Who knows what this is. It might turn into something bigger. It might stay like this. But it's from something I've written that you've read before.
Prince of Fury
You're mad again.
You're always mad.
Temper, temper. That's what Mom always said. Son, I don't know what we're going to do if you don't stop taking out your aggression on everyone else.
You couldn't help it, as it turns out.
It's certainly never helped you.
All this anger does is make you hard to live with. You try to keep yourself from exploding, but the haze clouds your vision and your mind fogs up and you're gritting your teeth, balancing yourself on a knife's edge, just waiting to be nudged off.
The next thing you know, your arms and legs hurt, your head feels like it's split in half, and you're halfway through curbstomping the last guy in a bunch of other guys who looked at you funny.
You wish you weren't like this, but sometimes you just
Playing the game is like pouring cool water over a heap of burning coals. The fire goes out for a time and the steam rises into your head and washes away the grime that's been there for who knows how long.
Soon enough, though, it rekindles, and you're on edge. You wait for the next outing, you wait for another batch of underlings to let you unleash eighteen years of resentment at STOP, NO, DON'T, PUT THAT DOWN.
So, naturally, you're the leader.
You always lead the charge. You'd like to say you're brave, but you're really just angry and anger makes you stupid.
Halfway through cleaving another hapless imp in two, your mind reconfigures into a state something like sanity, and you realize how dumb you just acted.
That happens in other situations, too.
You try to convince the more obstinate among your group that your way is the way that they should go. They don't buy it. As the tension mounts, you want to flee the room and pound something into oblivion.
But you can't leave. You're the leader. And the leader doesn't stop because he feels like quitting.
Soon enough, you explode. You grab the winner of your discontent and slam him into the wall, screaming in his face at how stupid he is, how blind he is to the consequences.
You go on for minutes, incandescent with rage and showering your hapless target with harsh words and unprecedented vitriol.
And then your brain shifts gears.
You let him down and leave the room.
You're no leader.
You sit outside in the dank air. As the mist blows through the forest around your home, you try to relax.
Think of happy things, you tell yourself. Something other than violence and weaponry and the stress of leadership.
She walks out to see if you're okay.
You're fine, you tell her. Just trying to calm down.
No, you're not, she says. You almost broke one of his ribs.
You know all about it, you say. You know that you're a keg of gunpowder, ready to go off and injure everyone around you. You know how dangerous you are.
You don't know why the rest of them chose you to be the leader.
That's bull and you know it, she says. You're the leader because you're fearless. You aren't afraid of anything!
Yeah, you say, or maybe you just seem that way because mid-rage, you don't think straight. You're not brave. You're just too stupid to know any better.
Also bull, she says. I know when you're afraid. I can tell when you are and aren't too afraid to do something.
And how's that, you ask.
Because when you're too afraid, you just stand outside and mope like an idiot.
You go inside a few minutes later and win the argument.
You eventually find a balance for your anger.
You become a sovereign judge, looking out and weighing those before you.
The good are spared. But the evil make you angry. And you have a long tradition of dealing with people who make you angry.
Down on them comes your wrath, righteous and terrible like a dread medieval god.
You are the Prince of Fury. Woe to those who oppose you.
@Wigmund Joining the chorus of praise for that one.
Best Homestuck plot twist yet.
Your chumhandle is quizzicalDraconian. You don't like to talk much because you're often busy, or maybe that's just how you troll people. Also you are sorta kinda indecisive about some stuff sometimes and use way too many weird emoticons. :B :V :'
Check out my Forum Adventure Jumpcat!
Link to webcomic and unnatural Bec Noir love under spoilers:
The clack of metal on metal competed with the steady drip of coolant. Arthonium crystals clicked as computer use was logged and the crystals were flipped to form a massive binary code under every inch of crust on the planet. Server bays vented hot air into the warm night, and alien stars shuddered in the poisonous atmosphere of Nitrous oxide and methane. There would be no fires on the surface, it was to dangerous.
