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our bltps playthrough with @1iquorr basically (best possible duo)

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Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

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Listen, kiddos: Timothy and Jack had—thank friggin’ god—at least one thing separating them: Timothy knew how to make himself scarce, how to blend in, how to not be the loudest, most obnoxious asshole in the room (or on the planet in general, because . . . c’mon; it was Jack).

And unlike the big attention-hungry baby, Timothy preferred it that way.

Sure, yeah, give a guy a break, it wasn’t the most heroic method of going about things: no running in, guns blazing, cackling at the expense of others in a rain of gore (which, y’know, wasn’t actually how “heroes” were supposed to act, anyway, but . . . more or less Timmy’s own experience). It didn’t exactly make for a good story, like, “Hey, yeah, I got down on my hands and knees and just crawled and crawled and prayed no one would notice me, and to my credit—!”

But it worked. It kept him alive. And when someone he actually found himself caring about happened to be with him—? Well, c’mon. No-brainer.

Tim wasn’t about to do something supremely dumb on purpose and risk getting his partner in crime hurt.

“A’ight; you hold on to that optimistic ‘no shame’ attitude, buddy,” Timothy muttered distractedly as he moved past him, surveyed their surroundings before pinpointing that narrow alley hugging the building’s side. “—when you learn other things I can do. It’s, uh . . . Look, it’s not great.” His attention momentarily danced over Cole’s gun again, and he nodded. “Let’s stick to those not-hidden talents; you’re a waaaay better shot than me, so. Keep it up, buttercup.”

He grumbled a few things to himself, some amalgamation of chastising for all his decisions yet again, and mild encouragement that they get out of this. As Tim crept into that passage, half-tempted to give them a light before deciding they’d be better off as blind as anyone hoping to follow them, he went momentarily silent only for the sake of consulting his ECHO device: an assist alongside his own memory.

“So, I’m thinking next time you’re in town,” Timothy said quietly over his shoulder, “I treat you to a nice dinner or something instead. If that’s, y’know, something you go for.”

Tim clamors back to the mouth of the vault – the dim, natural light freeing him from all that murky dark and the haul in his hands is full and swollen like a stomach bloated in the aftermath of a good meal, and there is relief that evens out his shoulders, softens out the tension mired in their hitch. Another humored snort kicks itself out of his ribs, shuttering his eyes and plunging them for the floor. His bandana cover creases with the scaffoldings of a smile, hat brim shadow obfuscating the hug of crow's feet bundling at his eyes.

"Ain't no shame in hidden talents," whiskey warmth in that voice of his, the welt of laughter churning its engine. He cants his head forward, baton pass concession: "All right, then, you lead the way. You want me to hold one of those bags, or keep point with the gun?"

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Forever a part of you

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Nothing got Timothy’s head in the game quite like imminent danger. And it was hilarious, actually, for about a million different reasons, and some to which he was entirely oblivious. Living in this crapshoot of a universe, first of all, basically meant danger by default: like a never-ending Danger Convention where everyone got together and tried to kill each other just for the fun of it all . . . or the horror, if you were one of the sad saps just trying to exist without getting maimed. You’d think the latter would fit Timmy’s vibe, right? Ha. God, you’d think. But wasn’t there a saying some asshole came up with about that?

You never feel more alive than when you’re almost dead. . . . or something or somesuch.

See? That was another part of the hilarity of it all: Timmy felt pretty friggin’ dead inside the majority of the time. But he was also in peril probably another good majority of the time, so where the hell did that even put him in all of this—?

Other than knowing he at least had enough self-preservation to pick up the pace the instant he heard the urgency in his partner’s tone. (Kind of one of those “I died inside a long time ago; I don’t need to also be dead outside” feelings. [But all in a fun and fresh way! —as opposed to teenage angst or whatever.])

He decided to focus on that immediate threat over . . . Cole quite possibly taking his mention of returning as an invitation. Or, more importantly, the fact that his stupid ass would probably still go along with it.

