#leghero

LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE’S BEING A HECKING BABY AGAIN

happy birthday to @leghero! <3 here’s our robots dancing

@leghero

So they could apparently come and go from here and home as they pleased. Nice to know in case... well, Brain Drain would probably have his reasons. Fukua just wanted to satisfy her grim curiosity on whatever the hell was still going on around here. 

Shamone was curious, too, though slightly warier. His abilities had been reduced within the confines of the city once more, but he had only come along to make a quick stop with his host. In his eyes, if they could figure out why things were going to crap, then maybe the higher-ups back home could think up a counter-measure to plug up the space that had allowed them to come back.

If only. Brain Drain needed to be the last person they talked to about this. 

“Not a whole lot has changed,” Fukua observed, unable to do much while Shamone’s spider-like legs clambered across the rubble and broken steel. She gave yet another stare to what could loosely pass for the sky. “At least that freak up there isn’t watching us.”

“Yeah, we can just make do with the ones down here,” Shamone drawled, somehow sounding both optimistic and sarcastic. He brushed his teeth with a tentacle and smacked his lips. “’Course, that depends on if anyone’s still kickin’ over here anymore. It’s a wreck.”

He snatched up a marble-sized stone, twirled it on the tip of his tendril, and lazily tossed it over the remains of a ivy-covered archway. A small ding sounded right after.  

“Nothing but junk left over! What’d I tell ya?”

         The past always has a way of sneaking up on someone when they least expect it. The City’s unpredictable nature somehow manages to unearth Drift’s darkest secret in the strangest way possible. Time shenanigans were observed all around him, the mech himself feeling as though his memory banks were failing him time and time again. Memory corrupts every now and again, records rewritten into events that seemingly took place in the Hive itself. Those were memories that touched upon his time under the alias ‘Deadlock’, as well. He couldn’t hide it any longer. The truth, forcibly, is let loose in this simulated world.

         He HATED this.

         Arranging a meeting with someone whom he’s wronged before, Drift follows through as he stands in waiting among the ruined books and shelves. District Epsilon, despite its occasional population of denizens, is typically free of life. He thought it to be a better alternative than the ghost town that was District Gamma. Ah, someone’s coming. Someone he’s been EXPECTING.

        “Mettaton? Hey, uh… you can stand by anywhere. I know this place isn’t… glamorous or anything, but…

        “You understand, right? Anyways… I’ll start this off as an apology. For, ah… hitting you that one time. Hard.”

moss agate:if my muse has a high or low opinion of themself

{♚} In original canon, Selvaria esteemed herself rather highly mostly in being second in command under Maximillian. That plumeted when she learned her value as a Valkyrur was all he sought after and tried to bring back her former glory by fighting as a human and that didn’t go well. I believe in death she still had her pride which is why she did what she did but right now it’s more of a middle ground for them. She understands she’s a leader, she understands she’s a capable leader but ultimately, she still sees herself as human that people can look up to and sympathize with by having that line be wiped out, refusing to separate herself from her men. 

bloodstone:how my muse sees themself as part of the world at large

A bag on your doorstep contains a shirt jacket and a card. The card reads: “Merry Christmas, Hakuryuu dear! Now, I know we’ve gotten off on a rough start, but you shouldn’t be afraid to talk to me. Here! I saw this nice jacket and thought of you. Stay warm for me. Love, Mettaton. ♥” And someone ‘forgot’ to remove the price tag. It costs $49.99. Classy.

----[♕] What’s this? It’s sewn in the fashion of this city, and he supposes the color scheme is nice enough. He nearly shrugs it onto his shoulders until he discovers the card tucked next to the shirt. 

                Mettaton.

【 ⑉⑈⑇⑈ 】Some count of the hours went by and through some resignation, he felt for a corner with a face only somewhat familiar. It didn’t start out so crazy; he wasn’t received this way by the other, no, no. Fujisaki was more a variant of worry on his finding, his plights a spill when his lips split from trembling to speak. Such was a design of over-growing stress, a lack of another perspective. Perhaps that’s what he needed, yet it didn’t go quite uncoupled with intake. After all, it didn’t take much for modest sips to be brazen gulps, the poison flung back so he’d learn to laugh a little more.