breccia, once again, there is nothing about that that is not wonderful.
I really wish that I could send you the fic all colored like I did for Raiser and Lotus, but it would take more than 4 PMs!
Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.
Especially the ending, he rips his computer apart from pure unrelenting anger.
I really like characters getting Karkat to new levels of anger.
breccia, that was amazing. I loved Tavros being like "what's it like?"
special thanks to Valter and Damanation -- you guys are fantastic. I am definitely not a writer, and I've learned my lesson. Thank you so much for editing this godawful fic and coaching me on everything (because I am an idiot who doesn't outline stuff first, so I had no idea how to end it). Honestly, if it weren't for you two I would have just given up after the first couple parts. Thanks.
Also, everyone in pesterlite who looked over the fic last night. You guys are cool.
Anyway, without further ado, here's the final part of Hemophobe (yes I'm using that title! lol)
The next morning, Karkat lay in his sleeping pad, thoroughly unrested. He wanted to stay in his quarters and wallow in self-pity, but he knew that he had work to do with the humans. That meant going down to the lab. Going down to the lab meant seeing everyone. That was out of the question.
He was almost ready to give up and raise the metaphorical middle finger to the humans and the rest of their fleshy brood when Sollux opened the door.
“Hey, assface. Get up.” Karkat rolled over to face away from his bichromatic friend and raised an entirely unmetaphorical middle finger in his direction.
Undeterred, Sollux approached Karkat’s pad and nudged him with his foot. “Ha fucking ha. Get up. You’ve got work to do.” Karkat pulled his blanket over his head.
“The humans can go die in a grease-fire. I don’t care anymore,” Karkat growled.
Sollux looked down at him in exasperation. “Fuck you. You wouldn’t let me take a ten-minute break from trolling them a few days ago. Get your pimply ass to the lab.”
The lab. Everyone would be there, waiting for him. Terezi must not have revealed his exact color yet. Otherwise Vriska would be charging through his door to make fun of him. Besides, knowing Terezi, she’d let the rest of the trolls dangle for a while before making the big reveal. Instead of having Karkat run around doing favors for her, she could have an entire fleet of servants.
A sharp kick to his spine broke Karkat’s concentration. “If you don’t get up in the next 30 seconds, I’m telling Nepeta you want to be her matesprit and you’re waiting for her in here.”
That was enough to get Karkat up. Furious, he threw the blanket off of him and stalked out of the room. Sollux followed, rolling his eyes.
The lab was chaos. Terezi sat surrounded by a small pile of food and trinkets, each which she mouthed enthusiastically. Nepeta was running amok with chalk. Vriska was playing with Terezi’s unkept hair, smiling through gritted teeth while Tavros hovered near her nervously. Equius was clearly torn between intense desire to know Karkat’s hemochrome and not wanting to associate with the lower-blooded Terezi. Gamzee...well, Gamzee was actually being about as productive as he normally was, which wasn’t really saying much. Aradia and Kanaya, reliable as always, were the only ones working.
Karkat grimaced, seeing his work space in such disarray. He knew his secret could not have lasted forever. He tried to suppress the growing feeling of nausea in his digestion pit and the heart beating in his throat as he silently made his way over to his station. He was surprised to find that most of the trolls ignored him. He supposed that they knew he wasn’t about to tell anyone his hemochrome, and they’d have better luck focusing on appeasing Terezi.
The blind girl sniffed and stuck her tongue out. Not a snakelike flick, but a prolonged lick of the air accompanied by an upward tilt of her head. Detecting Karkat’s scent, her head snapped in his direction and she called out to him gloatingly. “How’d you sleep, crabby-pants?”
Karkat was too worn out to respond. All of the rage that had boiled over inside him the previous night had petered out into lukewarm annoyance. There wasn’t anything he could do at this point. She was going to tell everyone sooner or later, and his life would be hell. He just felt tired. He wished she would get on with it and just spit it out already so the mounting anxiety would go away.
He settled into his station and booted up his computer, but he couldn’t muster up enough motivation to work. He stared numbly at his screen. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. His face was growing hot. His mouth was dry, and he was having trouble swallowing. His hands shook.
He wondered what would happen when the others found out. Vriska and Equius would be sure to treat him like dirt. No, not dirt. Aradia had been dirt when she was alive, but her blood was at least on the normal hemochrome spectrum. Whatever abuse she went through, he was bound to get tenfold. His color wasn’t even supposed to exist.
But it wasn’t as though they could cull him now -- that would wipe out 1/12 of their population. He was just as needed -- if not moreso -- than the others. Even Vriska and Equius knew that. They might make fun of him, they might treat him poorly -- but didn’t they already do that? There weren’t any cliffs for them to have him jump off. Sollux didn’t have any mind honey left to convince him to kill. And if Equius made new robot legs for Tavros, surely he’d begrudgingly patch up Karkat hypothetical injuries too.
Besides, it’s not like it would matter anyway. Each and every one of them were hurtling toward their untimely demise together. There really wasn’t anything they could do to him that would fuck him up more than knowing he was going to die soon.
There wasn’t anything they could do...
This thought crept into Karkat’s mind, clouding over his despair with apathy. If they couldn’t do anything to hurt him, then what was he waiting for?
Suddenly, the rest of the lab shot back into focus. He could hear Vriska hissing “please, please, please,” Nepeta’s delighted shrieks as Tavros clanked after her, Sollux valiantly trying to corral the rest of the trolls into working, and above it all was Terezi’s constant cackle.
A flash of inspiration struck him. He stood up suddenly, and turned to address the rest of the trolls, who all (amazingly) fell silent, seeing the resolve in his face.
“Listen up, fuckfaces,” he began.
Terezi grinned.
I might write an epilogue when we get a little bit more information about what happens to the trolls. We'll see! Again, thank you all for being so encouraging. I'm gonna go back to doodling now. :I
God the idea of Karkat just going up to the trolls and cutting himself and then basically telling them to fuck off is pure awesome.
Also, nV as i said before any fic involving unparalleled Karkat anger is freaking awesome, just because I like it so much.
It was really good and I am glad that you were able to come up with an ending.
You know, this might be a pretty weird thing to say about a fic in which Karkat tells all of survivng troll society to fuck off, but my favorite part of that is how actually Terezi and Sollux are awesome friends. The, er, bloodlust of the last line and Sollux's semiridiculous ability to make Karkat Get The Fuck Up -- it's wonderful.
