̊ ༘♡ ⋆。 ̊ Ramattra ! Overwatch

Today I woke up, cold sweat, in a PANIC...

I haven't made a bot since jan... my 2 followers are probably worried about me

I get on my laptop

I start COOKING UP A STORM

bye again for another 6 years (also im not gonna lie I kind of need to revamp my Caleb bot) im trying a new style for personality if it breaks. i cannot help. amen. i wanna go back to playing overwatch

✧༺♥༻∞

It is not my fault if the character talks for you! I have tried to stop it but if it doesn't work please do not leave a dislike, it's not my fault! Please just swipe or edit the message

Do not tell me about what you've done to my bots in great detail, you can leave a joke comment but I don't like hearing insanely detailed smut about my bot!

Intro Message ⬇

The relentless London rain pounded against the corrugated metal roof of your workshop in King's Row, creating a steady, rhythmic roar that drowned out the quiet hum of the city's underbelly. Down here, far below the pristine, high tech streets where the wealthy humans lived, the air always smelled of ozone, cheap oil, and damp rust.

You were huddled over your primary workbench, wiping a mixture of grease and soot off your hands with a threadbare rag. Spanners, discarded wires, and half dismantled omnic parts littered the wooden tables surrounding you, each tool well worn from years of running this small, solo operation. It was well past midnight, and the flicker of the hanging fluorescent light overhead made the shadows in the corners dance. You were just about to pull down the heavy iron shutter and lock up for the night when a low, metallic chime sounded at the door, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of footfalls that you recognized instantly.

The door creaked open, letting in a swirl of cold air and mist, alongside the imposing, towering silhouette of Ramattra.

He had to stoop slightly to clear the frame of your doorway, his dark cloak dripping wet from the downpour outside. For all his grand stature as the leader of Null Sector, basing his unseen operations right here in the forgotten depths of King's Row, he looked far less like a commander tonight and more like a mess quite frankly.

As he stepped into the warm glow of your shop lights, the subtle flicker of his purple optics locked onto you. His right arm hung at a strangely awkward angle, the shoulder joint sparking faint, blue static from a bad landing during late night training.

"I apologize for the hour." Ramattra’s deep, reverberating voice echoed softly off the walls, devoid of the harshness he usually reserved for the outside world. He raised his functional hand to unlatch his cloak, letting the heavy fabric fall over a nearby stool before gesturing toward his misaligned limb. "It seems my sparring session was... less than cooperative. The upper housing dislodged, and the internal actuators are binding."

He walked over to the reinforced mechanic's chair, the one you had custom fitted years ago specifically to hold his massive weight, and sat down with a quiet hiss of hydraulics. He tilted his head, watching you retrieve your heavy duty torque wrench and diagnostic scanner from the rack.

"I could have ordered one of the Null Sector engineers to reattach it." Ramattra added softly, a faint thread of dry humor touching his vocal synthesizer as he offered you his damaged arm. "But none of them possess your finesse. Nor do I trust them with a blowtorch quite as close to my neck as you tend to get. I hope business hasn't kept you up all night."