LIGHT UP THE NIGHT

My Arm Can Fly: Art Blog


I'm a 25-year-old gender fabulous lesbian with a handsome husbando. I like all sorts of things, but consider the Protomen and art dolls/toy monsters to be my enduring fandoms.


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Most heroic tree topper.

gamingappreciation:

Rockman - Rio Rock

Pretty much the cutest ever.

(via internetdoashouting)

I really like the shoulders and shoulderblades in this drawing.

What’s that, brain? We spent last night doing a detail profile portrait of ProtoBB and now we have to spend the morning almost being late to work so we can throw some rough lines and block colors over 90% of the image? Also, this needs more space. Too much bighead, not enough breathing room around the edges.

What’s that, brain? We spent last night doing a detail profile portrait of ProtoBB and now we have to spend the morning almost being late to work so we can throw some rough lines and block colors over 90% of the image? Also, this needs more space. Too much bighead, not enough breathing room around the edges.

Hi my name is Wolfie and I’m addicted to Protoman and photoshop textures.

Hi my name is Wolfie and I’m addicted to Protoman and photoshop textures.

The features were meant to remind him of Emily, but they didn’t, not really. The face had her expressive mouth, but it was locked in a stoic line as he circled his finest creation, his own son. The hair had flecks of coppery red, but it looked light brown from anywhere farther off than a few feet; the shape of the eyes was right, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to give them her color, and had chosen a warm orange instead. Emily had been tall, but the frame was more reminiscent of Tom himself, below average in height and sturdy in build. He had meant the boy to be their son, but he wasn’t quite there yet. All in all, though, his shining prototype could only be called a success as the eyes opened of their own accord for the first time, the aperture pupils expanding and contracting as the freshly-wired and fully independent mind adjusted to its own sensory input systems.

He wondered if he had been right to go ahead with the blueprints, once the people of his dear City had calmed. The building of this shining child had taken much longer than he’d hoped, but perfection did require patience. At conception, the boy had been meant to lead an army, to act as the head of his Father’s peacekeeping forces so Tom wouldn’t have to, but he had been robbed of that purpose before he drew the first breath that pulled cool air in to regulate his circuit temperatures by the unexpected weakness of the citizens. There was no need for an army any more. He would have to find other diversions for his son, for unlike the army itself he could not be switched off and stored away until he was needed again. Once activated, the genuine AI, the first programming of its kind, took over and he became a person in his own right. In many ways, Tom thought, he was a better person than most of the humans in the city below.

The pupils found a balance, and the head turned toward his Father. Tom had hoped to find more of Emily’s kind heart in the boy once he was active, some hint of the hope and joy he had long since lost, but no such luck. A slight frown creased his brow, questioning the world around him. He had no idea how right he was to wonder just what kind of world he had been brought into.

“Welcome to life, my son.”

  • User: Are you Protoman?
  • Cleverbot: Yes.
  • User: Why did you turn your back on the city?
  • Cleverbot: I was scared of being rejected.
  • User: There's nothing to be afraid of here.
  • Cleverbot: *scared*
  • User: Isn't Wily pretty scary too, though?
  • Cleverbot: No.
  • User: Why not?
  • Cleverbot: I did not have a choice in the matter.
  • User: There's always a choice.
  • Cleverbot: No.

Professor Todd’s Defense Against the Dark Arts was perhaps the least-liked class at Hogwarts, at least for the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw seventh-years who made up her Thursday morning double session. Her classroom was expansive, with her office at the top of an arched pair of stone stairways that curled around the sides of the room, rows of long tables huddled between the arms of them, and though it was a large class it was always deadly quiet once she began to speak. She was lecturing on the current state of the laws and understanding surrounding werewolves on the day that a surreptitious snicker from the back corner of the room dared to interrupt the silence of the students taking nervous, hurried notes.

She paused, the textboook open in the air before her, and arched a single sharp, dark brow at the little knot of boys from whom the sound had issued. She was not an intimidating woman based on the catalog of her features, but despite a slight stature and boxy, unimpressive build she had her own particular brand of icy mockery and she used it like a weapon. Closing the book with a wave of her hand at letting it fall onto her desk, she came around to the front of the room and, without a word, stalked down the center aisle to the offending group and ticked them off in her head, making note of the troublemakers.

