MSPA fan-fiction

[Qukeza]

Layra: Cute vignettes. Brevity=wit.

zil: Don't worry, because that seemed excellent. The tone did change a little from beginning to end, but that'll happen if a writer starts penning to get to the end himself or herself.

Tenebrais: Again, magnificent. I would have expected "turgid", mostly because it's short for "this is a deliberately bad sexfic", but tumescent works just as well.

This one's long, so don't read it if you don't like words.

New Creation

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This isn't for real.

This is just a simulation.

That's the billion-voice music. Every sense I could theoretically possess, every speck of information contained in this world painted with vague, and every object present exist only so that they may transmit this message. The message is all that exists, overpowering everything else with infinite strength. It loops until, far off in the distance somewhere, a switch clicks and the world turns off.

A pause. And then, some light, and I am standing on a white sheet. No boundaries restrict me, because as of now I am the only concrete entity different than this bright field. It doesn't really matter where I think I am. But I'm supposed to be doing something.

I give my avatar some freedom from definition. Glad for the blurry shield, the figure takes less of my mental focus to sustain. I also open the world's ears, so that we may both percieve. On my representation's level, there is but a whining noise at some hertz no one should hear. That quickly falls to innate white-noise ignorance, but on my level I hear definite, non-random structures.

Dave. Can you hear me, Dave?

Yeah, I can hear you fine. We don't appreciate the tone, though. The world's color changes to disapproval.

I'm going to take that grimace as a yes. You're lucid dreaming now. Metacognition is great, isn't it?

Words on the green chalkboard that makes up the ground and the sky remind me what metacognition means, but that quickly degenerates into the word-symbols "meta" and "cognitive". I try to remember when I went to sleep, but the world's definition becomes patchy and I can't continue without waking. My avatar reconstitutes. The camera I see it from steadies.

In case you've forgotten, we're near Skaia. This location is a mirror realm, where the meager creativity of mortal beings physically exists somewhere, and all imagined events are found if one walks far enough. Potentially, very dangerous, but this plane is infinite.

Well, it's nice to have someone who remembers what we're supposed to be doing. I'm asleep here; don't expect me to retain information.

The point here is to learn how to, through the use or abuse of this very realm, interact with the world while sleeping, thus freeing up time and possibly saving our lives. John and Jade can already do that, so, here we are.

These words invoke a certain pattern of mental action that I recognize, so I accept the assertions as true. The speech tattoos itself to the skin of the universe.

We came here because we needed to use imagination as a tool to fight for our way, and for Skaia. Or whatever. And here, imagination is a weapon. Imagination is the weapon. The only variable is control, which means the possible physical manifestation of a subconscious has the same consequences as introducing cavemen to nuclear weaponry. I must master lucid dreaming so that I can control the world around us.

You can perform two tasks to help create situations and objects. The first is to mentally define, or to focus on sensory perception of an entity. If you need to specify to the atom how objects appear, or dictate in what manner events occur, this will be your tool. It brings you closer to an awake state.

The second is to mentally associate attributes or states with entities. You understand how, in non-lucid dreams, you may know something without any proof or reason, and the knowledge is seemingly an underlying assumption of the universe? You may create these. This brings you closer to a lack of causality, and sleep without control.

You've probably tested most of this out already. But go ahead and imagine a small, non-consequential situation of your choosing.

Long-winded broad. Hell, she didn't even give me much to work with, did she? After a while, I order my avatar to lay down on the bed appearing next to him. There's a blonde girl on a stool next to that, reading a notebook and writing in another.

Maybe it's just my imagination (if it were my imagination it would be true; I can't find a better phrase), but the mannequin created to represent Rose looks like it turns around and gazes into the white void as if she suspects I, the floating camera, am watching her and the avatar.

O-kay... imagine something non-consequential is now different about the situation.

Still not much to inspire, but I guess that's the idea. After a minute of contemplation, I exponentially ramp up the amount of definition regarding features of the mannequin, and when I feel there's enough focus to see clearly, I tell the universe the mannequin is naked.

Well, damn. I mean, most of it's my imagination, but it's still not a bad show.

Strider, give me my clothes back!

The question flits through my mind regarding how she knows this, but the reasoning centers and coherent, ordered thought processes don't work here. She'll explain, of course. In a bikini and a tutu.

I know you're not too creative, but your lack of mental ability doesn't correspond to how many square inches of cloth you can conjure. Try again.

A straitjacket. This is so much fun that even my avatar laughs.

Oh, ha, ha; this is a fun game. Your imagined scenario, which I assume is you laying on a couch and me sitting on a stool, has melded with this mirror realm in a way that leaves the physical me, and not an alternate copy, in a straitjacket. Put simply, your lucid dream dictates reality. So imagine me up some acceptable clothing, if you please.

A lab coat, because I'm a jerk. The mannequin loses definition in order to free up the avatar, who stands up and walks as the bed fades away. Not really sure where the mannequin travels to, but the two stay together regardless.

As if we needed more proof this works, you are standing and walking. Create a useful item so we may obtain the captchalogue codes for objects none of use possess, if you please.

The avatar strokes his chin and taps his foot, mainly for effect. In fact, the hastily written and carefully hidden notebook of slash fanfiction already hovers about two feet off the ground, yaw changing slightly, but my constant mental cries of "No, not yet!" mean no one, not even the floating camera, can see it.

And then, a mischievous idea. Why limit myself to flustering Rose by presenting her ideas written in paper when I can present her ideas in a more physical way?

A small cackle as I define two green, muscular torsos with colored hats. Inject some vaguely-specified but strong romance, with lots of intimacy. A metal rope between the mannequin's mentality and the acts presented, leaving the specifics to a definition of "what [mannequin] secretly and fervently thinks about regarding [two green men]". All of it not that much definition in total (mostly universal state creation, really) so I use a bit more to re-create the billion-voice music, which encompasses every sense and atom. It tells her to turn around. Perfection, at its finest.

Wha--... oh. Oh, my.

I don't remember how much time was spent doing this. I'm sure the roundabout way that Rose's "secret" fantasies turned into a show before her proves the ability to alter the mirror realm while also consciously existing in it, through the medium of another. I think something was said about the difference between a daydream and a dream, in that every single moment of a daydream one recognizes it as unreal but continues anyway, meaning if a person sees the artifacts of his or her daydream he or she will unconsciously and immediately delete them from this realm. I think Rose said that second part word-for-word, because I sure as hell don't summarize like that.

Time doesn't change the white field, so there's not much to measure its passage. The figures lose definition. I see and hear everything through water. Not concentrating, because this is boring. Letting go. Wandering. Whatever.

My metacognition kicks in half a second before it's too late, and every panic gauge in my mind is set to overload. I pull myself back from the brink, rearrange everything. This is the universe now, down to the atom. An avatar with my clothes and features, a mannequin with Rose's attributes. Bit by bit I build them. Maybe it even takes hours. I only lay off the focus after I look into both faces and remember how I defined each piece.

I almost lost the lucidity. Which means my subconscious would have taken over for reality. In an area less than ten feet from where my sleeping body and a helpless teenage girl stand.

I really want to wake up and call it quits, but we need this to work.

Well, that distraction amused for a while. But did we learn anything?

Start up the billion-voice music for a response. Conversation takes my mind closer to waking due to the combination of communication and memory, but I'd rather toe the line on that side right now, thankyouverymuchyouhaveanicedaynowy'hear.

"It's possible to communicate both ways. I can use your imagination to create as well as mine. And by the way, here's a jetpack."

A jetpack, with fuel. It makes no noise. Prevent a feedback loop.

We're advancing quicker than I expected. As... thoroughly demonstrated earlier, you can conjure people and initiate interaction between them. But can you do the same for a person that interacts with non-created objects?

Sure, that's simple. See, here's Jade. Buck teeth, weird hair, giggles a lot, says silly things in response. Not one hundred percent, but nothing here will be perfectly defined.

A fursuit. Really.

"That's to differentiate her and John. I mean, look -- take away the fursuit, make her giggle less, switch gender to male -- John."

In this realm, that's only true because you believe it's true. But, I will ask a question to the created character and return with results.

I'm interested about my visual display when a reality-based person moves in a connected dream-to-reality scene, so I don't deliberately imagine Rose's mannequin walking over and asking John. The effect mesmerizes. It's as if some painter picked up a three-dimensional Rose brush and created a line from her current position to John's, leaving a large smudge. John spouts some movie answer. I don't drift off this time, keeping the "awake" button on a hairpin trigger.

I'm assuming you didn't memorize the actor's name for Alex "DeLarge" in A Clockwork Orange, so this leads to a strange conclusion: you can communicate accurate information without knowing the information. This is probably one of -- no, it is the most important thing we've learned today.

Huh. That's cool. If one person plays along I can get anyone's secrets, passwords, credit card numbers... this is great.

"What next?"

One last experiment for today. I want to see the results of creating a monster whose purpose is to be killed easily. This will also show how the lucid dream responds to a death of one of its constructs.

So create a monster for me. And no tentacles, please.

Hah. She would. She would say, "no tentacles, please". Rose knows me way too well. In my subconscious, everyone's a sixteen-year-old Japanese chick in a Catholic schoolgirl's outfit, running down a dark alleyway.

Damnit, I mean, a tentacle monster doesn't even have to be sexual. Look at the Pokémon Tangela (is that its name? I forget). It's just a tentacle plant. No rape involved. Just tentacles. And it's a monster easily killed.

I guess I could piss her off by summoning up one of her dark anti-god tentacle demons. It wouldn't be that hard, even if the "oh-so-dark texts" say no mortal can comprehend their "dark majesty". Just create a huge beast, the size of a continent, and specify that parts lack definition even outside of a dream. Make it as evil as something could be, and titanically powerful. Those aren't as much definition or focus as they are universal statement declaration, though a little bit of both. Build an iron link between the mannequin's mind's beliefs about such a creature and the demon/god itself. All in all, very little definition, which is the harder task of the two. Maybe give it some rapist tendencies, just for kicks. Oozing pus from its face, because why not.

And then I realize: I'm in a dream. Where there's no difference between thinking about something and doing it.

What is that thing?! Strider?! Keep it away from me!

SHIT.

I break the link between the creature and Rose's mind first. The iron fades away. But without feedback, I can't tell if the creature loses the attributes this band gave it or just lost the fact that a change in belief will change the creature. Knowing my horrible luck, the latter. Hell, the creature can probably control how my imagination influences it considering how powerful Rose thinks it is.

STOP IT. Do NOT think with your emotions. You're in panic mode, Dave. Rightfully so, but you're still trying to fight a creature using the tools you used to create it. Your subconscious is overpowering your conscious thoughts, and that's working against you. Do not fear. Get some power to the conscious.

I give the creature definition. Imagine all the warts, wrinkles and oozing puss that smatter its face. Its nose is long, and... short. Its cheeks are colored dull... um... and its forehead is large, bigger than an atom.

There's no way it could stop me from defining it. I didn't say anything about undefinable attributes. It's as big as... it smells like...

Oh, fuck me.

That's it. Screw this. Game's over; time to wake up, Dave. I crank my definition into overdrive, and the all-encompassing billion-voice music bangs on the glass of reality and demands: wake Dave Strider if you would please Rose Lalonde. But the message loops and the engine gets hot. I keep on going, pushing everything past warnings I barely notice. I lost track of time some amount of it ago.