“You’re lucky I didn’t skip leg day,” he murmured as he finished emptying the crate he’d been rifling through, hefting the loot up over his shoulder. More like ‘You’re lucky Jack made me do all his dirty work.’ Lazy sonofa— As he rejoined Cole at the entrance, he took stock of Peacekeeper ready in the guy’s hand, his attention then swiveling outward to that darkened alley for any sign of movement. Timothy clicked his tongue, readjusted the weight of their spoils to free up one of his own hands.

“Make way, cupcake; I know a few back passages in these parts. Might as well be a specialty of mine at this rate: y'know, finding secret holes to—” He hesitated, as if he could almost hear a bastard (The Bastard) cackling in his head. And . . . out of his head, apparently. Yeah, he definitely snickered. “Don't take that out of context.”

The petname jabs a humored snort out of his ribs as Timothy steps through the threshold and into the shadowed steel carving out the vault stomach. Cole slicks a huffing "Anytime," to the return address, stamps it with a shaking head and rolling eyes, before slotting his attention back to narrow esophagus of an alleyway, to its yawning maw that spills into a dead, vacant street shining moonlight grey.

It's noiseless, save for the rhythmic drumming of Tim's receding footsteps, the ocassional creak of catwalk metal. Timothy' voice squabbles out dimly from the dark, words like tides breaking syllables against the silence. It's enough to dull the small itch nipping at his fingers, the phantom twitch looking for the rounded stomach of a cigar.

A quip curbs his drawl, blunting the edges of a deadpan flat: "Makin' a real convincin' argument there, Jim." It's meant to make the other sweat, in that black humored way, stitched together without the pointed needle and thread of malice.

Movement flutters between the slabs of the corridor. Peacekeeper unsheathes from her holster, is raised nose-up into the air and holds a silver-barrelled vigil above Cole's heart. He calls back over his shoulder, warning packing heat between his words: "Reckon we got a few more minutes 'fore someone comes checkin' in."

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Just some Hyperion Dudes with their little guys

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TW: Branding

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So, a super attractive guy sits next to you at a bar. He offers to buy you a drink. How do you respond—?

Well, let good ol’ Timothy give you a hint, kiddos: Do not follow his example.

Don’t overthink the rules of a drinking game so hard you make it unfun. But also don’t be a cocky, Jack-like bastard and respond with something along the lines of, Yeah, good freakin’ luck, buttface! You’re getting creamed! (Which you never wanted to hear from Jack, b-t-dubs; it could mean so many things.) So, what should you do?

. . . good question. If anyone figures that out, Tim would love to know.

For now, and shocking about every living thing in the system with half a brain cell, the guy wasn’t frightened off (in, like, the Ohmygod what the freakin’ hell is this dude’s problem? I better get outta here! way). He maintained a stupidly patient and mostly friendly smile. He continued to sit there next to him, making not even a single move to indicate he was even considering leaving—which was super impressive, really. (Timothy wouldn’t have held it against him, probably would’ve encouraged it the second it happened.) Hey, he even went so far as to . . . sort of offer a compliment? Was it a compliment? Being able to hold your liquor had as many negative implications as it did positive applications, so.

Coming from the kind of person who thought to challenge random strangers to this sort of contest . . . ?

Sure, whatevs. He’d take it.

Might be his only win of the night, anyway.