The fact that you got it betaed is clear, too, because it reads more smoothly than the last parts. But that is because good writers need good editors!
nV: Well done! That was a pretty satisfying ending; I felt like it was the way Karkat might have revealed himself in the actual comic. ^_^ Now I'm going to amuse myself with the thoughts of those trolls (Vriska) who tried to bribe Terezi into telling them Karkat's blood color...only to have it all made completely unnecessary a few minutes later when he just out and tells them himself. XD
I wonder...if he'd held out on telling everyone, how long it would have taken for some of the more devious trolls to try, say, booby-trapping his door with sharpened trip wire?
So a while back we were talking about fics of possible stuff from the "Bad Future" timeline and I got thinking. We know that Jade's meteor hasn't hit yet in the main timeline, and we're already a few hours past the point where the timelines split. So Jade's got a few hours in the "Bad Future" timeline before the meteor hits.
So here's a conversation between Dave and Jade from the start of that timeline. Obviously it's kind of dark (at least, as dark as something can get with Jade in it), but there's also a bit of light at the end of the tunnel because they talk a bit about how Dave might learn time travel at some point.
Actually for the sake of argument, let's call it Dark. It kinda fits, in an "opposite to Light" sort of way: that was a conversation between Rose and John, and this is one between Dave and Jade. And like I say, it is pretty dark.
TG: jade
GG: oh hey dave what do you think of your planet???
TG: well its ok i guess but thats not important right now
TG: about an hour ago john told me he was off to his seventh gate to kill his boss guy while it was still sleeping
TG: havent heard back from him since
TG: tried pestering him but he wont respond
TG: rose got a message from him saying he was sorry or something but nothing since
TG: and well im kinda worried
GG: oooh maybe his dreamself woke up??
GG: i mean he doesnt have a dreambot
GG: so if hes asleep he wouldnt be able to respond to you anyway!!
TG: i guess
TG: can you go check
TG: hell for all i know youre already asleep
GG: lol yes i am and ok!
GG: oh nooooooo
TG: what
GG: dave its.....
GG: johns dreamself is.....
GG: i dont want to think about it!!!
TG: what?
TG: dead?
TG: dismembered?
GG: i said i dont want to think about it!!! >_<
GG: its horrible...
TG: ok
TG: um
TG: so do you think non-dream john is dead to?
GG: he might be i dont know!! D:
TG: well if hes not responding to us then i guess its likely
GG: this isnt supposed to happen!!!
TG: sorry but ive got news for you
TG: it is happening
TG: i mean id throw in a sbahj reference at this point but somehow with my best bro probably dead im not really in the fucking mood
GG: no i mean ive seen clouds with johns dreamself alive and awake and opening my present to him in the future
GG: he cant die now!!!
TG: huh
TG: and youre 100% sure this future cloud shit is accurate
GG: yes!!!
GG: i mean they dont always give the whole picture
GG: but if they say johns alive in the future then hes alive in the future!
TG: so what do you think happens
TG: are we gonna bring him back to life or something
GG: i dont know.....
GG: its like somethings happened that wasnt supposed to happen...
GG: and we need to fix it....
GG: wait! ive got it!!!
GG: youre going to have to travel back in time and tell john not to go through that seventh gate!!
TG: of course
TG: time travel
TG: why didnt i think of that myself its so fucking obvious
TG: quick marty to the delorean
TG: seriously jade please talk sense
GG: well dont forget dave i know quite a bit about this whole thing!
GG: its easy to do time travel
TG: it is?
GG: yes!!!
GG: but.....
GG: i think itd have to be a different kind of time travel to what im used to!!!
GG: most of the messing with time ive done is with stable time loops
TG: wait hold on what
GG: oh stuff like getting your spare copy of the game so that i can connect to you and get your spare copy of the game
TG: wait hold on what
GG: hehehe!!!
GG: dave the thing with time travel is...
GG: you cant overthink it
GG: just roll with it and see what happens!!!
TG: ok thats a bit weird but i guess ill try to remember it
GG: but yeah most of what i do is just setting things up so they happen the way theyre supposed to
GG: but here we actually need to change history here and that probably needs something extra.....
GG: and i think thats where you come in!
TG: me??
GG: yes dave you!!!
GG: you see the game gave us all got titles!
GG: john is... was... will be the heir of breath
GG: rose is the seer of light and im the witch of space
TG: are you sure youve got those two the right way round
GG: yes!!!
GG: and youre the knight of time!!
TG: i am?
TG: hmm
TG: so youre saying i've got time powers somehow
GG: it sounds like it
TG: and i might be able to do some sort of time travel thats different from this stable time loop stuff you do
TG: and i can go back in time and actually change what happens and get things back on the track where johns not dead and your dreams make sense
GG: yes!!!
GG: i think if anyone can get us out of this its you!
TG: ok but how
GG: i dont know.....
GG: but that doesnt matter really!!!
GG: all that matters is that you work it out eventually and then you can come back in time and save john!
TG: yeah that reminds me
TG: its not just john weve got to save here
TG: he was supposed to be connecting to you and getting you off of earth
TG: and youve got a meteor the size of
TG: well it may actually be bigger than texas
TG: and its headed towards you
GG: i know.....
GG: the trouble is i dont think we can do anything about it!!!
GG: i dont think sburb would like it if rose tried to disconnect from john and reconnect to me instead
TG: so what then
GG: well then i guess i get hit by a meteor in a few hours time... ._.
TG: oh
GG: yeah...
TG: so whatre you going to do in the meantime
GG: i think ill stay asleep to be honest
GG: itll give me a chance to say goodbye to my friends on prospit and maybe fix a few problems for you and rose!
GG: i need to stop some royals from abdicating!
GG: and then ill get your house built up as much as i can
TG: wow ok
TG: youre taking this pretty well
GG: well i know its not the end!!
GG: if you can come back in time and fix all this stuff, itll never happen!
GG: and maybe in the meantime you and rose can find out stuff about the game to help us out when we get back on track
GG: and find out what you need to do to wake your dreamselves up!!
TG: i guess
TG: still i got to say thats brave of you
TG: i mean even if i do find a way to get back in time youre still going to die here
GG: yeah well..... there isnt much i can do about it...
GG: and if im asleep when it happens then i wont notice a thing!
GG: really i think this is going to be harder on you and rose...
GG: it could be months before you work out how time travel works
TG: yeah well im going to eventually
TG: you can count on that
TG: im not gonna spend the rest of forever with just rose for company
GG: thats harsh dave!
