scream for the stars.

Symbol Meme

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⚕ terrified

Being a personality core, a construct with precious little in the way of self-autonomy where locomotion is concerned, means that there is not much more that Wheatley fears more than a loss of control. It’s why the pull of the chassis was so cloying — and why it amplified his selfishness tenfold.

“ ... m’ sorry about, uh, all that. Back there. Th' whole bein’-a-robot thing.” The silence has a few seconds to settle again.

“Oh. And the gunfire, too. Right mess, that was.”

He’s grinding his teeth now.

“No. No, no, no! I don’t expect that at all! I’m not stupid, Zigmund. Nothing works like that!” Cecil huffs, exasperated now, running a hand through his hair. He snorts. “I don’t know what you want, I’m just … I’m trying to start somewhere! I’m not such a fool that I think I can fix this with words, or in a night … or even any time soon. But I have to try.”

A foot anxiously taps on the ground; it’s this or pacing, and the last thing he wants to do is pace.

“I don’t think you’re stupid. I know you must think that I do, what with the offer I gave you, but I don’t.”

Oh. He sure was pushing all the right buttons, wasn’t he? It’s enough to summon a smug smirk against the yordle’s features, his ears cocked forwards in amusement.

“You Pilties are so cute when you’re upset. So emotional ... clouds judgment, doc.” A finger tap-taps one of the optics of Zigg’s goggles, a mockery all on its own — he wouldn’t need to wear them if it wasn’t for the Council and all its decisions.

// Oh my god they were academic rivals ...

“When you need a place to stay, for any reason.” He starts. “Come see me. I won’t ask any questions. My door will always be open to you.”

An olive branch, to start. He’s so certain that he knows it’s going to take a lot of work to smooth things over even a fraction, but he had to begin somewhere. Cecil thinks that he must start by trusting Ziggs.

“Oh, that’s adorable.” The yordle’s voice practically drips smarm as he fritzes his fingers out in a little starburst, as if positively jazzed by it all. “What, are we gonna have tea? Sing a song and, HELLO! All better? Give me a break.”

Never before has the professor felt so thoroughly defeated. His arms wind around himself in a bit of a hug.

“I’ll prove myself.” He says, with the last bit of conviction he’s able to muster. He actually sounds determined, in spite of it all. “Don’t listen to my words, Zigmund, just watch me and I will show you.”

He casts a sidelong glance out at the City, taking in a breath before he looks back to Ziggs. He even looks determined, past the fluff. “I will show you that I can do better.”

Another laugh comes this time, louder than the last — it’s closer to the maniacal hoots and hollers that often tail any one of his demolitions, though far more restrained.

Cecil squeezes his eyes shut. Everything feels heavy. He’ll deal with this, as he’s dealt with any of the other problems he’s brought upon himself. Never let it be said that the Revered Inventor doesn’t make mistakes, even costly ones.

“All right.” He says finally, with a nod. “I’ll do better. This is my promise.”

“Heh.”

The sound is guttural and deprecating, the sharp rasp of Zigg’s voice present even in the way he laughs. His goggles trail across the horizon, staring into the far off distance, off to the spires of the gleaming city he’d once seen in his dreams.

“I left Bandle on a promise, y’know. Piltover. City of progress. Where anyone can be anything. Isn’t that something?” He’s looking back to Cecil now, arms crossed.