—especially taking his competitor’s final remark into account, one that definitely made Timothy flinch just enough to be noticeable. “Yeah, uh . . . sort of asked for that,” he murmured, but at the very least still managed half of a chuckle in spite of himself. “Hey, I mean, all evidence to the, uh, contrary, but I’m not that big of an idiot.” Timmy shook his head, the rustle of fabric enticing him to pull that damned hood down—and probably for the better, considering things were going to get hot. ( . . . In, like . . . Y’know, literally . . . because of the alcohol.) “It’s not like I’m gonna say no to a good-looking guy giving me free drinks. Oh, and speaking of ‘voicing reservations’—”

He twisted some in his seat, facing his company more deliberately as he added, “I’m not the only one here committing to something before really considering it; what makes you think I’ve got anything you might want if you win this?” Tim cocked his head, a brow shooting upward. “Like, hate to break it to you, pal, but I don’t really have much I can offer in the way of, uh . . . winnings. It’s like playing a game for the grand prize of one solid lump of skag turds.”

"It's not a bad thing," Kaeya chuckled, "it just means that you're actually a match for me. I can count on one hand the number of people who fall into that category." It almost felt odd to divulge as much, considering how opposite it was to his typical game. Normally Kaeya would feign drunkenness, play the part of a lightweight who was in over his head and getting a little too friendly in his stupor.

But Kaeya wasn't here for information. There was no job; no pressure point to oh-so-meticulously prod and push to the limit. No, he was simply here for a good time.

Debatable whether that was lucky or unlucky for his chosen company. Only time would tell.

"That's the challenge, isn't it?" he murmured as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "It wouldn't be fun if it were easy, right? Besides..." In stark contrast to the mischievous glint in that watchful eye, his smile was innocent as could be. "What makes you think I'm not the same way?"

It wasn't just about the alcohol (although that was certainly a bonus). The real name of the game was observation: a test of intuition and the ability to see through the charade. Even without some grand prize at the end to serve as an ulterior motive, who said that the game itself couldn't be just as fun?

Especially with this one as his second player. Kaeya laughed fully as his companion raised more concerns. "I think you've set a new record; I've never met anyone who asked so many questions about being given free alcohol." Reaching for his own glass, his attention remained fixed on the other man's hooded profile as he swirled the liquid inside. "If you had reservations, you should've voiced them before accepting the first drink. You're in it, now; might as well see if you can win."

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no thoughts just the neverending dichotomy of my intense love and adoration for h/andsome jac/k against timothy's neverending hatred and disgust

but hate's just another form of passion, now isn't it? (-‿◦)

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Someone kill him for Tim’s sake

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I wanna punch him in his stupid face I love him so much

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“Yeah, sure; s’long as you’re cool with my less than handsome penmanship when it’s, uh . . . when it’s my left hand— But, ya know, it actually works out, because like— I dunno how, erm, how much you knew about Jack, but his handwriting—? Not good. Did you know I actually started signing shit with that hand to guarantee it looked as crappy as possible . . . ? True story. Couldn’t make this up.” He also couldn’t count how many times Jack wrote something down for him in that good old-fashioned way that then took Timothy about twenty minutes to decipher like it was some sort of code—and it usually was (or at least some misplaced innuendo).

Oh, but hey: there we go with some positivity, right? Timmy could twist that into a good thing: working for Handsome Jack meant becoming ambidextrous for . . . well, for the stupidest reasons, but ultimately a useful skill. Ultimately a necessary skill now that his right hand was out of commission for the foreseeable future until he learned how the whole cyborg thing worked. Which, by the way, also meant other things—if you catch my drift—but the important aspect was not being completely useless. (For freakin’ once.)

This was already getting easier, too: the whole “managing actual civilized conversation without looking like a complete idiot” sitch. Because as the CEO went off on an explanation of where his fun little cybernetics came from, Timothy actually felt like a tangled string of supreme awkwardness between them had . . . sort of come undone. It was, yeah, okay, still kind of small-talk–ish, but ever since Tim complimented the guy, he seemed to be feeling better. (And what did that say about Rhys’s overall opinion of himself—? A CEO who wasn’t up his own ass about his own ass? Unheard of. Tim was liking this guy more and more.)