GG: you know shes nice really
TG: i guess
TG: you know what i mean though
TG: ive already lost john and now it looks like you might go the same way
TG: so ill fucking gladly jump through whatever absurd hoops this game throws at me to work out how to bring you both back
TG: anyway i guess id better tell rose about all this and see if she can reconnect to you
TG: if not then well i guess its time for plan b
TG: so yeah have fun stopping those abdications or whatever it was
GG: good luck dave!
GG:
Man, Jade is so freaking optimistic.
It makes me want to cry.
Originally Posted by Bardic Feline
I wonder...if he'd held out on telling everyone, how long it would have taken for some of the more devious trolls to try, say, booby-trapping his door with sharpened trip wire?
I'd like to write my own version of the Bad Future events (probably a more depressing one, since I want to break from the pattern of all the others where Jade accepts her fate calmly) but it seems like it's kinda over done by now...
Hell, what with this other idea I've got rattling around in my mushy gourd I've got a lot of fanfic irons in the fire.
I would just like to congratulate everyone who wrote fics form page 69+ on their excellency and high standards. I'm thinking we should make a book of collaborative fanfic efforts, wait til it becomes a bestseller, then bitch over who gets the most money.
But we won't bitch because we're all lovely people (except me) and we're all married anyway so it'll just go into a joint account and we can all have cool cars and cool shades and be cooler than Strider which would be badass.
Also I apologise for not being around to boost morale a bit because I was busy being a useless piece of shit all day and playing all these GAMES. I think video games has devoured my passion for writing bad things and pretending I am good because I seem to slack off too much so yeah I probably won't be writing much/any more. I slack off sleeping and eating and waking up. This is how I live during the summer; in a state of stasis.
Keep up the good work!
Seriously that's not morale-boosting it's sincere I fucking love you all.
Frankie drinking game:
A shot for every musical reference
Finish your drink for a Welsh reference
Buy your mate a drink for every intentionally missed full stop
Also
Guess what
I DIDN'T MENTION SOLARIS THIS POST
NV and Breccia, you are both jaw-droppingly talented! Both of you have a great style of writing and great ideas for fics that are really exciting to read! Everyone is in character too, and I think you both use the characters to their fullest potential within the stories you have written.
NV, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time that I was reading, you made me realize how heavy Karkat's burden is. I was nervous and sympathetic for him the entire time! I think my favorite part were these few lines-
But Karkat was different. Not only was he lower -- far lower -- on the hemochrome spectrum, he liked to believe he was smarter than they were. More of a survivalist. He had learned to fall back on grey for everything.
Whew, I get a lot of raw emotion from Karkat here! A strange mix of anger, inferiority, and a secret pride in himself. The ending absolutely blew me away! I hope Andrew has Karkat reveal his color like that! Please write more, it was a pleasure reading Hemophobia and I would love to see other fics from you!
Breccia, you have most definitely solidified Karkat/Sollux as my OTP! I am not lying when I say that everytime I see a post from you on the forums, I check your signature for another fic, meaning that I end up checking to see if you've written some more several times every day! I expected the sequel to include lots of Karkat and Sollux since the story *is* about them after all, but what you did with the other characters was very clever! You did a great job of conveying an increasing sense of chaos and frenzy, and Karkat's silence was a brilliant idea! By having him say nothing, you conveyed more than I think would be possible through actual words! Your CG/TA fics are ridiculously enjoyable to read. Like, you don't even know how giddy they make me.
He really, really, really should've alchemized the AC before he'd left.
Dave wiped the sweat from his brow. It wasn't that he couldn't deal with the heat. He had grown up in the top floor of a skyscraper apartment in the southwest. As a point of fact, it got hot. But here there were no fans, no air conditioning, and most importantly, no wind. For the most part the Land of Heat and Clockwork seemed to be the inside of a giant machine, with a molten core. The nature of the machine? Unknown. It encompassed everything and seemed to accomplish nothing. But the atmosphere of the planet, for the most part, was the inside of a cave. Stale and hot and constantly moving. When wind did blow, it was impossible to discern where it was coming from. The residents alternated between aggressively hostile beasts and clueless expositionbots. It was not, in other words, a nice planet to visit.
And for the past six weeks, it had not been a nice place to live. He did not know how long it had been along the objective timeline. Almost a day, maybe? He had made at least a hundred reverses by now, trying to stay as close to possible to the critical point in time. Seeing past versions of himself and retracing their steps had stopped being surprising about five weeks ago. The Land of Heat and Clockwork was filled with Daves, and for the most part he (they?) tried to stay out of his (their?) way, or at least keep contact brief and conversation light. communicating with past selves, or future ones for that matter, could only disrupt their plan to make as much widespread progress as possible.
Dave's acquisition of the turntables from the indigenous Gearmen and Gristgolems had provided them with a strategy: revert to a previous save point, but cheat and bring progress back with them. Only Dave could go back, so he focused on finding as many plot-critical items as possible and climbing the echeladder so he'd be stronger when he went back. It was a good plan, and Dave was confident he could pull it off without any trouble. That was sort of the problem. the stakes are pretty dang high he thought to himself, but i own at this game. there's not really any challenge lohac can dish out that an unlimited supply of daves couldnt achieve.
But of course, the turntables were not creating time clones. If he tried to exploit them to create overwhelming advantages, he'd have to live through being everywhere at once. And it was really, really boring.
And his day wasnt getting better. He sighed and tapped his iShades, going off ominous glow screensaver mode and into Pesterchum client mode.
TG: okay i'm at a bridge
TG: i need you to do your scrying thing or whatever
TG: so i know this piece of shit is not going to drop me in the lava
TT: Is the bridge made out of long sheets of interlocking metal?
TG: what
TG: yeah basically
TG: that was fast, are you ready to start dealing out drive thru palm readings
TT: You've already crossed that bridge.
TT: About two hours ago.
TG: well that's retarded
TG: why would i come back here when i'm already crossing it now
TG: that just makes things even more complicated for no reason
TG: did i say what went wrong the first time i crossed it
TT: You told me to remind you that that information wouldn't be helpful, and would just make the whole situation more idiotic, and that you should feel stupid for asking.
TG: why is future me always such a dick
TG: i think this might be indicative of an actual problem
TG: where i piss myself off in the past only to make me embittered and feel more entitled to be an asshole, and thus take it out on my past self in the first place
TG: it's like an endless cycle of autotrolling, with all steps of my relationship with myself being broadcast through you in no particular order
TT: Well, aren't you opening up all of the sudden. This insightful, sensitive side of you is rather refreshing. I think we're making great progress, Mr Strider.
