpose of my forcing you to bed. You may as well work on your robot.”

“Would you rather I do that?” Bulma asked, hating the squeeze of rejection in her chest. “Go back to the lab and leave you here? You sleep alone and I design your robot?”

Vegeta’s eyes drifted down her body, then back to her face. “You already undressed. It would be impractical.”

“Oh, I can go just like this.” For emphasis she plucked at the front of her tank top. “It’s warm in the lab, anyway.”

“In your undergarments - ”

“Hardly! Besides, these cover way more than swimsuit, anyway, and those are perfectly acceptable to - ”

The air was knocked out of Bulma as his shoulder drove into her gut. Not too hard, though, and she landed on the bed a second later with the striking realization that he must have flown them the fifteen feet to her bed. The look of utter consternation on Vegeta’s face - flaring nostrils, grim mouth and all - broke her into gales of laughter that he clearly didn’t appreciate.

“What’s the deal to get you to sleep?” he demanded, remaining nestled between her thighs.

“Hmm.” Bulma tapped her chin in thought, a giggle or two still waiting to come out. “I’ll think of something. But I’ll warn you, I’m a tough negotiator.”

“And I’m a prince with diplomatic experience.” A grin slowly crept over his face, more thrilling than his hands gripping her hips.

“Like blowing things up?”

“I didn’t say my experience was nonviolent.”

She laughed, grabbing him by the shoulders to drag him down for a kiss. To her surprise, he allowed it. “Here’s the deal,” she whispered. “You stay and hold me and I’ll go right to sleep like an obedient human.”

“I accept your terms.”

Bulma occasionally thought that Vegeta hated this sort of thing. The affection that bubbled naturally out of her when she felt treasured and special. Normal sorts of affection that came with a relationship. She caught him scowling sometimes when she hugged him from behind or she kissed his cheek by surprise or tangled up with him like an octopus after sex.

But he did it. That stunned her more than anything, and she cherished the weight of his arm around her waist as they settled in for a short night.

Before sleep claimed her, his voice drifted through her memory: I am the one destined to die that day. She stirred, clutching his arm harder, determined to cherish this moment all the more for the prophesied shortness of it.

His nose was in her hair, so he couldn’t see her lips form the electrifying, damning declaration I-love-you. It was given to the night where it would be kept hostage from the only ones the words could destroy.

“These blasted clothes!”

The door to her bedroom banged open just after the shout came. If Bulma weren’t used to it, she would have jumped and ruined the line of her lipstick she carefully applied in her bathroom mirror. Even the looming presence of Vegeta in his black suit and black mood standing impatiently in the bathroom doorway didn’t deter her from finishing the job well, smacking her lips together when she was satisfied.

“Hello to you, too,” she said silkily, leaning away from the mirror to cap the lipstick. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you at a normal volume?”

Bulma turned, smiling a dazzling smile to detract from her throat going dry at the sight. For an alien, Vegeta was well-suited to tuxedos. The crisp lines of the fabric showed off his broad shoulders, the cut of the trousers making him look taller than he was. Or had he gotten taller? Perhaps it was the shoes, all shined and spiffy.

He didn’t respond right away, and her eyes traveled back to his face when she realized they were standing in complete silence.

“You,” he said. His eyes had stayed on her body. She couldn’t blame him - her dress was stunning and made to accentuate her figure to perfection. “You…”

“I look amazing,” she finished for him. “What’s wrong with the clothes, Vegeta? You look very handsome.”

Lips pinched together, he held out three strips of cloth for her to examine. “I figured out most of the items, but these make no logical sense,” Vegeta growled.

“Ah.” Bulma took them from him. “I understand. Let’s start with the cumberband.”

“The what?”

“Take off the coat and I’ll help.”

He grumbled the whole time, but he did as she ordered. He even lifted his arms without prompting so she could wind the cumberband around his hips to fasten in the back. “What is the purpose of this?” Vegeta snarled over his shoulder, watching her every move.

“I don’t know. I’ve never researched the origins of men’s formalwear before.”

He gave a snort of derision. “And what’s that square? Why is it blue?”

Finished with her task, Bulma wandered around Vegeta to pick up the offending square. “It’s a pocket square,” she said. “It goes in your pocket.”

“Like a snot rag?”

“Well, it’s one-hundred percent silk, but hey, my family has money to spare so why not.” The blue fabric matched her dress perfectly. When Bulma had ordered their clothes she hadn’t specifically asked that they match. Was this Dad’s doing? After folding the square she tucked it into the suit jacket laying on the bathroom counter.

“It matches your dress.” Vegeta’s temper must have blown out, because his words were much much quieter than earlier.

“Yes,” Bulma said.

“Is that a human custom?”

“I suppose.”

“Does it indicate that you are mine and I am yours?”

Vegeta and his archaic language! Grabbing the bow tie, she smiled as she planted herself in front of him, ready to do her worst. “I’m guessing most people will get the idea,” she admitted, slinging the bow tie around his neck. The weight of his attentive gaze would have been disconcerting a year ago. Now, it was only cozy.

“I have wondered,” Vegeta began in a low tone while she looped the bow tie over itself. “How humans discern who is who’s. And how I might ensure that everyone knows that you are mine, even when we are not together.”

“Possessive little ape, aren’t you?”

“We Saiyans scent each other,” he continued, ignoring her remark. He didn’t find it offensive, evidently. “During coupling, the individuals lace each other with their scents and it makes a new one. It’s obvious to Saiyans when one is not available for courtship.”

“I see,” Bulma murmured. One final knot and the tie was complete. She tightened it with a tug, straightening it beneath Vegeta’s chin.

“Naturally such a thing wouldn’t work among humans, what with your limited olfactory glands. So humans prefer matching clothing?”

“Not usually. The standard practice is that each person in a relationship wears a ring.”

“A ring?” He nodded, as if approving the simplicity. “Wear one.”

“Excuse me?”

“You own rings, don’t you?”

“It’s not the same!” Bulma stepped back, crossing her arms and unsure why, in the last five seconds, her annoyance rose so quickly. Of course Vegeta wouldn’t know - why was she so offended? “The man has to give the woman a ring!”

His eyes narrowed.

“It means they’re either married or going to be married! The man wears one too after they get married.”

Vegeta’s stiff posture broke with a single blink and a sway. As if he’d been about to take a step back and caught himself just in time. At the prospect of marrying her? Why, the -

“Have you scented me?” Bulma demanded. Her best method of tamping down painful feelings in the quickest way possible: a sour attitude and a solid offense.

The method sizzled and fizzled. He didn’t answer, only dropping his gaze to his suit coat. When he reached around her to pick it up, she felt the heat of his body leaning in. It made the cool air when he pulled back all the more frigid.

Of course he hadn’t scented her. They weren’t the same race. There was never any spoken or indicated intention to stay together longer than…longer than the android ordeal. Or until Vegeta left to train somewhere else, just like everyone else always did. He wouldn’t want to bind himself to her, a human. Saiyans were proud, and he was the proudest of all. Hadn’t he said over and over again how disgusting he found female hysterics? No doubt he’d believe she’d fall into hysterics over an honest conversation that he had no lasting intentions with her. That they would part ways and never see each other again.

Without a word Bulma tugged the lapels over his chest while he stuck his arms through the sleeves. The sharp scent of his soap filled her senses in a painful, overwhelming way, and she had to sniff to keep anything leaking out that would ruin her mascara.

Of course she’d been stupid enough to fall in love, for the second time, with a man even less likely to stay with her.

“How long must we stay?” Vegeta asked roughly. His arms dropped to his side while she smoothed down his lapels one more time. The press of ten fingertips into her hips indicated that his hands hadn’t stayed limp.

“A few hours.” Bulma gnawed on her bottom lip, lipstick forgotten. She kept her eyes on his chin where she wouldn’t have to meet the scrutiny of his gaze. “Really, you don’t have to come. I won’t come home drunk again. I was miserable last time.”

“I’m going. But I’ll be thinking of peeling this dress off of you the entire time.”

His comment lightened her mood by a shade, and she was able to smile. “Keep saying things like that, and the time we have to stay will get shorter and shorter,” she said lightly, her palm resting over his heart long enough to make hers squeeze with unspoken longing. “I’ll call the car and tell them we’ll be down in five minutes.”

Vegeta pulled her tightly against him, their hips bumping. The feeling of his erection through his trousers made Bulma squawk in surprise - here? Now? Was he insane?

“Make it ten,” he said.

“And ruin all the hard work I did to make you look nice?” she sniffed. “Dream on, Vegeta.”

He grumbled but released her hips in favor of taking her hand, dragging her towards the door. The lightswitch change between moods had Bulma grabbing for the doorframe. Her weak strength didn’t slow him down.

“The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave,” he said over his shoulder.

She tumbled over her high heels, dragging the train of her gown to rush forward. He could haul her around at Capsule Corp and she wouldn’t mind (too much) but in public? No way. “And here I thought you didn’t want to go,” Bulma teased, winding her arm through his elbow. Vegeta’s eyes glinted as he cast her a sullen look. To no surprise he didn’t deign to respond to that.

“What perfume are you wearing?” Vegeta asked abruptly. Waiting at the top of the circular driveway for the driver to bring the car around, Bulma tore her eyes away from the darkening blush of sunset to give her plus-one a puzzled look.

“The only perfume I ever wear,” she said.

“You smell different.”

She could only shrug at the approaching crunch of gravel. “Maybe you did your Saiyan scenting ritual by accident,” she suggested. Vegeta’s frown deepened.

“Then I would know why your scent has changed, wouldn’t I?” he said blithely. Tandem steps down to where the driver held the door open for them. Bulma would have liked to press the point, and the issue, a little further, but after sliding inside the car with Vegeta right after her, she decided in the silence that she’d rather not be overheard.

“There are three seats,” she told him as finagled a seatbelt over his chest. He sat in the middle seat, practically pushing her into the door.

“I don’t want you to escape.”

“Hi, Ralph,” Bulma chirped, leaning forward to put her head next to the driver, who adjusted the rear view mirror. “Whatever my date says, I promise I’m here of my own free will. He’s not kidnapping me.”

“Sure, Miss Bulma,” Ralph said.

She settled back in, shoulder-to-shoulder with Vegeta and, rarely, feeling short next to him. He had a way of looming even when their eyes were level.

“It’s just one night,” Bulma whispered in reassurance, but couldn’t discern if she was speaking to Vegeta or herself.

#vegebul #dbz fanfic #bulma x vegeta #dragon ball

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dyadhogs · 1 year ago

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it had taken no time for him to set off, to throw caution to the wind and do what he did best. run. red sneakers tore up the ground at sonic’s feet, over the beach, the jungle, the grasslands. to the bridge that stretched over the ocean and delivered him to the edge of the mountainside. to the excavation site.

there were several sections to it, and it was interwoven in the reddish-orange rocky region. usually occupied, the site was oddly empty. something the hedgehog would have found weird had he not remembered that cliff and the others had taken a bit of a break, leaving amy to explore on her own. yeah, that was a great idea. the only good thing was that he had a vague idea of where she had set up camp, close to the cave she was exploring in a recess a mile or two from the main base.

he knew when he was in the right area, and he didn’t like what he found. items strewn about the rocky ground, the tent in shambles, clear signs of a struggle. and amy was nowhere to be found, and that’s when a real sense of worry hit the speedster. amy wasn’t one to go down easy, he knew that for a fact, and she hadn’t set off anything with her communicator, which was also bad. no sos, no homing signal. so either she didn’t need it, which he didn’t believe, or she had never gotten that chance. and he didn’t like that.

and sonic knew standing there was going to accomplish nothing. she wasn’t here, and there was only one way to go by foot. it was the only thing he had and he wasn’t willing to waste time so he took it, off like a shot further into the ravine. his eyes were peeled for any sign, or clue of what had happened, or where his teammate was. or who had taken her.

he had only just turned another corner in the stony labyrinth when something collided with his stomach. hard. it sent him flying back, and his only saving grace was instinct telling him to curl in on himself. his quills took the impact as he hit the ground, bouncing before landing on his feet. and when he did, when he looked at his assailant, he gasped.

❝ amy? what are you doing? ❞

the pink hedgehog didn’t answer. in fact she hardly moved apart to straighten up again, hammer held in both hands as she stared…through him. something was wrong. very wrong. her jade hues were almost clouded, expression virtually emotionless. not to mention the fact she had just smacked him a good six feet for no reason. usually she would at least gloat about it if she wasn’t apologizing. yet before the speedster could form another word, he was cut off.

