MSPA Fanfiction III

[geeP]

However, we know from Vriska's first conversation with Scratch that she will eventually cause (or has already set in motion) nigh-unfathomable destruction, and that he bets she won't live to see the silver lining. (I'd paste the quote here, but I am on my phone.) So we know she'll make things worse (probably getting friends killed), and that she'll probably either die, redeem herself, or both.

I've yet to find a fic that extrapolates.

She already played an integral part in nigh-unfathomable destruction (near extinction of the universe's dominant race), set in motion even more unfathomable destruction (helped exile the Black Queen who seems to be a key part of Scratch's plan to destroy their universe and summon Lord English), failed to survive the game (killed by Aradia), and got a glimpse of a silver lining (the door at the end of SGRUB.)

Then Bec Noir came in and ruined it, but as Scratch told Aradia, that's not his problem to worry about.

Vriska's relations with the others is still an interesting line of speculation, but I doubt we'll have to wait very long to see what happens in the comic (HINT: it involves additional trophies.)

[Wigmund]

The Snow Came Down

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He was so tired. He had been riding this train for what seemed like weeks. It was the only way to reach to reach his destination.

He stared out the window and watched the snowy lands go by. Why did she move so far out here? She lived in such a warm place before, why here? Maybe it was that it reminded her of the better parts of the game.

He shifted himself and settled down to nap again. But he couldn't. He was exhausted but he wanted to be awake when he got there. He had to be awake when he met her again after so long.

He stared outside. Small towns would occasionally emerge in the distance, their lights providing little beacons of civilization out here in the night-shrouded wilderness.

He wondered if she would be there waiting for him? It had been so long since they arranged for this meeting. He certainly hadn't forgotten. It was the only thing that motivated him for the past 6 years.

The snow started falling outside. She loved snow. He didn't care for it, but it made her happy. That's all that mattered.

Hours passed. It felt like an eternity. So long since he's seen her and so much longer until he sees her again.

The train whistle blew and one of the conductors passed by and told him his destination was soon. He got up and grabbed his stuff.

Eventually the train slowed and he disembarked. It was such a tiny place.

And no one was there.

She forgot didn't she. He had received directions to her place once a long time ago when she first moved her. Could he remember it? Only way to be sure was to set out.

He saw the fresh footprints in the newly fallen snow when he rounded the small building that served as a terminal for this isolated station. They led up to the platform where it was obvious someone had paced for quite some time and then they went into the station building. He followed them in.

She was there on a bench next to the fire. Fast asleep. She had waited for him until she couldn't stay awake.

He draped his coat over her and tucked her in. He sat down on the floor next to her so he could watch her sleep. She was so beautiful when she was asleep.

Hell, she was beautiful all the time. He needed to remind her of that more often.

Eventually her eyes flickered open.

Good morning sleeping beauty.
You made it! I tried to stay away but-
I know. But I'm now here with you.
And that's all that matters.
Dave took hold of Jade's hand and helped her up.
Let's head home

They left the station hand-in-hand as the snow came down.

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A mixture of insomnia and listening to some Trans-Siberian Orchestra prompted this short fic. Specifically the track "The Snow Came Down" from The Christmas Attic album.

[BlastYoBoots]

That's an interesting take, geep. In fact, take it to my thread, if you have time (2nd link in sig). Personally, I don't think that qualifies as the incomparable destruction Doc claimed she'd be "directly responsible" for. In fact, Bec's prototyping probably doesn't either, signifying disaster yet to come.

And I'd really like to see some good fics as to the results.

[Author]

Incomparable Destruction?

She created Bec Noir by making John fall asleep. She destroyed Prospit and Derse. She's going to kill Bec Noir.

But you're asking the wrong people. The fanfiction thread loves Vriska. Hell, I ship the most crack pairing'd Vriska ever.

skjjksjsdfghj I LOVE THAT COMIC WITH THE FORCE OF A BURNING SUN

but yeah - I'm holding off personally because I want to know more about Vriska's motivations, etc, before passing judgement. Although. Whoever mentioned Terezi spades should know that they have SORELY TESTED MY WILL.

P.S. (Warning: THIS IS STUPID.)

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Hi my name is Marquise Spinneret Mindfang and I have long ebony black hair and sparkling golden eyes like shiny treasure. I'm a pirate but I don't have a dumb eyepatch I have this fucking awesome vision eightfold because obviously that is better. Anyway today I was wearing a long grey coat and a black t-shirt just like always because fashion is dumb. I go to a pirate school where we're all like pirates and shit. It's on a boat or something. Basically today I was just hanging out in the rigging and planning how to get all the l8vels. A lot of weakling trolls stared at me. I put my middle finger up at them.

"Hey Spinneret," shouted a voice. I looked up. It was....... Eridan Ampora!

Why.

Why would you do this.

Pirates and shit. Heh.

[saartha]

Uh, I'll just...leave this here.

Fatherhood

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It’s hard, being a dad, Mr. Egbert thought to himself, struggling to breathe past the teeth in his throat. It’s hard and no one understands.

When John fell from the sky, he was a young career-man, decked out in his crisp business attire and a fashionable tobacco addiction. He lived a quiet, proud life. He dreamed of settling down with a modest housewife, who would cook for him and bake sweets for their two children, one boy and one girl.

But as a Guardian, he was given a certain amount of knowledge. He suddenly knew that the crying boy in front of him was his only duty, that his life would be short, that the world was going to end. He could never have his lovely, kind wife. His ironed suits, his leather shoes, all would burn in the coming fires.

He also knew there was nothing he could do—or rather, everything he would do was already decided. He hated the baby. He hated it for taking everything away from him, but he picked it up and took it home. It promptly snotted all over his lapel. He hated it so much.

Weeks later, the baby smiled at him while gnawing on his newest pipe. The smile was like the embrace of a benevolent god, it was beautiful and warming and washed away the heavy resentment. Mr. Egbert couldn’t help it. He cooed and fussed and named the baby John, God’s grace. The grace of God in the form of a shining sword. It was a good, strong name.

