zlatko andronikov

The storyteller’s hands were still stained with the blood of slain dragons and the fantastical creatures of his own tales as he turned the pages of the old book. Far removed from his madness upstairs, moments like these were a pleasant reverie with Penellope. Old books were pulled from shelves that hadn’t been touched in decades, warm drinks poured and cushions bunched, settling in for a slow end to a busy night. 

    His voice was a low dusky gravel, setting out long roads and journeys for their heroine Vasilisa the Wise to travel. Tonight was a story of the Sea King, the lilt of an old accent like the lull of waves. Fierce and fair, the little princess by his side seemed much like the ones of lore, too pure to be true. Too pure for this house. Yet, the persistent weight of her nodding head on his arm reminded him that Penellope was, very much indeed, real. Very much here with him.

    Zlatko paused for a moment and thumbed through the remaining pages of the story. They couldn’t finish there— a good story deserved a good ending. He glanced down at the little one, voice lowered to the volume of soft footfall. When at last, the tale finished, the book shut against his lap with a soft whump. A faint smile chased the words like the pitter-patter of footsteps, as though tentative, unsure. There was a child asleep against his arm, and a budding sense of pride and warmth in his chest in response. He wasn’t used to such things, but perhaps he could find himself a place in this comfort, one he deserved. Some day, he would be worthy of this trust. 

    Some day.

    Until that day, he would treat her kindly and draw up the blanket, crossed heels up against the table and hands folded comfortably. He had slept in stranger places— and where better than with Penellope at his side? 

is this his punishment? || accepting

bold the ones that apply to your muse. repost, don’t reblog.

tagged by:  tagged by the lovely @nezhnosts <3 tagging:  anyone  who  wants  to  do  this  !

if your character was an npc, what items would they drop when they flee combat/are killed?

repost, don’t reblog !

3-5 common items    ( would drop every time )

1.  THIRIUM-STAINED CLOTH.  he usually keeps one, an old rag of sorts, tucked into his belt. it doesn’t help to remove the stain from his hands much, nor is he particularly concerned with his own grooming or cleanliness, but he habitually wrings his hands on it when considering something. it slips from him often, and he doesn’t care enough to notice when he drops it.

2.  METAL VODKA FLASK. usually tucked precariously into one of his many pockets. vodka isn’t always his drink of choice, but he likes his scotch better from a glass so— vodka it is. the flask is curved slightly, but still doesn’t fit well into any of his pockets, hence several dents in the silver. the cap of it is engraved with the family crest, worn down and faded after many years of use. it might still fetch a pretty price if you clean it right.

3.  PICKLE CRISPS.  don’t diss his pickle-flavoured chips, or he might just come back and start another fight with you. whether you’ll just get old shirt-crumbs or a half-finished packet entirely depends on his appetite, but the tell-tale sharp salty scent of oily expired chips is definitely there.

4.  SPARE COMPONENTS/TOOLS. what sort of component he’ll drop will vary wildly, some mangled and worthless, others rare and prized. Occasionally, there’ll be a tool attached, from when he absent-mindedly put it in his pocket. The origins of the android parts leaves little to the imagination— probably best not to think about it.

1-2 rare item(s)    ( maybe a 5-7% drop chance )

1.  OLD LOCKET.  it’s a silver rectangular locket, that folds out into three panels. there are two very faded portraits of his mother and father inside, their names Maria and Nikolayev inscribed on the center panel. he very rarely keeps it on him, and even more rarely wears it, but despite his estranged relationship with his late parents, it is precious to him. he hoards everything, and this is no exception. he would never willingly part with it.

you’ve got mail !! || always accepting

❝ Oh come now.  I’m not much of a singer.” A flush of roses bloom on his cheeks, the remnants of the morning’s embarrassment washed over with a fresh wave. “Besides, the song is incomplete.” Brows knit, hands heavy in his pockets. His heart as clear as if it was woven on his sleeve: nothing vexed him more than a puzzle half solved. The android in the bathtub had a…nervous temperament. It was unpredictable, and often beyond reason. Adam was sent numerous times to quiet its shouts, often helplessly trying to figure out what triggered its latest fit. Over time however, he had gotten quite adept at calming it. Seated on an uneven stool, he’d tell it gentle lies, paint scenes of places it’d never see, and empty promises that it would get there someday too.

Soon, it started telling stories back to him. They were often disjointed, more puzzling than riddles, and always lacking a proper resolution. It didn’t take him long to figure out that they weren’t without endings, but that it had been withholding the endings from him. But while Zlatko would not hesitate to cut through the chest to reach its treasure, Adam did not mind tinkering with the lock. It took him a few days but he found that the key had been gifts. It became a ritual, a game, often with just common household items he’d claim to be valuable.