Repair drones walked the halls between the server bays, replacing cracked or stuck crystals. Four eyes blinked in unison as the silicon-based lifeforms each took a crystal from their packs and carefully put it back in position.
It was a honorable job for WR140 to have. The server bays were the first most important thing on the face of Alghash, homeworld of the silicon race known as Overseers. His otherselves stopped to consider the server bays as well.
"They are magnificent, aren't they?" Hissed one through his speaking mouth.
"Yes, WR240." Responded WR340.
WR140 was silent. His otherselves held still as well, unwilling to be split up. For the first time WR140 showed signs of Rebellion, a criminal offense. Stopping Labor during Labor Hours was just one of the things marked as Rebellion.
"Come. We have work to do."
WR140 stayed where he was. To their credit, his otherselves stayed as wel, commiting low treason. Low because they were expected to, to a point. The Collective was far higher than just the set of triplets termed as Otherselves. WR240 tried to drag his brother onward, but WR140 refused to move. Glistening claws dug into the smooth cement.
"It is beautiful, WR240."
"Let us go gether more beauty for our optics then. You may review the room later when we are home and we disengage our lenses."
"I never get tired of it."
"And niether do we." WR340 nodded to show he also never grew tired of the flicking crystals. It was truely a beautiful spectacle.
"No. The indoctrination keeps you from hearing me. I said I."
"We missed no words, WR140. We ignore them for our benifit. Now come, before the Peacekeepers find us." WR340 turned and left. After a small amount of time, so did WR240. WR140 stayed, watching the crystals.
He was big for a Overseer, as were his brothers. He stood at just over 4 meters, and he was almost 2 meters wide. Most overseers were only 3 and on half a meter high, with a similar difference in width. If the peacekeepers did come, WR140 hoped they would bring backup. They would need it.
But the peacekeepers were far more devious than that. A female slipped into the room. Her scales glistened despite the powder that passed for clothing amongst Overseers. Silently she slipped behind WR140 and slipped a nanofiber cord around his collosal neck.
It cut deep, with a small gurgle the only noise released. She didn't stop pulling until the noises stopped, and the body was motionless. Then, her Labor was done, and she returned home to her family.
When WR140 awoke, he was in a strange black room. Several small computerbays were nearby, the kind that used the smaller "microchips" given up on years ago. There is only so small one can go, yet there was nigh infinite space underneath the planet. It was, all in all, a logical conclusion.
There were monitors, viewscreens into the Overseers watched universes. WR140s first thought was not "where are we?" as to be expected, but rather "Why?". It was a trait long bred out of the Overseer population.
"Are you ready for it?"
"We think so."
"This is our first true act of Rebellion."
"As WR140 will like."
"Very well. Contact Troll1028399827773937gc first. She will be most responsive, considering the fact that drone19847737666264873663 is outside her entrance portal."
"Accessing. Testing vocal regonition."
"Vocal recognized. Proceed with act of Rebellion."
"Run. Now, before it is too late!"
"Unlinking. That should be enough."
WR140 lay on his cot. We die for this. We die for saving her life.
@c_rowles: Thanks very much for reading and commenting!
And now BACK TO YOU REGULARLY SCHEDULED STRIDER MADNESS.
Bro buys time for Dave the only way he can think: killing a goddamn meteor.
He isn't even out of breath when he lightly tosses the paper envelopes down on his little brother's skinny chest. Around him, the mess of crows is still circling, calling out their raucous complaints. The asphalt top of the roof sends up banners of heat that waver in the light, distorting the shapes of buildings around them that crouched like minions watching kings duel.
Good, he thinks. This'll keep him in one place for a while. Buy him time.
He watches his brother's face for only a second, the most time he can spare. It is flushed from heat and frustration and covered in tiny scrapes from his encounter with the flight of stairs, and lying there he looks so small, and for once he looks as helpless as the kid he really is. And kids needed to be protected. His kid needs his protection.
So Strider is going to do exactly what he knows will buy his brother time. Protect him.
He starts the hoverboard with a flick of the toe of his sneaker, and jumps on it, automatically stabilizing on it before it can dump his weight.