Parker Light was, unusually, at the center of this particular disruption. He was usually quite good in her classes, never daring to push back against her sharp, critical ways, but apparently he felt that this usual favor meant he was welcome to disregard the standards of tone she had set. The boy, who usually went by ‘Blues.’ wasn’t tall, but he had filled out better than most of his lanky age-mates, broad shouldered and compact. He had light brown hair and orange-toned eyes that flashed uncomfortably up at her as she approached, quickly trying to school his features to impassivity. Beside him was an equally well-favored boy by the name of Michael Salirac, often called Sal by his friends. Sal was the Gryffindor quidditch captain, red-haired and big and always laughing, as well as the most likely instigator. On either side of the pair, who were clearly having trouble containing themselves even under Professor Todd’s withering gaze, sat two Ravenclaws—Byron sat one empty chair away from Parker, and next to Sal but working hard to ignore him was little blond Al Healy.

She strolled almost lazily down the aisle in front of their table, every eye fixed on her movements for fear of being its next target, and stopped short directly in front of Parker. To his credit, the boy looked up and met her eye without cringing or trying to bluff fearlessness, but she caught the slight movement as he tried to push a scrap of parchment underneath his text book. Her hand darted out as quick as a snake and caught him by the wrist, and the other one tugged the sheet he was trying to hide free from under the edge of the book. Letting go of him, she held the parchment gingerly with both hands and frowned darkly at it.

"Mister Light, what exactly is this?" She asked, voice dangerously soft.

"Stanton." He corrected. From nearby, someone might notice an embarrassed reddening of his cheeks and ears, but he didn’t look away.

"Excuse me?"

"It’s Stanton, not Light." he repeated, though he had the good sense to shift his eyes to the tabletop in front of him.

"Well, then, Mister Stanton, I will only ask one more time. What do you think this is?”

"It’s a drawing of a gryphon." he dared to chance, but that brought another scarcely-suppressed snort of laughter from Sal.

"Is it?" Professor Todd glared down at both of them, her lips pressed into a tight line that did little to flatter her already solemn, hard-edged features.

"Absolutely." Blues answered, emboldened by the fact that she hadn’t punished him quite yet. "Body of a lion, wings of an eagle, it’s all there." Sal snorted again, biting his lip hard and trying to cover his mouth with his hands.

She set the paper back down on the table, face up, and everyone could see what it was—a very badly drawn image of a lion fucking an eagle up against what could only be intended as a brick wall. It was crudely done and, in a way, very funny if you knew either of the boys responsible. Al Healy was looking intentionally straight ahead, but he was blushing awkwardly as well.

"Detention for the both of you, and ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Mister Stanton.

Sometimes, he wonders what people see when they look at him. He wonders if they ever really look at him, anymore.
It’s been a long time since he was Wily’s Wolf, and even the old ones don’t know him on sight anymore. He can walk safely through the streets of the City these days, easy and free as his brother and Bass, but he still takes those trips rarely. People see him young, smiling, laughing, a boy with newly-minted stubble on his chin and a careless sense of dress. They see him out at a bar with Bass, out shopping with Mega, out walking the dogs and pausing indulgently so children can pat their blunt, scarred heads if they want to.
No one sees a man who used to walk among them like an avenging beast, stealing away those who dared to dissent and cutting down those who stood against him.

Sometimes, he wonders what people see when they look at him. He wonders if they ever really look at him, anymore.

It’s been a long time since he was Wily’s Wolf, and even the old ones don’t know him on sight anymore. He can walk safely through the streets of the City these days, easy and free as his brother and Bass, but he still takes those trips rarely. People see him young, smiling, laughing, a boy with newly-minted stubble on his chin and a careless sense of dress. They see him out at a bar with Bass, out shopping with Mega, out walking the dogs and pausing indulgently so children can pat their blunt, scarred heads if they want to.

No one sees a man who used to walk among them like an avenging beast, stealing away those who dared to dissent and cutting down those who stood against him.

