#CW reference to suicide

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

For the @ficwip word of the week: clean.

Someone had cleaned up the blood, Ted noticed. He thought about that a lot, how someone had to clean up the blood. No one thought about that. Until you needed to think about it. Until you needed to clean the blood up yourself.

Roy didn’t look at him. Ted didn’t blame him. Jamie and Roy had gotten closer since the latter started doing his extra training with Jamie. Ted worried about Jamie’s well-being with it, especially when he caught him asleep in his locker days after the West Ham match, but Roy had not minced words when he told him to fudge off, so that was the end of that.

Ted wasn’t doing a lot of managing these days anyway. Roy had Jamie. The rest of the team followed Zava like he was about to serve Flavor Aid, and Ted, well Ted was just there.

And now he was here, in a Brighton hospital with a concussed Jamie Tartt and an even angrier than normal Roy Kent.

[robbingprince]

not for the fear of it

1.4k, CW for references to self harm and suicide. 

“Laurent,” a gasp of it, sticky in the back of his throat, “Laurent, what—”

Only the slightest rise in tension, the line of his shoulders. Laurent looked up. “Yes?”

“Stop.” Tried to think of other words, but none would come. Opened his mouth anyway. “Don’t, don’t—”

“What?” a single eyebrow arched. But his hand was still on the knife, the blade still at his own throat. Damen’s knees nearly bucked as he took one stumbling step after the other, panic slushing rat-tat-tat wild and wet in his chest.

“Please,” fell to the floor before he could reach, hand stretching out, dizzy-weak with it, “please don’t do it, please.”

Laurent’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His breathing was loud. “If I wanted to kill myself, I’m sure I’d find a better way.” He blinked. “A neater way.”

“Laurent—”

Panic, panic, reverberating through the empty expanse where his heart used to sit, where it was now clenched into a whimpering, writhing ball. Laurent’s knuckles were white against the knife.

“Calm down. Damen, control yourself. I don’t intend to use it.”

But panic—“What… what do you intend to do?”

“I,” said Laurent. Swallowed. It made his throat move against the knife, made the air thicken in Damen’s lungs. “I wanted to know. How it felt.”

“How it felt?” his voice would not go above a whisper. On his knees, Damen pushed himself a touch closer. Kept his hands to himself, didn’t dare.

“For Nicaise. When my uncle—I wanted to know what it felt like. Before he died.” Tension was rolling off him in waves. Laurent was holding himself as tightly as he could, and he could, but—but the hurt etched into every line in his face, the head-spinning magnitude of it—

Damen took a deep, useless breath. “Laurent.”

“Of course, it’s hardly the same,” the sound of his laughter, lemon-sour and heavy. “I know I won’t do it. I know I won’t die. It remains—unimaginable.”

“Dying?”

Laurent looked at him. “The fear.”

Damen’s eyes closed on their own, body slouched, too weak to hold itself up. Something popped between his ears, or something broke outside the walls, or maybe the whole world was unravelling, as it should, as Damen sometimes hoped it would, desperately, furiously. Tried to swallow this impossible churning, to turn it into something helpful, good, failed miserably. It drummed inside him like the tatters of his ball-heart: anger, anger, anger.

A metallic clang; the knife fell to the floor, and warmth suggested Laurent had come closer. Still an impenetrable distance between them. A few inches, a wall.

“Damen,” Laurent breathed, crackly and tight, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” shook his head, didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t dare. Too angry and too scared. “No, don’t. I… Laurent,” but he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to make it un-hurt, how to make it un-real, un-happen.

Something cold touched his face—took a breathless moment to place it. Laurent’s fingers, careful on his cheek. “I didn’t intend for you to see,” as an offering. It only made it worse.

“I hate,” Damen started. Bit his lips so hard, couldn’t stop the words. “I hate that he can do that. That he hurts you still.” Hatred like fire, like death. Sometimes it was all he could do not to succumb to it, not to take this horrible world and start unravelling it with his own bare hands.

Laurent’s cool touch was a blessing he could barely endure. They kneeled together, silent but for the rampage of their uneven heartbeats. Damen opened his mouth to say more, and nothing came out.