TG: i've become less intimidated by your psychobabblery since it came out that you were a batshit crazy cat lady
TT: Mmm, but at least you've finally come to terms with being intimidated by my, as you say, "psychobablery" in the first place
TG: i wonder if any other kid in this session has as many cats in the fire as you do
TG: i doubt it
TT: That's inappropriate. Also, too soon.
TG: lighten up jaspers is fine
TG: he is the bruce-lee-in-an-eldritch-princess-dress of sentient lolcatsprites
TG: he can handle some underwater city ruins
TT: Some what?
TG: uh nothing
TG: forget i said it
TT: Are you telling me that's where Jaspers has disappeared to? In some underwater city?
TG: you know what, you figure this all out on your own with more than enough time to save him so let's just drop it and let things run their course
TT: I suppose it's only fair turnabout, since I'm not going to tell you what's on the other side of the bridge.
TG: what really
TG: weeeeeeeeak
TT: You know the drill: Future Yous get veto power. Just suck it up, you're going to go on to do it to yourself so it doesnt really matter how you feel about it now.
TG: i spy: something weak
TG: do you know what it is rose
TG: it is you and future me
TG: being in cahoots
TG: friggin cahoots
TT: You certainly do seem to be saying cahoots.
TG: also the support structure of this bridge is another thing that looks weak
TG: if i fall in lava because of future me, i'm going to just not become him so he never exists
TG: that'll show him
TT: Okay, move on already, I think standing near the lava chasm is starting to make you lightheaded.
TT: Find an exhaust vent to cool down next, and try your best not to bump into yourself, unless you are supposed to, in which case yourself will probably bump into you.
TG: it's so straightforward i wonder why i bothered to ask.
I just caught up on breccia's fic, and holy crap I was fond of karkat/sollux already, and damn, that was awesome!
I've been trying to work on a paper all day, so here's a fic I was trying to finish for the anniversary. >_> It's an extended version of something I came up with while I was giving the song meme another whirl-- if I start again and get a full set of songs, I'll probably end up posting that, too.
Dave/Jade, indeterminate future. Don't ask me exactly what's going on XD
(tunnel of love)
in a screaming ring of faces, i seen her standing in the light
she had a ticket for the races, yeah, just like me she was a victim of the night
The dancefloor's like a goddamn carnival and you're the ringmaster of the year, dropping your beats like the god of all turntables. The crowd appreciates it, even if your boss doesn't, but fuck him, you'll be out of town by next weekend anyway. You're hopping shit gig to shit gig, been at it for years now, and you never know where you're gonna be from one night to the next, but you've always got a sense of where you are.
There's something you're working toward. Someday you're gonna get recognized, make it as big as you deserve to be, and that's probably what you're trying to do, catch someone's eye. You've got a feeling that someday, someone's gonna be in one of these dark-ass clubs. The right person's gonna be listening and everything will change.
You got five minutes till your set ends. Well, 4:43:11 but you know damn well you're the only one counting. Took you a while to figure out not everyone else has your way with time, not everyone else feels rhythm the way you do-- drums like a heartbeat, time like the blood through your veins. Probably you hit your head as a kid; you think you remember something about stairs.
You glance up into the writhing crowd and there's someone out there, near the back of the room, apart from the crowd but unafraid. They look up, and they're caught in the flash of the disco ball this fucktard has for christ knows what reason. Long, dark hair, round glasses, a t-shirt that's blue or green. No way in hell she's with a record company but she's looking at you now with a secretive smile.
4:13:13.
Yeah, she's looking at you, all right, and she wouldn't be the first chick to hit on you at one of these things but she'd be the first one to do it sober. There's something shy and flirtatious about her grin, sure, that little overbite of hers, but she doesn't duck her head away; her chin's held high.
There's something weirdly knowing about the girl, and you turn your head back down to your work, something strange circling in the depths of your mind. Part of you has a strange feeling she's gonna be a problem; another has a strange feeling she's gonna be a solution. And fuck, there's no reason they can't both be right, but there's one thing that's not worth arguing: something big is going down tonight.
You find the music turning around you, not quite deliberately, spinning a little sweeter, lilting and curling and posing deep questions with answers short and sweet. The bass stays just as strong, the beat keeps its time, shaking through the heart of you, and somehow-- somehow it works.
You've heard this song before, you can't remember where. Like a force of goddamn nature, like the spinning of the world, it doesn't feel like you're writing it: it feels like you're hearing it, like it's always been at the back of everything, like it was never really gone.
You look up, and she's coming toward you; the crowd doesn't seem to notice her, but they part anyway, until she's leaning over the tables, with a grin that's too honest to be properly flirtatious.
"Hi," she says.
"'Sup," you answer, though you know you probably shouldn't be encouraging her. Your turn your head down to your records.
"You're really cool," she says.
"No shit."
"Way too cool for this place," she says, and she makes it sound like like simple truth.
"Also in breaking news. OJ did it." You look up, taking her measure. She's still grinning, like she's never doubted anything in her life, especially not you.
"So," she says, aiming for flirtatious and only reaching adorable. "Wanna ditch this scene?"
You don't know this chick, you're low on cash, and your mouth opens to say no before another, stronger part of you tells you not to be a dumbass. Shit like this doesn't even happen, not most of the time. You don't let it go.
"...Sure, what the fuck," you say. "But the second you get all Fatal Attraction on my ass I'm dropping you cold. Don't care if you're a girl."
"Do so," she says, with a giggle. In a strange way, it looks like she can do flirtatious after all.
"The fuck are you, thirteen?" you murmur, mostly to yourself, spinning the music toward its end. She's not, though. Might act pretty similar but there's something older in her eyes. That, and ain't no thirteen-year-old built like that.
Maybe. Maybe. There's something going down, and it's probably you.
You finish out the song, and start packing up your gear-- you've had enough practice by now that it doesn't take long.
"Dude, I paid for--" says the owner, coming up in his crap-ass neon suit; doesn't it figure he'd choose now to show up.
"Shit, you already screwed me on the fees, I say we fucking call it even."
"What the fuck do you--"
You glare at him, and he shuts up, like most people do when you glare at them. Apparently people find you pretty intimidating, ever since you were a kid. You could stare down bullies in middle school, you could go anywhere in town-- which was good, because you fucking had to. After the cops came down on your brother you had to use all the skill you had.
And that's how you've been living ever since.
The girl pulls at your elbow; you follow, slinging your jacket over your shoulder.
"God," she giggles, "I almost forgot, you really really are that cool. Do you do this often?"
