darling-red-blog1

[darling-red-blog1]

// Hey there!  How y’all doing?

I’ve been noticing that I’m going through a trend of making a lot of blogs and just as quickly unmaking them -- so I decided that I’m going to make a small multimuse blog (only four muses there, don’t worry).  It’s still got some finishing touches to go, but for the most part it’s presentable.

You can find it here: @we-all-become

A lot of things are going to happen in the next few days (because my brother is still here and he’s so very distracting).  I will be unfollowing everyone from this account as it’s about to become an archive.  Don’t worry, I have all drafts saved, and I will be responding to those probably sometime on Monday or Tuesday from the new account.

As of right now, all of my other RP accounts (lilies-in-the-stream, neitype) are deleted.  Don’t worry, follows will be occurring shortly as well!  Unfortunately, I’m only following back people that have roleplayed with me or have expressed the want to write with me, due to the fact that posts have been sliding past me without my notice and I’ve not been getting notifications from them either.

Sorry for all all the upset!  Hopefully this will help the dust settle -- and please poke at me over on the new blog if you want to write with the three new characters available!

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

Craning slightly at the chest to briefly press his lips to the top of that head sitting against his shoulder results in the rather uncomfortable tugging of stitches in the side opposite her. A quiet, subsequent grunt escapes from the back of his throat before he can catch it, and he settles back against the fabric soon enough. Tempting pain maybe, but it was worth it. Besides, so long as she was all right he really couldn’t complain too much.

Something else he couldn’t very well complain about were the scars that were more than likely going to be left behind, once the assorted injuries had finally managed to heal. The one on his side in particular was simply going to be added to the three other vertical gashes that had already gathered there (there was just something about his right side that seemed to like getting targeted especially).

“Well, now that you’re back is there anything I can help ya with? Please say yes.” And please ignore the earlier instance of discomfort. He had said he was all right and he meant it. Under the circumstances a little discomfort was simply unavoidable. “‘Cause if I have to spend one minute lookin’ at those things, I’m gonna go crazy.” At this he gives an illustrative glance over toward the pile of paperclips at his side.

Nothing against Truffles, the trinkets were still better than nothing, but there was only so much time that Monkey could spend looping little metal things around other little metal things.

     For a moment, a guilty expression passes across Red’s face and the answer to his question is all too easy to read.  No, there isn’t anything in particular that she needs help with, because she did everything she can think of to do for the day.  They have food and water, the fire is still going pretty strong, and as far as she could tell while she was out in the snow, it was and is still just them in the area.  Thankfully.  But the downside does mean that she can’t give Monkey the answer that he wants -- frown tugging at her lips.      Instantly, another plan hatches in her mind.

     She had found something, while out there in the snow.  In the same place as she did with the winter clothing, in fact.  Briefly holding up a finger to ask him to wait for a moment, Red gently pulls away; half stumbling on to her feet as she bends down to pick up the rucksack, feet briefly catching in that sleeping bag nest.  The thing she had found had been meant to be a present of sort for when he had been feeling better (lots better), but if he’s going that stir crazy and is insisting that he’s doing all right, what’s the harm in getting it now?

     If he really is tired of looking at paper clips, she’d make him look at her, instead.  Simple, easy plan.  Fool-proof.  With benefits for the both of them.

     So with the door squeaking open enough to allow herself to leave, Red raises that single finger again in a silent request for him to wait for just a moment as she slips back outside; door remaining just open enough for him to hear the woman quietly shifting around on the other side.

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

Red gets one arm’s length away from Monkey before she comes up against that resistance that she’s expecting; the larger man not budging from his spot, yet still keeping ahold of her hand. He does however turn his face to the side, previously annoyed expression now more amused than anything. He’s well aware that she’s joking– particularly more so than the man peering out from the window on the bus, who screws up his face and waves that golden hoof of his back and forth in the air: erase, erase.

“Aw, c’mon. I, I was only joking. I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Uh-huh.” With no trace of irritation or accusation the noncommittal noise slips casually enough out of Monkey’s mouth as he looks back over to the heavyset man, who had already started to turn to make his way off and around to their side of the bus.

Which is fortunate for him, because being momentarily out of view means that they can’t see the flash of confusion that sweeps across his face. He’s obviously trying to figure the pair out, but damned if they aren’t hard to peg. While Pigsy makes his way nearer, Truffles lets out a questioning sound and turns.

【 ❛ . ❛ 】

Looking left and right for a second it spots the errant piece of metal that it’s seeking; the one that had flown past it moments prior. The pixelated dot serving for its mouth opens into an “o” before it quickly takes off after it.

【 ◠ ᗜ ◠ 】

     And she goes as far as that resistance will take her, the smaller woman halfway through a step when she finally meets it -- causing one leg to kick up a small plume of dust as it goes up higher than it should.  But it takes her only a brief second to recover, righting her balance as she stumbles back to Monkey’s side.  Even as she settles back into place, a playful smile graces her lips.

     That is, until the roar of a beast is heard.      The deadly sound of something insatiable, of something angry and irritated because it hasn’t had a meal in days -- the beast having silently waited for sustenance through death, destruction, the shenanigans of lovers, and not getting any recompense for its patience throughout the last couple of days.  Its roar starts loud and strong, proud and angry, only to end off with a warbling grumble that speaks more of irritation than anything else.  It doesn’t have the strength to fully speak its mind, but both Red and Monkey are made fully aware of its opinions.

     With eyes wide, Red places her hand over her stomach as the brief hunger pang turns her stomach, the growling subsiding after a long moment -- the sound that escaped her midsection sounding more as if it should have come from the large man than the small woman.      “We haven’t eaten in days, have we?”  Comes the meek question, Red embarrassed all too easily by her own bodily functions.

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

positronicminds:

Lore listened quietly, allowing Red to speak without interruption.

“I don’t want your pity,” he said after a small bout of silence, but there was no bite to his words– if anything, there was the faintest hint of understanding behind the exhaustion in his voice.