“When I was young,” Laurent said, and huffed when he felt Damen tense under his hands, “I meant, before I knew you. There was a place in the woods outside the palace, a clearing near a stream. A peaceful place. I would go alone, without my guard. And I would scream.”

“What?” surprise opened his eyes for him. “What do you mean?”

“Just as I said. I would scream until my throat tore open. Or till it felt it did. I’ve seen you do something similar, I think, in the training arena. You do know how little I enjoy giving up control?”

A giggle wrenched out of him. “Not so much, no.”

Laurent said, “In the clearing, there was no one to hear me. I could be as vile as I wanted, as I needed, and all I had left was the sweet tingling of ache afterwards. I mean to say, sometimes, release can feel… sometimes it looks like this.”

“Release?”

“Relief. If it isn’t cut out it will bubble and fester and leak on its own. And I can’t let, won’t let it do that with you. I refuse to hurt you with it. I refuse to let him hurt you through me.”

Damen—breathed. “I wish…” he swallowed the words. It was easier for him as well, he supposed, to fight for someone else. To fight for Laurent. Closed his eyes, settled on another, closer truth. “I wish to be as courageous as you.”

A small sound of surprise. “You must be joking.”

“You know I’m not.” With heroic effort, Damen stilled his hand from taking Laurent’s face. “You are the single most—”

“Stop.”

“—brilliant, truest man I’ve ever known, and—”

“Damen, stop.”

“—I don’t know how you can—”

Had to stop, as Laurent swallowed the rest. Hands tugging at his curls, forcing his head back, teeth biting his lips till they opened. Laurent pulled away the tiniest amount, hot puffs of air against his skin.

“It won’t work every time,” Damen said.

“Suppose I’ll have to find a new tactic.”

He found his hands cupping the back of Laurent’s head, arms wrapped around him. Found he did not possess the strength to let go.

“As long as you don’t—” Damen choked. Didn’t really get to make demands, not here.

“Don’t what? Kill myself by accident?” when Damen didn’t answer, “On purpose?”

“Don’t… forget how important you are,” he managed, hoarse.

“Important to the kingdom,” a question.

Damen sighed. Brought him even closer. “To me.”

Laurent jerked in his hands, but didn’t pull back. Swallowed a couple of times. Bent his head low, then brought it up, blue-blue eyes with their ever-constant determination. Damen held his gaze as carefully as he held him. Time passed.

“Well,” Laurent recovered first. “This is all rather dramatic.”

Damen laughed. What else could he do? The ball in his chest was fully wrung out. “We should probably get off the floor at some point.”

“At some point,” Laurent agreed.

“Perhaps we could go for a ride. There’s a forest nearby, forty minutes outside the fort. I know not if it has a stream, but…”

The tiniest of twitches to Laurent’s lip. “You are the single most aggravating man I have ever come upon.”

“And come you have,” Damen smiled back, offered his hand. “It’s a pleasant day. We might as well spend it outside.”

“So you might make me come, again, against the trunk of a tree, too deep in the forest for anyone to intervene?”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind before. Now, it wouldn’t leave off. “I doubt someone would.”

“Because you’re King?” Laurent rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be pulled upwards.

“Because you are King,” Damen placed a gentle kiss on the top of Laurent’s head, “and far more fearsome than I.”

“On that we can agree.” Laurent took a step back. “Are you—I apologise. For startling you. I never meant…”

“I know.” He finally allowed his hand to take Laurent’s chin. “I know, sweetheart.”

Laurent looked at him evenly. “I don’t think I would be able to imagine it,” he said after a while, quietly. “Nicaise’s fear when the blade clung to his throat. Not now. I might have, before, but it’s been—you have,” he swallowed, “it hasn’t—I can’t remember it anymore.”

“Being afraid?” something rattled and shook between his ribs.

“Being alone,” Laurent said, and took his hand.

It was a different kind of fear, ecstatic and awful and bright. Damen embraced it with all the gratitude still in him, all the panic and relief of it. Then he embraced Laurent, and he was warm in his arms, and present. They weren’t alone—it had to be enough for now.   

