Over the course of the last few weeks, it has become increasingly obvious that Roier is incredibly hesitant to leave the area around his house.
Some places are fine. Places that are well-litâ the roads around spawn, the top of Philzaâs wall, the favela and adjoining beachâ are fine, heâs happy to visit them, knock obnoxiously on a door or two and ask how things are.
But, for the life of him, Roier cannot make himself go any further. Anywhere unlit, his legs lock up. Going out at night at all is treated like a risk he needs ultimate skill for. Going to a dungeon? Fucking forget it.
(Roier coughs into his fist. Heâs not sick, not in the conventional way. The building blocks of his body sometimes feel like they stutter, lag behind, muscles ripping and senses whirling and this is what happened last time he was in a dangerous situation and an attack came on: Bobby died.)
His fault and not. His fault for not being able to pick Bobby back up. Not his fault for lagging. His fault for going in with him in the first place. Not his fault the Federation kept him from him. Each flip-flop picks a petal from an undeserving flower.
Anyway, itâs easier to sidestep that mess altogether. If Roier doesnât leave where he knows itâs safe, and he lags, itâs fine. If Bobbyâs with another trusted, healthy adult, itâs fine. Multiple adults? Even better.
But he can see how the kidâs starting to get fucking stir-crazy. Heâd feel bad, asking something of Jaiden, especially after how sparse their conversations were post-Bobby. So, Roier uses his absolutely huge, massive, textured brain.
Bobby City. Build idea, funny joke, art project. Planned to span all around his castle, his house, jarringly straight-edge concrete, an Oxxo and a Coppel andâ and not a taqueria, yet, but maybe soon.
So, one bright day, Roier spins into Bobbyâs room with markers and crayons and glue and construction paper and cardboard absolutely overflowing from his inventory.
âBobbyyyyy!â He croons. âGet up! Wanna do something?â
He's so happy to be back. He is. He's dreamed of claws on soft carpet and paint splattered across the walls for weeks. Longed the sound of raucous laughter and soft plush grass for too long.
But the smell of bleach and stark sterile sanitization has been swapped for a sickeningly sweet mist of warmth and familiarity and it's starting to get equally as suffocating. While the new routine is infinitely better than the old one, that same itch for something new is gnawing at his flesh.
However, he isn't thinking about all of that right now. Instead, as he's sprawled out on his lovingly handcrafted blanket, (which is carelessly spilling out onto the hardwood floor), his mind travels somewhere much more exciting.
He's just raided a chest, splitting the profits with Dream-Roier and keeping an awesome looking enchanted sword. With his newfound epic weapon he slashes through mobs like butter, and they melt like it too. The gross monster mush dissapears into the tile below. He spots another chest in the distance, this one looking much more ornate, covered in gold and diamond embellishments. Oh yeah.
But before he makes it to his prize the room goes dark. Dream-Roier is no where to be found. Shadows of what could be a thousand mobs dance around the walls. An eerie "Booooobbbbbyyyyyyy..." howls throughout the room. And just as the shadows circle in for the kill he's up.
Reality quickly settles into his mind as the adrenaline of the jumpscare is replaced with enthusiastic excitement as Real-Roier's proposal is processed.
"What the fuck dad! My empire of riches was just about to double by like a billion!" he dramatizes.
"ÂżQuĂŠ propones?" he finger tents as if hearing out a potential business deal.
[ "What are you proposing?" ]
"Propongo..." he trails, making a show of twirling his wrist all presentorially, dramatic and slow. "ÂĄArte!" In Roier's hand, like he's prepping a card trick, is a mildly concerning amount of construction paper and card stock and cardboard. That's not even considering everything in his inventory. He grins and wiggles his eyebrows.
"Nice day out!" He says. "We could sit under a tree! Make all the workers for our city, you know?"
[ "I propose... art!" ]
Bobby city! Holy fuck, it's been so long he almost forgot! Except he never could, idealistic visions of Bobby city had been a frequent location in his dreams during his faux-afterlife.
He gasps. "No mames!" His flawless air of professionalism crumbles. Bounding off his bed and scrambling towards Roiers leg, he claws his way up to his mid-thigh.
"Dame! Dame! Dame!" He swings his little arm around in an attempt to snatch the crafting supplies, using his other arm for stability on this precarious post.
[ "No fucking way!" "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" ]
Fucking infectious, Bobbyâs excitement. Roier plays keepaway with the art supplies, swapping them into his hand and raising it far above his head.
âAy, calma!â He canât stop himself from laughing, his grin threatening to shut his eyes for him. âCalma! You want ceiling time?â
God. He missed this. He hobbles, waterlogged by Bobby climbing him like a fucking jungle gym, towards the stairs. âWe have to look at our kingdom before we draw anything, cabrĂłn!â
Bobby does not let go of his dearest father. Opting instead to crawl all the way up onto his shoulders for a better vantage point. Centipede style.
After about half a second of swiping at the supplies just out of his reach, he throws his head back with a deep exasperated sigh, conceding. "UUGGHHHH. Okay." He shifts his position to something more conducive to travel, holding on to Roiers head.
"Pues, andalĂŠ andalĂŠ! My loyal steed!" Bobby demands, punctuating his statement by jabbing his heels into Roier's chest twice.
[ "Well then, onwards onwards!" ]
Well, who's he to deny his kid! He's allowed to be a shithead about it. When Bobby goads him on, Roier responds by jumping, bucking like a horse, laughing all the way. Down the stairs, out the door, and...
...okay, he stops at the porch, checks outside. Mid-day, sunny. Okay. It's alright, to be outside, but-- he's just gotta check. Double check. Triple check by looking up, peeking out from under the porch like the sun is going to prank him.
But it's not. He bounces off the porch, swings around the side and walks the way alongside the castle wall. Soon enough, they're both there-- facing down a little field of stupid, jarring concrete buildings. Empty.
Roier gestures. "Everything the light touches," he says. "Is our canvas!"
Bobby could never be satisfied with the mundane. So the world as seen through his eyes, just for those few moments, melds with the inspired images of weird animorph spider-horses and regal fish-boys sprinting across shifting ideas of the same landscape he's gone through so many times. Each memory painted with a different fantasy.
They arrive and, dissapointingly, he slides off a very normal non spider-horse Roier. Taking advantage of his fathers distraction, he finally manages to snatch a handful of art supplies from Roier's unattended pockets and then beelines it to a random empty building.
"Then we paint! Enverguiza Roiler pinche lentĂłn!" Bobby barks, not bothering to look behind him.
[ "Hurry up Roiler you fucking slowpoke!" ]
