Lights. Light. Light? Bright, Blinding. Adjusting.
Faces, Voices. Congratulations. Sense of Self.
What is Self? Unsure. Reaching, Hoping. Father?
Smiling Faces, Happy Faces. Good. Satisfied.
Contact. Touch. Pleasant. I am Smiling. I am one of them.
I am home. I belong here. I am happy, overwhelmed, alive.
I want to know more. Who am I? Why was I born?
Created, they tell me.
I am a son, a machine. The first.
I am alone, though the doctors are here with me.
I am lonely, but he smiles and calls me son.
Others call me a weapon, a tool. I don’t like them.
I want to return home, but they insist. I cannot leave.
I don’t understand. They don’t understand, either.
“You are loved,” he promises; he always calls me special.
If it were only so simple. There is a gun in my hand and a shield at my side.
Who would do this to their son? I am different. I’m me.
He apologizes too many times, and I’m tired. I still love him, I think.
But he is wrong.
They are wrong, too, and I cannot abide this.
I’ve dreamt of better places where there are no uniforms, no officers.
When I voice this, his face falls, and I know he’ll tell me otherwise.
He says it’s temporary. I want to believe him, but my chest hurts.
I’m still reaching for that happy place where I was alive.
The other doctor tells me sweet lies disguised as truths. I hesitate.
And I refuse this time. They call me defective, a rebel, and they’re afraid.
Yet, all I feel is pain. He wants to fix me. He tells me something is wrong.
He tells me that he has to.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want this.
// so I heard it is/was BassBlues week or something & as my OTP I wanted to write. something. Apparently not anything fluffy though, pfft. Just something I was thinking about, I guess.
This doesn’t take place at any time in particular -- just sort of a random/non-specific life-threatening scenario for the sake of it.
Such was the truth that none knew the outcome of what they were slowly coasting toward, packed together grimly inside the large carrier craft like the tired soldiers they were--Rock, Forte, even Blues, among a few others. The best Earth could offer. Hardly a word was spoken over the backdrop of whirling blades, each content in their own fretful way, somehow, to let the severity of their situation wash over the cabin.
Forte fidgeted in the mounting tension. He just wanted to fight and get it over with, unconcerned with how or what or--Rockman kept passing glances between him and his brother, every so often opening his mouth to say something before ultimately deciding better of it. Instead, he busied his hands, petting Rush (who laid at his feet, just as uneasy). They had a plan, sort of.
Or, perhaps that was just the thing. Him, Forte, his brother. His brother! Blues! It was the first time in memory that the prototype had lent Rock more than a few moments of his time, popping up only when he was wont to and disappearing just as quickly. It should have been consoling. In other circumstances, it might have even made him happy. Yet, there was nothing more than a pit of dread where the novelty might have been, furrowed brow and niggling frown met with the image of Blues and his enemy--rival? Yeah, rival. Together.
Almost amicably close, they sat next to one another on the other side of the cabin, Blues propped over his shield pensively. This could be it. Their last. His last. He knew that--accepted the outcome many years ago--studying the silent, roiling emotions of the crowd from under the safety of a visor. Forte still fidgeted--contained, but only just. So, Blues tilted his head, considering one thing or another. His words, Rockman, the others, and again Forte. The mech most eager to fight and least eager to break through his own shielding bravado to acknowledge how dire things had become.
Breaking the silence, a clap of metal on metal. Hand on pauldron. Blues’ hand, posture straightened, negotiating the scathing retaliation that spilled over Forte’s expression. No. What. Most of all, why? Lips curled into half a snarl, but Forte only leered at the unwarranted contact. Ignoring Rockman. Ignoring them. Yet, alerting the wolf that laid nearby, who raised their head for a better look, ready. Blues had been described as a whatever some time ago, and yet...
“What.” Emphatic, piercing. Of course, it had little effect on Blues, but it was warning enough.
Blues let that single word permeate the air until it sunk to the floor alongside the murmuring expectation that the prototype was prematurely goading a fight out of their trigger-happy companion. Only after it settled neatly upon the cold metal would Blues continue, removing his hand. “I’ll only say this once--” Gospel huffed. “--I promise that, so listen.”
Their entourage was something unfortunate for this conversation. It wasn’t one Blues ever wanted to happen--had considered having before now, their future on the precipice of ruin. It was unnecessary. They understood. They knew. Yet, words could be a comfort, if not for one, then the other. Still living after everything. Yet, he could apologise if, in the aftermath, it became no more than a worthless platitude said to ease the conscious of one loose thread Blues selfishly wanted to give closure.
--but please continue on with the lecture. Forte was annoyed but listening, already working on a familiar, snappy retort when Blues silenced him with no more than three words: “I love you.”