[knific]

⚠️CW suicide, noose

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sorry idk why I did this

[strangelittlestories]

The demon appeared amidst the ring of candles and immediately threw itself against the edge of the summoning circle, trying again and again to break the barriers of salt, chalk and soul.

Alas, it was no good. The magician had invested in high quality chalk paint and superglued the salt over the top, so even the most thunder-thick and sin-hot hellstorm could not pierce the barrier.

Drops of sweat appeared on the summoner’s brow as she felt the strands of spirit she’d wrapped around the runes and candles tested - but her soul stood strong.

“Well then,” said the demon, after it had exhausted itself with its struggles, “get on with it. I suppose you want damnable power or eternal life or some boring shit.”

“Do you remember me?” Asked the woman outside the circle.

“Should I?” The demon’s sigh echoed with quiet screams.

“We met when you were an angel. You saved my life. It was down by the riverbank not far from here.”

“...oh sure, for you it was a transcendent event. For me, it was Thursday.”

“I think the meme you mean is ‘Tuesday’.”

“Yes, but the night we met was a Thursday.” The demon curled up in the middle of a circle; a sad blob of darkness in which floated two dying embers for eyes. “You shouldn’t remember me.”

“I know. You were the frost in the air and the ice in the water. You were a shock to the system. You woke something up in me. I studied all this,” the magician gestured to the occult tat that surrounded them, “so that I could thank you.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“It was a surprise to find out you’d fallen, I admit. But I still owe you my thanks.”

“This is exhausting.” The demon twisted uncomfortably, wringing itself out like a cloth woven of shadowfire strands. “Offer your deal, so I can hang you on your own ambition and go.”

“I would like,” the magician put all the force and care of her will into her words, “for you to watch a movie with me. In exchange, I will give up to three hours of my life.”

“...what movie do you want to watch?”

“Anything less than three hours long, I suppose.”

[jayjamjary]

Hello Lupin III fandom. I come bearing haha funny Goemon comic.

And then this was a pretty big project and I was forced to do it on Ibis Paint X :c so I'm going to show off the draft vs final down here.

Tada. Terribly grainy video but oh well, it's the best that ibis could give me.

[herzvoll]

yo so insane update to all of this in the tags

not doing so hot

[chayannesegg]

honestly I think it’s kinda interesting how phil’s relationships with wilbur, tallulah, chayanne & tubbo are all reflecting back into his view of sunny tbh. like he has such complex delicate interwoven dynamics with all of them and it all gets thrown onto sunny, this poor kid who he loves in theory, but in practice is a stranger to him. 

like wilbur left tallulah in phil’s care and didn’t come back. even now way after he was initially supposed to, wilbur hasn’t returned (that one day aside). and phil, who had already taken on a big commitment watching tallulah, has been left permanently with two eggs in his sole care. and even though he loves tallulah and wil, and won’t want them out of his life, this is a stress for him. it’s a big undertaking for anyone, to care for two kids alone, but especially since tallulah required a lot of changes in his life.

for better or worse, in many ways phil sees chayanne as an extension of himself. they’re similar in a lot of ways, and often on the same page, and it means phil often struggles to catch up when chayanne’s emotions aren’t on the same page as him. we’ve seen this week, phil having such a hard time understanding the depth and breadth of chayanne’s grief. when he catches on, he usually does a good job empathising and talking it through, but when he doesn’t, he really doesn’t and it can be hard to watch. 

the same is NOT true for tallulah. he has, through hard work and practice, learnt how to identify her emotions. he had to. she needed it. she would have been miserable otherwise. she desperately needed asked for the emotional care and birthdays and consideration that chayanne would never ask for. and he’s good at it—tracking her moods, knowing what upsets her & what she cares about in a way that doesn’t come as naturally with chayanne (or sunny or tubbo or anyone else really expect maybe wilbur). but that took A LOT of time and effort, months of work, and I do think he’s a bit wary of the idea of having to do that again, even when it comes to people he loves like chayanne (or god forbid tubbo).