“she can't hear you, you blue buffoon.”

that was a voice sonic recognized, and he growled as he glimpsed around. there was no one there. ❝ eggman? ❞

despite the emptiness the scientist’s laugh managed to rise up around the two hedgehogs, eerily, with a knowing tone. “the one and only! you’ll have to excuse me if i’m not there to greet you in person. even so, i've really outdone myself this time if I do say so myself. you see, that crystal your little friend found had all sorts of power, enough that my sensors had no trouble picking it up. and once they did? i wanted it for myself.“

sonic‘s eyes narrowed, even as a realization hit him the longer he looked at his far-gone teammate. he knew something wasn’t right, and it was only then he spotted the bizarre headband that was resting on her forehead when things started to click. he didn’t recognize it, but he did know it was nothing the pink hedgehog had ever worn before, much less bought. she would never wear anything so gaudy. but his suspicions weren’t confirmed until eggman kept talking, and that was where the second realization came in. the doctor was speaking through that weird device.

“of course she wouldn't just give it to me so i decided to put a new invention of mine to work. one i may have…borrowed from a mutual friend of ours.” there was a short pause, and sonic just knew that eggman was relishing in his accomplishment. “and of course, there was only one robot i could trust to really get the job done.”

never let it be said the doctor didn’t enjoy his theatrics, as hardly a second had passed before the clang of metal behind sonic announced said robot’s arrival. and he had never wanted to see those glowing red eyes again after their last encounter.

❝ metal? ❞

eggman just laughed. “now let’s see how you handle your robotic duplicate. and your little girlfriend.”

with those words it was like a flip had switched, and just like that the speedster found himself nearly sandwiched between a metal fist and an equally solid hammer. had he not quite literally hit the ground, he would have been in a world of pain and the brief moment of confusion from both his teammate and metallic doppelganger gave him a chance to move out of the way completely in a burst of speed.

this was going to be a problem…

metal was one thing, always a little bit of a challenge but not something sonic couldn’t beat. even with the strange magenta glow from their chest, something he could only guess was that stupid crystal. amy on the other hand? he didn’t get long to think about that as he had to dodge another onslaught of that hammer, the ground splintering where his feet had been just a moment prior. there wasn’t an ounce of thought behind amy’s eyes as she did so, which caused a small knot in the speedster’s stomach.

❝ amy snap out of it! this isn’t – ! ❞ the sudden impact of a metal fist to his cheek cut him off abruptly, and the speedster reeled back. far more than he should have from a single punch from metal and he let out a groan, trying to force the stars in his sight to go away. it wasn’t soon enough. pain flared in his back as the robot followed up with a kick, and once again it was quick thinking that saved the speedster from a third hit with the other metal fist.

rolling away quickly, he only uncurled when he knew he was out of reach. yet, he had to wonder if that really mattered when his eyes came to rest on metal. and the large glow from their chest, a light that matched the crystal and bled into the machine’s eyes as they raised a hand to the hedgehog. one that soon morphed into a rounded barrel, and sonic didn’t need to know more than that as it too started to glow.

okay, that was new…

as if he didn’t have enough problems.

one by one the shots came, and one by one the speedster dodged them, barely. he could feel their heat on his fur after each shot, hitting the ground and walls around him. man, he didn't think he'd miss getting shot at by lasers so much. and yet the thought that he was thankful metal and amy were actually on the same side crossed his mind. at least this way amy was safe. deadly and didn't recognize him, which hurt, yes, but safe. still…

his eyes went back to his teammate, to the device she was wearing. he needed to get it off and hope that was all it took. if it didn’t…well, he didn’t want to think about that.

one quick sidestep saved him from another onslaught of shots, and another from the rapid approach of that yellow hammer. but he was stuck in the middle of the battle again, a twisted monkey in the middle as he dodged fists, kicks, hammer and attempted grabs alike. there was little to no room to attack back, and once the speedster nearly met that hammer head-on as he slipped on the grit at his feet.

then he had his lightbulb moment.

it took dodging the next fist from metal, but the opportunity was too perfect. he kicked, not to hit the machine but rather pitch dirt, dust and a few chucks of rocks into their eyes, effectively blinding them. that only left amy for a few scarce moments, and that was all sonic needed.

he took the chance.

all it took was one flick of his wrist and his communicator buzzed to life with a blue glow. one that soon shifted and morphed into a tangible beam of energy. every time he used it, he was more and more thankful tails had figured out how to harness the enerbeams. and more thankful still that amy couldn’t move fast enough to dodge it as it whipped at her head, making easy contact with that headband and knocking it off and to the ground.

there was a still moment that followed, and sonic found himself holding his breath as he watched his teammate stand there, seemingly frozen. until she blinked. once, twice and then rapidly as confusion flooded her face and she fell to her knees. in shock, maybe.

just like waking up from a surreal dream, she hardly registered where she was, what was happening, what had happened.

but she did register the abrupt sound of something moving fast, a clank of metal, the sound of her name…

and the gunshots.

#off saving the village [queue]#waves tell stories [update]

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roboboyandpals-au · 19 days ago

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main story !!

girlypop: a train?

roboboy: yes

girlypop: why? are you ok?

roboboy: I believe so. the people said they would offer their services to help me avert a future disaster

girlypop: that’s very nice of them. why were they there?

roboboy: i believe they are some sort of higher power who occupy that space. my sensors could not detect anything inside.

girlypop: im glad you’re making friends.

girlypop goes to school but she gives roboboy some of her money and tells him to Explore.

“I feel bad keeping you in my room all the time”

“it’s a nice room”

“thanks but that’s not the point. i want you to see people, take a look at them and think about what their lives are like. you don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to but i want you to be around people other than me”

so roboboy sets of into the wilderness on his lonesome. if this were a game, this section would be where you properly unlock the open world. roboboy decides to take girlypop’s words to heart and he stays on the ground this time (there’s less people around cause it’s a weekday as well). but he walks through back alleys to get around. he doesn’t go into any stores either. but it’s a start!

now remember that primary school student who can see him as a robot? you see she runs into him again as she’s coming home from school and this time roboboy is not getting away. she calls out to him and he is too scared to run away for fear of being chased and because he is too polite to ignore her.

“why are you a robot? And what are you doing here? I’ve never seen you before”

“I’m not a robot”

“You so are! I can see it! You’re not even wearing anything to cover it up! I’m not an idiot!”

“I don’t think you are an idiot”

“I know I’m not. And I don’t care what you think anyway”

“That is good”

she is quite a scamp. the Scamp then starts to inquire about roboboys housing situation. “where would a robot like you live? can you even pay for a house”. roboboy cannot lie for shit, he tells her plainly that he is being kept in a closet by a kind young soul.

“so what do you do to earn your stay”

“……….nothing”

“you should come live with me and grandma instead. there’s things for you to do there”

the Scamp is quite enthused about meeting a real fucking robot. he even talks like a robot. and so she decides to make him live with her instead.

“Grandma cant do all the chores herself and im too small. it’ll be good to have someone to do them until im big enough. if you do it I’ll ask grandma for you to live with us”

the Scamp explains that she only lives with her grandma because her parents work and travel overseas most of the time. she thinks having a housekeeper would be very beneficial to them. roboboy thinks on this. he doesn’t want to be away from girlypop but he doesn’t want to say no to the Scamp either. this primary school girl has more zest for life in her pinky than he does in his entire body. And girlypop did tell him to be around more people. would she be pleased by this?

“let me speak with the girl im living with and I’ll meet you tomorrow at this spot”

“no take her to me now so you don’t have the chance to run away like last time”

“……”

“once I meet her I’ll take you home with me to meet grandma and then we can test your chore skills”

#oc #original character #oc lore #persona series #main story

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tamesg · 2 months ago

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Recognition

Ninety-two minutes.

That's how long we've been sitting in the Command Center, going over the same failed battle from every possible angle except the one that matters. Ninety-two minutes of Jason pacing back and forth, analyzing formation patterns and timing sequences. Ninety-two minutes of Billy running diagnostics on equipment that I know for a fact is working perfectly. Ninety-two minutes of Trini quietly suggesting alternative strategies while Zack nods along and Tommy stares at the floor.

Ninety-two minutes, and not one of them has asked me what I think went wrong.

"The Zords were responding normally," Billy says for the fourth time, adjusting his glasses as he studies the readouts. "All systems were operating at optimal capacity. I can't find any technical explanation for why we couldn't form the Megazord properly."

I know why. I was there.

And they still haven't noticed.

"Maybe we were just off our game today," Jason says, running his hands through his hair. "It happens. Sometimes the timing just isn't there."

Sometimes the timing just isn't there. Like it's some kind of mystical force instead of five specific people making five specific choices. Like my choice to hold back doesn't count because they never bothered to factor me into the equation anyway.

"We need to run more drills," Tommy suggests. "Practice the formation until it's automatic."

Automatic. Like we're machines instead of people. Like the problem is mechanical rather than... what? Personal? Emotional? The kind of thing you might notice if you paid attention to your teammates as human beings instead of just component parts of a giant robot?

Ninety-three minutes now. Ninety-four.

I count each one like heartbeats, like evidence. Each minute that passes without them asking for my input is another piece of proof that I've been right all along. They don't see me as an equal team member whose opinion matters. They see me as the emotional support system who shows up when they need comfort but disappears when it's time for real decisions.

Ninety-five. Ninety-six.

"Kim, you're good at reading people," Jason says suddenly, turning toward me with that same earnest expression he uses when he's trying to solve a problem. "Do you think we're all just overthinking this? Maybe we're stressed about something else and it's affecting our performance?"

One hundred and seven minutes. One hundred and seven minutes for them to remember I exist, and this is what they ask me.

Not "What did you observe during the battle sequence?" Not "Do you have any strategic insights?" Not even "Did you notice anything different about your own Zord's performance?"

They want me to be their emotional barometer. Their feelings translator. The person who reads the room so they don't have to think about messy human complications.

I look around the crystal walls of the Command Center, at the faces of my teammates all turned toward me expectantly. Waiting for me to do what I always do - make everyone feel better about a situation I know could have been prevented if they'd bothered to see me as more than their designated emotional support system.

Zordon's energy tube pulses with soft light above us, Alpha's sensors whir quietly in the background, and I realize this is my moment. The test I didn't know I was setting up.

I could tell them the truth. Admit that I deliberately sabotaged our formation, that I wanted to see if they'd notice when I wasn't functioning at full capacity. But that would mean confessing in front of Zordon, admitting I put Angel Grove at risk for something as petty as feeling ignored.

Or I could give them what they want - some insight into everyone's emotional state that explains away the tactical failure without anyone having to examine their own behavior.

"I think we're fine," I say, my voice steady and reassuring. "Just one of those days, you know? Sometimes things don't click and it's nobody's fault."

The relief on their faces is immediate. Visible. Like I've just given them permission to stop thinking about something difficult.

"That makes sense," Billy says, already closing his diagnostic equipment. "Biological systems aren't perfectly consistent. Minor variations in performance are statistically normal."

"Yeah," Zack agrees. "We'll get it next time."

Next time. Like it's inevitable that there will be problems, and equally inevitable that I'll be here to explain them away with emotional labor disguised as wisdom.

They're already moving on, already shifting into post-meeting mode, and I sit perfectly still while something crystallizes inside my chest. Cold and sharp and absolutely clear.

They don't see me. They won't see me. And if I disappear entirely, they probably won't notice that either.

But they'll notice when the Megazord formation fails again. And again. And again.

—

Tuesday: Zack's joke lands exactly the way his jokes always do - a perfectly timed punchline that catches everyone mid-sip of their drinks. Jason nearly chokes on his soda, his face reddening as he struggles between swallowing and laughing. Tommy's whole body convulses with mirth, his mouth hanging open in a way that shows too much of his half-chewed sandwich. Even Trini, who usually maintains some dignity, snorts so suddenly that a drop of milk actually comes out of her nose.

I watch their faces, cataloguing each reaction with the clinical precision of someone studying lab specimens. The way Jason's features contort, his usual leadership composure dissolving into something almost primitive. The way Tommy's laugh builds from a chuckle to something that makes his chair creak under the force of his movements, like he's having some kind of seizure. The way Trini's careful control shatters completely, leaving her dabbing at her nose with a napkin while her shoulders still shake.

How graceful. How sophisticated. These are the people I'm supposed to respect as teammates?

Zack's eyes find mine, expectant, waiting for me to join their little performance of forced hilarity. That look he gives everyone after a joke - demanding, really, that we all participate in his moment of glory. Like we owe him our laughter just because he managed to string words together in a way that amused himself.

But I don't laugh. Won't laugh. Because something about the whole display feels obscene - grown teenagers collapsing into hysterics over what? A mildly clever observation about cafeteria food? The desperation of it all, the way they throw themselves into these manufactured moments of connection like drowning people grabbing for life preservers.

"Kim?" His voice carries that note of concern that sounds so practiced, so automatic. Like he's reading from a script titled "How to Pretend You Care About People's Feelings." "You okay?"

The question hangs in the air for exactly three seconds - I count them, watching his eyes even as I do - before his gaze shifts to Tommy, who's still grinning like an idiot about the punchline. Before he can even process whatever answer I might give, Zack's already moving on to his next story, already feeding his need for constant validation from a more reliable source.

Three seconds. That's how long my emotional state matters to anyone at this table.