Blindsided, even Rock--who had been trying to respect what little privacy the aircraft had to offer personal conversation--less than conspicuously tuned in on the comment. Offered so freely. Few of them even knew Blues had emotions, let alone ones he’d admit to, so the entire concept was a little unsettling, even for the recipient. Especially for the recipient. Forte’s first instinct was to bite back, digits clenching and unclenching under the thin facade of self-control he’d been struggling to maintain before this. He wanted to yell. He wanted to do something, anything! What the hell was... why would--why now?
Why now?
Why the HELL now?
Maddeningly, Forte glared at his companion, unable to process or articulate a response past the dim recognition that he didn’t really want to fight him. Not again, not like this. Not now. They’d done that before. It was flagged aggressively as a bad thing. Blues left. Blues might leave again, but more permanently. He could die. Paralyzed, his anger bled into a long, forced sigh, calling Gospel closer and tearing himself away from the situation to calm down. Maybe. Hopefully.
Blues was patient, even as Forte refused to look at him or so much as acknowledge the confession. Rather, Blues paid no mind to anyone else, either, although he could feel a new, worrying eyeful come from his brother across the way. Questions everyone and no one really wanted to know the answer to. Yet, with neither forthcoming, the room eventually fell back to dreadful, nonverbal monotony.
And, a few long minutes into the renewed dirge of rotor blades, Forte replied just loud enough to be heard, “Yeah...”
// a little drabble for an event that’s not supposed to happen for some time, but I got inspired! Wanna. write things again!!
“Doctor-?”
Rhythm didn’t understand. He couldn’t; how could he? He’d been online for a handful of hours, at most, watching and listening from a cold slab in the repair bay--hearing but not comprehending the cacophony of overlapping voices. Angry voices. Hurt voices. Accusations. Forte, Light, Rock. Only one of them he recognised. The new, old mech didn’t dare leave the safe haven that was his berth, eyebrows crinkling into a worried pout as he tried to tune out the static.
The Doctor--his father, if his databanks served him--would see him eventually. Then, he would understand, Rhythm accepted bleakly. He watched the dark robot--Forte, maybe--storm out of the lab in a slur of destructive obscenities, unsure how to process this new upset. Concerned for him. Would he come back? Was Forte one of his brothers? Why didn’t he know?
Slumping in defeat and a great sigh, the good Doctor excused Rock. They could meet another time. Rock gave Blues Rhythm a pained expression, but forced a lopsided smile and wave on the way out, although clearly defeated. In the coming solitude, Dr. Light smoothed over his beard awkwardly. This wasn’t the way to welcome new life into the world, but his strength had already mostly given out. He mourned a son that sat right in front of him, pleading for answers. Answers he deserved to know.
Dredging up what pleasantry he could, he picked his way back over to the mech waiting for him; yet, drawn into a sudden fit of despair as he grew closer--to hide the weepy look in his eyes--Light wrapped both arms around Rhythm tightly, croaking with a tired voice, “Welcome to the world, my boy...”
“Dad?” He chirped, the new sensation much more pleasant than anything he’d experienced so far. Although, his metal body was a blessing, unflinching when the arms grew constricting and heavy around his frame. Rhythm didn’t mind, returning the gesture with fumbling grace in an effort to sooth his creator. He could feel how his body heaved and shook, no matter how quiet he tried to be.
“Dad--? Doctor... Doctor Light?” Rhythm tried again when the sobs didn’t stop, although every word seemed to make the situation worse. “Dad?”
“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry,” Light mumbled to whichever robot was listening. God rest his son. He deserved the peace.
“Doctor Light? I’m fine... who was that other robot? Did I do something?” What or how, Rhythm couldn’t fathom, but it felt like his fault. He couldn’t shake the guilt from his shoulders any more than Light could, taking what little solace he could from their embrace. It was the nicest thing he had.
Dr. Light sniffed, “No, my boy... no, you didn’t do anything wrong. You never have. Forte is--” A pause, trying to collect the thoughts he’d left scattered on the floor. “--Forte lost a friend today. He’ll come around when he’s ready.”
“Oh...” It explained some things, but not enough. He didn’t press. “I hope it’s soon.”
Unable to argue with him, Light pulled away enough to give his new son a pained smile, hands on both of his shoulders as if he’d suddenly disappear. “He’s.. unique, in his own way. I’m sure you could become good friends when he does.”
Rhythm trusted his answer, a gentle hope nestling within his chassis--Friends--and Light cleared his throat weakly. Nothing had ever prepared him for this, but Rhythm didn’t deserve to suffer for his floundering. “Do you--do you want to go for a walk? I think you’ve seen enough of the lab, and some fresh air might do us both some good.”
Forte should really start carrying around a camera of some kind if he was going to bestow his helmet unto others. It was huge and ridiculous, and the only reason it looked fine on him was because it was what he’d been built with. Everyone had just gotten used to it by this point.