...Hello? Heh, wow. I just realized, this must all be the dream. Even the communication between us after a certain point. I must have actually fallen asleep after the slash stuff. I mean, if we were in any danger, Rose would have waken me up. Waking up dispels the effects. She knows that. It's not like the monster has the ability to scare her of all people out of her wits. It's not that terrifying. Duh. Nothing is really endangering Rose or I'd be awake now, am I right?

Besides, the creature can't hurt me at all. If I feel any amount of pain, I'll wake up and it'll disappear. There's no way it could disconnect itself from my dream; that's just stupid. Even if Rose does get hurt, we can alchemize some bandages. If worst comes to worst, I'll use the information creating abilities of this place to get both Rose's DNA and memories, and then we can recreate her. The creature won't do anything to the underlying structure of this place. I mean, it's neither evil nor a god, right?

Even if it does rampage around for however long I'm asleep, I'll wake up eventually. That's easy to say. The human body cannot sleep indefinitely. And when I do wake up in nine hours, it'll be gone and we can recreate Rose, good as new. It's unfortunate we lost so much time, but oh well. There's nothing about this hellspawn that any writer would ever think to say regarding the ability to make men sleep forever. Without killing them. Right?

And, I mean, the creature can't kill me. You'll never die in a dream. That's all there is to say about that. People do not die in their own dreams. I will wake up before I die, so I will not die here in my dream. No creature can violate this immutable fact. I will not die. I can't die in a dream. That's impossible. End of story.

...

Right?

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The first two lines, and the phrase "billion-voice music" are references to Sam Hughes' wonderful Fine Structure series. If you wish to read something that qualifies as literature, instead of these pieces of garbage you masochists for some reason accept from me, I suggest you read it. If you're a sapient being I can guarantee you'll enjoy it.

Also, I understand lucid dreaming may not work this way. It's a story. Don't get your frilly woman's underwear in a knot over it.

[Chrysolith]

So, uh, first fanfiction in..what, 9 years? Hopefully I've improved! Here's a little something pre-Intermission. Hopefully it makes sense what's going on and flows well. If not, just ask!

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It was the first time she actually noticed just how big these doors were. Then again, it was the first time she was standing in front of them alone - usually surrounded by her fellow gang members. Never had that green door looked so ominous before. Lifting her cigarette to her mouth, she took a long, slow drag. She grimaced. Oh how she hated the taste of tobacco against her lips, but she no longer had her cigarette holder. It was, after all, the very first thing she broke once she discovered just what he had done. Her face contorted into something like a snarl, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. Cigarette holder or not, she needed that nicotine to calm her nerves. Now more than ever.

She gently laid her carapaced hand on the door and thought about knocking. Would anyone answer? She scoffed, she could picture it now! Those morons, Eggs and Biscuits politely opening the door and escorting her to Lord English. Actually, with her luck, it would be Doze doing the escorting. Her hilarious fantasy being true or not, surely they were expecting her arrival? Fin must have used his ability to see her future trail enter the mansion. If it even did. She quickly turned around, scanning for any of those green bastards in sight just waiting for a chance to attack her off guard. Seeing none, she slowly turned her head back to the magnificent entrance. What if they really did know she'd be there? Would all of them be there, waiting to knock her into oblivion as soon as she opened the door? She know that despite their omnipotent powers, they were rather stupid and would always lose when fought. But before she had also fought them with her lance (for the second time today, she regretted breaking it so rashly), and they were with her.

Thoughts of her ex-team mates brought her back to one in particular. Oh, how her blood boiled just thinking about what he did, what they did. How did any of the expect they could just do whatever they wanted without repercussion? Did they actually believe she would let that happen?! No, they had to learn. They had to learn that they couldn't walk all over her like that! That's why she was here after all, at the headquarters of their worst enemies, hoping to have an audience with their boss. She wanted nothing to do with the Midnight Crew anymore, unless it involved maiming them mercilessly. She knew what had to be done.

She adjusted her brim on her large hat, and smoothed out her coat. She took a deep breath, and opened the door.

[Quixotic]

New Creation

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This isn't for real.

This is just a simulation.

That's the billion-voice music. Every sense I could theoretically possess, every speck of information contained in this world painted with vague, and every object present exist only so that they may transmit this message. The message is all that exists, overpowering everything else with infinite strength. It loops until, far off in the distance somewhere, a switch clicks and the world turns off.

A pause. And then, some light, and I am standing on a white sheet. No boundaries restrict me, because as of now I am the only concrete entity different than this bright field. It doesn't really matter where I think I am. But I'm supposed to be doing something.

I give my avatar some freedom from definition. Glad for the blurry shield, the figure takes less of my mental focus to sustain. I also open the world's ears, so that we may both percieve. On my representation's level, there is but a whining noise at some hertz no one should hear. That quickly falls to innate white-noise ignorance, but on my level I hear definite, non-random structures.

Dave. Can you hear me, Dave?

Yeah, I can hear you fine. We don't appreciate the tone, though. The world's color changes to disapproval.

I'm going to take that grimace as a yes. You're lucid dreaming now. Metacognition is great, isn't it?

Words on the green chalkboard that makes up the ground and the sky remind me what metacognition means, but that quickly degenerates into the word-symbols "meta" and "cognitive". I try to remember when I went to sleep, but the world's definition becomes patchy and I can't continue without waking. My avatar reconstitutes. The camera I see it from steadies.

In case you've forgotten, we're near Skaia. This location is a mirror realm, where the meager creativity of mortal beings physically exists somewhere, and all imagined events are found if one walks far enough. Potentially, very dangerous, but this plane is infinite.

Well, it's nice to have someone who remembers what we're supposed to be doing. I'm asleep here; don't expect me to retain information.

The point here is to learn how to, through the use or abuse of this very realm, interact with the world while sleeping, thus freeing up time and possibly saving our lives. John and Jade can already do that, so, here we are.

These words invoke a certain pattern of mental action that I recognize, so I accept the assertions as true. The speech tattoos itself to the skin of the universe.

We came here because we needed to use imagination as a tool to fight for our way, and for Skaia. Or whatever. And here, imagination is a weapon. Imagination is the weapon. The only variable is control, which means the possible physical manifestation of a subconscious has the same consequences as introducing cavemen to nuclear weaponry. I must master lucid dreaming so that I can control the world around us.

You can perform two tasks to help create situations and objects. The first is to mentally define, or to focus on sensory perception of an entity. If you need to specify to the atom how objects appear, or dictate in what manner events occur, this will be your tool. It brings you closer to an awake state.

The second is to mentally associate attributes or states with entities. You understand how, in non-lucid dreams, you may know something without any proof or reason, and the knowledge is seemingly an underlying assumption of the universe? You may create these. This brings you closer to a lack of causality, and sleep without control.

You've probably tested most of this out already. But go ahead and imagine a small, non-consequential situation of your choosing.

Long-winded broad. Hell, she didn't even give me much to work with, did she? After a while, I order my avatar to lay down on the bed appearing next to him. There's a blonde girl on a stool next to that, reading a notebook and writing in another.

Maybe it's just my imagination (if it were my imagination it would be true; I can't find a better phrase), but the mannequin created to represent Rose looks like it turns around and gazes into the white void as if she suspects I, the floating camera, am watching her and the avatar.

O-kay... imagine something non-consequential is now different about the situation.

Still not much to inspire, but I guess that's the idea. After a minute of contemplation, I exponentially ramp up the amount of definition regarding features of the mannequin, and when I feel there's enough focus to see clearly, I tell the universe the mannequin is naked.

Well, damn. I mean, most of it's my imagination, but it's still not a bad show.

Strider, give me my clothes back!

The question flits through my mind regarding how she knows this, but the reasoning centers and coherent, ordered thought processes don't work here. She'll explain, of course. In a bikini and a tutu.

I know you're not too creative, but your lack of mental ability doesn't correspond to how many square inches of cloth you can conjure. Try again.

A straitjacket. This is so much fun that even my avatar laughs.

Oh, ha, ha; this is a fun game. Your imagined scenario, which I assume is you laying on a couch and me sitting on a stool, has melded with this mirror realm in a way that leaves the physical me, and not an alternate copy, in a straitjacket. Put simply, your lucid dream dictates reality. So imagine me up some acceptable clothing, if you please.

A lab coat, because I'm a jerk. The mannequin loses definition in order to free up the avatar, who stands up and walks as the bed fades away. Not really sure where the mannequin travels to, but the two stay together regardless.

As if we needed more proof this works, you are standing and walking. Create a useful item so we may obtain the captchalogue codes for objects none of use possess, if you please.

The avatar strokes his chin and taps his foot, mainly for effect. In fact, the hastily written and carefully hidden notebook of slash fanfiction already hovers about two feet off the ground, yaw changing slightly, but my constant mental cries of "No, not yet!" mean no one, not even the floating camera, can see it.

And then, a mischievous idea. Why limit myself to flustering Rose by presenting her ideas written in paper when I can present her ideas in a more physical way?

A small cackle as I define two green, muscular torsos with colored hats. Inject some vaguely-specified but strong romance, with lots of intimacy. A metal rope between the mannequin's mentality and the acts presented, leaving the specifics to a definition of "what [mannequin] secretly and fervently thinks about regarding [two green men]". All of it not that much definition in total (mostly universal state creation, really) so I use a bit more to re-create the billion-voice music, which encompasses every sense and atom. It tells her to turn around. Perfection, at its finest.

Wha--... oh. Oh, my.

I don't remember how much time was spent doing this. I'm sure the roundabout way that Rose's "secret" fantasies turned into a show before her proves the ability to alter the mirror realm while also consciously existing in it, through the medium of another. I think something was said about the difference between a daydream and a dream, in that every single moment of a daydream one recognizes it as unreal but continues anyway, meaning if a person sees the artifacts of his or her daydream he or she will unconsciously and immediately delete them from this realm. I think Rose said that second part word-for-word, because I sure as hell don't summarize like that.

Time doesn't change the white field, so there's not much to measure its passage. The figures lose definition. I see and hear everything through water. Not concentrating, because this is boring. Letting go. Wandering. Whatever.

My metacognition kicks in half a second before it's too late, and every panic gauge in my mind is set to overload. I pull myself back from the brink, rearrange everything. This is the universe now, down to the atom. An avatar with my clothes and features, a mannequin with Rose's attributes. Bit by bit I build them. Maybe it even takes hours. I only lay off the focus after I look into both faces and remember how I defined each piece.

I almost lost the lucidity. Which means my subconscious would have taken over for reality. In an area less than ten feet from where my sleeping body and a helpless teenage girl stand.

I really want to wake up and call it quits, but we need this to work.

Well, that distraction amused for a while. But did we learn anything?

Start up the billion-voice music for a response. Conversation takes my mind closer to waking due to the combination of communication and memory, but I'd rather toe the line on that side right now, thankyouverymuchyouhaveanicedaynowy'hear.

"It's possible to communicate both ways. I can use your imagination to create as well as mine. And by the way, here's a jetpack."

A jetpack, with fuel. It makes no noise. Prevent a feedback loop.

We're advancing quicker than I expected. As... thoroughly demonstrated earlier, you can conjure people and initiate interaction between them. But can you do the same for a person that interacts with non-created objects?

Sure, that's simple. See, here's Jade. Buck teeth, weird hair, giggles a lot, says silly things in response. Not one hundred percent, but nothing here will be perfectly defined.

A fursuit. Really.