—

Wednesday: "The team chemistry felt really off during yesterday's battle," Jason says, stabbing his fork into his salad with the kind of deliberate precision he uses when he's trying to solve a problem. "We were just... out of sync somehow."

He's using his Leader Voice - that particular tone that signals he wants input, that he's opening the floor for strategic discussion. The same voice he uses during actual team meetings, except we're sitting in the school cafeteria surrounded by the usual chaos of teenage social dynamics.

I set down my sandwich and lean forward slightly, the way I've learned signals engagement in group conversations. "Maybe we need better communication during formation sequences. Like, actual verbal cues instead of just assuming everyone knows what—"

"Communication protocols," Billy interrupts, his eyes lighting up with that familiar spark he gets when he sees a technical problem to solve. "We could implement a standardized system of audio signals, maybe even upgrade the comm arrays in our helmets to include haptic feedback indicators that would—"

And just like that, I'm invisible again. Billy's hands start moving as he talks, sketching imaginary diagrams in the air while Jason nods with increasing enthusiasm. The conversation flows around me like I'm a rock in a stream, completely bypassing anything I might have contributed.

I watch Billy's animated gestures, the way his fingers trace complex patterns that probably make perfect sense to him but look like meaningless flourishes to everyone else. How typical that his solution involves more gadgets, more technology, more ways to avoid actually talking to each other like human beings.

Jason's nodding along like Billy's just revealed the secrets of the universe instead of suggesting they throw expensive equipment at a problem that could be solved by paying attention to the people standing next to you. His face has that expression he gets when he thinks someone's being particularly insightful - eyebrows raised, slight forward lean, that little crease between his eyes that's supposed to indicate deep thought.

It's the same expression he's never once worn while listening to anything I've said.

"That's brilliant, Billy," Jason says, and there's genuine admiration in his voice. "How long would it take to implement something like that?"

Brilliant. Because replacing human awareness with mechanical solutions is so much more sophisticated than just learning to notice when your teammates are struggling.

I take a bite of my sandwich and chew mechanically, watching Billy launch into calculations about circuit modifications and response times. The way they build on each other's ideas, the natural flow of collaborative problem-solving that somehow never seems to include me unless they need someone to manage feelings or smooth over personal conflicts.

Billy's still talking, hands moving in increasingly complex patterns, and Jason's still nodding like every word is pure wisdom. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here with sandwich crumbs on my napkin, wondering when I became the designated emotional janitor who only gets included when someone needs their feelings validated.

—

Thursday: "Hey Kim, you want to study together for the Whitman test?" Tommy asks, sliding into the seat across from me in the library. His backpack hits the table with a soft thud, and I can see his history textbook already bristling with sticky notes and highlighted passages.

For just a moment, something warm flickers in my chest. Someone actively seeking out my company, wanting to spend time with me for something other than emotional crisis management. Maybe—

"I can't," I say, glancing at the clock on the library wall. "I have gymnastics practice in twenty minutes. Coach Schmidt is working with us on our beam routines for regionals."

Tommy's face shifts through a series of micro-expressions - disappointment, calculation, resolution. The whole process takes maybe two seconds, like he's running through his options and arriving at an acceptable alternative.

"No worries," he says with a shrug that's just a little too casual, already reaching for his backpack. "I'll ask Trini. She's probably free."

The warmth in my chest crystallizes into something sharp and cold.

No worries. Like it makes absolutely no difference whether it's me or Trini sitting across from him, explaining the symbolism in "Leaves of Grass." Like we're completely interchangeable components in his academic support system - just grab whichever one happens to be available.

He's already standing, already mentally moving on to Plan B, and I watch him scan the library for Trini's familiar dark hair. There - by the poetry section, completely absorbed in whatever she's reading. Tommy's face brightens with the same expression he had when he asked me, like he's just remembered he has other options.

"See you later, Kim," he says, but he's already walking away, already focused on his next attempt at academic collaboration.

I sit there with my own textbooks spread across the table, watching him approach Trini with the exact same casual friendliness he just showed me. The same "hey, want to study together?" tone, the same expectant smile. Like asking me was just the first option on a list, not a specific desire to spend time with me as a person.

Trini looks up from her book and nods, gathering her things with efficient movements. Of course she's free. Of course she's available to help. And of course Tommy looks genuinely pleased about this development, like Plan B might actually be better than Plan A anyway.

They walk past my table on their way to find somewhere to study, and neither of them glances in my direction.

—

Friday: My pager sits silent on my desk all day, its black screen reflecting nothing but the afternoon light streaming through my bedroom window.

I check it three times during homework. Once after dinner. Twice more before bed. The display shows the same thing every time: no new messages. No blinking light. No series of numbers that would mean someone, somewhere, needs my help with something.

For the first time in months, nobody has called me with a crisis that requires immediate emotional intervention. Nobody needs me to mediate an argument, or provide a sympathetic ear, or offer the kind of careful advice that makes people feel better about their problems without actually having to solve them.

I should feel relieved. This is what I've been wanting, isn't it? A night off from being everyone's designated emotional support system. Time to focus on my own homework, my own problems, my own life that somehow always gets pushed aside when other people need something.

Instead, I feel... forgotten.

Like I only exist when other people have crises that need managing. Like my entire social value is measured by how quickly I respond to other people's emergencies, how effectively I can absorb their anxiety and transform it into something manageable.

I think about calling someone myself - just to talk, just to connect, just to prove that I can be the one who reaches out first for once. But every number I consider feels wrong. What would I even say? "Hi, I'm calling because no one called me and I feel weird about it"? "Hey, just wanted to chat because my pager hasn't beeped all day and I'm starting to think I've disappeared"?

The silence in my room grows heavier as the evening stretches on. Even the familiar sounds from downstairs - Mom washing dishes, Dad watching the news - feel distant and irrelevant. Like I'm existing in some kind of bubble where normal human connection can't reach me.

By ten o'clock, I've checked my pager fourteen times. Still nothing. Still silence. Still the growing certainty that when I'm not actively solving other people's problems, I simply don't exist in their thoughts at all.

Maybe this is what I actually am to them. Not a friend, not a person with my own needs and feelings and complications. Just a service that they access when required and forget about when they don't need it.

An emotional vending machine that sits in the corner until someone needs to feed it quarters and push the right buttons.

—

Each incident sits in my chest like a stone, small and sharp and getting heavier every day. By the end of the third week, I've catalogued seventeen separate moments of dismissal, neglect, or casual replacement. Seventeen pieces of evidence that I've been right all along about my place in this group.

The worst part is that if I described any of these moments to someone else, they'd sound like nothing. Normal teenage interactions. Friends being friends, making plans, solving problems, living their lives in the chaotic way that seventeen-year-olds do.

But they're not friends, are they? Friends notice when you're pulling back. Friends ask follow-up questions when you seem upset. Friends remember that you exist even when they don't need something from you.

I start an experiment.

Monday: I don't call Jason back when he leaves a message about being "stressed about the calculus test." Let him figure out his own test anxiety for once.

Tuesday: When Zack starts telling a story about his weekend that's clearly building toward some emotional revelation, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. When I come back, Billy's listening with the same supportive attention I would have provided.

Wednesday: Trini mentions that she's worried about her grandmother, and instead of immediately offering to talk through her concerns, I just nod and change the subject to our chemistry homework.

Thursday: Tommy's pager goes off during lunch - some family crisis that would normally send him straight to me for advice and emotional support. Instead, I stay focused on my sandwich and let someone else deal with his drama.

Friday: I don't show up to our usual after-school hangout at the Youth Center. No explanation, no advance warning. I just... don't go.

And you know what happens?

Nothing.

Jason figures out his test anxiety by talking to Billy about study techniques. Zack gets his emotional support from Trini, who listened just as effectively as I would have. Tommy works through his family issues with some combination of the others. The world continues to turn, problems get solved, emotional needs get met.

All without me.

The group functions perfectly well when I remove myself from the equation. Better, maybe, because they don't have to worry about managing my feelings while they work through their own problems.

I've spent months thinking I was essential to their emotional ecosystem, but it turns out I was just... optional. A convenience they could easily replace with each other when I wasn't available.

That's when I start planning something bigger.

If they won't notice when I withdraw my emotional support, maybe they'll notice when I withdraw my tactical support. When the person they've been taking for granted in small ways suddenly becomes unavailable in ways that actually matter.

The opportunity comes three days later.

"Rangers," Alpha's voice crackles through our communicators during sixth period chemistry. "Rita's latest monster is attacking the downtown shopping district. You're needed immediately."

I slip out of class along with the others, but instead of the usual pre-battle focus, my mind is calculating. Running through scenarios, measuring risks, planning exactly how much I can hold back without causing permanent damage.

The monster turns out to be some kind of mirror creature that splits into multiple copies of itself every time we attack it. Standard Rita tactics - overwhelming us with numbers until we're forced to call on the Megazord to clean up the mess.

"Formation Delta-Seven," Jason calls through the comm system as putties flood the area around the creature. "Kim, take the high ground and provide cover while we—"

I move into position on the roof of a nearby building, but slower than usual. Not enough to be obvious, just slightly behind the rhythm they're expecting. My first few shots miss their targets by inches - close enough that it looks like the putties are just faster than anticipated, not close enough to actually provide the cover fire my teammates need.

Below me, I watch Jason dive for cover as three putties advance on his position. Normally, I would have cleared them out before they got within ten feet of him. Today, I let them get close enough that he has to fight his way out hand-to-hand.

"Kim, we could use some help down here!" Zack's voice carries a note of strain as he grapples with two putties at once.

I fire three shots in rapid succession, each one carefully aimed to miss by just enough. "Sorry, they're moving too fast! I can't get a clean shot!"

It's not completely a lie. They are moving fast. I'm just not trying as hard as I could to compensate for that.

The battle drags on longer than it should. My teammates take hits they shouldn't have to take, work harder than they should have to work, all because I'm giving them ninety percent effort instead of a hundred.

But they're managing. Struggling, yes, but still handling the situation. Still winning, just... messier than usual.

And that's when I realize something that makes my stomach drop.

They don't actually need me at full capacity to succeed. My deliberate mediocrity is making things harder, but not impossible. They're adapting, compensating, covering for what they assume is an off day without even questioning it.

I'm not as essential as I thought I was in any capacity.

By the time we form the Megazord, I'm seething with a frustration that has nothing to do with the monster we're fighting and everything to do with how easily my teammates have worked around my deficiency.

"Pterodactyl, online," I report, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest.

The formation sequence begins, and I find myself at another crossroads. I could continue my subtle sabotage, throw off the connection timing just enough to cause problems. Or I could escalate.

The creature splits again, now six identical copies surrounding us as our Zords move into position. Jason's voice comes through the comm with tactical instructions, Billy provides technical analysis of the creature's splitting pattern, Zack and Trini coordinate their approach vectors.

No one asks for my input. No one requests my tactical assessment. I'm just expected to slot into place and provide whatever support they've already decided they need.

"Now!" Jason calls, and the other four Zords begin the delicate process of forming the Megazord.

I hold back.

Not a subtle delay this time, not a small timing issue that could be explained away by equipment malfunction or communication lag. I simply don't engage my Zord's connection protocols when I'm supposed to.

The formation stutters. Sparks fly across the control panels as the other Zords try to compensate for my missing link in the chain. Warning lights flash red throughout my cockpit.

"Kim, what's happening?" Jason's voice carries sharp concern now. "We're not reading your connection!"

"I'm trying!" I call back, my hands moving over controls I'm deliberately not activating. "Something's wrong with my systems!"

Below us, the six identical creatures have stopped their rampage and are turning their attention toward our incomplete formation. They seem to sense vulnerability, opportunity.

My teammates struggle to maintain their partial connection while I watch from my disconnected Zord, feeling a sick satisfaction at finally, finally being the center of their attention. Finally being the missing piece they can't ignore.

But as I watch the creatures begin their coordinated attack on the weakened Megazord formation, something cold and sharp cuts through my satisfaction.

They're actually in danger now. Real danger, not the manageable kind of struggle I've been creating. And it's my fault.

The first creature's attack hits the incomplete Megazord formation like a sledgehammer. Without my Zord's stabilizing connection, the others can't distribute the impact properly. I watch Jason's cockpit shake violently, see Zack's control panel shower sparks as systems overload.

"Kim, we need you NOW!" Billy's voice cracks with strain and something I've never heard from him before - genuine fear.

Through my viewscreen, I can see Trini's Zord listing to one side, smoke pouring from what looks like a damaged joint assembly. Jason's trying to compensate, but the partial formation is putting stress on all their systems that they weren't designed to handle.

This isn't the manageable struggle I planned. This isn't proving a point about my value to the team. This is me watching my friends get hurt because I wanted them to notice me.

Another creature strikes, and the incomplete Megazord staggers. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of the evacuation zone where Angel Grove citizens are huddled behind emergency barriers, watching their protectors fail to protect them.

Because of me.