It steers exactly as a skateboard does, just with vertical capabilities. Bro sends his weight down to the rear of the board, tilting it's broad nose into the air, and he and the board ascend. He doesn't look back at his brother. He knows he will see him again. The kid's on his own for now, it's up to him not to kill himself while he's gone. There's more threat of that now than at any time in the past. Goddamn apocalypse.
Still navigating the board, he pulls out his cell phone, checking the active face. The program he's opening shows his relative position, right now a few hundred feet above the city, as a blinking red dot. So far, okay. He pans out a little bit, dragging his thumb down the screen, widening the view. It shows the city, then angles from a top-down view to a flat horizontal view. His dot rises, and he pans out more. Far above them, still blazing through the stratas of the atmosphere, is the enormous green dot, descending slowly.
It's maybe ten minutes before his phone vibrates. He'd installed a key logger on Dave's machine a while ago, mostly because he was worried what kinds of creeps drifted to creep on his little brother from his own site. He's never told Dave; there are some things that he has to do that would seriously make Dave flip his shit. While he's only ever used to make sure Dave isn't in any danger of getting abducted by rampaging furries, in this case, he was using it to snoop. The pesterchum conversation, boiled down, gives him four hours to figure out how to try and stop this fucking meteor.
At some point, the air has become very hard to breathe, and he wobbles dangerously as a momentary spell of vertigo washes over him. But it's close. He drops the board a bit to regain some breathability, crouching and holding onto the lip for balance.
The sound of it alone is enough to shake him to his core. It sounds like it's rending the air with its passage, a low and angry roar that he can hear from a mile away. The fucking thing's the size of half a dozen city blocks. Like a flaming fucking flying hill.
And he's going to ride the motherfucker.
He speeds toward it, urging the rocketboard to its fullest capacity. His breath is being whipped from his lungs, and its takes his fullest concentration not to be disoriented by it.
The heat consumes him (forget the heat, you are the heat) as he nears, and he merges with it. It took him a long damn time to figure out how to ignore something so thoroughly to the point of regulating his own body to accommodate it. There were various names for the technique, but basically it implied a level of control over his own body to the most minute degree. People who watched too many Eastern action flicks liked to call it ki. Or chi. Or chakra. Or whatever the hell else they chose to call it. Skateboarders and athletes knew it as being in the zone. Same idea, different name.
The heat of the meteor did not consume him, did not even bother him, because right now, matching it's speed and mindless ferocity, he was the fucking meteor.
Without even really knowing that he knew it, he tilts the board instinctively to approach at an angle to prevent from being repelled by its trail. Another thin screech is sent up by the air lashing over the nose of his ride, and it sends a blinding wake of gas and pebbles around him. It scrapes at his face and arms, ripping at his skin. He readjusts the board, allowing for a broader arc of the inevitable detrius, and descends.
He is sure that he is staying atop the meteor by willpower alone. He would have flown off ages ago if his desperate need to be on this fucking rock weren't so great. They descend, together, and a mile below them, he sees the city.
Dave needs time.
If he needs to die on this rock to give his brother the last handful of seconds, so be it.
Last edited by Sionnan; 12-21-2010 at 11:43 PM.
Strider brothers fics (many thanks go to egregiousBass for compiling them):
Musical Interlude- Dave tries to ironically score in the ongoing fight to one-up his brother. By joining the school chorus.
DEAR KASS: HAPPY FREAKING BIRTHDAY, PART ONE OF FOUR.
Flip it Four-Ways
Alternate title: The Legend of DAVE: The Four DAVES
Alternate alternate title: ALL THE DAVES ALL OF THEM
Prologue - Orange
He pulled one of the records off his time tables and had a good long look at it. He'd long ago (thirty seconds and a full month and an eternity) ago memorized every groove, every line in its surface.
But thus far he'd only been working with one track. The same song, played over and over again, ad infinitum. He hadn't even hit side B yet.
