Freedom!
The feeling of open air and mindlessness; the feeling of stretching in all directions and hitting no boundaries. It was as simple as that.
Kirby was rosy, unassailed, and well-fed--
supposedly. His cheeks, and by extension, his body swelled with what they'd ensnared, within some quivering movement and arisen, muffled displeasure from the prey at being digested or suffocated alive, or both. But onto the pleasantries: the most restrictive thing of all, because with greetings came expectations. There were people you were expected to remember. With that were promises and alliances to uohold. Then, inevitably, they were asking favors of you.
He was willing to compromise and commence an adventure if need-be, but where Kirby put his little red foot down was with this idea of "cooperating" with someone of equal standing who wasn't just a pet fish or something, someone his armored compatriot with her unique set of weaponry and more mature appearance here obviously was. Kirby understood, at this point, that partnership of the transcendent nature implied two things: the first was what lay below it being a convoluted justification for them existing within the same plane, involving a set-up of roundabout dynamics with grey areas and multiple antagonist and other stuff which Kirby was utterly nauseated by; the second was the call to action being entirely irrelevant to the goings-on of Planet Popstar, the only incentive for him to adventure at all, and therefore eliminating Kirby's need to exert any sort of effort.
So, in conclusion, Kirby knew who to suspect: the Union of What-Have-You that had been sending him recruitment letters regarding this type of inter-dimensional bullshit ever since Smash happened and
sucked. Why he had to acknowledge other people in entirely different worlds was, however, the fault of a second party, one with a sort of ubiquitous comprehension, one who could bend canon at their collective will.
And Kirby didn't want to think about that second party. It was the only thing he could admit, with all earnest, frightened him.
Within their ambiguous little covet, there may have been an awkward silence; Kirby was mute, as always, and he affixed a stalwart and expectant look on Aemus Saran (alternatively: "Metroid," which was honestly easier to remember them by) in anticipation of, maybe, some sort of dialogue. In the case that they spoke, Kirby remained ever-expressionless, stoic, and still.
His cheeks squelched with the sounds of his meal...
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