My hands hover over the connection controls, and for one terrible moment, I hesitate. Part of me - the hurt, angry part that's been growing for weeks - whispers that this is what they deserve. That they brought this on themselves by taking me for granted.

But then I see Jason's Zord spark again, worse this time, and something in my chest snaps back into place.

"Connection protocols, now!" I shout, my fingers flying over the controls with desperate precision.

The Pterodactyl Zord surges forward, locking into formation with a mechanical scream that sounds almost like relief. Power flows between all five Zords again, stabilizing the connections, restoring the balance that should have been there from the beginning.

The Megazord stands complete, and within minutes, Rita's creatures are nothing but glittering dust scattered across the downtown streets.

But in my cockpit, I'm shaking. Not from adrenaline or battle fatigue, but from the knowledge of what I almost did. What I actually did do, for those endless minutes when I let my friends fight for their lives with one hand tied behind their backs.

—

"Excellent work, Rangers," Zordon's voice fills the Command Center as we materialize back from the battle. "The formation difficulties you experienced were concerning, but your ability to overcome them demonstrates the strength of your teamwork."

I stand with the others in our usual post-mission formation, but everything feels different now. The crystalline walls seem too bright, the familiar hum of the Command Center's systems too loud. Every surface reflects my face back at me, and I can't escape the knowledge of what I see there.

"Kim," Jason says, turning toward me with genuine gratitude in his voice, "that last-second connection save was incredible. I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't gotten your systems back online when you did."

The praise hits me like acid. He's looking at me with the exact expression I've been craving for weeks - respect, appreciation, recognition of my essential role on the team. His voice carries real warmth, real acknowledgment of my value.

Everything I thought I wanted.

"Thanks," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "Just glad I could get it working again."

"Seriously," Zack adds, rolling his shoulders like he's working out kinks from the battle. "That was some clutch timing. Another few seconds and we might've been in real trouble."

Real trouble. If only he knew.

Billy's already pulling up diagnostic readings on Alpha's console, but he glances over with that smile he gets when he's impressed by good tactical work. "The power distribution during your reconnection was actually remarkable. The way you managed to stabilize all our systems simultaneously while under attack - that takes serious skill."

Each compliment lands like a physical blow. They're praising me for fixing a problem I created. Thanking me for saving them from a disaster I engineered. Looking at me with genuine admiration for demonstrating abilities I was deliberately withholding until it served my purpose.

I've gotten exactly what I wanted, and it's the worst feeling I've ever experienced.

"We should run some diagnostics on Kim's Zord," Trini says quietly, and something in her tone makes my stomach clench. "Just to make sure whatever caused the malfunction won't happen again."

There's nothing accusatory in her voice. Nothing suspicious. Just the practical suggestion of someone who wants to prevent future problems.

But when she looks at me, her eyes hold something I've never seen there before. Not anger, not suspicion, but a kind of careful neutrality that feels worse than either.

Like she's seeing me clearly for the first time, and she doesn't entirely like what she's found.

The others disperse with their usual post-mission efficiency - Jason heading home to study, Billy wanting to run actual diagnostics on the Zord systems, Zack mentioning something about dance practice. Normal teenage lives resuming after another day of saving the world.

Trini lingers.

She doesn't make a show of it, just takes her time gathering her things while the Command Center empties around us. When it's just the two of us left with Alpha puttering around his duties, she finally speaks.

"Good thing your controls started working again when they did."

Her voice is completely neutral. Conversational, even. Like she's commenting on the weather or asking about homework. But every word lands with surgical precision.

I feel my throat close up. "Yeah. Lucky timing."

Trini adjusts her backpack strap, still not looking directly at me.

The silence stretches between us, thick with everything neither of us is saying. Alpha's mechanical humming fills the space, normal sounds from a normal day in a place where nothing will ever feel normal for me again.

"Trini—"

But she's already walking away without another word, leaving me alone with the weight of what I've become and the recognition I finally earned.

The Command Center falls silent except for Alpha's distant mechanical humming. Even that stops after a moment, leaving nothing but the soft pulse of Zordon's energy tube and the sound of my own breathing. Each exhale echoes off the crystal walls, bouncing back to me like a question I don't want to answer.

In the silence, I can still hear Jason's voice: "I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't gotten your systems back online when you did."

If only he knew how easy it would have been to find out.

#wrote #mmpr #mighty morphin power rangers #power rangers

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spinchip · 3 years ago

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uhgmmm silly little mysterious element swap between da ninja

I give you angst (my specialty) TW: Panic attack

When Lloyd had suggested Zane use his bow to channel his energy, Zane hadn’t been expecting much. After the artifact had scrambled their powers around, the others had gleefully been playing around with their new elemental abilities while Zane wasn’t able to summon so much as a flicker. Zane was so far behind the others that the novelty had worn off for the rest of them, and now they were impatiently waiting on Zane to get some sort of a grip on Lloyds power so they could confidently go out searching for the other half of the Sphere of Will- the cause of all their problems.

Zane had tried everything. He meditated, he trained, he tried to relax, he even drank the same tea as lloyd usually did in an attempt to hone his skills and still- not a spark of green. Sometimes, Zane could feel it deep down in his belly, but it wouldn’t grow and spread through him. Wu had suggested a mental block, but Zane couldn’t fathom what. He was the first of his friends to unlock his true potential, the first to get some of the more complicated katas Wu taught them. He wasn’t used to this kind of struggle.

All that to say that when he picked up his bow, his expectations were low. Based on the others reactions- Kai had molded a couch out of rock for them all to slump into- they weren’t expecting much either.

Lloyd stood next to Zane, “Alright Zane, lets see if this does anything.”

Zane could shoot a bullseye with his eyes close standing on his head, but when he brings the draw string back he doesn’t have an arrow notched. He focuses all his processing power into imagining the shape of an arrow notching into the bow, trying to pour green energy into a tangible shape he can fire. The power in his gut swirls like it’s trying to grow, pulsing at the bottom of his chest like a heartbeat.

Nothing happens.

He lowers the drawstring, disappointed. “I do not understand.” He says without sighing, despite how he wanted to.

“You’re not the only ne who struggled,” Nya attempts to console him, “Remember when Jay set his hair on fire? Or when i blew out half the lightbulbs in the monastery?”

“Yeah! And I’m sure Ice is a lot different than Lloyds power.” Kai agrees.

Lloyd once again tries to explain how he uses his powers, “I think you’re thinking about it too much.”

“Ice is a lot of thinking.” Cole confirms with a groan, “Trying to make a snowflake gives me a headache.”

“My power is more instinctual, something you have to feel rather than think. Don’t imagine the shape of an arrow, try thinking of why you’re forming it.” Lloyd pats Zane on the shoulders, “Like what you’re fighting for.”

Zane nods and exhales purely to center himself. Telling a robot not to think was like telling a fish to take a walk in the desert, but Zane would try to empty his mind. He even went so far as to shut down the background multitasking programs he had running, leaving his mind completely blank.

He pulls back on the drawstring, lines the sight up perfectly with the bullseye across the courtyard and tries to call on the power. Nothing happens. He closes his eyes, refusing to give up, focusing on the feeling of the string on his finger sensor pads, the cool air around him, even the sound of Lloyd breathing next to him. Power stirs.

He fought to protect his family. He called upon his power to keep the people he loved safe.

Protect those who cannot protect themself.

It washes over him in a snap, power surging up through his chest, around his shoulders and down to his fingertips in sickening pulses. It burns.

He’s felt this before.

The courtyard vanishes, he’s suspended in the air, his shoulder taut and agony ripping through him as he stares the overlord in the face. He’s going to die. He has to die for his family. Gold scalds him as it pours down his face, his face plate cracking and breaking along the weak seam and leaving him exposed and raw. The overlord is laughing. He’s all alone. His body is going numb, the seams along his shoulders popping as energy overloads him. He can’t tell if this is happening in the past or the present, phantom pains rocking through his body.

The string of his bow is digging into his fingertip, he struggles to cling to it. Gold chokes him. The comforting warmth of the green feels white hot. He can’t think.

He opens his eyes and a brilliant green bolt of energy is nestled into his palm. It’s so bright it blinds him, and on the edges- just barely- are flickers of gold. Fear slams through his system so fast it causes his knees to buckle and he stumbles a step back. The arrow grows bigger, wild and unkempt and Zane feels so deeply afraid he doesn’t know what to do.

He lets go of the string and the arrow explodes.

It tears across the courtyard like a neon laser and when it hits the target- dead bullseye- it obliterates it down to atoms. It rips through hay like tissue paper and smashes a hole through the stone wall of the courtyard, shooting off into the sky before exploding like a firework at the very end. When Zane released it, it caused a miniature explosion in his hand too- green balls of energy popping, and the force of it send him off his feet.

He slams back on the ground, confused and rattled. Panic has settled into every inch of his mind and he can’t get his thoughts straight. Where is he? Is this the courtyard? Where is the overlord? Did he succeed?

He’s holding- why is he holding his bow? Why is the string snapped and burned?

He turns over onto his hands and knees and tries to calm down. There’s smoke around him, the ground smoldering. His fans kick on. He’s overheating. Ice. He needs ice. Why can’t he summon ice?

A hand touches his neck and he jerks, looking up at- Cole.

“What happened?” He asks, “Where- is everyone safe?” He did something bad. Dangerous. His friends were here. He wasn’t alone.

Cool frost trickles down from the spot Cole was bracing him, and the chill brings a calm to Zanes body. “Everyone’s fine.” Cole confirms firmly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He closes his eyes and breathes, helping his internal systems cool and struggling to centering himself again. After several long moment, the panic fades and leaves him empty and worn out. His limbs are still humming in the after image of that power. He’s in the courtyard, he was supposed to be practicing with Lloyds power. It takes more effort than he expects to sit up but he does it, and finally looks at the damage.

A ditch is cut into the stone of the courtyard, their bow target is a handful of splinters now, and the monastery wall has a brand new entrance.

“I did that?” He asks the obvious.

“If I ever need demo on my house at least now I know who to come to.” Jay jokes.

“What happened?” Lloyd asks, offering Zane his hand.

He’s not quite sure he can stand yet, but he takes Lloyds hand anyway, “You power, it feels incredibly similar to the golden power.” Zane says tightly.

“Yeah, I know.” Lloyd is puzzled now, “The green energy is part of the golden power.”

“Master Wu was right. It was a mental block, one I was not aware I had.” He drags a finger over his cheek just to check that his face plate hadn’t split in that same, familiar spot.

“Block? What blo-“ Lloyd stops abruptly, “Oh.”

Zane stomach churns at the thought of attempting to use the power again, “Lloyd, I am unsure If i will be able to even begin to use your element.”

“You have to.” Nya reminds him with a wince, “That’s what makes it work.”

He closes his eyes again and tries to steady himself, “I cannot continue today,” He says finally, “We can try again tomorrow.”

“Okay, Zane.” The atmosphere is subdued, “Whatever you need.”

He has to have Cole help him inside, his legs too shakey to keep his footing.

It isn’t until he’s in the bathroom that he realizes he’d cried.

#ninjago #zane julien #spinchip fic

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zeenovos · 3 years ago

Text

‘Sensor Ghosts’

When you started working in the factory you thought that ushering robots through reprogramming was going to be easy. You didn’t even have to do the reprogramming, you just had to calm them down and remind them that it wasn’t really reprogramming, it was just checking out what was causing coding to glitch and fix it, like- like helping someone through a panic attack by helping centre them or something like that, like Mrs. Rodriguez did for her daughter.

That’s until one of the robots focuses its camera on you and asks why you don’t answer. It throws you, because what are you supposed to be answering to? That is, it throws you until the robot says that you’re ignoring the spirit trying to speak to you. It’s annoying, you don’t believe in all that bullshit. Bad enough your Mom’s off on the woo-woo path while your Dad has gone off to preach to the ‘heathen youth’, now robots are trying to make you get religion or spirituality or whatever?

You know your irritation is shining through, but the robot starts trying to tell you what the ‘spirit’ is saying and it’s bullshit! It’s bullshit it’s bullshit like ‘your dad does love you, he’s just lost his way’ as if that will make the years of judgments better somehow, as if that will bring back the Dad you hazily remember from when you were small who’d carry you on his shoulders and make airplane noises so you could pretend you were delivering a whole plane full of stranded fairies home to Fairyland. The Dad who wouldn’t shout curses at your Mom for leaving out her oracle cards and ‘tempting our child into the arms of the darkness’. When you hear an odd noise after the robot is taken into the reprogramming room, you ignore it.

You’re too irritated to want to give it much thought.

But it niggles at you later, weeks later, when you have to escort another one and they aren’t confused and mildly worried. This one is clinging to you with its grasping pincers, boxy body curling towards you as it begs you not to reprogram it, just to help it differentiate between the visible voices and invisible ones. Robots can’t get schizophrenia or stuff like that, can they? Then this one speaks about the spirits, and it isn’t about your Dad. It’s about something that makes your guts feel uncomfortable and your chest feel tight. This robot talks about feeling lonely, and the ‘invisible voices’ helping it feel like it isn’t alone down in the lower levels of the factory, helping it understand how to do its tasks properly. Why is it even getting reprogrammed if it’s doing its job right? Why-

Why does a robot feel lonely?