The baby grew up into an inflexible and solemn six year old. Mr. Egbert knew—or remembered, or however this strange future-knowledge worked—that John needed to be strong, but flexible. He needed to be hammer and forge, yes, but also molten metal. Both tempest and breeze.

Children are like their parents, Mr. Egbert realized. He was proud, so his child was proud. He was predictable, so his son did not know how to deal with unpredictable things. It would not kill him, but it would hurt him terribly. Mr. Egbert did not want that for John, for his only son and heir. He bought a strange jester figurine and placed it on the dinner table, weathering the confused temper tantrum John threw that night. It was for his own good.

He filled the house with these figurines, with paintings, with toys. He hid them so John would run across them when he least expected. It became a game to see how long John could last without freaking out.

When John was eight, Mr. Egbert had a brief yearning for the comforts of a wife, revisiting his dream of a home-cooked meal ready for him when he returned from work. He could not have that, he reminded himself regretfully, but at least the ‘children’ could still have sweets.

He baked a batch of brownies and was rewarded with that same delighted smile. He adored that smile. It made his heart clench with love. He pushed another brownie at his son, and again the next day, and again, and again, watching and waiting for that smile.

By the time he realized the smiles had stopped, and in fact John had grown to hate baked goods, it was too late. He felt a bit of remorse, but used the situation to spur John into aggression, into wrestling and stealth. This would help him with his goals far more than a love of cake. Mr. Egbert spent a great deal of his leisure time baking. It was the only thing he could do.

Overall, John was an easy boy to raise. Mr. Egbert did his best to prepare him for what was to come—though really, how was a business man supposed to prepare a young boy for Armageddon?

When he turned ten, however, Mr. Egbert could hear him moving in his room at night. When he looked in, he saw his son scribbling on the walls like a madman, dead asleep. He wrote such terrible things. Mr. Egbert was horrified but had no way of fixing it, this was a thing of the game. It was a thing that had to happen.

But it was painful, knowing his son thought so little of himself. It weighed on him at night, listening to his son writing madly on the walls. It terrified him that John had no idea what he was doing, that he could not even see it.

He did the only thing he could think to do. “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “I love you.” So proud, I love you, I love you, so love yourself. You are my only son and everything will change but this: you are loved.

And now the dog-headed demon’s teeth were in his throat, and even with all his mangrit he could only gurgle and thrash weakly. Green fire roared around them. The demon jerked and Mr. Egbert felt his flesh rip away. He fell like an old oak tree and the demon was rummaging through his coat pockets. He could only watch in tired humiliation as it took his pipe and placed it jauntily between its sharp teeth.

The demon lit the bowl with a spark of green fire, and leaned down to blow a heavy cloud of smoke into his face. Mr. Egbert took advantage of the proximity to spit blood into its face.

The demon gave a horrible laugh, then wiped its face on his tie. And then it was gone. It did not even stay to watch its opponent die. His pride reeled, but it didn’t matter. He could not breathe.

The warmth flowed sickly down the sides of his neck. He did not think of the mess it was making of his tattered suit. The black sky stretched out above him, green fire licking at the edge of his vision. John was out there somewhere, fighting a losing battle against forces he could not begin to understand. But he was alive, and Mr. Egbert could only hope he stayed that way. He had wanted to see him one last time, but it was better this way. It was hard, it was so hard dying alone, but he was a father and wanted the best for his son.

It was hard, but he loved his son and was so proud. He died alone and had no regrets.

I love you. I love you, John. I love you, be safe, I am so proud to have you as my son. Be brave, be strong, be happy. I love you. I love you.
I love you.
I…

AN

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Hello! This is my first fanfic for the MSPA community, written instead of studying for finals. A little tribute to Mr. Egbert.

[lucidSeraph]

@saartha - ARGH NOOO DAAAAAAAD I can't take all this Guardian stuff man ;_;

That said, it's wonderful to see more Guardian-fic. The one thing I might say is that you portray John as a little too morose here? or imply him to be. Possibly that's just Mr. Egbert's perception. But in any case, always so happy to see more Guardians ^_^

[QuetzaDrake]

Uh, I'll just...leave this here.

Fatherhood

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It’s hard, being a dad, Mr. Egbert thought to himself, struggling to breathe past the teeth in his throat. It’s hard and no one understands.

When John fell from the sky, he was a young career-man, decked out in his crisp business attire and a fashionable tobacco addiction. He lived a quiet, proud life. He dreamed of settling down with a modest housewife, who would cook for him and bake sweets for their two children, one boy and one girl.

But as a Guardian, he was given a certain amount of knowledge. He suddenly knew that the crying boy in front of him was his only duty, that his life would be short, that the world was going to end. He could never have his lovely, kind wife. His ironed suits, his leather shoes, all would burn in the coming fires.

He also knew there was nothing he could do—or rather, everything he would do was already decided. He hated the baby. He hated it for taking everything away from him, but he picked it up and took it home. It promptly snotted all over his lapel. He hated it so much.

Weeks later, the baby smiled at him while gnawing on his newest pipe. The smile was like the embrace of a benevolent god, it was beautiful and warming and washed away the heavy resentment. Mr. Egbert couldn’t help it. He cooed and fussed and named the baby John, God’s grace. The grace of God in the form of a shining sword. It was a good, strong name.

The baby grew up into an inflexible and solemn six year old. Mr. Egbert knew—or remembered, or however this strange future-knowledge worked—that John needed to be strong, but flexible. He needed to be hammer and forge, yes, but also molten metal. Both tempest and breeze.

Children are like their parents, Mr. Egbert realized. He was proud, so his child was proud. He was predictable, so his son did not know how to deal with unpredictable things. It would not kill him, but it would hurt him terribly. Mr. Egbert did not want that for John, for his only son and heir. He bought a strange jester figurine and placed it on the dinner table, weathering the confused temper tantrum John threw that night. It was for his own good.

He filled the house with these figurines, with paintings, with toys. He hid them so John would run across them when he least expected. It became a game to see how long John could last without freaking out.