“Soong’s just like everyone else. Everyone in this damn universe is a tyrant, Red, or they would be if given the chance.” Except her, maybe. What Soong did to and with his creations seemed to genuinely disturb her. It was… kind of her to care.

“He’s my ‘B’, Red,” he snapped, much of the softness suddenly gone from his voice. “I’m sick of you all claiming him like he’s your family. We’re brothers, not you. You have no id-dea what we’ve been through except for what we choose to tell you. You don’t know the half of what happens in those mines, Red, and you never will– and I hate the fact that you met him first. If I had been the one who had managed to save him, he would have no t-tr-trouble seeing you humans for what you are.”

He didn’t speak again until she reached the bridge. Slumped against his seat, twitching with errant commands and irregular electrical currents, Lore looked more like a decommissioned robot than anything with a consciousness or a mind of its own.

“…Red?” He could hear her enter, but it was difficult to turn to look at her. “Noonien… he’s used some kind of virus, or… I think he was trying to remotely activate my recall protocols like he did with B-4, but I don’t have them any-an-anymore, so his hack is tearing up my systems looking for it.” There wasn’t much she could do for him; he needed a skilled engineer, a real one, or time to slowly try to work through the internal damage himself.

“…I don’t know. About B-4. When Often Wrong was testing his early designs for the recall n̠̗̤̦̮͈͜o̜̤̘̱d̪̝͖̤̞͠e̲̹̫̠̺͠ͅ, I remember finding myself by his side suddenly. It was… disorienting. I couldn’t ex-act-ctly remember what happened, but I could piece most of it together from memory logs if I tried. If it’s the same for B, I think he m-might be… sort of watching himself right now, unable to control what he’s doing. He should forget when we wake him back up.”

Lore was right, at least about his brother’s current experience. B-4 was vaguely aware of a sudden pressure at his back, and then he was falling forward until he stopped. His arms were outstretched in front of him. He did not recall catching himself.

The weight on top of him was nothing more than a novel distraction, but distractions of any sort were to be avoided at all costs. His elbow shot back five times in rapid succession, aiming for the most vulnerable parts of the weight (his attacker, human, male, Monkey, a threat, someone to be removed immediately). Without conscious thought, B-4 aimed precisely for the eyes, nose, throat, sternum, and the side of the man’s rib-cage with more speed and force than he ever would have used in a voluntary fight. He didn’t mind hurting Monkey, nor did he have any desire to injure him; he did not care what happened to the man, as long as the android himself could get up and continue walking.

“Stop,” B-4 said without inflection. “Please.” If the threat persisted, the next logical step would be to throw Monkey into one of the walls with as much power as B-4 could manage from this position. It was unlikely to be lethal, but breaking a human’s bones or knocking the breath out of them was an effective way of slowing them down, and that was the primary goal of this interaction.

@slave-949

If Monkey is surprised by the fact that B-4 manages to catch himself he doesn’t have time to show it. It is however a fairly reasonable indicator as to just how strong the android actually is. He hadn’t wanted to find out earlier, but perhaps it would have been a good thing to know before getting into this. Before he was squaring up against one that currently had no qualms about breaking his face (would Lore have had those qualms?).

Straddling B-4′s legs, Monkey puts the majority of his one hundred and eighty-five pounds against the backs of his thighs in what may be a misguided attempt to keep at least the bottom half pinned down. Of course this leaves the arms free, and before he can even reach for his back to try and find that switch, he’s ducking an elbow that would have most likely taken out one of his eyes for him. Flinching away farther saves his nose from getting broken, and yet farther still saves the two other areas below this from sustaining considerable injury as well. Unfortunately the rest of his mass is harder to move, especially as he’s reaching with his hand opposite the flying elbow for the other man’s back, and the last attempt wings him in the side. Being a walking wall of muscle was great, but it only got you so far; it hurts, but it doesn’t immediately feel like anything’s busted.

It hurts so much that Monkey involuntarily doubles over with a sharp intake of air. Despite this he reaches out again, only this time instead of going for his back he goes for the back of B-4′s head, putting those giant mitts of his to good use. The initial idea is to try and slam his head into the floor (what would have been repeatedly)– that is before he moves to try and throw Monkey off.

With a split-second decision and any luck at all, just maybe he can use this to his advantage.

Thighs pressing against B-4′s, grip tightening– one hand on the back of his head, the other quickly gripping his shoulder– Monkey uses the momentum of the movement to roll himself to the side along with the android‘s prompt. Either they’d change positions and Monkey would be able to more or less springboard him into the wall instead, or he’d simply end up clinging to him for dear life on the floor. The former would be ideal, but the latter would still be better than hitting the wall himself. Maybe.

@darling-red​

     The intent behind her words had never meant to be piteous.  And somehow, it didn’t surprise her when he had been soft -- for the briefest of moments -- towards her.  It’s nice, she realizes, no matter how short of a time span it is, to not have accusations of ulterior motives or turning his brother against him.  But then that moment is gone, and it’s safe to say that the sudden shift in Lore’s temperament doesn’t surprise her either.  At this point, nothing surprises her.

     So she keeps silent too, as she keeps making her way to the bridge, focusing on the strange numbness continuing to pump through her veins.  That feeling is nice too.

     “Yes, it’s me,” she says in response as she steps into the bridge, heading immediately over to Lore’s chair; hand resting against the back of it as she looks down at him briefly to regard him (and to size him up of any damages), then to the controls.  In any situation currently happening on the ship, there’s no place she can really fit in -- she’s not strong, not a fighter like Monkey.  She’s smart, but she doesn’t know anything about android hardware or software.  She still doesn’t know a lick of how to fully pilot a ship.

     What she can do, however, is listen.  Which she does, before she blows out a slow and thoughtful breath through her nose.

     “So what can I do to help you?”  She asks, voice still soft as it’s always been, full of concern.  “I’ll do whatever you want, aside from throwing myself out an airlock.”  It’s meant to be a joke, maybe to take his mind off of things -- because surely he’s had thoughts of doing that before.