"What, turn tables in shitty dumps or let random chicks take me out on the town?"
"I meant the first, but now that you mention it..."
"All the goddamn time," you say. "It's what I do."
"The turning tables, right? And the going out on the town?"
"...Not a lot," you answer. It's embarassing, but it's better than the whole truth, which is not at all.
She laughs again. "Then you definitely don't know this town, right?"
"Shit, I been here two days, won't be here two more."
"Good. Then I can show you around!"
You want to ask what the hell the point of that is but something else tells you not to bother. She's on a roll, now, telling you how this bookstore is the sweetest place and the nice people at this shop make the best coffee and this bar makes the best martinis oh my god--
"You a student?" you ask, deciding to get a word in edgewise; you know this is a college town, you can tell them by how.
"Well, I was until today!"
You frown. "What, it's graduation already? Shit, I never remember these things, is that usually in April?"
"It is for me, anyway!" She spins around, points you toward the oldest building in town, all college-gothic and mortar and brick. You don't like towers, they all seem too goddamn phallic to you-- built to intimidate, to impose, and it kind of creeps you the fuck out.
"I think it's elegant..." she says. "But I think I know what you mean."
She smiles, like she knows you better than you know yourself, and you wonder. There's something weird about the chick--
"Shit, have I even asked your name yet?" you realize.
"No. And I'm not telling, either."
"Huh?"
She winks. "It's a secret," she says.
"The hell?"
"You don't like secrets?"
"Not really," you say.
"You don't like keeping them?"
"Just 'cause I do it doesn't mean I like it."
"...True." She smiles, softly. "C'mon, I know this coffee bar."
"It's the middle of the night..."
"And don't you want to stay awake?"
You do. You really do.
It's a crappy college hangout, like you suspected, all plants and wicker and indie music and pillows; oppressive, to anyone who's never been to college and probably never will, but after the first couple minutes you don't even remember that.
Maybe it's goddamn contagious, whatever the fuck is wrong with her. Everything looks a little brighter, flows a little easier, feels a little more familiar-- weird as she's acting, nothing about it really surprises you, and sure, there's not much that does anymore, but--
This is what it comes down to: she acts like she knows you, and you almost believe it.
"Maybe I shouldn't be doing this," she says, "but I can, so I am, and I don't really care what anyone says. It's allowed. Just barely, but it's allowed."
"See, some people do this thing," you say. "They call it 'making an ounce of goddamn sense'. Technically I guess it's optional but it's pretty popular. Ever thought about giving it a shot?"
"Neveeer," she giggles, not taken aback in the slightest. "Why on earth would I want to do something silly like that?"
She leans forward, chin propped in her hands, smiling softly, and any sadness in her eyes has got to be an illusion. Nothing about tonight has made sense, especially the part where it feels like everything suddenly does, everything in the world. You don't know what she wants, you don't know what she's asking for, and maybe she isn't; maybe she doesn't need to ask for anything more than this.
Or maybe that's all bullshit, whether she believes it or not. Maybe she wants more. Maybe she needs it.
"Hell," you say, "I think you're right."
And you kiss her; and sure enough, she kisses back.
-
Because it's insane, you spend ten minutes in the morning before opening your eyes trying to remember the layout of the apartment, trying to plot the best way to leave without a word. You don't remember much of it, so it takes a lot of concentration, which is your only excuse for why it takes you ten goddamn minutes to figure out she's not there.
You run your hand over the rough white pillowcase; there's no strands of long dark hair, it's not even warm. The sheets are still rumpled, but she's gone, without a trace.
This should make everything simpler. This should solve everything.
One inexplicable night. Maybe it never even happened; maybe someone slipped something in your drink. It probably didn't happen, and anyway, anyone with any sense would just forget it, move on out of town.
But you think you understand, now. Truth is, you don't make a bit of goddamn sense either, and everything else was just pretend.
You move to sit up, and realize there's something in your hand. You open it up; there's a gold band, studded by four-- pearls? No, they're not pearls, through the color and size and shape are right.
You've seen this ring before. You know it, for sure.
I don't make sense, either, you think, and you remember that one of the buildings she showed you on your tour was the local library.
It's a few minutes before they open, but you get on the computers without any trouble once they do. You bring up Notepad and your email account, pasting in every city you remember having ever been in-- there's a fifteen minute limit, but you think you've got most of them. Then you head to the reference section and drag out an atlas so heavy you could kill people with it, taping together some paper you stole from the printer to fit the giant pages. You can kind of see through it if you press it really close, and this isn't gonna be exact, anyway.
You pick up a red marker and begin playing connect-the-dots.
And yeah, it's not long before the lines turn into pictures-- concentric circles, not perfect but pretty fucking close. Like a search pattern... like a vinyl record.
You've always known it; someday, the right person will be listening, and everything will change.
It doesn't make sense, but it makes sense of everything.
You step out of the library, a broken record sketched in red marker on a crumpled piece of scrap paper in your hand, a long-forgotten bus ticket in your pocket. Whatever else is true, this is: you've been looking for something, all this time.
You slip the ring onto your finger, watching it catch the light for a moment before you clench your fist.
You know what you're looking for, now. And you are going to find it.
rA, fuck yes. I hope this is how it ends. That's like fixit fic for all the stories-where-they-have-to-forget of my childhood, except with more stoner DJing. AND I LOVE IT.
I just caught up on breccia's fic, and holy crap I was fond of karkat/sollux already, and damn, that was awesome!
I've been trying to work on a paper all day, so here's a fic I was trying to finish for the anniversary. >_> It's an extended version of something I came up with while I was giving the song meme another whirl-- if I start again and get a full set of songs, I'll probably end up posting that, too.
Dave/Jade, indeterminate future. Don't ask me exactly what's going on XD
(tunnel of love)
in a screaming ring of faces, i seen her standing in the light
she had a ticket for the races, yeah, just like me she was a victim of the night
The dancefloor's like a goddamn carnival and you're the ringmaster of the year, dropping your beats like the god of all turntables. The crowd appreciates it, even if your boss doesn't, but fuck him, you'll be out of town by next weekend anyway. You're hopping shit gig to shit gig, been at it for years now, and you never know where you're gonna be from one night to the next, but you've always got a sense of where you are.
There's something you're working toward. Someday you're gonna get recognized, make it as big as you deserve to be, and that's probably what you're trying to do, catch someone's eye. You've got a feeling that someday, someone's gonna be in one of these dark-ass clubs. The right person's gonna be listening and everything will change.