“So, is this even possible? Or a good idea? I mean 'cause I'm all for changin the scheme and alterin the mood, but...” asked Dave.
“I never tried it,” Davesprite responded. “And I don't think jumping tracks is gonna cut it. You'll need new records.”
Dave looked over at the alchemiter, then back at the disk.
“Okay. Hypothetically, worst that could happen is a pile of dead Daves. Shitty, but it keeps happening anyway.”
“Best that could happen... pile of fucking sweet loot, ability to get to God-tier despite Terezi saying I never do it – just do it in some alternate universe and nobody's the wiser – and generally learn how to do these fucking timetables better.”
“You already decided to do it, dumpass, remember? Fucking alchemize the shit already.”
Dave picked up a blue clown hat, a stray bit of purple yarn, and a bit of white dog fur that his future self had dropped off, with only the enigmatic “You're a fucking dumbass but here you go” as greeting. Which didn't bode well, but he had the stuff, he'd better go do it.
“Let's fucking rock the house.”
He pulled out the blue record and played; a funky beat came out, some kind of weird 70s disco thing. He slid, turned, and changed the wind.
Part One - Blue
“Dude, you get to be the TIME player? God DAAAAAAAMN! What kind of sweet pranks do you get up to with that shit?”
Dave Strider sat on the bed, which had Jackass: The Movie sheets on it. In trying to get through the house, he'd slipped on soap, fell down the stairs, landed on a skateboard, rolled out of the door, been caught by a volleyball net which hung over the precipice above the Land of Heat and Wind (a rocky plateau with some impressive sandstone monoliths about) and was now wearing a version of Four Aces Suited that had a criss-cross pattern of blue paint from said volleyball net. A few easy dodges of several hurled weapons that looked like they'd been alchemized from Nerf swords later he'd gotten to the awkward introductions, followed by the invitation up to this Dave Egbert's room to share an apple juice.
At which point he'd been subject to a bucket of water from atop the door, which Egbert had just laughed at. As to the apple juice? He stared at it for a few moments before putting it aside on the dresser. He knew what that had to be, and there was no way in hell he was falling for it.
“Dude, you don't use time travel for that juvenile shit. I mean, do you use your windy thing or whatever the fuck you call it to blow up Jade's skirts?”
Egbert stared at Strider blankly. “Windy... what? What's a windy thing? I can do windy things? And oh man that'd just be all sorts of fucking awkward! And she'd probably send the tentacles after me or something.”
He tapped his chin. “Dude, that said, I could totally finish my quest for the ultimate Unreal Air with a windy thing. I mean god DAAAAMN. You already fucked up my first plan to get it, though I guess the crazy purple Indiana Jones chick already told me it was a bad idea haha.”
Strider sighed. “Okay, what about the Quest Bed? You know about that yet?”
This stare was a good deal more guarded. “You mean the suicide pact o rama thing that John got put through thanks to the creepy gray chick? Man fuck no. I mean... my girl Feferi tried to convince me to make a crazy Rube Goldberg thing so I could SWAN DIVE into the most epic suicide of my life, but...”
He shook his head. “Couldn't do it, bro. Did you?”
“Don't know yet, he said, then absently took a swig of the apple juice.
Egbert laughed so hard he fell out of his chair at Strider's epic 'BLUH'. “Fuck YES! Prankster's gambit is so charged it ain't NEVER gonna come back down!
One trip to the bathroom involving actually chewing on soap later, Strider pulled out the green disk, and dropped a vicious ear-worm of a techno-pop beat as he once again flipped turnways...
I'm aware that Davesprite is dead by the time Dave knows about the Quest Bed (probably). All I have to say to you is this: TIME. FUCKING. SHENANIGANS.
Annnd I can't write Dave or John, so Dave Egbert is just a completely lost cause x_X;
ALSO YEAH it's Kass' birthday and I said HEY KASS I WILL WRITE YOU A DRABBLE and 'drabble' turned into 'bluh bluh huge fic'
also hooray insomnia
Last edited by lucidSeraph; 12-21-2010 at 09:35 PM.