                                    ( ‘I was wondering if I could hear the rest of your story.’                                                   ‘What did you bring me today?’                                                   ‘An apple…but this one believes it’s a pear.’                                                  ‘What does it think about the other apples?’                                                                                                 ‘Bad enough to be an apple, but how awful to think you are an apple too.’                                                  The ghost of a smile, and its lips part to speak. )

“He’s a puzzling creature.” Adam confessed, “I’ve scraped together the story behind the song, but no more than a few lines of the song itself. I don’t think he thinks I’ve earned the rest of the song yet.” A minute smile, unaware of his own growing fondness for the strange machine in the tub, “Or it might be lost all together. But–” He scratched his cheek, it was obvious he was holding something back—but he held no secrets from Zlatko in the end, “I…did write a few lines of my own to fill in some of the gaps.❞

@savingfxce

What Zlatko had in efficiency, he lacked in thoroughness and tact. He was impulsive, taken by ruthless whims, brutal if it meant he grasped even a shard of his prize. Adam complimented him in that regard, always finding a small notch, a foothold in the many cryptic machines of the house, to pry interesting information from them with the hands of a surgeon, delicate and graceful. The creator didn’t have the patience for the android that haunted his bathroom. It was a useful alarm, when it wasn’t tripping at random, suitably matched to the Master’s paranoia. A false alarm was better than no alarm however, even if it kept him on edge. 

    “Incomplete does not mean it has no value,” he remarked as they descended into the foyer. The state of this house was incomplete, his work always incomplete, in flux, a journey with no set ending. Perhaps his half-finished collection was not ready to share, but that did not mean it was without validity. Be it machine masterpieces or a curious ditty, once Zlatko was curious, he would not settle with being dismissed. “Much of our work is not finished— that’s the purpose of progress. You’re not going to hold out on me, are you?” There was a light teasing in his tone, perhaps wise not test how long it would remain. He ran a short fuse at the best of times.

    Adam’s self-abasing nature could be flattering at times, and frustrating at others. For an elite machine, faux modesty often delayed his answers and pressed his master’s patience. Perhaps it were best he felt too lax to press the matter. Adam would tell him, in his round-about way, if he waited long enough, just long enough for that admission. Zlatko settled heavily into the sofa, taking a packet of smokes from the table and fishing the lighter from his pocket. “You’re a writer now?” He gritted the cigarette and lit it, snapping the box shut and tossing it back on the table with a gruff laugh. “Huh, full of surprises this morning.” A long drag followed, before he gestured for Adam to go on, to keep on these pleasant surprises. He knew the codes in each of these machines innately, reprogrammed each line to his tastes, and yet sometimes... It was nice to have the illusion of real company by leaving a little up to chance.

tagged by: @fromcyberliife tysm for the tag omf i have loads of hcs about zlatko’s writing!!

tagging: swipe it from me i dare you

this is the best approximation i could find from the fonts offered since i hc his handwriting to be, well, crap. his english script is quite squared, boxy, and very heavy handed. his letters often bleed, no matter the pen he uses. the writing isn’t consistent across the page, and it’s not very easy or enjoyable to read. sometimes he even gets frustrated reading his own writing back, and tends not to reference his notes at all after they’ve been written. rather, it’s a quick way to collect his thoughts on paper. he still prefers to take notes traditionally despite his digital inclinations, due to his erratic note-taking style.

As he was primarily based in London, it was difficult for him to arrange time to come to the CyberLife headquarters, especially that most contact could be done through emails or phone calls. Thomas only came out when necessary and the rest of his visits were… a luxury. He was fascinated by CyberLife’s work, as he had been from the very beginning, seeing that they were… creating the future. How could anyone not be won over by that? Androids! Intelligent beings which could interact and work for humans. Of course, they were still a long way for perfectly mimicking humans, but… it was still nonetheless a giant leap in terms of technology. Was it coincidence that he had come to seek out Zlatko, rather than the other programmers? The other man did end up working on many more important projects, and there was the fact that he was fairly easy to get along with. The stereotype of the anti-social programmer did have some truth to it; there were some people here who were great at their job but who loathed to be interrupted even for a moment. Zlatko seemed to welcome to talking to someone who was actually human. He walked further into the room, veering towards the direct chair, idly picking up the papers and skimming over them before setting them aside on a nearby table and sitting down. “Well, there’s legal work to do… and of course, to check up on progress. Same old,” he shrugged nonchalantly. He was always here on work related matters. “I’m here for the weekend,” he added, though that was still a very short time. “How have you been?” He asked politely, as he always did. Though that wasn’t to say he only did it because of cordiality. He did care about the people he interacted with. Or at least, the people who treated him well.