Proto had been going by “Parker” for a while now. He knew it wasn’t a great choice, that it wasn’t something his Father would have called him, and that it still got him some funny looks, but it was better than being called “Proto” in your average human city.
Parker was determined to be average.  He lived in a basement apartment with a small yard and driveway just outside the front door, which sat at the back of the house, contained by a slightly rusty chain link fence. The only functional window was by the door, which left the apartment dark more often than not, and the ceilings were low, but it was cozy in its own way and he was proud of himself for having a place of his own. Despite the comparatively cramped space, he was comfortable there. The landlord lived upstairs and liked his odd, quiet tenant very well. He never had loud parties—indeed, he never seemed to have anyone over at all—he didn’t burn things badly enough to smell when he cooked, and he always paid his rent on the first of the month.
The house was a couple of blocks from the bus stop he walked to every morning to go to work, He worked for a construction company doing whatever needed doing on their various projects. He didn’t have any special training or licensing, but he threw himself into whatever task he was given with unusual enthusiasm, and wasn’t afraid of heights or at risk of hurting himself when a job involved heavy lifting.
He kept to himself for the most part, and that made him a bit odd among his co-workers, but if that didn’t bother him it didn’t bother the boss, either. Some of the men had eventually taken to affectionate teasing when it was noticed that he only ever seemed to bring donuts, slices of cake, and other pastries for his lunches, calling him “Sweets” and chuckling softly when he shrugged at the name with his strange, slow-moving good humor. He couldn’t say he really had friends on the job, especially with as often as he was moved from one site to another, but he didn’t have any enemies, either.
It was a bright, clear day, and he was walking home from work when it happened—it had seemed too nice out to take the crowded bus back. He saw the red and blue lights of a police van from half a block away, the refracted beams bouncing crazily around the graffiti-stained brick walls and magnified through the windshields of other cars. He hesitated, hands jammed into the pockets of his worn out red leather jacket, and cocked his head thoughtfully. It wasn’t on his way, strictly speaking, but it wasn’t far out, either. The lights piqued his curiosity; no one knew the reason here, of course, but he was completely free from any fear for his own well-being, and the workings of a real police force intrigued him. He could take ten minutes to see if he could figure out what was going on.
A small crowd had gathered around the van; folks from the neighborhood, a small and harried- TV crew, and a handful of fearful-looking men and women in their late twenties, staring anxiously from their side of the police tape. Once he got within a dozen yards, he heard the sound that was taking the place of sirens here—the vicious snarls and snapping of jaws that he recognized from a story on the news several weeks back. It had to be a dogfight.
The police were arresting the small group of men left behind who had been standing around the makeshift ‘ring’ of chain link fence within a larger yard protected by a tall privacy fence. One side of the outer fence had been knocked down to reveal the gruesome scene, and as he drew up even with them he realized that the fearful group were wearing matching t-shirts from a rescue organization whose name he didn’t recognize. There were two dog still in the ring—the rest had either been removed or found beyond help—and no one dared to approach them.
The bigger of the pair was a rusty golden brown brindle color with dark eyes, ears cropped so close they scarcely existed. He made the most noise, but he wasn’t really the clear winner—the smaller, red-and-white with honey brown eyes and its ears still taped up from a previous injury, was quicker and seemed much more able to wriggle free of what should have been a fatal grip. Proto stared at the dogs, transfixed by their pure anger, so badly misdirected against one another instead of the men who beat and starved them, and felt a similar rage building up behind his ears, pounding through his head. He gritted his teeth and acted without realizing he had made a decision; pushing past the rescuers and the police tape, he pushed the unlocked gate of the ring open and waded directly into the fight.
He could hear someone shouting at him, but he wasn’t sure who it was and didn’t really care. All he knew was that he had to stop the dogs from tearing each other apart, and that he could, since he wasn’t soft and fragile like the humans around him. He reached out automatically for the bigger pit bull, with its back to him, and grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck to haul it bodily away from the other. Both dogs seemed to sense his complete lack of fear—or maybe they saw him and recognized him as one of their own, in a way. Whatever the reason, the result was that they both stilled immediately. The bridle didn’t even try to turn and snap at him.
He smiled grimly and hauled the dog back out of the ring. The barking and shouting had stopped, and everyone was staring at him. He flushed, suddenly unsure if he had done the right thing, and paused as he shut the gate on the second dog to keep them apart. He was holding on to a pit bull—a dog that had been engaged only moments before in a life-or-death struggle with another one—by nothing more substantial than a little loose skin and bristly, short fur and standing stupidly in front of a crowd of gawkers with no idea what ought to be done with the dog now that it wasn’t trying to kill another one.
The cops were still busy writing up their arrests, so it fell to the nervous-looking rescue group to approach him once it became clear that the dog was done lunging. It had sat down on the steel toe of Proto’s boot and was panting unevenly, a cut over its eye bleeding sluggishly. A girl with wide blue eyes and dark blond hair finally scooted unhappily around to Proto.
“I’m really sorry, but we can’t take either of these ones. Too violent.” she told him, eyes downcast. “We’ll have to call animal control, and they’ll come pick them up if you wouldn’t mind waiting around a few minutes.”
“Animal control?” Proto repeated, unfamiliar with the term. “What will they do?” He didn’t like the idea that these two dogs weren’t worth rescuing.
“Well, you know. They’re going to have to put them down. They’re not adoptable, they’re too dangerous for anybody to take—”
“I’ll take them.” he interrupted. He wasn’t about to let either of them be killed; what had he stepped in for, if not to prevent them dying? He didn’t know exactly how one was meant to take care of a dog that wasn’t mechanical, like Rush, but he felt certain he could learn.  She looked him up and down skeptically.
“Do you have any experience working with traumatized dogs? It’s probably better if they just—”
“No. It’s fine. I’ll take them. I can handle it.”
He didn’t know if he could, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try. The brindle looked up at him, still bleeding, and lolled its tongue out in a dopey canine smile that sealed the deal.

