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.”
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.”