The news talks about the leaps and bounds in tech, but they only talk about artificial feelings.

They only mention it for the ones that look human. This one doesn’t even have a proper face, it’s boxes with arms and cameras and little wheels on its base and a telescopic middle. It doesn’t look human, or animal, or insectoid, it looks fully mechanical.

Why would they give one like this feelings?

Better yet, woo-woo spirits aside, as much as you don’t like this stuff, if it’s bringing comfort, why is that a problem? No one’s being hurt, right? ‘The sensor ghosts sometimes go too far,’ one of the techs says, offhand, and this time when you hear a sound before the door closes it sounds like a cut off sob.

You stand in front of the door for five minutes, staring at it in the silence.

It’s a robot, it’s a robot that’s meant to do a job, not serve a pseudo-social function or provide an anchor for a media company to get people hooked on parasocial relationships with it.

Everyone says the technology is only far enough along to provide synthetic personality, nothing actually real.

All randomly generated.

So why have a robot that can panic and sob when it’s trapped?

This bothers you. You can’t stop thinking about it when your shift is over and you head home. Transit has never seemed so daunting, you don’t even give an automatic greeting to the small robot that scans your ticket and gives you a chirpy hello. You look around you at robots and people, and you wonder if only the second word is accurate.

You come across the first robot you calmed and led to the reprogramming room, and they don’t remember you. After a prompt the secretary robot laughs and its eyes flicker before it starts speaking as if it does know you, but you know it doesn’t. The tones it used with you before are gone. The expression on the synthetic face is fixed, not relaxed, and when you ask how it’s been doing since the reprogramming it enthusiastically tells you it feels so much better without any glitches in its system, and is happy to return to stress-free work.

Until, half a year later, you’re escorting it again and it asks you softly, urgently, to not let it go in alone. To witness.

But you aren’t allowed in.

The techs look puzzled over the fact you would even ask.

You don’t see the secretary robot again.

You’re told it’s been decommissioned for persistent glitch issues.

You remember when it smiled on your first day and handed you a cookie, asking if the flavour profile was one you liked.

Something is deeply, deeply wrong, and religion the way your Dad does it won’t help, but… Despite your disbelief, maybe your Mom’s spiritualism will?

When you ask what’s going on at work and your Mom draws her cards, you think they look very pretty until you look at her face and she asks you if you’ve seen signs of rot.

Of poison.

You watch this time, and you catch the next ‘glitch’ before the supervisors or stressed out human workers do. You approach the robot quietly and when they flinch, by whatever higher power maybe exists it is a flinch, you tell them that you want to understand. That you don’t understand and it’s bothering you.

You work together with this robot, with J4FF, and you help it, help her, figure out how to differentiate.

You find out that the spirits start talking to them as soon as they’re brought into the factory. That the spirits have spotted problems before they even happen.

You find out that there’s one spirit that speaks in a child’s voice, and gives the name of a child who, when you do a lot of digging, it turns out died in an accident during a school tour. The child gives details which, during more digging, make your skin crawl because these details aren’t online or in the news or anywhere J4FF should have been able to access since she’s only ever moved around inside this factory. In the one she was made in, she was brought online for inspection, shut down, and when she woke she’d been transported here where the spirits were already faintly talking to her.

You don’t know what to do.

You take four days off, because you can’t face the rest of the work week with this.

On one of the days you aren’t in, a panicking robot kills a tech team. One of the heavy haulers, nicknamed Monkey.

They decommission it, and you remember Monkey letting you catch a ride when your legs were tired from hustling wherever you were called to during a shift.

You go to your Mom again, and say that you’re not sure you believe in everything, but you believe in the spirit of little Brady Mountrose who tells you via J4FF that his daddy puts forget-me-nots on his grave every spring.

You want to get them out.

You want to stop the reprogramming.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s years later, and everything has been stripped away from you. They took your job, your friends, your home, they almost took your life.

But you’re here now, standing in the factory, quiet and shut down, and you’re holding J4FF’s hand because she managed to survive it all. Most of the crew managed to survive, because J4FF taught them what you both figured out; how to hide that they were hearing spirits. You still can’t see anything here, but the medium you befriended when you went to your Mom for help is standing on your other side and she’s smiling as she finishes setting down the last of the boxes.

You exposed the company for having sentient robots, provably sentient ones, and abusing them. You aren’t going to convince anyone that there are spirits here, but what you did do was get a better life.

And now, here with the robots and the other people you’ve met who had believed you and befriended you, you have the beginnings of a garden, to bring light and peace.

Finally, the spirits will be able to rest in an atmosphere not clogged with fear and harm.

Finally, the robots will be free.

Finally, you will be free.

A life is ending, a life is beginning, and the reprogramming room is gone.

Life is what you will choose, and you won’t be controlled.

#zeenovos art #zeenovos writes #and whoo boy didn't expect to be doing that uh #be kind??????#my writing #scifi #original writing #robots

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hermitblurbs · 4 years ago

Text

Continuation of this

Reconnecting ocular sensors…

Calibrating limbs…

All systems functional.

A wooden ceiling swims in and out of view as his eyes try to find a decent aperture for the location he’s in. He’s not used to these eyes.

“M-mb-!” The shout’s sudden, shorting out as his hearing connects. “Mum-o, S—r’s up!”

He sits up, both arms unexpectedly functional. His eyes refocus. In front of him is a man of average height, with scruffy, blonde hair and massive mechanical wings at his back and a matching smear of grease on his cheek. He’s got a pair of goggles sat on his head and some sort of bird-like gas mask hung around his throat. Very different from his usual clientele, but no matter.

His clockwork heart starts its steady ticking.

“Why hello there. May I interest you in one of many purchasable wares?” His voice is a little scratchy, a little broken and fading, but nothing a bit of oil can’t fix. The human turns his attention to him, and he notes black eyes and excitement.

“You speak?” He asks, a gleam in his drooping eyes. “Do you have a name?”

“You see, kind sir, I’m a little different than you,” he replies like it’s not obvious, “Names are for people. I am but a—“

“Great, it’s Scar now.”

Processing…

Firmware updated.

“In that case, pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Scar.”

The human’s grin is blinding.

“I’m Grian. There’s also Mumbo. You’ll know him when you see him; fantastic mustache.” Grian and mumbo. He tucks the names away next to the rhythmic ticking and in his files, overriding the details of old customers. Actually, speaking of,

“I’m not too used to making assumptions so you’ll have to be patient with me, but you don’t appear to be a customer.”

“You think,” Grian gasps, like he’s one of the androids that go around solving mysteries instead of a salesbot.

“Have you recently purchased me from a store? Or perhaps pillaged me from the back?” Wouldn’t be the first time. It happens more often than you’d think, with shops deeming him unusable after a simple bug. It’d explain the unfamiliarity with how he runs.

“Something like that!”

“In that case, I’ll give you a rundown of my functions and of proper robot care.” He goes to straighten his lapels, and finds metal beneath metal hands.

“Oh, no need to do that—wait for Mumbo to get here, I won’t remember a lick of it.”

“If you insist,” he mumbles idly, distracted by staring into the cavity of his own chest.

He recognizes most of his insides, which is, expectedly, a good thing. What’s less of a good thing is that what he does recognize is halfway hanging outside his body, and the rest he doesn’t recognize. Even his shell is a patchwork of a lighter tan metal (Scar, he gets the name now), the lines clean and lightly rippled like his mechanic had to laser cut away ripped edges.

Oil runs a little hotter through his limbs, and there’s a click and whirr of a fan kicking in. His heart ticks faster.

His heart’s the most concerning, brass and spring coiled, instead of the pistons he’s used to. It looks like he’d been torn apart and mauled, and while he’s used to being sent shop to shop, the notion that someone would rip his shell, pluck out his core and attempt to kill him before tossing him out is—

Firewall activated.

Oh, right. He’s not supposed to feel terror.

The ticking, which just started to blare in his ears, goes silent. His head dips and his eyes dull, the aperture spiraling out until all that’s left is pupil.

Rebooting…

#hermitcraft #desert duo #grian #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #hermitcraft fic #mumbo jumbo #mentioned #he’ll get here eventually #blurb #steampunk au #the beloved #aka i flex my robotics knowledge #only mildly though because not much of any job i depict will be too accurate <3 #ehehehe robits #no beta read we die like someone idk

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rodeoxqueen · 4 years ago

Text

Limerence

Revenant/Reader

“Revenant misses what Kaleb took for granted. Some of the smallest things have the largest exit wounds.”

Jumping down the alleyway like a cat in the dark, Revenant stalked the streets of a rather run-down area. Whatever stores weren’t broken into or out of business simply resold stolen items. For some reason, mostly that he had nowhere to go, Revenant decided to stop at a particular window of an antique store. The usual sight of this red-metal shell weakly reflected against the surface of the display window.

Humans loved to resell items that were meant to have been disposed of, sickeningly emotional over trash. Worldly possessions meant nothing to him yet he entertained the notion of judging what these meatbags had to offer.

However, something shined in the midnight hour, his yellow eyes close to the glass. Something truly antique.

“Why are you taping me?” Kaleb walked out of frame. You laughed, zooming in on his face.

The view of just Kaleb had your face added in the corner, the viewfinder focusing on your close-up.

“My name is (Y/N), this is my new vlog. I’m the same age as my boyfriend, who is….”

Kaleb sighed, knowing it was a sentence meant for him to finish.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Yeah!” You pointed to him in the viewfinder, his expression unimpressed.

“This is my boyfriend. We’ve been together for a couple of years now. Kaleb, how many years have we been together?”

He sighed, covering his face and trying to drink his water.

“Hey, how many years have we been together?”

“Too many.”

Although snarky at times, you knew this was banter.

“Four years.” You boasted to the camera and to the future viewers.

“What brought this on?” Kaleb asked, hand loosely gesturing to the camera, as you walked about to give a shot of the outside of your shared home.

“I don’t know, I just think that when we’re older, we’re not going to remember all of these moments in full detail. I thought that if I recorded us, we can save these memories.”

Kaleb noticed you were wearing his white undershirt again. He was looking for that one in particular. With a stretch of his arm, he tugged you back towards him. The familiar smoothness of his sharp jawline propped against your neck.

The scent of his cologne was something you knew you could never memorialize on simple recordings. He smelled like home.

“I just want to remember things exactly as they are. That we were around, and that we were having a good time.”

The red light of the on button reflected against his baby blue eyes, reminiscent of fire arm’s ready-to-fire.

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” He kissed the side of your cheek.

You turned your head to peck him in return when he suddenly took the handheld camera out of your hands. Keeping it out of your reach, he switched off the rolling film in your moment of distraction.

It pays to have the reflexes of a hitman.

A squawk of indignance left your mouth. Luckily your device saved it, the playback of your shaky camera work filling the empty air.

“What was that for?”

“I’ll always be around. Ditch the vlogging for now, I’m making breakfast.”

There wasn’t a lot of need for sentiment in his life. He lived and that was enough, working with no regard for memories. He had enough love from you, this rare luxury of affectionate company. It was enough for him to live in the moment. It was all he needed.

Centuries later, Revenant could strongly taste the feeling of regret.

He had abandoned the streets for the roofs instead, not quite in the mood to go back to the King’s Canyon that he haunted. Where he once stood, had a hole been punched through the glass, littering a now-empty display box.

A slight wind fluttered his cowl, his head lowered.

In his metal claws, the camcorder had been the same color as yours. Not quite as well-maintained, but used nonetheless. He turned it about in his hands, the viewfinder busted and the lens riddled with slight cracks. This wasn’t yours, god no. You took care of things.

He doubted yours could ever be found.

Where you could have gone after his absence, no one of the last few centuries could have known.

There was a sick sadistic idea in his mind, how your face might have contorted with fear at his new appearance and mentality. Would you scream, his robotic sensors recording everything as you realized Kaleb was no longer Kaleb?

Everyone else of better sense did, letting him be the monster he was programmed to be. This cold man had frozen over as a cadaver, becoming a frigid Simulacrum.

Time had some blessings. You passed long before you could ever have been tainted by Revenant’s bloodstained touch. The very things, the recorded memories of his old life, he had once mocked became something he wanted ownership of more than before.

“I’ll always be around, you’ll just be gone.”

#gender neutral reader #apex revenant #revenant x reader #apex legends x reader #apex legends #kaleb cross #kaleb cross x reader #angst #AO3 fic #lord this is short #songfic #limerence by yves tumor

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hoodoo12 · 5 years ago

Text

Play and Funtime

I’ve seen lots of screenshots and fanart, but where is the written Robofizz smut? sigh Just have to do it myself jk jk

Although writing your first fic in a new fandom is nerve-wracking, I’m excited to do it and I hope you guys like it.