"That's to differentiate her and John. I mean, look -- take away the fursuit, make her giggle less, switch gender to male -- John."

In this realm, that's only true because you believe it's true. But, I will ask a question to the created character and return with results.

I'm interested about my visual display when a reality-based person moves in a connected dream-to-reality scene, so I don't deliberately imagine Rose's mannequin walking over and asking John. The effect mesmerizes. It's as if some painter picked up a three-dimensional Rose brush and created a line from her current position to John's, leaving a large smudge. John spouts some movie answer. I don't drift off this time, keeping the "awake" button on a hairpin trigger.

I'm assuming you didn't memorize the actor's name for Alex "DeLarge" in A Clockwork Orange, so this leads to a strange conclusion: you can communicate accurate information without knowing the information. This is probably one of -- no, it is the most important thing we've learned today.

Huh. That's cool. If one person plays along I can get anyone's secrets, passwords, credit card numbers... this is great.

"What next?"

One last experiment for today. I want to see the results of creating a monster whose purpose is to be killed easily. This will also show how the lucid dream responds to a death of one of its constructs.

So create a monster for me. And no tentacles, please.

Hah. She would. She would say, "no tentacles, please". Rose knows me way too well. In my subconscious, everyone's a sixteen-year-old Japanese chick in a Catholic schoolgirl's outfit, running down a dark alleyway.

Damnit, I mean, a tentacle monster doesn't even have to be sexual. Look at the Pokémon Tangela (is that its name? I forget). It's just a tentacle plant. No rape involved. Just tentacles. And it's a monster easily killed.

I guess I could piss her off by summoning up one of her dark anti-god tentacle demons. It wouldn't be that hard, even if the "oh-so-dark texts" say no mortal can comprehend their "dark majesty". Just create a huge beast, the size of a continent, and specify that parts lack definition even outside of a dream. Make it as evil as something could be, and titanically powerful. Those aren't as much definition or focus as they are universal statement declaration, though a little bit of both. Build an iron link between the mannequin's mind's beliefs about such a creature and the demon/god itself. All in all, very little definition, which is the harder task of the two. Maybe give it some rapist tendencies, just for kicks. Oozing pus from its face, because why not.

And then I realize: I'm in a dream. Where there's no difference between thinking about something and doing it.

What is that thing?! Strider?! Keep it away from me!

SHIT.

I break the link between the creature and Rose's mind first. The iron fades away. But without feedback, I can't tell if the creature loses the attributes this band gave it or just lost the fact that a change in belief will change the creature. Knowing my horrible luck, the latter. Hell, the creature can probably control how my imagination influences it considering how powerful Rose thinks it is.

STOP IT. Do NOT think with your emotions. You're in panic mode, Dave. Rightfully so, but you're still trying to fight a creature using the tools you used to create it. Your subconscious is overpowering your conscious thoughts, and that's working against you. Do not fear. Get some power to the conscious.

I give the creature definition. Imagine all the warts, wrinkles and oozing puss that smatter its face. Its nose is long, and... short. Its cheeks are colored dull... um... and its forehead is large, bigger than an atom.

There's no way it could stop me from defining it. I didn't say anything about undefinable attributes. It's as big as... it smells like...

Oh, fuck me.

That's it. Screw this. Game's over; time to wake up, Dave. I crank my definition into overdrive, and the all-encompassing billion-voice music bangs on the glass of reality and demands: wake Dave Strider if you would please Rose Lalonde. But the message loops and the engine gets hot. I keep on going, pushing everything past warnings I barely notice. I lost track of time some amount of it ago.

...Hello? Heh, wow. I just realized, this must all be the dream. Even the communication between us after a certain point. I must have actually fallen asleep after the slash stuff. I mean, if we were in any danger, Rose would have waken me up. Waking up dispels the effects. She knows that. It's not like the monster has the ability to scare her of all people out of her wits. It's not that terrifying. Duh. Nothing is really endangering Rose or I'd be awake now, am I right?

Besides, the creature can't hurt me at all. If I feel any amount of pain, I'll wake up and it'll disappear. There's no way it could disconnect itself from my dream; that's just stupid. Even if Rose does get hurt, we can alchemize some bandages. If worst comes to worst, I'll use the information creating abilities of this place to get both Rose's DNA and memories, and then we can recreate her. The creature won't do anything to the underlying structure of this place. I mean, it's neither evil nor a god, right?

Even if it does rampage around for however long I'm asleep, I'll wake up eventually. That's easy to say. The human body cannot sleep indefinitely. And when I do wake up in nine hours, it'll be gone and we can recreate Rose, good as new. It's unfortunate we lost so much time, but oh well. There's nothing about this hellspawn that any writer would ever think to say regarding the ability to make men sleep forever. Without killing them. Right?

And, I mean, the creature can't kill me. You'll never die in a dream. That's all there is to say about that. People do not die in their own dreams. I will wake up before I die, so I will not die here in my dream. No creature can violate this immutable fact. I will not die. I can't die in a dream. That's impossible. End of story.

...

Right?

Holy shit, Qukeza.

That was pretty damn awesome, and I approve. I wasn't expecting it to get all freaky near the end there, but it was effective. Several thumbs up.

Yet again, not something I wouldn't have expected, and all the cooler for it.

[Gabu]

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Squiddles

"Uh, John, Jade?" Rose glanced over at Dave. Although she couldn't see through his sunglasses, she could tell that he was trying not to look at her, his cheeks dusted with pink.
"Yes, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We, uh..." Dave trailed off, the pink deepening. He shifted slightly closer to Rose and hissed, "God damnit, I feel like such a pansy. Like the business end of a wet-"
"Just get on with it." Rose whispered back, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to play up your insecurities for my sake."
Dave straightened and cleared his throat. "Rose and I..." He looked at her for a moment before turning back to the others.
John's eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face. He must have figured it out.
"What is it, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We're..." Dave's hand began twitching wildly, so Rose grabbed it, interlacing her fingers with his.
Jade noticed immediately. "Tangle buddies!"
Dave froze. "What."
Rose raised an eyebrow, then looked down at their joined hands. She sighed. "Yes, Jade. We're tangle buddies."
"Yay!" exclaimed Jade, clapping wildly. "Did you see, John? Dave and Rose are tangle buddies!"
"Tangle...buddies?" asked Dave. "How high do you even have to-"
"Strider," Rose forced out through clenched teeth, "Either we call it 'tangle buddies' or you can try to explain to Jade that we've been sleeping together since we turned 18."
"Oh," Jade interrupted, "I already knew that."
Dave's jaw and sunglasses dropped. Rose took the opportunity to turn bright red.
"But now you're tangle buddies, which is even better!"
John collapsed into a ball, whimpering.

Oh God, that was awesome. What with tangle buddies and John's mind assaulted and all.

[Rex]

I always loved writing stories, so I thought I'd try something here. Title would be... "Memories of a Felt Operative; part 1"

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When you work with The Felt, you can be sure that somewhere, something interesting is happening. Itchy couldn't go five minutes without pulling a prank on someone, and the only ones safe from his antics were Clover, Snowman, Stitch, and Lord English himself. So while I worked with them, I found that I spent a lot of time guarding the vault with Clover, and his mindless bodyguards Eggs and Biscuits. I remember one day in particular, when Die finally came to us, fed up with Itchy...

It was a very slow day, I was engaged in conversation with Clover; his idiotic bodyguards had just made their appearances, and were standing around, doing nothing important. Suddenly Die appeared in the middle of the room, coming from one of the numerous timelines he traveled between. After he'd shaken off his bewildered look, he approached the two of us, obviously intent on getting something off his chest.

“Damn that Itchy!” he yelled once we were within earshot, “his antics have gotten him killed in more timelines then I care to count!”

Die was a bit of a sucker, always willing to play a game with someone, even if he knew he would lose. Itchy was always there to engage him in a game of poker, which normally ended with him fuming over his latest loss.

“I keep telling you not to play with him,” Clover responded, in his normal sing-song-like voice.

“Even in timelines that Diamonds Droog, Hearts Boxcars, and Clubs Deuce are dead in he has been killed because he pranked the wrong guy,” Die grumbled, oblivious to Clover's advice.

Diamonds Droog, Hearts Boxcars, and Clubs Deuce, three names that meant little to me; apparently, in many of the timelines Die travels to, those three, along with Mayor Spades Slick, had formed a gang called the Midnight Crew. In this timeline, their pins are in Die's voodoo doll. I asked him once why he doesn't have Slick's pin to the doll, and he tells me that if Slick wasn't around, then the town never would have come into existence. So instead, Slick's gang member's pins were. They must have been a bad influence on the mayor; he was such a nice man in this timeline. Of course, Lord English had him under his thumb at all times.

“Calm yourself Die, unless you want to scare Eggs again,” Clover called to his comrade.

Die looked back at Clover's two guards. Biscuits had hidden in his oven the moment Die appeared, Eggs, however, had stayed, and was looking at Die like the moron he was. Die shook his head, and came closer to me and Clover, before continuing in a more civil tongue.

“Surely you two must agree with me, Itchy is a menace,” he sighed.

“Yes,” Clover agreed, “but he is a useful menace, especially since Doze keeps getting captured.”

“Itchy does make life here a little easier, even if he has his annoyances,” I said to Die.

“Itchy and Doze, we get along well enough without them in other timelines,” Die muttered.

It was at that moment that Itchy made his appearance, zipping into the room so fast that it was as if he had appeared as suddenly as Die did.

“Speak of the devil!” Clover called gleefully.

Itchy responded with something incomprehensible, he obviously hadn't slowed down time for himself yet. We waited for him to return to normal speed, before he spoke again.

“Hello to you to, Clover,” he said, “So you were talking about me?”

The two of us looked to Die, wondering if he would explain himself to Itchy. He shook his head, and left, off to annoy someone else. Itchy shrugged, and followed him out, asking Die if he wanted to play cards. Unsurprisingly, he accepted, and the two disappeared down another corridor.

“If Itchy's antics are what get him killed, Die's short temper, or short attention span, will be his,” Clover sighed.

“Probably,” I agreed.

If anyone does like it, there will be more! I've seen at least one story following the Midnight Crew, so I hope no one minds one with The Felt.

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A little explaining is due, I think! I commonly make fan stories where the villains are the ones winning, kind of what this is. This is a random series I thought up a bit ago, concerning The Felt in a timeline where there is no Droog, Deuce, or Boxcars, and Slick is the Mayor. Slick "made the town" so, in this timeline, he is mayor. Itchy won't annoy Clover because of his luck, Snowman because shes scary, Stitch because he has the effigies, and Lord English because he's the boss.

[zil]

“Damn that Itchy!” he yelled once we were within earshot, “his antics have gotten him killed in more timelines then I care to count!”

Can't not hear this in the voice of Sideshow Mel from The Simpsons.

[Layra]

I'm loving all this MC/Felt fiction. Though the intermission draws to a close there are still many universes where Slick hasn't gone and destroyed everything. Where he hasn't screwed the pooch.

