My Arm Can Fly: Art Blog

I'm a 26-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.

Who I Follow
Posts tagged "Protoman"


"Blues_Protoman" from YAKUMOFUJII.  I fuckin love this one.


(via tsupertsundere)

Most heroic tree topper.




COFFEE SHOP AU emily is the cute girl who comes to light’s coffee shop every morning. joe carries a flask and adds whiskey to his coffee and thinks he’s very sneaky (he is not). protoman and megaman are v. overdesigned coffee machines

o h my god

i was thinking mega and proto would be barristas

and mega is all into the competition and protoman is just


they are both. they both serve and make coffee. coffee busters built into arms


i have been preparing all my life for this

I cannot physically resist the need to reblog “Hope buys a scone.”

(via copyx-deactivated20140125)

Today, on Wolfie’s lunch break, blasphemously Christlike Protoman sketch!

Hi guys my name is Wolfie and I have some feels about these two.

(via thepsientist-deactivated2012061)

I have never understood the amount of Proto/Metal shipping in the Megaman fandom, but this is unbearably precious.

(via pandifreyan)


A select few characters from the Mega Man Universe, including Mega Man himself, get a female redesign in deviantARTist dcwj’s fan art illustration. This was created for last years Asiagraph Mega Man.

Lets go! RockGirl by dcwj (CGHUB)

Nicely done! Protoma’am is, of course, my favorite, but I love that spirit of the various characters isn’t watered down for this.


Rockman - Rio Rock

Pretty much the cutest ever.

(via internetbooashouting)

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.

Protoman watched as they built his brother for him.

First, he was set to guard Light, humiliating him by acting on Wily’s will, but slowly the conditioning took—it was easier for Tom to trust him again, to believe what he said, than it was to have nothing left—and his commander began to push him away in favor of the one he had stood in for. Demands became short and clipped, scarcely more personal than the orders dispatched to the Snipers, and private time spent together in Wily’s suite grew shorter and shorter and stopped altogether. All he cared for was Tom, now that he was back, wrapped up safely in lies and desperation, and Protoman found himself servant, a soldier, a far cry from the trusted accomplice he had been led to believe he was.

Still, Tom had grown restless, hands itching to create; he could observe the workings of his first son up close again, and even with the upgrades and modifications Wily had made over the years he knew his beautiful work was not yet complete. The capacity to improve Protoman was nearly exceeded; it was time to advance to the next step, to take what they’d both learned from the first truly free-thinking man/Machine and create another, a more elegant fusion of metal and independent thought.

Protoman stood guard while they worked.

The new body was a match for his in height, but more trim in build; advancements in the mechanics led to beautifully efficient new processors and motors that needed less room, whose coolant systems could be streamlined. The materials made available were better, too. When they got to the face, sculpting features like the prototype’s but not quite the same, the irises could be made in any color—Protoman’s eyes had been made from shards of glass that glittered like embers in the streets, the crushed remains of old amber and orange warning lights. His brother’s would be blue, bright as the ocean on a sunny day, and he watched in fascination as the tiny flawless slivers of impossibly blue glass were machined and fitted around the aperture pupils, different and yet somehow the same, the completion of himself. When the men took a break, retreated to the rooms that were theirs now, to which he was not invited any more, he stood watch over his brother, examining the face for a reflection of his own and feeling the way the joints of delicate fingers moved when he held the perfect hands in his own.

Skin grafts were smoothed over steel bones and muscles woven from carbon fiber, and they matched his own perfectly for tone and texture. The whorls of the fingerprints, the little details their father couldn’t bear to neglect because he wasn’t just building a robot, he was building a son, were the same as his. The hair was lighter, but close enough that no one would ever mistake them for strangers. The blue eyes were his own, inverted. Megaman, the completion of the project and the nearest thing to fill the void Wily’s withdrawal had left in his soldier’s life, was beautiful. Perfect.

Protoman was the first one his brother saw when he opened his own eyes on the worktable.

No one was going to separate them. He would make sure of that. He would take care of his brother, and his brother would adore him for it.

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.