You got five minutes till your set ends. Well, 4:43:11 but you know damn well you're the only one counting. Took you a while to figure out not everyone else has your way with time, not everyone else feels rhythm the way you do-- drums like a heartbeat, time like the blood through your veins. Probably you hit your head as a kid; you think you remember something about stairs.
You glance up into the writhing crowd and there's someone out there, near the back of the room, apart from the crowd but unafraid. They look up, and they're caught in the flash of the disco ball this fucktard has for christ knows what reason. Long, dark hair, round glasses, a t-shirt that's blue or green. No way in hell she's with a record company but she's looking at you now with a secretive smile.
4:13:13.
Yeah, she's looking at you, all right, and she wouldn't be the first chick to hit on you at one of these things but she'd be the first one to do it sober. There's something shy and flirtatious about her grin, sure, that little overbite of hers, but she doesn't duck her head away; her chin's held high.
There's something weirdly knowing about the girl, and you turn your head back down to your work, something strange circling in the depths of your mind. Part of you has a strange feeling she's gonna be a problem; another has a strange feeling she's gonna be a solution. And fuck, there's no reason they can't both be right, but there's one thing that's not worth arguing: something big is going down tonight.
You find the music turning around you, not quite deliberately, spinning a little sweeter, lilting and curling and posing deep questions with answers short and sweet. The bass stays just as strong, the beat keeps its time, shaking through the heart of you, and somehow-- somehow it works.
You've heard this song before, you can't remember where. Like a force of goddamn nature, like the spinning of the world, it doesn't feel like you're writing it: it feels like you're hearing it, like it's always been at the back of everything, like it was never really gone.
You look up, and she's coming toward you; the crowd doesn't seem to notice her, but they part anyway, until she's leaning over the tables, with a grin that's too honest to be properly flirtatious.
"Hi," she says.
"'Sup," you answer, though you know you probably shouldn't be encouraging her. Your turn your head down to your records.
"You're really cool," she says.
"No shit."
"Way too cool for this place," she says, and she makes it sound like like simple truth.
"Also in breaking news. OJ did it." You look up, taking her measure. She's still grinning, like she's never doubted anything in her life, especially not you.
"So," she says, aiming for flirtatious and only reaching adorable. "Wanna ditch this scene?"
You don't know this chick, you're low on cash, and your mouth opens to say no before another, stronger part of you tells you not to be a dumbass. Shit like this doesn't even happen, not most of the time. You don't let it go.
"...Sure, what the fuck," you say. "But the second you get all Fatal Attraction on my ass I'm dropping you cold. Don't care if you're a girl."
"Do so," she says, with a giggle. In a strange way, it looks like she can do flirtatious after all.
"The fuck are you, thirteen?" you murmur, mostly to yourself, spinning the music toward its end. She's not, though. Might act pretty similar but there's something older in her eyes. That, and ain't no thirteen-year-old built like that.
Maybe. Maybe. There's something going down, and it's probably you.
You finish out the song, and start packing up your gear-- you've had enough practice by now that it doesn't take long.
"Dude, I paid for--" says the owner, coming up in his crap-ass neon suit; doesn't it figure he'd choose now to show up.
"Shit, you already screwed me on the fees, I say we fucking call it even."
"What the fuck do you--"
You glare at him, and he shuts up, like most people do when you glare at them. Apparently people find you pretty intimidating, ever since you were a kid. You could stare down bullies in middle school, you could go anywhere in town-- which was good, because you fucking had to. After the cops came down on your brother you had to use all the skill you had.
And that's how you've been living ever since.
The girl pulls at your elbow; you follow, slinging your jacket over your shoulder.
"God," she giggles, "I almost forgot, you really really are that cool. Do you do this often?"
"What, turn tables in shitty dumps or let random chicks take me out on the town?"
"I meant the first, but now that you mention it..."
"All the goddamn time," you say. "It's what I do."
"The turning tables, right? And the going out on the town?"
"...Not a lot," you answer. It's embarassing, but it's better than the whole truth, which is not at all.
She laughs again. "Then you definitely don't know this town, right?"
"Shit, I been here two days, won't be here two more."
"Good. Then I can show you around!"
You want to ask what the hell the point of that is but something else tells you not to bother. She's on a roll, now, telling you how this bookstore is the sweetest place and the nice people at this shop make the best coffee and this bar makes the best martinis oh my god--
"You a student?" you ask, deciding to get a word in edgewise; you know this is a college town, you can tell them by how.
"Well, I was until today!"
You frown. "What, it's graduation already? Shit, I never remember these things, is that usually in April?"
"It is for me, anyway!" She spins around, points you toward the oldest building in town, all college-gothic and mortar and brick. You don't like towers, they all seem too goddamn phallic to you-- built to intimidate, to impose, and it kind of creeps you the fuck out.
"I think it's elegant..." she says. "But I think I know what you mean."
She smiles, like she knows you better than you know yourself, and you wonder. There's something weird about the chick--
"Shit, have I even asked your name yet?" you realize.
"No. And I'm not telling, either."
"Huh?"
She winks. "It's a secret," she says.
"The hell?"
"You don't like secrets?"
"Not really," you say.
"You don't like keeping them?"
"Just 'cause I do it doesn't mean I like it."
"...True." She smiles, softly. "C'mon, I know this coffee bar."
"It's the middle of the night..."
"And don't you want to stay awake?"
You do. You really do.
It's a crappy college hangout, like you suspected, all plants and wicker and indie music and pillows; oppressive, to anyone who's never been to college and probably never will, but after the first couple minutes you don't even remember that.
Maybe it's goddamn contagious, whatever the fuck is wrong with her. Everything looks a little brighter, flows a little easier, feels a little more familiar-- weird as she's acting, nothing about it really surprises you, and sure, there's not much that does anymore, but--
This is what it comes down to: she acts like she knows you, and you almost believe it.
"Maybe I shouldn't be doing this," she says, "but I can, so I am, and I don't really care what anyone says. It's allowed. Just barely, but it's allowed."
"See, some people do this thing," you say. "They call it 'making an ounce of goddamn sense'. Technically I guess it's optional but it's pretty popular. Ever thought about giving it a shot?"
"Neveeer," she giggles, not taken aback in the slightest. "Why on earth would I want to do something silly like that?"
She leans forward, chin propped in her hands, smiling softly, and any sadness in her eyes has got to be an illusion. Nothing about tonight has made sense, especially the part where it feels like everything suddenly does, everything in the world. You don't know what she wants, you don't know what she's asking for, and maybe she isn't; maybe she doesn't need to ask for anything more than this.