When John was eight, Mr. Egbert had a brief yearning for the comforts of a wife, revisiting his dream of a home-cooked meal ready for him when he returned from work. He could not have that, he reminded himself regretfully, but at least the ‘children’ could still have sweets.

He baked a batch of brownies and was rewarded with that same delighted smile. He adored that smile. It made his heart clench with love. He pushed another brownie at his son, and again the next day, and again, and again, watching and waiting for that smile.

By the time he realized the smiles had stopped, and in fact John had grown to hate baked goods, it was too late. He felt a bit of remorse, but used the situation to spur John into aggression, into wrestling and stealth. This would help him with his goals far more than a love of cake. Mr. Egbert spent a great deal of his leisure time baking. It was the only thing he could do.

Overall, John was an easy boy to raise. Mr. Egbert did his best to prepare him for what was to come—though really, how was a business man supposed to prepare a young boy for Armageddon?

When he turned ten, however, Mr. Egbert could hear him moving in his room at night. When he looked in, he saw his son scribbling on the walls like a madman, dead asleep. He wrote such terrible things. Mr. Egbert was horrified but had no way of fixing it, this was a thing of the game. It was a thing that had to happen.

But it was painful, knowing his son thought so little of himself. It weighed on him at night, listening to his son writing madly on the walls. It terrified him that John had no idea what he was doing, that he could not even see it.

He did the only thing he could think to do. “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “I love you.” So proud, I love you, I love you, so love yourself. You are my only son and everything will change but this: you are loved.

And now the dog-headed demon’s teeth were in his throat, and even with all his mangrit he could only gurgle and thrash weakly. Green fire roared around them. The demon jerked and Mr. Egbert felt his flesh rip away. He fell like an old oak tree and the demon was rummaging through his coat pockets. He could only watch in tired humiliation as it took his pipe and placed it jauntily between its sharp teeth.

The demon lit the bowl with a spark of green fire, and leaned down to blow a heavy cloud of smoke into his face. Mr. Egbert took advantage of the proximity to spit blood into its face.

The demon gave a horrible laugh, then wiped its face on his tie. And then it was gone. It did not even stay to watch its opponent die. His pride reeled, but it didn’t matter. He could not breathe.

The warmth flowed sickly down the sides of his neck. He did not think of the mess it was making of his tattered suit. The black sky stretched out above him, green fire licking at the edge of his vision. John was out there somewhere, fighting a losing battle against forces he could not begin to understand. But he was alive, and Mr. Egbert could only hope he stayed that way. He had wanted to see him one last time, but it was better this way. It was hard, it was so hard dying alone, but he was a father and wanted the best for his son.

It was hard, but he loved his son and was so proud. He died alone and had no regrets.

I love you. I love you, John. I love you, be safe, I am so proud to have you as my son. Be brave, be strong, be happy. I love you. I love you.
I love you.
I…

AN

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Hello! This is my first fanfic for the MSPA community, written instead of studying for finals. A little tribute to Mr. Egbert.

... D:> oh my goodness.

That was terribly sad, it was exactly as sad if not MORE sad than Bro's passing. I... I'm tearing up again, damn you fanfic writers. ;~;

The only minuscule problem I had was, in my headcanon, Mr. Egbert was always a benevolent kinda awesome guy that loved John instantly, not hated but gradually loved. Also he doesn't know a single thing about the game or anything and is just looking out for his boy.

Otherwise, perfect. Just perfect characterization, and perfect emotion-wrenching. This one makes me want to downgrade the number of hearts in my signature. And also I desperately hope this does not happen in-canon. T-T

Good job. And also, firstpwnst.gif. First pwnst indeed.

[saartha]

@lucidSeraph: God, I love the guardians. John is a pretty happy kid, it's true. But this is his dad we're talking about, who (in my headcanon) knows kind of what is going to happen. He's gonna concentrate on every little detail, because of his paternal obsession. So it stands to reason that Mr. Egbert would be very concerned about the times when John isn't happy. That's my reasoning, anyway!

@QuetzaDrake: Yeah, most of the time I think that too. But this time around I wanted to give him a little internal conflict. Because, really, this kid drops out of nowhere and he's expected to drop his entire life and take care of him, how fair is that? And like I said above, the whole Guardian-information things is just my silly headcannon. I hope he does not canonically die (though I expect him to). I will cry forever.

[lucidSeraph]

@lucidSeraph: God, I love the guardians. John is a pretty happy kid, it's true. But this is his dad we're talking about, who (in my headcanon) knows kind of what is going to happen. He's gonna concentrate on every little detail, because of his paternal obsession. So it stands to reason that Mr. Egbert would be very concerned about the times when John isn't happy. That's my reasoning, anyway!

Ah, that makes some sense, I suppose. So a matter of perspective then.

@QuetzaDrake: Yeah, most of the time I think that too. But this time around I wanted to give him a little internal conflict. Because, really, this kid drops out of nowhere and he's expected to drop his entire life and take care of him, how fair is that? And like I said above, the whole Guardian-information things is just my silly headcannon. I hope he does not canonically die (though I expect him to). I will cry forever.

Actually, I kind of think that there's a lot more support for the "Guardians Know Shit" theory than most people realize. Obviously Bro, Mom, and Grandpa know a LOT more (Bro was on the Skaianet website; Mom has a whole freakin ectobiology lab in her basement; Grandpa was in the Medium) but there's still quite a bit of evidence that Mr. Egbert isn't as clueless as he appears at first. The way he reacts to suddenly being on Derse; the bit about the safe with the letter to John... if nothing else, the fact that his son fell from the sky on a meteor and writes crazy shit all over his walls should have clued him into SOMETHING.

It's also my headcanon that all the Guardians vaguely know each other (annnd I ship Bro Ms. Lalonde as well as Dad Ms. Lalonde. She gets around >>; )

[raequiem]

Saartha, I wrote Brofic. This hurts more. I have to go give my dad a hug ;_;

Wig, as soon as I saw the title, I was like "Is it? It is! D'aww~" Gotta love TSO.

