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-lit— the roads around spawn, the top of Philza’s wall, the favela and adjoining beach— are fine, he’s 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. He’s 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, it’s easier to sidestep that mess altogether. If Roier doesn’t leave where he knows it’s safe, and he lags, it’s fine. If Bobby’s with another trusted, healthy adult, it’s fine. Multiple adults? Even better.
But he can see how the kid’s starting to get fucking stir-crazy. He’d 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 and— and not a taqueria, yet, but maybe soon.
So, one bright day, Roier spins into Bobby’s room with markers and crayons and glue and construction paper and cardboard absolutely overflowing from his inventory.
“Bobbyyyyy!” He croons. “Get up! Wanna do something?”
