#clumsyseedling

HE’S PEERING THROUGH   a store window, which displays some modern-style clothing, like he’s seen a lot of people around here wearing. Maybe he should get some, to blend in a little better. But it all looks sort of silly and he can’t really imagine himself wearing it at all. So he decides to leave it for now, turning away from the window. And nearly colliding with a passer-by, but stopping himself just in time, wobbling inelegantly on one foot for a second before regaining his balance.

Dropped!

Catra kicked the vending machine. Then, she brought out her claws and scratched at the glass. She beat it up like that machine was to blame for everything that was wrong in her life. She took out all of her bad feelings on, determined to break something to make herself feel better.

After all of that, she stopped. She was out of breath, exhausted. She leaned an arm against the machine. Even after beating up on it with everything she had, she couldn’t get back the candy bar it had stolen from her. 

Her ears pricked up. She heard footsteps behind her, someone who was light on his feet, nervous breathing. Her eyes quickly darted back to look at him. 

“Oh, hi there.” 

(He wasn’t much to look at she decided). 

                                                『 X:\Sources>bootrec /convo 』

                 "It’s... Just as I said. I was built modeled after you. You’re quite popular as a protagonist --- Team Danganronpa wanted to use that to their advantage, so while drawing up my design they referenced your appearance.”

                 Didn’t they? That was what Tsumugi and the audience had seemed to imply, anyway. Once she’d erased his personality there really wasn’t much in the way of autonomy left for him; it was easy for the Team Dangaronpa staff to simply make a direct connection to him to keep him operable through to the end of the killing game, and communication being a two way road meant that he’d naturally have back-end knowledge of the events and characters of the Hope’s Peak arc. Then again, the way she’d spoken things felt a little... Strange. Wasn’t Hope’s Peak supposed to be fiction? Real fiction, and not Real-Fiction like their Killing Harmony season had been? The contradictions were bad enough to get his head to spin. Had she been lying then, too, if Makoto was standing in front of him?

                 "... I might... Be a bit confused... You are Makoto, aren’t you?? From Hope’s Peak?? I’m K1-B0, but I doubt you would know who I am.”

Quince: One temptation your character has had.

Amaterasu is very much a patron of creators and artists and her mental model of what is ‘an artist’ varies a lot. Generally, she is drawn to people who show great passion in cultivating something. A runner can be an artist, his body canvas and brush.

She’s definitely felt the pull of... being immersed in someone’s mortal life. That she could just stay with them, live alongside them, and if they live a longer than usual life, that sickness stays from their door, that enemy swords break before they cut them down... isn’t that fine? Is it so selfish? 

Sif darts out of the park at full speed. She is not fond of this “Golden” part of the city - too many strange sights, smells, and far too many loud people. After spending 200 years in the quiet Darkroot forest, adjusting to life in a city has been... difficult, which is why she spends most of her time in the Mistwood. 

There are only two good things about this Ward as far as she is concerned; that this is where Priscilla lives, and the park filled with small, strange canines. Sif had been all too happy to meet the strange dogs, letting them clamber all over her and breaking small branches off of trees to let the little ones play with them. However, the sun would rise soon and she was eager to get back to the Mistwood and sleep before the summer temperatures started to rise.

Lost in her thoughts not even a couple hundred feet from the park, she barely has time to notice before a human steps out into the road in front of her. With no time to stop, she jumps over his head to avoid trampling him. Slowing to a stop immediately after, she turns her head back to scold him with her eyes.

He’s acclimating himself to this city all over again, even though he doesn’t remember leaving it. But there’s a tenseness to his muscles that he can’t control, a wary restlessness that he had finally gotten under control after years in the place before this and then here. 

He has to get used to this again, being in one spot instead of on the road all the time. He has to get used to how peaceful this city is compared to the world he came from. He has to get used to not being attacked at least once a day.