@positronicminds​

[darling-red-blog1]

ancientofaeons:

          “Okay, I think I understand… Sort of. As much as I’m probably going to, anyway. So this sword–I’m assuming it’s what you call the ‘Transistor’–can take the essences of the humans it has killed and use them in some way?” Surely such a capability had some sort of purpose. Such dangerous things were not made without care or reason. “And the Camerata are likely the ones who have made it, along with the Process, which is ravaging your home, Cloudbank? Do I have that right?” 

           And now she was here, and neither of them knew how or why. There were a lot of holes, but that was the most sense he could make of it. The rest would have to work itself out. For now, they needed to get her situated before they could do anything else. 

          Russell brought their food and poured their coffee, pausing briefly to ask if Red would like a few more sheets of parchment before retreating once again to his place behind the bar. Xiro eagerly tucked in, taking the next handful of minutes of silence to process the information further.

           There was no place called Cloudbank on this planet, of that he was fairly certain. Near as he could tell, this city was far too advanced to exist without anyone ever hearing of it. So Red was definitely from another world, possibly another universe. She wasn’t from the Void itself, but perhaps from beyond. He had no idea how she could have come to Albion, much less how he was to get her back there. If the Camerata couldn’t kill her, maybe sending her away was the next best thing? Then they and the Process could run amok without her in the way. If anyone was to blame for this, it was probably them.

          Then there was the matter of the man in the sword; he had yet to speak up, if what she said was true. Probably for the best, as he was sure that anyone that witnessed such a thing would have reacted poorly. Still, he hoped that he could communicate with the dead man eventually. Maybe when they were out of the public eye? 

     The next response is quick, Red seeming to spot Russell’s approach and rapidly scribbling out some words on paper and sliding it towards Xiro before the food and drink was set on the table before them: ‘First part, yes.  Second part, not so sure.’

     Because to be perfectly honest, Red had been trying to rack her brain and figure that all out almost every step that she had taken through the ever more desolate streets of Cloudbank.  The Transistor and The Process were connected somehow, because if she did things right the remaining pods of the drones always flew back towards her (and the Transistor) as if she had been holding a gigantic magnet after the fighting was said and done.  But thanks to that fighting, she didn’t have as much time devoted to thinking about the intricacies and implications.

     Once the food is set in front of her, it takes Red a moment to acknowledge Russell, the spoon immediately dipped into the stew and shoveled into her mouth.  It wasn’t Junction Jan’s pizza, but it’d do, and she’d savor the scalding, meaty goodness because her stomach was about five minutes away from letting the whole place know that she had been starving.  So waving at her mouth with both hands for a brief seconds as if it’d help cool off what she already ingested, she gives the man a nod and two brief thumbs up.

     Then it’s back to fanning and taking another bite, leaving Xiro alone to contemplate what she talked about.

[darling-red-blog1]

bound-by-golden-wings:

Ornstein watched her for a minute or so before finally deciding that she clearly had no idea what she was doing with this Flask. It surprised him to say the least, after all Estus Flasks were vital to most of the travelers. So far practically everyone he had met used them to heal themselves. It was rather funny to say the least, especially since the Flasks did nothing to heal his completely broken body.

“It’s a healing item. I’m guessing that you’re another one of those Undeads or Ashen Ones. If that’s the case, this might help you heal up.” There wasn’t much more to explain about it. “I don’t need it. Estus Flasks do not work on Devine beings such as myself. I’m not an Undead, neither made of Ash. It would just go to waste if I were to use it.”

Oh, he had tried in the past. He had been in times when he was desperate and needed something to stay alive. And while Estus Flasks would be able to fill his stomach, they weren’t exactly made for him. They never healed his wounds, neither did they give him his energy back. It appeared that it was only made for special beings.

     Eyes briefly flicked up towards him once he started to speak again, before Red looked back down at the item; fingers capping it shut as her lips formed a silent ‘oh.’  This was something else new -- Cloudbank never did have anything that could outright heal wounds.  All it had was the metaphorical healing of the mind and soul from the numerous arts that persisted throughout the sprawling metropolis.  But when Ornstein’s next words hit her ears, the flask is entirely forgotten in her hand as she looked up at him with the most confused expression yet.

     Undead?  Ashen one?  What did any of those even mean?

     Sure, her body aches and stings all around from the amount of trouble she’s gotten into, and somehow unknowingly did the impossible -- going through a few areas without taking a mortal wound and collapsing into a swamp or stumbling off a cliff to take an accidental dive into the occasional ether that seemed to persist in places.  The only collapsing she had done previously was at the strange bonfires of ashes and bones and swords, just due to general exhaustion from her predicament.

     Finally, the flask is set aside as she begins to write again:  “Don’t know what any of those mean.  Not dead, though.  Know that much.”

[darling-red-blog1]

         psa:  if you ever send me a meme & i don’t answer it, it’s never because i’ve seen it & gone “oh, it’s them”. if i can’t think of a response to a meme right away, i usually keep it in my inbox, or save it to my drafts, & then wait until i get an idea to answer it. or sometimes if i just can’t think of anything at all, or a few people sent in the same one ( sentence memes ) and i can’t think of enough ways to make each unique, then i’ll just end up deleting it. but that never means i don’t want to roleplay with you, or that you can never send another meme in, or ask to thread. just so you buttercups know !!

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

Long about the second or third show of concern on the redhead’s part it had been offered that he’d let her know if anything decided to change for the worse– which so far nothing had. Of course that doesn’t mean that he minds the occasional checkups and questions. Anything that might help to ease her mind, even a little. Under the circumstances, it was just about the least that he could do. Well that, and make the attempt to internally stifle that sort of thinking; his feeling less-than-useful wasn’t going to help anybody– ironically enough.

