10-30-2016, 04:24 PM
> Sound detected. . .
> Identifying Pitch Frequency . . .
> Identifying Sound Waves . . .
> Sound Identified. Identification: Rooster’s Call. . .
> Protocol Triggered . . .
> Powering On . . .
Sunlight beamed through the curtains set in front of the windows as the greatest event one could wish for, the rising of the sun to signify a new day, began to unfold. The local rooster’s had awakened to spark life out of the quiet, little, out-of-the-way island town. Their cries sparked a mixture of annoyance, optimistic welcomes, or just plain boredom, depending on who it was that experienced it. For Arnold Rockwell, it was the second category.
The yellow rays slowly settled into the house, lighting up the dark interior. They drew closer to the back wall, revealing a sitting little robot that held its knees together, like it was a child burying its head inside itself to muffle its crying. As the sunlight touched it, however, it sprang to life. Its eye-glass in the middle of its head zoomed in and out, checking to make sure it still functioned. A long antennae slipped out from the top of its head; it hummed a small tune to itself as it unfolded itself from its resting state.
Arnold Rockwell took a few seconds to make sure every part of its robotic body was still in good shape. Donald Rockwell would likely not be very happy if his favorite robot had its servos lock up during the morning routine. It looked around, scratching its eye-glass to remove the accumulating dust and grime from it.
The room, like seemingly every other room in the house, was covered in oil stains, shown most prominently on the walls and blackening the otherwise ornate carpets. Next to the nearby window inside his room was a large endoskeleton for a robot Donald had tried to make in the past, lying down on a large, wooden table. Several pieces of scrap and metal, all parts of failed creations, littered the shelves, tables, and floor. Potential brothers, possible members of the house, all fallen to the afflictions of a single man. Yet DP-12 could not blame Donald Rockwell for this.
Donald… Donald! In his examinations of the environment, he had forgotten to check up on Donald! Running out of the room as fast as his little robot legs could carry him, he sprang towards his room.
He opened the door. In the middle of the room, lying on a small bed about Arnold’s height, was Donald. Eyes closed, raspy snores, and seemingly no movement was more than enough to indicate to Arnold that he was still asleep. The robot could easily see his wrinkled face, silvery mustache, and age-beaten form even from the confines of the sheets. A set of glasses, plus a glass full of water left over from the night prior, sat on top of a nearby counter-top alongside a picture of two humans, one of which was a much younger Donald Rockwell. An object of sentimental value to his creator. He had deduced a long time ago that it was never a good idea to interrupt his creator whenever he indulged himself in those kinds of things.
He spent a few more moments just standing there, robotic clamps around the handle of the door, observing his creator and making sure he was alright. Then, as quiet as he could, he backed out of the room, closing the door.
With that out of the way, it was about time (approximately 7:00 AM, according to his digital clock,) to craft some food for his creator. Trying to be as silent as possible, he tiptoed into the kitchen. He had taken the liberty of cleaning it up to remove potential contaminants of the food, and as a result, it was sparkly clean when compared to the grimy nature of every other room in the house. Shiny counter-tops with a glistening sheen, a clean wooden floor that Arnold had refurbished to prevent any noises from occurring due to squeaky wood, and an entire refrigerator full of fruits, meats, and vegetables. He moved towards the fridge, opening it up. Immediately, he could tell something was wrong.
His eye-glass could not detect any visual indicators of any potatoes. Without them, Donald’s first proper meal of the day would be ruined!
Without a moment of hesitation, he sprang to the front door, making sure to grab his hat and trench coat before exiting.
It was a fine hour later, around 8 AM, that he arrived at his favorite shop in all of Silverrock Town: Furon’s Footlocker, run by the human known as Kaylee. He had gone there more than a few times to collect the food necessary to prepare the more comfortable foods medically advised for Donald Rockwell, like chicken soup, lamb roasts, roasted potatoes, etcetera. Helped that the prices were cheaper than most places he went to, particularly Ozal’s Bar. He had only gone there once, and made a silent vow never to set foot in it again. It was mostly the alcohol, a drink that he might have considered bringing to his creator if he wasn’t aware of its more medically negative side effects. It was fairly noisy too, with bombastic music that played well into the night, way after most people would probably had gotten some sleep. Donald would have just gotten irritated by all the noise; he preferred the quiet.
That’s why he knew he had picked the perfect place to bring Donald to once he was finished with it. It was just barely started, of course; it was only a solo project, after all. But despite that, he knew he was going to love it. He just was going to have to hold out a little longer.
The welcome bell rang as DP-12 pushed open the door into Furon’s Footlocker, politely tipping his hat as he sidestepped the oncoming Melody. Ozal was in there, evidently peddling with the owner of the establishment herself, Kaylee. He ran forward, placing his hands on the counter as he hopped up a bit, his brown trench coat lightly slipping off of his shoulders a bit as he tried to get a better view of her.
“Good morning -and pardon me, good sir,- miss Kaylee!” he said, “I’ve run out of fresh potatoes for my creator, mister Donald Rockwell. You don’t happen to have more, do you?”
> Identifying Pitch Frequency . . .
> Identifying Sound Waves . . .
> Sound Identified. Identification: Rooster’s Call. . .
> Protocol Triggered . . .
