okay first i swear that this thread just rockets up a few million pages every time i look at it. wish I could comment on all the stuff in here I loved but I will just say that you guys are all fabulous and kind of insane in the sheer volume of stuff you produce, considering that there's not ACTUALLY a whole lot of active contributors to this thread, as opposed to either of the drawn art threads anyway
okay first i swear that this thread just rockets up a few million pages every time i look at it. wish I could comment on all the stuff in here I loved but I will just say that you guys are all fabulous and kind of insane in the sheer volume of stuff you produce, considering that there's not ACTUALLY a whole lot of active contributors to this thread, as opposed to either of the drawn art thread anyway
Instead I have a ficlet dealing with the Midnight Crew. Just a brief examination of their dynamics and dealings.
To pass the time, they shoot craps. The close air in their little hideout down below the twisting streets becomes so thick with cigarette smoke you could nearly cut it with a knife.
Naturally, Hearts isn't allowed to play, the slimy cheatmonkey. He protests it's luck, but Droog eschews this for a more basic explanation: it's built in. It's like trying to race a guy with three legs; whatever happens, someone's going to end up with a broken limb at the end, if Slick has anything to say about it. After all, Hearts always rolls boxcars.
Deuce always looses. They take pity on him and his friendly, vacant gaze, though, and let him win while he's ahead, sometimes. Droog has groused more than once that there's not enough in the guy's noggin to care whether or not he wins or looses, he's just happy to be in the crew. Slick always growls back that if nothing else, it at least helps him sleep at night, prompting Droog to make some smartass comment on his boss's moral compass. Slick invariablly tells him to shove it where the sun don't shine.
Slick tallies them up aftewards. He can figure faster than an adding machine weilded by Einstein, to little surprise. He's slogged through so many bills and notices over the years that the sums seem engraved on his brain meat. Which is also why he's never allowed to play cards; he's a damn predator with those things, with his perfect recall. He can tell you every card that's been dealt and every card that's in play after a single round. They've been kicked out of more than one joint on account of Slick getting crafty with the art. Deuce is always the one to complain that Slick's making a bad name for them. Slick responds that well, yeah, that's kind of of the point. Noody not nohow is going to fuck with the Midnight Crew if they walk into a place.
The reasoning is both tempting and contradictory. Droog reminds him they'll run out of places soon, as they stop off to pick up some more smokes. Slick growls that that's bullshit. No doorman or bouncer would turn down a couple hundred just to keep out a few slick-looking fellas out for a night of fun.
But when thing's are too hot to handle above ground, they hole up for a while, concocting plots and card games, leeching money off each other and fantasizing about the havoc they'll wreak once those morons out there lay off.
First Strider!fic, and now a Midnight Crew ficlet?
@ EB: thanks for the feedback yeah, I wanted the guardians to kind of have traits of their respective kids (grandpa being cryptic and flighty, bro being ridiculous and foul-mouted, dad being herpdy derpdy sat on the wall, mom being overanalytic and snarky), but I didn't wanna go to far with it. Bro is the hardest to write :T silent characters are generally hard to give voices that actually work. it would probably work better if his posts were a lot most succint and to the point. that might work really well when compared to dave's inane endless rambling. though not rambling inanely is something i personally am very very bad at. though that is uh..probably a little redundant to say at this point though eheh
as for anvilicious, not sure how much i agree with that! HOW SUBTLE CAN I BE ABOUT AN UNDERAGED KID BUYING SEX TOYS. in his sleep. to deal with puppet-related trauma. or at least that's mom's theory.
I decided to try something a little different.
God I hope I didn't fuck this up too badly.
Psychoanalysis entry 1 - John Egbert
I have decided to take the spare time from my usually meaningless schedule to compile a psychoanalytical examination of the children present in the current Sburb session. It is my duty to dictate where they stand on a scale of one to five, one being completely mentally stable, and five being on the edge of complete and utter mental deterioration.
I chose to begin my examination with John Egbert.
Greetings John, is it alright if I call you that?
just fine, yeah. why wouldn’t it be?
Fair enough. Tell me about yourself.
oh, alright. my name is John Egbert. i enjoy pranks and jokes, its something I’ve spent years of my life on. really I can’t remember a time I didn’t enjoy pieing someone in the face or playing 52 pick up. I can play the piano, its something my dad taught me.
I see. So how do you feel about your father?
oh, he’s alright. usually. he really gets on my nerves though.
yeah. him and his stupid harlequins. not to mention he is always cooking, I mean, he makes cakes all the time and its all I ever eat! I am amazed I am not fat. he has plastered paintings of those dumb harlequins all over the house, living room, hallway, his study, its unnerving!