He can’t seem to help it whenever she gets near, and an arm snakes its way around her waist as she gets settled. Leaned back as he is, he still cranes his head down to make landing that kiss of hers all the more accessible. While he does he uses his still free hand to discard the coat and string of paperclips off to his other side, opposite Red. With all of this out of the way his attention is returned just in time to catch the silent question, his hand reaching up to gently rest against one of her arms.

“I’m all right,” he says, and the answer takes no time at all to come about. “What about you? How’re you doin’ with just, everything in general?”

There’s no denying that a part of him still misses the headband for the conversation that it had afforded the both of them. They had done well enough without it before, and it was by no means a requirement, but in all honesty it had to be a little frustrating for Red; she couldn’t even get by with writing. And if he owed her anything during this period it was listening. Be it thoughts, concerns, questions or complaints.

     Just like that, those clouds in her eyes are gone; relief once again fills her features.  The more the days had passed and the stronger and more sure he had gotten, the easier it had been to convince her.  Monkey was still great at taking care of himself, too.  Red couldn’t blame him about the occasional complaint because God knows she would have if their roles were reversed -- wait, it had been, kinda.  But as long as he smiled, spoke, reciprocated affection, and had a healthy appetite, there’s nothing more she could ask for.

     His question brings a much wider smile to her lips.

     Of course she’s fine.  It had taken her a while to adjust to the lifestyle that they currently lead, with her constantly asking questions -- the why’s and the what’s usually -- but she had learned over their time together.  And she learned well.  Specific objects stuck out in comparison to everything else, and things that she once thought she could never live without suddenly seemed so inconsequential when put aside the things they really needed.  Today had been no different, either.  Except for one thing, but that’d have to wait until he got better.

     Unfortunately, there’s no way to convey that, to explain it in its entirety.  So a simple but affectionate headbutt to his shoulder would have to do, leaving it sitting against scarred skin for a long moment as her still cold fingers curl and uncurl absentmindedly against him.

     She’s home, he’s awake, and that makes her happy.  Makes it all worth it.  And the fact that she can curl up against him and nestle into Monkey’s sleeping bag nest is one of the best rewards at the end of the day.

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

Right on her heels– as per usual– Monkey reaches out to take Red’s hand once it’s offered in much the same customary fashion. Despite the fact that it still hadn’t been that long ago at all since they first met, any outward display of affection was swiftly and gladly reciprocated in an almost “monkey see, monkey do” manner, and generally without question. While they had never really talked about it, if one were to judge by their past interactions and conversations it was highly unlikely that he had ever held anyone’s hand, after all.

As it turns out she’s right, and the somewhat strange duo aren’t hard at all to spot out in the expansive stretch of Pigsy’s backyard; chiefly because of all the noise they’re making. And once the heavy steel door is opened, that fact becomes all the more apparent.

“Incoming!” Pigsy calls out, nothing more than a flash of a hand briefly poking up over the edge of the bus’ window, tossing a hunk of scrap out, and disappearing again. Waiting outside with its back turned to Red and Monkey, Truffles eagerly strafes from side to side, catches the scrap within the range of its shiny blue tractor beam, drops it onto a growing pile a couple of steps beside it, before centering itself as if getting ready again.

“I think this might be the last one.” This time the man’s head raises up into view– his attention immediately getting caught by the pair in the doorway just as he throws the next piece of scrap. This piece is not only bigger, but heavier than the last and poorly aimed thanks to his abrupt distraction. Truffles doesn’t even try– ducking to the side and out of its way with a robotic yelp.

“Truffles, buddy, eye on the ball.” He isn’t looking at Truffles, however. Instead he’s leaning in the window to level a grin at the other two. Monkey watches the piece of metal go flying for a moment, before looking back toward Pigsy with a preemptive frown in place.

“Done already? I wasn’t expecting to see you two for another twenty, thirty minutes, at least.”

     Having expectations of something that’s coming and actually having that expectation happen are two entirely different things -- Red’s face once again going beet red as the two of them walk near, Pigsy’s words hitting her ears.  So much does it take her by surprise that she opens her mouth to talk, only instead of words escaping in an embarrassed jumble, a huff does -- followed by another, almost more impatient sounding one before her lips fully close to contain it.

     Maybe she had hoped that Pigsy wouldn’t say anything about it.

     “Oh, well,” her fingers grip tighter around Monkey’s, as she turns to head back inside while she secretly speaks to him.  “We’ve got another twenty to thirty minutes then.  Let’s take up a whole hour.”

     Of course, her voice is absolutely dripping in sarcasm, and it’s also pretty obvious there’s no actual intent behind her steps -- if Monkey wants to tug her back to his side, or keep her from walking far, he most certainly can, and she most certainly expects it.

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

positronicminds:

“You better, you useless sack of flesh,” Lore hissed, mostly to himself. He didn’t know if the comm system had picked it up, and he didn’t particularly care– he had bigger things to worry about now than Monkey’s feelings.

Lore didn’t have much in the way of internal visual sensors, but he diverted a little of the ship’s precious power into tracking B-4′s neural signature on a ship-wide map. The small beacon was moving at a steady, rapid pace, taking the predicted route. It was a small comfort to know that he could accurately guess his brother’s plan and movements, but the closer B-4 came to the bridge, the more anxious Lore got. It wasn’t simply a matter of the prototype turning the ship around (although that was the worst possible outcome); Lore knew that the elder Soong would view him as an obstruction to his return mission. B-4 might seriously injure Lore in his efforts to remove his brother from the controls, and in his current state, there would be little Lore could do to defend himself.

“Computer, alter course on my mark. And raise force field in juncture A-124, now.”

The marker on the map came to a halt. With any luck, that small hesitation would allow Monkey to catch up to B-4 before he–

“Computer, disable all on-board force field capabilities, voice authorization ‘Lore.’ Confirm.”

The computer confirmed B-4′s order immediately. There was no code or voice that Lore could use to instruct his ship that his brother could not emulate, and he shut off the tracker with a frustrated flick of his wrist. It was all up to Monkey, now.

