do you ever wonder what people who dont listen to the protomen think of us/the band
I just assume they all think we are actually a cult.
Hahahaha Nemo and I got asked this today by her friend! We were like “no we’re not a cult but I mean well how do you feel about fist pumping in unison and robots and masks?”
The sad thing is he never even mentioned the word “Protomen”. He just asked if we were in a cult and we assumed that’s what he was talking about. For all we know he could have been asking about something else entirely.
it’s like we are so immersed in this idea that we aren’t a cult that we love when people ask us if we are
I know I love me some cult like activities
I love this cult.
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.
It had taken all the willpower Protoman possessed to keep himself from acting, reacting, to Wily’s taunting closeness. He found that when he was allowed—encouraged, even—to take himself and his wildly conflicted thoughts elsewhere, he had no emotional strength left to do anything but leave. He gathered up the rest of the armor bundle without further comment and retreated to his own room, huffing a short sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. Feeling nervously energetic, almost like his skin didn’t fit quite right, he laid out the rest of the armor on the bed and resolved to go ahead and try the rest.
WE NEED TO FORM OUR OWN SQUADRON WITHIN THE RESISTANCE.
There are already known squadrons out there—why shouldn’t the Gospel of Judas have its own dedicated band of rebels? We preach our own part of the larger truth; Protoman is still our Hero. We look unflinchingly into his dark, twisted, and, yes, sexualized, relationship with Dr. Wily and see the truth. He wants us to be better. He wants to make us stronger.
But humanity just keeps letting him down.
After three weeks on the training grounds with Sal, Protoman couldn’t help but start to feel good about his chances of going along for Wily’s media tour. He was never going to be the paragon of hand-to-hand combat, but the reward dangled enticingly before him had applied the right amount of motivation to teach him how best to use his considerable weight and strength against his more frail human opponents. He could throw Sal to the ground, if nothing else, and though no one else would volunteer for an attempt he was reasonably certain he could do the same with most of the other soldiers.
One might even go so far as to characterize the attitude that came with his success as cocky.
The tension between Wily and Protoman – no longer his captive, now most certainly his guest – changed quite dramatically over the next few days. Wily wouldn’t let Protoman return to his own quarters down on the main level, and found that he didn’t have to work very hard to convince him to stay. The room he’d been given was attached to Wily’s, of course, but otherwise it was just as private as his first room had been, and it was far more comfortable. He alone out of all the residents of the tower had access to the elevator that brought him to and from Wily’s quarters, and he was free to spend his time however he saw fit. Wily was very obviously pleased when Protoman chose to take his meals upstairs with him, but didn’t object when he left for the mess hall either. There was no curfew, and though Wily preferred to know what Protoman was up to, he didn’t pry. They both knew Wily could keep tabs on him through his security cameras, anyway, but by not asking or making that obvious, Wily was extending a courtesy to Protoman that not many of his soldiers and servants received.
Twenty floors above the dark streets of the city, Dr. Light lived in a run-down tenement. An eccentric and brilliant man. Light was a loner, a thinker, a man of ideas.
But his ideas had turned on him. They had done violence where there should have been peace and fallen where they should have stood victorious. All of his dreams, from bright visions of a better world to dark and lofty goals of vengeance, lay in shattered fragments around his feet, and with only those pieces left he did the only thing he knew to do.
He began to build, to shape new life from the bones of the lost.