“Oh, yikes. Yeah, uh . . . skags are pretty much the worst. Hate those things,” Timmy said, again with that small talk air of a guy merely discussing his dislike for a particular flavor of ice cream. “I’d argue rakks are worse because, like . . . God, anything that flies—? No thank you. 0/10 would not recommend, but, uhh . . . Yeah, I mean; I get you having personal beef with skags, so. Heard.”

And then things got really crazy there for a second, because not only did that gentle touch to his arm (which was all for the sake of the reconstruction, by the way: nothing more to it) send an entire shock through his system, but Rhys’s returned praise sure as hell earned its place in the Top Ten Ways to Get Timothy to Shut Up. He was a lot less glad that he’d been staring stupidly at the guy when Rhys met his gaze after just casually laying down some compliments like they were just a thing to do without consequence. Tim was pretty sure he made a noise he didn’t . . . mean or want to make.

But he cleared his throat real cool-like and plucked at those strings of Jack-certified confidence he’d had to fake for so many years. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to toot my own horn, but I take this whole ‘hero’ business super seriously,” he drawled . . . and just, God, no, he could not keep up that absolutely abhorrent act, so all too suddenly after the fact: “Eugh— No, trust me, i-it’s not . . . It was all a very panicked, very spur-of-the-moment ‘I’m about to die’ sort of decision. I’ve, uh— I’ve had practice with those; nothing heroic about it, really. And hey, ya know, it’s just a hand. Jack’s stupid freakin’ . . . ‘winning hand’ or whatever. I’m better off without the thing.”

Considering how awkward Rhys already felt in this interaction, it was a good thing he wasn't privy to any of Timothy's thoughts. As it was, his casual agreement to Rhys' self-proclaimed "cool CEO" title threw him for enough of a loop that he had to audibly snap his jaw shut.

"Wha—really?" Oh yeah, you're sounding cooler by the minute. Keep it up! He cleared his throat and tried not to look too shocked. "Uh...thanks. Hey, any chance I could maybe get that in writing?" He was joking, of course. Mostly. "For, uh...lets say 'scientific purposes.'" Namely: rubbing Lorelei's face in the fact that someone actually agreed with him. Take that, haters!

He kept an eye on the tablet as the scanner ran its course—and couldn't help but examine the injury itself by proximity. Normally Rhys was embarrassingly squeamish (especially by Pandoran standards), so what did it say about him as a person that he was less freaked out by the cauterized stump at the end of Timothy's wrist than his—...No, you know what? Not even gonna finish that thought. Fuck you, Jack Trauma™, 'cause Jack isn't here!

At least he could blame that (frankly very fucked up) mentality on living with a similar injury for most of his life. Hard to be grossed out by something you saw in the mirror every day for decades.

Turned out he wasn't alone in pondering that similarity between them, either. Surprise painted the CEO's expression when his companion brought up Rhys' own cybernetics—not because he minded the questions, but because Timothy had asked. Ninety-nine percent of people who were somehow surviving in this messed up universe had them, so at this point, hardly anyone bothered.

"No, it's—it's fine! Really!" Said robotic arm waved through the air dismissively. "Most people don't ask 'cause they have their own replacement parts to gloat about instead; especially when you grow up on Pandora." Just that statement alone was enough of an explanation, really. It was a miracle that he wasn't missing way more, all things considered. "But yeah, it, uh...it was definitely necessary. Nearly got eaten by skags as a kid. You know how it goes." Rhys shrugged as if to say 'that's Pandora for you.'

"Obviously it sucks that you ended up with this—" he gestured at Tim's injury and the glowing, holographic recreation of it slowly being built around the original by the scanner, "—but hey, at least yours is a way better story to tell. I mean, cutting off your own hand to stop the autopilot? Saving yourself and the Vault Hunters, plus all the crazies stuck in there with you?" Judging from the stories he'd heard over the past few days, it was debatable whether it was a good thing that those people were now let loose on the universe, but he digressed.