“What are you playing at?” Red was up to something, and he couldn’t figure out what. “If you’re trying to make B-4̢̬̣̬̩͔ hear me threaten you and feel sympathetic, it’s not going to work.” He didn’t understand. Why would she want to know that he was “okay”? They weren’t exactly friends, and he was sure that she was a little more concerned about the safety of the other human than she was about Lore.

Ah– perhaps she was asking for updates so she would know whether Monkey had succeeded, or whether B-4 had killed her husband and made it to the bridge.

“B’s not here yet. I don’t know what’s going on down there.” Lore grit his teeth against a sudden fluctuation in his central processing core. …He might have whined pitifully into the comm channel, too, but he decided to ignore his own sign of weakness and act as though it had never occurred.

“You wish to talk, Red? L-Let’s– let us talk-k about what will happen if he catches us. I can’t go back. I can’t go back there, and I’m not going to let him and his little puppet make me. I’d rather destroy this entire ship than allow that to happen. …I bet you wish you’d left when you had the chance now, don’t you?”

@slave-949

Whether or not Lore’s parting shot manages to reach Monkey’s ears will likely remain something of a mystery. A mystery to the others, anyway, because it had. Fortunately the larger man’s feelings aren’t so easily hurt. In fact it took a great deal more than that to even begin to dent them, and any attempt to do so had to come from somebody Monkey was closer to than just an acquaintance-turned-kidnapper. Under the current circumstances and if it made Lore feel better to vent his frustrations, more power to him. Much like with the assigning of blame from before, Monkey would rather it was pointed in his direction than in Red’s.

Besides, he has somebody else to worry about at the moment. Somebody that, from the sounds of it, won’t hesitate to destroy anything or anyone that happens to get in his way.

Sprinting down the hallway, Monkey only vaguely continues to listen to the other two while they converse. Although he certainly catches the voice command that B-4 decides to override on Lore’s behalf– and the only way that he could tell that that was what had happened was because it would have been pretty contradictory if it had come from Lore himself. That, and the voice comes from both the comms overhead, and from just around the next bend in the hall; dimly illuminated by the emergency lighting. The effect succeeds in standing Monkey’s hair on end.

Making it around the corner just in time to see B-4 start moving forward once more, he doesn’t stop, nor does he slow his pace. He is, after all, the only one available to get in his way.

And unless the android had other plans, Monkey would elect to try and tackle him from behind. The plan being that if he could pin him down long enough to find that kill switch in his back, he’d save himself a whole lot of pain and trouble.

@darling-red​

     She certainly wishes that Lore would drop the suspicion towards her -- she only lied once, and that was out of fear that the docking bay would be painted red with her husband’s blood.  She wants so desperately to explain to Lore that not everybody has some sort of ulterior motive.  At least, having one that caused him any sort of trauma.  Red shakes her head, turning a corner.  But like every other thought and complaint that she has at present, she knows there’s a time and a place to air her grievances.

      Now certainly isn’t it.

     “I know, Lore.  I know.” She says softly, understandingly.  “Why do you think I’m here?  Soong told me of B’s back switch when we were still on the station, but he was so scared.  I couldn’t just -- I couldn’t doom him to stay there and be a slave that was terrified of being erased for little mistakes.  I don’t know what your father originally created you for but the direction he’s gone down now makes him too terribly close to a tyrant.  So I’m not going to let him take you either -- because I wouldn’t wish that sort of fate on even my worst enemy, and you most certainly aren’t that.  Nowhere near.  So I’m going to fight tooth and nail for the both of you.”

     Another minute or so, and she’d be there.  The medication is kicking in a little more now, and all she feels is a strange void in her chest.  One that presses against her skin and feels like it’s expanding; pressing up into her lungs and making herself lose air a little bit faster than usual.  But now, she can run.  She can make it before B-4 does, pretty confident in her one resolution.  And admittedly, she falls into silence because of a statement Lore said.

     ‘His’ little puppet.

     “Do you know if Soong’s override is complete?  Is our B in there and aware at the moment, or be able to get information as to what happened from his personal data banks?”  Red asks, sounding a little more out of breath than she did a few moments ago.  “Or will he wake up with no memory whatsoever of this whole debacle?  And what’s going on with you specifically -- and what can I do to ease it when I get there?”

     The significance of their discussion doesn’t pass by Red.  Lore had allowed her to come help, and allowed himself to at least put a little bit of trust in her.  Sure, it had all been for self-preservation purposes -- and that’s the same base instinct that’s driving the three of them to act and react in the way that they are to avoid the situation.  Unfortunately, Red has to silently ask for a little more from him.

@positronicminds​

[darling-red-blog1]

ancientofaeons:

            His face screwed up with confusion again as he read her messages. He was frustrated with himself; he couldn’t make sense of any of this. His mind would trip over the words and make the rest incomprehensible. “Trace…? Data? I don’t…” He sighed. “I don’t know what either of those things mean. And this still doesn’t explain what the Camerata is…” Was it the sword, then? He had no idea. “There are just… a lot of terms I am unfamiliar with here. I think we come from two vastly different places, so we’re going to have to take things a bit more slowly.”

            He rubbed the back of his neck, giving her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Red, but you’re going to have to treat me as if I have no idea what you’re talking about…. Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

           He knew that this was no doubt frustrating, but it was unavoidable. If they really were from two different worlds, there was bound to be things neither of them would immediately understand. It was a miracle they even spoke the same language, really. He hoped that such an inconvenience would not deter her, but he doubted he really had to worry about that. A fire burned inside of her; he could feel her determination. Whatever this Camerata did to her, they would soon regret it.

     A soft grimace passes across her face.  He was right -- maybe she was going a little too fast, and explaining a little too vaguely.  Eyes focusing on the wall just behind Xiro’s head, she purses her lips in contemplation.  This...this had been a lot more difficult than she originally thought it was going to be, and only now had she had the chance to really think about her predicament.