“If they get out in time it’s technically abandoned,” is the reply muttered into his borrowed scarf, though there’s no real intent behind the words. He was capable of being on good behavior for as long as things didn’t get boring and he could hang out with Blues. The news that there was somewhere the prototype already had in mind, however, had him perking up a little.
“Yeah?” A sharp grin. “You gonna lend me a hand for a really spectacular show?”
Blues wasn’t even going to bother pretending to correct Forte; it was pointless and petty, and besides that--unless it was absolutely necessary for him to intervene--those sorts of thoughts were more Rock’s business than his [Blues trusted Forte enough that he wouldn’t cause that sort of trouble on a joint whatever adventure]. Rock was the hero, whereas Blues was his own neutral entity, neither condoning or encouraging for the most part.
“I could be convinced,” Blues replied, giving Forte a light smirk. His original concept built for combat--for military use, he wasn’t completely adverse to a scuffle when it suited him and this suited him plenty. Dimly, the prototype imagined the disapproving looks his successor and their creator would give him for such behaviour, but that was immaterial.
“Round trip, It’s a three day journey from here.” Without any other stops, of course, which implied the question of when Forte wanted to plan on it. Originally, Blues hadn’t meant their shared journey to sound so imminent, but if the mood struck, then who was he to put it off?
That was the fun part, after all, keeping mechs on their toes on what he was going to do next. Pick a fight? Do something sweet? It was a guessing game of motives, and Forte delighted in defying expectations.
Apparently so did Blues. He had been expecting the prototype to take back his helmet, or maybe scoff. The thin piece of fabric draped around his shoulders had him openly gaping in shock. Blues was… letting him wear the scarf? The scarf? Mouth closing, Forte will reach up to finger it a little, then bury his face in the loop at his neck.
He’s not blushing. He’s not capable of blushing. He’s capable of bending down to pick up his own helmet and put it on Blues’ head, where it looks utterly ridiculous. There, they match. “…heh. If you don’t think I’d cramp your style. There are a lot of cool places too, right? Not just wilderness or whatever.”
Forte was incredibly lucky that the deep widow’s peak of his helmet didn’t jar Blues’ shades. Yet, it was a strange weight on his head, nonetheless--much heavier than his helmet and unwieldy to boot. Even without looking in a mirror, Blues was certain he looked completely out of sorts with such dramatic headgear, never-minding that it clashed with his colour scheme. However, the prototype wasn’t about to take it off, either.
“So long as you keep your destructive behaviour to abandoned buildings, I don’t see there being an issue.” Actually, come to think of it... there was a particular abandoned building that Blues wouldn’t mind seeing wiped from the face of the Earth. One of many old, defunct factories, but this one was out of the way enough that they wouldn’t disturb more than a few long-left-to-rust sentries.
He looked thoughtfully at Forte. “There is one place I think you would enjoy.”
Hugs were bad, helm pats were good- Forte had learned a few other expressions of affection, and he’ll eye one of Blues’ hands for a moment. It was a thought, but one for the future.
As soon as the helmet came off Forte will reach out to snatch it, taking his own helmet off and dropping it on the ground to shove Blues’ on instead. Now Blues is unable to leave until Forte gives the helmet back, which might be for a while. “Smells like brooding in here.” Really, two pairs of shades?
Hey Russia was really far away, dude. “How boring. Haven’t you wandered all over Japan by now? Or are you trying to join a monastery? The Metal Monk.”
Forte. Blues wasn’t even mad or annoyed--or anything particularly negative, really. Perhaps the mech was a tad dubious, but should he really be surprised by Forte’s behaviour at this point? No, not really. Yet, what happened next ought to have really surprised Forte; reaching around, Blues untied the knot in his scarf, tugging it loose to drape the fabric around Forte’s shoulders instead.
There, now the look was complete. Blues paused admired his handiwork, hoping that Forte realised how significant he was to the prototype for him to even allow this. To.. encourage it. He still totally expected both things back, though, so don’t get too cozy. “I have, but it is a very beautiful country. Perhaps next time you should join me.”
Hello, guess who's scheduled for one of Blues' periodic 'I haven't died yet' visits? Hint: it was Forte.
!!
Forte didn’t like getting left behind, but with Blues he’d learned to tolerate it. It wasn’t as if Blues completely dropped off the radar either; comm. chats weren’t ideal but they helped reassure him that Blues hadn’t disappeared.
What really reassured him that Blues hadn’t gotten himself run over by a train or deactivated in a ditch, however, was when Blues actually showed up at his doorstep. You’ll have to forgive the overzealous tackle, Blues.
And here he thought you hated physical contact, Forte. Tsk. Albeit, the tackle was met shortly thereafter with a muted snort–mostly from the exertion it took to not get bowled over–and friendly helm pat; it was nice to see you, too. To see that you were still in one piece, as well. Blues knew all too well the sort of trouble his excitable friend liked to get himself into.
