(i gotta STOP making kaleidoscope ocs)

They’d always been so eager. To see beyond the baseplate, if that was even possible. They were created to test the triple jump, an ability they often took advantage of, to get to the highest spot they could and look out and over. They always brought you with them, wherever higher spot they found. Their favorite was a pillar. Up top was a telescope they’d made themself—purely from trial and error—that looked out and above the rock walls surrounding. They were always up there, staring into the glass. When you joined them, you brought what you could. A boombox you had been so graciously provided with, even a pillow, anything that ensure you knew they were okay being up there all of the time. When the skybox turned night, they’d let you look into the telescope yourself. It was peaceful. One day, they weren’t up there. Oil was splattered beneath the pillar. Of course you were concerned. You decide, after a little while of checking and not seeing them, that you’d check their ‘house’ instead.

You knock. Unresponsive. Once more. Unresponsive again. You let yourself in.

They’re curled up in their bed. Everything inside their home is askew, though they’d never really been organized to begin with. You approach them, their shape a lump beneath their covers. You call out to them. Unresponsive. You prod them a little. Unresponsive.

Maybe you can just keep them company. Or leave. Whatever you may think is better.