     Predicaments?  It had been an incredibly eventful night, after all.

     Charcoal scribbled through her past words -- an old habit that always refused to die with a whimper -- before she starts writing again.  Red already knew what words to use, and yet she didn’t know if they were accurate enough to properly describe the situation.  But they’d just have to do, wouldn’t they?

     ‘Think of a trace as a human soul,’ the words read as she writes them out.  ‘Then imagine taking that soul and converting it into a series of gears.  The Process is both similar and different.  Think of it as an entity that can split into many smaller and individual parts that change things.  Can make buildings fall only to have new ones take their place in a matter of minutes.  Or change a city block in hours.’

     Was that right?  It’d have to be.  And surely the people in this place know of gears.  Briefly burying her index finger into her red hair in order to take on a random itch that bothered her, her lips press together again.  Thankfully, despite her obvious thoughtful nature, never once does she seem upset or frustrated at Xiro’s request to take things slow and clarify further.

     ‘I don’t know fully what the Camerata is either.  I just know that they’re four certain people from my society that used the Transistor to get what they wanted.’  Sure, there was more than that statement than was revealed on paper.  Red truly didn’t know their full motivations.  But now that she thought about it, little happenings in Cloudbank made so much more sense.  Like the string of random disappearances.

     But she didn’t want to overload Xiro just yet.  Poor man had enough on his plate.

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

positronicminds:

There was a crackling sigh over the comm.

“Of course. I’m an idiot for not realizing it– and so is B-4. Why didn’t you turn your damn signal off, brother?” Lore didn’t sound angry, but he did sound as though he were on the verge of a panic attack. Even more so than when he had heard that Monkey was a scrapper, the android’s voice was high and anxious, desperate and despairing, and had a not-so-subtle waver to it that wasn’t entirely due to the edits in his code.

The main lights cut out, then the climate control. It would take a while for the ship to cool off, but it would eventually reach dangerous temperatures if the regulated internal systems didn’t return to normal somewhat soon. Lore kept the air flow going, however; he was being as mindful as he felt he could be of his organic passengers without sacrificing the ship’s power to systems that he deemed unnecessary.

The ship was illuminated with soft emergency lighting that lined the walls and cast a gentle glow along the floors. Despite being distracted by laying in a new heading and boosting engine power with the newly diverted energy, it took Lore less than a second to respond to Red’s next statement.

“Where is he? How far has he gotten? You have to stop him before he reaches the bridge! Don’t worry about hurting him– do whatever you have to do to shut him down. Monkey, there’s a– a switch in his back. Turn him off before he turns this ship around! He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he w-w̴̪̻̥͕̝-won’t stop! He’ll kill us all before he lets us stop him from going back.”

Lore loathed the fact that he was asking Monkey for help, especially when that “help” consisted of the human injuring his brother. The younger Soong had lost every ounce of control over the situation; his own body was betraying him, his brother was worse than a lost cause, Noonien was still in pursuit, and Lore’s best chance of escape rested in the hands of two humans whom he could barely tolerate. Hatred for Red and Monkey flared up inside of him with a sudden overwhelming strength, but it died down quickly– succumbing to pride would do nothing but land him back in the mines. If ever there were a time to put aside the personal feelings he had for his prisoners (and allies), it was now.

“Fine, Red. Fine. …I’m going to light up a side route for you to take. It’s slower, but B will be taking the most direct path he can, so you should be alright. If you see him, don’t go up to him, please. …you’re hurt badly enough as it is. …Monkey! If you don’t turn B-4 off before he gets up here, I’ll kill you myself. Get to it, already!”

@slave-949

Even if Monkey wanted to be angry over the information regarding Red’s injury– which he does– he’s also aware that there’s absolutely no time for that now, as made apparent by the rest of the information. And while it’s true that he isn’t that good when it comes to handling too little or too much information at one time, what he is good at is acting on something. Especially when there’s a nice, clear objective. He’s already rolled forward to the balls of his feet by the time that Red asks him to watch B-4, propped against his knuckles; poised to stand up. He lingers, sights on Red, but if there’s anything that he wants to say to her the train of thought gets intercepted by the crackling of the comm before it can even pull out of the station. Instead, he looks up again.

The youngest android had initially struck Monkey as a little, high-strung, maybe, but like Red he was willing to bet that there was probably a good reason for the near panic in Lore’s voice– something that the man confirms just a moment later, when he too instructs Monkey to not just watch his brother, but shut him down by apparently any means necessary.

While the earlier attempts to avoid a fight had only gotten him so far it seems, the unexpected show of concern for Red’s well-being on the part of their captor does serve to soften some of those hard feelings for the time being. Even at that, and with the death threat still fresh in the air between them, Monkey spares one last glance in the redhead’s direction. No words, but the meaning behind it is plainly written across his face:

Be careful.

Looking up again, he addresses Lore. “Yeah, yeah okay– don’t worry, I’ll stop him!” And with that the man springs to his feet with almost surprising speed for someone his size, turning with a slight bounce to make a dash for the hallway that B-4 had disappeared down, precious minutes before.

@darling-red​

     The same expression is leveled at Monkey, combined with an eyebrow twitch -- a sign of her own stress slowly increasing to a threshold that made everything more difficult.  But at the last second, Red’s lips quirk into a smile and then Monkey’s gone.  Off to stop B-4 from doing something that he’d be appalled over if he ever found out.  Not like they had any time for any more sentiment than that with the next threat looming over their heads.  So with a soft sigh that almost echoes in the emptiness of the room, she presses the medicine dispenser against the side of her neck; eyes closing in a brief wash of relief as a soft hiss escapes from it.

     Maybe they didn’t have to tell B, comes the thought as chemicals make their way through her blood stream and take the pain away with them. What B-4 doesn’t know won’t hurt him.  He doesn’t need to know, does he?

     A grimace passes along her face at the thought as she tosses the dispenser away.