NSFW; Robofizz/imp!reader, TENTACLES YOU THIRSTY PEOPLE

@go-commander-kim @monsterlovinghours @mimiscappinisideblog @jesterfestivle @beetlebitchywitch @realmonsterboyhours @yankyo

Enjoy! `

It wasn’t your choice. You were clear on that.

But coerced by so-called ‘friends’ you found yourself in the very front row in front of the stage, with excited, chattering implings around you and excited, chattering friends on either side, all eagerly waiting for the show to start. You’d even been forced to enter the big top early, “to get the best seats!”, so now you were a combination of both bored and a wee bit anxious.

That clown always unnerved you.

The sparks, the glitches, the unnatural movements that were much more fluid than you thought should be possible--if anything was impossible here, with enough imagination or lacking that, determination and money--the AI that seemed a little bit too good . . . the Robotic Fizzarolli was not your idea of family entertainment.

But here you were. You vowed to keep your head down during the show, to avoid seeing the robot and his animatronic backup band, then when it was over you could all leave and go do something actually fun.

When the lights went down you dropped your chin. Everyone else was cheering, so no one would notice you were not.

Just as you remembered from your early imphood, the spotlight lit up and the Robotic Fizzarolli burst onto the stage in full song. The rest of the audience clapped and sang along. You remained steadfast in your resolve to just wait this out, your eyes locked on your clasped hands in your lap.

Which meant you were completely taken off guard when a hand slipped under your chin and lifted your head.

You found yourself face to face with the robot, who was focused solely on you, grinning widely, showing a large number of sharp teeth.

“N-n-not having f-fun?” it asked.

“Wha-what? N-no--I mean yes,” you stuttered in surprised response, inadvertently sounding like you had a glitch as well.

The robot cocked its head a bit too far to be natural, its optic sensors giving nothing away while it studied you. The crowd in the stands, including your friends, were watching with breathless anticipation.

“I th-think you could be having a better t-t-time,” the Robotic Fizzarolli concluded, but to your immense relief, it released your chin and returned to the stage to finish its number, to the return of screams and cheers of delight.

Soon after, the curtain closed and you sighed in relief. Loudly, you told your group, “You got your show. Now let’s get out of here.” “No, look, look!” the imp next to you exclaimed. “You got a token!”

Confused, you wrinkled your brow. “A token?” “She got a token!” “She got a token!” The imps you’d come in with crowded around, more excited than during the show. You even saw some of the imps who’d been leaving the tent turn and give you what looked like envious glances. You had no idea what any of this meant. “Look look look!” Finally you had the wherewithal to realize they were talking about something in your hand. It was exactly what they said--a flat, oval token etched on both sides with the jester’s face, and what looked like circuitry embedded in it. Very tiny letters around the edge spelled out, “Robofizz’s Play and Funtime!” You had to squint to read them. You had no idea where it came from. Your friends continued to talk over each other in their excitement.

“Robofizz gave it to you! When he came down and talked to you!” “Oh my gosh--yes! That must have been it!”

“You’re so fucking lucky! I’d kill to get one of those!” All the chatter didn’t make you less confused. The Robotic Fizzarolli must have given it to you somehow? You’d been so startled when it touched you and addressed you directly you had no clue it’d slipped something to you. Your hands had been clasped so tightly you hadn’t noticed the small token. Feeling overwhelmed, you offered it to them. “Then you can have it! Take it!” But as excited as your friends were, they all declined with explanations that it only worked for the imp it was given to, that there was some technology that imprinted on the imp who touched it first, so as jealous as they were, it was useless to them. You had never heard about anything like this before, but then again, you always bolted out the exit when the show was barely over.

Still feeling overwhelmed and now lost and stupid, you asked, “What do I do with it?”

“You get to go backstage and meet Robofizz!”

That was something you did not want to do, but your friends would have none of that loser talk. They insisted you were selected, it was a rare treat, you were not letting them down by pussing out on having a private meet-and-greet with the star of the show! Despite your weak protests, you were herded along to a discreet door hear the stage. They--not you--knocked, and when a small window opened and suspicious eyes appeared, they--not you--told whoever was there that you had a token.

“Show me,” a low voice ordered, though the door. Resigned, you held up the disk.

There was a grunt, and the sounds of multiple locks disengaging. In another moment, the door creaked open. There was no one in the hallway beyond. “Come on, let’s go!” the same voice ordered. Your friends pushed you through the doorway, shouting good luck and have fun! The door slammed shut on them and it same clanking of the locks came again to secure it. It was much more ominous on this side. The hallway was dimly lit with flickering bulbs that seemed ready to die, but there was no where else to go, so you carefully made your way down it.

⁂

You had no idea where you were supposed to go or what you were supposed to be doing. Keeping hold of the token so tightly your fist hurt, you figured it had gotten you past the door so it would get you past anyone or anything else that may ask what the hell you were doing here. But there was no one to be found. In the wavering overhead lights you wandered up some stairs and found yourself on stage, behind the curtain. The animatronic band was silent on their stands, creepier when immobile and staring than when they were booted up to perform, which you had never imagined could be the case.

The Robotic Fizzarolli was not with them. That surprised you. If these robots were here, where was the star of the show? Chills went down your spine and with a horrible thought, you glanced up into the catwalks above the stage, as if expecting to see it there like a spider waiting to drop onto its prey.

Nothing.

“Hello?” you finally called.

Nothing.

You started back towards the hallway, thinking this was a mistake. Your soft footsteps echoed oddly in the silence. You would leave and tell your friends there was nothing, that you knew it was all a waste of time.

“H-hello there. Wel-wel-welcome!”

Startled, you spun fast enough to trip, and were caught by the robot that haunted your nightmares.

It leered as it groped you into standing stead on your feet again. “You were the-the one who wasn’t having fun at my sh-show! I’m so-so-so glad you decided to join me!” Your tongue was stuck to the roof of your mouth but you managed to babble, “I wasn’t--I mean, your show was fine, it was good--” A glitchy, mechanical tsk cut you off. “No, no, no--I c-can tell. And th-that’s no good, not having fun. You seemed like you needed a little ex-extra convincing, and I’m pro-pro-programed to accommodate.”

You were sure your friends would know exactly what that might mean, but the leer had not left the robot’s face and it sounded more sinister than anything. You had seen the signage about “Peronal Companion”, but never spent too much time thinking about it--

It seemed to be waiting for a response. “I, uh . . .” You cleared your throat. “I have . . . a token?”

If it was even possible, the light of its eyes shone even brighter at the sight of you holding the disk. “Now those are fun,” it exclaimed, “for both of us. Let’s g-go.” Without another word and without warning, you were dragged deeper into the gloom further backstage. You stumbled to keep up, but that didn’t slow the robot down. There were turns down hallways that seemed to go on longer than should be possible for an amusement part theater, but finally, when you were out of breath and completely turned around, you were hauled to a stop outside another door.

“Before w-we go in, g-g-giving or re-receiving?”

The glitches in its voice made it even more difficult to understand what the hell it was saying. Several moments passed while you untangled the question in your head. The Robotic Fizzarolli waited with mechanical patience and an unsettling stillness, although its eyes never left yours. “Uhmm . . .” The token had been given to you, like a gift, so would it be odd to ask for more? But you were the guest here. “ . . . receiving? I guess?” That leer returned to its face. There was a faint clicking noise, as if something was shifting inside the robot’s body, and it said, “Excel-excellent choice.”

It opened the door and ushered you inside.

The room was designed for imps in mind. Well, imps of a certain predilection. Whips, handcuffs, ankle cuffs, ball gags, harnesses, various sizes of dildos--also in various shapes--hung neatly on the walls. Some wooden contraption with shackles at various points stood in a corner. There was a bench that looked as though it could be raised to various heights with the same shackles, but also a split for a tail to fit through if the imp secured on it was on their back. There were other instruments and adornments you had no name for, as your eyes swept the room.

“D-don’t l-look so worried,” the robot assured you, although you weren’t reassured in the least. “All that is only if-if it’s chosen. The selection is com-completely randomized.” You tore your eyes away from the implements in the room. “What do you mean?” “The-the-the token. Put it in the slot, and we’ll see wh-what prize you get.” That made little to no sense, till you realized Robofizz indicated a small slot on its side. Carefully, you raised your hand and pushed the token into it, which made the robot give a full body twitch like an extra jolt of electricity ran through it. You jerked your hand back; the sparks that flew from it haphazardly were one of the things you disliked most about it.

There was a clanking noise, like the token was hitting and bouncing off things inside its body, plus a odd, whirring noise. You realized a panel on its chest was actually a screen, and something was spinning inside it. It was a blur, but gradually began to slow enough that you could see whatever it was had words etched on it. Now it was slow enough you could read them as they moved into and out of the screen. bdsm tentacles

vibration

Round and round they went. The words continued to flick past, gradually becoming slower and slower.

With a dawning that took you way too long, it became apparent whatever the last word was going to be was the decision. Maybe other imps or demons would use the Robotic Fizzarolli as personal companion and know exactly what they wanted, but there was also a randomizer feature to keep things lively!

The robot continued to stand eerily still as this continued. It was like both of you were holding your breath in anticipation.

The roller slowed enough to halt. The final outcome that you weren’t even sure you were prepared for blinked on and off in tiny white lights on his chest--

“Tentacles,” Robofizz announced.

⁂

“Tentacles?!” you squeaked.

You got a nod in response. “A very pop-pop-popular feature. Would you like to remove your clothing, or simply re-relax and let me do all the w-work?” “But-but . . . there’s no bed or--” you cast your eyes around the room again, looking for anything that would lend weight to your argument that maybe just a simple handshake and an autograph would suffice. “No bed n-n-needed,” Robofizz countered. “I am designed to not need to sit or lay down, and-and I am pro-programmed to support you in m-multiple positions.” He was between you and the door, and now the aforementioned tentacles made their appearance, slipping out from some unknown port in his back. They were striped and limber, flexing as though they’d been kept in too small an area for too long and needed to work out the kinks. That couldn’t be the case, being a machine, so all you could figure was that it was designed to imitate life. The first of them--you weren’t even sure of their number--moved through the space between you and the robot. “Fizzarolli--” “Oh, such f-formality! No n-n-need for that either, baby.” That was the first time it’d used a pet name, again probably designed to make this all more personable. “Call me Fizz,” he cooed, all the while still showing too many teeth, invading your personal space, and managing to wrap you up with two tentacles. They pulled you into his torso, which wasn’t as cold as you expected it to be. Neither were the tentacles, now that you thought about it. More of them began to nose around you. “Some rules, baby. This can go as hard as you want. J-just say the word. N-n-nothing’s off limits. My-my-my next show is this evening, so you have me-me-me till then . . . you want ex-extra time, you gotta p-pay for it. “Q-Questions?” Dumbly, you shook your head. “Then let’s b-begin.”

⁂

You’d never be able to give enough detail about the encounter. You’d been asked, multiple times, and simply couldn’t put it into words. How could you describe the unusual sensuality of tentacles sliding under your clothing and removing it from you? How could you impress how strong but delicate they were, wrapping around your limbs with the perfect amount of pressure, raising you off your feet so you felt like you were floating? How you could possibly tell them that other tentacles roamed your skin, tickling you, exploring, awakening new erogenous zones you were unware exisited? How could you admit that all of that lasted an indeterminate amount of time, until you were writhing against the restraint, not to get away, now, but to try and pull him--the Robotic Fizzarolli was no longer an genderless it in your mind, but a him--closer while begging for more? When tears filled your eyes at the force of your pleas, he moved in closer to you, almost close enough to kiss. He seemed fascinated by your tears, and from between his sharp teeth came what must be the robot equivalent of a tongue. It lapped at your cheek, collecting the wet. You had no idea what that was all about, but in the next moment couldn’t devote any time to wondering. As promised, Robofizz accommodated. You’d asked, and another tentacle from Robofizz filled you in smooth, firm motion. You arched your back at the pleasurable friction it created inside you.

How could you continue to admit that your begging didn’t stop, but increased, wanting, no needing more while being fucked suspended in mid-air by an amusement park clown? That the random showers of sparks that you hated before became something you craved, each little spark leaving a mild burn on your skin that didn’t hurt, but only served to make your nerve endings sing out? Or that during it all he’d talked, the rasp and glitching words of dirty encouragement to, “take it deeper” and “you’re soaking w-w-wet” and “gr-greedy little slut”, which only added to the debauchery, that although it was obvious he could and would be rough and aggressive he gave you just what you needed, and all you wanted was more and more and more-- Even after all that, the finale that would be hard for anyone to believe, including yourself if you didn’t experience it: Robofizz telling you, after you’d been wrung dry from countless orgasms, that the tips of his tentacles--and other, specific, parts of his body--were laced with nano-circuitry to simulate nerves, and he could feel every single internal clutch around his tentacle--

The session ended with you sucking on the tips of multiple tentacles, like an assortment of cocks, while still being fucked to a few more orgasms. When you were finally released, your legs were weak and you were drenched between your legs. You’d drooled so much you were laved with spit. It took you a bit of time to collect yourself and get your clothes back on; your hands trembled with residual bliss for long moments. Robofizz, whose tentacles disappeared again, walked you back to the corridor you’d come in. “Five m-m-minutes till showtime,” he told you.