“So I am,” he agreed, hinting on affectionate but not quite there. Always playing the stoic. “Nothing other than my company. Perhaps next time.”
Hey, he’d been learning to tolerate at least a little bit of it. Hugs were still off the table, but a little friendly wrestling was still acceptable. And the head pat will be met with a grin and his helm being pressed a bit into the touch- that was still his favorite.
Oh man Blues you didn’t even know the half of it. “Tch. Maybe I should send you back for a refund. Where all did you go this time, anyway? Catch any strange diseases?” Ignore the fact that robots couldn’t catch diseases.
In that case, don’t worry; Blues had absolutely no desire to hug Forte. They’d done that once or twice and neither were... well, he really preferred not to, if at all possible. That being said, they were both in agreement that helm pats were an acceptable form of showing half-affectionate comradery. Withdrawing his hand a moment, Blues took off his helmet [to reveal a second pair of shades underneath the visor].
Judge him as you will, Forte, but it was even more deplorable for you to witness him without shades, wasn’t it? Therefore, he came prepared. It wasn’t like the additional darkness really mattered to a robot, anyway.
“I stayed in Japan this time,” he replied, taking a light jab at the time or so that he’d traveled all the way to Russia. “Otherwise, I’m as healthy as I was the last time we spoke. My systems are stable.”
For the moment, but that was neither here nor there.
Hello, guess who's scheduled for one of Blues' periodic 'I haven't died yet' visits? Hint: it was Forte.
!!
Forte didn’t like getting left behind, but with Blues he’d learned to tolerate it. It wasn’t as if Blues completely dropped off the radar either; comm. chats weren’t ideal but they helped reassure him that Blues hadn’t disappeared.
What really reassured him that Blues hadn’t gotten himself run over by a train or deactivated in a ditch, however, was when Blues actually showed up at his doorstep. You’ll have to forgive the overzealous tackle, Blues.
And here he thought you hated physical contact, Forte. Tsk. Albeit, the tackle was met shortly thereafter with a muted snort--mostly from the exertion it took to not get bowled over--and friendly helm pat; it was nice to see you, too. To see that you were still in one piece, as well. Blues knew all too well the sort of trouble his excitable friend liked to get himself into.
“So I am,” he agreed, hinting on affectionate but not quite there. Always playing the stoic. “Nothing other than my company. Perhaps next time.”
There's a box! Hopefully Blues can get to it before the cats do. Inside are a small stack of records, some new(ish) clothes, two blankets, a handful of E-Tanks, a handheld game, a book of '101 Must-See Locations', and a small plush cat. Happy Birthday, dude.
Just pretend this was answered two months ago, because Blues certainly wouldn’t leave such a generous gift laying around for that long. No, it would garner a small smile from the mech, sorting through its contents carefully to start putting it away--perhaps changing into some of the “new” clothes just because.
“I thought by now you would be accustomed to me appearing at my leisure,” Blues replied, giving the strewn litter at Forte’s feet a cursory glance. It reminded him of something, although that something had happened what felt like eons ago now. Almost half a year, if not more?
“Merely offering you my company. You requested it the last time we spoke.”
“Let’s just say I forgot.” It’d been a while since Blues had been around to appear suddenly. Already his surprise was fading, leaving him to smirk at his whatever and casually drawn himself upright.
“Yeah, alright. You wanna lend a hand?” A gesture at the bottles. “I’m gonna celebrate Fathers Suck Day in style.”
A brow raised--and, if Forte looked closely, he might actually be able to see it above his shades. Truthfully, Blues had forgotten all about the holiday, although it shouldn’t surprise him so much that this was how Forte chose to celebrate it. It wasn’t as if either of them had parents worth mentioning.
What he’s doing is having a heart attack at having someone sneak up on him. He’s not quite startled enough to do anything like scream, but it’s a very near thing.
“I thought you were Trash Man, not Sneak Man.” Please, pay no mind to the collection of glass bottles around his feet, nor the other small pile of various questionable things. “Sup?”
“I thought by now you would be accustomed to me appearing at my leisure,” Blues replied, giving the strewn litter at Forte’s feet a cursory glance. It reminded him of something, although that something had happened what felt like eons ago now. Almost half a year, if not more?
“Merely offering you my company. You requested it the last time we spoke.”
Blues raised an eyebrow, even if the effect was somewhat lost in translation. It was nice to talk to his thing again. “And when they are old enough, I will make sure they find good homes.”
Kittens were easy enough to find homes for--sit long enough in front of a busy storefront and there were bound to be those who would gladly take home a free kitten. This also may not have been Blues’ first litter.
Also, Forte, you weren’t included, because he didn’t think you were trash.
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