I see. (Note; Subject appears to be unaware of the graffiti in his room, inspect directly later.)
So, tell me about your friends.
okay. let’s see, there’s Dave, Rose, and Jade.
Let’s hear about Dave first.
okay, he’s pretty cool I guess, I mean, he can be a complete ass at times. he has this weird thing with thinking puppets are cool. sometimes he can be really gay too, but he’s a good friend.
Does he live in your neighborhood?
no, I think he lives in texas.
What about Jade and Rose?
Rose is in…new York, I think. Jade is on some island.
Mhmmm….well John, before I go, would you mind letting me know what you thought of this whole procedure?
I thought it was weird, I didn’t exactly feel uncomfortable, but I don’t want to do this again. I hope you don’t bother my friends with this, I may not be rude, but I am sure Dave will try to harsh your mellow…or whatever the hell that means.
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Psyche analysis dictates him at a level of 3/5 Subject appears to show signs of purging to keep a thin figure due to an unhealthy diet supplemented to him by his father, possible need to inform child services and escort John Egbert to a healthier, happier home.
Subject also shows signs of denial, appearing to be unaware of his own scribbling upon his beloved movie posters. Evaluated to be forced upon himself by a realization of how similar he and his father are, or perhaps his father began collecting harlequins in order to entertain his son. Further inspection is needed.
Child shows signs of gullibility to one of the highest degrees, upon inspecting pesterlogs it was noted jade first spoke to him, referring to him by name, on his birthday. No suspicion was cast her way and they soon became friends.
Subject shows minor signs of being dependant on attention, this could explain a desire to perform practical jokes on everyone, including close friends. Along with trusting and associating himself with strangers so quickly.
Also appears to have a judgmental attitude, unclear where this originates. Minor detail, common in teenagers.
Subject will be detained and re-evaluated at a time deemed proper, next subject shall be this Dave Strider.
Last edited by DJ-P0N3; 12-20-2010 at 09:11 PM.
Reason: the fuck is a neighbordhood?
Yeah, don't make it Doc Scratch. It would be unimaginative and also inaccurate because anything Doc Scratch could learn he already knows. And the kids are none of his business. It's just a skaianet employee.
@Kass, Zerovirus, Sebastian, Graven, Ganato - Thank you for your kind comments! There is more in the cooker, certainly. I will finish this damn thing *shakefist*
@ Graven : YES MOAR OF THIS. Deliciously written, and I like the DJ/Bard dynamic. Also your callback to titles challenging people.
@ Bass: DAYMN. Yet another alternate Dave I have to draw :| when I finally get around to arting all I'm going to be drawing is Daves. Up to my goddamn ass in alternate Daves.
Let's see, my current list:
Dave killing himself and/or hot dave on dave action
Evil Kill Bill Dave With Ironic Soul Patch
should just do a giant davepile picture :|
@Sionnan: I like the something completely different! Always nice to step out of your box, and nice to see something different too (not that I don't adore every single Strider thing you want; variety is just nice)
@ Bufu: I love EVERYTHING with Guardians in it; and I also love this AU troll thang. Delish.
The fact that you're about to die, or the fact that you're perfectly okay with it.
The two of you come up to the stone bed on the mountain. You can see the plains stretching out for miles in every direction. It'd be a perfect place to take a nap, if the bed weren't made of solid rock.
As you lay down, you make sure she knows what to do.
Yes, I know, she tells you. But that doesn't mean I want to do it.
You went over this, you say. You'll be fine.
She nods once, and begins singing.
It's soothing. The music curves around the peak, adding echoes and harmonies as it bends through the air.
Just before you slip totally out of consciousness, you hear the song change, and feel the notes begin to curve into you instead of around you.
You're not concerned.
You wake up in the tower, on the moon of Derse. All the exits are sealed; the agents figured the less of you they had to deal with, the better.
From thousands of miles away, you can feel a disturbance in your waking body.
She sung you to sleep. Now she's singing you to death.
You feel the seperate systems shut off one by one. Your blood stops flowing. Your mind stops functioning. And finally, you take your last breath.
It's peaceful. Benevolent. Humane.
And then the fireworks start.
The walls of your tower explode outward, showering the moon a hundred stories below with debris. The moon's orbit has taken you into direct alignment with the planet you just died on.
And there is light. And sound. And fury.
You're bathed in it, peirced inside and out with this pulse, this gnawingache that claws at the inside of your head like it's trying to escape.
And the light and the sound and the pain stops, and you rise up.
The DJ stands atop a shattered tower, the rhythm of the universe pounding in his head. He looks out on the planet below, sees the underlings toiling to a monotone that plays throughout the world.
He sees the song inside each one. Everyone in this world has a motif, waiting to break out and show itself. They walk to it, talk to it, work to it.