Still getting rid of plot-bunnies built up over the first three acts:

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This Merciless Absurdity, This Doomed Masquerade

"I don't think I can do this."
You have to. Everything depends on it.
"But I don't think I'm cut out for this. Not at all. It isn't who I am."
We will have to adapt, all of us.
"I mean, I know it will be hard for Lord Egbert to abandon his kingdom to play such a bizarre role, and Miss Lalonde-"
No, you are right to feel put upon. Lord Egbert has always wanted to leave his throne. And Lalonde has already given me her understanding of the matter.
You-You monster! You beast! How could you do this to my Rosalyn? How could you make me do this to her? Your war has already taken my husband, and now you want my daughter as well! Oh, my poor Rosie! She'll never forgive me...
They knew that this would happen, their mates made sure to inform them before marriage. But you, young Archibald, you had no choice; your mother never saw fit to inform you of her lineage, and the responsibility that should have belonged to your father has been thrust upon you without warning. For that, I must apologize.
"It just seems so weird. Is that the right word?"
The children must grow up cold. They must be self-sufficient, they must be wary, they must be strong. They face a task that has destroyed many before them; a task that took Lady Egbert, and Lalonde's beloved, and your parents and the Harleys. It is cruel, and it is sadly necessary. This merciless absurdity, this doomed masquerade is the only way to forge them into the weapons we need.
"It's not that. I...I know it has to happen. I'm just, well, I've never been a warrior, physically or mentally. I've always been called a dork or a wimp in school. I only roleplay as mages or clerics because I don't feel comfortable thinking about physical violence. And the...obsessions. I don't see how pretending to be this kind of person will help anyone."
Your charge must have certain traits, certain beliefs and strengths. They will aid him in ways that may never make sense to any of us, but he will need what you give him.
"Will it work? Will we win?"
I have no knowledge of what will be, only of what must be. This must be.
"Then I will try my best. I hope I'm a good enough actor. Do you have any advice?"
No advice, but I have been told to give these to you. Perhaps they will help, just a little.
"Pointed sunglasses? I guess 'Bro' might wear them. Yeah, actually I think these will help a lot. Thanks, Becquerel."

[Quixotic]

Layra, you are so awesome. I would write you a song if I had the time or ambition.

But seriously, I've really been enjoying the stuff you've been posting. I like your angle on the Homestuck universe.

[Miraculous]

Damnit, while I've been procrastinating, you guys have been coming up with awesome fanfic. I need to get back on the bandwagon and do Part 3 of The Safe.

Because I'm such a tease, Part 3 will also be known as "Shouldn't War Councils have Oreos and Orange Drink?".

[Quixotic]

Damnit, while I've been procrastinating, you guys have been coming up with awesome fanfic. I need to get back on the bandwagon and do Part 3 of The Safe.

Please do.

[resdaMalos]

A theoretical look into what the future holds...

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Blood. Why is there so much blood?

Dave, Rose and Jade all called out to me. "We have to move!" they said. But why? Why can't I just sit here and mourn? Let the whole damn building collapse, does any of it really matter?

He came to our rescue, when we least expected it. With incredible strength - I didn't even know he could do that - he held the monster back, yelling at us to make for the exit. But then...

Damn you, Dave, with your shitty-ass cheap sword shit. You had to fucking prototype that dead crow and give them all weapons, didn't you?

I watched the blade go into flesh, watched it come out the other side. Watched him fall. Did I scream? I remember everyone staring at me. Holding me back. Jade wrapped me in a bear hug, trying to console me while the others tried to lead me towards the exit. But I broke away.

I pounded the monster to death with my Ghost Gauntlets. No hammers - I wanted the satisfying sound of fists breaking bone. It exploded into a huge mound of grist.

Disappointing - I wanted to see it bleed too.

I rushed over to him, my eyes watering. "Dad! It'll be alright! We can heal you up," I lied, "and then we can finish this game and you can make me a cake to celebrate!"

He simply stared up weakly and smiled. "John."

I blinked back tears.

"I am so proud of you."

[Quixotic]

A theoretical look into what the future holds...

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Blood. Why is there so much blood?

Dave, Rose and Jade all called out to me. "We have to move!" they said. But why? Why can't I just sit here and mourn? Let the whole damn building collapse, does any of it really matter?

He came to our rescue, when we least expected it. With incredible strength - I didn't even know he could do that - he held the monster back, yelling at us to make for the exit. But then...

Damn you, Dave, with your shitty-ass cheap sword shit. You had to fucking prototype that dead crow and give them all weapons, didn't you?

I watched the blade go into flesh, watched it come out the other side. Watched him fall. Did I scream? I remember everyone staring at me. Holding me back. Jade wrapped me in a bear hug, trying to console me while the others tried to lead me towards the exit. But I broke away.

I pounded the monster to death with my Ghost Gauntlets. No hammers - I wanted the satisfying sound of fists breaking bone. It exploded into a huge mound of grist.

Disappointing - I wanted to see it bleed too.

I rushed over to him, my eyes watering. "Dad! It'll be alright! We can heal you up," I lied, "and then we can finish this game and you can make me a cake to celebrate!"

He simply stared up weakly and smiled. "John."

I blinked back tears.

"I am so proud of you."

Sad. Short and sweetly written, though. I like it.

[It's Not Butter]

I highly doubt I'd ever finish it, but Malos, I'd completely love to do a drawn adaption of that story. At the least, I'd scan the half-finished sketches for you to see!
DO I HAS PERMISSION

Also I believe everything in this thread since the last time I posted is awesome. If anybody wants an indepth review, please pm me, because I am horrible at motivating myself when someone doesn't push me. Keep it up everybody because these are so great.

[resdaMalos]

I highly doubt I'd ever finish it, but Malos, I'd completely love to do a drawn adaption of that story. At the least, I'd scan the half-finished sketches for you to see!
DO I HAS PERMISSION

YOU CAN HAS.

...Huh. Never been referred to as Malos before. Eh, whatever works.

[Qukeza]

Malos: For a short work, decently emotionally moving.

Layra: You dominate at vignettes, as always.

Rex: Not much to say, because you did everything right, but neither the ideas nor presentation make a specific imprint for "this is why I like the story".

The first one I wrote to make fun of my all-too-serious allegory for the universe in HAHA GULLIBLE. The second, I have no idea. The stories differ in tone and content, so reading them in sequence may cause whiplash which Qukeza Corp. (C) is not responsible for. Also, the last spoiler contains SPOILERS (who would have guessed) so read it after you've read both stories, please.

Quotations

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The old bastard never said a word that was his.

If the textbook's still there, look at the back end, after page 792. You'll see that the ample blank space is used for a heading: an embellished and flamboyant rendering of the word, "Quotes". "Quote" isn't even a noun; it should read, "Quotations," but the badly-drawn ghost dragons and lightning bolts take up a lot of space.

I don't recognize any of them. Well, that's not correct; in a manner of speaking I can source nearly each and every quotation. I reconstruct every conversation I remember with the doctor by reading these unsourced words; I hear every single one in his voice. So, in a way, all of them belong to Brinner.

(To tell the truth, I can source one of them, and it's the only one he didn't say. It's the third one from the top on page 799, right before the long watery blob that really is what I meant to write about, so let's move on.)

I've written down the lackluster pseudo-speech just in case you for some reason want to share the pain that is reading it.

*********
Ah, the sea! The briny slosh that makes life possible. Were it not for the rivers of life that spring from our sky-piercing peaks, and the great reservoir that sustains more life than man could ever know, man, woman and beast alike could not be here to never know. Truly, the basket of lace that is the world's ocean, the originator of all things, comes just after the gods themselves.
*********

None of it, anymore.

These four words first came into my head when the shopping cart finally refused to move. The nautical maps I obtained from the shipyard served me well, but the grand basin that once held enough water to drown the gods themselves now only holds chest-high dried, organic dust, mixed with grains of salt and sand. It didn't compact well, restricting easy travel for bodies, nevermind a vehicle with wheels instead of treads. I found all that out about a mile away from those tombstone cliffs.

None of it, anymore. The sea. The rivers. The life. The peaks. The great reservoir. The lace. The oceans. None.

The gods themselves.

*********
Surely it is the sea that provides us with life, as I speak now of myself and my companions. This river of material more precious than heaven-stone, we use for our livelihood as it merrily carries us along, and it deserves our thanks; therefore, I give to you: three-silver-circles. And for your sister, the sea, when you meet her: two-more.
*********

More precious than heaven-stone, indeed. I think the fact this part lies next to a diagram of the water cycle clearly illustrates that.

But the diagram doesn't show the part of the water cycle where the entirety is transported off-planet for a supposedly more worthy endeavor than the continuation of sapient life. I'll write a letter to the publishers for the next version.

*********
The sea equals freedom. On land, a man is restricted by what he can climb, by what he can jump or avoid, but the sea does not differ over distances, only time. A sturdy boat can take a man everywhere without fear of losing his way, as long as he sees the stars above him. He need not fear starvation as he may reach down beneath him and pluck scaled flesh from the giving waters. But a man must take care to have a destination. He must not lose himself in a sea of meaninglessness.
*********

The sea does not equal freedom, because the word freedom implies options. Freedom implies the ability to, in the future, pick one option out of many. In the middle of a desert, or an ocean, or interstellar space if you can travel through any of them, you possess an imagined radius that equals the distance between you and the closest place that contains possibility to allow you actions you may not take in your current situation. Divide this number by your maximum speed and you obtain a measurement of time. This time represents how far you are from freedom. Any amount of time less than your result and at that chronological instant it does not matter what direction you had chosen.

I remember something about cones and the number 299,792,458 but the rest lies behind the same haze as most other memories of my previous life.

As for the rest, I did manage to pluck sustenance from below me, though the salted, sandy organic dust couldn't compare to even the most meager of foodstuffs. I'm not sure how I managed to carry nine cans of water (technically, vegetables, even though I went without as the water-heavy types I choose contain no nutritional value after 400 years) but I sure as this hell made it to the mainland somehow.

The destination -- the doctor gave me a destination. Meaning will not be an issue when none exist to ask.

*********
Man's future lies across the sea. For humanity to expand and understand more than this finite corner of totality we arise from, our first step is to conquer the sea, to make it a medium which man may travel like an arrow. Then we may spread the light that is humanity in the darkness of our lack, in order to ensure some illumination survives until our inescapable and dismal end. That's all an intelligent species can hope for, really. To understand and map this world through our continued existence, which to secure we must spread beyond these originating constraints which already place us in a crowded cell.
*********

The quotations don't contain a source, and even if they did I couldn't tell whether these words derived from a time when humanity lived on one side of a glorious ocean and societal situations pressured man to move past the shining waters to another land, or if this long speech only existed for the slowest kid in class could volunteer his hand to pipe out, "It's a metaphor for the universe!", and for every single other person in the room to curse the misfortune that placed them in a universe with this moron.

On a side note, I wonder if I can figure out general events from my past by studying my own psychology. Like how I probably hated school because my classmates needed to consciously remember to not crap themselves, or something as aggravating and ego-inflating as that. Still doesn't mean I'm not jealous, though. There are days I wish I had been that stupid. Then I wouldn't know enough to ask the questions I did.

*********
I pity anyone who still believes we need to better ourselves before moving on. We don't have the time to better ourselves. Our place in this world, despite all previous trends, is now rapidly decreasing. The future lies across the sea. Go across the sea. That's all that matters.

It only matters in the slightest what kind of future it will be as long as there is a future.
*********

I disagree because our societies radically differ.

I assume humanity's position as a civilized species implies some level of co-operation between people, and that itself implies a level of constant development towards a more benevolent civilization over time, and the existence of a long but inevitable road towards perfection. These humans, who I feel safe in assuming saturated the world with flesh, faced the dilemma of securing a future by either moving off-planet and establishing new resource opportunities, or managing their situation so then-current resources sufficed and the pressure to expand disappeared.