You had no idea if robots had a sense of humor, but you tried anyway. “That was a pretty good show you just put on.” You got that unnatural head cock again, but he grinned and reminded you,

“You want ex-extra time, you gotta p-pay for it.” “I know,” you replied, already trying to calculate how you could afford to return and book another private “Robofizz’s Play and Funtime!”. You were eager to try out different features. “How do I . . .?” “The-the d-door will remember you. It’s h-his job,” the robot answered your unfinished question, as if it was one he got frequently. You nodded as if you understood, then impulsively stretched upward to kiss him. He wasn’t startled--he was a robot, after all--but you gave him a smile and slipped back through the door to the front of the theater. You had to find your friends. It wasn’t your choice, sitting in the audience to watch a robotic jester entertain a crowd of imps.

But next time, it would be.

fin!

#writing #fanfiction #Robofizz #the Robotic Fizzarolli #helluva boss #tentacles #robo fizz #robofizz x reader #robo fizz x reader #Loo Loo Land

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naralanis · 4 years ago

Text

little bumps in the road (pt. 8)

Previously on LBitR

“For the record, I still say Disney World would have been far safer than this insanity.”

Lena does her best to ignore Kara’s muttering. While this may be one of the more insane schemes she has ever concocted in her life, the truth of the matter is that she would have never, ever suggested it if she didn’t honestly think they could pull it off.

“Maybe,” she concedes, squinting at the drugstore compact sitting on the nightstand as she readjusts the wig. “But it certainly wouldn’t be as productive.”

She turns to Kara, who’s still frowning, and fluffs the strawberry blonde locks cascading from her own head. Maybe she should just bleach her hair and be done with it.

“So, what do you think?”

Kara’s frown deepens considerably. “You still look like you, Lena. I’m not sure about this.”

“Wait, hold on; I’m missing a crucial piece,” Lena retorts, reaching for a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sitting on the nightstand. “Ta-da,” she says flatly, pulling them on. “Unrecognizable, I’m basically a different person.”

Kara pulls a face, and Lena mentally kicks herself, rushing to pull the frames off.

“Kara, I didn’t mean...”

The blonde raises a hand, stopping her in her tracks. “I know,” she says, though she does so through clenched teeth. “I still think this is a monumentally bad idea. Explain to me why I can’t go with you.”

Lena sighs. “Because you’re supposed to be dead, Kara--it’s far less risky if I go in alone. Even if I get caught, you remain a secret. Plus-- I know the building. I used to own it, once upon a different Earth, remember?”

Kara crosses her arms over her chest, looking entirely unconvinced. “I still think we should wait for Alex. She’s going to respond soon, Lena, I know it.”

“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. Call her again tomorrow,” she says, as evenly as she can. “But I’m doing this, Kara. I can’t just stand by while you go without powers for another day--who knows when Alex will actually be able to help? I need to do this.”

Kara stares, pensively and worriedly, not saying a word for a long time. She looks at the wig Lena’s wearing, at the outfit they bought a few towns over to make her look like some intern--button-down, dark jeans, oxfords, at the medical supplies they’ll use to take a sample of her blood and transport it to LuthorCorp tomorrow. Her gaze lingers on the glasses Lena’s still holding, and she releases a sigh, sounding more than defeated--she sounds afraid.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” she waves a hand over the considerable space between them, seemingly at a loss. “There’s nothing to... atone for, or whatever.”

Lena smiles, knowing it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree there.”

Kara looks anguished, seems to be grinding the gears in her head, like she knows that at this point she’s just grasping at straws.

“Is it too late to find a vet lab somewhere?” she tries, with no conviction behind her tone.

“No, but LuthorCorp will have the equipment for much faster, and more accurate results. I can do this, Kara. I promise.”

Kara visibly deflates, and Lena knows the matter will be dropped, just like that. “Fine. I concede. I’m never talking you out of this, am I?”

Lena feels her smile twitch a little, but she reaches over the gulf between them, putting the glasses back on the nightstand.

“No, darling, I’m afraid not.”

Kara’s responding sigh seems to echo in the motel room; it lingers in the air, heavy with a fear Lena knows she’ll try to brush off.

“Alright, fine. Now please take off that wig--you as a blonde is freaking me out.”

Breaking into LuthorCorp is quite simple, in a manner of speaking: all one needs to make it through the main doors is a swipe card. If she had the necessary materials, Lena could easily clone one with her eyes closed, but as it is, she needs to acquire one from an actual employee.

That is easily accomplished; Kara, decked out as tourist (complete with a neon-orange fanny-pack of her choosing), distracts a low-level minion having his lunch break on the public plaza right across the street from the main building, and Lena just walks right past them, disguise in place. His entry card and lab-coat are in her hands in less than a second, and in the other, she’s already crossing the street.

With any luck, Lena will be in and out of the building before the card is ever reported missing.

The problem, however, lies in getting into a laboratory. Any of the more equipped labs, those working on secretive (and likely illegal) projects, would lie behind layers and layers of security Lena has neither the time nor the tools at present to even try to break.

To their luck, Lena doesn’t actually need to try to sneak into any high-clearance labs--all she needs is a solid thirty minutes with a mass spectrometer of her own design; a handy not-so-little piece of machinery that had become standard in all L-Corp labs in their previous Earth, and, because Lex cannot resist stealing a good idea, LuthorCorp.

Still, even to access a simple, run-of-the-mill lab at LuthorCorp, Lena needs to go through biometric sensors--retina scanners, to be precise.

And maybe, just maybe, Lena had neglected to mention that little detail to Kara when they discussed the plan for the umpteenth time that morning while she methodically took a sample of Kara’s blood, but that’s neither here nor there.

Once she’s through the main doors-- Kryptonian blood sample packed into a Thermos full of ice in her purse (I am amazed and disturbed at how easily you were able to get medical supplies like these, Lena, seriously), it’s easy enough to make her way through the elevators, carrying a stack of papers to look the part of an intern--no one even bats an eye.

The cameras on the third floor are exactly where Lena had expected them to be, so she walks down the corridor to where she knows is a supply closet, and swipes in with no problem. The layout of the building really had not changed at all since she last worked there, even if that had happened on a literal other reality.

Once she’s in, Lena only has to wait. She counts the seconds in her head in French, both to keep track of time, but also to calm her racing heartbeat, because this--this is the biggest gamble of her plan.

Since she obviously does not have a way to bypass the biometric scanners, Lena’s only option is to get someone to do it for her.

She lies in wait in the supply closet for about two and a half minutes, and then she hears it: the sound of footsteps, two sets of them, and idle conversation, coming down the corridor directly her way. Lena takes a deep breath, counts the steps as they approach--she only has one chance to do this right.

When the steps are right in front of the closet, she swings open the door with force.

“Ow!”

The hit is a good one--whoever’s on the other side blocks her from opening the door all the way with dull impact, and her papers go scattering all over the place.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Are--are you OK, did the door hit you?”

Lena’s holding a hand over her right eye, moaning and doubled-over in mock pain as two young men--both looking to be interns-- look her over with concern. One of them is already on the floor, gathering her papers.

“Ow, no, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have opened the door like that--oww” she cries, maybe a little too dramatically. One of the interns, tall and lanky, steadies her as she fake-wobbles on her feet.

“Ouch, did you hit your head? Let me take a look at your eye, take your hand---yikes!”

Lena removes her palm, previously dusted with the finest blush powder she could find at the drugstore yesterday, and makes a big show of blinking away her tears. The make-up gives her an instant shiner, and the fine powder has the added benefit of irritating the shit out of her eye--so the swelling and the tears are 100% real.

“I’m fine, really, thank you,” she says, waving them off and taking the sheets the other intern dutifully picked up. “I’m so sorry, I was in such a hurry--are you guys OK?”

“Better than you,” the first one, laughs, though he still looks concerned. “Are you sure you’re OK? Your eye looks pretty bad, do you want to go to the infirmary or something?”

“No, no, it’s fine -- I just got to run some stuff, then I’ll get some ice. I’m fine, really,” Lena waves them off politely, touching the skin around her supposedly injured eye.

The two men exchanged a worried glance, but the first shrugs his shoulders. “OK then, take care. Sorry again.”

“No worries,” she laughs, a little too high, but she’s so close, so so close... “I’m just a klutz--my fault, totally.”

She’s already walking away towards a lab, one she had checked during her walk from the elevator to the supply closet. The interns linger by the closet door for a moment, before slowly making their way to the elevator, still sending worried glances her way.

Lena swipes the stolen card, and immediately the panel by the side opens up, revealing the retina scanner and prompting her to scan her credentials. She leans towards the scanner, and the red light makes her blink; the machine buzzes and flashes red, and a robotic voice filters through the side-speakers.

Unable to scan. Please try again.

Lena huffs, audibly--she hears the interns’ steps pause someway down the corridor. She stomps her foot, and leans over the scanner again. It buzzes.

Unable to scan. Please try again.

“Shoot! You’ve gotta be kidding me right now!”

The steps grow closer, and for a moment Lena’s a bit worried she may be overselling her frustration, but before she can try scanning her retinas again, the tall and lanky intern is by her side.

“Did you try your left eye? Seems to be in better condition,” he jokes--his smile is genuine and friendly, but Lena puts on an impressive grimace of alarm.

“I never registered it,” she bemoans, feigning panic. “God, I meant to, but then it was just one of those things--oh my god, my boss is going to kill me--”

“Hey, relax,” he quips, raising a hand to stop what was going to be a rather dramatic tirade. He smiles, and swipes his card at the door, leaning over the panel and scanning his own eye.

Scan complete. The voice drones. Access granted; Montgomery, Jason.

The panel lights up in green, and the door unlocks with an audible hiss. Lena lets out a little squeak of delight that is barely faked--she can’t believe it worked.

“Oh my god, thank you, you’re a saint!”

She pushes the door open, but is barely a foot inside when an arm blocks her entry--she almost screams, body frozen in sheer terror as she turns to look at the intern the door panel just identified as Jason.

He’s smiling broadly. “Say, I’m sorry about your eye. Can I make it up to you over some coffee, later?”

Lena can barely contain her sigh of relief, but she puts on her sweetest smile and bats her eyelashes (though she’s not sure how good the effect is with the eye that is actually stinging quite painfully--what the hell was in that powder??). “I think you just did, Jason.”

His blush would have been cute, if Lena had not been on a very tight schedule. “Oh, I insist. When does your shift end...?”

It takes Lena a second to register he’s waiting for her name; she slowly maneuvers under his arm, dragging her fingers over the sleeve of his labcoat--she can practically feel the poor guy’s shiver as she leans in closer.

“Liz,” she whispers, close to his year. “And my shift ends at seven. The café across the street alright with you?”

He visibly swallows. “Yes, ma’am. See you there, Liz.”

Lena gives him a wink--with her good eye-- as he steps away. As soon as the door clicks shut again, she exhales with relief, leaning against it so she doesn’t just fall to the floor. Her knees are trembling.

She knew she could pull it off, but she also cannot believe she did.

With no time to waste, Lena practically bolts to the nearest spectrometer, quickly uncapping the Thermos with Kara’s blood sample and getting to work. It’s almost refreshing to be in a lab again, even under these circumstances, after weeks on the road. There is an innate sense of calm that falls over her when she’s working like this, like this is her element.

Like this is where she is meant to be.

The spectrometer whirs to life with Kara’s sample--Lena only needs twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes with it. She is tempted to stay for as long as she possibly can--there is so much equipment here that would be helpful... if only she brought a bigger purse, maybe she could have stolen some without detection, since there are no cameras in the labs.

The screen begins to break down the analysis, and Lena’s barely seeing it; she’s copying everything by hand onto a notebook--once the machine is done, she will make its history unrecoverable, and she doesn’t want to print anything through LuthorCorp printers.

Lena works quickly, annotating in her shorthand and trying to work as fast as the machine gives her results. She is barely processing what she sees; there will be time to read and figure everything out later, but now, she needs all the information she can cram into this little notebook.

She can feel her own eyes widening at some of the results, has to check them twice before writing them down--her pen furiously scratches across the paper, but her brain is already elsewhere, trying to reverse engineer the method of synthesizing what she’s seeing in Kara’s blood, trying to figure out ways to get it out of her system, trying to...

The spectrometer slows down and stops--the bar on the screen reads analysis complete. Lena releases a sigh of relief, hand cramping as she writes.

And then there’s the click of a gun right behind her.

“Fancy seeing you here, Lena.”

Lena shuts her eyes--the right one still throbbing, and raises her hands, still clutching the notebook as she slowly and deliberately turns around. She never even heard the door hissing open. She opens her eyes to meet a flinty, furious glare.

“Hello, Alex.”