@threecardtrick

Each time he was interrupted, it seemed to feed his budding irritation at his cohort, but this was often an exception. There was a difference between drivel and the idiotic questions he sometimes received from his peers, and some idle conversation with a more reasonable guest like Thomas. Some of those interactions were better served digitally, so he could sigh a little louder, roll his eyes further back at his skull at some of their incompetence. It was a wonder some of them still had work at the company. Kamski seemed like a merciful and distant god in that aspect. 

    Zlatko made a small noise, nodding at the nonchalant answer. He figured as much. "They keep you busy, huh. Always more work to be done.” There was a dry mirth in his response, a kind of camaraderie that came amidst those with endless responsibility. Still, busy as they were, a visit was rare, a special occasion. Maybe he could use an excuse to leave the office and see the top-side, even if only for a few business hours. Zlatko had lost track of how long he had spent lurking down in this office, with a closet full of skeletons and unanswerable questions about this megalomaniacal company they both worked with. A coffee, or a shot, or perhaps both, sounded like a good idea if they were going to start talking business. 

    The polite question was appreciated, even if his response was token. “Busy, same old like you said.” Busy was supposed to keep your mind from wandering, supposed to keep you out of trouble. Seemed like those old adages were faulty. Sometimes, he felt himself falling down a rabbit hole at Cyberlife with these projects, chasing cheshire riddles into the uncanny valley. Cromwell’s task was no exception, but Zlatko was just a programmer; he was only told what he was supposed to know. The rest of it was locked behind a frustrating veil of secrecy and whispers behind closed doors, like all the best company secrets were. 

❝ It is… a complex story… ❞ The android started, a soft frown crossing his otherwise smooth features. He couldn’t relay the whole thing to the man —— the cases that Connor was working on, his relationship with Hank and the events that had lead up to this night, a lot of them wereCLASSIFIED. Only those working at CyberLife and the DPD knew the extent of the deviant cases. However, it was no secret that the precinct had the first android detective on their team, that was almost public knowledge at this point… Connor decided to keep the story short and to the point. He could spare some non-classified information, if Zlatko really was interested.

❝ My current partner is a… difficult person. He’s a challenge to work with, even with my social programming, and… I can only assume that I did something wrong. He shot me. ❞ Perhaps it was the events at the Eden Club that prompted the violent turn? Connor truly didn’t know. Hank was quite unpredictable at times… the android was just glad  ( NO. He didn’t feel glad. He didn’t feel at all. He was a MACHINE ) that the shot had been non-fatal.

@fromcyberliife

A policeman being difficult? Nothing new there. Zlatko had had his fair share of run-ins with the law, all of them unpleasant. Nosy bastards, so self-righteous. He could only imagine what flaw, what perceived digital sin the android had committed to be shot. The man glanced over, wondering indeed whether the shot had initially been meant for the head or the heart. What kind of judgement would a ‘difficult person’ make? Reading people made designing androids more interesting, and Zlatko made it an idle pastime to puzzle over strange actions like this. Either way, he doubted the RK800′s partner was enough of a sadist to maim on purpose. No, it seemed his initial judgement had been more likely— a coward.

    What a waste of machine potential, to be paired with somebody that clearly didn’t trust it enough to make the most of it. “Ah, some people just don’t get androids. Your program would have picked up something wrong, I’m sure.” Zlatko spoke generally, keeping his true interest in the prototype’s capacity far removed from a bland kind of concern. His generic reply seemed absent-minded. In truth, half his mind was on how he would be able to steer this back to his house, rather than the damn Cyberlife store. The last thing he needed was to march into an official warehouse with a broken priceless android. He was determined to stay off the company’s radar, as he had done thus far. 

TWO   (  BIRTHDAY  )  :  30th nov !!

THREE  (  ZODIAC  SIGN  )  :  sagittarius

FOUR  (  HEIGHT  )   : 5′ 6″ i’m a smallish squishy bean

FIVE  (  HOBBIES  )  :  writing, singing, playing music, snooping out new places to eat food, and drawing

SIX  (  FAVOURITE  COLOUR(S)  )  :  sherbet pastels and this one specific shade of orangey-pink? and pale purple !!

