#beyonduse

Tap tap. Tap. Rung tests the crystalline structure encasing the door handle (and much of the door itself) with a few light touches, setting his hands on his hips in thoughtful defeat when the surface doesn’t react. There are certainly some other things he could try, including putting a modicum of force into his gentle taps, but he has a feeling that that won’t do much good, either. From what he’s heard from others around the city, even the full strength of a small Cybertronian will not be enough to cause a crack in the “ice” currently locking him out of his shop.

He casts a look around for inspiration-- the plants inside still need care, after all, crystal-weather or no-- and is surprised to see a familiar shape nearby.

“Besty?” Their last interaction involved a forceful and charming request that Rung donate to Besty’s “blood collection,” and the mech politely keeps himself from laughing at the thought.

“It’s nice to see you again,” he says instead, and means it. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about getting around these barriers, have you? I seem to have gotten myself locked out. ...but-- oh! I hope your theater’s made it through alright?”

SWITCHEROO! || Accepting

I’ll redesign your muse as if they were from Hollow Knight’s universe

A foreign Star from out of the deep sky, yours is a complicated tale. While you found yourself quite comfortable among the bugs (once you left the scorched remains of your landing site behind), your presence was not well received by the local Higher Beings who took painstaking steps to extinguish your Light.

  There on a bench, Jacket struggled to open the cassette. Better now that it was quiet, free from human chatter. Didn’t help that the damn tape got stuck and was filling in the void with it’s own version of being a demented person.

  “Ｉ  ｂｒｏｕｇｈｔ  ｙｏｕ  ａ // Ｐｌｅａｓｅ．// Ｐｌｅａｓｅ．// Ｐｌｅａｓｅ  ｅｎｊｏｙ．” Jacket smacked his tape recorder with the flat of his hand. Why was it fucking up now? Frustration. He really didn’t need to deal with this today.

  Pain flared in his head again, likely a complaint from his brain having to work out problems. Was this shit just going to be a constant thing now? A bad temper lit in his gut, and he dropped his cassette player to hold at his temple, hands brushing over the fresh scarring. Still sore from where the stitches had been taken out just this morning.

  Wait. He squinted his eyes open for a moment. Even as the pain subsided, the sound still continued. Almost like... Footsteps. Jacket looked up from his troubles, blank stare meeting the backside of... Okay. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. Still there. Giant robot. Okay.

  “Ｗｈａｔ  ａ  ｌｏｖｅｌｙ  ｄａｙ， ｒｉｇｈｔ？ // Ａｕｓ  ｗｉｅ  ｅｉｎ  ｓｃｈｅｉｓｓ  Ａｕｔｏｕｎｆａｌｌ．” The recorder spat out before going quiet again. Snatching it up, he held it close to his body to try and smother the sound.

I UNDERSTAND. WHEN SOMEONE SPENDS A LONG TIME LIVING ONE WAY, GETTING USED TO PAIN AND DIFFICULTY... IT CAN BEGIN TO FEEL LIKE THAT PAIN IS PART OF WHO YOU ARE. PERHAPS IT FEELS AS THOUGH THE PAIN IS WHAT MAKES YOU STRONG, OR THAT IT'S THE ONE FAMILIAR CONSTANT WHEN EVERYTHING IS CHANGING AROUND YOU..

THIS might possibly have been the coolest robot Dice had ever seen. He hadn’t exactly seen real robots before but still, lips parted in a minute gasp at the sight.

     Once more, the city cries for protection at the mercy of its stolen denizens. Scattered pieces left to be cleaned with little reward for their work. Yet each time, with each sporadic epidemic that overtakes, he finds himself participating ever so slightly, yearning deeply for that long lost dream.

      Surely - as though four years had not been enough of an answer - surely this time, he would be reimbursed proper. Surely, by now, they’d have recognized his dedication. His grandeur! Gifts of golds, gems, and adoration by all. Lavish castle and vast lands held under his rule. An opportunity to display his prowess as the once Shining Gem of a terrifying Order. These were but a few of many far-fetched desires tacked onto a mental cork board. 

     Ever lost in thought, the King trails onward with no destination in mind beyond that of few places committed to memory. The safety of those he’d come to “tolerate” (adore) being his only concern next to his own well-being. So when he finds himself stumbling to a halt looking upwards - far far upwards - at the baffling sight of a metallic menace, was he really to blame for standing at guard? The streets had been a chaotic conflict by which he’d little to no time nor use in parsing out foe from ally. In the eyes of the usurper, this was naught but another roadblock by which he’d find no trouble in dealing with!

     Or... So all that boasting overconfidence thinks.