     B-4 isn’t a child, and it’d be much better to tell him now and figure out some sort of work around in whatever subroutines the brothers had or any other quirks that Soong could take advantage of.  Sure, he will probably be upset and beg forgiveness -- but Red’s certain that between the three of them still aware, they’d get him out of that.  They will explain to him that it was Soong acting through him, and surely he’d understand.

     But he has every right to know.  And he needs to know the risks in the future.

     Stopping at the threshold of the cell, Red peers out into the hallway as she waits for the medication to kick in a bit more.  Already, there’s no sign of Monkey’s retreating form (the man always having been fast for his size).  There’s no sign of anyone else, either.  Finally, she dips out of the doorway and into the hall a couple seconds later.  Unfortunately, she doesn’t move very fast for the situation, a brisk walk having to suffice for the time being.  Despite the numbing of the pain killers, she still feels foggy.  Short of breath.  But she follows the lights like she’s instructed, the small, glowing slivers near the floor barely illuminating her way to the bridge.

     “Lore, I -- I need you to do something, okay?”  Red asks after a moment, not concerned about keeping her voice down.  If he was right and B was taking the most direct path with a specific purpose in mind, his programming wouldn’t make him care about her being silent or not.  “I need you to talk.  About something.  Anything you want.  You can even threaten me if it makes you feel better.”

     And she sounds genuine about that statement -- because that is one reason for the request.  To get Lore talking, to loosen him up.  Help him problem solve if such thoughts arise.  In times of extreme stress, she had turned to Monkey to rant about something that bothered her, and he had always been patient and listened.  Even if he had been less than kind to her, Lore needed that now.

     “But don’t stop talking.  It tells me that you’re okay.”

@positronicminds​

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

It was hard to argue with that face. So much so that sometimes (most of the time) he couldn’t. Discarding the chain of paperclips across his stomach for the moment he leans forward with only the faintest hint of a grimace and a quiet huff of air released through his nose, reaching out from between his knees to take the impressively gigantic article of clothing from her. Leaning back again, he briefly holds it out in front of himself to inspect it, before it too is draped down across his stomach.

And just in case the larger man needed a reminder of exactly how cold it is outside, the chill can still be felt radiating off of Truffles’ thick metal chassis as it flitters its way closer to the ever burning fire. Shivering, and letting out a series quaking little robotic coos– the closest approximation to a “brrr” that it could muster.

【 ˘﹏˘ 】

Watching the display, Monkey couldn’t tell if it was doing it for his benefit, Red’s benefit, or if like pretending to sleep, Truffles simply liked to pretend that the temperature affected it as well. Whatever the case Monkey redirects his attention back to the woman with a dismissive (albeit amused) shake of his head at the small mech’s antics. And just a little bit of that amusement remains as he lifts the coat up in his hands, as reference to his staying on topic.

“We’ll see. In the meantime– and like everything else– the thought is always appreciated.”

     The smile widens -- fully appreciative that he’s conceded, even reluctantly, to her silent request.  Gripping on to the sack, Red moves over in a sort of half crawl so that she can get curled up in that nest and by his side; shedding the coat as she finally settles down next to him.  Another thing she had always been keen to do upon her return, which was to not only use his warmth to make her feel better, but to get close as possible to him because aside from food, water, and shelter, his affection had quickly convinced her that was the only thing she needed to survive otherwise.

     Rucksack abandoned at the edge of the sleeping bag, she wraps her arms around his neck loosely as she partly drapes on him (being careful to not put too much weight on him) -- pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth.  Red’s eyes, even if they shine with happiness still have the ever so metaphorical clouds of worry within them.  And it’s easy to see as she pulls herself back to gaze at him.

     A silent question, those eyes asked.  Are you okay?

     Even if he is already sitting up and talking and fiddling with paper clips, she can’t help but worry.  She can’t.  Even if a miracle happened he came out of that explosion just fine like some sort of impervious idol, she still would worry.  And worry so much she has that the question came quite often -- to make sure he isn’t developing a fever, or getting new and unexpected pains in his sides or chest.  It had certainly sent her into another (albeit smaller) fit of panic when they discovered he had hurt ribs days ago, the woman nearly beside herself with worry that she couldn’t do anything about it.

     But thankfully, now she knows better, and she knows that all she can do now is occasionally check and ask.

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

With the first glove secured and his own hands relatively freed up for the moment, Monkey returns the gesture; one of his arms reaching behind her to briefly wrap around her smaller frame in an over-too-quickly one-armed, makeshift hug. She was probably right, and it was probably going to have to last them for a while, so before the contact could be broken she’d feel him crane down low enough to firmly plant his lips against the top of her head one last time.

“Ya make me really happy too, Red.” The happiest he had ever been, in fact.

Letting her easily slip from his grasp once she starts to take that step back, he takes the last piece of his gear once it’s offered to him, instead. Returning it to its place with the same practiced familiarity that he had shown with everything else. There’s no telling quite how long he’s had them, but it must have been long enough.

That done he pulls the door open, fingers splayed out across the still warm metal to keep it that way so that the redhead could make her way out, first. Surprisingly, the large circular room beyond is quiet and empty. Their hospitable host and his hovering robot must have still been outside.

In all honesty, Monkey had been expecting for him to topple inside as soon as the door was opened. And just maybe a quick glance in Red’s direction serves to convey this thought with an expression that seemed to say: I’ll be damned. Eyebrows raised, the corners of his mouth drawn down, complete with a slight shrug.

     Bright blue eyes glance about in an attempt to find the much more heavyset man, eyebrows knitting together in a combination of confusion and concern.  “I wonder if he went outside to give us some privacy.”  Red mumbles, and it’s hard to tell if she feels guilty or remorseful over this realization -- feeling bad for making him feel as if he had to leave his own home, or comically upset over the fact that they didn’t take advantage of their moment when they had the chance.