One of these tasks involves interstellar travel, establishment of an ecosystem in an astronomically hostile environment and the co-operation of almost all of billions of people. The other involves convincing masses of organic beings to not procreate. The first is difficult beyond the capacity of any one person to comprehend even given a lifetime of studying the problem at hand, and the second is impossible. Not surprising, then, that humanity didn't commit to either choice by the time we killed them. Or someone killed them, but knowing us, I have to assume we did it.

That's my "we", and the difference of "we" is why I disagree with the author regarding my former home's current state. The unspoken question, that we can't continue to delay moving on to other planets. The unspoken assumption, that we cannot suffer the consequences of a Malthusian crisis. If it were my decision to choose, I'd inflict both on my previous world. I'd kill every single person on that abominable sphere, if I could, and render it devoid of sapient life.

But not inhospitable. Never inhospitable.

With the size of the universe, there will always be sapient life to guarantee a future. So there's no use worrying about one, meaning the only thing to worry about is what kind of future it will be.

The difference between me and humanity is that humanity only knew of one sapient species until the dreary, dismal end. The exact number of species I know of digs itself a little deeper into my mind each time I recall it, like a chained masochist and a torturer with an obsidian knife.

But that's all a story for another day. Right now, I am on the mainland. Brinner told me that about 475 years ago, thousands of men landed in this country to combat a force of evil that surpassed the combined forces of hatred, terror and destruction that I could ever know. I laughed in his face. Satan himself is a mere apprentice to the forces that run my homeland.

I must find food, water, maps, a serviceable and movable container. Stories of the past will only slow me down, because I have a dead world to cross.

To Borealis!

Best of Six

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Conquest. War. Famine. Death. All describe the invasion that surrounds us, if any words we know could. You can't see anything here with your eyes; you think and emotionally feel physical objects. This is as close to Skaia as we'll get. All four of us, anyway.

Three bullets, one at a time.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death. All describe the flags of the four sitting around this nearly-empty table. All sullen, drooping faces as if each experienced the ravishment of all four, and not only survived but remembered vividly.

Six chambers; seventeen percent chance.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death. Together, we had inadvertently brought each to every land we passed. The great armies of the dark kingdom followed us every single step, lapping at the blood flowing beneath our boots.

One go each, until we go around again.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death. All these will happen to Skaia in time. Every thousand years, these four embodiments of suffering spawn that they -- we -- may give the dark kingdom another chance to destroy Skaia. Every time, the darkness fools the four into believing they are heroes. Every time, the four find out and cease their movements.

Rules are click, pass left.

So Conquest, War, Famine, and Death sit around a table, as they did a thousand years before, two thousand years before and so on, all stuck in this room where time does not pass. A pile of paper sheets in the corner, all written on, detailing code. Code to the terminal which could -- will, inevitably -- open Skaia to the dark kingdom. If we four had not learned beforehand of the consequences, we'd commit that deed right now. As it is, we decide now who will stay, and who will dissolve into sweet nothingness.

Spin her round, 'til she can't spin no more.

Conquest, War, Famine and Death will arrive again in a thousand more years. If, by chance, they do not stumble on to the information we possess then they will destroy Skaia and with it, the soul of the universe. So at least one -- exactly one -- of us will stay that thousand-year-span to warn whoever comes next. Maybe it'll be entertaining seeing how the four forces of destruction warp with a lonely, blank and featureless thousand years' time, but I'm pretty sure most of us would rather be dead. It's impossible to leave the room without those codes.

Put her down, spin her round. Where does she point? To the left.

We play the Roulette.

Death picks up the gun, the first turn. Poor girl. So much has happened to her, and yet she's the only one playing with a smile on her face. Like a trained marksman, she inspects every part of the sleek revolver, except the part that tells her fate. It's possible she knows how this will end for her anyway. Even still, she's the least likely of all of us to cheat.

"Come on. It's your turn."

That's War. He's in the advantageous position of only having to pull once this round. We all decided before the game that certain deaths would mean a re-spin. The entire point of doing this is to be fair in a world that constantly doles unfairness out.

Death puts the gun to her temple. Finger on the trigger. Her smile now a look of calm acceptance. She sits up straight, and her eyes wander to the far side of the room before the trigger pull. "Are the Guardians watching?", she probably wonders. The answer is no. They're dead, along with everything important outside this room, and Death inadvertently made sure of that for each one of them.

The room is so quiet that all of us jump a bit at the sound, even though we're all looking at the source. Death places the gun in the center of the table, hands shaking slightly. She covers her face with her hands and laughs, a laugh sans humor. For one such as us, the want for death towers far over the continuation of life in our higher minds, but it still seems difficult to give up life so easily. We're not trained, disciplined and religiously-motivated troops at Masada, here; we're kids, so why do we even need to do this, our animal hind-brain wonders.

"Still so cocky now?"

In response, War grabs the pistol and jams it below his jaw. "To the end, Famine." He pulls the trigger, before Death and Conquest have time to become scared. It clicks. I hand the instrument to Conquest.

Ever since we met in person, War obtained a new personality trait that called upon him to seemingly face off against me, all the time and in useless macho displays. If he needs the ego boost, I'll let him; if he needs to do so for Death to dream about him when she lies awake at night, I won't interrupt him.

Whereas Conquest (sweet, sweet maiden of dominance!) only improved her standing when the four met. A certain degree of divine elegance, dignity and composure trailed her like I wished I could. She would never know just exactly, no matter the times I told her, how much I wished to make love to her in the half-moon light. Oh, Conquest! The only one of us whose name remotely implies some sort of beauty. And she is beautiful, drawing herself up and presenting grace to the end.

Though chunks of her head can only litter the floor in a non-gracious manner.

Death reacted first, about five seconds after the gun dropped to the floor. Rushed to the window to get some fresh air. Now War holds her hair back, and if I had anything in my stomach I'd be emptying it too, except I'm Famine.

I don't see Death and War return to their seats. I put the second bullet in the chamber. And spin it. And spin it. And spin it. Do I have the courage to kill myself, now that the only person I ever wanted to feel close to left? Can I kill myself when I can see -- can't avoid seeing -- the aftermath?

I spin the device one more time, for Death's, and War's, benefit. Better to do this quick.

I raise the revolver to my head and pull the trigger.

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I'm still here.

Ordinarily, War would come up with a mocking comment, but this isn't the time for jokes. That time ended five minutes ago with the loudest noise any of us would hear in our lives. I wordlessly glance at both my companions, getting an eyeful of their faces before we move on.

Death takes the gun. She locks eyes with me, a slight look of regret on her face. At War, with a glimmer of happiness. Opens her mouth, as if to speak, but everything that needed to be said has already been. We made sure of that, at least. So, uneasily, she raises the pistol to her head and pulls the trigger.

I flinch as the gunshot rebounds off the ceiling even though it's traveling away from me. Again, the gun clatters to the floor beside the maimed corpse of one of our female companions. Specks cover both sides of the room now. With a shaking hand, I wipe the blood off my face and load the last bullet, handing the merciful tool to War in the process. One of us can clean up later.

He looks as if he wants to say something, but I cut him off. "There's nothing more to say, John. One of us will die shortly. There's no one left to impress. Pull the trigger." He does, and hands the pistol to me.

I cradle the gun with both hands and inspect it. Conquest didn't want to see her friends die. Death didn't want to choose for herself. They got what they wanted, but what I want and what War wants directly conflict.

Conquest implies a man is willing to die for a cause. War implies a man is willing to die for pursuing his whims or will die at the whims of another. Death does not imply but declares that a man will die. Only Famine, the lack of sustinence, implies that a man wishes to live.

He sees it in my eyes before I even steel myself to do it, and lunges over the table. He almost got there; War starts pretty quick. Even so, he's not faster than a bullet. The final decision tears through his ribcage and leaves out the back. He collapses, almost immediately, lying on his side, sprawled on the table.

"You're better off this way. You made your own luck."

War wheezes, one lung filling with blood. I only understand his words when I try to remember later. He says, "Doesn't feel like it." And dies.

Four bodies. One alive. Three corpses. After the first shot, I knew I was ending it myself, and this way. Maybe I would have lived a thousand years with her. Maybe more. With her gone, there's only one thing left to do.

I've had two dreams -- not nightly hallucinations, but hopes and goals -- my entire life. The first used to be making Conquest my girl, but you and I both know how that worked out. I pick up the codebooks. The second was to have enough money, power, status, riches and lifespan to shame the gods themselves.

I say "was", because now that's not a dream. In this generous and appreciative realm, I experience my ideal every single day, and at the end I fall asleep, not wake up. No one hallucinates in rest anymore, and I don't mind because it would take away from the wonder that is my waking life.

I destroyed Skaia so that I could live my dream in hell instead of dreaming it in heaven.

To clarify: this is part of Best of Six. I needed to divide it up at that point somehow, though, and the way presented is what I came up with.

[Not The Author]

So, Brinner is the DM? That explains a bit.


Do you think, in the end, War found the whole situation at all ironic?

[Miraculous]

Finally got it done. I quite like this part, actually. Although I think it relies too much on Homestuck references. Oh well, tell me what you think.

The Safe- Part 3

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With a single sweep of his hand, Dave sent comic books, CDs and cables tumbling as he cleared some space on his desk. He dumped a rolled up scroll down and unfurled it, revealing a detailed sketch of the apartment's layout. Dave traced a finger over the plan before glancing up at his brother-and-sisters-in-arms, who stood huddled around the table. He let out a long sigh.

"Arright. Us versus Bro. He's got an armory's worth of weapons, ninja skills to rival a Japanese assassin and years of acrobatic combat experience like some sort of big top clown on fucking steroids. What've we got?"

Rose attempted an astounding Long Sigh x2 Combo and succeeded. "We all have set Strife Spebici. I have a sylladex full of your brother's arsenal. That is just about it, really."

Dave muttered and grumbled a little, casting a quick glance among his allies. "As far as I'm concerned, our only real advantage is numbers. It's four on one. Unfortunately, of those four, only two of us could fight our way out of a damp tissue paper bag. And, in case you don't realise, those two are not My Little Psychiatrist and Shittywood Fanboy."

With a gentle shrug, Jade offered her two cents. "Um, yeah, I'm not gonna be able to do much up against a sword. Rifles aren't really made for dueling with a katana."

Out of the blue, Dave slammed a fist down on the table. "Damnit Jade, I need solutions, not problems! I need something I can use. If we lose this game, I'm screwed. No, wait, scratch that. We're screwed. If we don't get into that safe, Bro is gonna come down on us like a ton of plush rumps. Suggestions, now."

Rose tilted her head a little, with just a hint of a smirk. "Dave, you actually sound scared of your brother."

She was given a narrow glare in return. Not that she could tell, given it was obscured by dark shades. "Suggestions."

While his friends bickered and bantered, John had been mulling things over. "Okay... Dave, if your Bro is so dangerous, can't we just call the police? Get him arrested for child endangerment, or something. I mean, there's gotta be something illegal about all these weapons."

Dave shook his head. "I've already tried that once, just for fun. I think Bro changed the street numbers of something, 'cause the pigs ended up making a few arrests down at the basketball courts instead. 'Sides, whining to the cops is just pathetic."

Rose groaned and slumped down on Dave's bed... Before quickly sitting up once more, not wanting to consider all the possible hygiene issues that might be hiding under the covers. "Our parents. As irresponsible as my mother is, I doubt she would be too pleased to hear that I've been admitted to hospital because of multiple gaping wounds in my torso caused by some maniac pursuer of puppet pleasure."