[saartha]

@Lucid: I mean, obviously the guardians are not normal people. And they must know something is up, what with all their crazy preparations. I just can't say exactly how much they knew. Also, I totally buy that they know each other. Mr. Egbert and Mrs. Lalonde seemed a bit too chummy for strangers that just happened to meet post-Armageddon.

@raequiem: YOUR DAD LOVES YOU AND IS PROUD OF YOU. NEVER FORGET THAT. Also, I read your brofic, and it gave me sadgasms.

[Bufu]

saartha aaaaaa ;^; aaaaaaaaaaaa


(that was great write more)

[QuetzaDrake]

@QuetzaDrake: Yeah, most of the time I think that too. But this time around I wanted to give him a little internal conflict. Because, really, this kid drops out of nowhere and he's expected to drop his entire life and take care of him, how fair is that? And like I said above, the whole Guardian-information things is just my silly headcannon. I hope he does not canonically die (though I expect him to). I will cry forever.

I think some of the Guardians know what was going on, especially Mom and Grandpa, but since Dad's the only non paradox clone Guardian, I figured he wouldn't really know much of anything unless Nanna told him, and even then it's only secondhand.

Although I WILL give you that, yes, this baby did just drop out of nowhere... and DID effectively kill his mom, she being in the bakery when the meteor hit and all.

Actually, I kind of think that there's a lot more support for the "Guardians Know Shit" theory than most people realize. Obviously Bro, Mom, and Grandpa know a LOT more (Bro was on the Skaianet website; Mom has a whole freakin ectobiology lab in her basement; Grandpa was in the Medium) but there's still quite a bit of evidence that Mr. Egbert isn't as clueless as he appears at first. The way he reacts to suddenly being on Derse; the bit about the safe with the letter to John... if nothing else, the fact that his son fell from the sky on a meteor and writes crazy shit all over his walls should have clued him into SOMETHING.

It's also my headcanon that all the Guardians vaguely know each other (annnd I ship Bro Ms. Lalonde as well as Dad Ms. Lalonde. She gets around >>; )

Well I always kinda figured, as I said above, that some of the Guardians definitely knew what was gonna go down. Bro I'm kinda mixed on because, well, he DID get a copy of the beta as well, so he could've just been looking up information on it with Skaianet. I always figured Dad, though, was just kinda the oddball out, since he's the most "normal" out of everyone. In Derse I... just sort of thought he was taking everything in stride in combination with "I gotta get back to my son and protect him from these weird carapace thing!" I think he could've gotten secondhand details from Nanna but I don't think he has any innate knowledge.

[sebastian]

The weird thing with DAD is, how the imps captured him? He can lift a safe, he can beat Heart Boxcar, there is no way a couple of imps are a match for him.

I think it is obvious that he wanted to be captured, it was all part of some larger plan.

[FieryBlacksmith]

The weird thing with DAD is, how the imps captured him? He can lift a safe, he can beat Heart Boxcar, there is no way a couple of imps are a match for him.

I think it is obvious that he wanted to be captured, it was all part of some larger plan.

Egbert's ruse was a.... DISTACTION.

[DJ-P0N3]

Alright, keeping this feltfic going!

Part 6 - Snake eyes

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You’ve seen this before. Seen this one too. You’ve got nearly an infinite amount of combinations to go through and it always bores you. You are Die. This is perhaps the seventh time you have gone timeline traveling today. You decided to mix it up and put in Doze’s and Egg’s. You got there just in time to see Trace blubbering like a crybaby.

You remove Egg’s and find yourself elsewhere, a timeline that matters not to this story.

You place Egg’s back in and also enter Cans pin into the doll.
Standing before a large corpse as it oozes out red blood, you are almost amazed your blood isn’t green. You were kind of expecting that stupid green color scheme to apply to literally every single thing about you.

This timeline looks as boring as the next one might be, mixing it up you put Stitch’s pin and find yourself in an ill-gotten timeline. You find yourself standing behind the effigies that Stitch often finds himself fixing. You watch as he begins to repair the effigies he had made of the Midnight Crew. You aren’t surprised, in most of your timelines Stitch does this. He remains neutral whilst having a side.

Now it seems like the timeline is interesting. Fin just killed Stitch, Clover let Droog live. You wonder what your role will be in this.
Whispers can be heard, from where, you know not. It doesn’t matter though, it is most likely just your imagination getting ahead of itself.

You take out your pin, you’ve always wondered what would happen if you inserted this pin into your doll, always wondered if it would instantly kill you, or maybe even stranger still.

You pick it out of your pocket, caressing it nervously. Gripping the doll tightly you slowly prod it with pin before sticking it in at full force.

SWISSHK!

You fall the ground, your throats been slit. Guess you do die instantly, but just not as you thought you would. Spades Slicks smiles at you, his grim teeth glisten with smears of blood, possibly his own.

You overhear a conversation, something faint as you drift away.

“So about our business together, where’s that vault?” Someone on the inside? Its not Stitch, you know him closely and know he doesn’t stitch them up because he likes them.

So who could it be, his voice is fading.

“1 d0 declare that 0ur ass0c1at10n will be the devastat10n 0f 0ur shared 1nnapr0pr1at0rs.”

That voice, so familiar.

Gripping the doll closely, you reach for a last pin, you go back and pull out your own pin. Your body phases back to the timeline in which you were alive, and with your last breath you get to see yourself make the same mistake you just did.

Warning him with what little speech you can, you come to the realization that this is what you are doomed to suffer through. Dying, and watching yourself die. Watching a friend become a foe, feeling so useless.

You hate time travel.

7/15 green torsos dead

2/4 midnight crew members deceased

2 doomed idiots

1 guilt ridden buffoon

1 traitor to the core

[Lexxy]

Man, I gotta stop reading all these sadfics ; n;

[Rukafais]

Ugh hopefully this isn't too violent 8( there's no actual blood and guts or gore, just. Sort of clinical descriptions of death? If it breaks the rules just inform me and I'll get rid of it.

countdown to destruction

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t-
They always wonder why I am morbid, and fatalistic. Why I always talk of death.


Itchy screams and kicks and struggles to the bitter end, fighting for his life. He fights hard.