A plaintive chime emanated from the tablet. Rhys tapped a few commands, then, without thinking, took gentle hold of Timothy's forearm, flipping it over and repositioning it above the screen until it beeped again and continued the reconstruction. "You might look like Jack, but you're ten times the 'hero' he ever pretended to be." He paused, brow furrowing. "Nah, way more than that—more like a thousand, let's be honest." For the first time since moving closer, Rhys dared to meet the other's eyes. His smile was lopsided but sincere. "A-anyway, it's still shitty, but definitely better than some of the horror stories I've heard. I guess that's...kind of a silver lining."

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one time i played borderlands presequel

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Yeah, no; this guy was going to be the death of him. Literally. Probably one of the reasons Timothy was sticking around, but we won’t dig into that right now because just then, as a full and hearty laugh rumbled up from Cole’s chest, he realized it was just as much figurative. He realized that, hey, something about that sound stalled him, something about the bright friendliness in his agreement hit way harder than it should have. Something had him staring like a complete and utter idiot (more so than usual, obviously) for a prolonged moment before he understood his instructions and went to carry them out.

. . . not without a mumbled, “Jeez” that was predominantly directed at his own sorry ass because c’mon. Get it the hell together and focus on what we’re here for, dammit.

“Yeah, got it. Thanks, honey,” Timmy said over his shoulder as he carefully maneuvered through the doorframe and into the darkened warehouse, allowing his eyes a brief second to adjust. He flashed the palm of his robotic hand and summoned the dimmest light to guide his way through the shelves standing like sentries in the gloom. It was surprising. Y’know, he kinda would’ve expected it to be a little bit brighter, considering—

Oh. Duh. Of course it would be smarter to keep this crap in boxes.

And when he popped one open for a gander, the telling violet glow of Eridium greeted him in a heartbeat.

Okay. They’re doing this.

“Yeah, uh . . . ” He checked a few more boxes down the line. “There’s a lot more of this than I thought there’d be—seriously, what the hell? Who freakin’ . . . Whatevs. I’ll grab what I can, but it’s, like, way weird this isn’t better protected.” Which had Timothy casting nervous glances to the dark expanse around him, spanning his light over his surroundings when he could between gathering the resource. Part of him wished he had a third hand just to readily snatch his own gun, but . . . Weirdly for him, he trusted Cole. Just enough to not completely lose his mind, at least.

“Please just . . . do a guy a solid and tell me right now that we’re not going to come back for more of this. If you’re getting ideas, just pretend you didn’t hear me say there’s a lot. There isn’t. Totally just scraps down here.”

A low, rumbling laughter pitches his head back, tumbles over and pinches folds against his cheeks, his eyes. Kerchief cotton catches the sound, swells beneath the breath of it, and the seamline burrows a scratchy track against his beard. "Sure," A grin pours over the syllable like it's meant to drown it, "My treat."

The sagging, molten piles of what used to be hinges are still breathing a ghost heat when he peels open the door. The metal groans like it's got a soul, as though the soul's suffering some miserable fate in the depths of brimstone. Despite the babel, Cole's deliberate as he wedges it securely against the wall. The interior's dark: rows of shelving heaving themselves into an inky black oblivion.

This room wasn't expecting visitors.

He lines his palm against the butt of Peacekeeper's frame, gloved callouses greeting a familiar home. He positions himself split in half by the threshold, one foot planted amid catwalk plates, the other swallowed up by the dark. Door frame lined up square against his spine, he offers, "I'll keep watch while you bag."