"Uh, the only problem is, we'd get in major trouble for trying to break into his safe in the first place. I am not getting grounded again. I only just got out of probation for throwing all of Dad's baking crap into a wood chipper." John quickly shook his head, looking sheepish. "Besides, they're probably busy."

---

Tension hung in the air like a damp haze. At the neighbouring tables, patrons held onto their coffee cups with trembling fingers, watching the silent war being waged between the table sitting in the eye of the storm. The gentleman absently pulled his pipe out of his mouth and blew a puff of wispy smoke into the air, before drinking deeply from his mug of hot cocoa. Opposite him, the mature woman, still dressed in her lab coat, glared daggers at him, pursed lips obscured by the martini glass she was drinking from. Where she had acquired such a beverage in a cafe was beyond logic.

Despite the aura of hostility surrounding the table, the large dog lazily lounging under the table was content to sleep, muzzle resting in his paws. Every so often, his ears would twitch and an eyelid with flicker open, only to flicker closed just as quickly. This was not his battle to fight. Nor was the war being waged half a city away in a particular apartment.

Slowly, Mr. Egbert placed his cup down onto the table and sighed, before whispering one stern word.

"Harlequins."

Ms. Lalonde gave a low hiss, like a snake preparing to lash out and strike.

"Wizards."

Her grip tightened on the martini glass, threatening to shatter it into pieces. He held his wooden pipe between his fingers tightly. A hushed murmur spread throughout the cafe. This is it. They have no choice but to wage a fierce cafe battle. This is totally going to happen now, and could in no way conceivably be interrupted by a sudden shift in our attention.

---

Jade nodded slowly. "Alright, so... John will face Bro head on. I'll provide him cover fire to try and keep Bro on his feet. Rose will cover me in case Bro tries to attack me while I'm shooting. Meanwhile, Dave will try and slip by while we fight and crack open the safe. Is that right?"

"So... Rose will cover Jade who will cover me while I cover Dave, yeah?" John raised one eyebrow, a look on confusion on his face.

"You got a better idea?" With a snort, Dave drew his blade and made for the door. "We don't have time for any more planning. Let's do this."

The other three kids nodded, producing their own weapons. These teenagers were about to charge into battle like they had never seen before. The sort of battle those goes down in history. A war that storytellers would speak of for decades to come. As the four of them walked out of Dave's bedroom, a wave of adrenaline and fear washed over each of them and they realised something. They were about to face something terrifying, something powerful, something that their and no-one else's attention could ever be drawn away- oh my god look a bug.

[Not The Author]

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[resdaMalos]

OH MY it's a ladybug. Isn't it amazing! So amazing that it could potentially distract people from an awesome buildup to an epic battle... but I'm just rambling again, aren't I?

TL;DR: BUG

[resdaMalos]

Another theoretical look into the future.

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Dear Journal,

A short entry today. I personally am a bit tired and honestly not in the mood for a long diatribe. So, I'll state my point and move on.

No matter how well you think you know someone... everything changes when you meet face to face.

That was becoming clear to me.

It has only been a few weeks since Dave and Jade entered the game. My original suspicions were correct. Our four-player daisy-chain is complete, and we all have to work together to complete the game. Dave's admittedly vast knowledge of close combat and Jade's superior marksmanship have made us a force to be reckoned with.

Our foes rose to the challenge, unfortunately. Dave's prototyping inadvertently gave the imps wings and weapons - a problem enough by itself - but the most dangerous change came from Jade's kernelsprite. For reasons I myself will never understand, Jade's monster of a dog tried to destroy the sprite, and fused with it.

So to sum up, our enemies can fly, use swords, and warp spacetime.

But I digress. They aren't the worst part of our journey so far. No, journal, the worst part is becoming readily apparent the longer I spend with my peers.

Dave and John hate each other. In fact-

"Rose? Are you in here?" On instinct I slapped the book shut and shunted it underneath my pillow. I instantly recognized the voice. It was unlike Jade to be sad, which only meant one thing.

"The boys are fighting again, aren't they?" How many times does this make it now? I sighed, and motioned for her to come in.

Jade walked into the tent and flopped down onto the cot. "I don't get it," she mumbled into the cushions. "We were all such good friends online."

Like that means anything, I wanted to say. But Jade required a lighter touch. "Jade, sometimes people aren't completely honest with each other," I decided to say, "or with themselves, for that matter." I flopped back, looking up at the purple canvas overhead. "They're boys. They thrive on conflict." Uncontrollably, I began laughing, and turned to Jade, who didn't move.

She was asleep. Good, I reckoned, at least no one saw that. I picked her up as gingerly as possible and repositioned her so she would at least be sleeping comfortably. She'd be up in a few hours, all smiles again.

To be honest, I was jealous.

I crept out of the tent, expecting to see John in one corner of the camp, Dave at the other. I figured little feuds like this, disruptive as they are, would blow over fast enough.

I could never have been more wrong. The two were at each other's throats. Dave had pinned John to the floor - a waste of a fine suit, I have to say - and he was struggling to return to his feet.

"You... insufferable prick!" John yelled, at the top of his lungs. When it came to swearing, John wasn't really the most vocal, but there was such seething hatred in it this time. It was unnerving, to say the least. "Don't you care what happens to anyone but yourself?"

I could guess what the two were fighting about. Recently we had run across John's father, in no worse shape for wear. He traveled on with us for a few days, but vanished without a trace not two weeks ago. John instantly wanted to go looking for him, but Dave had the mission in mind.

"Shut your trap, Egbert!" Dave raged. "I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah?" John yelled back. "Who says we have to listen to you?"

"Oh, like following you on your stupid shit is any better?"

Ah, and here's the meat of the problem. I couldn't help but grin from my vantage point. Dave and John were two animals, jockeying for the alpha position. This would require a complete revision of my journal entry.

Satisfied, I turned back to the tent... but then things got worse.

A heavy book appeared in a flash, launched from John's sylladex, and landed square in Dave's jaw. He landed a few feet away, obviously dazed.

This was bad.

Dave quickly drew his two half-blades from his strife specibus, wielding them like a seasoned veteran. His Bro had taught him well. But John wasn't going to be intimidated. In his hands he brandished his Wrinklefucker - god, leave it to a boy to give it a name like that - and let out a guttural yell.

I had to intervene. But they were so far away. And Dave was angry, and fast on his feet to boot. A few flash steps forward and he had already closed the distance before I had even gotten into a good run. John was in his range, and before anything else could happen...

A shot rang out.

Dave jumped back instinctively, but the round passed harmlessly between them. The two boys looked past me towards the tent. I heard the clatter of metal against grass as Jade dropped her weapon and looked at the both of them, tears in her eyes.

GOD all I can write is DRAMA someone HELP ME

Next time I'm going to write something funny. THIS I VOW.

EDIT: AGH DOUBLE POST.

ULTRA LATE EDIT:
SOMETHING FUNNY. I HAVE FULFILLED MY VOW.

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Damn it, just man up already. As cool as it is, I can't lean against this rock and stare off into the distance forever.

"Hey. Egbert." John looked up from whatever it was he was doing. His smile faded a bit. "Got a question for ya."

"Look, Dave," John cut off. "This wouldn't have happened if you had just put up the tent like she asked."

Whoa whoa whoa. Hold on a second. "Why should I be doing her dirty work? And where were you, Mr. Chivalry?"

"Getting firewood with Jade, remember?" Riiight. I can see his game. "When I got back she was already chasing you down." Damn it, you and your logic.

Time to make a beautiful comeback, Strider style. "...It-It's not like I saw anything." ...What.

That's all my brain had to offer?

"Judging from her reaction you saw plenty." John grinned, the kind of smile shared between two guys who knew something awesome just happened.

Awesome. Pff. It was just Rose. Changing. "I mean, yeah, she's pretty and all..." SHIT I said that out loud.

"HA!" John laughed uncontrollably. If I knew you were going to do that I wouldn't have come to you. "This is rich. Like the bathhouse scene trope minus the bathhouse!" Oh god don't pull out your trivia crap, I'M IN CRISIS HERE.

Short because I can't figure out a proper conclusion.

[Quixotic]

Best of Six

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Conquest. War. Famine. Death. All describe the invasion that surrounds us, if any words we know could. You can't see anything here with your eyes; you think and emotionally feel physical objects. This is as close to Skaia as we'll get. All four of us, anyway.

Three bullets, one at a time.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death. All describe the flags of the four sitting around this nearly-empty table. All sullen, drooping faces as if each experienced the ravishment of all four, and not only survived but remembered vividly.

Six chambers; seventeen percent chance.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death. Together, we had inadvertently brought each to every land we passed. The great armies of the dark kingdom followed us every single step, lapping at the blood flowing beneath our boots.

One go each, until we go around again.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death. All these will happen to Skaia in time. Every thousand years, these four embodiments of suffering spawn that they -- we -- may give the dark kingdom another chance to destroy Skaia. Every time, the darkness fools the four into believing they are heroes. Every time, the four find out and cease their movements.

Rules are click, pass left.

So Conquest, War, Famine, and Death sit around a table, as they did a thousand years before, two thousand years before and so on, all stuck in this room where time does not pass. A pile of paper sheets in the corner, all written on, detailing code. Code to the terminal which could -- will, inevitably -- open Skaia to the dark kingdom. If we four had not learned beforehand of the consequences, we'd commit that deed right now. As it is, we decide now who will stay, and who will dissolve into sweet nothingness.

Spin her round, 'til she can't spin no more.

Conquest, War, Famine and Death will arrive again in a thousand more years. If, by chance, they do not stumble on to the information we possess then they will destroy Skaia and with it, the soul of the universe. So at least one -- exactly one -- of us will stay that thousand-year-span to warn whoever comes next. Maybe it'll be entertaining seeing how the four forces of destruction warp with a lonely, blank and featureless thousand years' time, but I'm pretty sure most of us would rather be dead. It's impossible to leave the room without those codes.

Put her down, spin her round. Where does she point? To the left.

We play the Roulette.

Death picks up the gun, the first turn. Poor girl. So much has happened to her, and yet she's the only one playing with a smile on her face. Like a trained marksman, she inspects every part of the sleek revolver, except the part that tells her fate. It's possible she knows how this will end for her anyway. Even still, she's the least likely of all of us to cheat.

"Come on. It's your turn."

That's War. He's in the advantageous position of only having to pull once this round. We all decided before the game that certain deaths would mean a re-spin. The entire point of doing this is to be fair in a world that constantly doles unfairness out.

Death puts the gun to her temple. Finger on the trigger. Her smile now a look of calm acceptance. She sits up straight, and her eyes wander to the far side of the room before the trigger pull. "Are the Guardians watching?", she probably wonders. The answer is no. They're dead, along with everything important outside this room, and Death inadvertently made sure of that for each one of them.

The room is so quiet that all of us jump a bit at the sound, even though we're all looking at the source. Death places the gun in the center of the table, hands shaking slightly. She covers her face with her hands and laughs, a laugh sans humor. For one such as us, the want for death towers far over the continuation of life in our higher minds, but it still seems difficult to give up life so easily. We're not trained, disciplined and religiously-motivated troops at Masada, here; we're kids, so why do we even need to do this, our animal hind-brain wonders.

"Still so cocky now?"