now tubbo is not wil. tubbo is not phil's son. but he’s still not dissimilar to wil in phil’s mind. whatever the backstory is, phil introduces tubbo to tallulah as an old friend of him and wil’s. he makes tubbo his kids’ godfather. he calls tubbo his boy. he looks out for him. but past those first few weeks, their relationship doesn’t progress. they mean a lot to each other bc of their pasts, but they don’t put any work into upkeeping their relationship and phil in particular doesn’t reflect at all on what how that changes their dynamic. and it does change it—this is clear in purgatory, with phil having zero trust in tubbo to protect chayanne and tallulah, and after, with tubbo endlessly poking at phil’s sore spots trying to illicit a reaction he’ll never receive. 

it's also clear in the way phil has no understanding of what’s going on with tubbo. if he’s struggling to grasp chay’s emotions, he’s not even touching what’s going on in tubbo’s head. tubbo’s death makes no sense to him. it’s sudden. it’s random. it’s illogical. it’s stupid. he wasn’t joking about having two lives? he still took a death bet with richas? he’s not come back? he can’t come back? he’s left phil with distraught kids for no reason with no warning. he doesn’t see the erratic suicidal behaviour, the unending depression, the desperation to be loved. he doesn’t want to see it. he doesn’t want something to be wrong with tubbo, but he also doesn’t even know how to see what’s wrong. he’s annoyed he’s having to deal with it and he desperately desperately wants to believe this is all happening for no reason.

bc at the forefront of phil’s mind is still his love for tubbo. of course, phil would drop everything to help tubbo (if he could recognize something was wrong). of course, he would care for sunny as his own. of course, he would make the same sacrifices he’s made for wil. and he assumes he’ll have to. he thought that sunny would now be under his care. that he’d have to figure out the logistics of a third egg to care for. with wilbur, phil was the only person who could ever have taken care of tallulah. the only person he trusted, the only person who knew tallulah enough. now this isn’t true for tubbo. it’s a genuinely illogical assumption for phil to make: three eggs would be a genuine burden on him; they've never spoken about it; there’s a long list of people who would tubbo expects for sunny before; and he doesn’t even know sunny well enough to name these people for her as comfort.

but still in the moment, alone with tubbo’s eggs and dealing with everything he left behind, phil can only think that the exact same thing that happened before will happen: he alone will be left to care for another scared hurt kid of someone he loves.

and here we come to sunny. a kid whose dad he loves. a kid whose dad he doesn’t understand. a kid whose dad is suddenly gone like his son is gone. a kid who would need him like his daughter needs him. a kid who his son needs to protect. a kid he cares for. a kid he can’t afford to care for, a kid he wasn’t expecting to care for, a kid he doesn’t know how to care for, a kid he would care for if he needed to, a kid he doesn’t know why he’s been left to care for. a kid who is somehow a reflection of all these people he loves but not someone he knows at all.

idk i think this tension comes out in the a lot of the comments phil makes of and to sunny. he doesn't know them well enough to distinguish them from his relationships with other people. and as long as no one challenges him on that, we'll continue to hear these misplaced comments from him, that come across so insensitively, even as he tries his best to genuinely help them and their dad.

[wickjump]

my motivation to do whumptober died the second i put finger to keyboard so im just bullshitting my way through writing right now. anyway yeah cross is dead unless i get too sad at my own writing

[cubitodragon-moved]

We (the viewers) know Bad’s physical and mental state is in decline, highlighted especially by the head wound that continues expanding to a worrying degree.

And now he’s fixated on building a puzzle that will deliberately drive someone into an absolute rage, to the point they’d murder him. He’s really really fixated on that point. Like, he has doubled down on the emphasis.

He’s been vaguely referencing how he needs to keep going as long as he can (paraphrased) for a while. Is this a case where he cannot let himself fade away, to die at his own hand, but needs someone else to take him out - and if so, why? What additional purpose does death serve in this scenario? How does this tie in to memories, libraries and remembering?

I have to go sleep now. But thinking about this could well keep me up all night.