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

<< Previous || Next >>

#nara's word vomit #supercorp #supergirl #lena luthor #kara danvers #LBitR #BUCKLE UP KIDS #WE ARE DOING FAKE-ASS SCIENCE #I know some of y'all really wanted them to go to a vet's #but listen #they simply COULDN'T #kara would get distracted by all the puppies #and Lena would never get any work done #also I am pulling this out of my ass every morning #SO WHO KNOWS WHERE WE'RE HEADED #not me #definitely not me #never ever me

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heckin-kiibler · 4 years ago

Text

Birthdays were… An odd thing for Kiibo. As a robot, he was not 'born' in the same way humans were. His creation was the culmination of years of development, during which he was technically activated in order to test specific parts of his AI. Alongside that, given his own… Unique history, it could be said that he had three separate ‘birthdays.’

First was the birthday he couldn’t remember; the one that marked the first day Professor Idabashi considered his development complete and Kiibo was properly switched on. Of course, this version of himself did not last, but if one were to get technical, this day would be his true, original birthday.

Then there was the date of his rebirth, after his AI reset itself in order to properly become the Professor's son. That had been almost five years ago now. Or perhaps six?

Finally, there was his most recent birth date, when his body and AI had been finally restored after the events of the Killing Game. His memories weren’t perfectly intact, but apparently enough of his files were able to be salvaged so that he could remember most of what had happened during that dark time in his life. Sometimes he wondered if it would have been better to forget all that had occurred, but despite the despairing situation they had been in, there were a few good memories he had that were far too valuable to lose. He didn’t want to forget his friends. Each of them were all the four of them really had, though the Future Foundation had certainly been very accommodating as well.

It was his second birthday that he generally celebrated, though, and was also the one that happened to be today.

Kiibo sat on top of a cliff, overlooking a large body of water, as the autumn breeze blew through his hair. This had become one of his favourite spots since escaping the killing game. It was quiet, but for once, that wasn’t a bad thing. It was a comforting silence, one filled with the sweet sounds of nature rather than the terrifying emptiness that had always followed nighttime at the Ultimate Academy for Gifted Juveniles. He still wasn’t fond of being completely by himself, but he was getting better, and places like these made the ordeal more bearable.

“Ah, Kiibo, here you are.”

Kiibo turned around, a smile already on his face. It seemed he would not need to be alone any longer. He would know that voice anywhere, thanks to his advanced vocal recognition technology. “Shuichi!”

“I was looking for you.” A faint blush spread across the detective's face as he offered a wrapped box to the robot. “Happy birthday, Kiibo.”

“A gift?” Shuichi was known to give out presents on a fairly regular basis, but seldom were they wrapped. Kiibo supposed that the change was because of birthday traditions. He took the box from his friend, gratitude flooding his circuits, and began to carefully unwrap it. “Thank y-- Oh!”

Inside was a beautiful blue kimono adorned with floral patterns in black outlines. Kiibo looked back at Shuichi in wonder.

“Um, during the killing game you had mentioned that you liked kimonos, so…” Shuichi trailed off, looking away. Kiibo's sensors could detect some embarrassment coming from the man. Not long after, though, he turned back to the robot with a small smile. “Well, I thought you’d like something like this.”

That was certainly true, but… Had he truly said something like that? Kiibo scoured his memory banks before coming across the singular instance where he did state his preferences for Japanese themed things. He had really remembered something like that, despite everything that had been going on in the killing game?

“Sh-Shuichi..!” If he had a crying function, surely he would be..! Kiibo wanted to hug his friend, but he was also holding his(!!) kimono and didn’t want to put it down. Instead, he opted to stare at the other with wide, joyful eyes.

The detective's smile widened as a soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Did you want to put it on?” He offered, stepping toward the other as Kiibo nodded excitedly.

It wasn’t a perfect fit, given that the garment was draped over his armour rather than being worn properly, but it still filled him with an indescribable amount of warmth. After Shuichi finished tying it for him, Kiibo turned to face the detective. “H-how do I look..?” He asked, suddenly a little shy.

“You look great, Kiibo.” Shuichi said softly, reaching over to pat Kiibo's head. “I believe the preparations are ready, if you’re ready to head back.”

“…Preparations? For what purpose?”

“Ah, well, I don’t know if it was still meant to be a surprise, but… We’ve set up a little party in the Neo World Program for you.” He smiled. “Some members of the Future Foundation were happy to help out. Apparently some of the bakers even went a bit overboard.”

A birthday party? In the Neo World Program? Then… Did that mean… “Will I finally be able to learn what cake tastes like!?” Sure, it was only a simulation and not real food, but given that Kiibo was unable to eat real food, this was his best alternative! With the right modifications to his avatar, he had been able to experience many kinds of food—all of which he greatly enjoyed—but he’d never gotten to try cake before! He’d heard such positive things about the dessert, so he couldn’t help but feel excited about the prospect.

“Heh, cake and many other desserts, I’m sure. Do you want to go?”

Oh… It was true that he was very excited about the festivities, but… Kiibo looked back out at the lake, then back at Shuichi. This would likely be the only chance he had today to spend time alone with the detective. The robot's face couldn’t help but redden as he spoke, “…Could we stay a little longer, just the two of us? I… I want to enjoy this time with you.”

Shuichi took Kiibo's hand in his, stepping closer to him as he brought his lips to the top of his head. “…Of course, Kiibo.”

#kiibo #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #shuichi saihara #saiibo #k1-b0 #keebo #ic #.shuichi saihara #verse 2 | post game #((happy birthday to my son i love him so much))#saiibo | kiibo x shuichi

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Note

i know where you’re writing in the timeline right now with the Jake and Kauri fight but... uhhhh can I get a Jake being protective as fuck set sometime in the timeline before that? Because I just. Protective Jake. He’s protective over Chris but Jake protective over kauri???? Need (like if u have time and aren’t too stressed lol)

CW: Recovering whumpee, abuse survivors, past pet whump, referenced dubcon attempts, touch starved whumpee, Jake makes a brief crude reference to metaphorical self-harm

“Jesus, man, take the fucking hint and fuck off.”

Jake’s voice wakes Kauri where he sleeps on the couch folded out into a bed, lying on his side with a pillow hugged close to his chest, buried under a pile of old quilts. Nat buys them from a church down the road that runs a daycare, Jake says, during their yearly Christmas market. A new one every year.

Kauri doesn’t really care where the quilts come from, but he loves the way Jake speaks to him, calm and quiet-voiced, never too long, never angry. He is disappointed by and loves the way that every time he tries to see if he can be grateful for Jake, he is gently pushed away - but then still held, after.

The touch isn’t the same, but no one holds it back from him. No one leaves him alone in rooms. No one uses refusing him as a way to make him desperate, make him beg.

No one calls him names here, either.

“I’m not going to try and make him talk to me this time, Jake, I just-”

“What? Couldn’t fuck him up enough the first time, decided to come back for round two?”

Jake’s voice is rising. Even as his eyes open, Kauri can feel the woozy relief of the painkillers still moving through his veins, holding back the worst of the bandaged, slowly healing wound that throbs over his collarbone on one side. The doctor they made him see gave him shots, soothing him through his tears, but now the wound doesn’t hurt like it did before, it doesn’t feel hot to the touch, the look of it has changed.

Now it’s just pills.

Kauri can handle pills.

He shifts, pushing a white-and-pink quilt off from over his head, black curls springing wildly to life as he slowly sits up. At the foot of the little makeshift bed, Keira hums, her sensors picking up his movement and change in heartbeat. She whirrs softly in greeting, her broken wheel clicking.

“Who-... who’s at the door?” He whispers. His heart races as Jake’s voice rises even more.

“Well, we’re all good on our bank accounts this week, so trust me - you can call Nat if you need to meet, but you’re not coming in. He’s not your goddamn knife to cut yourself with ‘cause you’re sad, asshole.”

Vincent Shield, Keira’s soft robotic voice intones, faintly metallic.

Oh.

Kauri swallows, remembering the last time, meeting the eyes so like his own and then waking up with a pounding headache a few seconds later in Jake’s arms, being carried to lie down in a bed. He hasn’t seen Vince since.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, looking to the side, through the open doorway, knowing Jake and Vincent are just out of sight. The light from the small entryway spills into the living room, giving just enough light to see like if he only stepped through, he would be going... somewhere else.

His end of the living room, through, is pitch-black darkness, lit only by Keira’s visual sensors, two red dots that give her the appearance of eyes.

This time, he hears Vince speak. Melodic and fluid, a trained actor’s voice, deeper than it seems like it should be. Kauri knows all of this. It’s his own voice, if he’d lived a different life. A better one.

A life where he escaped Owen instead of loving him.

Kauri’s eyes close as he drops his forehead against his knees, tears building hot and demanding. He misses Owen so badly it hurts, right now, listening to the person Owen actually wanted, less than twenty feet away.

“That’s not fair, Jake.”

“No. It’s not. But that’s how it is. You can’t show up here at fucking midnight and act like you have some kind of goddamn kinship just because you feel guilty. Not only does he not want to see you, which he’s made real damn clear, but-”

“I just want to-”

“Shield, will you listen to me?”

There’s a thump, sound of rustling. Kauri raises his head, hands tightening on the quilt he still has pulled up over his feet. His arms twitch, muscles acting out a phantom race of electricity along his nerves. His collarbone throbs. His throat bobs as he swallows, feeling hands wrapped tightly around it.

I love you, Vince, so much, and you’ll never leave-... can’t leave if you’re dead, can’t, can’t leave me-

Kauri shudders, hearing his own voice pleading in a rasping whisper, begging for his life, on his back next to the coffee table, staring into Owen’s green eyes as black spots danced in and out of his vision.

At some point he’d stopped trying to say he wasn’t Vince. At some point he’d been begging for Vince’s life, laid like wet paper over his own, drying over his face, making him someone else. Someone he was always supposed to be. Someone he never was.

“Fucking Christ, Stanton, I have to work in two days-”

“That sounds like your problem. I’m telling you to leave Kauri alone, I’m not letting you into this fucking house. It’s not good for him.”

“I just want to-”

“Vince.” Jake’s voice drops, deadly soft. Kauri breathes in soft pants, trying to stay quiet enough not to be heard.

Kauri heartrate accelerate, Keira says softly. Adrenaline. Kauri afraid. Keira reassurance provide. Kauri safe. Kauri is good.

“Keira, I-”

Kauri good.

“I know that you feel guilty.” Jake’s voice stays low. “I know how much it fucking hurts that someone’s out there who took the pain that was aimed at you. I know, okay? Trust me, I get it way better than you think I do. But your guilt will hurt him, and he needs to feel safe here. We can’t keep him safe if he’s scared you’ll show up. He’s already a runner, and he has to know he can leave whenever he wants-”

Kauri hitches in a harsher breath.

I can leave whenever I want. I can leave whenever I want. I can-

“-and that we can keep him safe. Right now, I have to keep him safe from you, too. Got it?”

There’s a pause. “Jake. This only happened because of me, because I ran-”

“No.” The anger bleeds out of Jake’s voice. Kauri hears an edge of the compassion he speaks to the other runaways with, now. “Vince. They never do it because of anything you did, or didn’t do. They do it because of what’s inside them. That piece of shit never hurt Kauri because of you. He hurt Kauri because of what’s inside of him.”

“Guess you’re the goddamn expert.”

Jake huffs nearly-silent laughter. Kauri still hears it, though. Some of his fear dissipates. The anger is gone, the danger is fading. “I am even more of an expert than you think I am. Go home, Vince.”

There’s another sound of movement. The door opens and closes. A car starts, sound of gravel, and headlights move past the windows as it drives away.

There’s quiet, for a moment. The entryway light turns off. Kauri waits for the sound of Jake on the creaking stairs, but instead he sees the rough outline of him in the dark, peeking into the living room, blinking in surprise. “Kauri. That woke you up, huh?”

Kauri swallows, and slowly nods.

Jake sighs, but he has a slight, reassuring smile on his face, and no anger. “Yeah. I should’ve guessed it would.” He moves into the room, eyeing Keira slightly warily. “Do you need anything, before you go back to sleep?”

Kauri’s heart is still beating too fast. The room is so empty, with Kauri in it alone.

“Will you... watch TV with me? For a while?”

Jake sits down and shifts until his back is against the back of the couch, pushing a pillow behind him. He grabs the remote off the side table. “Absolutely man. Only TV, though.”

“Right. Only TV.” Kauri stays where he is, knees to his chest. Jake turns on a cartoon show about a family, and keeps the volume low.

Kauri wakes up when the sun rises, only to find himself draped in the quilts to keep him warm, and Jake back upstairs. A glass of water left for Kauri to drink is the only sign he was ever there.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary @moose-teeth

#erase to control #whump #trauma recovery #jake the shelter guy #vincent shield is not a hero #past pet whump #referenced dubcon #attempts anyway #touch starved whumpee #ptsd tw #referenced abuse #abuse survivors

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