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anyway i feel like in the ripe year of 2024, i shouldn't have to say this, but it's tumblr, so . . . yeah, i have to say it:

if my muse catches the FeelingsTM for your muse, that does not equal force-shipping

i just want my character to feel his feelings authentically (and vice versa regarding yours). it goes both ways, my dudes (◕⍸ ◕✿) relationships are complicated like that; our muses don't need to feel the same way about each other and honestly ??? love to see dynamics like that

nothing spurred this btw – just the endless struggles of writing on a public platform instead of privately with my friends where we let our characters just go off without any worries or restrictions, really (respecting each other, ofc)

. . . other than the fact that writing timmy has alerted me to his knack for having two (2) reactions to people being nice to him: suspicion or heart-eyes. sometimes at the same time. but please omg please i promise you i am never trying to shove a ship down your throat. it's literally just me letting my muse feel what he's feeling. yeah? yeh. happy friday ~♡

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smoke break

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Ohhhh, buddy, no. No, no nono— You do not want to hear about my adventures; trust me, Timothy came dangerously close to blurting out the very second Micah expressed an interest, but through a bump in the road jostling him—and quite literally forcing him to bite his tongue—he kept it there behind his teeth. It was weird, ya know? Because in most cases, a good person showing actual, honest-to-god, genuine interest in you was meant to be taken . . . well, as a compliment, not a— whatever the hell this was. Who didn’t love having an excuse to just go off about all their crazy, life-threatening, heroic (depending on where you were standing) deeds? God, Timothy was used to pretending to have the biggest freakin’ head in the universe, preening over the latest town of bandits he’d just obliterated with a few well-placed loader bots (or the latest intern he—no, Jack; we’re not the same person—tossed out an airlock), but now . . . ? Well, when he wasn’t recounting the insane crap Jack made him do, what was there to discuss?

Yeah so I was trapped in a casino for seven years; basically locked myself up and became a hermit for the latter half of them. Good stuff. Hey, you want my “staying sane” playlist, though? Banger. Or I spent an entire afternoon shooting my way through a varkid nest a week or so back only to, get this, find I had taken a wrong turn—shitty directions, by the way; not entirely my fault—and basically swam in bug guts for no friggin’ reason. Or that time he got his foot stuck in a vehicle—

Wait, no; Micah had been there for that one.

His point: Timothy’s adventure’s weren’t exactly something to be proud of. Not then. Not now. But if Micah wanted to continue to persuade themselves into thinking he was worth the trouble, then . . . ? Y’know, he’d seen folks make worse decisions.

—in the mirror every day, typically.

It was no surprise Micah fit in the “traveler” category. No surprise that they also came from a super specific “quite far” away. And, while we’re here, no surprise that they continued to view the crappiness of a place like Pandora in a mostly positive light. Tim couldn’t tell if it was his own unstable sanity or Micah beginning to rub off on him, but as they expressed their optimistic ideals, he actually laughed. And, y’know, not even the derisive, “wow, aren’t you a sucker?” kind of laugh he’d been trained to do (still, by force of habit, accidentally did on some occasions). As they parked their vehicles, moved to enter the tavern, and Micah’s demeanor continued to shine brightly enough to blind a guy, Timothy just . . . kept on failing to stop little puffs of a chuckle sneaking through a smile that’d claimed his lips.

God, they were something.

“The building’s not gonna get up and run away from us, pal,” Timmy said as he meandered over to his excitable friend’s side. “Last, uh . . . Last I checked, at least. C’mon.” And with a little jerk of his head while passing Micah by, he entered the establishment.

While it wasn’t exactly Moxxi’s, Timothy would still argue the place was . . . nice. (By Pandora’s standards.) Small. Not too loud where you had to scream to hear each other, but not too quiet it felt awkward to talk at all. The man who ran it was equally bartender and bruiser: the type of guy who could punch your lights out, then turn around and mix a dozen cocktails without spilling a single drop—ya know . . . good with his fingers and fists. He was one of the only people on this planet who hadn’t tried to kill Timothy for one reason or another and, in doing so, had become somewhat of a safe space (just as long as Timmy paid his tab in a timely manner). The very instant Timothy and Micah set foot through the door, that guy—“Noah,” he called himself—looked up from behind the counter with a broad smile.