     Red quickly chalks it up to hindsight, reaching out to briefly take a hold of the sword once more; moving it behind herself to fasten the large weapon into place with what belt straps she didn’t lose during their slave ship adventure from the day before.  As fingers tighten the belts and fasten them to her once again, she heads towards the back door -- giving it a small nudge with her uninjured shoulder.

     The room briefly floods with light, as she looks back towards Monkey, hand held out as she smiles.

     Sure, they had put a lot of their more intimate affections on ice for the time being, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t walk around together while holding hands.  “They’re probably this way,” she says cheerfully, all the guilt and gloom having vacated since she expressed the sentiments.

     “I think I hear some kind of moving around out there.”

[darling-red-blog1]

@ameasureofpower - continuing from [ here ]!

     Her words are quickly scribbled out in response to her question, eyes flicking down briefly at the paper to do so.  Although based on his words alone, she can’t help but feel incredibly intrigued -- a bit of a hypocrite like that, she supposed.  Always happy to hear people’s stories and what they traversed through life, but always hard pressed to elaborate on her own.

     Expression softening and a relenting sigh escaping, Red writes one more thing down on the paper.

     ‘I did.  And I’ll spill the beans if you share your story -- but you’ve got to go first.’

[darling-red-blog1]

He knows it is a sensitive question, but Simons did not bother to play it that way. It was a fact, he gleaned, and facts should not be bogged down by sentimentality. Least not when he asked... "Care to explain your mother?"

     The expression that passes most certainly isn’t a pleasant one, eyebrows knitting together in suspicion and lips pressing themselves into a taut line.  Nostrils flare as she breathes out through her nose.  It’s the sort of facial shift that may as well be akin to verbally snapping at one – unappreciative of the fact that the question had been asked at all.  But not even a second later, her face relaxes, smile once again pleasant on her face; gaze turning away as she fumbles with and successfully grasps her notepad in hand.

     Not that she wants to answer.  God, no.  Most times that the press asked her about her relations, she always made sure to patiently stamp down the questions with care and deflection.  People had a way of taking news stories and embracing them in the worst way possible – damning criminals before they had a chance to be proven guilty, assuming the half-empty philosophy to issues that barely concerned them, or in Red’s case, coddling her because she had a childhood that had been just turbulent enough to not get authorities involved.

     Red wanted to be defined by her success.  Not by her past.

     And even though Walton had a way of getting information and pressing for it, she isn’t going to answer.  It’s an issue of having it potentially used against her, of him having a way to worm into her brain if he so wants -- and she doesn’t want anybody having that sort of power with her.  So it doesn’t take long for her to hold up her notepad, words clearly scrawled across it.

     “Yes, I do care and I don’t particularly want to.  Why do you need to know?”

[darling-red-blog1]

slave-949:

Four days down, just a little over a month to go.

Monkey had made a point of not being horrible about it, but restlessness had certainly been a factor in the larger man’s day-to-day life. While he hadn’t come right out and said as much, it wasn’t hard to tell that having to rely so heavily on somebody else for anything, let alone very nearly everything, was not something that Monkey was used to– nor was it anything he particularly cared for, either.

He still did as much as he could for himself, but thankfully he already knew better than to really push it. The external injuries, while bad, weren’t that big of a deal. At least, not to him. Clearly the man had spent the majority of his life sustaining those. No, what kept him from pushing it were the internal injuries. More precisely: his ribs. It felt like more than a couple had been bruised, fractured, or god forbid broken (or a combination thereof), and Monkey had learned a long time ago that mistreatment on his end could easily lead to an assortment of lung problems that would leave him out of commission even longer. So generally, he behaved.

Of course that didn’t stop him from occasionally making his thoughts regarding the matter known (see also: complaining). Fortunately for Red and Truffles this wasn’t very often, seeing as how Monkey knew exactly how futile any and all complaining was.

He’s not only awake when they return (Truffles always seeming to default to staying with Red whenever the issue of splitting up should arise), he’s also idly stringing a chain of ancient paperclips together. A gift from the aforementioned droid who, while out scavenging with Red once, had used its magnetic beam to gather an unruly amount of old office supplies from around the building. Basically whatever it could attract. It was the thought that counted, and that thought had been nothing than nothing. Monkey had accepted the miscellaneous heap with only the smallest hint of confusion on his part.

The sleeping bag, as large and multilayered as it was, had been turned into something of a nest while they were gone; shoved against one of the walls, Monkey sat propped against it. Tilted upward, but not enough to hurt. Knees bent up and out to either side in front of himself, the bottoms of his feet pressed together. He looks up when the door opens, and the smile that the redhead directs his way is almost immediately returned.

“Hey,” he says, already sounding all too eager to have something other than paperclips to focus on. “How’d it go?”

     Monkey’s question is immediately answered with a thumbs up -- before she fumbles the opening of the sack, the large thing tipping over and spilling some of its contents.  Namely, a couple of cans of food that had been thrown on top of everything as if she had stumbled across them at the last second.  The faded labels seemed to indicate some sort of vegetable, maybe peas.  Maybe corn.  Hard to say with how de-saturated and scraped the old paper is.  The red-head sucks in a deep breath as she quickly scrambles to pick them back up before they roll too far.

     Thankfully her checks for any life -- human or mechanical -- didn’t turn up anything, because cans meeting carpeted floor is still quite loud.

     But second from the bag is something gigantic and fluffy.  Identical to her coat in make save for one thing: it’s giant.  Huge.  With as broad shouldered as Monkey is, it has a chance to fit him (albeit snugly), and with how freezing it is outside...

     Red doesn’t need to make any motions to speak to him about it, other than hold it out to him.  Monkey had his quirks and reasons as to why he didn’t wear shirts, or why other articles of clothing were always so tight -- all of it usually a movement or snagging issue.  But he’s stuck here, it’s cold, and hope with just a touch of silent pleading is all too obvious on her face; a silent plea to not be stubborn about it, just this once.

     Not that he needed it now, but when they got moving again, he certainly would.  It’d serve well as another barrier for when they’re roaming around, too.