In retrospect, he couldn't imagine the universe working any differently.
He sees how the songs cut themselves into shapes to fit together. They form the song of this machine, pounding away a beat for a single vainglorious note that screams above the rest.
It is the note of a Queen.
This DJ is you.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.
She waits at the altar, hoping. Praying for some sign she's done the right thing.
You hear the strings of despair play in her head as you float down on a song's wings. Then you embrace her, and they lay silent.
In their place blasts a symphony of joy, relief, and... love?
Love plays the soloist, the soprano in front that sings to the world, look at me. I am complete.
You kiss her.
Just to complete the moment.
Your leader looks you over in your ascended state. Your body is plated in black metal, with the blue angelic symbol of Hope adorning your chest. Into your shoulderplates are built loudspeakers that play whichever song you use, cordlessly and effortlessly.
You're definitely the DJ.
You're happy to have "passed inspection," as it were. You're one of the last in your group to ascend to the god tiers.
But you're not sorry you did.
Your first mistake was not taking the ring.
After the last of you ascended, you immediately set out for Derse to confront the Queen. You gave her a choice: surrender the ring and leave the Incipisphere forever, or die.
She simply stood up and laughed.
36 prototypes. 36 aspects of yourselves, bent and folded and mutated into an ultimate warrior.
She faces 36 ascended heroes, all as powerful as they will ever get. It's almost a fair fight.
The Queen is dead. The note goes silent.
You leave her corpse in the throne room, for some lackey to clean up.
And that was your mistake.
It was another archagent. He found the ring, still intact and surrounded with 36 orbs the size of ballpoints. He figured the Queen wouldn't need it anymore.
But there was someone else who could use it.
By the time you hear of the ring's final destination, the Reckoning has already started.
The Black Queen's death coincided with the White Queen's exile by a Dersite spy. Both rings were sent to the Black King battling on Skaia above. It gave him power.
Too much power.
He leads the very next charge, blasting a swath of destruction through the battlefield. He wrests the scepter from the White King's hand and crushes him underfoot like a beetle.
The Reckoning begins.
The scepter grants him even more power.
And he still hungers.
The Black King is driven mad by the energy coursing through him. Soon his entire army deserts him, joining a rebellion springing up in the extradimensional latticework that surrounds Skaia in its final form.
But the King has monsters. Monsters that are loyal to his every word, sane or not.
And it is with these that you must contend if you hope to fight the King.
When it seems the tide is endless, the rebels spring their attack. Their numbers overwhelm the beasts, and their leader promises to buy you time to defeat the King.
You thank him.
He defers. You're the heroes, not he.
The King looms over you. Two rings, one on either ring finger. Two scepters, one in each hand.
He has the power of a collective 144 prototypes.
You have the power of 36 ascended heroes.
It's almost a fair fight.
As the fight looms, you load one last disc into the soundboard floating in front of you. It is your opus.
36 motifs. 36 different themes, mixed and mashed and cut and bent and shaped and fit together until they are the perfect expression of all you are. Everything you've done up to now is contained in this song.
The battle begins.
You hit "play".
The speakers blast the music into the air, onto the platform, out into the rings of Skaia. You see out where it reaches, and you see the soldiers striking with the ferocity of a Knight, with the foresight of a Seer.
With the grace of a Bard, and the Hope of a DJ.
The Song finishes as your leader issues the coup de grace. The Black King falls, defeated, both ring fingers severed.
The Scepters are caught by the soldiers underneath you, but not used. The rings are held reverently by those below.
As the platform descends, Skaia begins to take on its ultimate shape. The army absconds, royal artifacts in tow.
Skaia disappears, resolving into a single door.
This is it.
The game is over.
But you can't leave yet.
The Black King yet lives. He is exiled.
Someone must keep watch over Diamont, after all. Whatever civilization arises there, the two are fated to become bitter enemies.
The symbols of Royalty are passed on. The scepters are given to the War's Victor, the Dersite leader of the rebellion and a lynchpin of the Black King's defeat.
The rings are given to the Primal Militaristic, a Prospitian soldier and first inductee into the Victor's plans.
They unite the two kingdoms into a single Kingdom of Skaia. There is much rejoicing.
You know of other Incipispheres' existences. You know the path they all usually take.
You're glad you brought peace to this one.
As the Pristine Matriarch and the Wizened Vindicator see you off into your new home, you stay behind and watch your friends disappear into the door, leaving only the King, the Queen, you, and the Bard.
The two of you promise to return if you ever can.
Don't worry, they say. This united Kingdom of Skaia will always welcome you back.
Together, you step through the door.
And together, you find respite.
Last edited by Graven_Image; 12-23-2010 at 03:39 PM.