In response, War grabs the pistol and jams it below his jaw. "To the end, Famine." He pulls the trigger, before Death and Conquest have time to become scared. It clicks. I hand the instrument to Conquest.

Ever since we met in person, War obtained a new personality trait that called upon him to seemingly face off against me, all the time and in useless macho displays. If he needs the ego boost, I'll let him; if he needs to do so for Death to dream about him when she lies awake at night, I won't interrupt him.

Whereas Conquest (sweet, sweet maiden of dominance!) only improved her standing when the four met. A certain degree of divine elegance, dignity and composure trailed her like I wished I could. She would never know just exactly, no matter the times I told her, how much I wished to make love to her in the half-moon light. Oh, Conquest! The only one of us whose name remotely implies some sort of beauty. And she is beautiful, drawing herself up and presenting grace to the end.

Though chunks of her head can only litter the floor in a non-gracious manner.

Death reacted first, about five seconds after the gun dropped to the floor. Rushed to the window to get some fresh air. Now War holds her hair back, and if I had anything in my stomach I'd be emptying it too, except I'm Famine.

I don't see Death and War return to their seats. I put the second bullet in the chamber. And spin it. And spin it. And spin it. Do I have the courage to kill myself, now that the only person I ever wanted to feel close to left? Can I kill myself when I can see -- can't avoid seeing -- the aftermath?

I spin the device one more time, for Death's, and War's, benefit. Better to do this quick.

I raise the revolver to my head and pull the trigger.

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I'm still here.

Ordinarily, War would come up with a mocking comment, but this isn't the time for jokes. That time ended five minutes ago with the loudest noise any of us would hear in our lives. I wordlessly glance at both my companions, getting an eyeful of their faces before we move on.

Death takes the gun. She locks eyes with me, a slight look of regret on her face. At War, with a glimmer of happiness. Opens her mouth, as if to speak, but everything that needed to be said has already been. We made sure of that, at least. So, uneasily, she raises the pistol to her head and pulls the trigger.

I flinch as the gunshot rebounds off the ceiling even though it's traveling away from me. Again, the gun clatters to the floor beside the maimed corpse of one of our female companions. Specks cover both sides of the room now. With a shaking hand, I wipe the blood off my face and load the last bullet, handing the merciful tool to War in the process. One of us can clean up later.

He looks as if he wants to say something, but I cut him off. "There's nothing more to say, John. One of us will die shortly. There's no one left to impress. Pull the trigger." He does, and hands the pistol to me.

I cradle the gun with both hands and inspect it. Conquest didn't want to see her friends die. Death didn't want to choose for herself. They got what they wanted, but what I want and what War wants directly conflict.

Conquest implies a man is willing to die for a cause. War implies a man is willing to die for pursuing his whims or will die at the whims of another. Death does not imply but declares that a man will die. Only Famine, the lack of sustinence, implies that a man wishes to live.

He sees it in my eyes before I even steel myself to do it, and lunges over the table. He almost got there; War starts pretty quick. Even so, he's not faster than a bullet. The final decision tears through his ribcage and leaves out the back. He collapses, almost immediately, lying on his side, sprawled on the table.

"You're better off this way. You made your own luck."

War wheezes, one lung filling with blood. I only understand his words when I try to remember later. He says, "Doesn't feel like it." And dies.

Four bodies. One alive. Three corpses. After the first shot, I knew I was ending it myself, and this way. Maybe I would have lived a thousand years with her. Maybe more. With her gone, there's only one thing left to do.

I've had two dreams -- not nightly hallucinations, but hopes and goals -- my entire life. The first used to be making Conquest my girl, but you and I both know how that worked out. I pick up the codebooks. The second was to have enough money, power, status, riches and lifespan to shame the gods themselves.

I say "was", because now that's not a dream. In this generous and appreciative realm, I experience my ideal every single day, and at the end I fall asleep, not wake up. No one hallucinates in rest anymore, and I don't mind because it would take away from the wonder that is my waking life.

I destroyed Skaia so that I could live my dream in hell instead of dreaming it in heaven.

To clarify: this is part of Best of Six. I needed to divide it up at that point somehow, though, and the way presented is what I came up with.

Qukeza, you write the craziest stuff. I liked it quite a bit, but holy crap is that dark. I love the way you write Dave. Your writing has a way of feeling profound, which is cool. I've said this before, but I find your style to be very effective, and exactly the kind of thing I enjoy. First person is awesome.

Normally I'd probably say not specifying who's who is confusing, but in these pieces half the mystique seems to be gradually realizing who's doing what. Honestly, I'd like to see other stuff you've written, because if this is what you put forth in fanfiction then I can only imagine what you'd do as a more concentrated effort.

The Safe- Part 3

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With a single sweep of his hand, Dave sent comic books, CDs and cables tumbling as he cleared some space on his desk. He dumped a rolled up scroll down and unfurled it, revealing a detailed sketch of the apartment's layout. Dave traced a finger over the plan before glancing up at his brother-and-sisters-in-arms, who stood huddled around the table. He let out a long sigh.

"Arright. Us versus Bro. He's got an armory's worth of weapons, ninja skills to rival a Japanese assassin and years of acrobatic combat experience like some sort of big top clown on fucking steroids. What've we got?"

Rose attempted an astounding Long Sigh x2 Combo and succeeded. "We all have set Strife Spebici. I have a sylladex full of your brother's arsenal. That is just about it, really."

Dave muttered and grumbled a little, casting a quick glance among his allies. "As far as I'm concerned, our only real advantage is numbers. It's four on one. Unfortunately, of those four, only two of us could fight our way out of a damp tissue paper bag. And, in case you don't realise, those two are not My Little Psychiatrist and Shittywood Fanboy."

With a gentle shrug, Jade offered her two cents. "Um, yeah, I'm not gonna be able to do much up against a sword. Rifles aren't really made for dueling with a katana."

Out of the blue, Dave slammed a fist down on the table. "Damnit Jade, I need solutions, not problems! I need something I can use. If we lose this game, I'm screwed. No, wait, scratch that. We're screwed. If we don't get into that safe, Bro is gonna come down on us like a ton of plush rumps. Suggestions, now."

Rose tilted her head a little, with just a hint of a smirk. "Dave, you actually sound scared of your brother."

She was given a narrow glare in return. Not that she could tell, given it was obscured by dark shades. "Suggestions."

While his friends bickered and bantered, John had been mulling things over. "Okay... Dave, if your Bro is so dangerous, can't we just call the police? Get him arrested for child endangerment, or something. I mean, there's gotta be something illegal about all these weapons."

Dave shook his head. "I've already tried that once, just for fun. I think Bro changed the street numbers of something, 'cause the pigs ended up making a few arrests down at the basketball courts instead. 'Sides, whining to the cops is just pathetic."

Rose groaned and slumped down on Dave's bed... Before quickly sitting up once more, not wanting to consider all the possible hygiene issues that might be hiding under the covers. "Our parents. As irresponsible as my mother is, I doubt she would be too pleased to hear that I've been admitted to hospital because of multiple gaping wounds in my torso caused by some maniac pursuer of puppet pleasure."

"Uh, the only problem is, we'd get in major trouble for trying to break into his safe in the first place. I am not getting grounded again. I only just got out of probation for throwing all of Dad's baking crap into a wood chipper." John quickly shook his head, looking sheepish. "Besides, they're probably busy."

---

Tension hung in the air like a damp haze. At the neighbouring tables, patrons held onto their coffee cups with trembling fingers, watching the silent war being waged between the table sitting in the eye of the storm. The gentleman absently pulled his pipe out of his mouth and blew a puff of wispy smoke into the air, before drinking deeply from his mug of hot cocoa. Opposite him, the mature woman, still dressed in her lab coat, glared daggers at him, pursed lips obscured by the martini glass she was drinking from. Where she had acquired such a beverage in a cafe was beyond logic.

Despite the aura of hostility surrounding the table, the large dog lazily lounging under the table was content to sleep, muzzle resting in his paws. Every so often, his ears would twitch and an eyelid with flicker open, only to flicker closed just as quickly. This was not his battle to fight. Nor was the war being waged half a city away in a particular apartment.

Slowly, Mr. Egbert placed his cup down onto the table and sighed, before whispering one stern word.

"Harlequins."

Ms. Lalonde gave a low hiss, like a snake preparing to lash out and strike.

"Wizards."

Her grip tightened on the martini glass, threatening to shatter it into pieces. He held his wooden pipe between his fingers tightly. A hushed murmur spread throughout the cafe. This is it. They have no choice but to wage a fierce cafe battle. This is totally going to happen now, and could in no way conceivably be interrupted by a sudden shift in our attention.

---

Jade nodded slowly. "Alright, so... John will face Bro head on. I'll provide him cover fire to try and keep Bro on his feet. Rose will cover me in case Bro tries to attack me while I'm shooting. Meanwhile, Dave will try and slip by while we fight and crack open the safe. Is that right?"

"So... Rose will cover Jade who will cover me while I cover Dave, yeah?" John raised one eyebrow, a look on confusion on his face.

"You got a better idea?" With a snort, Dave drew his blade and made for the door. "We don't have time for any more planning. Let's do this."

The other three kids nodded, producing their own weapons. These teenagers were about to charge into battle like they had never seen before. The sort of battle those goes down in history. A war that storytellers would speak of for decades to come. As the four of them walked out of Dave's bedroom, a wave of adrenaline and fear washed over each of them and they realised something. They were about to face something terrifying, something powerful, something that their and no-one else's attention could ever be drawn away- oh my god look a bug.

I'm continuing to enjoy the hijinx in this story, and it's cool that you're keeping at one similar to the one in the comic. The scene in the cafe had my laughing inappropriately loud at work when I read it, so for that I give you a x2. Gawd, in fanfiction Dave's home life seems so damn bizarre.

Another theoretical look into the future.

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Dear Journal,

A short entry today. I personally am a bit tired and honestly not in the mood for a long diatribe. So, I'll state my point and move on.

No matter how well you think you know someone... everything changes when you meet face to face.

That was becoming clear to me.

It has only been a few weeks since Dave and Jade entered the game. My original suspicions were correct. Our four-player daisy-chain is complete, and we all have to work together to complete the game. Dave's admittedly vast knowledge of close combat and Jade's superior marksmanship have made us a force to be reckoned with.

Our foes rose to the challenge, unfortunately. Dave's prototyping inadvertently gave the imps wings and weapons - a problem enough by itself - but the most dangerous change came from Jade's kernelsprite. For reasons I myself will never understand, Jade's monster of a dog tried to destroy the sprite, and fused with it.

So to sum up, our enemies can fly, use swords, and warp spacetime.

But I digress. They aren't the worst part of our journey so far. No, journal, the worst part is becoming readily apparent the longer I spend with my peers.

Dave and John hate each other. In fact-

"Rose? Are you in here?" On instinct I slapped the book shut and shunted it underneath my pillow. I instantly recognized the voice. It was unlike Jade to be sad, which only meant one thing.

"The boys are fighting again, aren't they?" How many times does this make it now? I sighed, and motioned for her to come in.

Jade walked into the tent and flopped down onto the cot. "I don't get it," she mumbled into the cushions. "We were all such good friends online."

Like that means anything, I wanted to say. But Jade required a lighter touch. "Jade, sometimes people aren't completely honest with each other," I decided to say, "or with themselves, for that matter." I flopped back, looking up at the purple canvas overhead. "They're boys. They thrive on conflict." Uncontrollably, I began laughing, and turned to Jade, who didn't move.