[redactedcrowart]

he forgot about gravity!

[oddlittlestories]

Thinking about House

Thinking about how he struggles to stay alive sometimes, how no one knows how hard it is for him. Partly bc he won’t tell them and partly bc they won’t Get it even if he does

Thinking about how when Wilson finally Does get it, it’s also totally different. Thinking about how he can’t say, “SEE?!”

Thinking about how he almost does

Thinking about his totally valid anger, that is also completely unfair

Thinking about how he must feel how rarely it gets to be about him

Thinking about the layers he creates so it’s never about him

Thinking about how intimacy and true understanding are two totally different things

Thinking about House

[strangelittlestories]

Three weeks into the latest depressive episode A magazine calls - they want me on the cover

I tell them they’ve made a mistake I tell them the only reason I picked up Was for the sticky ‘ew’ feeling Of answering a phone call In this day and age

I tell them I haven’t showered And all I’ve eaten today Is a pack of six bake-at-home cinnamon buns And I feel a bit sick

He tells me I work for ‘Not Okay’ Magazine And we don’t make mistakes

Well, okay, we do Often But most of the time they’re sexy mistakes. We both know he’s lying, But I agree out of exhaustion.

They send a photographer to my flat We agree on a series of tasteful nudes With unwashed laundry And mouldy mugs In all the right places. They ooze attitude They also ooze literal ‘ooze’ Because of the, y’know, mould.

I list my nearest and dearest So they can ask for quotes. The one they print reads: “I wouldn’t really call us friends I haven’t heard from them In years I assumed they were mad at me.”

We chat in my living room Over a single measuring jug filled With expired instant coffee The interviewer breathes in a waft Of bovril-smelling caffeine slurry  And wipes the awe from his eyes Then says:

“A few years ago No-one knew you You were medium sad The human equivalent of a drive-thru restaurant Bad, sure, but everyone knew what they were getting. You were … a C minus.

But now? You’re a landmark A national trust ruin They may as well tattoo ‘This is not a place of honour’ On the small of your back.

My doctor heard I was interviewing you And referred me for therapy  As a precaution. So let me ask the question on everyone’s lips? What’s your secret?”

“What a great question.” I say, wrestling the coffee From his hands Because I deserve it

“It takes a lot of practice. You’ve just got to make time To remap your synapses I try to fit in one life-changingly bad event a year To really forge new wide-ranging roads Through my internal atlas Away from those depots of cloying serotonin I know I don’t deserve. Y’know, something really verve-destroying.

I’ve careened across the map Wheels burning into redundancy town Double-parking at heartbreak hotel (did you know you could fail a break-up?) Getting a ticket on bereavement boulevard A hit-and-run through jury service-ville (leaving my faith in humanity behind)

And of course Pandemic City was a blessing  for all us sad-sacks But an extra spicy affair if you worked in healthcare

Finally, I crashed the metaphor into a river On the coldest night on record But it was pretty shallow And I think the cold probably helped Shock me out of it. Plus, I made it home with my trousers only partially frozen.

We are creatures of habit, Michael Can I call you Michael?”

(He quickly corrects me - Michael is not his name - “I didn’t ask you what your fucking name was I asked if I could call you Michael” He says yes)

“Like I said - creatures of habit If you *practice* If you really dig your feet in If you cut a wide furrow through the mud Some part of you will start to think Of the hole you burrowed in the dirt As home.

Your highest landmarks Are distant skyline and To visit would feel like trespassing.”

At the end of the interview I ask Michael If he’s sure I’m qualified To be a coverperson

After all There are so many people More ‘not okay’ than me Or who have more reason to be Yet remain seemingly functional.

“That’s the beauty of Not Okay magazine,” he says, with a smile like marshmallow “We don’t judge or rank. We ask for one thing: That today you are not okay.

In its own way, every sadness is interesting Even when it feels boring as the road you grew up on Tomorrow you might even be happy That’s okay too. Tomorrow is an impossibility of sunrises. Today - you are seen.”

[plan-3-tmars]

"She deserved someone to love and she chose me. And so I played the part until I couldn’t anymore."