He manages to stall them for just a moment, until they manage to get the mask on him, forcing him to breathe in, and then he stops struggling and goes limp.

There are always flashes of other universes, other times and places, where everyone died.


Doze doesn't take the news well, and decides to save the executioners the trouble. He smiles hollowly and carries on as usual, despair consuming him from the inside out, and falls asleep that night and never wakes up again.

He chooses to leave on his own terms.

Are you beginning to understand yet?

Trace is taken next. Mercifully, they make it painless.

He's injected with a sedative and left in an airless room. He doesn't last long, in his drugged state, and he slips away peacefully.

I don't suppose you do. Nobody ever does.

Clover laughs and laughs, accepting his fate with a cheerful grin, and his dying act is a well-thrown knife to kill the one who damned him. The lever is pulled.

He hangs, and his smile is frozen in time.

Fortune is a fickle mistress.

People always say that I am callous when it comes to death, but how can I be callous when I hear them whispering to me? The dead speak, and I am a hollow vessel in which they pour their last concerns.

It echoes.

Fin crumples under the onslaught of bullets, a multitude of gunshot wounds that even he couldn't foresee.

He bleeds out in the alleyway, regretting only that his time ends now.

It hurts.

I am not very violent, but I am forever surrounded by it. I dream of it, eternally, not of my own accord, but because others transmit the images to me.

Their last moments.

Crowbar smiles grimly, facing a mob. There's no way he'll get out of this alive.

But he shows no sign of fear; instead, he just beckons.

"Who's first?"

He takes down many, but many isn't enough, and he's eventually dragged down, beaten to death by sheer numbers.

Their fear, their hopes, their dreams and sorrows.

I listen to all of it.

Snowman is the last survivor, in a world where she has never been a universe-destroyer.

She goes out guns blazing, a last show of defiance against her eternal oppressors. Everyone else is dead; she walks through their corpses, and there are no tears on her face. She keeps them all, and she takes them to the grave.

I believe I am mad already. And if I did not, there are plenty of people who doubt my sanity.

Stitch sews together his teammates, and ignores his own effigy as he bleeds to death.

He slumps in his chair and breathes his last as he finishes his work, the needle dropping from lifeless fingers.

Wouldn't you, all the same?

But if you were me, would you still remain sane? Would you be able to handle the ceaseless whispers, the ability to see things as they truly are?

Sawbuck skips through time, but it isn't enough to save him.

One of them clings on, stabbing repeatedly until his natural defenses give out. But as a last act of defiance, his killer is now lost in a hostile land, with no way home.

I sincerely doubt you would.

You need a special mindset to remain even halfway sane. I believe even the hardiest and most sensible of you would not survive what I have survived.

Matchsticks guards the door, and lets nobody pass once all his teammates are through.

He laughs a final time, and shuts the door, and he sets the place alight with their enemies inside.

He refuses to leave his post, for if he did not guard the door they would continue to pursue his teammates, and burns with the rest of them - but somehow brighter.

Sacrifice and cremation.

I do not think you would be able to deal with death in such a personal way. I have seen all of them die.

Those methods of death may yet come true. But that is not my power; I do not foretell.

I merely see scattered images in the rippled water of time.

Eggs and Biscuits are always together. They refuse to leave each other, even in the face of death.

One of them is wounded, mortally. The other does not leave their side, and dies moments later defending their comrade's body from the enemy.

They are friends to the end.

And sometimes, rarely, the timelines may point to a certain event. And only then is it that I can truly see the future.

Quarters, by a mishap or ill timing, wanders into trouble, and pays dearly for it.

He tumbles through the air and his body is broken on the rocks, and the sea does all the rest. It swallows him up, and takes him into the darkness, and washes away all traces that he ever fell into the liquid abyss.

And seeing the future is....often disturbing.

But I will say nothing more on that.

Cans walks straight into a trap not even he can escape, and is locked in the darkness until he finally expires.

It takes days. Such a long amount of time. But he finally dies - not in agony, but at least in relative peace.

Do you understand? This is not what I wanted.

Die smiles when the blade is put to his throat, and metal flashes in his fingers as he slashes the needle across a vital artery.

"I will choose how I want to die," are his parting words.

It is disturbing. I did not wish for this power, no matter how suited I am for it.

I have seen the faces of the living become the faces of the dead. It is jarring, to say the least.

But.

No matter how many deaths I see, the one that hits the hardest is always my own.

-ick

[Lexxy]

Looks fine! As long as there are no gruesome details (or perversion involved with underage characters), death and violence are a-ok.

[Valter]

PG-13

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"Uh, Jack," the DRACONIAN DIGNITARY asked cautiously, "If I might make a suggestion..."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"You're nigh-omnipotent by now, right? Completely indestructible by all means known to the Incipisphere."

"...What are you getting at?"

"Why don't you just- well, why don't you just kill them? You know where they all are."

"Ugh." Jack let out a long sigh and slumped over his throne, eying the Dersite purple of his workspace morosely. "I kinda figured you were leading up to that. It's not that simple, Droog."

"It's not? Are they protected or something?"

"Exactly the opposite. The dirty little bloodsacks are too vulnerable! I could hardly tap any one of them on the shoulder without 'em exploding in gore."

"...That's a problem?"

Jack sneered at his assistant. "I'm sure it's easy for you to suggest when you're not in charge, Droog. If I head down and smash any one of the kids like the bugs they all are, the censors will infract my ass faster than I can say 'gratuitous violence'!"

"Censors? What? Didn't you already kill two of them?"

Jack sighed again. "That was- that was different, okay? They weren't protagonists; their deaths could be given discretion shots."

The Draconian Dignitary scratched his head. "So we're just going to let them do their own thing, then."

"I didn't say that now, did I?" Jack asked with a twinkle in his eye, and it looked like his enthusiasm was returning to him. "I just said I could off secondary characters, and Homestuck has, what, thirty of them? Dozens, at least."

"Er, some of them aren't actually in this timeline," DD pointed out. "Or this universe."

Jack blinked. "Oh. Right. Oh whatever, I'll just murder everything in the Medium that isn't a fated child of destiny, how about that?"