She was asleep. Good, I reckoned, at least no one saw that. I picked her up as gingerly as possible and repositioned her so she would at least be sleeping comfortably. She'd be up in a few hours, all smiles again.

To be honest, I was jealous.

I crept out of the tent, expecting to see John in one corner of the camp, Dave at the other. I figured little feuds like this, disruptive as they are, would blow over fast enough.

I could never have been more wrong. The two were at each other's throats. Dave had pinned John to the floor - a waste of a fine suit, I have to say - and he was struggling to return to his feet.

"You... insufferable prick!" John yelled, at the top of his lungs. When it came to swearing, John wasn't really the most vocal, but there was such seething hatred in it this time. It was unnerving, to say the least. "Don't you care what happens to anyone but yourself?"

I could guess what the two were fighting about. Recently we had run across John's father, in no worse shape for wear. He traveled on with us for a few days, but vanished without a trace not two weeks ago. John instantly wanted to go looking for him, but Dave had the mission in mind.

"Shut your trap, Egbert!" Dave raged. "I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah?" John yelled back. "Who says we have to listen to you?"

"Oh, like following you on your stupid shit is any better?"

Ah, and here's the meat of the problem. I couldn't help but grin from my vantage point. Dave and John were two animals, jockeying for the alpha position. This would require a complete revision of my journal entry.

Satisfied, I turned back to the tent... but then things got worse.

A heavy book appeared in a flash, launched from John's sylladex, and landed square in Dave's jaw. He landed a few feet away, obviously dazed.

This was bad.

Dave quickly drew his two half-blades from his strife specibus, wielding them like a seasoned veteran. His Bro had taught him well. But John wasn't going to be intimidated. In his hands he brandished his Wrinklefucker - god, leave it to a boy to give it a name like that - and let out a guttural yell.

I had to intervene. But they were so far away. And Dave was angry, and fast on his feet to boot. A few flash steps forward and he had already closed the distance before I had even gotten into a good run. John was in his range, and before anything else could happen...

A shot rang out.

Dave jumped back instinctively, but the round passed harmlessly between them. The two boys looked past me towards the tent. I heard the clatter of metal against grass as Jade dropped her weapon and looked at the both of them, tears in her eyes.

SOMETHING FUNNY. I HAVE FULFILLED MY VOW.

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Damn it, just man up already. As cool as it is, I can't lean against this rock and stare off into the distance forever.

"Hey. Egbert." John looked up from whatever it was he was doing. His smile faded a bit. "Got a question for ya."

"Look, Dave," John cut off. "This wouldn't have happened if you had just put up the tent like she asked."

Whoa whoa whoa. Hold on a second. "Why should I be doing her dirty work? And where were you, Mr. Chivalry?"

"Getting firewood with Jade, remember?" Riiight. I can see his game. "When I got back she was already chasing you down." Damn it, you and your logic.

Time to make a beautiful comeback, Strider style. "...It-It's not like I saw anything." ...What.

That's all my brain had to offer?

"Judging from her reaction you saw plenty." John grinned, the kind of smile shared between two guys who knew something awesome just happened.

Awesome. Pff. It was just Rose. Changing. "I mean, yeah, she's pretty and all..." SHIT I said that out loud.

"HA!" John laughed uncontrollably. If I knew you were going to do that I wouldn't have come to you. "This is rich. Like the bathhouse scene trope minus the bathhouse!" Oh god don't pull out your trivia crap, I'M IN CRISIS HERE.

Short because I can't figure out a proper conclusion.

I like your drama, though! I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but you writing gets across strong visuals with fairly simple language, which is pretty cool. Rose's journal part felt very in character in the first piece, and it all just flowed well.

The second piece was amusing, and my only critique would be that it took several reads for me to figure out who was saying/doing what. Mixing the POV's thoughts along with John's actions made it hard to keep track of. For clarity's sake, I would probably avoid jamming Dave's thought in between another character's action. It makes it a bit hard to follow.

I'd love to see more from you, though. I've liked everything that I've seen.

[resdaMalos]

I'd love to see more from you, though. I've liked everything that I've seen.

Prepare to be underwhelmed.

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"Oh, John! That's hilarious!" Jade doubled over, inadvertently falling into John's lap.

John held his breath, trying his best to hide his nervousness. "Heh, yeah, I thought so too!" He placed his hand in hers. She flinched a moment, but didn't pull away. Both of their faces turned bright red as the laughter gave way to awkward silence.

"John?" Jade looked up at him, her eyes drooping. "I'm glad we met." She fell asleep right there, a peaceful smile on her face.

John looked up into the sky, watching the fireflies dance among the clouds. "Me too."

Meters from the scene, but not many, two pairs of eyes watched from behind the brush.

"Ugh," Dave shuddered, "doesn't it just make you want to throw up?" He pulled his shades down so he could look at them without the dark tint.

Rose hid her blush by pretending to cough. "I think it's sweet. I always had pegged them for a match anyway."

"I suppose," Dave sighed. "and I have to admit, as dorky as he is, Egbert's got game."

Rose and Dave turned towards each other at the exact same moment - and their eyes locked.

"Your eyes..." she breathed. She had never seen them before - they were deep, sharp blue. On his end, he had never really gotten a proper look at Rose's face before. It seemed to glow in the moonlight streaming from above, making her look almost ethereal.

The two drew nearer, mesmerised by each other's eyes. A foot... six inches... three... two... one...

Dave cleared his throat, jamming his shades back over the bridge of his nose. "Uh, yeah. Crazy, huh?"

Rose sat up straight too, turning around to keep her face from flushing. "Yeah."

"Anyway..." Dave started, "I'm, uh, going to... bed. Yeah."

"O-of course," Rose stammered. "I'll go to my tent too. I'll see you in the morning?"

"No problem," Dave answered mechanically. "I'll see you in the morning." Two tense, hormonal teenagers rushed quickly to opposite sides of camp into the safety of their own beds.

[Quixotic]

I'd love to see more from you, though. I've liked everything that I've seen.

Prepare to be underwhelmed.

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"Oh, John! That's hilarious!" Jade doubled over, inadvertently falling into John's lap.

John held his breath, trying his best to hide his nervousness. "Heh, yeah, I thought so too!" He placed his hand in hers. She flinched a moment, but didn't pull away. Both of their faces turned bright red as the laughter gave way to awkward silence.

"John?" Jade looked up at him, her eyes drooping. "I'm glad we met." She fell asleep right there, a peaceful smile on her face.

John looked up into the sky, watching the fireflies dance among the clouds. "Me too."

Meters from the scene, but not many, two pairs of eyes watched from behind the brush.

"Ugh," Dave shuddered, "doesn't it just make you want to throw up?" He pulled his shades down so he could look at them without the dark tint.

Rose hid her blush by pretending to cough. "I think it's sweet. I always had pegged them for a match anyway."

"I suppose," Dave sighed. "and I have to admit, as dorky as he is, Egbert's got game."

Rose and Dave turned towards each other at the exact same moment - and their eyes locked.

"Your eyes..." she breathed. She had never seen them before - they were deep, sharp blue. On his end, he had never really gotten a proper look at Rose's face before. It seemed to glow in the moonlight streaming from above, making her look almost ethereal.

The two drew nearer, mesmerised by each other's eyes. A foot... six inches... three... two... one...

Dave cleared his throat, jamming his shades back over the bridge of his nose. "Uh, yeah. Crazy, huh?"

Rose sat up straight too, turning around to keep her face from flushing. "Yeah."

"Anyway..." Dave started, "I'm, uh, going to... bed. Yeah."

"O-of course," Rose stammered. "I'll go to my tent too. I'll see you in the morning?"

"No problem," Dave answered mechanically. "I'll see you in the morning." Two tense, hormonal teenagers rushed quickly to opposite sides of camp into the safety of their own beds.

=D I get so excited when I see this thread get updated.

That was CUTE. Ever since I saw someone draw a fanart of Dave having pretty blue eyes I've felt that someone falling into them was inevitable. Now it has come to life through your writing and I am very pleased. Fair to say, I was not underwhelmed at all. I love these pairings. They are my favourite.

And again, I look forward to your stuff.

I also enjoy John's trend of having lady-slaying skills in these fanfiction. When it comes to Jade, anyway.

[mars7a]

John meets a badly wounded Imp in the Land of Wind and Shade.
"Hello" He says. He walks up to the Imp. He leans over and stares him straight in the face, their breath on eachother's faces, their eyes meet.

Then John beats the fuck out of him with a hammer.

THE END

[Zuki]

John meets a badly wounded Imp in the Land of Wind and Shade.

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"Hello" He says. He walks up to the Imp. He leans over and stares him straight in the face, their breath on eachother's faces, their eyes meet.

Then John beats the fuck out of him with a hammer.

THE END

Perfect. I laughed and giggled.

Prepare to be underwhelmed.

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"Oh, John! That's hilarious!" Jade doubled over, inadvertently falling into John's lap.

John held his breath, trying his best to hide his nervousness. "Heh, yeah, I thought so too!" He placed his hand in hers. She flinched a moment, but didn't pull away. Both of their faces turned bright red as the laughter gave way to awkward silence.

"John?" Jade looked up at him, her eyes drooping. "I'm glad we met." She fell asleep right there, a peaceful smile on her face.

John looked up into the sky, watching the fireflies dance among the clouds. "Me too."

Meters from the scene, but not many, two pairs of eyes watched from behind the brush.

"Ugh," Dave shuddered, "doesn't it just make you want to throw up?" He pulled his shades down so he could look at them without the dark tint.

Rose hid her blush by pretending to cough. "I think it's sweet. I always had pegged them for a match anyway."

"I suppose," Dave sighed. "and I have to admit, as dorky as he is, Egbert's got game."

Rose and Dave turned towards each other at the exact same moment - and their eyes locked.

"Your eyes..." she breathed. She had never seen them before - they were deep, sharp blue. On his end, he had never really gotten a proper look at Rose's face before. It seemed to glow in the moonlight streaming from above, making her look almost ethereal.

The two drew nearer, mesmerised by each other's eyes. A foot... six inches... three... two... one...

Dave cleared his throat, jamming his shades back over the bridge of his nose. "Uh, yeah. Crazy, huh?"

Rose sat up straight too, turning around to keep her face from flushing. "Yeah."

"Anyway..." Dave started, "I'm, uh, going to... bed. Yeah."

"O-of course," Rose stammered. "I'll go to my tent too. I'll see you in the morning?"

"No problem," Dave answered mechanically. "I'll see you in the morning." Two tense, hormonal teenagers rushed quickly to opposite sides of camp into the safety of their own beds.

I thank you for capturing a little of the Dave/Rose dynamic I have often imagined in my mind--the two of them furiously in denial of their equally furious chemistry. Their sharp and witty banter seems juuust a bit off, however. I shall interpret this as a result of being distracted by the realization that "Hey, that person is a girl."/"Hey, that person is a boy."

I am highly amused by the fact that, despite claims of "Ew, gross," Dave wants a better look. And I, in my equal-opportunity-shipping nonsense, like to imagine that one of the reason's Rose is blushing is because she always was a little sweet on John, the big (lady-killing) dork.

Hm. I'm suddenly reminded of the fact that some people seem to have more charisma online than in person. I betcha Dave's one of them--except where, say, Rose is concerned? :3