SEVEN  (  FAVOURITE  BOOKS  )  :  ahh favourite books will always been the liveship traders trilogy and the rain wild chronicles by robin hobbs. <3

EIGHT  (  LAST SONG LISTENED TO  )  :  all i’ve ever known - the bahamas this is such a relaxing track to listen to ahh

NINE  (  LAST FILM WATCHED  )   :   macbeth, the fassbender version because a) i love fassbender and b) my lil bro is about to study it at school so, any excuse to watch some michael fassbender and marion cotillard ( i love them omg )

TEN  (  INSPIRATION FOR MUSE  )  :  a bunch of whacky headcanons i was spitballing with a buddy until we realized we kinda had a bio for zlatko LOL. plus i was hankering for a different muse to kara, and a complex villainy kinda character, so i ended up making this blog :^D

ELEVEN  (  MEANING BEHIND YOUR URL  )  :  deviant-collector because, he uh— collects deviants? i guess you could call his monsters a collection 

TAGGED  BY  : @fromcyberliife​ ty for the tag! <3

plantdad’s past lives || accepting

PLANTDAD’S OC GACHA ; YOU ROLLED CASPIAN VIDEL !!

Sweet music filled the halls of the manor, elegant alabaster walls adorned with festive color, marble floors warmed by the fireplace. The main hall was filled to the high sweeping ceilings with subtle chatter, criminals amassed to celebrate the dead for the year. The first year of chaos under a new reign had gone smoothly, considering its turbulent beginning. The king himself had decided to attend the event, a public appearance that had become increasingly rare of late. It wasn’t that he feared for his safety – he knew he could handle himself in the event – but instead, that he had been rather busy with… Other things, more entertaining than bland strangers discussing the news he generated. 

    The throne seemed to bear a heavier weight than just that of Caspian’s body: it bore the burden of a tremendous pride as the king stared down at his subordinates, chin atop bony knuckles, a glass of wine in his other hand. His overcoat draped loosely, neckline wreathed in fur, dripping from his shoulders like venom, hanging like the cape of a classic King. Dressed in a crisp, classic suit, snakeskin shoes stood out against the classic attire, a showcase of careless cruelty and wealth. Cufflinks studded with human molars also added to his attire an uneasy threatening aura, fitting his grim expression. An invisible crown rested upon the monarch’s head, a stern regality surrounding the raven, watchful eyes following the dancing absently. He held no real interest in those on the floor, chatting over his expensive drinks, using his expensive glasses; he had eyes for one figure only. His pet had disappeared earlier before they arrived, and had yet to return. Watchful eyes searched, suddenly engaged as a woman entered the room, tantalisingly dangerous. 

    He drank in the sight of her as though her rich dress was the wine in his hand. Pale and pure, Caspian was spoiled with how much of the bare milk of her skin had been exposed, golden hair bundled up to frame her face. Yes, this woman had almost become his job; playing the Godfather was somewhat a bonus on the side now, with benefits such as Camellia. The once coveted position he had killed to achieve in his thirst for power paled in comparison. Once he set eyes upon her, that first time many months ago in his office, he simply knew he must have her. Violette, the late Godfather, certainly had had very good taste— in both women and wine. 

    The tyrant seemed almost amused at the blonde’s complete submission, still retaining the thrill of owning another person. The irony was, she owned him in part as well: at least, his thoughts and desires, his obsessive feelings for this woman of perfection. He gave no visible response as she approached and greeted him, but it was clear from his gaze that she had his attention. He shifted his stance, leaning forward from his relaxed position, elbow now on his knee, hand with the glass resting across his other leg. There was a certain air of intimacy to the conversation, making it clear eavesdroppers were not welcome. 

With such delicate precision, the creator tweaked the thin plates of the android’s face, his project nearing completion. Zlatko had holed himself in his workshop after a stroke of inspiration, divine plans laid out on scrawled sheets, strewn about the room alongside day-old crumbs and half-eaten food scraps. He heard only the scrape of plastic and screws, the floorboards shifting under his own stance. There was no sign of the mischief lurking in the halls until it peered around the door with a shout.

    “Блин–!” The tool clattered from a tense hand, driving a rift through the cheek when he startled. A weary gaze swept the damage before turning to the cheeky culprit, tone sharp like a reprimand. “Penellope!” The man exhaled sharply, looking at the jitter in his hand, before pressing his palm flat to the bench to quell it, to keep the venom and the shout from his voice. “What have I told you about coming in here without knocking?” It was a miracle he’d managed to keep this measured, but he’d caught that smile, the little echo of laughter around the prank— this was a game for her. Maybe if he played along, he could keep her out of here, away from looking too closely at his work.