"I'm fine with that, obviously, but are you sure you should be talking about murder in detail here? How do these 'censors' work?"

"That's a good point, Droog. I knew I kept you around for a reason." Jack stroked his chin thoughtfully. "How about we refer to our business in code? That should keep 'em off our backs."

"What sort of code?"

"Well, I was just thinking I would go make friends with some secondary characters, if that's okay with you," Jack said, eyebrows waggling furiously.

"Oh! Well, I wish you luck, and are there any acquaintances I should be making while you're gone?"

"I would appreciate it if you would go tell the pockets of Dersite resistance on Skaia just how pleased I am with them."

"I'll be sure to send them your regards," DD said as he waved Jack out of the throne room of Derse, and he began preparing his equipment for a meeting with his new "comrades".

[BlastYoBoots]

Incomparable Destruction?

She created Bec Noir by making John fall asleep. She destroyed Prospit and Derse.

One could argue that Bec would have hopped into the seizurekernel anyway. We're not sure this exonerates her, but if so, she's yet to commit the aforementioned destructive act. She has to be "directly responsible", as Doc puts it:

I'll say one last thing.
Though the magnitude of the ensuing destruction resulting directly from your actions will be neither possible or necessary for you to fathom, there nevertheless ought to be a silver lining.
The only question is whether you will live long enough to see it.
I'm not a gambling man.
But if I was, I wouldn't bet on it.
Goodbye.

How that paragraph isn't fic-inspiring, I have no idea.

She's going to kill Bec Noir.

She's going to try, unless her friends care enough to stop her.

But you're asking the wrong people. The fanfiction thread loves Vriska. Hell, I ship the most crack pairing'd Vriska ever.

Now, why exactly do you have to hate Vriska to write about this? What's wrong with redemption, or - failing that - a regrettable descent? I don't assume Kass hates Rose because of Notes from a Doomed Timeline. In fact, I doubt she could have written that so well if she hated Rose.

I want to see inside Vriska's head, see what kind of disasters it would take to right her, to help her win back her friends proper. She probably will somehow, if she survives. Even if she fails - even if she doesn't overcome her faults, and cruises right up to Bec Noir for a challenge, dying and leading him back to her friends - nothing's stopping anyone from writing it from a sympathetic point of view. Most agree that her upbringing is at fault for making her who she is, anyway.

In other words, if you love Vriska's character, what's wrong with serious Vriska POV fics? I know it's hard to write from a sociopath's perspective, but I still haven't seen enough of them.


EDIT:

PG-13

PFFHAHAHAHA! Nice!

[Ember]

I think part of it is the fact that there IS so much potential there that Andrew himself is clearly going to use, so anyone who writes it will inevitably be one-upped by canon sooner or later.

But a much larger part of it is, people just write what they feel like writing. There's no real rhyme or reason to it, inspiration just happens or it doesn't. It's cool that you see potential here, and requests are definitely appreciated, but it's starting to feel like you're arguing with people about what they want to write, and at the point it's better to either write it yourself or sit down quietly having said your piece.

[SkaianRedeemer]

@Wigmund: You know, for someone we never saw in snow until just recently, Jade really does go well with it. We've had fics before and after her new planet and it just works! I like this one a lot because I can sympathize with the travel anxiety. Get all antsy just thinking about it.

@saartha: *Sniff* More sad guardian fic. You never quite get used to it.

@Rukafais: I don't usually read involved Feltfic, but this was nice. I like how how you captured the whole fic inside of the "tick" but it was hard to catch. Part of that's not your fault ("tick" is a very narrow word, splitting it makes it hard to draw the eye) but I can't help but think there could be some way around it. Hm...

@Valter: "Even the rare Pacific Omnipoterrier is a slave to narrative drive. Here, removed from its natural habitat into the big city, we see its natural inclinations have turned even sharper, and its desire to overcome them... intensified."

[lucidSeraph]

okay tried to fill all those Dawgsprite prompts. I think I only managed to succeed at a few of them. God this took me WAY longer than was necessary or reasonable wut. Also, Jade/Dave took over the intended heartwarming reunion with Dawgsprite and ended up dominating the piece.

Frostfire

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She still hasn't prototyped a second time. She's not sure how much time has passed, but she's made it to the Land of Wind and Shade, and she is walking when she finds him.

It's frighting, that's for sure. But after what her dreams have been doing to her, she isn't scared. She doesn't even feel sick. Just... sad. Just terribly, terribly sad.

And then it dawns on her. Dave. Dave hasn't been speaking to her for... … time has lost meaning. But it's been a while. And when he last did he was so curt and so... distant.

Dave had never lost anyone before.

And now she knows what to do.

***

It's melody and violence, energy and silence and up and out and transformation and a level of consciousness entirely new; a feeling of being surrounded by green and being filled up with love and duty and a thousand new memories and he doesn't exactly breathe but he does feel and then it dawns on him that he's a fucking dog.

He tries to say fuck.

The dog part of his mind frowns, points to Jade, shakes its furry head disapprovingly.

He says “Arf”

And she giggles.

***

She's never had a brother before, and it's... weird. Bro... Brodog? Dawgsprite? She guesses he's not really even Dave's Bro anymore, not quite, because there's things he does that are absolutely Bec. Not the least of which are the iridium steaks, which he actually says is “Arfing weird, but so arfing delicious.” and then his tail wags.

Weird. Hilarious, but weird.

In between fighting Imps and dodging Trolls and figuring out what the heck is going on, they watch the sunset over her own Land, and she thinks, you know, having a brother is rather nice. They spend their free time playing in the snow, getting into stupid snowball fights. He, of course, cheats – he was already the fastest man alive and with Bec's powers and the gifts of a Sprite he's unstoppable.

But sometimes, sometimes, he lets her clock him in the face.

***

Then she feels guilty, because this isn't her dead family member, it's Dave's. She did this for Dave, after all. But how to break it to him? She found the orange feathers, too; Dave's lost more than just his brother. Yet wouldn't it be cruel?

“Hey, lil sis, don't worry about it. Dave's a pretty arfing cool kid. Take it from me, I think he'd be happier to know.”