> Powering On . . .
Sunlight beamed through the curtains set in front of the windows as the greatest event one could wish for, the rising of the sun to signify a new day, began to unfold. The local rooster’s had awakened to spark life out of the quiet, little, out-of-the-way island town. Their cries sparked a mixture of annoyance, optimistic welcomes, or just plain boredom, depending on who it was that experienced it. For Arnold Rockwell, it was the second category.
The yellow rays slowly settled into the house, lighting up the dark interior. They drew closer to the back wall, revealing a sitting little robot that held its knees together, like it was a child burying its head inside itself to muffle its crying. As the sunlight touched it, however, it sprang to life. Its eye-glass in the middle of its head zoomed in and out, checking to make sure it still functioned. A long antennae slipped out from the top of its head; it hummed a small tune to itself as it unfolded itself from its resting state.
Arnold Rockwell took a few seconds to make sure every part of its robotic body was still in good shape. Donald Rockwell would likely not be very happy if his favorite robot had its servos lock up during the morning routine. It looked around, scratching its eye-glass to remove the accumulating dust and grime from it.
The room, like seemingly every other room in the house, was covered in oil stains, shown most prominently on the walls and blackening the otherwise ornate carpets. Next to the nearby window inside his room was a large endoskeleton for a robot Donald had tried to make in the past, lying down on a large, wooden table. Several pieces of scrap and metal, all parts of failed creations, littered the shelves, tables, and floor. Potential brothers, possible members of the house, all fallen to the afflictions of a single man. Yet DP-12 could not blame Donald Rockwell for this.
Donald… Donald! In his examinations of the environment, he had forgotten to check up on Donald! Running out of the room as fast as his little robot legs could carry him, he sprang towards his room.
He opened the door. In the middle of the room, lying on a small bed about Arnold’s height, was Donald. Eyes closed, raspy snores, and seemingly no movement was more than enough to indicate to Arnold that he was still asleep. The robot could easily see his wrinkled face, silvery mustache, and age-beaten form even from the confines of the sheets. A set of glasses, plus a glass full of water left over from the night prior, sat on top of a nearby counter-top alongside a picture of two humans, one of which was a much younger Donald Rockwell. An object of sentimental value to his creator. He had deduced a long time ago that it was never a good idea to interrupt his creator whenever he indulged himself in those kinds of things.
He spent a few more moments just standing there, robotic clamps around the handle of the door, observing his creator and making sure he was alright. Then, as quiet as he could, he backed out of the room, closing the door.
With that out of the way, it was about time (approximately 7:00 AM, according to his digital clock,) to craft some food for his creator. Trying to be as silent as possible, he tiptoed into the kitchen. He had taken the liberty of cleaning it up to remove potential contaminants of the food, and as a result, it was sparkly clean when compared to the grimy nature of every other room in the house. Shiny counter-tops with a glistening sheen, a clean wooden floor that Arnold had refurbished to prevent any noises from occurring due to squeaky wood, and an entire refrigerator full of fruits, meats, and vegetables. He moved towards the fridge, opening it up. Immediately, he could tell something was wrong.
His eye-glass could not detect any visual indicators of any potatoes. Without them, Donald’s first proper meal of the day would be ruined!
Without a moment of hesitation, he sprang to the front door, making sure to grab his hat and trench coat before exiting.
Quote:Location: Silverrock Town (Donald Rockwell's House - Furon's Footlocker
It was a fine hour later, around 8 AM, that he arrived at his favorite shop in all of Silverrock Town: Furon’s Footlocker, run by the human known as Kaylee. He had gone there more than a few times to collect the food necessary to prepare the more comfortable foods medically advised for Donald Rockwell, like chicken soup, lamb roasts, roasted potatoes, etcetera. Helped that the prices were cheaper than most places he went to, particularly Ozal’s Bar. He had only gone there once, and made a silent vow never to set foot in it again. It was mostly the alcohol, a drink that he might have considered bringing to his creator if he wasn’t aware of its more medically negative side effects. It was fairly noisy too, with bombastic music that played well into the night, way after most people would probably had gotten some sleep. Donald would have just gotten irritated by all the noise; he preferred the quiet.
That’s why he knew he had picked the perfect place to bring Donald to once he was finished with it. It was just barely started, of course; it was only a solo project, after all. But despite that, he knew he was going to love it. He just was going to have to hold out a little longer.
The welcome bell rang as DP-12 pushed open the door into Furon’s Footlocker, politely tipping his hat as he sidestepped the oncoming Melody. Ozal was in there, evidently peddling with the owner of the establishment herself, Kaylee. He ran forward, placing his hands on the counter as he hopped up a bit, his brown trench coat lightly slipping off of his shoulders a bit as he tried to get a better view of her.
“Good morning -and pardon me, good sir,- miss Kaylee!” he said, “I’ve run out of fresh potatoes for my creator, mister Donald Rockwell. You don’t happen to have more, do you?”
![[Image: sanssig.png]](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/369919416432984079/371386052931485708/sanssig.png)
i may be all alone
but i'm here to tell ya honey
that i'm bad to the bone
B-B-B-Bad to the bone
New to the Omniverse? Need a question answered? Want a C&C of your work? Send a PM to me and I will assist you in any way I can!