- Arthur Lester, Malevolent Podcast

HEY hi it's me um I know I've talked about the end scene of half already but I was rewatching it .. as you do and I think I found another interpretation of it I like so!! I wanna talk about it!!

I noticed that the way this specific scene reveals kazui biting the apple vs hinako's suicide is very similar and I kind of like the idea that this the moments leading up to hinako's suicide from both their perspectives?

Take Kazui biting the apple, I think this could be the moment he decides to tell the truth. Rip off the bandaid, so to speak.

This posing of the apple, with it being on the table, is EVERYWHERE in half. It's literally the first thing we see in the MV.

I like to interpret it as a nagging reminder, a weight on Kazui's shoulder he always knows is there. In this scene he acknowledges this weight, the weight of his lies and the secrets he's kept from Hinako and decides enough is enough

He rips off the bandaid, he tells her the truth.

Then the flashbacks move on to Hinako, contemplating suicide on what I assume is their home balcony. She's just learnt from Kazui that he doesn't love her anymore, he never has loved her. Their relationship was a lie originally built for his benefit. She's distraught I'm sure, Kazui arrives and seems to try and talk her out of it

But it doesn't work. She jumps, and she dies. The price Kazui paid to get this weight off his chest was Hinako's life.

This parallel shows that really well i think:

No more lies,

No more Hinako.

[grislyintentions]

“Did you know if you point your fingers at the moon, the Jade Rabbit will slice your ear off with a sickle in your sleep?” 

Clear water ripples with each absent-minded swing of feet. The taste of candied hawthorn and lotus paste lingers, painting lips with a glossy sheen that constricts the chest each time he gazes at them.  

“That’s stupid. Why would she do that?” 

“Because. The Moon Fairy is sad. She can’t come back down and reunite with her husband. So she hates being pointed at. It’s mean. Like you’re making fun of her misery.” 

Salted egg yolk crumbles between his teeth. He frowns. Spat them out. Gross. Too ashy. Too dry. Over-baked. 

“Why can’t she reunite with her husband?” 

“Because he killed himself. There was only one immortal elixir so he couldn’t join her.” 

“Then why didn’t she share it?” 

“She couldn’t.” 

“That’s dumb.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth when a bony elbow meets his sides in admonishment and insists. “It is!” 

What a terrible story. 

“I wouldn’t have drank the elixir if I knew there was only one,” he declares. “I’d share it with you or throw it away if I can’t.” 

“You would?”   

“Of course.” He turns his gaze away, stuffing the rest of his piece into his mouth after making sure it didn’t contain any more salted yolk. “You’re my best friend.” 

It’s weird. He’s looking at him weirdly. The pit in his stomach feels weird. His face is too hot and the taste of hawthorn is too sweet. With a squint, he adamantly changes the subject. 

“How do you know all this anyways?” 

In response, all he gets is a bright smile. His companion half turns his face and turns his ear inward for him to examine. 

There he saw it- 

A scar right along half of his ear, all the way down towards the earlobe. 

The mark of a crescent moon. 

He wakes the following night with a stinging sensation at the back of his own ear and dried blood caked beneath his nails.

It still aches sometimes.

[generic-sonic-fan]

Old Time's Sake

Summary: The robot once known as "Metal Sonic" attempts to ask Amy Rose for a favor.

TW: suicidal thoughts

---

It crashed into a pot of petunias on the porch, ceramic shattering against the wooden panels of the house. Shredded pink blossoms settled against purple, yellow, and blue plating, only to be shaken off by the onslaught of shudders that battered its frame. 

Neo pulled itself to the door just as the knob twisted from the other side. Amy Rose stared down.

“Metal? Oh my goodness, you look- what happened?”

It grasped the frame of the door and pulled itself upright.

“No, it’s okay, stay right there. Or actually, I’ll bring you in!”

Amy Rose grabbed its arms and pulled it through the door. It simulated her gripping hard enough to damage its plating. A reprimand shot down its spinal strut response. She did not lose or even tighten her grip, however, as she led it to her couch.