. . . and did he seem a little surprised to see Tim had brought someone—? That . . . that had to be why he lifted a brow just then, wasn’t it? C’mon, it’s not that crazy; give a guy a freakin’ break.

“Special occasion?” Noah said—the bastard—like Timmy needed one to not show up here alone.

“Yeah, y’know, because if it was, this is where I’d be.” He scooted onto a stool, gestured Micah into the one next to him. Watching as Noah already reached for one of his typical picks of poison, Timmy added, “Uh, no—this is Micah. They sort of maybe saved my ass literally, like, ten minutes ago, so—”

“You owe them,” Noah finished, a knowing smirk dancing across his face. “Figures.” As he poured a glass of whiskey, he met Micah’s eye. “What can I get ya, then?”

Micah listens to Timothy's answer closely through the consistent loud sounds of the ran out engines and rolled thick wheels, nodding along to his words. Xe silently notes the lack of confidence in it—he hasn't been the most certain individual since meeting him (as thought with as much respect), although there is something lingering deep in his response with hesitations that suggests he could have faced a lot more hardships than what he doesn't deserve to experience. From how Timothy has been, xe thinks he doesn’t deserve to endure anything wrong. Out of politeness, though, Micah doesn’t press onto the topic for his comfort when xe senses the attempt of steering from his uncertain vagueness. Let’s . . . Yeah. Let’s call me a ‘traveller’ and leave it at that.

“That’s really cool! I’d love to hear some of your adventures one day!” Micah cants xyr hand when xe realizes xyr hope that is still shining in getting to have more moments with Timothy, despite knowing very little about him. Micah wonders how Timothy has been feeling about the idea of them getting to meet more over time. Xe almost feels it's childish: To be constantly having such hope in a terrifying world like this of having to keep the connections for a more duration of time, having it developed further, even when it's only been recently made. Xyr mind says everything is temporary, yet, xyr heart—this vital piece of xem that xe must bear entirely and endlessly, it believes that all should have an existence that lasts as long as possible, to be so full of life—love.

Micah keeps hoping more, as xe manages to catch Timothy's returned inquiry in the continuous changing area where it has been feeling distant and in place all at once. Xyr soft gaze flickers over to xyr new friend, then nods. "Uh-huh, like you, I've been in many places as well! Certainly, I came quite far from here!" It was like this for months due to business with Break Beyond Force, but now, Micah have several more reasons why xe has been travelling far and in many places. Thoughts of the sentient shadows and reflections come to mind, then the Infernal Infinity that's been hunting them—xemself with xyr system. Xe doesn't share any of the reasons to Timothy for his sake. Micah doesn't want him to worry about xem. Xe waves at his concern, smiling brightly.

"Ah, no worries, friend! It’s been like this for about a year now, but I’m all a-okay with this way of travelling! I think it's wonderful getting the chance to explore and make memories across many different areas. I can share some of my adventures to you too!" Micah grins when xe thinks about them being travelling pals. It’s cute and cool that they could be so. Xe wonders where did Timothy go and why would he have to be there. Hopefully, the reasons aren’t as dire as xyr own. Soon seeing the town ahead then, Micah gasps as xyr head perks up out of joy. Xe excitedly points at the direction before them, practically bouncing in xyr seat. More bubbly sensations rise in xem from the curious starmates. “Is that it, Timothy!?” Micah asks, xyr eyes glinting. Xe beams.

“Wooowww!”

This is going to be starsome!

By the time they both arrive by the tavern, Micah leaves xyr motorcycle and turns on xyr security, an unlocking sound is heard from the feet peg afterward— an indication that the gun is loaded with bullets to shoot a potential intruder. Xe hasn’t have one ever trying to rob xyr motorbike, but hopefully that doesn’t change today while xe’s in the bar with Timothy. Micah skips over to the tavern, furiously waving xyr hand as encouraging xyr travelling pal to come along and make a greater memory with xem. “Let’s go, Timothy!” xe laughs, warmly delighted.