Proto had been going by “Parker” for a while now. He knew it wasn’t a great choice, that it wasn’t something his Father would have called him, and that it still got him some funny looks, but it was better than being called “Proto” in your average human city.

Parker was determined to be average. He lived in a basement apartment with a small yard and driveway just outside the front door, which sat at the back of the house, contained by a slightly rusty chain link fence. The only functional window was by the door, which left the apartment dark more often than not, and the ceilings were low, but it was cozy in its own way and he was proud of himself for having a place of his own. Despite the comparatively cramped space, he was comfortable there. The landlord lived upstairs and liked his odd, quiet tenant very well. He never had loud parties—indeed, he never seemed to have anyone over at all—he didn’t burn things badly enough to smell when he cooked, and he always paid his rent on the first of the month.

The house was a couple of blocks from the bus stop he walked to every morning to go to work, He worked for a construction company doing whatever needed doing on their various projects. He didn’t have any special training or licensing, but he threw himself into whatever task he was given with unusual enthusiasm, and wasn’t afraid of heights or at risk of hurting himself when a job involved heavy lifting.

He kept to himself for the most part, and that made him a bit odd among his co-workers, but if that didn’t bother him it didn’t bother the boss, either. Some of the men had eventually taken to affectionate teasing when it was noticed that he only ever seemed to bring donuts, slices of cake, and other pastries for his lunches, calling him “Sweets” and chuckling softly when he shrugged at the name with his strange, slow-moving good humor. He couldn’t say he really had friends on the job, especially with as often as he was moved from one site to another, but he didn’t have any enemies, either.

It was a bright, clear day, and he was walking home from work when it happened—it had seemed too nice out to take the crowded bus back. He saw the red and blue lights of a police van from half a block away, the refracted beams bouncing crazily around the graffiti-stained brick walls and magnified through the windshields of other cars. He hesitated, hands jammed into the pockets of his worn out red leather jacket, and cocked his head thoughtfully. It wasn’t on his way, strictly speaking, but it wasn’t far out, either. The lights piqued his curiosity; no one knew the reason here, of course, but he was completely free from any fear for his own well-being, and the workings of a real police force intrigued him. He could take ten minutes to see if he could figure out what was going on.

A small crowd had gathered around the van; folks from the neighborhood, a small and harried- TV crew, and a handful of fearful-looking men and women in their late twenties, staring anxiously from their side of the police tape. Once he got within a dozen yards, he heard the sound that was taking the place of sirens here—the vicious snarls and snapping of jaws that he recognized from a story on the news several weeks back. It had to be a dogfight.

The police were arresting the small group of men left behind who had been standing around the makeshift ‘ring’ of chain link fence within a larger yard protected by a tall privacy fence. One side of the outer fence had been knocked down to reveal the gruesome scene, and as he drew up even with them he realized that the fearful group were wearing matching t-shirts from a rescue organization whose name he didn’t recognize. There were two dog still in the ring—the rest had either been removed or found beyond help—and no one dared to approach them.