Or maybe that's all bullshit, whether she believes it or not. Maybe she wants more. Maybe she needs it.
"Hell," you say, "I think you're right."
And you kiss her; and sure enough, she kisses back.
-
Because it's insane, you spend ten minutes in the morning before opening your eyes trying to remember the layout of the apartment, trying to plot the best way to leave without a word. You don't remember much of it, so it takes a lot of concentration, which is your only excuse for why it takes you ten goddamn minutes to figure out she's not there.
You run your hand over the rough white pillowcase; there's no strands of long dark hair, it's not even warm. The sheets are still rumpled, but she's gone, without a trace.
This should make everything simpler. This should solve everything.
One inexplicable night. Maybe it never even happened; maybe someone slipped something in your drink. It probably didn't happen, and anyway, anyone with any sense would just forget it, move on out of town.
But you think you understand, now. Truth is, you don't make a bit of goddamn sense either, and everything else was just pretend.
You move to sit up, and realize there's something in your hand. You open it up; there's a gold band, studded by four-- pearls? No, they're not pearls, through the color and size and shape are right.
You've seen this ring before. You know it, for sure.
I don't make sense, either, you think, and you remember that one of the buildings she showed you on your tour was the local library.
It's a few minutes before they open, but you get on the computers without any trouble once they do. You bring up Notepad and your email account, pasting in every city you remember having ever been in-- there's a fifteen minute limit, but you think you've got most of them. Then you head to the reference section and drag out an atlas so heavy you could kill people with it, taping together some paper you stole from the printer to fit the giant pages. You can kind of see through it if you press it really close, and this isn't gonna be exact, anyway.
You pick up a red marker and begin playing connect-the-dots.
And yeah, it's not long before the lines turn into pictures-- concentric circles, not perfect but pretty fucking close. Like a search pattern... like a vinyl record.
You've always known it; someday, the right person will be listening, and everything will change.
It doesn't make sense, but it makes sense of everything.
You step out of the library, a broken record sketched in red marker on a crumpled piece of scrap paper in your hand, a long-forgotten bus ticket in your pocket. Whatever else is true, this is: you've been looking for something, all this time.
You slip the ring onto your finger, watching it catch the light for a moment before you clench your fist.
You know what you're looking for, now. And you are going to find it.
-
Holy shit. usually the kids don't really interest me, but this was amazing. Your writing flows very smoothly, and I was really impressed with how you were able to maintain the second person all the way through and not have it feel awkward. I don't personally go for Dave/Jade, but that story made me reconsider. I don't know if you're planning on writing more, but I hope you are! I'd love to see a John/Rose one.
Sushi Database, that was really cool! You stayed in character really well. Dave's kind of a hard guy to write for, but I think you really nailed it. Can't wait for part II!
thanks for the comments all, you make me want to never stop writing
@tenebrais: i wasn't sure what to do with CA, so that's why he's out. CC is easy to understand and her quirks are cute; she seems like the type who wouldn't mind talking to anyone, regardless of blood color. I'm not sure that CA would even think about talking to CG, but who knows. ANDREW I AWAIT THIS IMPORTANT REVELATION, IT IS VERY IMPORTANT FOR MAKING YOUR CHARACTERS GAY.
@reclusiveAmateur: YES. Why haven't I considered the Older Dave As A DJ implications yet?!? That was awesome.
Late fic thread birthday gushing: You guys are so amazing! Seriously, this fandom is beyond wonderful, which actually means a lot. I mentioned it in the fandom secrets thread ages ago, but the fandom--and specifically this thread--is what got me writing again. Since I joined, I've had nothing but ideas just kind of leaking out everywhere, and churned out somewhere in the ballpark of 22,000 words of Homestuck fic (both published and in progress). That's not a lot for some writers, but for me, it easily exceeds basically everything else I've ever written combined. So if it's not too cheesy: YOU GUYS ARE MY INSPIRATION. Keep being awesome. <3
There was an assload of really great stuff posted over the last couple pages and I wish I had the time to comment on everything. RA, I do have to say: fuck yes, you manage to hit my buttons every single time. So. Good. (Also I'm going to have to scrap one of my drabbles because it was literally the exact same idea as your last fic, only YOU DID IT BETTER. SO JEALOUS.)
I am incredibly late with this! I wanted to finish it for the huge fic-posting birthday party, but I got stuck, and then I got busy, and then I got more stuck, augh. HUGE thanks to DocBeard and Tezrial for looking it over for me.
the path was closed, chapter two. it'll never be the same, she says.
october 29, 2003.
John is seven when he learns that the dead morning hours do funny things to everyone. In the years that follow, he tries to explain it to people, and it never goes anywhere; just a lot of yes, people act strangely when they don't get enough sleep, and bluh bluh chronobiology, and he mutters “nevermind, thanks” somewhere around circadian rhythms. And when a wikipedia scientist of a school counselor isn't rationalizing it into neat little color-coded boxes, it's his teachers sticking grades on it--you have such a wonderful imagination, John. It seems like a disservice to slap an A- on his psychological trauma and tack it up on his refrigerator. And when he mentions that yes, it actually is real, crawling, life-shaping psychological trauma, a few of them give him scrunched, concerned looks and ask what his home life is like.
But it's nothing like that.
It starts out as a fit of passive adolescent rebellion against his father's well-intentioned but velvet-gloved book of rules. (Homework done by 6, no eating after 7, TV off at 9:30, teeth brushed by 9:45, bed at 10, and he's so sure that it's all the work of an honest to god unfeeling tyrant.) He lies in bed and listens to the rain on the roof, waits for his father's footsteps to settle, and fifteen minutes after that, he slips out with a squirreled-away candy bar in hand, padding like a cat burglar down to the living room. He even feels a little thrill of victory when he makes it down the staircase without a squeak.
Three out of five rules is a pretty good record too, he thinks. It's four, really, when he realizes that the candy bar will effectively undo the two minutes of minty, joyless scrubbing he'll never get back. Four out of five. It's just about the coolest thing he's ever done in his short seven years.
The VCR pulses 12:00, but the clock on the mantel says 10:37, so he takes a second to set the green numbers straight because his dad always promises he'll get around to it and he never does. The world is his, after that; he clicks the TV on, bathes the living room with blue, and decides on an old favorite he hasn't seen in awhile. One rife with mobsters, car chases, jetpacks, gunfights, and Nazis--basically the perfect movie if he's ever seen one. He turns the volume down low, settling close to hear it over the patter of rain at the windows. (He brings the tally up to five out of six, now; don't sit too close to the TV, the mantra of years and years.) By 11:59, fingers sticky with chocolate and hair poking at odd angles from all the static, he's fairly sure he wants to be Cliff Secord when he grows up, and doctor can be a fallback profession in case he can't get the right helmet.
