First meeting

Folklore was built pre-apocalypse, a well maintained and rather vain Amica, with many friends and her own family to come home to. When disaster struck, she was among the bots that had powered down due to external circumstances, and she sunk to the bottom of the lake nearby her home, to be reclaimed by the pond-moss and well rusted with time.

Dianthus was built post-apocalypse, a scrappy thing with a love for adventure and tinkering with anything she could get her hands on. He never cared much for caution, and spying a dark, vaguely-person-shaped mass, clinged to by algae, debris, and even decay, was just the kind of excitement her life needed.

Dianthus dragged Folklore up from the bottom of the pond, where she lay, undisturbed and resting for twenty or so years. Lillypads and pondreeds and all sorts of rustic debris followed her upon hoisting Folklore onto the bank.

She gets her up and running again so she doesn't have to drag the slimey bot, unmoving, back to somewhere she could recieve proper help for her... well, everything.

Folklore is groggy and her body feels misaligned in all the worst ways, with each movement either of them makes she feels her joints grind against eachother with a sickening metalic shriek and it hurts. 

She can't wiggle her fingers, and she's so frazzled that she can't tell if she even has fingers anymore.

''I-I can't feel my fingers... Is that normal?'' She croaks. Despite what little part they play in her speech, it just makes it all the more difficult that her mouth feels numb and her tongue feels heavy and useless between her teeth. She's sure some of her teeth are shattered, because she can feel the shards in the back of her throat.

She expects the other bot to atleast think about it, but she responds in quick succession. ''It depends on which hand.''

''Huh?'' Folklore whimpered, a gritty, pathetic sound. Such a response made her feel sick, and she awkwardly strained to try and get a better look of her arm, but with the hydrophyte film plastered thick over her eyes, seeing anything beyond green-tinted, mashed up shapes and colours wasn't going to happen until somebody scraped all of this intrusive plant-matter from her body.

Dianthus quickly shifted his weight, keeping her still, Folklore too disorientated to register that Dianthus intentionally obscured her left arm.

''Slip of the tongue, dear, don't mind me.''  She reassured her, finally jamming her right arm back into its socket with a promising click. The feeling didn't return right away, more like in gradual prickles along the expanse of her forearm, before finally, her fingers gave a twitch, and then a wiggle, and then they closed into a half-fist.

Folklore's mind is a haze, and she finds that she doesn't remember all too much from before the apocalypse. Her memories are ever so fleeting, and so stressful to conjure that feels her synthetic skin begin to buzz and it feels oh so wrong that she's almost happy that she can't remember anything.

This is her first clear memory, and she's glad that it is.