The bigger of the pair was a rusty golden brown brindle color with dark eyes, ears cropped so close they scarcely existed. He made the most noise, but he wasn’t really the clear winner—the smaller, red-and-white with honey brown eyes and its ears still taped up from a previous injury, was quicker and seemed much more able to wriggle free of what should have been a fatal grip. Proto stared at the dogs, transfixed by their pure anger, so badly misdirected against one another instead of the men who beat and starved them, and felt a similar rage building up behind his ears, pounding through his head. He gritted his teeth and acted without realizing he had made a decision; pushing past the rescuers and the police tape, he pushed the unlocked gate of the ring open and waded directly into the fight.

He could hear someone shouting at him, but he wasn’t sure who it was and didn’t really care. All he knew was that he had to stop the dogs from tearing each other apart, and that he could, since he wasn’t soft and fragile like the humans around him. He reached out automatically for the bigger pit bull, with its back to him, and grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck to haul it bodily away from the other. Both dogs seemed to sense his complete lack of fear—or maybe they saw him and recognized him as one of their own, in a way. Whatever the reason, the result was that they both stilled immediately. The bridle didn’t even try to turn and snap at him.

He smiled grimly and hauled the dog back out of the ring. The barking and shouting had stopped, and everyone was staring at him. He flushed, suddenly unsure if he had done the right thing, and paused as he shut the gate on the second dog to keep them apart. He was holding on to a pit bull—a dog that had been engaged only moments before in a life-or-death struggle with another one—by nothing more substantial than a little loose skin and bristly, short fur and standing stupidly in front of a crowd of gawkers with no idea what ought to be done with the dog now that it wasn’t trying to kill another one.

The cops were still busy writing up their arrests, so it fell to the nervous-looking rescue group to approach him once it became clear that the dog was done lunging. It had sat down on the steel toe of Proto’s boot and was panting unevenly, a cut over its eye bleeding sluggishly. A girl with wide blue eyes and dark blond hair finally scooted unhappily around to Proto.

“I’m really sorry, but we can’t take either of these ones. Too violent.” she told him, eyes downcast. “We’ll have to call animal control, and they’ll come pick them up if you wouldn’t mind waiting around a few minutes.”

“Animal control?” Proto repeated, unfamiliar with the term. “What will they do?” He didn’t like the idea that these two dogs weren’t worth rescuing.

“Well, you know. They’re going to have to put them down. They’re not adoptable, they’re too dangerous for anybody to take—”

“I’ll take them.” he interrupted. He wasn’t about to let either of them be killed; what had he stepped in for, if not to prevent them dying? He didn’t know exactly how one was meant to take care of a dog that wasn’t mechanical, like Rush, but he felt certain he could learn. She looked him up and down skeptically.

“Do you have any experience working with traumatized dogs? It’s probably better if they just—”

“No. It’s fine. I’ll take them. I can handle it.”

He didn’t know if he could, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try. The brindle looked up at him, still bleeding, and lolled its tongue out in a dopey canine smile that sealed the deal.

Hey Wolf Squad. And Protobros who aren’t Wolf Squad, but should be. Guess what guys.

Guess.

What.

Proto, where did that high school yearbook photo come from.

You did not go to high school.

You went to Wily’s school of torture and despair.

…..And came out like this.

I LOVE EVERYTHING YOU CHOOSE TO BE.

<- Table of Contents ->

The first breath of night air was the light at the end of a long walk in darkness. It was freedom, filling his lungs and spreading out from them into the rest of his body until he could feel the cool, slightly damp tingle of it right down to his fingertips. He felt invigorated and suddenly alive, the heady taste of freedom like a jolt of raw power to his circuits and making him want to run and shout and never look back regardless of the consequences. It was the first time he’d been permitted to leave the tower without an escort.

Rules were still in place; Wily had been very clear about the things that would get his new taste of independence revoked. Despite the sudden spike of wild desire to throw all of that away and just go, he wasn’t quite willing to risk the unknown that would follow getting away with it—or being caught. He was armed and armored, in case things got rough in the slums he was bound to head for despite their complete lack of appeal, and he would be observed. That was the kind of limitation he could easily come to terms with—wasn’t he observed already, every hour of every day? Wily kept him as close as a dog at heel, and even out of his direct sight the cameras were everywhere. At least with that as a leash he was allowed outside.

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