She opens up Pesterchum and takes a deep breath.

***

“Okay, what's this crazy awesome surprise you have for me? And why did I have to promise not to freak out? I don't freak out. I am the chillest dude to ever chill, Jade, you know that.”

“Just trust me, okay? And don't freak out! Really! I promise it's okay.”

Dave is so confused by this point and his insides are completely bonkers. Here he is actually seeing her for the first time and now she's telling him not to freak out and then she's poking at her sprite summoning disk.

“What, I already know about -”

He can't even hide it. Not with Jade here, certainly, and not with that. His jaw just drops.

He wants to say something. Like, 'is this one of your crazy furry shenanigans' or... anything. Something ironic. But he can't even speak. And the first thing that comes to his lips is this:

“You died?”

A pause.

“Oh noooooo...”

***

Time ceases to have meaning. It's only been a day, they're all pretty sure, but it feels like a lifetime has passed. Dave doesn't pace, he just stands with his arms folded and he leans against the wall, but the part of Dawgsprite that's still Bro knows that stance far too well.

“Spit it out.”

Dave doesn't speak. Dawgsprite folds his arms disapprovingly.

In a flash, the both of them move. Dave works his timetables, but Bro has Bec's powers at his disposal, and the end result is Dave in a headlock writhing as Bro gives him a fierce noogie.

“Who's the coolkid now? Eh? Eh?”

He lets go of his little brother, who brushes himself off and, much like a rattled cat, tries to look dignified and like he totally meant to do that.

“You stop moping around like that dumb wavy fish guy you talk to on the internet sometimes and listen to me.”

Dave gives Dawgsprite his most stoic coolkid glance. He takes a breath as if to speak, then just lets it out slowly.

“This is seriously fucking weird.”

“No lies there. Think about how I feel.”

Dave smirks, just a little. Wearing half your killer's face?

“It's a whole new level of irony.”

“Man, levels I didn't even want to approach, right?” he says, folding his arms. “You're jealous”

“Why would I be jealous of Jade having a stupid furry friend?”

The pause is thick as blood.

“... okay, fine. Yeah, I'm jealous, god damn it, you're my brother. What about her damn dead grandpa? It's bad enough that you're half mutant dog now and just...”

“You ever stop to think about why she did it?”

Dave rolls his eyes behind his glasses. His heart knows the reason and his head blows it off. He lets the question hang in the air. He figures he knows the reason. He also figures that Bro, being already fucking inscrutable and now a sprite and therefore required to be cryptic, isn't going to tell him a damn thing. So even if he asks...

“It... is good to see you. Again. And all that,” he says, finally. “I mean like. Where the hell did you go, anyway?”

He goes to sit down next to his green furry brother now, his hands in his pockets. Dawgsprite shrugs.

“Went to fight Jack.”

“You crazy bastard. How the hell is that motherfucker still alive, then?”

Bro looks down at the sword still in his stomach, then back up at Dave.

“Okay, fine, dumb question. Got me that time. But if he killed you then, how the hell am I supposed to do anything to stop him?”

That earns him a whack across the back of the head.

“It's not 'what am I supposed to do', it's 'what are we supposed to do. All y'all dumb kids. Didn't you arfing read that Tolkien woof like I told you?”

Dave says something like arghlebargle and flops over backwards, covering his face. “Oh god not the school bullshit again, jesus, Bro...”

“And you didn't get the lesson from that bullwoof, either. The game's a story, Dave. Y'all are the heroes. You're a fellowship.”

He puts a ghostly hand on his brother's shoulder.

“You'll beat him because you're not going to do it alone.”

Dave gave Dawgsprite the most deadpan look in the history of deadpan. “Bro,” he said. “That is the most goddamn cheesy thing you've ever said.”

“Blame the dog.”

***

Jade stands at the edge of her ruined greenhouse. She looks out over the cold landscape, her breath coming out in white clouds. Dave stands in the background, his glasses glowing faintly. He's talking to someone – hands free, he's not sure how it works, actually – but he asks the guy on the other end of the line to hold on.

He's got something to do.

He walks over and stands next to her, and they just look out over the landscape. It's quiet, really weirdly quiet, a silence that neither has ever known before.

“Never saw snow before,” he says at last.

“Me neither,” she says. “It's pretty, isn't it?”

“Yeah, but fuckin annoying. I don't think my socks'll ever get dry. It's like I'm sloshin around with the whole pacific ocean in my sneakers,” he says.

She gives him a look.

“... that was meant to be ironic,” he says to fill the silence.

“I know.”

They can see the imps far below, but Dawgsprite is making short work of them. It's a weird ballet, the images flickering like a heat mirage, the individuals vanishing and coming back into being. Occasionally, a small group of frogs spreads out a picnic and watches the scene.

“It's cold, too,” she says at last. “I mean it's kind of fun at first! And everything's pretty. But so cold...”

She grabs a blanket and goes to sit on a bench, putting her chin in her hand as she looks out across the landscape, a slight smile on her lips.

“So, so pretty...”

He wanders over in an oblique manner, sort of shuffling across, looking at broken glass and dead plants, trying to look like he's totally not going to go sit next to her. He manages to make almost a complete circuit of the place before well, look at that. He's sitting next to her. What a coincidence. How did that happen? He looks out across the snow as well, listening to the sound of the flakes falling down.

Jade yawns, but then her eyes go a little wide. She shakes her head furiously, whacks herself in the skull a few times. She turns away from the scene and holds her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Dave tries not to act concerned, but can't not be concerned about this. He tilts his head.

“What's up?”

“Can't sleep,” she says, biting her lip. “So tired, but I can't sleep, I can't go to sleep.”

She won't cry in front of Dave. She'll be the coolkid, too. “It's really dangerous to sleep...”

He remembers, in a dream, seeing her far above in a rainbow bubble; he remembers, too, what he hears in his own dreams. He puts it together.

Shit.