She sat it down. “Stay here. You’re going to be okay. I’ll get Tails on the phone and he’ll make you right as rain!”

The name switched its self-preservation programming from hostile to cooperative. Calling Miles “Tails” Prower would result in Sonic’s arrival, so it must not allow Amy Rose to reach her cell phone, so it must attack her, and she would summon her hammer and then-

It lept off the couch and embedded its claws into her shoulders. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open to match the exact ratios of panic it had recorded from her on Little Planet. In an instant, her hammer was in her hand.

The force dented its torso plating. It crashed into a wall. It waited for more blows, simulated the damage from other instances in which she’d demolished Badniks, anticipated, anticipated. It looked at her to find her stationary despite her vitals being elevated beyond even what might be registered in ordinary combat.

It pulled itself out of the wall and approached.

“What is going on with you?”

It scratched at her, but only pierced air as she stepped away.

“Would you stop that? I can’t help you if you’re going to attack me!”

Neo recalled her being more intelligent than this. It pointed to her hammer, then pointed to its own frame. 

Her panic unfroze and dripped down to a facial expression that would be unrecognizable if it were not for the events of the past two weeks. It was an expression of Sonic towards hurt Flickies. Of a young “Rosie” uncovering a broken robot on a snowy day. 

Her hammer disappeared. “You want me to hurt you?”

Neo gave an affirmative ping before the shudder of a reprimand could stop it.

“No. I’m not going to.”

It lunged forward, piercing the skin of her arm, the tips of its claws coming away with blood.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” Amy Rose shouted. “Don’t do that again or I’ll call Sonic!”

Neo froze.

“Not that I don’t think I can smash you to pieces myself, but that I don’t want to. Tails tells me that you’re not working for Eggman anymore.”

That was the point. Without Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s interference, Neo was without purpose. Neo should be destroyed. Neo should be destroyed. Neo should be-

“Did you ever want to work for him in the first place?”

Neo looked at her.

“Did I. . . make a mistake, that one time in the snow?”

It lowered its gaze.

“Because you just seemed so sad, sitting abandoned there. Like you’d given up.”

It could not feel ‘sadness’. It could hardly recall the memory file; data input from that time had been minimized to best preserve power. It had been out of standby mode for only a minute, knocked back into active mode when she had saved it from the path of the falling tree. 

And it could not give up. Its prime core directive demanded as much. The reminder triggered reprimands, and a shudder up its neck joint rattled it out of the memory. 

“Here, can you write?” Amy Rose retrieved a pencil and pad of paper from a table at the end of the couch. “Let’s sit down so that you can tell me what’s going on instead of barging in and being rude.”

It shook its head.

“Then I’ll go get my phone so you can type.” 

She walked backwards, keeping her eyes fixed on its frame until she slipped behind a door. She returned with her cellular device, cased in pink with charms dangling from the corner. She unlocked the screen and extended the device in its direction.

“You’re either telling me what’s going on or you’re leaving.” She said.

Neo took the phone and typed, “this unit cannot give up.”

“Seems like that’s what you’re doing right now, huh?” She smiled with only half of her mouth. “Back then, I just couldn’t leave you there to die. Or deactivate, I guess. I thought at the time that you might miss Eggman. He gave you more headpats back then.”

“This unit did not wish to be left there.” To fade into nothing. It could not be nothing.

“But did you want to go back to Eggman?”

“No other beneficial course of action.”

“I could have brought you to Tails.”

“The result would have been deactivation.”

“He could have reprogrammed you, like he did just now.”

“Exposure to Tails increases likelihood of exposure to Sonic by 94%. Deactivation would have followed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Negative. This unit-”

She did not wait for it to finish typing. “That’s not true. Sonic isn’t just some bloodthirsty monster out to get you. He just wants to protect people. Every time he beat you up it’s because you did something to deserve it.”

“Define: ‘something to deserve it’.”

“You don’t know what you did wrong? I thought you wanted to be good now.”

“Define: ‘good’.” Neo stepped forward. “Define: ‘good’.”

