#rossyaps

𝙎𝙘𝙤𝙩𝙩 𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙢'𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚; 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙢 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙙, 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙮 (𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙖𝙨 𝘼𝙡𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩)! 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣, 𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧, 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨. [𝘽𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝘼𝙙𝙖𝙢 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙎𝙘𝙤𝙩𝙩? 𝙞𝙙𝙠]

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“ADAM!” 

The scientists have more questions than Victor. 

“ADAM!”

And no one had as many as Scott Traley.

“Scott, is there something you require? I am busy at this moment.”

Scott appears from his tent, into mine, his smile shining bright. I sigh. 

A few days or so ago—time flies, and I have been staying with the kindest scientists for around a year—I made an error. As Albert would say, a clerical error.

I needed to get notes of findings from Scott, which Albert requested. I trudged through the snow, one step after another, and made it to Scott’s tent. I went inside, to see Scott…crying?

“Scott.” 

He looked at me, and froze like a deer. 

“Adam…” 

He wiped his eyes, and then laughed. 

“Adam?”“Yes, Scott.”“If I did this outside…do you think my tears would freeze up?”

I sighed. What had humanity come to, asking frankly absurd questions to hide their sorrow?

“Scott, you are not okay. You are shaking. You are not who you are.” 

I reached for him, he pulled away. Scott was never like this. We started bickering, slightly:

“Get away from me, Adam.”“What are you feeling?”

“Adam, I am not in the mood-”“SCOTT.”Scott looked at me, eyes watery.

“I…my dad…he died when I was young. It is the anniversary of his death.”

I felt a chill, but yet also a pang of…something I could not name. 

Victor’s death. He, who was not my father, yet created me. His death, which affected me in ways I could not explain. 

“Adam…”

He sniffled, and I came closer, wrapping my arms around Scott, who embraced me back almost immediately, unsurprised that I had done this. I began to speak again. 

“Scott…I once lost someone once. One who had created me from scrap parts, yet who left me, disgusted with me, the creation he had botched. He died. 166 years ago, he died, and I cast myself into the ice prison I thought I deserved.”Scott sniffled.

“Your old man…—Victor, right?—sounds quite interesting.”

Scott pulled me closer, as if I was some sort of canine, and then he realized.

 I, Adam, who had rejected physical contact, afraid I would harm the scientists, was embracing Scott like it was an everyday thing. Scott started to smile concerningly, and that is when I started to regret what I had done. 

“You…”“Scott, no.”“...Guys…”“Scott Traley, I forbid you from telling the others that I-”But Scott had already rushed off. 

Sighing, I got up. 

He would always be like this. Naïve, comedic, but a wonderful friend.

Although what I say, I do not regret enveloping my favorite scientist, for Scott Traley, as smug as a man can be, is still a good friend of mine.     --- a/n: is this buns chat, does ANYONE read this, someone comment pls

𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬! (𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐀𝐔 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞—𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬!!) Part 1 Part 2

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For what feels like the first time, I wake up in a bed—a tent, technically. It seems as comfortable as something my creator might’ve slept on. 

I do not deserve this life that I am sharing right now. I am guilty for my creator’s death, as is he was for my life. Ironical, is it not? Living death, deadly life, the fate of my creator and I. 

Sleep is fatal, and somehow, the myths were right. Dreams teach much. Yet if dreams teach as much as they do, how must one know what to do, if they have forgotten their dreams? What if a dream, light as a feather, heavy as a boulder, misleads? 

My creator, in front of me, told me one thing: “You are not worthy.” Over and over and over, until I woke up, my artificial heart, kept in me by the creator who, in the end, did not wish for me, but for the experiment. 

Dr Victor Frankenstein never wanted me, and the feeling is now reciprocated. 

I wake up to the sound of talking, and a shout of “Adam? You in here, big guy?” 

It is my time to ask questions of the scientists, and I learn quite a lot from them. Scott and Kean were childhood best friends, Albert has a daughter named Sally, they are here because of what is known as the Third International Polar Year. 

“Third…International Polar Year?”“Okay, Adam. So, in summary, the Third International Polar Year is…is…Kean, can you explain it to Adam?”

“International project involving Antarctica.. Scott, aren’t you supposed to know this?.” “Aren’t you supposed to stop cussing out loud?” 

“That’s…different.”

Albert laughs, the same laugh the brother laughed when I watched the family in the woods. I do not understand what there is to laugh about, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion. Scott notices this rapidly, perking up. 

“Adam, Kean has…well, let’s just say, a foul mouth.”“His mouth smells bad?”

“...”

Albert, the ever so patient, kind scientist he is, takes the time to explain that Kean uses words “only idiots use”, vulgar language. I listen, something my creator never did, and I wonder. I wonder if my creator was like Kean, or like Albert, or like Scott even. 

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