“Then don't go to sleep,” he says, lamely. Jade not going to sleep randomly is like hobos not being slightly grody. Even the nice guys are gonna be a little roughed up from livin on the streets. This metaphor seems to have gotten away from him slightly, so he abandons it.

dawgSprite began pestering turntechGodhead
DS: you arfing moron keep her awake
TG: what how
DS: i dunno make some shit up
DS: be the smooth motherarfer

He comes in closer and takes her hand. And feels really fucking awkward about it, but what the hell is he gonna do? She's got to stay awake. She shivers, and suddenly leans against him.

“You're awful warm, Dave,” she murmurs.

It's really nice to have her leaning on him like this. Warm. Safe. And something... else. But she's closing her eyes slowly.

“Hey. Hey, farmstink, wake up, you can't – no don't do that oh for god's sake,” he says, trying to push her off him. He feels like a huge dick, but she's dozing off and he doesn't know what to do.

“Jade. Jade, seriously, hey Jade, hey, I'm gonna make Bro fetch a frisbee in the snow”

DS: you arfin will not do that
TG: stop eavesdropping you dick

He brushes her hair away from her face. She's awfully pretty when she sleeps. But no, no, shit, she's gotta wake up. Before she starts having the nightmares again.

What the hell to do?

“Jade, I'll do a dumb dance. I'll...”

TG: hey dumpass make your furry ass useful and give me a suggestion here
DS: simple
DS: you kiss her
TG: what no
TG: no
TG: this is not disney princess bullshit
TG: i am not the goddamn prince charming
DS: dave
DS: you kiss that girl this instant
DS: or i swear to dog
DS: i will arfing fly up there and kick your scrawny little butt
TG: oh hell no
TG: i am not john
DS: trust me lil bro
DS: i got the crazy sprite knowledge
DS: i know shit
DS: game wants you to kiss the girl
TG: shove off
turntechGodhead blocked dawgSprite

Oh hell no.

He tries a bunch of other things instead. Snow down the back of her shirt. She does sort of giggle in her sleep about that... but then goes back to looking worried. Damn it. He shakes her.

“Jade. Jade. I am not John. This is not one of John's stupid ass movies. I am not gonna kiss you so you wake up.”

Jade's response was a soft murmur.

“... this is stupid.”

That out of his system, he looks down at her sleeping face again.

Really, really stupid.

How was he even supposed to do this? Jesus. Kiss the girl, he says, like it's easy. He takes off his glasses and puts them aside, because screw you Dawgsprite, you can just shut up.

Come on. He's the coolkid. He can totally kiss the girl and make it look two billion times better than in the movies.

He leans over and kind of sort of pecks her on the lips.

She doesn't wake up.

“God. Damn it,” he says. “Just. God damn it, Jade.”

He's just managed to put his glasses back on when something cold and wet hits him in the face.

“Ow! What the fuck!?”

Jade is wide awake, and looks a bit upset. She's glaring at him and he's wondering what the hell he did wrong.

“You know, it's very rude to kiss a girl when she's asleep like that! Taking advantage of a lady, sheesh!” she says, hands on her hips.

“What – no, it was your stupid dog – my stupid brother – told me to -”

“You should have asked first!”

He cannot do it. He cannot keep his cool when she's mad at him.

“I swear I was just trying to wake you up, I wouldn't be sucking your face otherwise jeez,” he says.

She tilts her head and looks... sad, almost.

“Really?”

“Of course not. Jesus, what do you take me for?”

“... oh,” she says, suddenly twisting the bottom of her shirt in her fingers. Dave folds his arms and leans back against the railing, not looking at her now, trying to play the coolkid.

“... but if you'd asked, the answer would have been 'yes'.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded and uncomprehending for the second time that day. Girls. He will never, ever understand' em.

“Dave,” she says, smiling. “Sometimes, you're really dumb.”

She leans over and kisses him before he can say anything in response. It's still a fairly chaste thing, an awkward smooshing of the lips and cuddling; two teenage kids who honestly have no idea what they're doing at all.

But that's about how it should be.

***

Of course like the douchebag older brother he was AND like the supposedly innocent pet canine he sort-of is, Dawgsprite watches. Really it's not as if he <i>can't</i>. Semi-omniscience and all that.

He smiles.

“Guess I get to watch him grow up after all, eh?” he says.

Useless author notes

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I freaking SUCK at writing Dave. I also suck at writing Jade. How does I shot characterization :|

I use Bro, Dawgsprite, and Bec roughly interchangeably; hopefully that was clear.

oh and Dawgsprite can use Pesterchum because... shenanigans. Yeah. >>; He's a goddamn omnipotent fuzzy douchenozzle he does what he wants.

and shitty title is shitty

Bluh bluh.

OKAY SO uh here's a REQUEST/PROMPT:

Write some Dave/Jade based on this song ( lyrics here )

*edit* HOLY CRAP hahahaha this update just invalidated some of my characterization here. Like. RIGHT THERE. Maybe I should edit.

[Graven_Image]

You wanted a story based on Doc Scratch's warning? Here you go.

8-Ball, Corner Pocket

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I'll say one last thing.

Vriska's traipse through the Land of Wind and Shade came to a screeching halt when she met her first few Uranium Imps.

Though the magnitude of the ensuing destruction resulting directly from your actions will be neither possible or necessary for you to fathom,

She was trying her darndest to fathom it right now. These little grubbers would not stand still.

there nevertheless ought to be a silver lining.

Oh, yes. John. The wonderful human boy she had met online. Good lord that sentence sounded creepy.

The only question is whether you will live long enough to see it.

One of the imps took a swipe at her leg, somehow managing to blow out her knee in a single strike. She fell, dice cascading from her reflexively-opened hand.

I'm not a gambling man.

All sevens. How wierd.

But if I was, I wouldn't bet on it.

The LUCK OF THE DRAW MISSILE BARRAGE burst forth, homing in on every surrounding imp like... well, like a heat-seeking missile.

8 imps dead
1 mortally wounded alien

The darkness overtook her. Her last conscious thought was whether John would think to meet her halfway.

Goodbye.

OPEN AUTHORLOG

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Weirdly enough, this story managed to follow those sentences on its own. I didn't even notice until I was finished.