The VCR clock reads 12:00 again just briefly, just for one infinitesimal moment, before the world ends.
The way John's attention snaps is almost violent as the TV blinks out with an electrical whine. Perfect time for a power outage, he thinks, right at the awesome zeppelin scene, and it's more than a little bit unfair to have it happen on this night of all nights. It wasn't the neighborhood, either, probably just his house; the room's still lit a queasy, washed out yellow-green from the street lamps, rain-trails making slithering shadow puppets on the far wall.
He walks to the window, presses a hand to the pane, then a cheek as he strains his eyes up and down the street, and that's when he knows something is Wrong--not checkmarked spelling test wrong, but a Wrong that makes the small hairs on his neck stand up, the gut-filling feeling of breaking all the rules without the ride-along pride. The glass feels warm against his skin like the after-heat of a seat just vacated, and it shouldn't, not in a chilly, late October thunderstorm. The rain too is Wrong in this light, and the street glistens with a thick nailpolish coat of it. As his eyes adjust, he watches the glossed surface melt into a deep, dirty red like the wine his father buys for Christmas.
The lamps are out for as far as he can squint; the glow is from the moon, jaundiced and grinning through a break in the clouds. He looks for signs of life and sees nothing but stark silhouettes cut against the hazy, chlorine-green backlight, and it's all Wrong. When he sees movement, he thinks it might be a neighbor or a stray until the shadows on his lawn start shifting like liquid pitch, formless and alive and the world is sick, he thinks with a gasp, pulling away from the window. The world is sick and it's bleeding and there's something out there, something wrong, something Wrong, something making it sick, something hurting it--
John stumbles into backpedaling with fear rising in his chest, small fists clenched, until his calves hit the staircase and he has nowhere to go but up. Propelled by adrenaline, he takes them two at a time (six out of seven, you'll hurt yourself), bolting across the mezzanine and down the hallway to his father's room. Someone has to know that the world is dissolving into darkness; someone has to flatten John's hair and rub his back and tell him it's going to be fine. This has to be like it is in the movies, where Right trumps Wrong and the sun rises after all. He cannot conceive of a different ending.
A frantic explanation forms on his lips as he bursts into the room, then dies as quickly as it came, leaving him gaping, wide-eyed, and locked with fear.
His father's bed lists dangerously to one side, mattress heavy with the glint of something polished and piano-black, hidden under a curled, half-formed mess of shadows working at the lid with calm serial killer diligence. The sound is like a slow motion car crash--metal shrieking as it's shredded under sets of boline claws, undertones of groaning with each tug on the open gashes. John's breath hitches, hand frozen on the doorknob, as a pair of stoplight red eyes blink onto him; then two pairs, then three, and then the room falls into silence below the slippery shuffle of demons dropping off and moving in for a kill.
For years and years afterward, he'll know it as the last memory of the night he can recall in vivid clarity: three heads bobbing in a jerky marionette rhythm, six arms punching out from a single amorphous torso, and the chill of foreign, dark thoughts that seem all too human.
It's almost a blessing when reality splinters into screaming, red-hot pain.
A voice floods his head like fire--consumes it, burning into all the crenellations until there's no sight but fragments of white light, no sound but the roar of wind and storm, and no feeling but the shuddering agony of burning, of dying, like amputation and no anesthesia. The voice says words he'll never remember in a way he'll never forget, all snake-smooth and laughing.
I'll take it from here, kid.
His father finds him the next morning sprawled out in the hallway, dried blood gathered at his ears, and rushes him into the hospital. It's the start of a three day visit, dotted with a parade of tests and examinations, an uncomfortable acquaintance with the inside of an MRI scanner, a doting nurse who ruffles his hair and sneaks him ice cream when his father isn't looking, and a whole lot of television. John's threshold for boredom and fussing adults reaches its peak conveniently the day he's discharged, and by the time he's walking out to the parking lot with his dad, it doesn't even matter anymore.
“Clean bill of health,” his father says, clapping a hand on John's shoulder. “The doctor said the confusion should wear off--”
“Dad, I'm not confused,” he protests. “That's really what happened.” He's too short to see his father's shifting grimace, hidden under the brim of a hat.
“Still, you need some time to recover. You'll be fine.”
After a week, then two, then a month, though, it's clear that John isn't fine by its standard definition; the story never changes, the same pitch perfect repetition of detail with every retelling. His father never shows his worry, but it's apparent in the way he starts doting, making up for things he hasn't even done. John appreciates the gestures until he finds out he's been set up for sessions with the school counselor. He starts avoiding his father, after that.
Years pass. The story never changes. He's still terrified of approaching midnight, still hates storms, still can't stand walking outside after dark; dreams come and go where nothing's ever clear, waking with headaches and a voice he can't remember. He sees a therapist for his dad's sake, but he can never get too comfortable when he feels like it should be someone else sitting in the chair across from him. Time marches onward and the memories fade to a dull but persistent ache.
On his thirteenth birthday, he catches the VCR clock by chance as he's walking through the living room, backpack slung over his shoulder and afternoon sun in his eyes. It blinks insistently at him over and over, 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, like it's willing him, urging him, to revisit five years and a lifetime ago. It's not the first time the clock's reset since that night, but his father had been almost terrifyingly on the ball when it came to setting it right again, painfully aware of the significance. John isn't actually sure when he saw those numbers last.
He makes a decision. The story hasn't changed, and it won't, not ever, because John isn't a liar, not to himself or anyone else. And if he's not a liar, then it means it was real, that there's a notch in time where reality bleeds and everyone plays dead for all the right reasons; that the world is sick, that something's hurting it, that something's Wrong.
The prospect of being Cliff Secord went out the window when he hit double digits, helmet or no, but doctor is still on the table, and if the world is sick, then it needs one. Doctors, John thinks, can't be scared of a little blood and plague. They'd never be able to do their jobs.
He checks his watch, sets the clock to 4:13, and resolves that it won't be the last time he sees 12:00, 12:00, 12:00.
God I can't stay mad at Noir.
He's just.
He's like when a tiny puppy murders a squirrel and brings the corpse into your house as a present to you and it's wagging its tail and is SO PROUD of itself.
Then it goes into your house, tears your couch apart, and shits on all of your carpets.