you’ve learned to appreciate art over the years - more than that, you’ve discovered that you, yourself, have some talent for it. not what people expect from a robot. it always catches people off guard, that you can draw, that you have a deeper understanding of art. but as your eyes alight on the painting, you’re not even sure that you, with all you’ve learned over the years, could put into words how it makes you feel.

 you’ve never been that in touch with yourself. your identity is something fleeting, barely there and intangible. you maintain it, you think, with interactions with your friends, and lately, the maternal role you’ve somehow adopted with the phantom thieves. but looking at the painting, you see yourself staring back, clear as day, clear as a mirror.

 mementos is dark, and though you have no problems with it, the humans you’re with - the children - might do. so you’re sticking with them, help them out whenever you can. the phantom thieves might technically be working in opposition to you, a section of the police, but the shadow operatives have generally been neutral in all things. crime is not your area. shadows and personas are. 

 there’s one down here today: the one they call fox. he carries something, you think. he carries something heavy. you’re sure you hear his stomach growling in the darkness. you trot up behind him, eyes shining like lamps.