“Good! As in, not hurting people!” Amy Rose pointed to the scratches on her arm. “Or kidnapping them!”

“67% of this unit’s missions did not involve hurting or kidnapping sentient organics.”

“Or animals! Not hurting or killing plants and animals either. Really, it’s not that hard and you missed the bar. That’s why Sonic fought you so often.”

“24% of all encounters with Sonic the Hedgehog did not involve other organic beings.”

“Because he knew that you were going out to hurt people, or to help Eggman get things to hurt people with.”

“Why did you return this unit to Dr. Ivo Robotnik?”

“I-” Amy Rose held her breath for two seconds. She directed her gaze to Neo’s foot plating. “Because I thought it was where you’d be happiest.”

“Incomprehensible. Elaborate.”

“Did you like it, when you kidnapped me?”

Neo was prepared to repeat its prior statement before its optics swiveled to the same angle as Amy Rose’s. It stared down at its body, the remains of lines and hues of purple, shaped in a way that it did indeed ‘like’. And it compared the sensation to that of returning to Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s lair with the then-little girl in hand. 

It remembered depositing her in the cell, before turning to meet its creator. It remembered a soft hand on its forehead plating. It remembered his words.

“Excellent work, my finest creation!”

Even the review of this piece of data in its memory banks brought an echo of euphoria in its processor. That it was once finest. That it once completed excellent work.

“Yes.” Neo answered. “This unit liked when Dr. Ivo Robotnik praised it.”

“But did you like seeing me afraid? Did that make you laugh or make you happy?” Amy Rose asked.

“That data was irrelevant.”

“And did you like hurting animals?”

“That data was irrelevant.” 

“And do you like hurting Sonic, or do you just want to be praised for it?”

Neo generated fifteen different responses, but only five made grammatical sense and of those, three were non-sequiturs and the other two were objectively false. 

“That’s what I thought.” Amy Rose said.

“This unit must destroy Sonic.” It snapped. “If it cannot destroy Sonic, then it must cease existing.”

“You don’t have to do either. You really don’t. I know you will never believe me. . . but you don’t.” Amy Rose stepped forward. She then sighed, before gesturing further into her house. “Follow me.”

Neo followed her past her main living area and into a room covered in decorative scraps affixed to the walls with a bed against the far wall. She opened the door to the closet and retrieved a roll of red ribbon. She retrieved scissors and snipped a scrap off the end. She then manipulated the scrap into a bow knot, before turning to face Neo.

“Here. This is the ribbon I gave you that day. I’m giving it back to you.”

This was not the ribbon that Amy Rose gave it the day she returned it to Dr. Ivo Robotnik. Dr. Ivo Robotnik had seized the fabric and thrown it into the incinerator before Neo had shut down for repair. This new ribbon was, however, of the exact same color and material composition ratio as the previous, suggesting that this roll of ribbon was the common origin of the two. 

“This time, though, you get to choose what to do with yourself. You get to go wherever you’re happiest.”

“Even if this unit is happiest when determining how to destroy Sonic?”

“If that’s where you are happiest, then I’ll beat the crap out of you with this.” She summoned her hammer again. “Because I am happiest when I’m making sure my friends aren’t getting hurt.”

“And if it is unknown where this unit is happiest?”

“Then keep going until you figure it out.” Amy Rose deposited the ribbon into its hand. 

She clasped her palm against its fingers. It loosened its joints, allowing her to curl its fingers around the fabric. She then let go. 

“You should go.” She pointed to the door. “You don’t want to be here, and I don’t want you here.”

Neo cocked its head. 

“Because I’m still really mad at you.” She gripped her hammer tighter. “But that’s something we can talk about when you figure out if you want to be better or not.”

Her statement was illogical. If she was mad at it, then she would not be giving it a gift. It could not understand. But it could understand her command, so it left her bedroom, walked through her living area, and passed through the exterior door of her house.

The door shut, and it heard two locking mechanisms engage behind it. 

Neo stood in the darkness looking at the bow in its hand.

[silvr-skreen]

this is him. btw. hes this guy.

idk what his deal is but hes funny.